Chapter Twentieth.
"Not mine—yet dear to me—fair, fragrant blossom
Of a fair tree—
Crushed to the earth in life's first glorious summer,—
Thou'rt dear to me,
Child of the lost, the buried and the sainted."
—Mrs. Wiley.
The housekeeper's room, to which she now led the little Elsie, was a cheery, pleasant place, On a small round table, covered with snowy satin-like damask, and a service of glittering silverware, cut glass and Sevres china, a tempting little repast was laid out for the two.
Mrs. Murray took her seat, and Aunt Chloe lifted Elsie into a high chair opposite.
The little one closed her eyes, folded her baby hands and bent reverently over her plate, while Mrs. Murray asked, in a few simple words, a blessing on their food.