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Holidays at Roselands

by Martha Finley · English · Gutenberg #14280 · 519,886 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Holidays at Roselands

Author: Martha Finley


        
Release date: December 6, 2004 [eBook #14280]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS ***

                          HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS

                       A SEQUEL TO ELSIE DINSMORE

                            BY MARTHA FINLEY

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

Copyright, 1898, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.




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

--Burns.




Elsie's Holidays at Roselands.




CHAPTER I.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie looked up in unfeigned astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie was turning over the books with eager delight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie thought a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A servant put his head in at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Won't you come along, girls?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I _will_ tell him," she resolved.

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

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

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

Carry and Mary readily assented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last she had finished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy looked a little ashamed, while Mary Leslie exclaimed:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie looked very much mortified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II.

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

BYRON'S SARDANAPALUS.


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

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

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

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

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

Elsie became very pale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some one tried the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you? and were you afraid?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie smiled faintly, then drew a deep sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very much, papa, thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She burst into tears, and sobbed quite violently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.

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

MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.


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

THOMSON'S EDMUND AND ELEONORA.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Was she insensible?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, papa," she answered feebly.

"Where, darling?"

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

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

No one replied.

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

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

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

"Arthur," said several voices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Dinsmore followed him to the door.

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

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

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

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

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

She looked so glad to see him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary looked hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbert drew a deep sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Dinsmore shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Arthur, sir," replied several voices.

Another pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he held her fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie feared she had displeased him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is that, papa?" Elsie asked.

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

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

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

He enjoyed her pleasure intensely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Day after to-morrow, I believe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie answered only by her tears and sobs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The little girl burst into an agony of tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Adelaide went on without noticing the interruption--

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt as though her heart would break at the very thought of being
separated from him forever in this world, but even that was as nothing
compared to the more terrible fear of not meeting him in another.

That was a long, sad afternoon to the poor child; the longest and saddest
she had ever known. Chloe now and then brought her word how her father
was, but no one else came near her to speak a word of comfort or hope.
Towards evening they had given up almost all hope; he had ceased to
recognize any one, and one after another, parents, brother, sisters, and
servants, had been permitted to take a last look--all but little Elsie,
his own and only child--the one nearest and dearest to him, and to whom
he was all the world--she alone was forbidden to come. She had begged and
plead, in tones that might have melted a heart of stone, to be permitted
to see his face once more in life; but Mrs. Dinsmore, who had taken the
direction of everything, said, "No, her father has forbidden it, and she
shall not come unless she expresses her willingness to comply with his
conditions."

Adelaide had then ventured a plea in her behalf, but the reply was: "I
don't pity her at all; it is all her own doing."

"So much the harder is it for her to bear, I presume," urged Adelaide.

"There, Adelaide, that will do now! Let me hear no more about it,"
replied her lady mother, and there the matter dropped.

Poor little Elsie tried to be submissive and forgiving, but she could not
help feeling it terribly hard and cruel, and almost more than she could
bear, thus to be kept away from her sick and dying father.

It was long ere sleep visited her weary eyes that night; hour after hour
she lay on her pillow, pouring out prayers and tears on his behalf, until
at length, completely worn out with sorrow, she fell into a deep and
heavy slumber, from which she waked to find the morning sun streaming in
at the windows, and Chloe standing gazing down upon her with a very happy
face.

She started up from her pillow, asking eagerly, "What is it, mammy? Oh!
what is it? is my papa better?"

"Yes, darling Massa Horace much better dis mornin'; de doctor say 'he
gwine git well now for sartin, if he don't git worse again.'"

"Oh, mammy! It seems too good to be true! Oh, how very, very good God has
been to me!" cried the little girl, weeping for very joy.

For a moment, in the intensity of her happiness, she forgot that she was
still in disgrace and banishment--forgot everything but the joyful fact
that her father was spared to her. But, oh! she could not forget it long.
The bitter recollection soon returned, to damp her joy and fill her with
sad forebodings.




CHAPTER V.

"I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I'll be silent;
But oh! a reined tongue, and a bursting heart,
Are hard at once to bear."

JOANNA BAILLIE'S BASIL.


Mr. Dinsmore's recovery was not very rapid. It was several weeks after he
was pronounced out of danger ere he was able to leave his room; and then
he came down looking so altered, so pale, and thin, and weak, that it
almost broke his little daughter's heart to look at him.

Very sad and lonely weeks those had been to her, poor child! She
was never once permitted to see him, and the whole family treated her
with marked coldness and neglect. She had returned to her duties in the
school-room--her father having sent her a command to that effect, as soon
as he was sufficiently recovered to think of her--and she tried to attend
faithfully to her studies, but more than once Miss Day had seen the tears
dropping upon her book or slate, and reproved her sharply for not giving
her mind to her lessons, and for indulging in what she called her
"babyish propensities."

Mr. Dinsmore made his first appearance in the family circle one morning
at breakfast, a servant assisting him down stairs and seating him in an
easy-chair at the table, just as the others were taking their places.

Warm congratulations were showered upon him from all sides. Enna ran
up to him, exclaiming, "I'm _so_ glad to see you down again, brother
Horace;" and was rewarded with a smile and a kiss; while poor little
Elsie, who had been directed, she knew not why, to take her old seat
opposite to his, was unable to utter a word, but stood with one hand on
the back of her chair, pale and trembling with emotion, watching him with
eyes so blinded by tears that she could scarcely see. But no one seemed
to notice her, and her father did not once turn his eyes that way.

She thought of the morning when she had first met him there, her poor
little heart hungering so for his love; and it seemed as if she had gone
back again to that time; and yet it was worse; for now she had learned
to love him with an intensity of affection she had then never known,
and having tasted the sweetness of his love, her sense of suffering at
its loss was proportionally great; and utterly unable to control her
feelings, she silently left the room to seek some place where she might
give her bursting heart the relief of tears, with none to observe or
reprove her.

Elsie had a rare plant, the gift of a friend, which she had long been
tending with great care, and which had blossomed that morning for the
first time.

The flower was beautiful and very fragrant, and as the little girl
stood gazing upon it with delighted eyes, while awaiting the summons to
breakfast, she had said to Chloe, "Oh! how I should like papa to see it!
He is so fond of flowers, and has been, so anxious for this one to
bloom."

But a deep sigh followed as she thought what a long, long time it was
likely to be before her father would again enter her room, or permit her
to go into his. He had not, however, forbidden her to speak to him, and
the thought struck her that, if he should be able to leave his room
before the flower had faded, so that she could see and speak to him,
she might pluck it off and present it to him.

She thought of it again, while weeping alone in her room, and a faint
hope sprang up in her heart that the little gift might open the way for a
reconciliation. But she must wait and watch for an opportunity to see him
alone; for she could not, in the present state of affairs, think of
addressing him before a third person.

The opportunity came almost sooner than she had dared to hope, for, on
passing the library door just after the morning lessons were over, she
saw him sitting there alone; and trembling between hope and fear, she
hurried at once to her room, plucked the beautiful blossom from its stem,
and with it in her hand hastened to the library.

She moved noiselessly across the thickly carpeted floor, and her papa,
who was reading, did not seem to be aware of her approach, until she was
close at his side. He then raised his head and looked at her with an
expression of surprise on his countenance.

"Dear papa," said the little girl, in faltering accents, as she presented
the flower, "my plant is bloomed at last; will you accept this first
blossom as a token of affection from your little daughter?"

Her pleading eyes were fixed upon his face, and ere she had finished her
sentence, she was trembling violently at the dark frown she saw gathering
There.

"Elsie," said he, in the cold, stern tone she so much dreaded, "I am
sorry you have broken your flower. I cannot divine your motive--affection
for me it cannot be; for that such a feeling exists in the breast of a
little girl, who not only could refuse her sick father the very small
favor of reading to him, but would rather see him _die_ than give up her
own self-will, I cannot believe. No, Elsie, take it away; I can receive
no gifts nor tokens of affection from a rebellious, disobedient child."

The flower had fallen upon the floor, and Elsie stood in an attitude of
utter despair, her head bent down upon her breast, and her hands hanging
listlessly at her side. For an instant she stood thus, and then, with
a sudden revulsion of feeling, she sank down on her knees beside her
father's chair, and seizing his hand in both of hers, pressed it to her
heart, and then to her lips, covering it with kisses and tears, while
great bursting sobs shook her whole frame.

"Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa! I _do love_ you! indeed, _indeed_ I do. Oh,
how could you say such cruel words to me?" she sobbed.

"Hush!" he said, withdrawing his hand. "I will have nothing but the truth
from you, and 'actions speak louder than words.' Get up immediately, and
dry your tears. Miss Day tells me that you are ruining your eyes by
continual crying; and if I hear any more such complaints, I shall punish
you severely. I will not allow it at all, for you have nothing whatever
to make you unhappy but your own misconduct. Just as soon as you are
ready to submit to my authority, you will find yourself treated with the
same indulgence and affection as formerly; but remember, _not till_
then!"

His words were like daggers to the affectionate, sensitive child. Had he
stabbed her to the heart he could not have hurt her more.

"Oh, papa!" she murmured in heart-broken accents, as in obedience to his
command she rose to her feet, struggling hard to keep back the tears he
had forbidden her to shed.

But her emotion did not seem to move him. Her conduct during his severe
illness had been so misrepresented to him, that at times he was wellnigh
convinced that her seeming affection was all hypocrisy, and that she
really regarded him only in the light of a tyrant, from whose authority
she would be glad to escape in any way.

"Pick up your flower and leave the room," he said. "I have no desire for
your company until you can learn to obey as you ought."

Silently and mechanically Elsie obeyed him, and hastening to her own room
again, threw herself into her nurse's arms, weeping as though she would
weep her very life away.

Chloe asked no questions as to the cause of her emotion--which the
flower in her hand, and the remembrance of the morning's conversation,
sufficiently explained--but tried in every way to soothe and encourage
her to hope for future reconciliation.

For some moments her efforts seemed to be quite unavailing; but suddenly
Elsie raised her head, and wiping away her tears, said, with a convulsive
sob, "Oh! I am doing wrong again, for papa has forbidden me to cry so
much, and I must try to obey him. But, oh!" she exclaimed, dropping her
head on her nurse's shoulder, with a fresh burst of tears, "how can I
help it, when my heart is bursting?"

"Jesus will help you, darlin'," replied Chloe, tenderly. "He always helps
his chillens to bear all dere troubles an' do all dere duties, an' never
leaves nor forsakes dem. But you must try, darlin', to mind Massa Horace,
kase he is your own papa; an' de Bible says, 'Chillen, obey your
parents.'"

"Yes, mammy, I know I ought, and I _will_ try," said the little girl,
raising her head and wiping her eyes; "but, mammy, you must pray for me,
for it will be very, very difficult."

Elsie had never been an eye-servant, but had always conscientiously
obeyed her father, whether present or absent, and henceforward she
constantly struggled to restrain her feelings, and even in solitude
denied her bursting heart the relief of tears; though it was not always
she could do this, for she was but young in the school of affliction, and
often, in spite of every effort, grief would have its way, and she was
ready to sink beneath her heavy weight of sorrow. Elsie had learned from
God's holy word, that "affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither
doth trouble spring out of the ground;" and she soon set herself
diligently to work to find out why this bitter trial had been sent her.

Her little Bible had never been suffered to lie a single day unused, nor
had morning or evening ever failed to find her in her closet; she had
neglected none of the forms of religion, and her devotions had been far
from heartless; yet she discovered with pain that she had of late spent
less time, and found less of her enjoyment in these duties than formerly;
that she had been, too much engrossed by an earthly love, and needed this
trial to bring her nearer to her Saviour, and teach her again to seek all
her happiness in "looking unto him." And now the hours that she had been
wont to pass in her father's society were usually spent in her own room,
alone with her Bible and her God, and there she found that sweet peace
and joy which the world can neither give nor take away; and thus she
gathered strength to bear her troubles and crosses with heavenly meekness
and patience; and she had indeed great need of a strength not her own,
for every day, and almost every hour brought with it its own peculiar
trial.

No one but the servants--who still loved her dearly--treated her with
kindness; but coldness and neglect were the least she had to bear. She
was constantly reminded, even by Walter and Enna, that she was stubborn
and disobedient, and there was so little pleasure in her walks and rides,
either when taken alone or in company with them, that she gradually gave
them up almost entirely--until one day, her father's attention being
called to it, by a remark of Mrs. Dinsmore's, "that it was no wonder the
child was growing thin and pale, for she did not take exercise enough to
keep her in health," he called her to him, reprimanded her severely, and
laid his commands upon her "to take a walk and ride every day, when the
weather would at all permit, but never dare to go alone farther than into
the garden."

Elsie answered with meek submission, promising obedience; and then turned
quickly away to hide the emotion that was swelling in her breast.

The change in her father was the bitterest part of her trial; she had so
revelled in his affection, and now it seemed to be all withdrawn from
her; and from the fond, indulgent parent, Mr. Dinsmore seemed suddenly to
have changed to the cold, pitiless tyrant. He now seldom took any notice
of his little daughter, and never addressed her unless it were to utter
a rebuke, a threat, a prohibition, or command, in tones of harshness and
severity.

Elsie bore it with all the meekness and patience of a martyr, but ere
long her health began to suffer; she grew weak and nervous, and would
start and tremble, and change color at the very sound of her father's
step or voice--those sounds which she had once so loved to hear--and the
little face became thin and pale, and an expression of deep and touching
sadness settled down upon it.

Love was as necessary to Elsie's health and happiness as sunshine to the
flowers, and even as the keen winds and biting frosts of winter wilt and
wither the tender blossoms, so did all this coldness and severity, the
gentle, sensitive spirit of the little child.

Mr. Travilla had called several times during the early part of Mr.
Dinsmore's illness, while Elsie had been his nurse, and she sometimes
wondered that she had seen nothing of him during all these sorrowful
weeks; but the truth was, Mr. Travilla had been absent from home, and
knew nothing of all that had been going on at Roselands. As soon,
however, as he returned, and heard how ill his friend had been, he
called to express his sympathy, and congratulate him on his recovery.

He found Mr. Dinsmore seated in an easy-chair in the library, still
looking weak and ill, and more depressed in spirits than he had ever
seen him.

"Ah! Dinsmore, my dear fellow, I hear you have been very ill; and,
indeed, I must say you are looking far from well yet," Travilla exclaimed
in his cheerful, hearty way, shaking his friend's hand warmly. "I think
my little friend, Elsie, has deserted her post almost too soon; but I
suppose you have sent her back to her lessons again," he remarked,
glancing around as if in search of her.

"I have no need of nursing now," replied Mr. Dinsmore, with a sad sort of
smile. "I am able to ride, and even to walk out, and shall, I hope, soon
be quite myself again."

He then introduced another topic of conversation, and they chatted for
some time.

At length Mr. Travilla drew out his watch.

"I see it is past school-hours," he said; "might I see my little friend?
I have brought a little gift for her, and should like to present it in
person."

Mr. Dinsmore had become quite animated and cheerful during their previous
conversation, but a great change came over his face while Mr. Travilla
was making his request, and the expression of his countenance was very
cold and stern, as he replied, "I thank you, Travilla, on her behalf;
but, if you please, I would much prefer your not giving her anything
at present, for, I am sorry to say, Elsie has been very stubborn and
rebellious of late, and is quite undeserving of any indulgence."

Mr. Travilla looked exceedingly astonished. "Is it _possible_!" he
exclaimed. "Really, I have had such an exalted opinion of Elsie's
goodness, that I could not have credited such a charge from any one
but her father."

"No, nor could I," replied Mr. Dinsmore, leaning his head upon his
hand with a heavy sigh; "but it is as I tell you, and you see now that
I have some cause for the depression of spirits upon which you have been
rallying me. Travilla, I love that child as I have never loved another
earthly thing except her mother, and it cuts me to the quick to have
her rebel as she has been doing for the last five weeks; it is almost
more than I can bear in my present weak state. I thought she loved me
devotedly, but it seems I was mistaken, for surely obedience is the
best test of love, and she refuses me that."

He paused for a moment, apparently quite overcome by his feelings, then
went on; "I have been compelled to banish her from my presence, but,
alas! I find I cannot tear her from my heart, and I miss her every
moment."

Mr. Travilla looked very much concerned. "I am sorry, indeed," he said,
"to hear such an account of my little friend; but her love for you I
cannot doubt, and we will hope that she will soon return to her duty."

"Thank you, Travilla; I am always sure of your sympathy in any kind of
trouble," replied Mr. Dinsmore, trying to speak cheerfully; "but we will
leave this disagreeable subject, and talk of something else."

In a few moments Mr. Travilla rose to take leave, declining Mr.
Dinsmore's urgent invitation to remain to dinner, but promising to
come again before long and stay a day or two. His kind heart was really
pained to learn that there was again a misunderstanding between his
little friend--as he had been in the habit of calling Elsie--and her
father; and as he rode home silently pondering the matter, he determined
that he would very soon fulfil his promise of paying a longer visit, for
he could not refrain from indulging a faint hope that he might be able to
accomplish something as mediator between them.

A few days after this, Elsie was passing down the hall. The doors and
windows were all open, for it was a warm spring day, and as she passed
the drawing-room door, she paused a moment and looked in. Her father sat
reading near one of the windows, and her eyes were riveted upon his face.
He was still pale from his recent illness; and his face had a troubled,
care-worn look, very different from its usual expression.

Oh! what a _longing_ desire came over the little girl at that sight, to
go to him and say that she was sorry for all the past, and that in the
future she would be and do everything that he asked. She burst into
tears and turned hastily away. She was hurrying out to the garden, but
at the door she encountered her aunt Adelaide.

"What is the matter, Elsie?" she asked, putting her hand on the child's
shoulder and forcibly detaining her.

"Oh! Aunt Adelaide," sobbed the little girl, "papa looks so ill and sad."

"And no wonder, Elsie," replied her aunt severely; "_you_ are quite
enough to make him sad, and ill, too, with your perverse, obstinate ways.
You have yourself to thank for it all, for it is just that, and nothing
else, that ails him."

She turned away as she spoke, and poor Elsie, wringing her hands in an
agony of grief, darted down the garden-walk to her favorite arbor.

Her eyes were so blinded by tears that she did not see that Mr. Travilla
was sitting there, until she was close beside him.

She turned then, and would have run away again, but he caught her by the
dress, and drawing her gently toward him, said in a mild, soothing tone--

"Don't run away from me, my poor little friend, but tell me the cause of
your sorrow, and who knows but I may be able to assist you."

Elsie shook her head mournfully, but allowed him, to set her on his knee,
and put his arm around her.

"My poor child! my poor, dear little girl!" he said, wiping away her
tears, and kissing her very much as her father had been in the habit of
doing.

It reminded her of him and his lost love, and caused a fresh burst of
tears and sobs.

"Poor child!" said Mr. Travilla again, "is there nothing I can do for
you? Will you not tell me the cause of your grief?"

"Oh, Mr. Travilla!" she sobbed, "papa is very much displeased with me,
and he looks so sad and ill, it almost breaks my heart."

"And why is he displeased with you, my dear? If you have done wrong and
are sorry for your fault, I am sure you have only to confess it, and ask
forgiveness, and all will be right again," he said kindly, drawing her
head down upon his breast, and smoothing back the curls from her flushed
and tear-stained face.

Elsie made no reply, and he went on--

"When we have done wrong, my dear little girl--as we do all sometimes--it
is much more noble to acknowledge it and ask pardon, than to try to hide
our faults; and you know, dear little Elsie," he added in a graver tone,
"that the Bible teaches us that children must obey their parents."

"Yes, Mr. Travilla," she answered, "I know that the Bible says: 'He that
covereth his sins shall not prosper,' and I know it tells me to obey my
father; and I do think I am willing to confess my faults, and I do try
to obey papa in everything that is right; but sometimes he bids me
disobey God; and you know the Bible says: 'We ought to obey God rather
than men.'"

"I am afraid, my dear," said Mr. Travilla gently, "that you are perhaps a
little too much inclined to judge for yourself about right and wrong. You
must remember that you are but a very little girl yet, and that your
father is very much older and wiser; and therefore I should say it would
be much safer to leave it to him to decide these matters. Besides, if
he _bids_ you do thus and so, I think all the responsibility of the
wrong--supposing there _is_ any--will rest with _him_, and _he_, not
_you_, will have to account for it."

"Oh! no, Mr. Travilla," replied the little girl earnestly, "my Bible
teaches me better than that; for it says: '_Every one_ of us shall give
account of _himself_ to God;' and in another place: 'The soul that
sinneth _it_ shall die.' So I know that _I_, and not papa, nor any one
else, will have to give account for _my_ sins."

"I see it will never do for me to try to quote Scripture to you," he
remarked, looking rather discomfited; "for you know a great deal more
about it than I do. But I am very anxious to see you and your father
friends again, for I cannot bear to see you both looking so unhappy.

"You have a good father, Elsie, and one that you may well be proud
of--for a more high-minded, honorable gentleman cannot be found anywhere;
and I am quite sure he would never require you to do anything very wrong.
Have you any objection, my dear, to telling me what it is?"

"He bade me read to him, one Sabbath-day, a book which was only fit for
week-day reading, because it had nothing at all in it about God, or being
good--and I could not do that; and now he says I must say I am sorry I
refused to obey him that time, and promise always to do exactly as he
bids me in future," replied Elsie, weeping; "and oh! Mr. Travilla, I
cannot do that. I cannot say I am sorry I did not disobey God, nor that
I will disobey him in future, if papa bids me."

"But if that was a sin, Elsie, it was surely a very _little_ one; I don't
think God would be very angry with you for anything so small as that," he
said very gravely.

"Mr. Travilla," Elsie replied in a tone of deep solemnity, "it is
written, 'Cursed is every one that continueth not in _all_ things which
are written in the book of the law to do them;' _that_ is in the Bible;
and the catechism says: '_Every sin_ deserveth the wrath and curse of
God!' And oh! Mr. Travilla," she added in a tone of anguish, "if you
knew how _hard_ it is for me to keep from giving up, and doing what my
conscience says is wrong, you wouldn't try to persuade me to do it."

Mr. Travilla knew not what to say; he was both perplexed and distressed.

But just at that moment a step was heard coming down the path. Elsie
recognized it instantly, and began to tremble, and the next moment her
father entered the arbor.

Mr. Dinsmore felt a pang of jealousy at seeing his little girl in
Travilla's arms, which he would have been ashamed to acknowledge to
himself, but it caused his tone to be even more than usually stern and
severe as he hastily inquired, "What are you doing here, Elsie--crying
again, after all I have said to you? Go to your room this moment, and
stay there until you can show a cheerful face!"

Mr. Travilla set her down, and she obeyed without a word, not even daring
to look at her father.

There was a moment of embarrassing silence after she had gone.

Then Travilla said, "It seems Elsie stumbled upon me here quite
unexpectedly, and I detained her somewhat against her will, I believe,
and have been doing my best to persuade her that she ought to be entirely
submissive to you."

Mr. Dinsmore looked interested, but replied with a sigh, "I fear you did
not succeed; she is sadly obstinate, and I begin to fear I shall have to
use great severity before I can conquer her."

Mr. Travilla hesitated a moment, then said, "I am afraid, Dinsmore, that
she has the right of it; she quoted Scripture to me till I really had no
more to say."

Mr. Dinsmore looked displeased.

"_I_ should think," he said almost haughtily, "that the fifth commandment
would be answer enough to any argument she could bring to excuse her
disobedience."

"We do not all see alike, Dinsmore," remarked his friend, "and though I
do not say that you are wrong, I must acknowledge that were I in your
place, I should do differently, because I should fear that the child was
acting from _principle_ rather than self-will or obstinacy."

"_Give up_ to her, Travilla? never! It astonishes me that you could
suggest such a thing!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore with almost fierce
determination. "No, I _will_ conquer her! I will break _her will_,
though in doing so I break my own heart."

"And _hers_, too," murmured Travilla in a low, sad tone, more as if
thinking aloud than answering his friend.

Mr. Dinsmore started. "No, no," he said hurriedly, "there is no danger of
_that_; else she would certainly have given up long ago."

Travilla shook his head, but made no reply; and presently Mr. Dinsmore
rose and led the way to the house.




CHAPTER VI.


"The storm of grief bears hard upon her youth,
And bends her, like a drooping flower, to earth."

ROWE'S FAIR PENITENT.


"You are not looking quite well yet, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked a lady
visitor, who called one day to see the family; "and your little daughter,
I think, looks as if she, too, had been ill; she is very thin, and seems
to have entirely lost her bright color."

Elsie had just left the room a moment before the remark was made.

Mr. Dinsmore started slightly.

"I believe she _is_ a little pale," he replied in a tone of annoyance;
"but as she makes no complaint, I do not think there can be anything
seriously amiss."

"Perhaps not," said the lady indifferently; "but if she were _my_ child I
should be afraid she was going into a decline."

"Really, Mrs. Grey, I don't know what should put such a notion into your
head!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore, "for I assure you Elsie has always been
a perfectly healthy child since I have known her."

"Ah! well; it was but the thought of a moment," replied Mrs. Grey, rising
to take leave, "and I am glad to hear there is no ground for fear, for
Elsie is certainly a very sweet little girl."

Mr. Dinsmore handed Mrs. Grey to her carriage, and re-entering the house
went into the little back parlor where Elsie, the only other occupant of
the room, sat reading, in the corner of the sofa.

He did not speak to her, but began pacing back and forth across the
floor. Mrs. Grey's words had alarmed him; he could not forget them, and
whenever in his walk his face was turned towards his child, he bent his
eyes upon her with a keen, searching gaze; and he was surprised that he
had not before noticed how thin, and pale, and careworn that little face
had grown.

"Elsie," he said suddenly, pausing in his walk.

The child started and colored, as she raised her eyes from the book to
his face, asking, in a half tremulous tone, "What, papa?"

"Put down your book and come to me," he replied, seating himself.

His tone lacked its usual harshness, yet the little girl came to him
trembling so that she could scarcely stand.

It displeased him.

"Elsie," he said, as he took her hand and drew her in between his knees,
"why do you always start and change color when I speak to you? and why
are you trembling now as if you were venturing into the lion's jaws?--are
you afraid of me?--speak!"

"Yes, papa," she replied, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "you always
speak so sternly to me now, that I cannot help feeling frightened."

"Well, I didn't intend to be stern this time," he said more gently than
he had spoken to her for a long while; "but tell me, my daughter, are you
quite well?--you are growing very pale and thin, and I want to know if
anything ails you."

"Nothing, papa, but--" the rest of her sentence was lost in a burst of
tears.

"But what?" he asked almost kindly.

"Oh, papa! you know! I want your love. _How can I live without it_?"

"You need not, Elsie," he answered very gravely, "you have only to bow
that stubborn will of yours, to have all the love and all the caresses
you can ask for."

Wiping her eyes, she looked up beseechingly into his face, asking, in
pleading tones, "_Dear_ papa, won't you give me one kiss--just _one_?
Think how long I have been without one."

"Elsie, say 'I am sorry, papa, that I refused to obey you on that
Sabbath-day; will you please to forgive me? and I will always be obedient
in future,' That is all I require. Say it, and you will be at once
entirely restored to favor."

"I am _very sorry_, dear papa, for _all_ the naughty things I have ever
done, and I will always try to obey you, if you do not bid me break God's
commandments," she answered in a low, tremulous tone.

"That will not do, Elsie; it is not what I bid you say. I will have no
_if_ in the matter; nothing but _implicit, unconditional_ obedience," he
said in a tone of severity.

He paused for a reply, but receiving none, continued: "I see you are
still stubborn, and I shall be compelled to take severe measures to
subdue you. I do not yet know what they will be, but one thing is
certain--I will not keep a rebellious child in my sight; there are
boarding-schools where children can be sent who are unworthy to enjoy
the privileges and comforts of home."

"Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa, don't send me away from you! I should die!"
she cried in accents of terror and despair, throwing her arms around his
neck and clinging to him with a convulsive grasp. "Punish me in any other
way you choose; but oh! _don't_ send me where I cannot see you."

He gently disengaged her arms, and without returning her caress, said
gravely, and almost sadly, "Go now to your room. I have not yet decided
what course to take, but you have only to submit, to escape _all_
punishment."

Elsie retired, weeping bitterly, passing Adelaide as she went out.

"What is the matter now?" asked Adelaide of her brother, who was striding
impatiently up and down the room.

"Nothing but the old story," he replied; "she is the most stubborn child
I ever saw. Strange!" he added musingly, "I once thought her rather _too_
yielding. Adelaide," he said, sitting down by his sister, and leaning his
head upon his hand, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I am _terribly_ perplexed!
This estrangement is killing us both. Have you noticed how thin and pale
she is growing? It distresses me to see it; but what can I do?--give up
to her I cannot; it is not once to be thought of. I am sorry I ever began
the struggle, but since it _is_ begun she _must_ and _shall_ submit; and
it has really become a serious question with me, whether it would not be
the truest kindness just to conquer her thoroughly and at once, by an
appeal to the rod."

"Oh no, Horace, don't! don't think of such a thing, I beg of you!"
exclaimed Adelaide, with tears in her eyes; "such a delicate, sensitive
little creature as she is, I do believe it would quite break her heart to
be subjected to so ignominious a punishment; surely you could adopt some
other measure less revolting to one's feelings, and yet perhaps quite as
effectual. I couldn't _bear_ to have you do it. I would try everything
else first."

"I assure you, Adelaide, it would be _exceedingly_ painful to my
feelings," he said, "and yet so anxious am I to subdue Elsie, and end
this trying state of affairs, that were I certain of gaining my point,
even by great severity, I would not hesitate a moment, but I am very
doubtful whether she could be conquered in that way, and I would not
like to undertake it unless I could carry it through. I hinted at a
boarding-school, which seemed to alarm her very much; but I shall not
try it, at least not yet, for she is my only child, and I still love
her too well to give her up to the tender mercies of strangers. Ah!
you don't know how strongly I was tempted to give her a kiss, just now,
when she begged so hard for it. But what _shall_ I do with her,
Adelaide?--have you no suggestion to make?"

"Indeed, I don't know what to say, Horace; I shouldn't like to give up
to her, if I were you; it does seem as if you ought to conquer her, and
if you don't do it now, I do not believe you ever will."

"Yes, that is just it," he said. "I have sometimes felt sorry for having
begun the struggle, and yet perhaps it is just as well, since it must
have come sooner or later. Ten years hence I shall want to take her
occasionally to the theatre or opera, or perhaps now and then to a ball,
and unless I can eradicate these ridiculously strict notions she has got
into her head, she will be sure to rebel then, when she will be rather
too old to punish, at least in the same way in which I might punish her
now."

"A thought has just struck me, Horace," said Adelaide suddenly.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

Adelaide hesitated. She felt some little sympathy for Elsie, and did not
quite like to propose a measure which she knew would give her great pain;
but at length she said, in a half-regretful tone--

"I think, Horace, that Aunt Chloe upholds Elsie in her obstinacy, and
makes her think herself a martyr to principle, for you know she has the
same strange notions, which they both learned from the old housekeeper,
Mrs. Murray, who was an old-fashioned Presbyterian, of the strictest
sort; and now, as Elsie is still so young, it seems to me it might be
_possible_ to change her views, if she were entirely removed from all
such influences. But take notice, Horace, I do not advise it, for I
know it would wellnigh break both their hearts."

For a moment Mr. Dinsmore seemed lost in thought. Then he spoke:

"That is a wise suggestion, Adelaide. I thank you for it, and shall
certainly take it into consideration. Yet it is a measure I feel loth to
adopt, for Chloe has been a most faithful creature. I feel that I owe her
a debt of gratitude for the excellent care she has taken of Elsie, and of
her mother before her, and as you say, I fear it would wellnigh break
both their hearts. But if less severe measures fail, I shall feel
compelled to try it, for I am more anxious than I can tell you to
bring Elsie to unconditional obedience."

"Here is a letter for you, Elsie," said her grandfather, the next
morning, at the breakfast-table. "Here, Pomp"--to the servant--"hand this
to Miss Elsie."

The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she held out her hand
eagerly to take it.

But her father interfered.

"No, Pomp," he said, "bring it to me; and remember, in future, that _I_
am to receive _all_ Miss Elsie's letters."

Elsie relinquished it instantly, without a word of remonstrance, but her
heart was so full that she could not eat another morsel; and in spite of
all her efforts the tears would come into her eyes, as she saw her father
deliberately open and read the letter, and then refold and put it into
his pocket. He looked at her as he did so, and seeing the tears rolling
down her cheeks, sternly bade her leave the room,

She obeyed, feeling more angry and rebellious toward him than she ever
had before. It seemed so cruel and unjust to deprive her of her own
letters; one of Miss Rose's--as she knew it must be, for she had no other
correspondent--which never contained anything but what was good, and
kind, and comforting. They were always a great treat to the little girl,
and she had been longer than usual without one, and had been looking
longingly for it every day for several weeks past; for sad and lonely as
her days now were, she felt very keenly the need of her friend's sympathy
and love; and now to have this letter taken from her just as she laid her
hand upon it, seemed a disappointment almost too great to be endured. She
had a hard struggle with herself before she could put away entirely her
feelings of anger and impatience.

"Oh! this is not honoring papa," she said to herself; "he may have good
reasons for what he has done; and as _I_ belong to him, he certainly has
a sort of right to everything that is mine. I will try to be submissive,
and wait patiently until he sees fit to give me my letter, as perhaps he
will, some time."

All the morning the thought of her letter was scarcely out of her mind,
and as soon as she was released from school duties, and dressed for
dinner, she went down to the drawing-room, hoping that her father might
be there, and that he would give it to her.

But he was not in, and when he came, brought a number of strangers with
him, who remained until after tea; so that all the afternoon passed away
without affording her an opportunity to speak to him. But, to her great
joy, the visitors all left early in the evening, excepting a very mild,
pleasant-looking, elderly gentleman, who had settled himself in the
portico, with Enna on his knees.

Elsie was watching her fathers movements, and was not sorry to see him,
after the departure of his guests, return to the drawing-room, and take
up the evening paper.

No one else was at that end of the room, so now, at last, she might speak
to him without fear of being overheard. She was glad, too, that his back
was towards her, for she had grown very timid about approaching him of
late. She stole softly up to the back of his chair, and stood there for
some moments without speaking; her heart beat so fast with mingled hope
and fear, that it seemed impossible to command her voice.

But at last, coming to his side, she said, in a tone so low and tremulous
as to be almost inaudible, "Papa."

"Well, Elsie, what do you want?" he asked, with his eyes still on the
paper.

"Dear papa, I do so want to see Miss Rose's letter; won't you please give
it to me?"

She waited a moment for a reply; then asked again, "May I not have it,
papa?"

"Yes, Elsie, you may have _that_, and _everything_ else you want, just as
soon as you show yourself a submissive, obedient child."

Tears gathered in Elsie's eyes, but she resolutely forced them back,
and made one more appeal. "_Dear_ papa," she said, in pleading, tearful
tones, "you don't know how I have looked and longed for that letter; and
I _do want_ it so _very_ much; won't you let me see it just for a few
moments?"

"You have your answer, Elsie," he said coldly; "and it is the only one I
have to give you."

Elsie turned and walked away, silently crying as she went.

But ere she had reached the door he called her back, and looking sternly
at her, as she again stood trembling and weeping at his side, "Remember,"
he said, "that from this time forth, I forbid you to write or receive any
letters which do not pass through my hands, and I shall not allow you to
correspond with Miss Allison, or any one else, indeed, until you become a
more dutiful child."

"Oh, papa! what will Miss Allison think if I don't answer her letter?"
exclaimed Elsie, weeping bitterly.

"I shall wait a few weeks," he said, "to see if you are going to be a
better girl, and then, if you remain stubborn, I shall write to her
myself, and tell her that I have stopped the correspondence, and my
reasons for doing so."

"Oh, papa! _dear_ papa! _please_ don't do that!" cried the little girl
in great distress. "I am afraid if you do she will never love me any
more, for she will think me such a very bad child."

"If she does, she will only have a just opinion of you," replied her
father coldly; "and _all_ your friends will soon cease to love you, if
you continue to show such a wilful temper; my patience is almost worn
out, Elsie, and I shall try some very severe measures before long, unless
you see proper to submit. Go now to your own room; I do not wish to see
you again to-night."

"Good-night, papa," sobbed the little girl, as she turned to obey him.

"Elsie, my daughter," he said, suddenly seizing her hand, and drawing her
to his side, "why will you not give up this strange wilfulness, and let
your papa have his own darling again? I love you dearly, my child, and it
pains me more than I can express to see you so unhappy," he added, gently
pushing back the curls from the little tear-stained face upturned to his.

His tone had all the old fondness, and Elsie's heart thrilled at the very
sound; his look, too, was tender and affectionate, and throwing down his
paper he lifted her to his knee, and passed his arm around her waist.

Elsie laid her head against his breast, as was her wont before their
unhappy estrangement, while he passed his hand caressingly over her
curls.

"Speak, my daughter," he said in a low tone, full of tenderness; "speak,
and tell papa that he has his own dutiful little daughter again. His
heart aches to receive her; must he do without her still?"

The temptation to yield was very strong. She loved him, oh, how dearly!
Could she bear to go on making him unhappy? And it was such _rest_--such
_joy_--thus once more to feel herself folded to his heart, and hear his
dear voice speaking to her in loving, tender tones. Can it be wondered at
that for a moment Elsie wavered? On the one hand she saw her father's
fond affection, indulgent kindness, and loving caresses; on the other,
banishment from his love, perhaps from home, cold, stern, harsh words
and looks; and what more might be meant by the very severe measures
threatened, she trembled to think.

For a moment she was silent, for a mighty struggle was going on in her
heart. It was hard, _very_ hard, to give up her father's love. But the
love of Jesus!--ah, that was more precious still!

The struggle was past.

"Papa," she said, raising an earnest, tearful little face to his, and
speaking in tones tremulous with emotion, "dear, _dear_ papa, I do love
you so very, _very_ much, and I do want to be to you a good, obedient
child; but, papa, Jesus says, 'He that loveth father or mother more than
me, is not worthy of me,' and I must love Jesus best, and keep _his_
commandments _always_. But you bid me say that I am sorry I refused to
break them; and that I will yield implicit obedience to you, even though
you should command me to disobey him. Oh, papa, I cannot do _that_, even
though you should never love me again; even though you should put me to
death."

The cold, stern expression had returned to his face before she had half
finished, and putting her off his knee, he said, in his severest tone,
"Go, disobedient, rebellious child! How often have I told you that you
are too young to judge of such matters, and must leave all that to me,
your father and natural guardian, whom the Bible itself commands you to
obey. I will find means to conquer you yet, Elsie. If affection and mild
measures will not do it, severity shall."

He rose and walked hastily up and down the floor, excited and angry,
while poor Elsie went weeping from the room.

"Is that one of your sisters, my dear?" asked the old gentleman of Enna,
as he saw the sobbing Elsie pass through the hall, on her way up-stairs.

"No; that is brother Horace's daughter," replied Enna scornfully; "she is
a real naughty girl, and won't mind her papa at all."

"Ah!" said the old gentleman gravely, "I am sorry to hear it; but I hope
you will always obey your papa."

"Indeed, my papa lets me do _just_ as I please," said Enna, with a little
toss of her head. "_I_ don't have to mind anybody."

"Ah! then I consider you a very unfortunate child," remarked the old
gentleman, still more gravely; "for it is by no means good for a little
one like you to have too much of her own way."

Mr. Grier--for that was the old gentleman's name--had been much
interested in the little Elsie's appearance. He had noticed the look
of sadness on her fair young face, and conjectured, from something
in the manner of the rest of the family toward her, that she was in
disgrace; yet he was sure there was no stubbornness or self-will in the
expression of that meek and gentle countenance. He began to suspect that
some injustice had been done the little girl, and determined to watch and
see if she were indeed the naughty child she was represented to be, and
if he found her as good as he was inclined to believe, to try to gain
her confidence, and see if he could help her out of her troubles.

But Elsie did not come down again that evening, and though he saw her at
the breakfast-table the next morning, she slipped away so immediately
after the conclusion of the meal, that he had no opportunity to speak to
her; and at dinner it was just the same.

But in the afternoon, seeing her walk out alone, he put on his hat and
followed at a little distance. She was going toward the quarter, and he
presently saw her enter a cabin where, he had been told, a poor old
colored woman was lying ill, perhaps on her death-bed.

Very quietly he drew near the door of the hut, and seating himself on a
low bench on the outside, found that he could both see and hear all that
was going on without himself being perceived, as Elsie had her back to
the door, and poor old Dinah was blind.

"I have come to read to you again, Aunt Dinah," said the little girl, in
her sweet, gentle tones.

"Tank you, my young missus; you is bery kind," replied the old woman
feebly.

Elsie had already opened her little Bible, and in the same sweet, gentle
voice in which she had spoken, she now read aloud the third chapter of
St. John's gospel.

When she had finished reading the sixteenth verse--"God so loved the
world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have everlasting life,"--she paused and exclaimed,
"Oh! Aunt Dinah, is not that beautiful? Does it not make you glad? You
see it does not say whosoever is good and holy, or whosoever has not
sinned, but it is whosoever believes in Jesus, the only begotten Son of
God. If it was only the good, Aunt Dinah, you and I could never hope to
be saved, because we are both great sinners."

"Not you, Miss Elsie! not you, darlin'," interrupted the old woman; "ole
Dinah's a great sinner, she knows dat well nuff--but you, darlin', you
never did nuffin bad."

"Yes, Dinah," said the little voice in saddened tones, "I have a very
wicked heart, and have been a sinner all my life; but I know that Jesus
died to save sinners, and that whosoever believes in him shall have
eternal life, and I do believe, and I want you to believe, and then you,
too, will be saved."

"Did de good Lord Jesus die for poor ole Dinah, Miss Elsie?" she asked
eagerly.

"Yes, Aunt Dinah, if you will believe in him; it says for _whosoever
believeth_."

"Ole Dinah dunno how to believe, chile; can't do it nohow."

"You must ask God to teach you, Dinah," replied the little girl
earnestly, "for the Bible says 'faith'--that means believing--'is the
gift of God.'"

"You don't mean _dat_, Miss Elsie! You don't mean dat God will save poor
ole Dinah, an' gib her hebben, an' all for nuffin?" she inquired, raising
herself on her elbow in her eagerness.

"Yes, Dinah; God says without money and without price; can't you believe
him? Suppose I should come and put a hundred dollars in your hand,
saying, 'Here, Aunt Dinah, I _give_ you this; you are old, and sick, and
poor, and I know you can do nothing to earn it, but it is a _free_ gift,
just _take_ it and it is yours;' wouldn't you believe me, and take it?"

"_'Deed_ I would, Miss Elsie, kase you nebber tole nuffin but de truff."

"Well, then, can't you believe God when he says that he will save you?
Can't you believe Jesus when he says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal life'?"

"Yes, yes, Miss Elsie! I do b'lieve; read de blessed words again,
darlin'."

Elsie read the verse again, and then finished the Chapter. Then closing
the book, she asked softly,

"Shall we pray, now, Aunt Dinah?"

Dinah gave an eager assent; and Elsie, kneeling down by the bedside,
prayed in simple, childlike words that Jesus would reveal himself to poor
old Dinah, as _her_ Saviour; that the Holy Spirit would be her sanctifier
and comforter, working faith in her, and thereby uniting her to Christ;
that God would adopt her into his family, and be her God and portion
forever; and that Jesus would be her shepherd, so that she need fear no
evil, even though called to pass through the dark valley of the shadow of
death.

"Amen!" was Dinah's fervent response to each of the petitions.

"De good Lord bless you, darlin'," she said, taking Elsie's little white
hand in hers, and pressing it to her lips; "de good Lord bless an' keep
you, an' nebber let trouble come near you. You knows nuffin 'bout trouble
now, for you's young, an' handsome, an' rich, an' good; an' Massa Horace,
he doats on you; no, _you_ knows nuffin 'bout trouble, but ole Dinah
does, kase she's ole, an' sick, an' full ob aches and pains."

"Yes, Aunt Dinah, and I am very sorry for you; but remember, if you
believe in Jesus, you will soon go to heaven, where you will never be
sick or in pain any more. But, Dinah,"--and the little voice grew very
mournful--"we cannot always know when others are in trouble; and I want
you to pray for me that I may always have strength to do right."

"I will, darlin', 'deed I will," said Dinah earnestly, kissing the little
hand again ere she released it.

As Elsie ceased speaking, Mr. Grier slipped quietly away, and continued
his walk. From what he had just seen and heard, he felt fully convinced
that Elsie was not the wicked, disobedient child Enna had represented
her to be; yet he knew that Enna was not alone in her opinion, since it
was very evident that Elsie was in disgrace with the whole family--her
father especially--and that she was very unhappy. He felt his heart drawn
out in sympathy for the child, and longed to be able to assist her in
regaining her father's favor, yet he knew not how to do it, for how was
he to learn the facts in the case without seeming to pry into the family
secrets of his kind entertainers? But there was one comfort he could do
for her--what she had so earnestly asked of Dinah--and he would. As he
came to this resolution he turned about and began to retrace his steps
toward the house. To his surprise and pleasure, upon turning around a
thicket, he came suddenly upon Elsie herself, seated upon a bench under
a tree, bending over her little Bible, which lay open on her lap, and
upon which her quiet tears were dropping, one by one.

She did not seem aware of his presence, and he stood a moment gazing
compassionately upon her, ere he spoke.

"My dear little girl, what is the matter?" he asked in a gentle tone,
full of sympathy and kindness, seating himself by her side.

Elsie started, and raising her head, hastily brushed away her tears.

"Good evening, sir," she said, blushing painfully, "I did not know you
were here."

"You must excuse my seeming intrusion," replied the old gentleman, taking
her hand in his. "I came upon you unawares, not knowing you were here;
but now that we have met, will you not tell me the cause of your grief?
Perhaps I may be able to assist you."

"No, sir," she said, "you could not do anything for me; but I thank you
very much for your kindness."

"I think," said he, after a moment's pause, "that I know something of
your trouble; you have offended your father; is it not so, my dear?"

Elsie answered only by her tears, and he went on.

Laying his hand upon the Bible, "Submission to parents, my dear child,"
he said, "you know is enjoined in this blessed book; children are here
commanded to honor and obey their father and mother; it is _God's_
command, and if you love his holy word, you will obey its precepts.
Surely your father will forgive, and receive you into favor, if you show
yourself penitent and submissive?"

"I love my papa very, _very_ dearly," replied Elsie, weeping, "and I do
want to obey him; but he does not love Jesus, and sometimes he bids me
break God's commandments, and then I cannot obey him."

"Is that it, my poor child?" said her friend pityingly. "Then you are
right in not obeying; but be _very sure_ that your father's commands
_are_ opposed to those of God, before you refuse obedience; and be very
careful to obey him in all things in which you can conscientiously do
so."

"I do try, sir," replied Elsie meekly.

"Then be comforted, my dear little girl. God has surely sent you this
trial for some wise and kind purpose, and in his own good time he will
remove it. Only be patient and submissive. He can change your father's
heart, and for that you and I will both pray."

Elsie looked her thanks as they rose to return to the house, but her
heart was too full for speech, and she walked silently along beside her
new friend, who continued to speak words of comfort and encouragement
to her, until they reached the door, where he bade her good-by, saying
that he was sorry he was not likely to see her again, as he must leave
Roselands that afternoon, but promising not to forget her in his prayers.

When Elsie reached her room, Chloe told her her father had sent word that
she was to come to him as soon as she returned from her walk, and that
she would find him in his dressing-room.

Chloe had taken off the little girl's hat and smoothed her hair ere
she delivered the message, and with a beating heart Elsie proceeded
immediately to obey it.

In answer to her timid knock, her father himself opened the door.

"Mammy told me that you wanted me, papa," she said in a tremulous voice,
and looking up timidly into his face.

"Yes, I sent for you; come in," he replied; and taking her by the hand
he led her forward to the arm-chair from which he had just risen, where
he again seated himself, making her stand before him very much like a
culprit in the presence of her judge.

There was a moment's pause, in which Elsie stood with her head bent
down and her eyes upon the carpet, trembling with apprehension, and not
knowing what new trial might be in store for her. Then she ventured to
look at her father.

His face was sad and distressed, but very stern.

"Elsie," he began at length, speaking in slow, measured tones, "I told
you last evening that should you still persist in your resistance to my
authority, I should feel compelled to take severe measures with you. I
have now decided what those measures are to be. Henceforth, so long as
you continue rebellious, you are to be banished entirely from the family
circle; your meals must be taken in your own apartment, and though I
shall not reduce your fare to bread and water, it will be very plain--no
sweetmeats--no luxuries of any kind. I shall also deprive you entirely of
pocket-money, and of all books excepting your Bible and school-books, and
forbid you either to pay or receive any visits, telling all who inquire
for you, why you cannot be seen. You are also to understand that I forbid
you to enter any apartment in the house excepting your own and the
school-room--unless by my express permission--and never to go out at all,
even to the garden, excepting to take your daily exercise, accompanied
always and only by a servant. You are to go on with your studies as
usual, but need not expect to be spoken to by any one but your teacher,
as I shall request the others to hold no communication with you. This is
your sentence. It goes into effect this very hour, but becomes null and
void the moment you come to me with acknowledgments of penitence for the
past, and promises of implicit obedience for the future."

Elsie stood like a statue; her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon the
floor. She had grown very pale while her father was speaking, and there
was a slight quivering of the eyelids and of the muscles of the mouth,
but she showed no other sign of emotion.

"Did you hear me, Elsie?" he asked.

"Yes, papa," she murmured, in a tone so low it scarcely reached his ear.

"Well, have you anything to say for yourself before I send you back to
your room?" he asked in a somewhat softened tone.

He felt a little alarmed at the child's unnatural calmness; but it was
all gone in a moment. Sinking upon her knees she burst into a fit of
passionate weeping. "Oh! papa, papa!" she sobbed, raising her streaming
eyes to his face, "will you never, _never_ love me any more?--must I
never come near you, or speak to you again?"

He was much moved.

"I did not say _that_, Elsie," he replied. "I hope most sincerely that
you _will_ come to me before long with the confessions and promises I
require; and then, as I have told you so often, I will take you to my
heart again, as fully as ever. Will you not do it at once, and spare me
the painful necessity of putting my sentence into execution?" he asked,
raising her gently, and drawing her to his side.

"Dear papa, you know I cannot," she sobbed.

"Then return at once to your room; my sentence must be enforced, though
it break both your heart and mine, for I _will_ be obeyed. _Go_!" he
said, sternly putting her from him. And weeping and sobbing, feeling like
a homeless, friendless outcast from society, Elsie went back to her room.

The next two or three weeks were very sad and dreary ones to the poor
little girl. Her father's sentence was rigidly enforced; she scarcely
ever saw him excepting at a distance, and when once or twice he passed
her in going in and out, he neither looked at nor spoke to her. Miss Day
treated her with all her former severity and injustice, and no one else
but the servants ever addressed her.

She went out every day for an hour or two, in obedience to her father's
command, but her walks and rides were sad and lonely; and during the rest
of the day she felt like a prisoner, for she dared not venture even into
the garden, where she had always been in the habit of passing the greater
part of her leisure hours, in the summer season.

But debarred from all other pleasures, Elsie read her Bible more and more
constantly, and with ever increasing delight; it was more than meat and
drink to her; she there found consolation under every affliction, a
solace for every sorrow. Her trial was a heavy one; her little heart
often ached sadly with its intense longing for an earthly father's love
and favor; yet in the midst of it all, she was conscious of a deep,
abiding peace, flowing from a sweet sense of pardoned sin, and a
consciousness of a Saviour's love.

At first Elsie greatly feared that she would not be allowed to attend
church, as usual, on the Sabbath. But Mr. Dinsmore did not care to excite
too much remark, and so, as Elsie had always been very regular in her
attendance, to her great joy she was still permitted to go.

No one spoke to her, however, or seemed to take the least notice of her;
but she sat by her father's side, as usual, both in the carriage and in
the pew, and there was some pleasure even in that, though she scarcely
dared even to lift her eyes to his face. Once during the sermon, on the
third Sabbath after their last interview, she ventured to do so, and was
so overcome by the sight of his pale, haggard looks, that utterly unable
to control her emotion, she burst into tears, and almost sobbed aloud.

"Elsie," he said, bending down, and speaking in a stern whisper, "you
_must control_ yourself."

And with a mighty effort she swallowed down her tears and sobs.

He took no further notice of her until they were again at their own door,
when, lifting her from the carriage, he took her by the hand and led her
to his own room. Shutting the door, he said sternly, "Elsie, what did you
mean by behaving so in church? I was ashamed of you."

"I could not help it, papa; indeed I could not," replied the little girl,
again bursting into tears.

"What were you crying about? tell me at once," he said, sitting down and
taking off her bonnet, while she stood trembling before him.

"Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa!" she cried, suddenly throwing her arms
round his neck, and laying her cheek to his; "I love you so much, that
when I looked at you, and saw how pale and thin you were, I couldn't help
crying."

"I do not understand, nor want such love, Elsie," he said gravely,
putting her from him; "it is not the right kind, or it would lead you
to be docile and obedient. You certainly deserve punishment for your
behavior this morning, and I am much inclined to say that you shall not
go to church again for some time."

"Please, papa, don't say that," she replied tearfully; "I will try never
to do so again."

"Well," he replied, after a moment's reflection, "I shall punish you
to-day by depriving you of your dinner, and if you repeat the offence I
shall whip you."

Elsie's little face flushed crimson.

"I know it is an ignominious punishment, Elsie," said her father, "and
I feel very loth to try it with you, but I greatly fear I shall be
compelled to do so before I can subdue your rebellious spirit; it will
be the _very last_ resort, however. Go now to your room."

This last threat might almost be said to have given Elsie a new dread;
for though his words on several former occasions had seemed to imply
something of the sort, she had always put away the thought as that of
something too dreadful to happen. But now he had spoken plainly, and the
trial to her seemed inevitable, for she could never give the required
promise, and she knew, too, that he prided himself on keeping his word,
to the very letter.

Poor little girl! she felt very much like a martyr in prospect of torture
or the stake. For a time she was in deep distress; but she carried _this_
trouble, like all the rest, to her Saviour, and found relief; many
precious, comforting texts being brought to her mind: "The king's heart
is in the hand of the Lord as the rivers of water: he turneth it
whithersoever he will." "My grace is sufficient for thee." "As thy days,
so shall thy strength be." These, and others of a like import, came to
her remembrance in this hour of fear and dread, and assured her that her
heavenly Father would either save her from that trial, or give her
strength to endure it; and she grew calm and peaceful again.

"The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous runneth into it
and is safe."




CHAPTER VII.

"Alone! alone! how drear it is
Always to be alone!"

WILLES


It was only a few days after Adelaide had suggested to her brother the
propriety of separating Elsie from her nurse, that he had the offer of a
very fine estate in the immediate neighborhood of his father's
plantation.

Mr. Granville, the present owner, was about removing to a distant part
of the country, and having become somewhat reduced in circumstances, was
anxious to sell, and as the place suited Mr. Dinsmore exactly, they were
not long in coming to an arrangement, satisfactory to both, by which it
passed into his hands.

Horace Dinsmore had inherited a large fortune from his mother, and having
plenty of money at his command, he immediately set about making sundry
improvements upon his new purchase; laying out the grounds, and repairing
and enlarging the already fine old mansion, adding all the modern
conveniences, and furnishing it in the most tasteful and elegant style.

And so "Rumor, with her thousand tongues," soon had it noised abroad that
he was about to bring home a second wife, and to that cause many
attributed Elsie's pale and altered looks.

Such, however, was not Mr. Dinsmore's intention.

"I must have a housekeeper," he said to Adelaide. "I shall send Chloe
there. She will do very well for the present, and it will give me the
opportunity I desire of separating her from Elsie, while in the meantime
I can be looking out for a better."

"But you are not going to leave us yourself, Horace?" said his sister
inquiringly.

"Not immediately, Adelaide; I intend to end this controversy with Elsie
first, and I indulge the hope that the prospect of sharing such a home
with me as soon as she submits, will go far towards subduing her."

Mr. Dinsmore shrank from the thought of Elsie's grief, if forced to part
from her nurse; but he was not a man to let his own feelings, or those of
others, prevent him from carrying out any purpose he had formed, if, as
in this case, he could persuade himself that he was doing right. And
so--all his arrangements being now made--the very morning after his late
interview with Elsie, Chloe was summoned to his presence.

He informed her of his purchase, and that it was his intention to send
her there to take charge of his house and servants, for the present.

Chloe, who was both extremely surprised and highly flattered by this
proof of her young master's confidence, looked very much delighted, as,
with a low courtesy, she expressed her thanks, and her willingness to
undertake the charge. But a sudden thought struck her, and she asked
anxiously if "her child" was to go with her.

Mr. Dinsmore said "_No_," very decidedly; and when Chloe told him that
that being the case, she would much rather stay where she was, if he
would let her, he said she could not have any choice in the matter; _she_
must go, and Elsie must stay.

Chloe burst into an agony of tears and sobs, begging to know why she was
to be separated from the child she had loved and cherished ever since her
birth; the child committed to her charge by her dying mother? What had
she done to so displease her master, that he had determined to subject
her to such a bitter trial?

Mr. Dinsmore was a good deal moved by her grief, but still not to be
turned from his purpose. He merely waited until she had grown somewhat
calmer, and then, in a tone of great kindness, but with much firmness and
decision, replied, "that he was not angry with her; that he knew she had
been very faithful in her kind care of his wife and child, and he should
always take care of her, and see that she was made comfortable as long as
she lived; but, for reasons which he did not think necessary to explain,
he considered it best to separate her from Elsie for a time; he knew it
would be hard for them both, but it _must_ be done, and tears and
entreaties would be utterly useless; she must prepare to go to her new
home that very afternoon."

So saying he dismissed her, and she went back to Elsie's room wellnigh
heart-broken; and there the little girl found her when she came in from
school duties, sitting beside the trunk she had just finished packing,
crying and sobbing as she had never seen her before.

"Oh, mammy, mammy! what _is_ the matter? _dear_ old mammy, what ails
you?" she asked, running to her, and throwing her arms around her neck.

Chloe clasped her to her breast, sobbing out that she must leave her.
"Massa Horace was going to send her away from her precious child."

Elsie was fairly stunned by the announcement, and for a moment could not
speak one word. To be separated from her beloved nurse who had always
taken care of her!--who seemed almost necessary to her existence. It was
such a calamity as even her worst fears had never suggested, for they
never had been parted, even for a single day; but wherever the little
girl went, if to stay more than a few hours, her faithful attendant had
always accompanied her, and she had never thought of the possibility of
doing without her.

She unclasped her arms from Chloe's neck, disengaging herself from her
loving grasp, stood for a moment motionless and silent; then, suddenly
sinking down upon her nurse's lap, again wound her arms about her neck,
and hid her face on her bosom, sobbing wildly: "Oh, mammy, mammy! you
shall not go! Stay with me, mammy! I've nobody to love me now but you,
and my heart will break if you leave me. Oh, mammy, say that you won't
go!"

Chloe could not speak, but she took the little form again in her arms,
and pressed it to her bosom in a close and fond embrace, while they
mingled their tears and sobs together.

But Elsie started up suddenly.

"I will go to papa!" she exclaimed; "I will beg him on my knees to let
you stay! I will tell him it will kill me to be parted from my dear old
mammy."

"'Tain't no use, darlin'! Massa Horace, he say I _must_ go; an' you know
what dat means, well as I do," said Chloe, shaking her head mournfully;
"he won't let me stay, nohow."

"But I must try, mammy," Elsie answered, moving toward the door. "I think
papa loves me a little yet, and maybe he will listen."

But she met a servant in the hall who told her that her father had gone
out, and that she heard him say he would not return before tea-time.

And Chloe was to go directly after dinner; so there was no hope of a
reprieve, nothing to do but submit as best they might to the sad
necessity of parting; and Elsie went back to her room again, to spend
the little time that remained in her nurse's arms, sobbing out her
bitter grief upon her breast. It was indeed a hard, hard trial to them
both; yet neither uttered one angry or complaining word against Mr.
Dinsmore.

Fanny, one of the maids, brought up Elsie's dinner, but she could not
eat. Chloe's appetite, too, had failed entirely; so they remained locked
in each other's embrace until Jim came to the door to tell Chloe the
carriage was waiting which was to convey her to her new home.

Once more she strained her nursling to her breast, sobbing out the words:
"Good-by, darlin'! de good Lord bless an' keep you forebber an' ebber,
an' nebber leave you alone."

"Oh, mammy, mammy, don't leave me!" almost shrieked the child, clinging
to her with a convulsive grasp.

"Don't now, darlin'! don't go for to break dis ole heart! You knows I
_must_ go," said Chloe, gently disengaging herself. "We'll ask de Lord to
bring us together again soon, dear chile, an' I think he will 'fore
long," she whispered in Elsie's ear; and with another fond caress she
left her all drowned in tears, and half fainting with grief.

An hour might have passed--it seemed longer than that to Elsie--when
the door opened, and she started up from the sofa, where she had flung
herself in the first abandonment of her sorrow. But it was only Fanny,
come to tell her that Jim had brought her horse to the door, and to
prepare her for her ride.

She quietly submitted to being dressed; but, ah! how strange it seemed to
have any other than Chloe's hands busy about her! It swelled her young
heart wellnigh to bursting, though Fanny, who evidently understood her
business well, was very kind and attentive, and full of unobtrusive
sympathy and love for her young charge.

The brisk ride in the fresh air did Elsie good, and she returned

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