How it soothed and comforted her. She could never be very wretched while thus tenderly loved, and cherished.
And, arrived at her journey's end, there were mamma and little brother to rejoice over her return, as at the recovery of a long-lost, precious treasure.
"You shall never go away again," said the little fellow, hugging her tight. "When a boy has only one sister, he can't spare her to other folks, can he, papa?"
"No, son," answered Mr. Dinsmore, patting his rosy cheek, and softly stroking Elsie's hair, "and it is just the same with a man who has but one daughter."
"You don't look bright and merry, as you did when you went away," said the child, bending a gaze of keen, loving scrutiny upon the sweet face, paler, sadder, and more heavy-eyed than he had ever seen it before.
"Sister is tired with her journey," said mamma tenderly; "we won't tease her to-night."
"Yes," said her father, "she must go early to bed, and have a long night's rest."
"Yes, papa, and then she'll be all right to-morrow, won't she? But, mamma, I wasn't teasing her, not a bit; was I, Elsie? And if anybody's been making her sorry, I'll kill him. 'Cause she's my sister, and I've got to take care of her."
"But suppose papa was the one who had made her sorry; what then?" asked Mr. Dinsmore.
"But you wouldn't, papa," said the boy, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. "You love her too much a great deal; you'd never make her sorry unless she'd be naughty; and she's never one bit naughty,—always minds you and mamma the minute you speak."