He lingered still for some hours, but his wife never left him for an instant; her hand was clasped in his when the messenger came; his last look of love was for her, his last whisper, "Precious little wife, eternity is ours!"
Friends carried him to his quiet resting place beside the little daughter who had preceded him to the better land, and widow and children returned without him to the home hitherto made so bright and happy by his loved presence.
Elsie, leaning on her father's arm, slowly ascended the steps of the veranda, but on the threshold drew back with a shudder and a low, gasping sob.
Her father drew her to his breast.
"My darling, do not go in. Come with me to the Oaks; let me take you all there for a time."
"No, dear papa; 'twould be but putting off the evil day—the trial that must be borne sooner or later," she said in trembling, tearful tones. "But—if you will stay with me—"
"Surely, dearest, as long as you will. I could not leave you now, my poor stricken one! Let me assist you to your room. You are completely worn out, and must take some rest."
"My poor children—" she faltered.
"For their sakes you must take care of yourself," he said. "Your mamma is here. She and I will take charge of everything until you are able to resume your duties as mother and mistress."
He led her to her apartments, made her lie down on a couch, darkened the room, and sitting down beside her, took her hand in his.