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Elsie's children

by Martha Finley · English · Gutenberg #14875 · 411,490 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Elsie's children

Author: Martha Finley


        
Release date: February 2, 2005 [eBook #14875]
                Most recently updated: December 19, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELSIE'S CHILDREN ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Emmy and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.








ELSIE'S
CHILDREN

A SEQUEL TO
"ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD"


By
MARTHA FINLEY

Complete Authorized Edition

Published by arrangement with
Dodd, Mead and Company


A.L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS
New York Chicago




DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.

1877

1905, BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.





Preface.


With this volume, bringing the Story of Elsie
and her Children down to the present time, the
series closes.

It was not by request of the author's _personal_
friends, that either this or any one of the previous
volumes was written, but in acquiescence with the
demands of the Public--the friends and admirers
of Elsie herself; and we know that as child, as
young girl, as wife and mother, she has had many
friends who have been loath to part with her.
May they find neither her nor her children less
lovable in this, than in the earlier volumes, and
may their society prove sweet, comforting and helpful
to many readers and friends both old and new.

M.F.




Elsie's Children.




CHAPTER FIRST.

    "Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth,
     What joy is welcom'd like a new-born child."
                                     --MRS. NORTON.



A merry scene in the nursery at Viamede, where the little Travillas are
waiting for their morning half hour with "dear mamma." Mammy coming in
smiling and mysterious, her white apron thrown over something held
carefully in her arms, bids the children guess what it is.

"A new dolly for me?" says Vi; "I'm going to have a birthday to-morrow."

"A kite," ventured Harold. "No, a balloon."

"A tite! a tite!" cried little Herbert, clapping his hands.

"Pshaw! it's nothing but a bundle of clothes mammy's been doing up for one
of you girls," said Eddie. "I see a bit of lace or work, or something,
hanging down below her apron."

"Is it a new dress for Vi, mammy?" asked Elsie, putting her arm about her
sister and giving her a loving kiss.

"Yah, yah; you ain't no whar nigh it yet, chillens," laughed mammy,
dropping into a chair, and warding off an attempt on the part of little
Herbert to seize her prize and examine it for himself.

"Oh, it's alive," cried Harold, half breathlessly, "I saw it move!" Then
as a slight sound followed the movement, "A baby! a baby!" they all
exclaim, "O, mammy, whose is it? where did you get it? oh, sit down and
show it to us!"

"Why, chillen, I reckon it 'longs to us," returned mammy, complying with
the request, while they gathered closely about her with eager and
delighted faces.

"Ours, mammy? Then I'm glad it isn't black or yellow like the babies down
at the quarter," said Harold, eying it with curiosity and interest.

"So am I too," remarked Violet, "but it's got such a red face and hardly
any hair on the top of its head."

"Well, don't you remember that's the way Herbie looked when he first
came?" said Eddie.

"And he grew very white in a few weeks," remarked Elsie. "But is it
mamma's baby, mammy?"

"Yes, honey, dat it am; sho's yer born, 'nother pet for ole mammy,--de
bressed little darlin'," she answered, pressing the little creature to
her breast.

The information was received with a chorus of exclamations of delight and
admiration.

"Tate a bite of cacker, boy," said Herbert, offering a cracker which he
was eating with evident enjoyment.

Mammy explained, amid the good-natured laughter of the older children,
that the newcomer had no teeth and couldn't eat anything but milk.

"Oh, poor 'ittle fing!" he said, softly touching its velvet cheek. "Won't
'oo tum and pay wis Herbie?"

"No, it can't play," said Violet, "it can't walk and it can't talk."

"Where's mamma, mammy?" asked Eddie, glancing at the clock; "it's past her
time; I wonder too she didn't come to show us the new baby herself."

"She's sick, chile," returned mammy, a grave and anxious look coming into
her old eyes.

"Mamma sick?" exclaimed little Elsie, "oh, may I go to her?"

Mammy shook her head. "Not jes now, honey darlin', byme by, when she's
bettah."

"Mamma sick?" echoed Violet. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry!"

"Don't fret, chillen, de good Lord make her well again soon," said mammy,
with cheerful hopefulness, for she could not bear to see how sad each
little face had grown, how the young lips quivered, and the bright eyes
filled with tears; for dearly, dearly, they all loved their sweet, gentle
mother.

"Herbie wants mamma," sobbed the baby boy, clinging to his eldest sister.

"Don't cry, pet," Elsie said chokingly, hugging him close and kissing away
his tears. "We'll all ask God to make her well, and I'm sure he will."

"Why! why! what's the matter here?" cried a cheery voice, as the door
opened and Mr. Travilla stepped into their midst. "What's the matter with
papa's darlings?" he repeated, gathering them all into his arms, and
caressing each in turn.

"Is mamma, dear mamma, very sick?" they asked, Vi immediately adding in
joyous tones,

"No, no, she isn't, or papa wouldn't look so happy."

"I am very happy," he said with emotion, glancing toward the bundle in
mammy's lap, "we are both very happy over the new treasure God has given
us; and I trust she will soon be well."

"Can we go and speak to her?" they asked.

"After a while," he said, "she is trying to sleep now. What do you all
think of the little sister?"

"Sister," cried Elsie. "Oh, that is nice, nice! I thought it was a boy.
What's its name, papa?"

"It has none yet."

"I sorry for it," remarked Herbert, gazing with curious interest at the
tiny creature, "I sorry for it; cause can't walk, can't talk, can't eat
good fings; dot no teef to eat wis. Do, boy, try to eat cacker, cacker
dood, Herbie likes," and breaking off a fragment he would have forced it
into the wee mouth, if papa and mammy had not interfered for its
protection.

"No, no, my son, you would choke it," said Mr. Travilla, gently drawing
him away.

"It isn't a boy; it's a girl, Herbie," corrected Harold.

"Oh!" cried Vi, who was gently feeling the top of the tiny head, and she
looked aghast at her father, "O, papa, its head's rotten!"

"No, daughter, don't be alarmed," he said smiling slightly, "there's
nothing wrong there; all young babies' heads are soft like that on the
top."

"Oh, are they?" she said with a sigh of relief, "I was afraid it would
spoil soon and we couldn't keep her."

"No, she seems to be all right," he said with a grave and tender smile.
"God has been very good to us."

"Yes, papa. Oh such a pretty darling as it is!" said Elsie.

"Yes, indeed," chimed in the others; Vi adding, "and I'm so glad she's a
girl: 'cause now we have two sisters, Elsie, just the same as the boys."

"Oh, but we have three now!" said Eddie, laughing good naturedly at Vi's
crestfallen look.

"Oh, yes," she acknowledged, then brightening, "but we have three
brothers, and you only two; so it's even all around after all, isn't it,
papa?"

The children were full of delight over their treasure, and eager to show
it to grandpa, grandma, Aunt Rosie, Aunt Wealthy and Aunt May; regretting
much that the rest of their friends had left Viamede before the advent of
the little stranger.

She proved a frail, gentle little creature, with violet eyes and pale
golden hair, so fair and delicate that Lily was the name that most readily
suggested itself and the one finally settled upon as really hers.

Lily became a great pet with them all, but Violet claimed a special
property in her because as she would say, "The darling came to us almost
on my birthday and she's just the sweetest, prettiest birthday present
mamma ever gave me."

The weather was growing very warm at Viamede and Aunt Wealthy and the
little Duncans found the heat oppressive; so when Lily was three weeks old
and the dear mamma able to be up again, looking bright and well, that
party bade good-bye and set out on their return to Lansdale.

The Dinsmores and Travillas lingered until the middle of May, when they
too set their faces northward, not parting company till very near to Ion
and the Oaks.




CHAPTER SECOND.

    "Envy is but the smoke of low estate,
     Ascending still against the fortunate."
                                 --BROOKE.


It was dark and raining a little when the carriage turned into the avenue
at Ion; but the whole front of the house was ablaze with lights, the hall
door stood wide open, and a double line of servants in holiday attire,
each sooty face dressed in smiles, stood waiting to welcome the weary
travelers home.

There were many hearty shakings and kissings of hands; many fervent
ejaculations: "God bless you, Massa and Missus!" "Tank de Lord you's got
home again, honey. We's been pinin' for you darlin's and for de sight of
de new baby," and with the last words the voices were lowered at a sign
from Aunt Chloe, in whose arms the little Lily lay sleeping sweetly.

There was some fretting among the weary little ones, but mamma and nurses
were kind and gentle, and a good supper and bed soon cured all their
troubles for that night.

Little Elsie was roused from her slumbers by a gentle shake, and starting
up in bed, found the sun shining and Vi standing by her side with eager,
excited face.

"Come, come to the window!" she cried. "It does seem as if I must be
dreaming; it wasn't there before, I'm sure."

"What?" asked Elsie, springing out upon the floor and hurrying after Vi to
the window from which she had witnessed the burning of the schoolhouse.

"There!" said Violet, pointing with her finger, "there! can you see it
too?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Elsie, clasping her hands in a sort of ecstasy of delight,
"oh, aren't papa and mamma good? How did they ever come to think of it!
and how could they get it done while they were away?"

"Grandpa, Uncle Horace and Cal," suggested Vi. "Oh, aren't you glad?
Aren't you glad, Elsie?"

"I should think so! and the boat is ever so pretty. Let's hurry and get
dressed and go down and see it closer."

Rowing and sailing upon the bayou and lakelet had been the children's
greatest pleasure at Viamede, their greatest regret in leaving it. Knowing
this, their ever indulgent parents had prepared a pleasant surprise for
them, causing a small tract of barren land on the Ion estate to be turned
into an artificial lake. It was this, shining in the golden beams of the
morning sun, and a beautiful boat moored to the hither shore, that had
called forth from the lips of the little girls those exclamations of
almost incredulous wonder and delight.

"Yes; I'll ring for Dinah," cried Vi, skipping across the room and putting
out her hand to lay hold of the bell pull.

"Wait, Vi, our prayers first, you know," said Elsie.

"Oh, yes! I do want to thank God for being so good to us; the pretty lake
and boat and all."

"Dear kind parents, safe journey home, too, and oh more things than we can
count," added Elsie, as they knelt down side by side.

This duty performed with no irreverent haste, the maid was summoned and a
careful toilet made in season to afford them time for a walk before mamma
would be ready to see them.

They found their father in the lower veranda talking with the overseer,
while Solon stood waiting with Beppo's bridle in his hand, the horse
pawing the ground with impatience.

Eddie was there, too, caressing Bruno who seemed as glad to be at home
again as any of the rest. Uttering a joyous bark he left his young master
and bounded to meet the little girls.

Mr. Travilla turned at the sound and with a kind fatherly smile, held out
his hands.

"O papa," they cried running to him, "how good of you to have it made for
us!"

"Good-morning, my darlings," he said, giving and receiving caresses, "but
what are you talking about?"

"Why the lake, papa; the lake and the boat."

"Lake?" exclaimed Eddie, "why where?"

"Oh, you couldn't see it from your windows," said Elsie. "Papa, papa, may
we go now and look at it?"

"Yes," he said, taking a hand of each. "Larkin, I'll see you again after
breakfast. Come, Eddie, my son, you too, and Bruno."

A brisk five minutes' walk brought them to the shore of the lake, a tiny
one, scarce a quarter of a mile in circumference, not very deep and the
water so clear that the pebbly bottom could be distinctly seen; gold and
silver fish, too, gliding hither and thither; while a pretty, gayly
painted row-boat lying at the water's edge, rocked gently in the morning
breeze.

Eddie hailed the scene with a shout of delight; the little girls danced
about gleefully, Vi clapping her hands and asking eagerly if they might
get into the boat.

Papa looked at his watch, "Yes, there will be time for a row; one trip
around the lake. Step in, all of you, and I will take the oars."

Vi was quite ready and Eddie gallantly handed her in, then turned and
offered his hand to Elsie. She demurred. "But mamma! shouldn't we have
mamma with us the first time?" and she looked up inquiringly into her
father's face.

"Yes, yes, of course!" cried the others making haste to step ashore again,
"we want dear mamma with us the very first time."

Papa smiled approval. "Then we will go back," he said, "and after
breakfast, if mamma is willing, we will all come and take a row together;
the boat is large enough to carry us all at once."

Mamma's consent was readily obtained, for to please her children was her
great delight. So shortly after breakfast they all repaired to the lake
and rowed round and across it several times, a merry, happy party.

At Roselands the family were gathered about the breakfast table and the
principal topic of conversation was the return of the party from Viamede.
Calhoun had been to the Oaks the previous evening and learned of their
safe arrival.

"We must all go this morning and call upon them," said Mr. Dinsmore.

"We'll divide our forces," said Cal, laughing. "Suppose grandpa, mother
and Aunt Enna, go first to the Oaks; and we younger ones to Ion?"

"Very well," replied the old gentleman, "I shall spend an hour with my
son, then ride over to see Elsie and her little flock. How many of you
young folks want to go to Ion in the first division?"

"I!" "And I!" "And I!" cried one and another.

"But you can't go all at once," returned their grandfather, looking
around upon them with an amused smile; "the carriage is roomy, but really
you are too many for it. Besides wouldn't there be some danger of
overwhelming your cousins?"

"Well, I'm going, let who will stay at home," observed Molly Percival with
cool decision. "The boys can ride, I mean Cal, and Art, and Dick and Wal;
they all have ponies and the two carriages will hold the rest of us if we
crowd a little."

"I'm not going to be bothered with Bob or Betty," said her mother; "they
may go with you, or wait till another time."

"Then they'll wait," remarked Isadore Conly, "for I shall wear my best
silk suit, and I have no notion of having it tumbled."

"Last year's suit is quite good enough for the occasion," said her mother,
"they're only cousins."

"But rich ones, that can afford to dress, and I'll not go a step if I have
to look shabby."

"Nor I," chimed in her sister. "So mamma you may as well resign yourself
to the situation. It's no good finding fault or objecting," she added with
a laugh.

"Take your own way, then," returned her mother indifferently, "but
remember there'll be no more new dresses this season."

"Dear me, why aren't we as rich as the Travillas?" pouted Isadore. "I do
think things are very unequally divided in this world."

"Never mind; the wheel of fortune often takes a turn," said her mother.
"You may have money left you some day (some of your father's relations are
still rich), and you may make a grand match."

"How long will it take you girls to don your finery?" ask Cal, pulling out
his watch. "We'd better start as soon as we can: the sun will be getting
hot."

"I'm done," said Molly, jumping up, "and I'll be ready by the time the
carriage can be brought to the door. Come Isa and Virgy, you've eaten
enough. Cousin Elsie will be sure to treat us to something good." And she
ran gayly from the room.

Molly, just turned thirteen, and already as tall as her mother, was a
bright, lively girl, full of fun and frolic. She was not a beauty, but had
a clear complexion and fine dark eyes, and good humor and intelligence
lent a charm to her face that made it more than ordinarily attractive.

Dick had always been fond of her, and was beginning to take a brotherly
pride in her good looks and intellectual gifts.

Enna's feelings toward her were divided between motherly pride and
affection on the one hand, and on the other the dread of being made to
appear old by the side of so tall a daughter; a dread that made her
jealous of Dick also.

The Conly girls, too, were growing fast, giving promise of fair, graceful
womanhood, Isadore particularly of great beauty; which her mother fondly
hoped would be the means of securing her a wealthy husband; for Mrs.
Conly's affections were wholly set upon the things of this life; by her
and her sister Enna, wealth and beauty were esteemed the highest good, and
their children were trained in accordance with that view; the moral
atmosphere of the house being very different from that of Ion, where the
lives and conversation of the parents were such as to leave no doubt in
the minds of their children, that to them the things of time and sense
were as nothing in comparison with those of eternity.

Enna followed her daughter into the dressing-room they used in common.

"Wear the very best you have, Molly," she said, "I don't want you to be
looked down upon as a poor relation, or to have it said that the Conlys
dress better than my children."

"I'm sure they don't," said Molly, ringing for the maid, "though they'd
like to if they could, and are always jealous when grandpa makes me a
present."

"Of course they are, and they manage to get more than their fair share,
too," acquiesced the mother in a tone of irritation; "but do you see to it
that they don't get ahead of you at Ion; remember Elsie is as rich as a
Jew, and likes the credit of being generous, so keep on the right side of
her, if you want handsome presents."

"I'm sure she is generous and doesn't give only for the credit of it,"
said Molly.

"Don't give me any impudence," returned her mother sharply. "Rachel," to
the maid who just then came in in answer to the bell, "dress Miss Molly
first, and be quick about it."

Enna superintended the business in person, and in a way that sorely tried
the temper and nerves of both Molly and the maid; the child's sash must be
tied and retied, her hat bent this way and that, her collar and brooch
changed again and again, till she was ready to cry with impatience; and
when at last she started for the door, she was called back, and Rachel
ordered to change her slippers for gaiter boots.

"I don't want to wear them!" cried Molly, fairly stamping with impatience.
"The heels are so high and narrow, I can't bear them."

"They're just the style and make your foot look beautiful," said her
mother, "sit down and let Rachel put them on you."

"Grandpa says they're dangerous, and so does Dr. Barton, too," grumbled
Molly.

"Put them on her, Rachel," commanded Enna. "Molly, behave yourself, or
you'll stay at home."

The child submitted rather sullenly, muttering that she would be late.

Rachel was fastening the second boot, when Isadore and Virginia were heard
running down the stairs, calling out that the carriage was at the door.

"There! I knew you'd make me too late!" cried Molly. "Oh, Rachel, do
hurry!"

"Yes, Miss Molly, best I kin; dar dat's de las' button."

Up sprang Molly, and away in hot haste. She gained the landing, caught her
heel in the carpet on the first step of the next flight, and a wild shriek
rang through the house, accompanied by the sound of a heavy body tumbling
and rolling down the stairs.

Echoing the scream, Enna rushed out into the upper hall.

Calhoun at the foot of the stairs, was picking Molly up.

"Is she hurt? Is she killed?" asked the mother, "Molly, Molly, how did you
come to be so awkward?"

"I wasn't! it was those heels; I knew they'd throw me down some day!"
cried the child in tones of mingled anger, fright and pain.

"H'm! you're not killed; haven't even had the temper knocked out of you,"
remarked Enna, going back to her dressing.

"Poor child, you must be hurt," said Calhoun, laying her gently on a sofa,
"but no bones broken, I hope?"

"I--I don't know," sobbed Molly, "it's my back. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Oh, Molly, are you much hurt? shall I go for the doctor?" asked Dick,
coming to her side pale with fright. "Mac's right here at the door, ready
saddled and bridled, and----"

"Go for the doctor?" interrupted Molly. "No, indeed! It's very good in
you, Dick, but I don't want him; I am going to Ion with the rest of you.
I'm ready now."

"You don't look much like it; you're as pale as a ghost," he said, Calhoun
adding, "You'd better lie still for a while, Molly; Dick or I will take
you over this evening, if you find yourself able to go then."

"Thank you, but I'm going now," she answered with decision, getting up and
taking Dick's arm.

He helped her to the carriage, where Isadore, Virginia, and some of the
younger ones sat waiting, and placed her in it.

She wiped away her tears and tried to smile, while answering the questions
and condolences of the others, and the party moved on.

By the time Ion was reached, most of them had nearly forgotten Molly's
accident, till Elsie remarked that she was looking pale, and asked if she
were quite well.

That brought out the story of her fall.

Elsie heard it with grave concern but asked few questions as Molly seemed
annoyed that the subject had been introduced. It was a habit of her
mother's to scold her for awkwardness, and the child was sensitive on that
point.

When the young people had left and the older members of the Roselands
family called, Elsie seized a favorable opportunity to speak of Molly's
pale looks and urge the importance of calling in a physician that if there
were any reason to apprehend serious results from the fall, measures might
be promptly taken to avert the danger.

"She can't have been seriously hurt," returned Enna coldly, "or she
wouldn't have been ready to get into the carriage the next minute and ride
over here."

"By the way," said her father, "I haven't heard what caused her fall."

"She's an awkward child, always tumbling about," returned Enna reddening.

"Especially since she wears those fashionable boots with the high narrow
heels," he remarked. "Had she them on when she fell?"

Enna reluctantly admitted that such was the fact.

"I'll send them into town to-day, with orders that full half the heel
shall be taken off," he said with angry decision.




CHAPTER THIRD.

                      "'Tis a goodly scene--
    Yon river, like a silvery snake, lays out
    His coil i' the sunshine lovingly."
                                --HUNT.


The family at Ion presently fell into the old routine of study, work and
play, Elsie resuming the duties of governess; but as the heated term drew
on, she and the little ones, especially the babe, began to droop.

"You must go north for the summer," said Dr. Barton, "start as soon as
possible and don't return till October."

"Would you recommend the seashore?" asked Mr. Travilla.

"H'm! that might answer very well, but mountain air would, I think, be
better."

"Oh then, mamma!" cried Vi, who was present and had been an eager but
hitherto silent listener, "won't you accept Aunt Lucy's invitation?"

"Perhaps, daughter," Elsie said smiling indulgently into the bright little
face, "but we will take time to consider what will be best."

"Where is that?" asked the doctor, "Lucy Ross, I suppose, but I've
forgotten where they live."

"On the banks of the Hudson a few miles south of Newburgh. The Crags they
call their place, and a beautiful one it is. 'Twas only yesterday I
received a letter from Lucy, urging us to come and spend the summer with
her."

"I should say go by all means," said the doctor, taking leave.

There were reasons for hesitation on the part of the careful parents of
which the physician knew nothing. The young Rosses, all unused to control,
were a willful set not likely to exert a beneficial influence over other
children; that was the demur.

However the final decision was in favor of the visit, and a few days later
they set out upon their journey; Mr. Horace Dinsmore taking charge of
them, as business made it inconvenient for Mr. Travilla to leave just at
that time.

From New York they passed up the Hudson in a steamboat; the carriage from
the Crags was found in waiting at the landing, and a short drive brought
them to the house, which stood high up above the river, in the midst of
magnificent mountain scenery.

The Ion children, taught from early infancy to notice the beauties of
nature, were in ecstasies of delight, exclaiming anew at every turn in the
road, calling each other's, mamma's or grandpa's attention to the
sparkling river, the changing shadows on the mountainsides, here a
beetling crag, there a waterfall or secluded glen. Having rested the
previous night, sleeping soundly at a hotel, they were not wearied with
travel but seemed fresher now than when they left their home.

Lucy and her little flock, gathered on the front porch to receive their
guests, gave them a warm welcome. The two ladies had lost none of the
affection for each other which had been one of the happinesses of their
childhood and early youth, and each loved the children of the other for
the mother's sake if not for their own. They numbered the same, but
Sophie, Lucy's youngest, was now in her fifth year, and Baby Lily was
greeted with many expressions and demonstrations of delight.

Lucy excused her husband's absence: he was away on business, she said, but
would be at home before night.

"Where's Phil?" asked Eddie, turning to Gertrude.

"Oh, he's at boarding-school, don't you know?" she answered. "He'll be
home in vacation; but that doesn't begin for two weeks yet."

Mr. Dinsmore tarried for a few days, then returned to the neighborhood of
Philadelphia, where he had left his wife and Rosie, who were visiting
their northern relatives.

Miss Fisk was still governess at the Crags, and when the children had had
a week of play together, it was thought best by the mammas, that two hours
of each morning should be devoted to lessons.

Knowing Miss Fisk to be not only well educated and refined, but also a
conscientious and good woman, Elsie was willing to entrust her children to
her care; the more so, because Lily in her feeble state, required much of
her own time and attention.

In the midst of a beautiful grove of oaks and maples, on the side of a
hill, scarce more than a stone's throw from the mansion, and within full
view of its windows, stood a small brick building owned by Mr. Ross, and
used as a summer schoolroom for the children.

It was a cool shady spot, enlivened by the songs of the wild birds who
built their nests in the trees, and the musical tinkle of a little
waterfall that came tumbling down from the heights above not half-a-dozen
yards from the door.

Mr. Ross had furnished the room with comfortable and convenient chairs and
desks, and Lucy had made it pretty and tasteful with white muslin curtains
and neatly papered walls of a soft neutral tint, enlivened by a few gayly
colored pictures. Woodwork and floor were stained a rich dark brown,
bright soft rugs were scattered here and there; and altogether the place
was as inviting as a lady's parlor.

The Ion children were well content to spend here two or three hours of
that part of the day when the sun was too hot for them to be exposed to
his rays with safety and comfort: the others found lessons made much more
agreeable by the companionship of their young guests, and Miss Fisk was
glad to take them under her charge, because by their intelligence they
added greatly to the interest of her work, while their respectful obedient
behavior exerted an excellent influence upon her other pupils.

Before leaving home, Elsie, after careful and prayerful consideration,
thought it best to have a plain talk with her older children about the
temptations that were likely to assail them during their visit to the
Crags.

They had had some past experience of the ways of Lucy's children, and she
knew they had not forgotten it; and reminding them of the Bible
declaration, that "evil communications corrupt good manners," she bade
them, while refraining as far as possible from judging their little
friends, at the same time to carefully avoid following their example in
anything they knew to be wrong.

"Mamma," said Vi, "perhaps sometimes we mightn't know if it was wrong!"

"I think you will, daughter, if you take a moment to think; and if you are
doubtful, you may be pretty sure it is wrong."

"Mamma, we mustn't tell tales to you?"

"No, dear; but perhaps you can consult me without that; and do not forget
that you can always lift up your heart to God for help to know and do the
right."

"Yes, mamma," returned the little girl thoughtfully, "and I do believe
Elsie will 'most always be there and know what's right."

"I'm not sure," said her sister, with a grave shake of the head, "I wish
we could always have mamma by to tell us."

"But mamma cannot be with you always, darlings," Elsie said, regarding
them with yearning tenderness, "and so, as your papa and I have often told
you, you must learn to think and decide for yourselves; about some things
now, and about others as you grow older and wiser. Some things the Bible
tells us plainly, and in regard to those we have nothing to do but obey."




CHAPTER FOURTH.

    "A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."
                                      --PROVERBS xxix. 15.


Lucy, too, had a talk with her children, in which she begged them quite
pathetically, not to disgrace her before the expected guests, Mr. Dinsmore
especially, who was so very strict in his ideas of how children ought to
be brought up, and how they should behave.

They promised readily enough to "behave splendidly" and for a few days did
so astonishingly well that, as she laughingly said, "she began to grow
frightened lest they were becoming too good to live."

But she need not have been alarmed; the reaction was not long in coming
and was sufficient to relieve all apprehension that they were in immediate
danger from an overplus of goodness.

It began on the morning after Mr. Dinsmore's departure. Gertrude was late
to breakfast, and when reproved by her mother answered in a manner so
disrespectful as to quite astonish the young Travillas. They expected to
see her banished at once from the table and the room; but her mother only
looked grave and said in a tone of displeasure, "Gertrude, I cannot have
you speak to me in that way--Don't do it again."

"I don't care; you needn't scold so about every little trifle then,"
muttered the delinquent in an undertone, pulling the dish of meat toward
her, helping herself and spilling the gravy on the clean tablecloth.

Mrs. Ross did not seem to hear, she was spreading a piece of bread with
the sweetest and freshest of butter, for Sophie.

"I don't want it, I want waffles!" screamed the child, snatching up the
bread the instant it was laid on her plate, and dashing it on to the
carpet.

"You are not well this morning, dear, and mamma thinks waffles might make
her darling worse," said Lucy in a soothing tone. "Come now be a good
baby, and eat the bread. Shall mamma spread another piece?"

"No, no, naughty mamma! I'll jus' frow it on the floor if you do," cried
the child, bursting into angry sobs.

"Shall mamma have some toast made for her?" (coaxingly).

"No, no! waffles! and butter on waffles, and 'lasses on butter, and sugar
on 'lasses!"

The mother laughed. It seemed to irritate the child still further; and she
screamed louder than ever, slid down from her chair and stamped her foot
with rage.

Mrs. Ross was deeply mortified at the exhibition. "Pick her up and carry
her to the nursery," she said to a servant.

Sophie kicked and struggled, but the girl,--a strong and determined
one--carried her away by main force.

"I'm dreadfully ashamed of her, Elsie," Lucy said, turning to her friend;
"but she's a nervous little creature and we must try to excuse her."

"A few hearty slaps would reverse the nervous currents and do her an
immense amount of good, Mrs. Ross," remarked the governess in her slow,
precise way.

"Slaps, Miss Fisk," returned Lucy reddening, "_I_ don't approve of
corporal punishment, as _I_ have told you more than once. I was never
whipped, and I don't intend that any of my children shall be."

"Most assuredly not, madam; but I was recommending it not as a punishment
for disobedience or ill temper, but simply as a remedial agent. I have
never experienced anything of the kind myself, Mrs. Ross, but have heard
it remarked that nervousness occasions greater suffering than what is
generally understood by the term pain; therefore I suggested it as I
should the amputation of a diseased member when necessary in order to
preserve life."

"Permit me to remark," returned Lucy, "that unmasked advice is seldom
acceptable, and now a truce to discussion, if you please. My dear Elsie,"
turning to Mrs. Travilla, "I beg you to excuse our ill-manners. It
strikes me that none of us are behaving quite as we ought this morning.
Hal and Archie, what's wrong between you now?" For the two boys, seated
side by side, were scowling at each other, and muttering angrily half
under their breath.

"Why, ma, he went and took the very piece of meat I just said I was going
to have," whimpered Archie, digging his fists into his eyes.

"Well, I don't care," retorted Harry, "I'd as good a right as you, and I
was ready first."

"Give him a part of it, can't you?" said his mother.

"'Tain't more'n I want myself."

"I won't have it after it's been on his plate," exclaimed both together.

"Boys, I'm ashamed of you!" said Lucy, "I wish your father were here to
keep you straight. You don't dare behave so before him. I'm sure your
little friends would never act so. Don't you see how your naughtiness
astonishes them? Vi, would you talk to your mamma as my children do to
me?"

The large blue eyes opened wide upon the questioner in half incredulous,
reproachful surprise, then turned upon the beautiful, gentle face of Mrs.
Travilla with an expression of ardent affection mingled with admiration
and respect. "O Aunt Lucy! could you b'lieve I'd do that to my mamma?"

The very thought of so wounding that tender mother heart was evidently so
full of pain to the little one, that Elsie could not refrain from
responding to the appeal, "Mamma knows you would not, darling."

"Oh, no, mamma, 'cause I love you!" cried the child, the young face
growing bright with smiles.

"Atmospheric influences have often a great deal to do with these things;
do you not find it so?" Elsie said, turning to her friend.

"Yes, I have noticed that!" Lucy said, catching gladly at the suggestion:
"and the air is certainly unusually oppressive this morning. I feel
nervous myself. I think we'll have a gust before night."

The last words were spoken in an undertone, but the quick ear of Gertrude
caught them. "Then I shan't go to school," she announced decidedly.

"Nonsense," said her mother, "'twon't be here till afternoon; probably not
till night, if at all."

"Now, ma, you're just saying that. Aunt Elsie, do you really think it
won't come soon?"

Glancing through the open window at the mountains and the sky, Elsie
answered that she saw no present indications of a storm; there was nothing
to betoken it but the heat and closeness of the air.

"Are you afraid of thunder, Aunt Elsie?" asked Harry.

"Lightning, you silly boy," corrected Gertrude, "nobody's afraid of
thunder."

"Yes, you are," he retorted. "You just ought to see, Ed, how scared she
gets," and Harry laughed scornfully.

Gertrude was ready with an indignant retort, but her mother stopped her.
"If you are really brave, Gertrude, you can have an excellent opportunity
to show it when the storm comes." Then to Harry, "Let your sister alone,
or I'll send you from the room."

The gust, a very severe one, came in the afternoon. Before it was fairly
upon them, Lucy, herself pale with terror, had collected her children in a
darkened room and seated them all on a feather-bed, where they remained
during the storm, half stifled by the heat, the little ones clinging to
their mother, hiding their heads in her lap and crying with fear.

Elsie and her children formed a different group; the mother the central
figure here also, her darlings gathered closely about her, in her
dressing-room--at a safe distance from the open windows--watching with
awed delight, the bursting of the storm clouds over the mountain-tops, the
play of the lightning, the sweep of the rain down from the heights into
the valleys and river below, listening to the crash and roar of the
thunder as it reverberated among the hills, one echo taking it up after
another, and repeating it to the next, till it sounded like the
explosions of many batteries of heavy artillery, now near at hand, now
farther and farther away.

"Mamma, isn't it grand?" exclaimed Eddie, in one of the brief pauses in
the wild uproar of the elements.

"Yes," she said, "the thunder of his power who can understand?"

"Is it God, mamma? does God make it?" asked little Herbert.

"Yes, dear; 'when he uttereth his voice, there is a multitude of waters in
the heavens, and he causeth the vapors to ascend from the ends of the
earth; he maketh lightnings with rain, and bringeth forth the wind out of
his treasuries.'"

"We needn't be 'f'aid, mamma?"

"No, darling, no; for God is our Father; He loves us and will take care of
us."

The storm was very violent while it lasted, but soon passed away; the sun
shone out, and a beautiful rainbow spanned the eastern sky above the
mountain-tops.

Elsie's children clapped their hands in ecstasy, and ran to call their
little friends to enjoy the sight with them. Mrs. Ross followed, looking
so pale and exhausted, that Elsie inquired with concern if she were ill.

"Oh, it was the storm!" she said, "wasn't it fearful? I was sure the house
would be struck and some of us killed. Weren't you frightened?"

"No," Elsie said, with a kindly reassuring smile, "I presume my nerves are
stronger than yours, and I am not naturally timid in regard to thunder and
lightning. Besides, I know so well that he who guides and controls it is
my Father and my Friend. Come, look at his bow of promise."

The children were in a group about the window, gazing and admiring.

"Let's ask mamma for the story of it," Vi was saying.

"The story of it?" repeated Archie Ross.

"Yes; don't you know? about Noah and the flood."

"I never heard it."

"Oh, Archie, it's in the Bible; grandma told it to us once," exclaimed his
sister Gertrude.

"I didn't hear it, anyhow," persisted the boy, "do, Vi, coax Aunt Elsie to
tell it."

The petition was readily granted. Mrs. Travilla was an inimitable
story-teller, and Lucy, whose knowledge of Scripture history was but
superficial, listened to the narrative with almost as much interest and
pleasure as did the children.

"I would give anything for your talent for story-telling, Elsie," she said
at its conclusion.

"Oh, another! another! Please tell us another?" cried a chorus of young
voices.

Mrs. Travilla drew out her watch, and holding it up with a smile, "Not
just now, my dears," she said, "see it is almost tea-time, and," she
added playfully, "some of us have need to change our dresses and smooth
our tangled tresses."

"That is true," said Lucy, rising hastily, "and I expect my husband home.
I must send the carriage off at once to the depot; for the train is nearly
due."

Thereupon a cry was raised among the Rosses as they flew after their
mother, "I want to go for papa!" "and I!" "It's my turn, I say, and I will
go!" "No, you shan't, for it's mine."




CHAPTER FIFTH.

    "She fed me first to God;
     Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew."
                                           --PIERPONT.


"Hallo! this looks like welcome; every one of you been crying!" Mr. Ross
said, catching up Sophie in his arms, and glancing about upon his group of
children, after an affectionate greeting to his wife, and a cordially kind
one to their guest.

"What's the trouble? so sorry papa was coming home, eh?"

"No, no, that wasn't it, papa," they cried, crowding around him, each
eager to claim the first caress, "it wasn't that, but we wanted to go for
you, and mamma wouldn't let us."

"Yes," said Lucy, "they all wanted to go and as that couldn't be, and no
one would give up to the others, I kept them all at home."

"Quite right," he said, gravely, "I'm afraid you hardly deserve the pretty
gifts I have brought."

"Oh, yes, yes, papa, we'll be good next time! Indeed we will! Mamma, coax
him!"

"Yes, do let them have them, Phil," urged his wife, "where would be the
use of keeping the things back after spending your money for them?"

"To teach them a good lesson. I'm afraid both you and I are foolishly
indulgent, Lucy."

"Oh, they'll be good next time."

"This once then, but only this once, unless they keep their word," he
said, producing his gifts--a book or toy for each of his own children, and
a package of sweetmeats which he divided among all present.

He had brought a new dog home with him, but no one but Eddie had noticed
it yet. He was stroking and patting it, saying, "Poor fellow, what kind of
a dog are you?"

"A French poodle," said Mr. Ross, coming up to them, "A good watch dog,
and excellent for scaring up the wild ducks for the sportsmen. Do you and
papa keep up the shooting lessons, master Eddie?"

"Yes, sir; papa has always said he meant to make me as good a shot as
himself, and mamma says it was never his way to give up till a thing's
thoroughly done," returned the boy, proudly.

"And you don't equal him as a shot yet, eh?"

"No, sir! no, indeed! Why, even cousin Cal Conly--a big man--can't shoot
as well as papa."

"What an ugly dog!" exclaimed the other children, gathering round.

"What did you buy it for, papa?" asked Gertrude.

"Not for beauty, certainly," laughed Mr. Ross, stroking and patting the
shaggy head of the dog, who was covered with curly hair of a dirty white,
mottled with dull brown, "but for worth which is far better. Isn't it,
Ranger?"

A wag of his bushy tail, was Ranger's only reply.

"Will he bite?" asked little Herbert, shrinking back as the newcomer
turned toward him.

"Tramps and burglars; but not good children," replied Mr. Ross. "You
needn't be afraid of him, my little man."

Through the evening there was a great deal of romping between the children
and the new dog, but little Elsie seemed unusually quiet, scarcely
stirring from her mother's side. She was suffering with toothache, but
kept her trouble to herself; principally, because she had a great dread of
the dentist's instruments.

But in the night the pain grew so severe that she could not keep from
crying and groaning. She did not want to wake any one, so buried her face
in the pillow to smother the sound of her sobs; but presently a gentle
hand touched her caressingly, and mamma's sweet voice asked, "What ails my
little daughter?"

"O mamma I did not mean to wake you!" cried the little girl sitting up
with her hand pressed to her cheek, "but the pain was so bad I couldn't
help making a noise."

"My poor dear little girl! did you think your mother would want to sleep
when her child was in pain?" Elsie said, clasping her in her arms. "No,
indeed! so do not try to bear any pain alone another time."

Mamma's loving sympathy was very sweet; the pain was soon relieved, too,
by some medicine she put into the tooth, and presently all was forgotten
in sound refreshing sleep.

Elsie came into her mamma's dressing-room the next morning, along with the
others, looking as bright and well as was her wont, yet with the boding
fear that something would be said to her about having the troublesome
tooth extracted.

However to her relief the subject was not broached at all; they had their
usual reading and prayer, recitation of texts and talk with mamma about
the lessons contained in them, and then the breakfast bell summoned them
to their morning meal.

The tooth was quiet for a few days, then ached again for several hours
harder than ever.

"O mamma, mamma, what shall I do?" sobbed the child in the midst of her
pain.

"Couldn't my little girl pluck up courage enough to have it out?" asked
the mother tenderly.

"O mamma, don't say I must! please don't; I'm so frightened at the very
thought!"

"Ah, if I could only bear it for you, my darling! but you know I cannot."

"No, dear mamma, and I couldn't be so selfish as to let you, if you could.
But must I have it out?"

"I have not said so; I should far rather my dear daughter would say must
to herself."

"Ought I, mamma?"

"Ought you not? The tooth has become only a source of pain and trouble to
you; if left it will cause the others to decay, and decayed teeth injure
the health. Health is one of God's best gifts and it is our duty to use
every means in our power to preserve it."

"Yes, mamma, but oh, I'm so afraid!" cried the child, trembling and
weeping.

"My darling, resolve to do your duty with God's help, and he will fulfill
his promise to you. 'As thy days so shall thy strength be.'"

Little Elsie had long ago given her heart to Jesus; love to him was the
ruling motive of her life, and to please and honor him she was ready to do
or endure anything. "I will try, mamma," she said, "and you too will ask
God to help me?"

Mamma gave the promise, sealing it with a very tender kiss.

Mr. Ross was going down to New York the next morning, and it was soon
arranged that his wife, Mrs. Travilla and little Elsie, should accompany
him.

Mrs. Ross had some shopping to do, but would first take the two Elsies to
her dentist, so that the little girl's trial might be over as soon as
possible and she able to enjoy some sight-seeing afterward. Baby Lily was
better and could be safely entrusted for the day to Aunt Chloe's faithful
care.

The plan was concealed from the Ross children because, as their mother
said, "it was the only way to have any peace." So they were allowed to
sleep until the travelers had taken an early breakfast and gone.

The little Travillas, however, were up and saw the departure, bidding a
cheerful good-bye to "mamma and sister Elsie," sending wistful, longing
looks after the carriage as it rolled away, but making no complaint that
they were left behind.

"Poor dear Elsie!" Vi said with tears in her eyes, "it's just dreadful
that she must have that tooth extricated."

"Extracted," corrected Eddie. "Vi, you seem to forget what mamma
says:--that you should never use a big word unless you are sure you have
it right; or when a little one would do as well."

"What little one?"

"Pulled."

"Couldn't it be pulled and not come out?"

"Well then you might say pulled out."

"I like the other word best," persisted Vi. "But we needn't be particular
about words when Elsie's going to be so dreadfully hurt."

Herbert burst out crying at that.

"Why Herbie what ails you?" asked Vi, putting her arms round his neck and
giving him a kiss.

"I don't want the mans to hurt my Elsie," sobbed the little fellow, "maybe
dey'll kill her."

"Oh, no, they won't! mamma will never let them do that. They'll only take
away the naughty tooth that hurts her so."

"Come let's go and walk round the garden," said Eddie, taking Herbie's
hand, "mamma said we might."

The breakfast bell called them in to find the Rosses making a perfect
bedlam in their anger and disappointment at being left behind by their
parents. Sophie was screaming and stamping with rage, the boys and Kate
were whimpering and scolding, and Gertrude walking about with flashing
eyes, was saying "I'll never forgive mamma for this, no I never will; for
she'd promised to take me along next time she went to the city."

Violet, Eddie, and Harold hearing these words, looked at each other in
horrified silence. "How could she speak so of her own mother?"

Miss Fisk came in, in her quiet, deliberate way and stood looking for a
moment from one to another of her pupils in a sort of amazed, reproving
silence that presently had the effect of quieting them down a little. Then
she spoke.

"Young ladies and young gentlemen, I am astonished! especially at your
expressions and behavior, Miss Gertrude Ross. How you can permit yourself
to indulge in such invectives against parents so extremely indulgent as
Mr. and Mrs. Ross, I cannot conceive."

Sophie whose screams had sunk to sobs, now permitted the servant to lift
her to her high chair, Kate and the boys slunk shamefacedly into their
seats at the table, and Gertrude, muttering something about "people not
keeping their promises," followed their example.

"Come, sit down, my dears," Miss Fisk said, turning to Violet and her
brothers; "the tempest seems to have nearly subsided and I hope will not
resume its violence."

Herbie was clinging to Vi in a frightened way, sobbing "I want mamma!" and
Harold's eyes too were full of tears. It took coaxing and soothing to
restore their equanimity and then the breakfast proceeded, everybody
seeming to grow brighter and more good humored with the satisfying of the
appetite for food.

Vi was a merry little creature, a veritable bit of sunshine wherever she
went, and under the influence of her bright looks and ways, sweet rippling
laughter and amusing speeches, the whole party at length grew quite merry:
especially after Miss Fisk had announced that there were to be no lessons
that day but instead a picnic in the woods.




CHAPTER SIXTH.

    "By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,
     The sports of children satisfy the child."
                                          --GOLDSMITH.



"Good! good!" cried the children. "Oh, delightful! But where are we
going?"

"To the grove adjacent to the schoolhouse," replied the governess. "We
could not find a lovelier spot, and its proximity to the mansion renders
it most eligible."

"'Proximity, eligible, adjacent;' what do you mean by those words, Miss
Fisk?" asked Gertrude, a little contemptuously.

"I desire you to consult one of our standard lexicographers. You will then
be far more likely to retain the definitions in your memory," returned the
governess, ignoring the tone of her pupil.

Gertrude shrugged her shoulders, with impatience, muttering audibly, "I
wish you'd talk like other people, and not like a dictionary."

"You quarrel with my phraseology, because you do not understand it,"
observed Miss Fisk, nonchalantly, "which is very irrational, since were I
never to employ, in conversing with you, words beyond your comprehension,
you would lose the advantage of being induced to increase your stock of
information by a search for their meaning."

"If that's what you do it for, you may as well give it up at once,"
returned Gertrude, "for I don't care enough about your meaning to take
half that trouble."

"Miss Gertrude, permit me to remark that you are lacking in respect to
your instructress," returned Miss Fisk, reddening.

"Do you mean that it is convenient, because of being so near this house,
Miss Fisk?" asked Eddie respectfully.

"Yes, convenient and safe; on which account both Mrs. Travilla and Mrs.
Ross stipulated that our picnic for to-day should be held there."

"Well, let's go right away," said Gertrude, jumping up and pushing back
her chair.

"Immediately, Miss Ross," corrected the governess. "Right away is
exceedingly inelegant."

"How tiresome!" muttered Gertrude. Then aloud to Violet, as the governess
left the room, "I say, Vi, does your mamma reprove you for saying right
away?"

"I don't remember that I ever said it. Mamma----"

"Said it?" interrupted Gertrude, with a twinkle of fun in her eye, "why
don't you say 'used the expression'? my dear," mimicking Miss Fisk's
tones, "you should never condescend to make use of a sixpenny word, when a
fifty cent one would express your sentiments fully as correctly, or
perchance even more so."

Vi could not help joining in the laugh with which Gertrude concluded,
though feeling rather ashamed of herself, as she seemed to see the grave
look of disapproval mamma would have given her if present.

"Oh, Gertrude," she said, "we oughtn't to----"

"Yes, we ought," returned Gertrude, as they ran out of the room together;
"mamma always laughs when I take off old finikin Fisk. She wouldn't have
me talk like her for the world. Would your mamma wish you to?"

"No, but she never says----"

"Right away? No, of course not; she says 'immediately' or 'at once' or
something that sounds nice. Well, so will I when I'm grown up."

Miss Fisk was on the porch taking an observation of the weather, the
children crowding about her, and clamoring to be allowed to set out
immediately for the grove. The day was fine, and there seemed every
indication that it would continue so.

"Yes," said the governess, "you may request your maids to see that you are
suitably arrayed for the occasion, and as promptly as possible, and we
will repair to the appointed place; taking our departure hence in
precisely thirty minutes."

The children were ready and impatiently waiting, when Miss Fisk came down
from her room, "suitably arrayed for the occasion."

They set out at once, the whole party in high good humor, the boys
carrying their balls, marbles, and fishing rods, the girls their dolls and
a set of toy dishes, to play tea-party with. Miss Fisk had a bit of fancy
work and a book, and two servants brought up the rear with camp-chairs, an
afghan and rugs to make a couch for the little ones when they should grow
sleepy. Luncheon was in course of preparation by the cook, and was to be
sent by the time the young picnickers were likely to feel an appetite for
it.

The boys took the lead, bounding on some distance ahead, with Ranger in
their midst. They were in no mood just then for sitting still, so
depositing their fishing tackle in the schoolhouse, went roving about in
search of more active amusement than that of catching trout.

"That'll be good fun when we want to sit down and rest," said Eddie.

"Oh, I see a bird's nest, and I'm going to have it!" exclaimed Archie,
beginning to climb a tree.

"Oh don't," cried Harold, "mamma says it's very cruel and wicked to rob
the poor little birds."

"Pooh! you're a baby!" answered Archie, half breathlessly, pulling himself
up higher and yet higher. "There, I'll have it in a minute," reaching out
his hand to lay hold of the branch that held the nest.

Ranger was barking loudly at the foot of the tree, Harry and Eddie were
calling to Archie to "Take care!" and he hardly knew how it was himself,
but he missed the branch, lost his hold of the tree, and fell, lighting
upon Ranger's back.

The boy gave a scream, the dog a yelp, and the rest of the party came
running to ask what was the matter.

Archie picked himself up, looking quite crestfallen, and the fright of the
others was turned to laughter, as they discovered that he had received no
damage beyond a slight scratch on his hand and a rent in his jacket.

Miss Fisk, making him promise not to repeat the experiment, went back to
her seat under the trees and the book she had brought from the house for
her own enjoyment.

The morning passed without any further incident worth recording, the
children amusing themselves with various quiet plays, the girls keeping
house, each under her own particular tree, and exchanging visits; the boys
catching trout, which they sent to the house to be cooked for dinner. They
wanted to make a fire and cook them themselves, but Miss Fisk wisely
forbade it.

She would have had the meal served in the schoolhouse, but yielded to the
clamor for an out-door repast. Several desks were brought out into the
shade of the trees, a dainty table-cloth spread over them and the party
presently sat down to a delightful collation, to which they brought keen
appetites.

Ranger had disappeared. They missed him as they were leaving the table.

"Where can he have gone?" Harry was saying, when Vi cried out, "Oh yonder
he is! and he has a dear little bird in his mouth! Oh you wicked, cruel
dog!" And running to him she tried to take it from him.

Be dropped it and snapped at her, Eddie jerking her back just in time to
save her from his teeth, while Archie, who was very fond of Vi, struck the
dog a blow with a stick, crying furiously, "You just do that again, sir,
and I'll kill you!"

Ranger then flew at him, but the boy avoided the attack by jumping nimbly
behind a tree.

The other children were screaming with fright, and a catastrophe appeared
imminent, but one of the maids came running with some tempting morsels for
Ranger which appeased his wrath, and the danger was averted.

Ranger's attention being absorbed with the satisfying of his appetite, the
children now looked about for the bird. It was not quite dead, but soon
breathed its last in Vi's lap with her tears dropping fast upon it.

"Oh don't, Vi!" said Archie, "I can't bear to see you feel so sorry. And
the bird isn't being hurt now, you know; 'twon't ever be hurt any more;
will it, Ed?"

"No," said Harry, "we might as well let the dog have it."

"No, no!" said Eddie, "it would just encourage him to catch another."

"So it would," said Gertrude, "let's make a grand funeral and bury it at
the foot of a tree. If we only knew now which one it used to live on."

The motion was about to be carried by acclamation, but Vi entered a
decided protest. "No, no, I want to keep it."

"But you can't, Vi," remonstrated Eddie, "dead things have to be buried,
you know."

"Not the skin and feathers, Eddie; they do stuff them sometimes and I'll
ask mamma to let me have this one done."

"Oh what's the use?" expostulated Gertrude; "it's only a common robin."

"But I love it; the poor dear little thing! and mamma will let me, I know
she will," returned Vi, wiping away her tears as though comforted by the
very thought.

The other children wandered off to their play leaving her sitting where
she was, on a fallen tree, fondling the bird; but Archie soon came back
and seated himself by her side.

"Such a pity; isn't it?" he said, "I hate that Ranger, don't you, Vi?"

"No-o I hope not, Archie," she answered doubtfully: "folks kill birds to
eat them and may be 'tain't any worse for dogs," she added, with a fresh
burst of tears. "Poor little birdie; and may be there are some young ones
in the nest that have no mamma now to feed or care for them."

"That old Ranger! and he snapped at you too. Here he comes again. I'll
kill him!" cried the boy, with vehemence. "Oh no, I know what I'll do!
Here Ranger! here Ranger!" and starting up he rushed away in a direction
to take him farther from the schoolhouse and the rest of his party.

He had spied in the distance a farmer's boy, a lad of fourteen, with whom
he had some slight acquaintance. "Hallo, Jared Bates!" he shouted.

"Well, what's wantin'?" and Jared stood still, drawing the lash of his
carter's whip slowly between his fingers. "Hurry up now, for I've got to
go back to my team. Whose dog's that?" as Ranger came running up and
saluted him with a sharp, "Bow, wow, wow!"

"Ours," said Archie, "and I'm mad at him 'cause he killed a bird and tried
to bite Vi Travilla, when she went to take it from him."

"Like enough," returned Jared, grinning. "But what about it?"

"I thought may be you'd like to have him."

"So I would, what'll you sell him for?"

"Ten cents."

"I hain't got but two."

"Haven't you, Jared? truly, now?"

"No, nary red, 'cept them," and diving into his pantaloons' pocket, Jared
produced a handful of odds and ends--a broken knife, a plug of tobacco,
some rusty nails, a bit of twine, etc.,--from which he picked out two
nickels. "There, them's um, and they's all I got in the world," he said
gravely, passing them over to Archie.

"Well, it's very cheap," observed the latter, pocketing the cash, "but you
can have him. Good-bye," and away he ran back to the spot where he had
left Vi.

"You're a green 'un!" laughed Jared, looking after him; then whistling to
the dog to follow, he went on his way.




CHAPTER SEVENTH.

    "But this I say, he which soweth sparingly shall reap also
    sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also
    bountifully."

    --2 COR. ix. 6.


All the children, Gertrude excepted, were gathered on the front porch, Vi
with the dead bird in her hands, when the carriage drove up with the
returning travelers.

There was a glad chorus of welcome, and most of the young faces were
bright and happy. Elsie's troop had nothing but smiles, caresses and
loving words for her, and tender, anxious inquiries about "Sister Elsie;
if the tooth were out?" "if the dentist hurt her much?"

"It was hard to bear," she said, "but the doctor was very kind, and tried
not to hurt her. And, oh, mamma had made her such a lovely present, for
being brave and willing to have her tooth out." And she took a beautiful
little gold watch and chain from her bosom, and held them up to their
admiring gaze.

"Oh, I'm so glad, so glad! Dear mamma, how good of you!" cried Vi, without
a touch of envy embracing first her sister, and then her mother.

Eddie and the two younger ones seemed equally pleased, and "sister Elsie"
allowed each in turn to closely inspect, her treasure.

In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Ross had been busy bestowing caresses and
small gifts upon their children, who received them with noisy glee mingled
with some reproaches because they had been left at home.

"Come, come, no complaints," said their father; "I think you have fared
well;--a holiday, a picnic, and these pretty presents. Where's Gertrude?"

"Sure enough, where is she?" asked Lucy, looking round from one to
another.

"She's mad because you did not take her along," remarked Harry, "she says
you didn't keep your promise."

"Dear me, I'd forgotten all about it!" exclaimed Mrs. Ross. "I should have
taken her though, but there wasn't time to get her up and dressed."

"Gertrude! Gertrude!" called Mr. Ross, in tones of authority, "Gertrude,
come here and show yourself."

At that the child came slowly out from the hall--whence she had been
watching the scene through the crack behind the door--looking red and
angry.

"What's the matter with you?" asked her father, with some displeasure in
his tones.

"Nothing, I'm not crying."

"Nor pouting either, I suppose? What's it all about."

"Mamma promised to take me along the next time she went to the city."

"Perhaps she will the next time."

"But this was the next time, because she promised it when she went before
and took Kate."

"Well, such promises are always conditional; she took no one this time
(but me), and there was a good reason why."

Gertrude smiled slightly, then laughed outright, as she glanced up into
his face, saying, "I thought it was you, papa, that took mamma."

"Oh! now, you begin to look something like the little girl I'm used to
hearing called Gertrude Ross; the one I like to buy presents for; the
other one that was here just a moment ago, gets nothing bought with my
money."

"See here," said her mother, and with a cry of delight Gertrude sprang
forward and caught from her hand a watch and chain very nearly the
counterparts of those little Elsie was displaying to her sister and
brothers.

"Oh, joy, joy!" she cried, dancing up and down, "thank you, mamma! Thank
you, papa! I'd rather have this than a dozen visits to New York. See,
Kate, isn't it a beauty?"

"Yes," returned her sister sullenly; "but I don't see why you should have
a watch and I only this ring; you're hardly more than a year older than I
am and not a bit better girl"

"Come, come, don't pout, Kitty," said her father, stroking her hair;
"your time will come. Harry's and Archie's too, and even little Sophie's,"
he added, catching the household pet up in his arms, to give her a hug and
kiss.

It was not until after tea that Mr. Ross missed his dog. "Where's Ranger?"
he asked of one of the servants.

"Dade, sir, I don't know," she answered. "Sure he went to the picnic wid
the rest of the childer, an' it's meself as hasn't seen him since."

"Harry," stepping out on the porch where the children, except the very
little ones, who had already been sent up to bed, were sitting listlessly
about, too weary with the day's sports to care for anymore active
amusement, "where's Ranger?"

"Ranger?" cried Harry with a start, "why sure enough, I haven't seen him
since he came home! and I don't think he came with us either."

"No, he didn't," said several young voices.

"I wonder where he can be," pursued Harry. "Shall I go and look for him,
papa?"

Mr. Ross was about to say yes, when his eye fell upon the face of his
youngest son who, he noticed, looked very red and somewhat troubled. "What
do you know about it, Archie?" he asked; "can you tell us what has become
of Ranger?"

"He behaved very bad indeed, papa," stammered the boy; "he killed a dear
little bird and tried to bite Vi, and me too--and I sold him."

The truth was out and Archie heaved a sigh of relief.

"Sold him?" repeated his father in a tone of mingled surprise and
displeasure.

"Yes, sir: to Jared Bates, for two cents. Here they are: I s'pose they
belong to you," said the little fellow tugging at his pocket.

"For two cents!" exclaimed Mr. Ross laughing in spite of himself. "You'll
never grow rich, my boy, making such bargains as that. But see here," he
added, growing grave again, "whose dog was it?"

"I--I thought it was ours, papa."

"Ours? Yours to play with, but only mine to sell or give away. You'll have
to go to Jared to-morrow, return his two cents, and tell him the dog is
mine, and you sold what did not belong to you."

"Oh where's my bird?" cried Violet, reminded of it by this little episode.
"I laid it down to look at Elsie's watch, and oh it's gone! Mamma, mamma,
I'm so sorry!"

"I am too, dear, for your sake," the mother said, putting an arm about her
and kissing the wet cheek, for the tears had begun to flow again. "Was it
the bird Ranger killed?"

"Yes, mamma, I was going to ask you to get it stuffed for me."

"Some cat has got it, no doubt," said Mr. Ross. "But don't cry: it
couldn't hurt it, you know, after it was dead."

"If it only had a heaven to go to," sobbed Vi

"Perhaps it has," said the gentleman kindly. "I really don't think,"
turning to Mrs. Travilla, "that the Bible says anything to the contrary;
it seems to me to simply leave the matter in doubt."

"I know," she answered thoughtfully, "that it is the generally accepted
belief that there is no hereafter for the lower animals; yet it has
occurred to me, too, that the Bible does not positively assert it; and
some of the poor creatures have such a suffering life in this world that
it makes my heart ache to think there is no other for them"

"Papa," asked Archie, "don't you think Ranger deserved to be sold for
killing that bird and trying to bite Vi?"

"That's a question you should have propounded before selling him, that and
another; 'May I sell him.'"

"I wish you'd let Phelim go and buy him back," remarked the boy, looking
very uncomfortable at the thought of having to do the errand himself.

"No, sir," returned the father decidedly, "the mischief you have done you
must undo yourself. Ah, Harry, go and ask if any letters came to-day."

"I asked," said Gertrude. "There was just one; from Phil," and she drew it
from her pocket and handed it to her father.

"What does he say?" Mrs. Ross inquired when he had glanced over it.

"Not much, except that he's to be here to-morrow, and wants the carriage
sent to the depot for him," he answered, handing it to her.

"Good!" said Gertrude, with much satisfaction. "We always have more fun
when Phil's at home."

"Except when he picks a quarrel with you or some of us," remarked Harry.

"For shame, Hal!" said his mother. "The quarrels, if there are any, are as
likely to be begun by you, as any one else."

Lucy was proud and fond of her first-born, and always ready to shield him
from blame. He was in his mother's eyes as the king, who could do no
wrong, but to others a spoiled child, a wilful, headstrong, domineering
boy.

Yet he was not without his good qualities, brave, frank, affectionate, and
generous to a fault, many hearts besides those of his doting parents were
drawn to him in sincere affection; Elsie's among the rest; yet she dreaded
exposing her little sons to Phil's influence; Edward especially as nearer
Phil's age, and because, though much improved by good training, his
natural disposition was very similar. But she had not seen Philip for two
years, and hoped he might have changed for the better.

It seemed so at first. He was a bright, handsome youth, and came home in
fine spirits, and with a manner full of affection for parents, brothers
and sisters. She did not wonder at Lucy's fond pride in her eldest son.

"Phil," said his mother, following him into his room that night, "you have
made a good impression, and I'm very anxious you shouldn't spoil it; so do
try to keep on your good behavior while the Travillas stay."

"I intend to, Mrs. Ross," he returned, with a laugh. Elsie, little Elsie's
been my little lady love since the first time my eyes lighted on her, and
I know that if I want to secure the prize, I've got to keep on the right
side of her father and mother."

Lucy laughed. "You are beginning early, Phil," she said. "I advise you not
to say a word of your hopes in their hearing, for ten years to come."

"Trust me for managing the thing, ma," he returned, nodding his head
wisely. "But do you s'pose now, they'd be so outrageously unreasonable as
to expect a fellow to be quite perfect?" he queried, striking a match and
lighting a cigar.

"Phil! Phil! throw that away!" she said, trying to snatch it from him.

He sprang nimbly aside, "No, you don't, ma! Why shouldn't I smoke as well
as my father? Ministers smoke too, and lots of good people."

"But you're too young to begin yet, and I know your Aunt Elsie would be
horrified. She'd think you a very fast boy and hurry away with her
children, lest they should be contaminated by your bad example."

"Well," he answered, puffing away, "I'll not let her or them know I ever
indulge. I'll only smoke up here and at night, and the smell will be all
off my breath by morning."

"I wish you'd give it up entirely. Where did you ever learn it?"

"Comes natural; guess I inherited the taste. But nearly all the fellows at
school do it--on the sly."

"Ah, Phil, I'm afraid you're a sad fellow!" Lucy said, shaking her head
reprovingly; but he could see the smile shining in her fond, admiring
eyes, and lurking about the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, come now, ma, I'm not so bad; not the worst fellow in the world. I
wouldn't do a mean thing."

"No, of course not," she said, kissing him good-night, and leaving him
with a parting, "Don't forget to say your prayers, Phil."

Mr. and Mrs. Ross were not Christian parents; careful and solicitous about
the temporal welfare of their children, they gave little thought to their
spiritual needs. Lucy taught them, in their infancy, to say their prayers
before lying down to rest at night, as they grew older sent them to
Sunday-school, took them to church on pleasant Sabbath mornings, when it
was convenient, and she felt inclined to go herself, and provided each
one with a copy of the Bible.

This was about the extent of the religious training they received; and it
was strongly counteracted by the worldly atmosphere of their home, the
worldly example set them by their parents, and the worldly maxims and
precepts constantly instilled into their young minds.

From these, they learned to look upon the riches, honors and pleasures of
earth as the things to be most earnestly coveted, most worthy of untiring
efforts to secure.

Life at the Crags was a strange puzzle to the Ion children: no blessing
asked at the table, no gathering of the family morning or evening for
prayer or praise or the reading of God's word.

"Mamma, what does it mean?" they asked; "why doesn't Uncle Ross do as papa
does?"

Elsie scarce knew how to answer them. "Don't let us talk about it, dears,"
she said: "but whatever others may do, let us serve God ourselves and seek
his favor above everything else; for 'in his favor is life' and his loving
kindness is better than life."




CHAPTER EIGHTH.

    "To each his sufferings: all are men
        Condemn'd alike to groan;
    The tender for another's pain,
        The unfeeling for his own."
                        --GRAY.


The weather was delightful: because of Phil's return the children were
excused altogether from lessons and nearly every day was taken up with
picnics, riding, driving and boating excursions up and down the river.

They were never allowed to go alone on the water or behind any horse but
"Old Nan," an old slow moving creature that Phil said "could not be
persuaded or forced out of a quiet even trot that was little better than a
walk, for five consecutive minutes."

The mothers were generally of the party;--Lily continuing so much better
that Elsie could leave her, without anxiety, in the faithful care of her
old mammy--and always one or two trusty servants were taken along.

One day Philip got permission to take old Nan and the phaeton and drive
out with the two older girls, Gertrude and Elsie.

They were gone several hours and on their return, while still some miles
from home were overtaken by a heavy shower, from which they took refuge in
a small log-house standing a few yards back from the road.

It was a rude structure built in a wild spot among the rocks and trees,
and evidently the abode of pinching poverty; but everything was clean and
neat, and the occupants, an elderly woman reclining in a high-backed
wooden rocking-chair with her feet propped up on a rude bench, and a young
girl who sat sewing by a window overlooking the road, wore an air of
refinement, and spoke English more correctly and with a purer accent than
sometimes is heard in the abodes of wealth and fashion.

The door stood wide open and the moment Philip drew rein, the girl at the
window called to them to come in out of the wet, and directed the lad to
shelter his horse and phaeton underneath a shed at the side of the house.

Gertrude ran lightly in with a laugh and jest, Elsie following close at
her heels.

The girl rose and setting out two unpainted wooden chairs, invited them to
be seated, remarking as she resumed her work, that the shower had come up
very suddenly, but she hoped they were not wet.

"Not enough to hurt us," said Gertrude.

"Hardly at all, thank you," I said Elsie. "I hope our mammas will not be
alarmed about us, Gerty."

"I don't think they need be so long as there's no thunder and lightning,"
answered Gertrude. "Ah, see how it is pouring over yonder on the mountain,
Elsie!"

The pale face of the woman in the rocking-chair, evidently an invalid, had
grown still paler and her features worked with emotion.

"Child! child!" she cried, fixing her wild eyes on Elsie, "who--who are
you?"

"They're the young ladies from the Crags, mother," said the girl
soothingly.

"I know that, Sally," she answered peevishly, "but one's a visitor, and
the other one called her Elsie, she's just the age and very image
of--child, what is your family name?"

"Travilla, madam," the little girl replied, with a look of surprise.

"Oh, you're her daughter; yes, of course I might have known it. And so she
married him, her father's friend and so many years older."

The words were spoken as if to herself and she finished with a deep drawn
sigh.

This woman had loved Travilla--all unsuspected by him, for he was not a
conceited man--and there had been a time when she would have almost given
her hopes of heaven for a return of her affection.

"Is it my mother you mean? did you know her when she was a little girl?"
asked Elsie, rising and drawing near the woman's chair.

"Yes; if she was Elsie Dinsmore, and lived at Roselands--how many years
ago? let me see; it was a good many; long before I was married to John
Gibson."

"That was mamma's name and that was where she lived; with her grandpa,
while her papa was away in Europe so many years," returned the little
Elsie; then asked with eager interest, "But how did you happen to know
her? did you live near Roselands?"

"I lived there; but I was a person of no consequence; only a poor
governess," remarked the woman in a bitter tone; an expression of angry
discontent settling down upon her features.

"Are you Miss Day?" asked Elsie, retreating a step or two with a look as
if she had seen a serpent.

Her mother had seldom mentioned Miss Day to her, but from her Aunts
Adelaide and Lora she had heard of her many acts of cruelty and injustice
to the little motherless girl committed to her care.

"I was Miss Day; I'm Mrs. Gibson now. I was a little hard on your mother
sometimes, as I see you've been told; but I'd a great deal to bear; for
they were a proud, haughty family--those Dinsmores. I was not treated as
one of themselves, but as a sort of upper servant, though a lady by
birth, breeding and education," the woman remarked, her tone growing more
and more bitter as she proceeded.

"But was it right? was it just and generous to vent your anger upon a poor
little innocent girl who had no mother and no father there to defend her?"
asked the child, her soft eyes rilling with tears.

"Well maybe not; but it's the way people generally do. Your mother was a
good little thing, provokingly good sometimes; pretty too, and heiress,
they said, to an immense fortune. Is she rich still? or did she lose it
all by the war?"

"She did not lose it all, I know," said Elsie, "but how rich she is I do
not know; mamma and papa seldom talk of any but the true riches."

"Just like her, for all the world!" muttered the woman. Then aloud and
sneeringly, "Pray what do you mean by the true riches?"

"Those which can never be taken from us; treasure laid up in heaven where
neither moth nor rust doth corrupt and thieves break not through to
steal."

The sweet child voice ceased and silence reigned in the room for a moment,
while the splashing of the rain upon the roof could be distinctly heard.

Mrs. Gibson was the first to speak again. "Well I'd like to have that
kind, but I'd like wonderfully well to try the other a while first."

Elsie looked at the thin, sallow face with its hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes, and wished mamma were there to talk of Jesus to this poor woman, who
surely had but little time to prepare for another world.

"Is your mother at the Crags?" asked Mrs. Gibson turning to her again.

Elsie answered in the affirmative, adding that they had been there for
some time and would probably remain a week or two longer.

"Do you think she would be willing to come here to see me?" was the next
question, almost eagerly put.

"Mamma is very kind and I am sure she will come if you wish to see her,"
answered the child.

"Then tell her I do; tell her I, her old governess, am sick and poor and
in great trouble."

Tears rolled down her cheeks and for a moment her eyes rested upon her
daughter's face with an expression of keen anguish. "She's going blind,"
she whispered in Elsie's ear, drawing the child toward her, and nodding in
the direction of Sally, stitching away at the window.

"Blind! oh how dreadful!" exclaimed the little girl in low moved tones,
the tears springing to her eyes. "I wish she could go to Doctor Thomson."

"Doctor Thomson! who is he?"

"An oculist: he lives in Philadelphia. A friend of mamma's had something
growing over her eyes so that she was nearly blind, and he cut it off and
she can see now as well as anybody."

"I don't think that is the trouble with Sally's; though of course I can't
tell. But she's always had poor sight, and now that she has to support the
family with her needle, her eyes are nearly worn out."

Sally had been for several minutes making vain attempts to thread a
needle.

Elsie sprang to her side with a kindly, eager, "Let me do it, won't you?"

It was done in a trice and the girl thanked her with lips and eyes.

"It often takes me full five or ten minutes," she said, "and sometimes I
have to get mother to do it for me."

"What a pity! it must be a great hindrance to your work."

"Yes, indeed, and my eyes ache so that I can seldom sew or read for more
than an hour or two at a time. Ah, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my sight
altogether."

The tone was inexpressibly mournful, and Elsie's eyes filled again.

"Don't fret about it," she said, "I think--I hope you can be cured."

The rain had nearly ceased, and Philip, saying the worst was over, and
they were in danger of being late at dinner, hurried the girls into the
phaeton.

"What was that woman whispering to you?" asked Gertrude, as soon as they
were fairly off.

Elsie looked uncomfortable. "It was something I was to tell mamma," she
replied.

"But what is it?"

"I'm afraid she wanted to keep it a secret from you, Gerty, or she would
have spoken out loud."

"I think you're very mean and disobliging," retorted Gertrude, beginning
to pout.

"No, she isn't," said Philip pompously, "she's honorable, and one of the
few females who can keep a secret. But I overheard it, Elsie, and feel
pretty sure that the reason she whispered it, was to keep the poor girl
from hearing. It's very natural she shouldn't want her to know she's
afraid her sight's leaving her."

"Oh, yes; I suppose that was it!" returned Elsie. "But you were very wise
to think of it, Phil."

"Don't flatter him," said Gertrude; "he thinks a great deal too much of
himself, already."

Dinner was just ready when they reached home, and their mammas were on the
porch looking for them.

"So there you are at last! what detained you so long?" said Mrs. Ross.

"Went further than we intended; and then the rain, you know," said
Philip.

"And, oh, we had an adventure!" cried the girls, and hastened to tell it.

Mrs. Travilla had not forgotten her old governess, and though no pleasant
recollection of her lingered in her memory, neither was there any dislike
or revengeful feeling there. She heard of her sorrows with commiseration
and rejoiced in the ability to alleviate them.

"That Mrs. Gibson!" exclaimed Lucy, "I've seen her many a time at the door
or window, in driving past, and have often thought there was something
familiar in her face, but never dreamed who she was. That hateful Miss
Day! as I used to call her; Elsie, I wouldn't do a thing for her, if I
were you. Why she treated you with absolute cruelty."

"She was sometimes unjust and unkind," said Mrs. Travilla, smiling at her
friend's vehemence, "but probably my sensitiveness, timidity and
stupidity, were often very trying."

"No such thing!--if you will excuse me for contradicting you--everybody
that knew you then, would testify that you were the sweetest, dearest,
most patient, industrious little thing that ever was made."

Elsie laughed and shook her head, "Ah, Lucy, you always flattered me;
never were jealous even when I was held up to you as a pattern an evidence
that yours was a remarkably sweet disposition. Now, tell me, please, if
you know anything about these Gibsons?"

"Not much; they came to that hut years ago, evidently very poor, and quite
as evidently--so report says--having seen better days. The husband and
father drank deeply, and the wife earned a scanty support for the family
by sewing and knitting; that is about all I know of them, except that
several of their children died of scarlet fever within a few days of each
other, soon after they came to the neighborhood, and that a year ago last
winter, the man, coming home very drunk, fell into a snow-drift, and next
day was found frozen to death. I was told at that time they had only two
children--a son who was following in his father's footsteps, and this
daughter."

"Poor woman!" sighed Elsie, "she is sorely tried and afflicted. I must go
to her at once."

"Do, mamma, and get a doctor for her," said little Elsie; "she looked so
sick and miserable."

Mrs. Ross offered her carriage, and the shower having cooled the air,
Elsie went, shortly after the conclusion of the meal.




CHAPTER NINTH.

         "I'll not chide thee;
    Let shame come when it will, I do not call it."
                                   --SHAKESPEARE.


"I never saw such a likeness in my life!" said Mrs. Gibson looking after
the phaeton as it drove away; "she's the very image of her mother. I could
just have believed it was the very little Elsie Dinsmore I used to teach
more than twenty years ago."

"She's lovely!" exclaimed Sally with enthusiasm. "Mother, did you see what
a pretty watch she had?"

"Yes," gloomily; "some folks seem to have nothing but prosperity, and
others nothing but poverty and losses and crosses. They're as rich as
Croesus and we have hardly enough to keep us from starving."

"Better times may come," said Sally, trying to speak hopefully, "Tom may
reform and go to work. I do think, mother, if you'd try to----"

"Hush! I'm a great deal better to him than he deserves."

It was some moments before Sally spoke again, then it was only to ask,
"Will you have your dinner now, mother?"

"No; there's nothing in the house but bread and potatoes, and I couldn't
swallow either. Dear me what a table they used to set at Roselands! enough
to tempt the appetite of an epicure."

"I must rest my eyes a little. I can't see any longer," said the girl,
laying down her work and going to the door.

"It's just dreadful," sighed her mother, "but don't get out of heart;
these people will help us and it is possible some skilful oculist may
understand your case and be able to help you."

The girl's eyes were fixed upon the distant mountain-tops where, through a
rift in the clouds the sun shone suddenly out for a moment. "'I will lift
up mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my help,'" she murmured softly
to herself. Then from a full heart went up a strong cry, "O God, my
Father, save me, I beseech thee, from this bitter trial that I so dread!
Nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt. Oh, help me to be content
with whatsoever thou shalt send!"

"Sally, you're standing there a long time." It was the mother's querulous
voice again.

The girl turned toward her, answering in a patient tone. "Yes, mother, it
rests my eyes to look at the sky and the mountains or any distant object."

"You'd better get yourself something to eat. It must be six or eight hours
at least since breakfast."

An hour later Sally, again busied with her sewing, by the window, lifted
her head at the sound of wheels and exclaimed in a low tone, "There is the
same carriage again! It has stopped and a lady is getting out of it."

But turning her head she perceived that her mother, who was now lying on
the bed, had fallen asleep. Dropping her work, she stepped quickly to the
door in time to prevent a rap.

She recognized the lady at once from her likeness to her namesake
daughter, and holding out her hand with a joyful admiring smile said,
"Mrs. Travilla, is it not? Thank you for coming. I am so glad, and mother
will be so delighted to see you; but she is sleeping just now."

She had spoken softly, and Elsie answered in the same subdued tone, as she
took the offered hand, then stepped in and sat down in a chair the girl
hastened to set for her, "That is well; we must not wake her."

A long talk followed in which Elsie by her ready tact and sweet sympathy,
free from the slightest approach to patronage, drew from the girl the
story of their sorrows, privations and fears for the future.

Her mother had been gradually failing for some time, though she really did
not know what was the nature of the disease. For a while they had
contrived by their united efforts to make the two ends meet, but now that
all depended upon her, with her poor sight, it was no longer possible.

"How are your eyes affected?" asked Elsie.

"The sight is dim; I can scarcely see to set my stitches: I have great
difficulty in threading a needle: I always had. I could never read fine
print, never read through a long sentence without shutting my eyes for an
instant or looking off the book. It has always been an effort to see, and
now I am forced to use my eyes so constantly they grow worse and pain me
very much. At times a mist comes over them so that I cannot see at all
until I rest them a little. Indeed I often seem to be going blind and I'm
afraid I shall," she added, with a tremble in her tones, a tear rolling
down her cheek. But she hastily wiped it away.

"My poor child, I hope not," Elsie said, laying a hand softly on hers;
"there have been wonderful cures of diseased eyes. You must go to an
oculist."

"The expense would be far beyond our means."

"You must let me assume that. No, don't shake your head. I have abundant
means. The Lord has given me far more of this world's goods than I ought
to use for myself or my family and I know it is because he would have me
be his almoner."

The girl wept for joy and thankfulness.

"Oh, how kind you are!" she cried. "I believe the Lord sent you and that
my sight will be spared; for I have prayed so that it might;--that he
would send me help somehow. But mother, how can she do without me?"

"I will see that she has medical advice, nursing, everything she needs."

Sally tried to speak her thanks but tears and sobs came instead.

The sound woke Mrs. Gibson. "Elsie Dinsmore!" she cried in feeble but
excited tones, with difficulty raising herself to a sitting posture. "I
should have known you anywhere."

"I cannot say the same; you are much changed," Elsie said, going to the
bedside and taking the thin feverish hand in hers.

"Yes, I've grown an old woman, while you are fresh and young; and no
wonder, for your life has been all prosperity; mine nothing but trouble
and trial from beginning to end."

"O, mother dear, we have had a great many mercies," said Sally; "and your
life is not ended. I hope your good times are yet to come."

"Well, maybe so, if Mrs. Travilla can help us to the medical aid we need,
and put us in the way of earning a good living afterward."

"I shall do my best for you in both respects," Elsie said kindly,
accepting a chair Sally set for her near the bed.

"I knew you would; you were always generous," remarked her ci-devant
governess; "prompt too in bestowing your favors. But it is easy to be
generous with a large and well-filled purse."

"Very true," Elsie answered with a smile. "And now what can I do for you?
Ah I had forgotten. Mrs. Ross, hearing you were ill, and knowing that to
the sick something sent by a neighbor was often more relished than home
food, however nice, put a basket of dainties into the phaeton."

Stepping to the door, she signed to the servant, who immediately brought
in a hamper of provisions such as had not been seen under that roof for
many months. Mrs. Gibson's eyes glistened at sight of a basket of fine
fresh fruit and a bowl of delicious custard.

"I will go now and call again to-morrow," Elsie said, as the man carried
away the empty hamper.

Grasping Sally's hand cordially in parting, she left something in it.

"Mother!" cried the girl, breathlessly, holding it up to view, "it's a
check for a hundred dollars!"

"'Tisn't possible! let me see!" cried Mrs. Gibson laying down the spoon
with which she was eating raspberries and custard, and holding out her
hand for the check.

"Yes, so it is! what a godsend! I didn't think even she was so generous.
But dear me, she's rolling in wealth, and it's no more to her, or even as
much as ten cents would be to you or me."

"Oh, mother!" said Sally, reproachfully, "we have no claim on her; and if
she has a good deal of money, she must have hundreds of calls for it."

"No claim on her? why people take care of old servants, and a governess
ought to be considered of a good deal more account."

"Tom mustn't know about this, mother."

"No, indeed! the greater part of it would soon go for liquor or at the
gambling table, if he did. Here give it to me, and I'll hide it under my
pillow."

The saucer of berries was scarcely disposed of, before a second visitor
arrived.

Dr. Morton was considered the most skilful practitioner in the
neighborhood. Mrs. Travilla meeting him on the way in returning to the
Crags, had begged him to take charge of Mrs. Gibson's case, and also to
look at Sally's eyes; engaging to settle his bill herself.

On his way home he called at the Crags with his report. The mother, he
said, was very much out of health, but not incurable; he had promised to
send her some medicine. A month or two at the seashore would do her good;
perhaps restore her entirely."

"Then she must go," said Elsie, "I will at once see what arrangements can
be made. But now, what of the girl, doctor?"

"She seems in pretty good health."

"But her eyes?"

"The nerve is affected; there is no help for her."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite. I have paid a good deal of attention to the eye, and I assure you
a case like hers is incurable."

"Then you decline to attempt to do anything for her?"

"I do, Mrs. Travilla, because there is absolutely nothing to be done."

"Poor girl, how sorry I am for her! blindness must be so terrible," Lucy
remarked to her friend after the doctor had gone.

"Yes," Elsie answered thoughtfully, "but I do not give up hope for her
yet."

"Dr. Morton is considered very skilful."

"Still he may be mistaken, and I shall not rest till I have made every
effort to save her sight."

Little Elsie and her sister had already become deeply interested in poor
Sally, and were laying plans to help her.

"What can we do, Elsie?" queried Vi, in an under tone, drawing her sister
aside.

"She'll want clothes; she had on a very old faded calico dress."

"And not a bow or pin; just an old linen collar around her neck," remarked
Gertrude, joining them; "and her dress was ever so old-fashioned and
patched besides."

"Let's put our pocket money together, and buy her a new dress," proposed
Vi.

"And make it for her," added Elsie; "it hurts her eyes to sew, and you
know Dinah could fit it. Mamma had her taught the trade, and says she fits
and sews very nicely."

"Oh, what's the use of giving our money?" exclaimed Gertrude, impatiently.
"We want it ourselves, and your mamma has such loads and loads of money;
hasn't she, Eddie?" turning to him, as he stood near.

"I don't know," he answered; "she never told us she had; she never talks
much about money, except to tell us it all belongs to God, who only lends
it to us."

"And that we must give it to the poor and needy," said Vi.

"Because 'it is more blessed to give than to receive,'" added Elsie.

"Well, I know she has," persisted Gertrude, "for my mamma often says so,
and I'm sure she knows."

"But even if she has, mamma's money is not ours, and it's a duty and a
very great pleasure to give of our own."

"Every one to their taste, I haven't a bit more money than I want myself,"
said Gertrude, walking away with her chin in the air.

"Gerty," said Elsie, running after her, "don't be vexed; we weren't
meaning to ask you for anything; but only talking about our own duty."

"Oh, I can take a hint as well as other folks," said Gertrude, tossing her
head.

"What's it all about?" asked Kate, coming up to them; but they paid no
heed to her, and she went to Vi for the desired information.

"Why, I'll help, of course I will," she said; "I guess I've got some
money, I'll look after tea; there's the bell now."

Elsie seized an opportunity to petition her mother for a longer talk than
usual in her dressing-room that evening, and the most of it was taken up
in the discussion and arranging of plans for helping Mrs. Gibson and her
daughter.

"What an unconscionable time you've been upstairs, Elsie," Philip remarked
in a bantering tone, coming to her side as she and her mother returned to
the drawing-room. "I've been dying to speak to you, as the girls say."

"All girls don't talk so, Phil."

"You don't, I know. Would you like a gallop before breakfast to-morrow
morning?"

"Yes, indeed!" she answered, her eyes sparkling, "it's what I'm used to at
home. Papa rides with us almost every morning."

"Will I do for an escort?"

"Oh, yes, if mamma consents. Gert will go too, won't she?"

"No, she prefers her morning nap."

Philip was a manly boy, the neighborhood a safe one, and the pony Elsie
would ride, well-broken and not too spirited, so mamma's consent was
readily given, with the proviso that they should not go before sunrise, or
choose a lonely road.

"By the way," she added, "I should like you to do an errand for me at Mrs.
Gibson's."

As Sally Gibson was sweeping the doorstep early the next morning, a couple
of ponies dashed up to the gate, in whose riders she instantly recognized
Elsie Travilla and Philip Ross.

"Hallo!" shouted the latter, "this young lady has something for you."

"Good-morning," Elsie said, reaching out a little gloved hand, as the girl
drew near, "mamma bade me bring you this note, and ask how your mother is
to-day."

"A little better, thank you; it has done her a world of good to--to have
her mind so relieved, and the doctor's medicine seems to have helped her
too. How very, very kind Mrs. Travilla is," she added, with tears in her
eyes, "and Mrs. Ross. Won't you come in?"

"Not this morning, thank you," and away they galloped. Sally looking after
them with admiring eyes, and a murmured exclamation, "How pretty and sweet
she is!"

It was not an envious sigh that accompanied the words, but born of mingled
emotions,--the half-formed thought, "Shall I ever know such pleasures.
Alas, they are not for me!" quickly succeeded by another,--"Ah, that sweet
child cannot live to maturity, and be always as happy and free from care,
as now."

Her mother's shrill voice recalled her to herself, "Why do you stand
there? What's that they gave you?"

"A note, mother. It's directed to me."

"Then make haste and read it."

"Shall I not give you your breakfast first?"

"No, no! do as I bid you."

So the girl read the missive aloud without delay.

It was from Mrs. Travilla, and stated that she had already written to
engage a room for Mrs. Gibson in a cottage in a quiet little seaside town;
a place recommended by Doctor Morton as very suitable; and that she would
secure a competent nurse to go with her.

"Why can't she send you, too, instead of hiring a stranger to go with me?"
here interrupted Mrs. Gibson, angrily.

"Wait, mother," said Sally in quivering tones, tears of joy and gratitude
filling her eyes.

She dashed them away and read on.

"I have another plan for you. Doctor Morton told you his opinion,--that
your case was hopeless. But do not despair; mistakes are often made even
by the most skilful men. A friend of mine, whose trouble was very similar
to yours--consulted a number of excellent oculists all of whom told her
the nerve of her eye was affected and there was no help for it, she would
certainly go blind; then as a last hope she went to Doctor Thomson of
Philadelphia, who succeeded in giving her entire relief. If you are
willing, I will send you to him. And now the first thing is to provide
your mother and yourself each with a suitable outfit. Come up to the Crags
as early this morning as you can, and we will make arrangements."




CHAPTER TENTH.

    "When we see the flower seeds wafted,
     From the nurturing mother tree,
     Tell we can, wherever planted,
     What the harvesting will be;
     Never from the blasting thistle,
     Was there gathered golden grain,
     Thus the seal the child receiveth,
     From its mother will remain."
                          --MRS. HALE.


For once Mrs. Gibson had the grace to feel a passing emotion of gratitude
to this kind benefactor, and shame that she herself had been so ready with
fault-finding instead of thanks.

As for Sally, she was completely overcome, and dropping into a chair, hid
her face and cried heartily.

"Come, don't be a fool," her mother said at last; "there's too much to be
done to waste time in crying, and besides you'll hurt your eyes."

Sally rose hastily, removed the traces of her tears, and began setting the
table for their morning meal.

"How soon are you going?" her mother asked at its conclusion.

"Just as soon as I can get the things cleared away and the dishes washed;
if you think you can spare me."

"Of course I can. I feel well enough this morning to help myself to
anything I'm likely to want."

There was still half an hour to spare before breakfast when, after a round
of five or six miles on their ponies, Philip and Elsie reached the Crags.

"What shall you do with yours?" asked Philip, remarking upon that fact.

"Read," she answered, looking back at him with a smile as she tripped
lightly up the stairs.

Dinah was in waiting to smooth her hair and help her change the pretty
riding hat and habit for a dress better suited to the house; then Elsie,
left alone, seated herself by a window with her Bible in her hand.

For a moment her eyes rested upon the blue distant mountains, softly
outlined against the deeper blue of the sky, watched the cloud shadows
floating over the nearer hills and valleys here richly wooded, there
covered with fields of waving grain her ear the while drinking in with
delight many a sweet rural sound, the songs of birds, the distant lowing
of cattle, and bleating of sheep--her heart swelling with ardent love and
thankfulness to him who had given her so much to enjoy.

Dinah had left the door open, that the fresh air might course freely
through the room, and Gertrude coming, some minutes later, in search of
her friend, stood watching Elsie for a little unperceived.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed at length, "how many times a day do you pore over
that book?"

Elsie looked up with a smile as sweet as the morning, "I am allowed to
read it as often as I please."

"Allowed? not compelled? not ordered?"

"No, only I must have a text ready for mamma every morning."

"Getting one ready for to-morrow?"

"No, just reading. I had time for only a verse or two before my ride."

"Well, that would be plenty for me. I can read it, too, as often as I
like, but a chapter or two on Sunday, generally does me for all the week.
There's the bell; come let's go down."

Vi met them at the door of the breakfast-room. "Oh, Elsie, did you have a
pleasant ride? Is Sally Gibson coming soon?"

"I don't know; mamma said I need not wait for an answer."

There was time for no more, and Vi must put a restraint upon herself,
repressing excitement and curiosity for the present, as mamma expected her
children to be very quiet and unobtrusive at table when away from home.

Vi was delighted when just as they were leaving the table, a servant
announced that a young person who called herself Miss Gibson, was asking
for Miss Travilla; for Vi never liked waiting, and was always eager to
carry out immediately any plan that had been set on foot.

Mrs. Gibson was not troubled with any delicacy of feeling about asking for
what she wanted, and had made out a list of things to be provided for
herself and Sally, which the girl was ashamed to show; so extravagant
seemed its demands.

When urged by her benefactress, she mentioned a few of the most necessary
articles, modestly adding that the generous gift Mrs. Travilla had already
bestowed, ought to be sufficient to supply all else that might be
required.

Elsie, seating herself at her writing desk and taking out pen, ink and
paper, looked smilingly into the eager faces of her two little girls.

"What do you think about it, dears?"

"Oh, they must have more things; a good many more, and we want to help pay
for them with our money."

"You see, Miss Sally, they will be sadly disappointed if you refuse to
accept their gifts," Elsie said. "Now I'm going to make out a list and you
must all help me, lest something should be forgotten. Mrs. Ross has kindly
offered us the use of her carriage, and we will drive to the nearest town
and see what we can find there, the rest we will order from New York."

The list was made out amid much innocent jesting and merry laughter of
both mother and children,--Sally a deeply interested and delighted
spectator of their pleasing intercourse--the mother so sweet, gentle and
affectionate, the children so respectful and loving to her, so kind and
considerate to each other.

In fact, the girl was so occupied in watching them, that she was not aware
till Mrs. Travilla read it over aloud, that this new list was longer and
more extravagant than the one she had suppressed.

"Oh, it is too much, Mrs. Travilla!" she cried, the tears starting to her
eyes.

"My dear child," returned Elsie, playfully, "I'm a wilful woman and will
have my own way. Come, the carriage is in waiting and we must go."

The shopping expedition was quite a frolic for the children, and a great
treat to poor, overworked Sally. "She looks so shabby; I'd be ashamed to
go with her to the stores or anywhere, or to have her ride in the carriage
with me," Gertrude had said to Vi as the little girls were having their
hats put on; but Vi answered indignantly, "She's clean and tidy, and she
isn't vulgar or rude, and I do believe she's good; and mamma says dress
and riches don't make the person."

And that seemed to be the feeling of all; Elsie, too, had purposely
dressed herself and her children as plainly as possible; so that Sally,
though at first painfully conscious of the deficiencies in her attire,
soon forgot all about them, and gave herself up to the thorough enjoyment
of the pleasures provided for her.

She felt that it would be very ungrateful did she not share the hearty
rejoicing of the children over "her pretty things" as they eagerly
selected and paid for them with their own pocket money, seeming fully to
realize the truth of the Master's declaration, "It is more blessed to give
than to receive."

Vi would have had the making of the new dresses begun at once, wanting
Sally to return with them to the Crags, and let Dinah fit her immediately,
but was overruled by her mamma.

"No, my dear, Sally must go home to her sick mother now, and Dinah shall
go to them after dinner."

"But mamma, I want to begin my part. You know you said I could hem nicely,
and might do some on the ruffles or something."

"Yes, daughter, and so you shall, but must rest awhile first."

Violet had often to be held back in starting upon some new enterprise, and
afterward encouraged or compelled to persevere, while Elsie was more
deliberate at first, more steadfast in carrying out what she had once
undertaken. Each had what the other lacked, both were very winsome and
lovable, and they were extremely fond of one another; scarcely less so of
their brothers and the darling baby sister.

"When may I begin, mamma?" asked Vi, somewhat impatiently.

"After breakfast to-morrow morning you may spend an hour at your needle."

"Only an hour, mamma? It would take all summer at that rate."

"Ah, what a doleful countenance, daughter mine!" Elsie said laughingly, as
she bent down and kissed the rosy cheek. "You must remember that my two
little girls are not to carry the heavy end of this, and the sewing will
be done in good season without overworking them. I could not permit that;
I must see to it that they have plenty of time for rest and for healthful
play. I appoint you one hour a day, and shall allow you to spend one more,
if you wish, but that must be all."

Violet had been trained to cheerful acquiescence in the decisions of her
parents, and now put it in practice, yet wished very much that mamma would
let her work all day for Sally, till her outfit was ready; she was sure
she should not tire of it; but she soon learned anew the lessons she had
learned a hundred times before--that mamma knew best.

The first day she would have been willing to sew a little longer after the
second hour's task was done; the next, two hours were fully sufficient to
satisfy her appetite for work: on the third, it was a weariness before the
end of the first hour; on the fourth, she would have been glad to beg off
entirely, but her mother said firmly, "No, dear; one hour's work is not
too much for you, and you know I allowed you to undertake it only on
condition that you would persevere to the end."

"Yes, mamma, but I am very tired, and I think I'll never undertake
anything again," and with a little sigh the child seated herself and began
her task.

Mamma smiled sympathizingly, softly smoothed the golden curls, and said in
her own gentle voice, "Let us not be weary in well-doing'! Do you remember
the rest of it?"

"Yes, mamma, 'for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.' And you
told us to faint was to get tired and stop. But mamma, what shall I reap
by keeping on with this?"

"A much needed lesson in perseverance, for one thing, I hope my little
daughter, and for another the promise given in the forty-first Psalm,
'Blessed is he that considereth the poor; the Lord will deliver him in
time of trouble. The Lord will preserve him, and keep him alive; and he
shall be blessed upon the earth; and thou wilt not deliver him unto the
will of his enemies. The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of
languishing: thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness.'

"How would you like to hear a story while you sit here sewing by my side?"

"Oh, ever so much, mamma! A story! a story!" And all the little flock
clustered about mamma's chair, for they dearly loved her stories.

This was an old favorite, but the narrator added some new characters and
new scenes, spinning it out, yet keeping up the interest, till it and the
hour came to an end very nearly together.

Then the children, finding that was to be all for the present, scattered
to their play.

Mrs. Ross had come in a few minutes before, and signing to her friend to
proceed, had joined the group of listeners.

"Dear me, Elsie, how can you take so much trouble with your children?" she
said. "You seem to be always training and teaching them in the sweetest,
gentlest way; and of course they're good and obedient. I'm sure I love
mine dearly, but I could never have the patience to do all you do."

"My dear friend, how can I do less, when so much of their future welfare,
for time and for eternity, depends upon my faithfulness?"

"Yes," said Lucy slowly, "but the mystery to me is, how you can keep that
in mind all the time, and how you can contrive always to do the right
thing?"

"I wish I did, but it is not so; I make many mistakes."

"I don't see it. You do wonderfully well anyhow, and I want to know how
you manage it."

"I devote most of my time and thoughts to it; I try to study the character
of each child, and above all, I pray a great deal for wisdom and for God's
blessing on my efforts; not always on my knees, for it is a blessed
truth, that we may lift our hearts to him at any time and in any place.
Oh, Lucy," she exclaimed with tearful earnestness, "if I can but train my
children for God and heaven, what a happy woman shall I be I the longing
desire of my heart for them is that expressed in the stanza of Watts's
Cradle Hymn:

    'Mayst them live to know and fear him,
      Trust and love him all thy days,
     Then go dwell forever near him,
      See his face and sing his praise!'"





CHAPTER ELEVENTH.


    "Beware the bowl! though rich and bright,
     Its rubies flash upon the sight,
     An adder coils its depths beneath,
     Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death."
                                      --STREET.

Mrs. Ross had found a nurse for Mrs. Gibson and a seamstress to help with
the sewing; a good many of the needed garments were ordered from New York
ready made, and in a few days the invalid was comfortably established in
the seaside cottage recommended by Dr. Morton.

In another week, Sally found herself in possession of a wardrobe that more
than satisfied her modest desires. She called at the Crags in her new
traveling dress, to say good-bye, looking very neat and lady-like; happy
too, in spite of anxiety in regard to her sight.

Not used to the world, timid and retiring, she had felt a good deal of
nervous apprehension about taking the journey alone; but business called
Mr. Ross to Philadelphia, and he offered to take charge of her and see her
safe in the quiet boarding-place already secured for her by Mrs. Edward
Allison, to whom Elsie had written on her behalf.

Adelaide had never felt either love or respect for the ill-tempered
governess of her younger brothers and sisters, but readily undertook to do
a kindness for her child.

"Have you the doctor's address?" Mr. Ross asked, when taking leave of the
girl in her new quarters.

"Yes, sir; Mrs. Travilla gave it to me on a card, and I have it safe. A
letter of introduction too, from Dr. Morton. He says he is not personally
acquainted with Dr. Thomson, but knows him well by reputation, and if
anybody can help me he can."

"That is encouraging, and I hope you will have no difficulty in finding
the place. It is in the next street and only a few squares from here."

Sally thought she could find it readily; Mrs. Travilla had given her very
careful directions about the streets and numbers in Philadelphia; besides,
she could inquire if she were at a loss.

When Mr. Ross returned home, he brought some one with him at sight of whom
the Ion children uttered a joyous cry, and who stepping from the carriage,
caught their mother in his arms and held her to his heart, as if he meant
never to let her go.

"Papa! papa!" cried the children, "we did not know you were coming; mamma
did not tell us. Mamma, did you know?"

"Yes, mamma had known; they saw it in her smiling eyes; and now they knew
why it was that she had watched and listened so eagerly for the coming of
the carriage; even more so than Aunt Lucy, who was expecting Uncle Philip,
and who was very fond of him too. But then he had left her only the other
day, and mamma and papa had been parted for weeks."

Mr. Travilla had rented a furnished cottage at Cape May and come to take
them all there. The doctors thought that would be best for Lily now.

The young folks were greatly pleased, and ready to start at once; they had
enjoyed their visit to the Crags, but had missed papa sadly, and now they
would have him with them all the time, grandpa and the whole family from
the Oaks, too; for they were occupying an adjoining cottage. And the
delicious salt sea breeze, oh, how pleasant it would be!

Mrs. Ross was sorry to part with her guests, had hoped to keep her friend
with her all summer, but a good deal comforted in her disappointment, by
the knowledge that her mother, Sophie and her children would soon take
their places.

As for young Philip he was greatly vexed and chagrined. "It is really too
bad!" he said seeking little Elsie out, and taking a seat by her side.

She was on the porch at some little distance from the others, and busied
in turning over the pages of a new book her papa had brought her.

"What is too bad, Phil?" she asked, closing it, and giving her full
attention to him.

"That you must be hurried away so soon. I've hardly been at home two
weeks, and we hadn't seen each other before for two years."

"Well a fortnight is a good while. And you will soon have your cousins
here--Herbert, Meta----"

"Herbert!" he interrupted impatiently, "who cares for him? and Meta,
prying, meddling, tell-tale Meta's worse than nobody. But there! don't
look so shocked, as if I had said an awfully wicked thing. I really don't
hate her at all, though she got me into trouble more than once with
grandma and Aunt Sophie that winter we spent at Ashlands. Ah, a bright
thought strikes me!"

"Indeed! may I have the benefit of it?" asked the little girl, smiling
archly.

"That you may. It is that you might as well stay on another week, or as
long as you will."

"Thank you, but you must remember the doctor says we should go at once, on
baby's account."

"I know that, but I was speaking only of you personally. Baby doesn't need
you, and papa could take you to your father and mother after a while."

"Let them all go and leave me behind? Oh, Phil, I couldn't think of such a
thing!"

The Travillas had been occupying their seaside cottage for two weeks, when
a letter came from Sally Gibson; the first she had written them, though
she had been notified at once of their change of address, told that they
would be glad to hear how she was and what Dr. Thomson thought of her
case, and a cordial invitation given her to come to them to rest and
recruit as soon as she was ready to leave her physician.

Elsie's face grew very bright as she read.

"What does she say?" asked her husband.

"There is first an apology for not answering sooner (her eyes were so full
of belladonna that she could not see to put pen to paper, and she had no
one to write for her), then a burst of joy and gratitude--to God, to the
doctor and to me,--'success beyond anything she had dared to hope,' but
she will be with us to-morrow, and tell us all about it."

"And she won't be blind, mamma?" queried Violet, joyously.

"No, dear; I think that she must mean that her eyes are cured, or her
sight made good in some way."

"Oh, then, I'll just love that good doctor!" cried the child, clasping her
hands in delight.

The next day brought Sally, but they scarcely recognized her, she had
grown so plump and rosy, and there was so glad a light in the eyes that
looked curiously at them through glasses clear as crystal.

Mrs. Travilla took her by both hands and kissed her.

"Welcome, Sally; I am glad to see you, but should scarcely have known
you, had we met in a crowd;--you are looking so well and happy."

"And so I am, my dear kind friend," the girl answered with emotion; "and I
can see! see to read fine print that is all a blur to me without these
glasses; and all the pain is gone, the fear, the distress of body and
mind. Oh, the Lord has been good, good to me! and the doctor so kind and
interested! I shall be grateful to him and to you as long as I live!"

"Oh, did he make you those glasses? what did he do to you?" asked the
eager, curious children. "Tell us all about it, please."

But mamma said, "No, she is too tired now; she must go to her room and lie
down and rest till tea-time."

Little Elsie showed her the way, saw that nothing was wanting that could
contribute to her comfort, then left her to her repose.

It was needed after all the excitement and the hot dusty ride in the cars;
but she came down from it quite fresh, and as ready to pour out the whole
story of the experiences of the past two weeks as the children could
desire.

When tea was over, they clustered round her on the cool breezy veranda
overlooking the restless murmuring sea, and by her invitation, questioned
her to their heart's content.

"Is he a nice kind old man, like our doctor at Ion?" began little Harold.

"Quite as nice and kind I should think, but not very old."

"Did he hurt you very much?" asked Elsie, who had great sympathy for
suffering, whether mental or physical.

"Oh, no, not at all! He said directly that the eyes were not diseased; the
trouble was malformation and could be remedied by suitable glasses; and
oh, how glad I was to hear it!"

"I thought mamma read from your letter that he put medicine in your eyes."

"Yes, belladonna, but that was only to make them sick, so that he could
examine them thoroughly, and measure them for the glasses."

Turning to Mrs. Travilla, "He is very kind and pleasant to every one; so
far as I could see making no difference between rich and poor, but deeply
interested in each case in turn; always giving his undivided attention to
the one he has in hand at the moment; putting his whole heart and mind
into the work."

"Which is doubtless one great reason why he is so successful," remarked
Mrs. Travilla, adding, "Remember that, my children; half-hearted work
accomplishes little for this world or the next."

"Weren't you afraid the first time you went?" asked timid little Elsie.

"My heart beat pretty fast," said Sally smiling. "I am rather bashful you
see, and worse than that, I was afraid the doctor would say like the
others, that it was the nerve and I would have to go blind, or that some
dreadful operation would be necessary; but after I had seen him and found
out how kind and pleasant he was, and that I'd nothing painful or
dangerous to go through, and might hope for good sight at last, I didn't
mind going at all.

"It was a little tedious sitting there in the outer office among strangers
with no one to speak to, and nothing to do for hours at a time, but that
was nothing compared to what I was to gain by it."

Then the children wanted to know what the doctor measured eyes with, and
how he did it, and Sally amused them very much by telling how she had to
say her letters every day and look at the gaslight and tell what shape it
was, etc., etc.

"The doctor told me," she said, addressing Mrs. Travilla, "that I would
not like the glasses at first, hardly any one does; but I do, though not
so well, I dare say, as I shall after a while when I get used to them."

Mrs. Gibson's health was improving so that she was in a fair way to
recover and as she was well taken care of and did not need her daughter,
Sally felt at liberty to stay with these kind friends and enjoy herself.

She resolved to put away care and anxiety for the future, and take the
full benefit of her present advantages. Yet there was one trouble that
would intrude itself and rob her of half her enjoyment. Tom, her only and
dearly loved brother, was fast traveling the downward road, seeming wholly
given up to the dominion of the love of strong drink and kindred vices.

It was long since she had seen or heard from him and she knew not where he
was. He had been in the habit of leaving their poor home on the Hudson
without deigning to give her or his mother any information as to whither
he was bound or when he would return; sometimes coming back in a few
hours, and again staying away for days, weeks or months.

One day Elsie saw Sally turn suddenly pale while glancing over the morning
paper and there was keen distress in the eyes she lifted to hers as the
paper fell from her nerveless hand.

"Poor child; what is it?" Elsie asked compassionately, going to her and
taking the cold hand in hers, "anything that I can relieve or help you to
bear?"

"Tom!" and Sally burst into almost hysterical weeping.

He had been arrested in Philadelphia for drunkenness and disorderly
conduct, fined and sent to prison till the amount should be paid.

Elsie did her best to comfort the poor sister, who was in an agony of
shame and grief. "Oh," she sobbed, "he is such a dear fellow if only he
could let drink alone! but it's been his ruin, his ruin! He must feel so
disgraced that all his self-respect is gone and he'll never hold up his
head again or have the heart to try to do better."

"Don't despair, poor child!" said Elsie, "he has not fallen too far for
the grace of God to reclaim him; 'Behold the Lord's hand is not shortened,
that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear.'"

"And oh, I cry day and night to him for my poor Tom, so weak, so beset
with temptations!" exclaimed the girl, "and will he not hear me at last?"

"He will if you ask in faith pleading the merits of his Son," returned her
friend in moved tones.

"He must be saved!" Mr. Travilla said with energy, when Elsie repeated to
him this conversation with Sally. "I shall take the next train for
Philadelphia and try to find him."

Tom was found, his fine paid, his release procured, his rags exchanged for
neat gentlemanly attire, hope of better things for this world and the next
set before him, and with self-respect and manhood partially restored by
all this and the kindly considerate, brotherly manner of his benefactor,
he was persuaded to go with the latter to share with Sally for a few
weeks, the hospitality of that pleasant seaside home.

He seemed scarcely able to lift his eyes from the ground as Mr. Travilla
led him into the veranda where the whole family were gathered eagerly
awaiting their coming; but in a moment Sally's arms were round his neck,
her kisses and tears warm on his cheek, as she sobbed out in excess of
joy, "O Tom, dear Tom, I'm so glad to see you!"

Then Mrs. Travilla's soft white hand grasped his in cordial greeting, and
her low sweet voice bade him welcome; and the children echoed her words,
apparently with no other thought of him than that he was Sally's brother
and it was perfectly natural he should be there with her.

So he was soon at ease among them; but felt very humble, kept close by
Sally and used his eyes and ears far more than his tongue.

His kind entertainers exerted themselves to keep him out of the way of
temptation and help him to conquer the thirst for intoxicating drink, Mrs.
Travilla giving Sally carte blanche to go into the kitchen and prepare him
a cup of strong coffee whenever she would.

"Sally," he said to his sister, one evening when they sat alone together
on the veranda, "what a place this is to be in! It's like a little heaven
below; there is so much of peace and love; the moral atmosphere is so
sweet and pure: I feel as though I had no business here, such a fallen
wretch as I am!" he concluded with a groan, hiding his face in his hands.

"Don't, Tom, dear Tom!" she whispered, putting her arms about his neck and
laying her head on his shoulder. "You've given up that dreadful habit?
you're never going back to it?"

"I don't want to! God knows I don't!" he cried as in an agony of fear,
"but that awful thirst--you don't know what it is! and I--I'm weak as
water. Oh if there was none of the accursed thing on the face of the
earth, I might hope for salvation! Sally, I'm afraid of myself, of the
demon that is in me!"

"O, Tom, fly to Jesus!" she said, clinging to him. "He says, 'In me is
thine help.' 'Fear not; I will help thee,' and he never yet turned a deaf
ear to any poor sinner that cried to him for help. Cast yourself wholly on
him and he will give you strength; for 'every one that asketh, receiveth;
and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be
opened.'"

There was a moment of silence, in which Sally's heart was going up in
earnest prayer for him; then Mr. Travilla joined them and addressing Tom
said, "My wife and I have been talking about your future; indeed Sally's
also; for we suppose you would like to keep together."

"That we should," they said.

"Well, how would you like to emigrate to Kansas and begin life anew; away
from all old associates? I need not add that if you decide to go the means
shall not be wanting."

"Thank you, sir; you have been the best of friends to us both, and to our
mother, you and Mrs. Travilla," said Tom, with emotion: "and this is just
what Sally and I have been wishing we could do. I understand something of
farming and should like to take up a claim out there in some good location
where land is given to those who will settle on it. And if you, sir, can
conveniently advance the few hundred dollars we shall need to carry us
there and give us a fair start, I shall gladly and thankfully accept it as
a loan; hoping to be able to return it in a year or two."

This was the arrangement made and preparations to carry it out were
immediately set on foot. In a few days the brother and sister bade
good-bye to their kind entertainers, their mother, now nearly recovered,
joined them in Philadelphia, and the three together turned their faces
westward.

In bidding adieu to Elsie, Sally whispered with tears of joy the good news
that Tom was trusting in a strength mightier than his own, and so, as
years rolled on, these friends were not surprised to hear of his steadfast
adherence to the practice of total abstinence from all intoxicating
drinks, and his growing prosperity.




CHAPTER TWELFTH.

            "You may as well
    Forbid the seas to obey the moon,
    As, or by oath, remove, or counsel, shake
    The fabric of her folly."
                               --SHAKESPEARE.


Scarcely had the Gibsons departed when their places were more than filled
by the unexpected arrival of a large party from Roselands, comprising old
Mr. Dinsmore, with his daughter Mrs. Conly and her entire family, with the
exception of Calhoun, who would follow shortly.

They were welcomed by their relatives with true southern hospitality and
assured that the two cottages could readily be made to accommodate them
all comfortably.

"What news of Molly?" was the first question after the greetings had been
exchanged.

Mrs. Conly shook her head and sighed, "Hasn't been able to set her foot on
the floor for weeks, and I don't believe she ever will. That's Dr.
Pancoast's opinion, and he's good authority. 'Twas her condition that
brought us North. We've left her and her mother at the Continental in
Philadelphia.

"There's to be a consultation to-morrow of all the best surgeons in the
city. Enna wanted me to stay with her till that was over, but I couldn't
think of it with all these children fretting and worrying to get down here
out of the heat. So I told her I'd leave Cal to take care of her and
Molly.

"Dick's with them too. He's old enough to be useful now, and Molly clings
to him far more than to her mother."

"Isn't it dreadful," said Virginia, "to think that that fall down-stairs
has made her a cripple for life? though nobody thought she was much hurt
at first."

"Poor child! how does she bear it?" asked her uncle.

"She doesn't know how to bear it at all," said Mrs. Conly; "she nearly
cries her eyes out."

"No wonder," remarked the grandfather; "it's a terrible prospect she has
before her, to say nothing of the present suffering. And her mother has no
patience with her; pities herself instead of the child."

"No," said Mrs. Conly, "Enna was never known to have much patience with
anybody or anything."

"But Dick's good to her," remarked Isadore.

"Yes," said Arthur, "it's really beautiful to see his devotion to her and
how she clings to him. And it's doing the lad good;--making a man of
him."

"Surely Enna must feel for her child!" Elsie said, thinking of her own
darlings and how her very heart would be torn with anguish at the sight of
one of them in so distressing a condition.

"Yes, of course, she cried bitterly over her when first the truth dawned
upon her that Molly was really so dreadfully injured; but of course that
couldn't last and she soon took to bewailing her own hard fate in having
such a burden on her hands, a daughter who must always live single and
could never be anything but a helpless invalid."

Elsie understood how it was; for had she not known Enna from a child? Her
heart ached for Molly, and as she told her own little ones of their poor
cousin's hopeless, helpless state, she mingled her tears with theirs.

"Mamma, won't you 'vite her to come here?" pleaded Harold.

"Yes, dear mamma, do," urged the others, "and let us all try to amuse and
comfort her."

"If I do, my dears, you may be called upon at times to give up your
pleasures for her. Do you think you will be willing to do so?"

At that the young faces grew very grave, and for a moment no one spoke.
Quick, impulsive Violet was the first to answer.

"Yes, mamma, I'm willing; I do feel so sorry for her I'd do anything to
help her bear her pain."

"Mamma," said Elsie, softly, "I'll ask Jesus to help me, and I'm sure he
will."

"So am I, daughter; and I think Vi means to ask his help too?"

"Oh, yes, mamma, I do!"

"And I," "and I," "and I," responded the others.

So the invitation was sent, for Molly and her mother and brother to come
and pay as long a visit as they would.

A letter came in a few days, accepting it and giving the sorrowful news
that all the surgeons agreed in the opinion that the poor girl's spine had
been so injured that she would never again have any use of her lower
limbs.

It was Mrs Conly who brought the letter to her niece, it having come in
one addressed to herself. She expressed strong sympathy for Molly, but was
much taken up with the contents of another letter received by the same
mail.

"I've just had a most generous offer from Mr. Conly's sister, Mrs.
Delaford," she said to her niece. "She has no children of her own, is a
widow and very wealthy, and she's very fond of my Isadore, who is her
godchild and namesake. She offers now to clothe and educate her, with the
view of making the child her heir; and also to pay for Virgy's tuition, if
I will send them both to the convent where she was herself educated."

"Aunt Louise, you will not think of it surely?" cried Elsie, looking much
disturbed.

"And why not, pray?" asked Mrs. Conly, drawing herself up, and speaking
in a tone of mingled hauteur, pique and annoyance.

"You would not wish them to become Romanists?"

"No, of course not; but that need not follow."

"It is very apt to follow."

"Nonsense! I should exact a promise that their faith would not be
interfered with."

"But would that avail, since, 'No faith with heretics,' has been for
centuries the motto of the 'infallible, unchangeable,' Church of Rome?"

"I think you are inclined to see danger where there is none," returned the
aunt. "I would not for the world be as anxious and fussy about my children
as you are about yours. Besides, I think it quite right to let their
father's relatives do for them when they are both able and willing."

"But Aunt Louise----"

"There! don't let us talk any more about the matter to-day, if you
please," interrupted Mrs. Conly, rising, "I must go now and prepare for my
bath. I'll be in again this evening to see Enna and the others. They'll be
down by the afternoon train. Good-morning."

And she sailed away, leaving Elsie sad and anxious for the future of her
young cousins.

"What is it, daughter?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, coming in a moment later. "I
have seldom seen you look so disturbed."

Her face brightened, as was its wont under her father's greeting, but,
this time, only momentarily.

"I am troubled, papa," she said, making room for him on the sofa by her
side. "Here is a note from Enna. The doctors give Molly no hope that she
will ever walk again. One cannot help feeling very sad for her, poor
child! and besides something Aunt Louise has been telling me, makes me
anxious for Isadore and Virginia."

He was scarcely less concerned than she, when he heard what that was. "I
shall talk to Louise," he said, "it would be the height of folly to expose
her girls to such influences. It is true I once had some thoughts of
sending you to a convent school, under the false impression that the
accomplishments were more thoroughly taught there than in the Protestant
seminaries; but with the light I have since gained upon the subject, I
know that it would have been a fearful mistake."

"Dear papa," she said, putting her hand into his and looking at him with
loving eyes, "I am so thankful to you that you did not; so thankful that
you taught me yourself. The remembrance of the hours we spent together as
teacher and pupil, has always been very sweet to me."

"To me also," he answered with a smile.

The expected guests arrived at the appointed time, Enna looking worn,
faded and fretful, Dick sad and anxious, poor Molly, weary, exhausted,
despairing; as if life had lost all brightness to her.

Her proud spirit rebelled against her helplessness, against the curious,
even the pitying looks it attracted to her from strangers in the streets
and public conveyances.

The transit from one vehicle to another was made in the strong arms of a
stalwart negro whom they had brought with them from Roselands, Dick
following closely to guard his sister from accident, and shield her as
much as possible from observation, while Enna and Cal brought up the rear.

A room on the ground floor had been appropriated to Molly's use, and
thither she was carried at once, and gently laid upon a couch. Instantly
her cousin Elsie's arms were about her, her head pillowed upon the gentle
breast, while tears of loving sympathy fell fast upon her poor pale face,
mingled with tender caresses and whispered words of endearment.

It did the child good; the tears and sobs that came in response, relieved
her aching heart of half its load. But it vexed Enna.

"What folly, Elsie!" she said, "don't you see how you're making the child
cry? And I've been doing my best to get her to stop it; for of course it
does no good, and only injures her eyes."

"Forgive me, dear child, if I have hurt you," Elsie said low and tenderly,
as she laid Molly's head gently back against the pillows.

"You haven't! you've done me good!" cried the girl, flashing an indignant
glance at Enna. "Oh, mother, if you treated me so, it wouldn't be half so
hard to bear!"

"I've learned not to expect anything but ingratitude from my children,"
said Enna, coldly returning Elsie's kind greeting.

But Dick grasped his cousin's hand warmly, giving her a look of grateful
affection, and accepted with delight her offered kiss.

"Now, I will leave you to rest," she said to Molly, "and when you feel
like seeing your cousins, they will be glad to come in and speak to you.
They are anxious to do all they can for your entertainment while you are
here."

"Yes, but I want to see grandpa and Uncle Horace now, please; they just
kissed me in the car, and that was all."

They came in at once, full of tender sympathy for the crippled, suffering
child.

"They're so kind," sobbed Molly, as they left the room.

"Yes, you can appreciate everybody's kindness but your mother's," remarked
Enna in a piqued tone, "and everybody can be sorry for you, but my
feelings are lost sight of entirely."

"Oh, mother, don't!" sighed Molly. "I'm sure I've enough to bear without
your reproaches. I'd appreciate you fast enough, if you were such a mother
as Cousin Elsie."

"Or as Aunt Louise, why don't you say?" said Mrs. Conly, coming in, going
up to the couch, and kissing her. "How d'ye do, Enna?"

"Yes, even you are sorrier for me than mother is, I do believe!" returned
Molly, bursting into tears; "and if it was Isa or Virgy you'd be ever so
good to her, and not scold her as mother does me."

"Why, I'm just worn out and worried half to death about that girl," said
Enna, in answer to her sister's query. "She'll never walk a step
again--all the doctors say that." At these words Molly was almost
convulsed with sobs, but Enna went on relentlessly. "And when they asked
her how it happened, she up and told them her high-heeled shoes threw her
down, and that she didn't want to wear them, but I made her do it."

"And so you did, and I only told it because one of the doctors asked if I
didn't know they were dangerous; and when I said yes, he wanted to know
how I came to be so foolish as to wear them."

"And then he lectured me," Enna went on, "as if it was all my fault, when
of course it was her own carelessness; for if it wasn't, why haven't some
of the rest of us fallen down. Accidents happen when nobody's to blame."

"I came near falling the other day, myself," said Mrs. Conly, "and I'll
never wear a high, narrow heel again, nor let one of my girls do so. Now
I'm going out. You two ought to take a nap; Molly especially, poor child!
I'm very sorry for you; but don't cry any more now. It will only hurt
your eyes."

Mrs. Conly was to stay to tea and spend the evening. Stepping into the
parlor she found all the adult members of the family there.

"I want to have a talk with you, Louise," her brother said, seating her
comfortably on a sofa and drawing up a chair beside her.

"And I think I know what about," she returned with heightened color,
glancing toward Elsie, "but let me tell you beforehand, Horace, that you
may as well spare yourself the trouble. I have already accepted Mrs.
Delaford's offer."

"Louise! how could you be so hasty in so important a matter?"

"Permit me to answer that question with another," she retorted, drawing
herself up haughtily, "what right have you to call me to an account for so
doing?"

"Only the right of an older brother to take a fraternal interest in your
welfare and that of his nieces."

"What is it, mother?" asked Calhoun.

She told him in a few words, and he turned to his uncle with the query why
he so seriously objected to her acceptance of what seemed so favorable an
offer.

"Because I think it would be putting in great jeopardy the welfare of your
sisters, temporal and spiritual"

"What nonsense, Horace!" exclaimed Mrs. Conly angrily. "Of course I shall
expressly stipulate that their faith is not to be interfered with."

"And just as much of course the promise will be given and systematically
broken without the slightest compunction; because in the creed of Rome the
end sanctifies the means and no end is esteemed higher or holier than that
of adding members to her communion."

"Well," said Louise, "I must say you judge them hardly. I'm sure there are
at least some pious ones among them and of course they wouldn't lie."

"You forget that the more pious they are, the more obedient they will be
to the teachings of their church, and when she tells them it is a pious
act to be false to their word or oath, for her advancement, or to burn,
kill and destroy, or to break any other commandment of the decalogue, they
will obey believing that thus they do God service.

"Really the folly and credulity of Protestant parents who commit their
children to the care of those who teach and put in practice, too, these
two maxims, so utterly destructive of all truth and honesty, all
confidence between man and man--'The end sanctifies the means,' and 'No
faith with heretics,'--is to me perfectly astounding."

"So you consider me a fool," said Mrs. Conly, bridling, "thanks for the
compliment."

"It is you who make the application, Louise," he answered. "I had no
thought of doing so, and still hope you will prove your wisdom by
reconsidering and letting Mrs. Delaford know that you revoke your
decision."

"Indeed I shall not; I consider that I have no right to throw away
Isadore's fortune."

"Have you then a greater right to imperil her soul's salvation?" he asked
with solemn earnestness.

"Pshaw! what a serious thing you make of it," she exclaimed, yet with an
uneasy and troubled look.

"Uncle!" cried Calhoun in surprise, "do you not think there have been and
are some real Christians in the Romish Church?"

"No doubt of it, Cal; some who, spite of her idolatrous teachings, worship
God alone and put their trust solely in the atoning blood and imputed
righteousness of Christ. Yet who can fail to see in the picture of Babylon
the Great so graphically drawn in Revelation, a faithful portraiture of
Rome? And the command is, 'Come out of her, my people, that ye be not
partaker of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.'"

Mr. Dinsmore paused, but no one seeming to have anything to say in reply,
went on to give his sister a number of instances which had come to his
knowledge, of the perversion of Protestant girls while being educated in
convents.

"Well," she said at last, "I'm not going to draw back now, but I shall be
on the watch and if they do begin to tamper with my girls' faith I'll
remove them at once. There now I hope you are satisfied!"

"Not quite, Louise," he said, "they are accomplished proselyters and may
have the foundations completely and irremediably undermined ere you
suspect that they have begun."




CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

    "Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue;
     Where patience, honor, sweet humanity,
     Calm fortitude, take root, and strongly flourish."
                        --MALLET AND THOMSON'S ALFRED.


A bath, a nap, and a dainty supper had refreshed Molly somewhat before the
children were admitted to her room, but they found her looking pale and
thin, and oh, so sorrowful! so different from the bright, merry, happy
"Cousin Molly" of six months ago.

Their little hearts swelled with sympathetic grief, and tears filled their
eyes as one after another they took her hand and kissed her lovingly.

"Poor child, I so solly for oo!" said Herbert, and Molly laughed
hysterically, then put her hands over her face, and sobbed as though her
heart would break. First, it was the oddity of being called "child" by
such a mere baby, then the thought that she had become an object of pity
to such an one.

"Don' ky," he said, pulling away her hand to kiss her cheek. "Herbie
didn't mean to make oo ky."

"Come, Herbie dear, let us go now; we mustn't tease poor sick cousin,"
whispered his sister Elsie, drawing him gently away.

"No, no! let him stay; let him love me," sobbed Molly. "He is a dear
little fellow," she added, returning his caresses, and wiping away her
tears.

"Herbie will love oo, poor old sing," he said, stroking her face, "and
mamma and papa, and all de folks will be ever so dood to oo."

Molly's laugh was more natural this time, and under its inspiring
influence, the little ones grew quite merry, really amusing her with their
prattle, till their mammy came to take them to bed.

Elsie was beginning to say good-night too, thinking there was danger of
wearying the invalid, but Molly said, "I don't wonder you want to leave
me; mother says nobody could like to stay with such a----" she broke off
suddenly, again hid her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

"Oh, no, no! I was only afraid of tiring you," Elsie said, leaning over
her and stroking her hair with soft, gentle touch. "I should like to stay
and talk if you wish; to tell you all about our visit to the Crags, and
mamma's old governess, and----"

"Oh, yes, do; anything to help me to forget, even for a few minutes. Oh, I
wish I was dead! I wish I was dead! I can't bear to live and be a
cripple!"

"Dear Molly, don't cry, don't feel so dreadfully about it!" Elsie said,
weeping with her. "Jesus will help you to bear it; he loves you, and is
sorrier for you than anybody else is; and he won't let you be sick or in
pain in heaven."

"No, he doesn't love me! I'm not good enough; and if he did, he wouldn't
have let me get such a dreadful fall."

Little Elsie was perplexed for the moment, and knew not what to answer.

"Couldn't he have kept me from falling?" demanded Molly, almost fiercely.

"Yes, he can do everything."

"Then I hate him for letting me fall!"

Elsie was inexpressibly shocked. "Oh, Molly!" in an awed, frightened tone,
was all that she could say.

"I'm awfully wicked, I know I am; but I can't help it. Why did he let me
fall? I couldn't bear to let a dog be so dreadfully hurt, if I could help
it!"

"Molly, the Bible says 'God is love.' And in another place, 'God so loved
the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in
him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' 'God commendeth his
love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' He
must have loved you, Molly, when he died that dreadful death to save you."

"Not me."

"Yes, if you will believe. 'Whosoever believeth.'"

"It was just for everybody in a lump," said Molly, sighing wearily. "Not
for you or me, or anybody in particular; at least not anybody that's
living now; because we weren't made then; so how could he?"

"But mamma says he knew he was going to make us, just the same as he does
now; and that he thought of each one, and loved and died for each one just
as much as if there was only one."

"Well, it's queer if he loved me so well as that, and yet would let me
fall and be so awfully injured. What's this? You didn't have it before you
came North," taking hold of the gold chain about Elsie's neck.

Out came the little watch and Elsie told about the aching tooth and the
trip to New York to have it extracted.

"Seems to me," was Molly's comment, "you have all the good things: such a
nice mother and everything else. Such a good father too, and mine was
killed when I was a little bit of a thing; and mother's so cross.

"But Dick's good to me; dear old Dick," she added, looking up at him with
glistening eyes as he came in and going up to her couch, asked how she
was.

"You'd better go to sleep now," he said. "You've been talking quite
awhile, haven't you?"

At that Elsie slipped quietly away and went in search of her mother.

She found her alone on the veranda looking out meditatively upon the
restless moonlit waters of the sea.

"Mamma," said the child softly, "I should like a stroll on the beach with
you. Can we go alone? I want to talk with you about something."

"Come then, daughter," and hand in hand they sought the beach, only a few
yards distant.

It was a clear still night, the moon nearly at the full, and the cool salt
breeze from the silver-tipped waves was exceedingly refreshing after the
heat of the day; which had been one of the hottest of the season.

For a while they paced to and fro in silence; then little Elsie gave her
mother the substance of her conversation with Molly in which the latter
expressed her disbelief in God's love for her because he had not prevented
her fall. "Mamma," she said in conclusion, "how I wished you were there to
make her understand."

"Poor child!" said the mother, in low, moved tones, "only he who permitted
this sore trial can convince her that it was sent in love."

"But you will talk to her, mamma?"

"Yes, when a suitable opportunity offers; but prayer can do more for her
than any words of ours, addressed to her."

The presence of Molly and her mother proved a serious drawback to the
enjoyment of our party during the remainder of their sojourn at the
seashore. The burden fell heaviest upon Elsie and her children, as the
principal entertainers, and the mother had often to counsel patience and
forbearance, and to remind her darlings of their promise to be ready to do
all they could for the comfort and happiness of the sufferer.

All made praiseworthy efforts to fulfil their engagement, and Elsie and
Vi, particularly the former, as nearest to Molly in age, and therefore
most desired by her as a companion, gave up many a pleasure excursion for
her sake, staying at home to talk with and amuse her when all the rest
were out driving or boating.




CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.


    "Ah! who can say, however fair his view,
     Through what sad scenes his path may lie?"


Mrs. Conly adhered to her resolve in regard to the education of her
daughters, and about the middle of September left with them and her
younger children for a visit to Mrs. Delaford, at whose house the
wardrobes of the two girls were to be made ready for their first school
year at the convent chosen by their aunt.

Arthur went with them as their escort. A week later the rest of the
Roselands party returned home, and early in October the Oaks and Ion
rejoiced in the return of their families.

Baby Lily had been so benefited by the trip that Elsie felt warranted in
resuming her loved employment as acting governess to her older children.

They fell into the old round of duties and pleasures, as loving and happy
a family as one might wish to see; a striking and most pleasant contrast
to the one at Roselands, that of Enna and her offspring--where the mother
fretted and scolded, and the children, following her example were
continually at war with one another.

Only between Dick and Molly there was peace and love. The poor girl led a
weary life pinned to her couch or chair, wholly dependent upon others for
the means of locomotion and for anything that was not within reach of her
hand.

She had not yet learned submission under her trial, and her mother was far
from being an assistance in bearing it. Molly was greatly depressed in
spirits, and her mother's scolding and fretting were often almost beyond
endurance.

Her younger brother and sister thought it a trouble to wait on her and
usually kept out of her way, but Dick, when present, was her faithful
slave; always ready to lift and carry her, or to bring her anything she
wanted. But much of Dick's time was necessarily occupied with his studies,
and in going to and from his school, which was two or three miles distant.

He was very thoughtful for her comfort, and it was through his suggestion,
that their grandfather directed that one of the pleasantest rooms in the
house, overlooking the avenue, so that all the coming and going could be
seen from its windows, should be appropriated to Molly's use.

There Dick would seat her each morning, before starting for school, in an
invalid's easy-chair presented to her by her Cousin Elsie, and there he
would be pretty sure to find her on his return, unless, as occasionally
happened, their grandfather, Uncle Horace, Mr. Travilla, or some one of
the relatives, had taken her out for a drive.

One afternoon about the last of November, Molly, weary of sewing and
reading, weary inexpressibly weary, of her confinement and enforced
quietude, was gazing longingly down the avenue, wishing that some one
would come to take her out for an airing, when the door opened and her
mother came in dressed for the open air, in hat, cloak and furs.

"I want you to button my glove, Molly," she said, holding out her wrist,
"Rachel's so busy on my new silk, and you have nothing to do. What a
fortunate child you are to be able to take your ease all the time."

"My ease!" cried Molly bitterly, "I'd be gladder than words can tell to
change places with you for awhile."

"Humph! you don't know what you're wishing; the way I have to worry over
my sewing for four besides myself, is enough to try the patience of a
saint. By the way, it's high time you began to make yourself useful in
that line. With practice, you might soon learn to accomplish a great deal,
having nothing to do but stick at it from morning to night."

Molly was in the act of buttoning the second glove. Tears sprang to her
eyes at this evidence of her mother's heartlessness, and one bright drop
fell on Enna's wrist.

"There you have stained my glove!" she exclaimed angrily. "What a baby you
are! will you never have done with this continued crying?"

"It seems to be very easy for you to bear my troubles, mother," returned
poor Molly, raising her head proudly, and dashing away the tears, "I will
try to learn to bear them too, and never again appeal to my mother for
sympathy."

"You get enough of that from Dick, he cares ten times as much for you as
he does for me--his own mother."

At that moment Betty came running in. "Mother, the carriage is at the
door, and grandpa's ready. Molly, grandpa says he'll take you too, if you
want to go."

Molly's face brightened, but before she could speak, Enna answered for
her. "No, she can't; there isn't time to get her ready."

Mrs. Johnson hurried from the room, Betty following close at her heels,
and Molly was left alone in her grief and weariness.

She watched the carriage as it rolled down the avenue, then turning from
the window, indulged in a hearty cry.

At length, exhausted by her emotion, she laid her head back and fell
asleep in her chair.

How long she had slept she did not know; some unusual noise down-stairs
woke her, and the next moment Betty rushed in screaming, "Oh, Molly,
Molly, mother and grandfather's killed; both of 'em! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

For an instant Molly seemed stunned, she scarcely comprehended Betty's
words, then as the child repeated, "They're killed! they're both killed;
the horses ran away and threw 'em out," she too uttered a cry of anguish,
and grasping the arms of her chair, made desperate efforts to rise; but
all in vain, and with a groan she sank back, and covering her face with
her hands, shed the bitterest tears her impotence had ever yet cost her.

Betty had run away again, and she was all alone. Oh, how hard it was for
her to be chained there in such an agony of doubt and distress! She
forcibly restrained her groans and sobs, and listened intently.

The Conlys, except Cal, were still at the North; the house seemed
strangely quiet, only now and then a stealthy step or a murmur of voices
and occasionally a half smothered cry from Bob or Betty.

A horseman came dashing furiously up the avenue. It was her uncle, Mr.
Horace Dinsmore. He threw himself from the saddle and hurried into the
house, and the next minute two more followed at the same headlong pace.

These were Cal and Dr. Barton, and they also dismounted in hot haste and
disappeared from her sight beneath the veranda. Certainly something very
dreadful had happened. Oh would nobody come to tell her!

The minutes dragged their slow length along seeming like hours. She lay
back in her chair in an agony of suspense, the perspiration standing in
cold drops on her brow.

But the sound of wheels roused her and looking out she saw the Oaks and
Ion carriages drive up, young Horace and Rosie alight from the one, Mr.
Travilla and Elsie from the other.

"Oh!" thought Molly, "Cousin Elsie will be sure to think of me directly
and I shall not be left much longer in this horrible suspense."

Her confidence was not misplaced. Not many minutes had elapsed when her
door was softly opened, a light step crossed the floor and a sweet fair
face, full of tender compassion, bent over the grief-stricken girl.

Molly tried to speak; her tongue refused its office, but Elsie quickly
answered the mute questioning of the wild, frightened, anguished eyes.

"There is life," she said, taking the cold hands in hers, "life in both;
and 'while there is life there is hope.' Our dear old grandfather has a
broken leg and arm and a few slight cuts and bruises, but is restored to
consciousness now, and able to speak. Your poor mother has fared still
worse, we fear, as the principal injury is to the head, but we will hope
for the best in her case also."

Molly dropped her head on her cousin's shoulder while a burst of weeping
brought partial relief to the overburdened heart.

Elsie clasped her arms about her and strove to soothe and comfort her
with caresses and endearing words.

"If I could only nurse mother now," sobbed the girl, "how glad I'd be to
do it. O cousin, it most breaks my heart now to think how I've vexed and
worried her since--since this dreadful trouble came to me. I'd give
anything never to have said a cross or disrespectful word to her. And now
I can do nothing for her! nothing, nothing!" and she wrung her hands in
grief and despair.

"Yes, dear child; there is one thing you can do," Elsie answered, weeping
with her.

"What, what is that?" asked Molly, half incredulously, half hopefully,
"what can I do chained here?"

"Pray for her, Molly, plead for her with him unto whom belong the issues
from death; to him who has all power in heaven and in earth and who is
able to save to the uttermost."

"No, no, even that I can't do," sobbed Molly, "I've never learned to pray,
and he isn't my friend as he is yours and your children's!"

"Then first of all make him your friend; oh, he is so kind and merciful
and loving. He says, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast
out.'"

"Oh, if I only knew how!" sighed Molly, "nobody needs such a friend more
than I. I'd give all the world to have him for mine."

"But you cannot buy his friendship--his salvation; it is 'without money
and without price.' What is it to come to him? Just to take him at his
word, give yourself to him and believe his promise that he will not cast
you out."

There was a tap at the door and Rosie came in, put her arms round Molly,
kissed her and wept with her.

Then young Horace followed and after that his father. Both seemed to feel
very much for Molly and to be anxious to do everything in their power to
help and comfort her.

Mr. Dinsmore was evidently in deep grief and soon withdrew, Elsie going
with him. They stood together for a few minute in the hall.

"My dear father, how I feel for you!" Elsie said, laying her hand on his
arm and looking up at him through gathering tears.

"Thank you, my child; your sympathy is always very sweet to me," he said.
"And you have mine; for I know this trial touches you also though somewhat
less nearly than myself."

"Is grandpa suffering much?" she asked.

"Very much; and at his age--but I will not anticipate sorrow; we know that
the event is in the hands of him who doeth all things well. Ah, if he were
only a Christian! And Enna! poor Enna!"

Sobs and cries coming from the nursery broke in upon the momentary silence
that followed the exclamation.

"Poor little Bob and Betty, I must go to them," Elsie said, gliding away
in the direction of the sounds, while Mr. Dinsmore returned to the room
where his father lay groaning with the pain of his wounds. Mr. Travilla,
Calhoun and the doctor were with him, but he was asking for his son.

"Horace," he said, "can't you stay with me?"

"Yes, father, night and day while you want me."

"That's right! It's a good thing to have a good son. Dr. Barton, where are
you going?"

"To your daughter, sir, Mrs. Johnson."

"Enna! is she much hurt?" asked the old man, starting up, but falling back
instantly with almost a scream of pain.

"You must lie still, sir, indeed you must," said the doctor, coming back
to the bed; "your life depends upon your keeping quiet and exciting
yourself as little as possible."

"Yes, yes; but Enna?"

"Has no bones broken."

"Thank God for that! then she'll do. Go, doctor, but don't leave the house
without seeing me again."

They were glad he was so easily satisfied, but knew he would not be if his
mind were quite clear.

Dick had come home in strong excitement, rumors of the accident having met
him on the way. The horses had taken fright at the sudden shriek of a
locomotive, and the breaking of a defective bit had deprived the old
gentleman of the power to control them. They ran madly down a steep
embankment, wrecking the carriage and throwing both passengers out upon a
bed of stones.

Pale and trembling the lad went straight to his mother's room where he
found her lying moaning on the bed, recognizing no one, unconscious of
anything that was going on about her.

He discovered that he loved her far more than he would have believed; he
thought her dying, and his heart smote him, as memory recalled many a
passionate, undutiful word he had spoken to her; often, it is true, under
great provocation, but oh, what would he not now have given to recall
them.

He had much ado to control his emotion sufficiently to ask the doctor what
he thought of her case. He was somewhat comforted by the reply,

"The injury to the head is very serious, yet I by no means despair of her
life."

"What can I do for her?" was the boy's next question in an imploring tone
as though he would esteem it a boon to be permitted to do something for
her relief.

"Nothing; we have plenty of help here, and you are too inexperienced for a
nurse," Dr. Barton said, not unkindly. "But see to your sister Molly," he
added. "Poor child! she will feel this sorely."

The admonition was quite superfluous; Dick was already hastening to her.

Another moment and she was weening out her sorrow and anxiety on his
shoulder.

"O Dick," she sobbed, "I'm afraid I can never speak to her again, and--and
my last words to her, just before she went, were a reproach. I said I'd
never ask her for sympathy again; and now I never can. Oh isn't it
dreadful, dreadful!" and she wept as if her very heart would break.

"Oh, don't, Molly!" he said hoarsely, pressing her closer to him and
mingling his tears with hers, "who could blame you, you poor suffering
thing! and I'm sure you must have been provoked to it. She hadn't been
saying anything kind to you?"

Molly shook her head with a fresh burst of grief. "No, oh no! oh, if we'd
parted like Cousin Elsie and her children always do!--with kind, loving
words and caresses."

"But we're not that sort, you know," returned Dick with an awkward attempt
at consolation, "and I'm worse than you, a great deal, for I've talked up
to mother many a time and didn't have the same excuse."

There was sickness at Pinegrove. Mrs. Howard was slowly recovering from an
attack of typhoid fever. This was why she had not hastened to Roselands to
the assistance of her injured father and sister.

And Mrs. Rose Dinsmore was at Ashlands, helping Sophie nurse her children
through the scarlet fever. And so, Mrs. Conly being still absent at the
North, the burden of these new responsibilities must fall upon Mr. Horace
Dinsmore and his children.

Mr. Dinsmore undertook the care of his father, Mr. Travilla and young
Horace engaging to relieve him now and then, Elsie that of Enna; her
children, except the baby, who with mammy must come to Roselands also,
could do without her for a time. It would be hard for both her and them,
she knew, but the lesson in self-denial for the sake of others, might
prove more than a compensation; and Enna must not, in her critical state,
be left to the care of servants.

Rosie volunteered to see that Molly was not neglected, and to exert
herself for the poor girl's entertainment, and Bob and Betty were sent to
the Oaks to be looked after by Mrs. Murray and their cousin Horace.

It would be no easy or agreeable task for the old lady, but she was sure
not to object in view of the fact that quiet was essential to the recovery
of the sufferers at Roselands.




CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

    "Great minds, like heaven, are pleased in doing good,
     Though the ungrateful subjects of their favors
     Are barren in return."
                                            --ROWE.


The short winter day was closing in. At Ion, five eager, expectant little
faces were looking out upon the avenue, where slowly and softly, tiny
snowflakes were falling, the only moving thing within range of their
vision.

"Oh, dear, what does keep papa and mamma so long!" cried Vi, impatiently;
"it seems most like a year since they started."

"Oh, no, Vi, not half a day yet!"

"I don't mean it _is_, Eddie, but it does _seem_ like it to me. Elsie, do
you think anything's happened?"

"One of the horses may have lost a shoe," Elsie said, trying to be very
cheerful, and putting her arm round Violet as she spoke. "I remember that
happened once a good while ago. But if mamma were here, don't you know
what she would say, little sister?"

"Yes; 'don't fret; don't meet trouble half way, but trust in God, our
Father, who loves us so dearly, that he will never let any real harm come
to us.'"

"I think our mamma is very wise," remarked Eddie; "so very much wiser than
Aunt Lucy, who gets frightened at every little thing."

"Oh, Eddie dear, would mamma or papa like that?" said Elsie softly.

"Well, it's true," he said reddening.

But they've both told us that unkind remarks should not be made even if
true: unless it is quite necessary."

"Oh, why don't papa and mamma come?" "Oh, I wis dey would! I so tired
watchin' for 'em!" burst out Harold and Herbert, nearly ready to cry.

"Look! look!" cried the others in chorus, "they are coming, the carriage
is just turning in at the gate!"

But it was growing so dark now, and the tiny flakes were coming down so
thick and fast, that none of them were quite sure the carriage was their
own, until it drew up before the door, and two dear familiar forms
alighted and came up the veranda steps.

They were greeted with as joyous a welcome as if they had been absent for
weeks or months, and returned the sweet caresses as lovingly as they were
bestowed, smiling tenderly upon each darling of their hearts.

But almost instantly little Elsie perceived something unusual in the
sweet, fair face she loved so dearly, and was wont to study with such
fond, tender scrutiny.

"Mamma, dear mamma, what is wrong?" she asked.

"A sad accident, daughter," Elsie answered, her voice faltering with
emotion, "poor grandpa and Aunt Enna have been badly hurt."

"Our dear grandpa, mamma?" they all asked, lips and voices tremulous with
grief.

"No, darlings, not my own dear father," the mother answered, with a heart
full of gratitude that it was not he, "but our poor old grandfather who
lives at Roselands."

"My dear little wife, you are too much overcome to talk any more just
now," Mr. Travilla said, wheeling an easy-chair to the fire, seating her
in it, and removing her hat and cloak, with all the tender gallantry of
the days when he wooed and won his bride; "let me tell it." He took a seat
near her side, lifted "bit Herbie" to his knee, and with the others
gathered close about him, briefly told how the accident had happened, and
that he and their mother had met a messenger coming to acquaint them with
the disaster, and summon them to Roselands; then gave the children some
idea of the present situation of their injured relations.

When he had finished, and his young hearers had expressed their sorrow and
sympathy for the sufferers, a moment of silence ensued, broken by little
Elsie.

"Mamma, who will take care of them?"

"God," said Herbert, "won't he, papa?"

"But I mean who will nurse them while they are sick," said Elsie.

"My father will take care of grandpa," Mrs. Travilla answered, "Uncle
Horace and papa helping when needed."

"And Aunt Enna, mamma?"

"Well, daughter, who do you think should nurse her? Aunt Louise is away,
Aunt Lora sick herself, grandma at Ashlands with Aunt Sophie and her sick
children."

"Oh, mamma, it won't have to be you, will it?" the child asked almost
imploringly.

"Oh, mamma, no; how could we do without you?" chimed in the others,
Herbert adding tearfully, "Mamma stay wis us; we tan't do wisout you."

They left their father to cluster about and cling to her, with caresses
and entreaties.

"My darlings," she said, returning their endearments, "can you not feel
willing to spare your mother for a little while to poor, suffering Aunt
Enna?"

"Mamma, they have plenty of servants"

"Yes, Vi, but she is so very ill that we cannot hope she will get well
without more careful, tender nursing than any servant would give her."

"Mamma, it will be very hard to do without you."

"And very hard for me to stay away from my dear children; but what does
the Bible say? Seek your own pleasure and profit, and let others take
care of themselves?"

"Oh, mamma, no! 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'"

"'Do good to them that hate you,'" quoted Eddie in an undertone.

"But we were not speaking of enemies, my son," his mother said in
surprise.

"I think Aunt Enna is your enemy, mamma; I think she hates you," he said,
with flashing eyes, "for I've many a time heard her say very hateful
things to you. Mamma, don't look so sorry at me; how can I help being
angry at people that say unkind things to you?"

"'Forgive, and you shall be forgiven,'" she said gently. "'Do good and
lend.' Can't you lend your mother for a few weeks, dears?"

"Weeks, mamma! oh, so long!" they cried. "How can we? who will take care
of us, and hear our lessons and teach us to be good?"

"Dinah will wash and dress you, Elsie help you little ones to learn your
lessons, and I think papa," looking at him, "will hear you recite."

"Yes," he said, smiling on them, "we will do our best, so that dear mamma
may not be anxious and troubled about us in addition to all the care and
anxiety for the suffering ones at Roselands."

"Yes, papa," they answered, returning his smile half tearfully; then
questioned their mother as to when she must go, and whether they should
see her at all while Aunt Enna was sick.

"I can wait only long enough to take supper with you, and have our talk
together afterward," she said, "because I am needed at Roselands. Perhaps
papa will bring you there sometimes to see me for a little while if you
will be very quiet. And it may be only for a few days that I shall be
wanted there; we cannot tell about that yet."

She spoke cheerfully, but it cost her an effort because of the grieved,
troubled looks on the dear little faces.

"But baby, mamma!" cried Vi, "baby can't do without you!"

"No, dear, she and mammy will have to go with me."

They were not the usual merry party at the tea-table, and a good many
tears were shed during the talk with mamma afterward.

They all consented to her going, but the parting with her, and the thought
of doing without her for "so long" were the greatest trials they had ever
known.

She saw all the younger ones in bed, kissed each one good-night, and
reminding them that their heavenly Father was always with them, and that
she would not be too far away to come at once to them if needed, she left
them to their sleep.

Elsie followed her mother to her dressing-room, watched for every
opportunity to assist in her preparations for her absence. They were not
many, and with some parting injunctions to this little daughter and the
servants, she announced herself ready to go.

Elsie clung to her with tears at the last, as they stood together in the
lower hall waiting for the others.

"Mamma, what shall I do without you? I've never been away from you a whole
day in all my life."

"No, dearest, but be my brave, helpful little girl. You must try to fill
mother's place to the little ones. I shall not be far away, you know, and
your dear father will be here nearly all the time. And don't forget,
darling, that your best Friend is always with you."

"No, mamma," said the child, smiling through her tears; "it is so sweet to
know that; and please don't trouble about us at home. I'll do my best for
papa and the children."

"That is right, daughter, you are a very great comfort to me now and
always," the mother said, with a last caress, as her husband joined her
and gave her his arm to lead her to the carriage.

"Don't come out in the cold, daughter," he said, seeing the child about to
follow.

Mammy had just come down with the sleeping babe in her arms, warmly
wrapped up to shield her from the cold.

Elsie sprang to her side, lifted the veil that covered the little face,
and softly touched her lips to the delicate cheek. "Good-bye, baby
darling. Oh, mammy, we'll miss her sadly and you too."

"Don't fret, honey, 'spect we all be comin' back soon," Aunt Chloe
whispered, readjusting the veil, and hurrying after her mistress.

Elsie flew to the window, and watched the carriage roll away down the
avenue, till lost to sight in the darkness, tears trembling in her eyes,
but a thrill of joy mingling with her grief: "it was so sweet to be a
comfort and help to dear mamma."

She set herself to considering how she might be the same to her father and
brothers and sister; what she could do now.

She remembered that her father was very fond of music and that her mother
often played and sang for him in the evenings. He had said he would
probably return in an hour, and going to the piano she spent the
intervening time in the diligent practice of a new piece of music he had
brought her a day or two before.

At sound of the carriage wheels she ran to meet him, her face bright with
welcoming smiles.

"My little sunbeam," he said taking her in his arms; "you have been
nothing but a comfort and blessing to your mother and me, since the day
you were born."

"Dear papa, how kind in you to tell me that!" she said, her cheek flushing
and her eyes glistening with pleasure.

He kept her with him till after her usual hour for retiring, listening to,
and praising her music and talking with her quite as if she were fit to be
a companion for him.

Both the injured ones were very ill for some weeks, but by means of
competent medical advice and careful nursing, their lives were saved; yet
neither recovered entirely from the effects of the accident. Mr. Dinsmore
was feeble and ailing, and walked with a limp for the rest of his days,
and Enna, though her bodily health was quite restored, rose from her bed
with an impaired intellect, her memory gone, her reasoning powers scarcely
equal to those of an ordinary child of five or six.

She did not recognize her children, or indeed any one; she had everything
to relearn and went back to childish amusements, dolls, baby-houses and
other toys.

The sight was inexpressibly painful to Dick and Molly, far worse than
following her to her grave.

She remained at her father's, a capable and kind woman being provided to
take constant charge of her, while Bob and Betty stayed on at the Oaks,
their uncle and aunt bringing them up with all the care and kindness
bestowed upon their own children; and Dick and Molly made their home at
Ion.

The latter was removed thither as soon as the danger to her mother's life
was past, the change being considered only temporary at the time; though
afterward it was decided to make it permanent, in accordance with the kind
and generous invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Travilla to her and her brother,
and their offer to become responsible for the education and present
support of both.

Little Elsie, bravely and earnestly striving to fill her mother's place in
the household, making herself companionable to her father, helping Eddie,
Vi and Harold with their lessons, comforting Herbie when his baby heart
ached so sorely with its longing for mamma, and in all his little griefs
and troubles, and settling the slight differences that would sometimes
arise between the children or the servants, found Molly an additional
burden; for she too must be cheered and consoled and was often fretful,
unreasonable and exacting.

Still the little girl struggled on, now feebly and almost ready to
despair, now with renewed hope and courage gathered from an interview with
her earthly or her heavenly Father.

Mr. Travilla was very proud of the womanly way in which she acquitted
herself at this time, her diligence, utter unselfishness, patience, and
thoughtfulness for others, and did not withhold the meed of well earned
praise; this with his advice and sympathy did much to enable her to
persevere to the end.

But oh what relief and joy when at last the dear mother was restored to
them and the unaccustomed burden lifted from the young shoulders!

It would have been impossible to say who rejoiced most heartily in the
reunion, father, mother or children. But every heart leaped lightly, every
face was bright with smiles.

Mrs. Travilla knew she was adding greatly to her cares, and to the
annoyances and petty trials of every day life, in taking Dick and
especially Molly into her family, but she realized it more and more as the
months and years rolled on; both had been so spoiled by Enna's unwise and
capricious treatment, that it was a difficult thing to control them; and
poor Molly's sad affliction caused her frequent fits of depression which
rendered her a burden to herself and to others; also she inherited to some
extent, her mother's infirmities of temper, and her envy, jealousy and
unreasonableness made her presence in the family a trial to her young
cousins.

The mother had to teach patience, meekness and forbearance by precept and
example, ever holding up as the grand motive, love to Jesus, and a desire
to please and honor him.

Such constant sowing of the good seed, such patient, careful weeding out
of the tares, such watchfulness and prayerfulness as Elsie bestowed upon
the children God had given her, could not fail of their reward from him
who has said, "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap"; and as
the years rolled on she had the unspeakable joy of seeing her darlings one
after another gathered into the fold of the Good Shepherd;--consecrating
themselves in the dew of their youth to the service of him who had loved
them and washed them from their sins in his own blood.

She was scarcely less earnest and persistent in her efforts to promote the
welfare, temporal and spiritual, of Molly and Dick. She far more than
supplied the place of the mother now almost worse than lost to them.

They had always liked and respected her; they soon learned to love her
dearly and grew happier and more lovable under the refining, elevating
influence of her conduct and conversation.

She and her husband gave to both the best advantages for education that
money could procure, aroused in them the desire, and stimulated them to
earnest efforts to become useful members of society.

Elsie soon discovered that one grand element of Molly's depression was the
thought that she was cut off from all the activities of life and doomed,
by her sad affliction, to be a useless burden upon others.

"My poor dear child!" she said clasping the weeping girl in her arms,
"that would be a sad fate indeed, but it need not be yours; there are many
walks of usefulness still open to you; literature, several of the arts and
sciences, music, painting, authorship; to say nothing of needle work both
plain and fancy. The first thing will be a good education in the ordinary
acceptation of the term--and that you can take as easily as one who has
use of all her limbs. Books and masters shall be at your command, and when
you have decided to what employment you will especially devote yourself,
every facility shall be given you for perfecting yourself in it."

"O Cousin Elsie," cried the girl, her eyes shining, "do you think I could
ever write books, or paint pictures? I mean such as would be really worth
the doing; such as would make Dick proud of me and perhaps give me money
to help him with; because you know the poor fellow must make his own way
in the world."

"I scarcely know how to answer that question," Elsie said, smiling at her
sudden enthusiasm, "but I do know that patience and perseverance will do
wonders, and if you practice them faithfully, it will not surprise me to
see you some day turn out a great author or artist.

"But don't fret because Dick has not a fortune to begin with. Our very
noblest and most successful men have been those who had to win their way
by dint of hard and determined struggling with early disadvantages. 'Young
trees root the faster for shaking!'" she added with a smile.

"Oh then Dick will succeed, I know, dear, noble fellow!" cried Molly
flushing with sisterly pride.

From that time she took heart and though there were occasional returns of
despondency and gloom she strove to banish them and was upon the whole,
brave, cheerful and energetic in carrying out the plans her cousin had
suggested.




CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

    "It is as if the night should shade noonday,
     Or that the sun was here, but forced away;
     And we were left, under that hemisphere,
     Where we must feel it dark for half a year."
                                  --BEN. JOHNSON.


Since the events recorded in our last chapter, six years have rolled their
swift, though noiseless round, ere we look in upon our friends again; six
years bringing such changes as they must;--growth and development to the
very young, a richer maturity, a riper experience to those who had already
attained to adult life, and to the aged, increasing infirmities, reminding
them that their race is nearly run; it may be so with others; it must be
so with them.

There have been gains and losses, sickness and other afflictions, but
death has not yet entered any of their homes.

At Ion, the emerald, velvety lawn, the grand old trees, the sparkling
lakelet, the flower gardens and conservatories gay with rich autumn hues,
were looking their loveliest, in the light of a fair September morning.

The sun was scarcely an hour high, and except in the region of the
kitchen and stables quiet reigned within and without the mansion; doors
and windows stood wide open, and servants were busied here and there
cleaning and setting in order for the day, but without noise or bustle. In
the avenue before the front entrance, stood Solon with the pretty grey
ponies, Prince and Princess, ready saddled and bridled, while on the
veranda sat a tall, dark-eyed, handsome youth, a riding whip in one hand,
the other gently stroking and patting the head of Bruno, as it rested on
his knee; the dog receiving the caress with demonstrations of delight.

A light, springing step passed down the broad stairway, crossed the hall,
and a slender fairy-like form appeared in the doorway. It was Violet, now
thirteen, and already a woman in height; though the innocent childlike
trust in the sweet fair face and azure eyes, told another tale.

"Good-morning, Eddie," she said. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Oh, good-morning," he cried, jumping up and turning toward her. "No need
for apology, Vi, I've not been here over five minutes."

He handed her gallantly to the saddle, then mounted himself.

"Try to cheer up, little sister; one should not be sad such a lovely
morning as this," he said, as they trotted down the avenue side by side.

"Oh, Eddie," she answered, with tears in her voice, "I do try, but I
can't yet; it isn't like home without them."

"No; no indeed, Vi; how could it be? Mr. and Mrs. Daly are very kind, yet
not in the least like our father and mother; but it would be impossible
for any one to take their places in our hearts or home."

"The only way to feel at all reconciled, is to keep looking forward to the
delight of seeing them return with our darling Lily well and strong," Vi
said, struggling bravely with her tears; and Eddie answered, "I cannot
help hoping that may be, in spite of all the discouraging things the
doctors have said."

Lily, always frail and delicate, had drooped more and more during the past
year, and only yesterday the parents had left with her for the North,
intending to try the effect of different watering places, in the faint
hope that the child might yet be restored to health, or her life at least
be prolonged for a few years.

They had taken with them their eldest daughter, and infant son, and
several servants.

Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joe were not of the party, increasing infirmities
compelling them to stay behind.

The separation from her idolized mistress, cost the former many tears, but
she was much comforted by Elsie's assurance, that to have her at home to
watch over the children there, would be a great comfort and relief from
anxiety on their account.

It had seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Travilla, a very kind Providence that had
sent them an excellent tutor and housekeeper, in the persons of Mr. and
Mrs. Daly, their former guests at Viamede.

Since the winter spent together there, an occasional correspondence had
been kept up between the two families, and learning from it, that Mr. Daly
was again in need of a change of climate, and that, just as they were
casting about for some suitable persons to take charge of their house and
children during their contemplated absence from home, Elsie suggested to
her husband that the situations should be offered to him and his wife.

Mr. Travilla approved, the offer was made at once, and promptly and
thankfully accepted.

Frank Daly, now a fine lad of eleven, was invited to come with his
parents, and to share his father's instructions.

They had now been in the house for more than a week, and seemed eminently
suited to the duties they had undertaken; yet home was sadly changed to
the children, deprived for the first time in their lives of the parents
whom they so dearly loved, and who so thoroughly understood and
sympathized with them.

Eddie was growing very manly, was well advanced in his studies, easy and
polished in manner, and Vi and the younger ones looked up to him with
pride and respect, as the big brother who knew a great deal, and in papa's
absence would be their leader and protector.

He, on his part was fond and proud of them all, but more especially of
Elsie and Vi, who grew daily in beauty and grace.

"You can't think how sorely I have missed Elsie this morning," Vi said,
breaking a slight pause in their talk, "and yet I am glad she went too,
she will be such a comfort to mamma and Lily; and she promised me to write
every day; which of course mamma could not find time to do."

"Yes; and her absence will give you an opportunity for practice in that
line, and in being motherly to Rosie," Eddie said with a smile.

"To Herbie too," she answered; "we are to meet in mamma's dressing-room
every morning just as usual, only it will be a strange half hour without
mamma; but we will say our texts to each other, talk them over and read
together."

"Yes, I promised mamma that I would be with you. Which way now?" he asked,
as they came to the crossroads.

"To the Oaks. I want to see grandpa. A caress, or even a word or smile
from him, would do me good this morning."

"He may not be up."

"But I think he will; you know he likes to keep early hours."

Mr. Dinsmore was up and pacing the veranda thoughtfully to and fro, as the
young riders came in sight.

He welcomed them with a smile, and lifting Vi from her pony, held her
close to his heart as something very dear and precious.

"My darling," he said, "your face is sad this morning; and no wonder. Yet
cheer up, we will hope to see our dear travelers at home again in a few
weeks, our poor fading flower restored to bloom and beauty."

He made them sit down and regale themselves with some fine fresh oranges,
which he summoned a servant to bring; their grandma, aunt and uncle joined
them presently and they were urged to stay to breakfast, but declined.
"The little ones must not be left alone this first morning without papa
and mamma."

On their return Rosie, a merry, healthy, romping child of five, with a
rich creamy complexion, dark hair and eyes, forming a strong contrast to
Vi's blonde beauty, came bounding to meet them.

"O, Vi, I've been wanting you! you'll have to be mamma to us now, you
know, till our real own mamma comes back. And, Eddie, you'll have to be
the papa. Won't he, Vi? Come, let's all go to mamma's dress-room; my verse
is ready."

"What is your text, Rosie?" Violet asked when they had reached the room,
sitting down and drawing the child to her side.

"Take me on your lap like mamma does and I'll say it."

"Now then," Vi said, complying with the request.

"'When my father and my mother forsake me then the Lord will take me up.'"

"Who taught you that, pet?" asked Vi, with a slight tremble in her low
sweet tones.

"Cousin Molly. I was crying for mamma and papa and she called me in there
and told me I mustn't cry, 'cause Jesus loves me and will never, never go
away from me."

"That's like my text," said Herbert. "Mamma gave it to me for to-day. 'I
will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'"

"And mine," said Harold, "Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of
the world,'"

"'This God is our God forever and ever; he will be our guide even unto
death,'" repeated Vi feelingly.

"That's a nice one," said Rosie.

"Yes," said Eddie, "and this is a nice one for us to remember just now in
connection with the dear ones on their journey, and for ourselves when we
go away. Yes, now, and at all times. 'Behold I am with thee, and will keep
thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this
land.'"

"Isn't the Bible the sweetest book!" exclaimed Vi, "the Book of books; it
has a comforting word for everybody and every time of need."

The breakfast bell rang.

"Oh, dear!" cried Rosie clinging to Violet, her bosom heaving with sobs,
"how can we go to the table and eat without papa and mamma!"

"Don't cry, little pet, don't cry; you know they want us to be cheerful
and make it pleasant for Mr. and Mrs. Daly," the others said, and with a
great effort the child swallowed her sobs; then wiping away her tears,
suffered Vi to lead her down to the breakfast room.

Mrs. Daly met them there with a smiling face, and kind motherly greeting.
Mr. Daly had a pleasant word for each, and talked so entertainingly all
through the meal, that they had scarcely time for sad or lonely thoughts.

Family worship followed immediately after breakfast, as was the custom of
the house. Mr. Daly's prayer was short, comforting them all, and simple
enough for even little Rose to understand.

There was still time for a walk before school, but first Vi went to Molly
to ask how she was, and to carry her a letter from Dick which had come by
the morning mail.

Dick was in Philadelphia studying medicine. He and Molly corresponded
regularly and she knew no greater treat than a letter from him. Vi was
glad she could carry it to her this morning, it was so great a pleasure
to be the bearer of anything so welcome.

There were no pleasanter or better furnished rooms in the house than those
appropriated to the use of the poor, dependent crippled cousin. Molly
herself tastefully and becomingly dressed, blooming, bright and cheerful,
sat in an invalid chair by the open window. She was reading, and so
absorbed in her book that she did not hear the light step of her young
relative.

Vi paused in the doorway a moment, thinking what a pretty picture Molly
made--with her intellectual countenance, clear complexion, rosy cheeks,
bright eyes and glossy braids--framed in by the vine-wreathed window.

Molly looked up, and laying aside her book, "Ah, Vi, this is kind!" she
said. "Come in, do; I'm ever so glad to see you."

"And what of this?" asked Vi, holding up the letter.

"Oh, delightful! dear old fellow, to write so soon. I was not expecting it
till to-morrow."

"I knew you'd be glad," Vi said, putting it into her hand, "and now I'll
just kiss you good-morning and run away, that you may enjoy it fully
before lesson time."

Rosie's voice was summoning Vi. The children were in the veranda ready for
their morning walk, waiting only for "Sister Vi."

"Let's go to the Oaks," said Rosie, slipping her hand into Vi's; "it's a
nice shady walk, and I like to throw pebbles into the water. But I'll feed
the fishes first. See what a bag full of crumbs mammy has given me."

Violet was very patient and indulgent toward the little pet sister, yet
obliged to cut short her sport with the pebbles and the fishes, because
the hour for lessons drew near.




CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

    "The lilies faintly to the roses yield,
     As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie,
     And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed,
     Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unseal'd."
                                       --HOFFMAN.


"Dr. Arthur lef' dis for you, Miss Wi'let," said one of the maids, meeting
her young mistress on the veranda and handing her a note.

"Cousin Arthur? was he here?"

"Yes, miss. He axed for you, but hadn't no time to stop, not even to see
po' Miss Molly. 'Spect somebody's mighty sick."

Arthur Conly had entered the medical profession, and for the last two
years had been practicing in partnership with Dr. Barton.

Vi glanced over the note and hastened to Eddie, whom she found in the
schoolroom, its only occupant at the moment.

"Here's a note from Isa, asking me to bring Rosie and come to Roselands
for the rest of the day, after lessons are done. She thinks I must feel
lonely. It is very kind, but what shall I do about it? Rosie would enjoy
going, but would it be kind to you or the boys, or Molly?"

"I might take the boys over to the Oaks, but I don't know--oh, I think
Molly would probably prefer solitude, as I happen to know that she has
some writing to do. Well, what now?" seeing a hesitating, perplexed look
on Vi's face.

"I cannot ask permission of papa or mamma."

"No, of course not; we must go to Mr. Daly for that now."

"I don't like it," she answered coloring; "it does seem as if nobody has
the right to control us except our father and mother, and our
grandparents."

"Only that they have given him the right for the present."

Mr. Daly came in at that instant, and Vi, placing the note in his hand,
said "Will you please to look at this, sir, and tell me if I may accept
the invitation?"

"I see no objection," he said, returning it with a kindly smile, "provided
your lessons are well recited."

Mr. Daly was an excellent teacher, thoroughly prepared for his work by
education, native talent for imparting the knowledge he possessed, love
for the employment and for the young creatures entrusted to his care.

The liking was mutual, and study hours were soon voted only less enjoyable
than when mamma was their loved instructress.

Molly occupied her place in the schoolroom as regularly as the others. It
adjoined her apartments, and her wheeled chair required a very slight
exertion of strength on the part of friend or servant to propel it from
room to room.

Molly had already made herself a very thorough French and German scholar,
and was hoping to turn her ability to translate to good account in the way
of earning her own support; for there was no pauper instinct in the girl's
noble nature, and able and willing as her cousin was to support her, she
greatly preferred to earn her own living, though at the cost of much
wearisome labor of hand and brain.

She was not of those who seem to forget that the command, "Six days shalt
thou labor and do all thy work," is equally binding with that other, "In
it (the seventh day) thou shalt not do any work," This lesson--that
industry is commanded, idleness forbidden--was one which Elsie had ever
been careful to instil into the minds of her children from their earliest
infancy; nor was it enough, she taught them, that they should be doing
something, they must be usefully employed, remembering that they were but
stewards who must one day give an account to their Lord of all they had
done with the talents entrusted to them.

"Is Dick well? was it a nice letter?" Violet asked, leaning over her
cousin's chair when lessons were done.

"Oh very nice! he's well and doing famously, I must answer it this
afternoon."

"Then you will not care for company?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

Vi told of her invitation.

"Go, by all means," said Molly. "You know Virgy has a friend with her, a
Miss Reed. I want you to see her and tell me what she's like."

"I fear you'll have to see her yourself to find that out; I'm no portrait
painter," Violet said with a smile as she ran lightly away to order the
carriage and see to her own toilet and Rosie's.

They were simple enough; white dresses with blue sash and ribbons for Vi,
ditto of pink for Rosie.

Miss Reed, dressed in a stiff silk and loaded with showy jewelry, sat in
the drawing-room at Roselands in a bay-window overlooking the avenue. She
was gazing eagerly toward its entrance, as though expecting some one.

"Yes, I've heard of the Travillas," she said in answer to a remark from
Virginia Conly who stood by her side almost as showily attired as herself,
"I've been told she was a great heiress."

"She was; and he was rich too; though I believe he lost a good deal during
the war."

"They live splendidly, I suppose?"

"They've everything money can buy, but are nearly breaking their hearts
just now, over one of their little girls who seems to have some incurable
disease."

"Is that so? Well, they ought to have some trouble as well as other
folks. I'm sorry though; for I'd set my heart on being invited there and
seeing how they live."

"Oh they're all gone away except Vi and Rosie and the boys. But may be Vi
will ask us there to dinner or tea. Ah here they come!"

"What splendid match horses! What an elegant carriage!" exclaimed Miss
Reed, as a beautiful barouche, drawn by a pair of fine bays, came bowling
up the avenue.

"Yes, they've come, it's the Ion carriage."

"But that's a young lady Pomp's handing out of it!" exclaimed Miss Reed
the next moment, "and I thought you sai

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