He was asking himself, as again and again he pressed his lips to his daughter's fair brow, how he could ever endure such a loss.
There had been a steady correspondence between Rose and Mildred, Annis and Elsie, ever since the winter spent at the Oaks by Dr. and Mrs. Landreth and Annis.
Housekeeping cares and discussions in regard to the best manner of rearing their little ones filled no small part of the letters of the two young mothers.
Elsie and Annis wrote of their studies, amusements, and the every-day occurrences in each family.
Thus Annis had learned about the life Elsie and her father led together while Rose was absent, of their journey to Philadelphia when he found himself able to go for his wife and little Horace, the visit there, and the return trip; and Elsie had been kept informed, among other events, of the progress of Fan's sickness; and the letter received to-day had given an account of her death and burial.
"Papa," Elsie asked, lifting her weeping eyes to his face, "what can I say to comfort poor dear Annis?"
"Just what I have been asking myself in regard to Marcia," he remarked, with a deep-drawn sigh.
"And I about Mildred," Rose said, echoing the sigh. "I know of scarcely anything more delicate and difficult than the writing of a letter of condolence."
"It is extremely so in a case where there is any doubt of the happiness of the departed," Mr. Dinsmore said; "but comparatively easy when we know that to the dear one gone to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Also that the mourners are of those who have a good hope through grace that it shall be so with themselves."
"I shall look for Bible words," Elsie said, leaving her father's knee to get her own little copy, lying on a table near at hand.