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The Two Elsies

A Sequel to Elsie at Nantucket

BOOK 10

By Martha Finley

1868

LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY

ELSIE DINSMORE. ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS. ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD. ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD. ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD. ELSIE'S CHILDREN. ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD. GRANDMOTHER ELSIE. ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS. ELSIE AT NANTUCKET. THE TWO ELSIES. ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN. ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN. CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE. ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE'S VACATION. ELSIE AT VIAMEDE. ELSIE AT ION. ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR. ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS. ELSIE AT HOME. ELSIE ON THE HUDSON. ELSIE IN THE SOUTH.

MILDRED KEITH. MILDRED AT ROSELANDS. MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE. MILDRED AND ELSIE. MILDRED AT HOME. MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS. MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER.

CASELLA. SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST. THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY. OUR FRED. AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY. WANTED, A PEDIGREE. THE THORN IN THE NEST.

THE TWO ELSIES.

CHAPTER I.

"Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave."

LONGFELLOW.

It was a lovely summer morning, glorious with sunlight, sweet with the fragrance of flowers and the songs of birds.

The view from the bay-window of the library of Crag Cottage, the residence of Mr. George Leland, architect and artist, was very fine, embracing, as it did, some of the most magnificent scenery on the banks of the Hudson.

The house stood very high, and from that window one might look north and south over wooded mountain, hill and valley, or east upon the majestic river and its farther shore.

The nearer view was of well-kept, though not extensive, grounds; a flower-garden and lawn with a winding carriage-way leading up the hill by a gradual ascent.

It was a pleasant place to sit even on a sunny summer morning, for a tall tree partially shaded the window without greatly obstructing the view, and it was there the master of the house was usually to be found, at this time of day, with Evelyn, his only child, close at his side.

They were there now, seated at a table covered with books and papers, he busied in drawing plans for a building, she equally so with her lessons.

But presently, at the sound of a deep sigh from her father, she glanced hastily up at him.

He had dropped his pencil and was leaning back against the cushions of his easy-chair, with a face so wan and weary that she started up in alarm, and springing to his side, exclaimed, "Dear papa, I am sure you are not well! Do stop working, and lie down on the sofa. And won't you let me tell Patrick to go for the doctor when he has taken mamma to Riverside?"

"Yes, Evelyn, I think you may," he answered in low feeble tones, and with a sad sort of smile, gently pressing the hand she had laid in his, as he spoke. "It will do no harm for me to see Dr. Taylor, even should it do no good."

"What is that? send for the doctor? Are you ill, Eric?" asked a lady who had entered the room just in time to catch his last sentence.

"I am feeling unusually languid, Laura," he replied; "yet not much more so than I did yesterday. Perhaps it is only the heat."

"The heat!" she echoed; "why, it is a delightful day! warm, to be sure, but not oppressively so."

"Not to you or me, perhaps, mamma," remarked Evelyn, "but we are well and strong, and poor papa is not."

"A holiday would do you good, Eric," the lady said, addressing her husband; "come, change your mind and go with me to Riverside."

"My dear," he said, "I should like to go to gratify you, but really I feel quite unequal to the exertion."

"You need make none," she said; "you need only to sit quietly under the trees on the lawn; and I think you will find amusement in watching the crowd, while the fresh air, change of scene, and rest from the work you will not let alone when at home, will certainly be of great benefit to you."

He shook his head in dissent. "I should have to talk and to listen; in short, to make myself agreeable. I have no right to inflict my companionship on Mrs. Ross's guests on any other condition; and all that would be a greater exertion than I feel fit to undertake."

"There was a time when you were willing to make a little exertion for my sake," she returned in a piqued tone, "but wives are not to expect the attention freely bestowed upon a sweetheart, and so I must go alone as usual."

"Mamma, what a shame for you to talk so to poor papa!" exclaimed Evelyn indignantly. "You know—"

"Hush, hush, Evelyn," said her father in a gently reproving tone, "be respectful to your mother, always."

"Yes, sir," returned the child, with a loving look into his eyes. Then to her mother, "I beg your pardon, mamma, I did not mean to be rude; but—" with a scrutinizing glance at the richly attired figure before her.

"Well?" laughingly interrogated the lady, as the child paused with a slight look of embarrassment and a heightened color.

"Nothing, mamma, only—"

"Something your correct taste disapproves about my attire?"

"Yes, mamma; your dress is very handsome; quite rich and gay enough for a ball-room; but—wouldn't a simpler, plainer one be more suitable for a lawn-party?"

"Well, really!" was the laughing rejoinder; "the idea of such a chit as you venturing to criticise her mother's taste in dress! You spoil her, Eric; making so much of her and allowing her to have and express an opinion on any and every subject. There, I must be going; I see Patrick is at the door with the carriage. So good-by, and don't overwork yourself, Eric."

"Mamma," Evelyn called after her, "Patrick is to go for the doctor, you know."

"Oh, yes; I'll tell him," Mrs. Leland answered, and the next moment the carriage was whirling away down the drive.

"There, she is gone!" said Evelyn. "Oh, papa, when I am a woman I shall not marry unless I feel that I can always be content to stay with my husband when he is not able to go with me."

"But business may prevent him very often when sickness does not, and you may grow very weary of staying always at home," he said, softly smoothing her hair, then bending to touch his lips to her smooth white forehead and smile into the large dark eyes lifted to his as she knelt at the side of his chair.

"No, no! not if he is as dear and kind as you are, papa. But no other man is, I think."

"Quite a mistake, my pet; the world surely contains many better men than your father."

"I should be exceedingly angry if any one else said that to me," she returned indignantly.

At that he drew her closer to him with a little pleased laugh. "We love each other very dearly, do we not, my darling?" he said; then sighed deeply.

"Indeed we do!" she answered, gazing anxiously up into his face. "How pale and ill you look, papa! do lie down and rest."

"Presently, when my work has progressed a little farther," he said, putting her gently aside, straightening himself and resuming his pencil.

Evelyn was beginning a remonstrance, but at the sound of wheels upon the drive sprang to the window, exclaiming, "Can mamma be coming back already? She has perhaps changed her mind about attending the party. No," as she caught sight of the vehicle, "it is the doctor. I'm glad."

"Go, receive him at the door, daughter, and show him in here," said Mr. Leland; "and as I desire a private interview, you may amuse yourself in the grounds while he stays."

"Yes, sir; and oh, I do hope he will be able to give you something that will make you well directly," the little girl replied, bestowing a look of loving anxiety upon her father, then hastening to obey his order.

She received the physician at the front entrance, with all the graceful courtesy of a refined lady, ushered him into the library, then putting on a garden-hat, wandered out into the grounds.

It was the month of roses, and they were to be found here in great variety and profusion; they bordered the walks, climbed the walls, and wreathed themselves about the pillars of the porches, filling the air with their rich fragrance, mingled with that of the honeysuckle, lilac, heliotrope, and mignonette.

Evelyn sauntered through the garden, pausing here and there to gather one and another of the most beautiful and sweet-scented of its floral treasures, arranging them in a bouquet for her father; then crossed the lawn to an artistic little summer-house built on the edge of the cliff, where it almost overhung the river.

The view from this spot was magnificent, extending for many miles and embracing some of the grandest scenery of that region; and to Evelyn and her father, both dear lovers of the beauties of nature, it was a favorite resort.

Seating herself upon a rustic bench, she passed some moments in absorbed, delighted contemplation of the scene so familiar, yet ever new.

The thought that anything worse than a passing illness threatened her beloved father had not yet entered her youthful mind, and she was serenely happy as she sat there waiting for the departure of the physician as the signal that she might return to him.

From her earliest recollection he had been father and mother both to her, Mrs. Leland's time being too fully occupied with her onerous duties to society to allow her to bestow much attention upon her child.

Had the husband and father taken a like view of his responsibilities, Evelyn would have been left almost entirely to the care of the servants; but to him the formation of his child's character, the cultivation of her mind and heart, was a duty that outweighed all social claims, and to which even business might to some extent be sacrificed.

Nor was it a duty only, but also a delight. And so well was she rewarding his efforts that he found her, at thirteen, more companionable than her mother had ever been; taking an enthusiastic interest in his professional work, and sharing his aspirations after perfection therein and recognition as one of the foremost architects of his day.

In her esteem he had already distanced all competitors; no one else could plan a house so well for comfort, convenience, and beauty combined. Also he was to her the very embodiment of all that was unselfish, good, and noble.

She thought, and truly, that her mother failed to appreciate him.

While Evelyn waited the doctor subjected his patient to a thorough examination, not only feeling his pulse, listening to the beating of his heart, sounding his lungs and looking at his tongue, but cross-questioning him closely, his face growing graver with every reply elicited.

"You have told me everything?" he inquired at length.

"Yes, I think so; every symptom that I can recall at this moment. And now, doctor, I want you to be equally frank with me; tell me exactly what you think of my case."

"I cannot hold out any hope of recovery," was the unwilling reply; "but there is little, if any, immediate danger."

"You but confirm my own impressions," said Mr. Leland quietly. "But I would have a clearer understanding of your verdict; do you mean that I may have years of invalidism before me, or that a few weeks or months must bring the end?"

"You really desire to know the worst, my dear sir?" returned the physician inquiringly, a look of deep sympathy on his kindly face.

"I do," was the calmly resolute reply; "let me know the worst and face it in the strength God gives to His children according to their day."

"Then, my dear sir, I will be plain with you; but bear in mind that I lay no claim to infallibility; I may err in judgment, but I see no reason to hope that your life on earth will be prolonged for more than three months at the farthest, and I much fear the end may come in less than half that time."

The doctor could not at first judge of the full effect of his words, for
Mr. Leland sat with his face half hidden in his hand.

For a moment a deathlike stillness reigned in the room; then Dr. Taylor said, low and feelingly, "You are a Christian, my dear sir, and for you dying will be but going home to a brighter and better world."

"Yes," was the reply, "and your tidings would have no terrors for me were it not—for those who must be left behind; but oh, the parting from helpless dear ones for whom my care and protection seems so necessary!—that is the bitterness of death!"

"'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive; and let thy widows trust in Me,'" quoted the physician in sympathizing tones.

"Yes, yes; thank God for that precious promise!" exclaimed Mr. Leland. "And you, doctor, for reminding me of it," he added, stretching out a hand to his kind comforter.

It was taken in a warm grasp and held for a moment while other of the many sweet and comforting promises of God's Word were recalled to the mind of the sufferer, to his great consolation.

"I would it were in my power," the doctor said at length, "to hold out to you any hope of restoration to health. I cannot do that, but will write you a prescription which will, I trust, by God's blessing, give relief to some of the most distressing symptoms."

"Even partial relief will be most welcome," sighed the patient. "Ah, if I can but find strength for promised work!"

"Better let it alone and take what rest and ease you can," was the parting advice of the physician.

"What a long, long visit the doctor is paying!" Evelyn had said to herself several times before her eyes were gladdened with the sight of his carriage rolling away down the drive.

"At last!" she cried, springing to her feet and hurrying back to the house.

She found her father lying on a sofa, his face very pale, his eyes closed.

She drew near on tiptoe, thinking he might have fallen asleep; but as she reached the side of his couch he opened his eyes, and taking her hand drew her down to his breast.

"My darling, my beloved child!" he whispered, putting his arm about her and holding her fast with tender caresses.

"What did the doctor say, papa?" she asked, nestling closer to him and laying her cheek to his. "Does he hope to make you well very soon?"

For a moment there was no reply, and Evelyn, startled at her father's silence, suddenly raised her head and gazed earnestly, inquiringly into his face.

He smiled, a little sadly, and gently smoothing her hair back from her forehead, "I was thinking," he said, "of a text in the psalm we read together this morning—'My soul, wait thou only upon God, for my expectation is from him.' He and He only can make me well, daughter."

"Then why send for the doctor, papa?"

"Because God works by means; it pleases Him so to do, though it would be no more difficult to Him to accomplish His designs without. He has provided remedies, and I think it is His will that we should use them, at the same time asking His blessing upon them, feeling that without it they will be of no avail."

"Then you are to have some medicine, I suppose?"

"Yes; and to be out a good deal in the open air."

"Oh, then, won't you come out to the summer-house and lie in the hammock there, with me close beside you to wait on you?"

"Presently; but I must write a letter first," he said, putting her gently aside and resuming his seat at the writing-table.

"Can't it wait till to-morrow, papa?" she asked. "You may feel stronger by then."

"It is to be only a few lines, to your Uncle Lester; and I want it to go by this afternoon's mail, that, if possible, it may reach Fairview before they have arranged their plans for the summer. I want them to come here to spend the hot months. Should you like it?"

"Yes, indeed, papa! I've always been fond of Uncle Lester, as you know, and I quite fell in love with Aunt Elsie and the baby when he brought them to see us on their return from Europe."

CHAPTER II.

"How sudden do our prospects vary here!"

It was the breakfast-hour at Fairview. The young husband and wife chatted pleasantly over their coffee, omelet and rolls, strawberries and cream, the principal subject of discourse being the expected trip to Nantucket in company with her mother, grandparents, and the rest of the family at Ion.

Lester and his Elsie had been there the previous evening, helping to celebrate the first anniversary of the marriage of Edward and Zoe, and had readily fallen in with the plans for the summer outing proposed by Captain Raymond.

"You will go with us, of course, Elsie?" their mother had said, several of the others eagerly echoing her words, and they had answered that they knew of nothing to hinder, and should be delighted to do so.

So that question seemed fully settled, and now their talk was of needful preparations and arrangements for so long an absence from home; of the anticipated pleasures of the voyage and the proposed lengthened sojourn upon Nantucket Island, including the sketching of the most attractive features of its scenery.

Young, healthy, in easy circumstances, entirely congenial in opinions and tastes, they were a very happy couple.

Lester was meeting with marked success in his chosen profession—had received only yesterday a large price for one of his paintings; and as Elsie and he were essentially one in all their interests, her joy was fully equal to his, if not greater.

In consequence they were unusually gay this morning, and life seemed very bright and beautiful before them.

They lingered over their meal, and were just leaving the table when a servant came in with the morning's mail.

There were several newspapers and magazines; only one letter.

"From Eric, dear old boy! I was intending to write to him to-day," remarked Lester, as he examined the superscription.

"How nice, then, that his came just in time for you to answer it in yours," said Elsie. "I'll leave you to the enjoyment of it while I give my orders for the day," she added, turning from him toward the rear of the house, as they left the breakfast-room together.

"Yes, my dear, and when you have a spare moment to bestow upon your unworthy husband, you will find him on the veranda," he answered lightly, bending his steps in that direction.

Only a few minutes had passed when she sought him there; but what a change had come over him! All his gayety had forsaken him, his face was pale, and his eyes, as he turned them upon her, were full of anguish.

"Oh Lester, my dear, dear husband! what is it?" she cried, hastening to him and laying a hand tenderly upon his shoulder.

"Read," he said hoarsely, holding out the open letter to her,—Eric's letter, whose sad tidings seemed for the time to have driven away all the joy and brightness of life.

Glancing down the page, Elsie read:

"My dear brother, will you come to me? I have sore need of you. For a year past I have felt my strength failing; for the last few months matters have grown worse, till my days and nights are filled with pain and unrest; and today I have learned that the time has come for me to set my house in order, for I am to 'die, and not live.' Nay, not so: I am to pass from the land of the dying to that blest world where death can never enter.

"My physician tells me it may possibly be three months ere I reach 'that bourne whence no traveller returns,' but that in all probability I shall arrive there in less than half that time.

"And there is much I would say to you, my brother; much in which I need your kind help. You will be coming North for the hot season; I would gladly have you, your sweet wife and baby-boy spend it here with us; and to me it seems that there are few pleasanter places than this little home-nest of ours high up on the rocky banks of the grand old Hudson River. We have pure air and magnificent scenery, and it will be most comforting to me to have your loved companionship as I go down into the valley of the shadow of death.

"Thank God, it is only the shadow, and I shall go down into it leaning on the strong arm of my beloved. Jesus will be with me to the very end.

"But I may be asking too much of my sweet sister Elsie; you and she have, perchance, formed other plans more congenial to your tastes and wishes. If so, let me not interfere with them; consider my request withdrawn. Yet, shall I not have at least a sight of your loved faces ere I go hence to return no more?

"Lovingly, ERIC."

Elsie could scarce see the signature from the fast-falling tears.

"The dear brother!" she sobbed. "But, oh, Lester, be comforted! His troubles and trials are almost over, the battle nearly ended, the victory well-nigh won; and we know he will come off more than conqueror through Him that loved him!"

"Yes, I know, I know it; but he has been a dear brother to me, and, oh, how can I learn to live without him!" he answered, in tones quivering with emotion.

"'Twill only be for a time, love, and then you will be restored to each other, never to part any more forever," Elsie said softly, with her arm about her husband's neck, while her tears mingled with his, and her sweet lips were pressed again and again to his cheek.

He folded her in a close embrace.

"My dear, sweet, precious comforter," he said, "I can never be unhappy while God spares me my wife."

"Nor I, while I have you, dearest," she responded, with an added caress.
"And we will go to poor Eric instead of with mamma and the rest to
Nantucket."

"My sweet one, I could not ask so great a sacrifice from you," he said.

"I can hardly feel it to be such when I think of your poor brother—our brother; for is he not mine also? We will go to him instead, and I know it will be with mamma's approval, grandpa's also. Ah, here they both come!" she exclaimed, in a tone of satisfaction, as the Ion family carriage was seen approaching through the avenue.

In another moment it had drawn up before the entrance, and Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter alighted. With the quick eye of affection the mother at once noted the sadness of her daughter's countenance, of Lester's also, and scarcely had she exchanged the morning greetings with them ere she inquired the cause.

Lester silently handed her Eric's open letter.

Tears trembled in the soft brown eyes as she read.

In compliance with a mute request from Lester, she passed it on to her father.

There was a moment of silence after Mr. Dinsmore had finished reading, then the elder Elsie said in low, sympathizing tones,

"My dears, you will go to him? Delightful as it would be to have you with us, I could not wish you to refuse such a request from one so near and dear."

"No, mamma dear, nor could we think of refusing," answered her daughter, quickly, glancing tenderly at her husband as she spoke, and receiving a grateful, loving look in return.

"Certainly not," said Mr. Dinsmore; "but I see no reason why you should not accompany us on our voyage, spend a few days at Nantucket, and then go on to New York. Do you, Lester?"

"No, sir; and if my little wife approves of that plan, we will adopt it,"

He turned inquiringly to her.

"I should like it very much," she said. "If you are quite sure it will not delay us too long," she added as an after-thought.

"No, scarcely at all, I think," returned Lester; "so we will consider that settled."

"Ah, I am glad that we shall not lose your company altogether," Mrs. Travilla said. "And do not despair for your brother, Lester, for many very sick people have recovered, even after being given up by the doctors. We know, too, that with God nothing is impossible, and that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer. We will unite our petitions in behalf of Eric, and if it shall be for God's glory and his good, he will be restored to health."

"Yes, mother; I have not a doubt of that," returned Mr. Leland, "nor of my dear brother's safety in any case. He is one who has lived the life of a Christian for years, and I am sure dying grace will be given him for dying time—whenever that shall come."

"And well may you be," said Mrs. Travilla, "for not one of all God's promises ever fails, and to each of His children He has said, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

"If you want to answer your letter by return of mail, Lester, do not let us hinder you," said Mr. Dinsmore. "We are going to the village presently, and will mail it for you, if you like."

"Thank you; then I shall write at once," Lester replied, as he rose and left them.

"This change of plan will involve some change in your intended preparations, will it not, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Travilla.

"Not very much, mamma, as we are not likely to take part in any gayeties. I shall not need to have any new dresses made; indeed, I think I have already a full supply of everything necessary or desirable, in the way of dress, for both baby and myself."

"Then you will be ready for the trip as soon as any of us?" her grandfather said inquiringly.

"Yes, sir; I could pack to-day and start this evening if desired to do so," she answered with a smile.

"We will not put you to the test," he said, "but we hope to sail next
Tuesday."

CHAPTER III.

"We all do fade as a leaf." (Is. lxiv. 6.)

A fortnight had passed since the day of the reader's introduction to the dwellers in Crag Cottage; the June roses were blooming about it in even richer profusion than before; tree, and shrub and vine were laden with denser foliage; the place looked a very bower of beauty to the eyes of Lester and his Elsie as the hack which had brought them from the nearest steamboat-landing slowly wound its way up the hill on which the cottage stood.

On the vine-covered porch Eric lay in a hammock, his little daughter, as usual, by his side.

Though losing flesh and strength day by day, he still persevered with his work; had spent some hours over it this morning, but was resting now, his cheek fanned by the pure, sweet air from the mountain and river, his eyes now feasting upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and anon turning with fond, fatherly affection upon the face of the child he loved so well.

She was proving herself an excellent nurse for one of her age; never weary of waiting upon her loved patient, always striving to anticipate his every want, and doing her best to entertain him and make him forget his pain.

She was talking of their expected guests.

"I am so glad they are coming, papa," she said, "for I hope it will cheer you and do you much good to see your brother."

"And sister," he added with a faint smile; "your Aunt Elsie is a very lovely and interesting woman."

"Yes, but I hope they will let me have my father to myself sometimes," she said, laying her cheek lovingly against the hand that was clasping hers. "I'm hardly willing to share you even with Uncle Lester."

"No, not all the time," he responded; "we must have an hour alone together now and then. I should not like to be deprived of it any more than you."

She had lifted her head, and was gazing toward the river. "Papa, I think they are here!" she exclaimed. "There is a carriage coming up the drive."

"Ah, I hope so," he said, his pale cheek flushing with pleasure; and excitement lending him momentary strength, he hastily stepped from the hammock, and with Evelyn went forward to greet and welcome the travellers as they alighted, the hack having now drawn up before the entrance.

Both Lester and Elsie were much moved at sight of their brother—so sadly changed from the vigorous man from whom they parted less than a year before.

Elsie had much ado to hide her emotion, and even Lester's voice was husky and tremulous as he returned Eric's greeting and made inquiries regarding his health.

"It is much the same as when I wrote you," Eric answered, holding fast to his brother's hand, and gazing with a look of strong affection into his face. "And you are quite well?"

"Quite, thank you; but about yourself, Eric? Would it not be well to have other advice?"

"I believe there is none better than I have had, brother," Eric said. Then turning to caress the little one in its nurse's arms, "What a fine little fellow! a truly beautiful child, Sister Elsie. Ah, Lester I rejoice that you have a son to keep up the family name. May he live to be a great blessing to you both!"

"How sweet and pretty he is!" Evelyn said, caressing him in her turn.
"Aunt Elsie, shall I show you to your room?"

"If you please, dear." And they passed on into the house together, while Eric dropped exhausted into an easy-chair, and Lester took possession of another close at his side.

"You are very weak, Eric," he remarked, in a tone of mingled affection and concern; "and I fear suffer a great deal of pain."

"Yes, a good deal at times; but," he added with a joyous smile, "I shall soon be in that land where there shall be no more pain, and the inhabitants shall not say 'I am sick.'"

"Don't speak of it," said Lester hoarsely; "I must hope there are yet years of life in this world before you."

"What a very pleasant room; what a delightful prospect from that window looking toward the river!" Elsie exclaimed, as Evelyn led the way into the spacious, airy apartment set apart for the occupation of herself and husband during their stay.

"I think it is," Evelyn returned in a quiet tone; "that was the reason papa and I selected it for you. We have two other spare rooms, but this is the largest and has the loveliest views from its windows."

"Thank you, dear. Is your mamma well?"

"I suppose so; she was when we heard last, a day or two ago. She is at Newport, Aunt Elsie; she found herself so worn out, she said, with attending to the claims of society, that a trip to the seashore was quite a necessity. Do you put the claims of society before everything else, Aunt Elsie?"

"Indeed no," returned Elsie, with a happy laugh. "I'm afraid I put them last on my list: husband, baby, mother, grandpa, brothers and sisters, all come before society with me."

"So they shall with me when I'm a woman," said Evelyn with decision; "and papa shall always, always be first. I don't know how mamma can bear to be away from him so much; especially now when he is so weak and ailing. And I am quite mortified that she is not here to welcome you. She said she would be back in time, but now writes that she finds Newport so delightful, and the sea-breezes doing her so much good, that she can't tear herself away just yet."

"Well, dear, as she is your mother and my sister, we will try not to criticise or find fault with her," responded Elsie, in a gently soothing tone.

"No; I ought not," acknowledged Evelyn; "papa never does; at least not to me. Mamma said she thought we could entertain you for a short time, and we mean to do our best."

"Yes, dear child; but we must not allow your father to exert himself to that end; we did not come to be entertained, but to try to be of use to him."

"It was very kind," said Evelyn, gratefully; "it must have been quite a sacrifice, for you to leave that beautiful Nantucket so soon after arriving there; I know about it, because we were there two summers ago, and I could hardly bear to come away."

"It is very pleasant there, but so it is here also," responded Elsie.

Evelyn looked much pleased. "I am glad you like it, Aunt Elsie," she said. "I think it the dearest spot on earth; but then it has always been my home."

"You are justly partial to it, Evelyn," Elsie said, "for it is a sweet spot."

"Thank you. Our dinner will be ready in about an hour from now; but don't take the trouble to dress, there will be no one but ourselves," Evelyn said, retiring.

Elsie was not sorry to learn that her sister-in-law was absent from home; for though neither really disliked the other, they were not congenial; their opinions, their tastes, their views of life, its pleasures and its duties, were so widely different that they could have but little in common.

A proud, self-important woman would have taken offence at the lack of hospitality and consideration shown her in the failure of the mistress of the house to be present with a welcome on her arrival, but such was not Elsie's character. She had but a humble opinion of her own importance and her own deserts, so very readily excused and overlooked the neglect.

But his wife's conduct was very mortifying to Eric, as he showed in his apology for her, on Elsie's rejoining him and Lester on the porch.

Elsie accepted his excuses very sweetly, assuring him that she expected to find much enjoyment in his society, her husband's, and Evelyn's, and would have been very sorry had Laura returned home for her sake before her visit to Newport was completed.

Evelyn, too, felt much chagrin on account of the lack of courtesy and hospitality in her mother's behavior toward these relatives, esteemed by herself and her father as worthy of all honor. She made no remark about it to either of them, but tried very earnestly to fill her mother's place as hostess during her absence.

She was a very womanly little girl, with a quaint, old-fashioned manner which Elsie thought quite charming. It was touching to see the devoted affection with which she hovered over and waited upon her sick father. She was seldom absent from his side for more than a few minutes at a time, except when he sent her out for air and exercise.

Elsie usually accompanied her on her walks and drives, while Lester remained with his brother.

Eric seized these opportunities to open his heart to Lester in regard to the future of his only and beloved child, his one great anxiety in the prospect of death.

"I cannot leave her to her mother's care," he said, with a sigh and a look of anguish. "It is a sad, a humiliating thing to say in regard to one's wife, but I have been sorely disappointed in my choice of a partner for life.

"We married for love, and she is very dear to me still, but our tastes and views are widely dissimilar. She has no relish for the quiet pleasures of home, finds the duties of a wife and mother extremely irksome, and is not content unless living in a constant whirl of excitement, a never-ending round of pleasure-parties, balls, concerts, and other fashionable amusements.

"I cannot join her in it; and so, for years past, we have gone our separate ways.

"Evelyn, her mother having no time to bestow upon her, has been left almost entirely to me, and I have earnestly striven to train her up to a noble Christian womanhood; to cultivate her mind and heart, and give her a taste for far higher pleasures than those to be found in the giddy whirl of fashionable follies.

"I think I have already succeeded to some extent; but she is so young that, of course, much of the work yet remains to be done; and Laura is not the person to carry it on; also, I think, would not covet the task.

"Lester, if you will undertake her guardianship and receive her into your family, to be brought up under the influence of your lovely wife and mother-in-law, I shall die happy. Would it be asking too much, my dear brother?"

"You could not ask too much of me, Eric," Lester said with emotion; "and if my Elsie is willing, it shall be as you wish."

Eric expressed his thanks, and his hope that Elsie would not object.

"My darling will not be a troublesome charge," he said; "she has her faults, of course, but they are not of a kind to make her a disagreeable inmate of your family; and her admiration for her Aunt Elsie is so great that, doubtless, she will yield readily to her wishes and study to be like her in her loveliness of character and manners."

"Yes; Evelyn is a child any father might be proud of," assented Lester. "Surely her mother cannot help being fond of her, and you would not separate them, Eric?"

Eric looked much disturbed. For a moment he seemed lost in thought; then said, "I cannot tell just what Laura will do; she certainly must have some affection for our child, but not enough, I fear, to make her willing to resign any pleasure for her sake. I think she will not care for a settled home when I am gone, but will spend her time in flitting about from one fashionable resort to another; and in that case Evelyn would be only a burden and care to her: one she will probably be glad to get rid of. I see plainly that it could be for neither your happiness nor Laura's to attempt to live together; but perhaps you would be willing to receive her as a guest occasionally, and for a short time?"

"Certainly," Lester said; "and to assist her pecuniarily, if necessary."

"Thank you for the generous offer," returned Eric, gratefully; "but there will be no need to trespass upon your kindness in that way. Laura has some money of her own, and her proportion of mine will make her very comfortable; while the remainder will be sufficient to clothe and educate Evelyn, and give her a moderate income afterward for the rest of her life, if it is not lost in any way; and that she will not be robbed of it in her minority I feel certain, having been so fortunate as to secure you for my executor," he added, with an affectionate glance and smile.

"I shall certainly do the best I can to take care of it for her," Lester said, his voice a little unsteady with the thought that these were his brother's dying wishes to which he was listening; "but I am not a business man, and—"

"I am quite willing to trust to your good sense, honesty, and love for your niece," interrupted Eric, hearing the approaching footsteps of Elsie and his daughter.

Evelyn's wish that she might sometimes have her father to herself was gratified. Lester and Elsie were thoroughly considerate, and almost every day went out together for an hour or more, leaving the little girl to perform the duties of nurse.

Then there was an interchange of confidences and endearments such as was not indulged in the presence of any third person, and Eric improved the occasion to give his darling much tender and wise fatherly counsel which he thought might be of use to her in the coming years when he would no longer be at her side.

He did not tell her of the trial that was drawing so near—the parting that would rend her heart—but she more than half suspected it, as she saw him day by day grow weaker, paler, and thinner.

But the very idea was so terrible that she put it resolutely from her, and thought and talked hopefully of the time when he would be well again.

And he could not bear to crush the hope that made her so bright and happy; but he spoke often to her of the blessedness of those who sleep in Jesus, and made her read to him the passage of Scripture which tells of the glories and bliss of heaven—of the inheritance of the saints in light—the things which "eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither the heart of man conceived"—the things that God hath prepared for them that love him, for them "who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."

CHAPTER IV.

"Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break."

TENNYSON.

Laura lingered at Newport for several weeks after the arrival of Lester and Elsie at Crag Cottage; so that the brothers had abundance of time and opportunity for private talks and business arrangements, and Evelyn to practise the rôle of hostess.

When at last she did reach home, she was greatly shocked at the change in her husband; and she heaped reproaches upon poor Evelyn for not giving her more faithful reports of his condition.

"Mamma," said the little girl, "I did write you that he was getting weaker and weaker; that he was no longer able to walk, or even drive out, and had wakeful, restless nights. I thought you would certainly want to come to him when you heard that. But don't worry; Dr. Taylor has changed the medicine, and I hope he will soon be better now."

"No, he wont; he'll not live a month!" she exclaimed half angrily; then glancing at Evelyn's pale, terror-stricken face, "Pshaw, child! don't be frightened," she said; "I did not really mean it; I dare say we shall have him about again in a few weeks."

"Mamma, what do you really think?" asked the little girl, clasping her hands and gazing into her mother's face with a look of agonized entreaty. "I know you believe in deceiving people sometimes when you think it for their good, for I have heard you say so; but I want to know the truth, even if it breaks my heart."

"I'm not a doctor, Evelyn," returned her mother coldly; "I can judge only from appearances, which are as visible to you as to me. Besides, what is the use of my giving my opinion, since you choose to believe I am capable of intentionally deceiving you?"

With the last word she sailed from the room, leaving Evelyn alone in the parlor, where the conversation had taken place.

Evelyn sat like one stunned by a heavy blow. Could it be that her father was dying—the dear father who was all the world to her? Oh, what would life be worth without him? how could she go on living? How soon would the dread parting come? how many more days or hours might she spend in his dear companionship? Ah, those precious hours were fast slipping away; every moment spent away from his side was a great loss; she would go to him at once.

She started up, but dropped into her seat again; "mamma" was with him, and just now she would rather avoid her society.

Covering her face with her hands, she sat silently thinking,—going over again in imagination all that had passed between her father and herself during the last few weeks, recalling their conversations, especially every word he had addressed to her bearing upon her future; all his loving counsels; his exhortations to lean upon God in every time of trial and perplexity; to carry every sorrow, anxiety, and care to the Lord Jesus in unwavering confidence that there she would find never-failing sympathy, comfort, and help.

And now for the first time it struck her that thus he was trying to prepare her to do without him—the earthly parent who had been hitherto the confidant of all her childish griefs, perplexities, hopes, joys, and fears; and with the thought the conviction deepened that he was indeed passing away to that bourne whence no traveler returns.

Tears were stealing between the slender fingers, low, deep sobs shaking her slight frame, when a hand was gently laid upon her shoulder, and a sweet-toned voice asked in tender accents, "What is it, Evelyn, dear?"

"O Aunt Elsie," cried the little girl, lifting a tear-stained face, "you will tell me the truth! Is my dear papa—No, no, I can't say it! but oh, do you think we may hope he will soon be well again?"

"Dear child," Elsie said, in quivering tones, as she seated herself and, putting an arm about the little girl's waist, drew her close with a tender caress, "he is very ill, but 'while there is life there is hope,' for with God all things are possible."

"Oh I know—I understand what that means!" cried Evelyn in anguished accents, "he is dying!—my dear, dear father!"

"My poor child, my poor, dear child!" Elsie said, her tears falling fast, "I can feel for you, for it is not very long since I stood by the deathbed of a dear father. Flesh and heart fail in such a trial; but look to Jesus for help and strength to endure, and he will sustain and comfort you, as he did me."

"I can never, never bear it!" sobbed Evelyn, hiding her face on Elsie's shoulder. "And papa—oh, how dreadful for him to have to go away all alone! I wish I could go with him."

"That can not be, dear; but he will not go alone. 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.' Jesus will be with him and he will need no one else."

"Yes; I know, and I am glad for him; but oh, who will be with me when he is gone? Mamma is seldom at home, and cares nothing for having me with her."

"God will raise up friends and companions for you, dear, and if you seek the Lord Jesus, he will be to you a Friend indeed; One who sticketh closer than a brother or father, or any earthly creature; a Friend who will never die, never leave or forsake you."

For some moments there was silence in the room, broken only by Evelyn's low sobs; but at length she spoke in trembling, tearful tones, "Will the angels come and carry him to heaven, Aunt Elsie, as they did the poor beggar, Lazarus, the Bible tells about?"

"Yes, dear, I believe they will," Elsie answered, tenderly smoothing the child's hair. "And I think they will be full of joy for him, because he will be done with all the pains, the troubles and trials of earth, and going to be forever with the Lord. I believe they will carry him home, with songs of gladness; and oh what a welcome he will receive when he enters the gates of the Celestial City! for the Bible tells us 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints;' and that 'He shall see of the travail of His soul and be satisfied.' It tells us that His love for his people exceeds in depth and tenderness that of a mother for her child. Then how must he rejoice over each one of his ransomed ones as he takes them in his arms and bids them welcome to the blissful mansions he has prepared for them."

"Yes; I shall be glad for papa; but O Aunt Elsie, what can I do without him?"

"God will help and comfort you, dear child; he will be your father," Elsie said with emotion. "'A Father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows, is God in his holy habitation.'"

"It is a very sweet promise," said Evelyn. "Aunt Elsie, I wish I knew that was a true, a real occurrence—that story of Dives and Lazarus; for then I should be quite sure that angels do come to carry home Christians when they die, and that they would come for papa; but some people say it is only a parable."

"But the Bible does not say so," returned Elsie. "Jesus narrates it as a real occurrence, and I believe it was. Nothing has ever happened in any world that he has not seen and known, therefore he was perfectly competent to tell about the life and death of any man, and also of his experiences after death. So I think, dear child, you may take all the comfort you can find in believing it a narrative of actual occurrence.

"Ah, now I remember something that may perhaps give you comfort as additional proof that angels do carry home the souls of God's children. I heard an old minister—a man whose word I should credit as entirely as the evidence of my own senses—tell it to my mother.

"He said that when he was a boy, at home on his father's farm, he and his brother were one evening out in a meadow attending to their horses. Some short distance from them was the dwelling of an old elder, a remarkably devoted Christian man, who always had family worship morning and evening, and always, on those occasions, sang a hymn to either Mear or Old Hundred.

"On this particular evening the lads, while busy there in the meadow, were surprised by hearing sounds as of a number of voices singing one of the elder's two tunes—I have forgotten now which it was—but the sounds came nearer and nearer, from the direction of the elder's house—and, to the great wonder and astonishment of the lads, passed above their heads.

"They heard the voices in the air, but saw nothing of the singers. Afterward they learned that the good old man had died just at that time."[A]

[Footnote A: Given the author as a fact, by a Christian lady who had it from the good minister's own lips.]

"How strange," said Evelyn, in an awestruck tone. "O Aunt Elsie, if I could hear their song of joy over papa, I should not grieve quite so much." The door opened and Laura looked in.

"Evelyn," she said, in a piqued tone, "your father wants you. It actually seems that you, a mere child, are more necessary to him than his own wife. He would see you alone for a few minutes."

Silently, for her heart was too full for speech, Evelyn withdrew herself from Elsie's arms and hastened to obey the summons.

CHAPTER V.

"Gone before
To that unknown and silent shore."

CHARLES LAMB.

Mr. Leland, lying pale and languid on his couch, was listening intently for the approaching footsteps of his child.

As she stole softly in, fearful of disturbing him, he lifted his head slightly and greeted her with a tender, pitying smile and a feebly outstretched hand.

"My darling," he whispered, drawing her to him, "my poor darling; so they have told you? I have tried to spare you the bitter truth as long as I could; bitter to you, love, and to me for your sake; yet the will of God be done; He knows and will do what is best for us both."

Evelyn was making a determined effort at self-control for his dear sake, that she might not disturb him with the knowledge that her very heart was breaking.

"Papa," she said, with a vain endeavor to steady her tones, "dear, dearest papa, you will surely get well; for I will pray day and night to God to cure you; and have you not taught me that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer, that He loves us, and that He is able to do everything?"

"Yes, dear daughter; and it is all true, but His thoughts are not as our thoughts; He may see best to take me now to the heavenly home toward which you too, I hope, are traveling; best for you as well as for me."

"O papa, how can it be best for me, when you are such a help to me in going that road; the only help I have?"

"He is able to raise up other and better helpers for you, dearest, and He
Himself will be the best of all. Perhaps it is to draw you nearer to
Himself that He is taking away the earthly father upon whom you have been
accustomed to lean."

Mr. Leland's voice faltered with the last words; the exertion of talking so much had exhausted his feeble frame, and closing his eyes, he lay lifting up silent petitions for his child.

Evelyn thought he slept, and lest she should disturb him, forcibly repressed her inclination to relieve her over-burdened heart by sobs and sighs.

She remained close at his side, gently fanning him, for the day was oppressively hot.

But presently he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her face with a long look of tenderest love and sympathy—a look that impressed itself indelibly upon her memory and was often, in after years, dwelt upon with feelings of strangely mingled joy and grief.

"My darling," he murmured at length, so low that her quick ear scarce caught the words, "my precious child, I leave you to the care of Him who is a Father of the fatherless. I have been pleading with Him for you; pleading His promise to those who trust in Him—'I will be a God to thee and to thy seed after thee.' It is an everlasting covenant, and shall never fail. Seek Him, my darling, seek Him with all your heart, and He will be your God forever and ever: your Guide even unto death."

"I will, papa, I will," she whispered, pressing her quivering lips to his cheek.

The end did not come that day; for another week the loved sufferer lingered in pain and weakness, borne with Christian fortitude and resignation.

For the most part his mind was clear and calm, the joy of the Lord his strength and stay; yet were there moments when doubts and fears assailed him.

"What is it, dear brother?" Elsie asked one day, seeing a troubled look upon his face.

"'How many are mine iniquities and sins,'" he answered; "'mine iniquities are gone over mine head; as a heavy burden they are too heavy for me.'"

"But 'He was wounded for our trangressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed,'" quoted Elsie.

"Oh, bless the Lord 'who forgiveth all thine iniquities.'"

"Yes," he said, "but I am so vile, so sinful—it seems utterly impossible that I ever can be pure in His sight who is 'of purer eyes than to behold evil, and cannot look on iniquity.'"

"'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" quoted
Elsie in low tones of deepest sympathy.

"'Thou shalt call his name Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins.'

"'This Man, because he continueth ever, hath an unchangeable priesthood.
Wherefore he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto
God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.'

"'Who gave himself for us, that he might redeem us from all iniquity.'

"'Let Israel hope in the Lord; for with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption. And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.'"

"Blessed words!" he ejaculated, the cloud lifting from his brow, "blessed, blessed words! I will doubt and fear no more; I will trust His power to save; His imputed righteousness is mine, and covered with that spotless robe I need not fear to enter the presence of the King of kings."

Some hours later the messenger came, and whispering, "All is peace, peace, unclouded peace," the dying saint fell asleep in Jesus.

Gently, tenderly Lester closed the sightless eyes, saying in moved tones, "Farewell, brother beloved! Thank God the battle's fought, the victory won!"

And now Evelyn, who had been for hours close at her father's side, waiting upon him, smoothing his pillow, moistening his lips, gazing with yearning tenderness into his eyes, drinking in his every word and look while displaying a power of self-control wonderful to see in a child of her years, burst into a passion of tears and sobs, pressing her lips again and again to the brow, the cheek, the lips of the dead—those pale lips that for the first time failed to respond to her loving caresses.

But with a wild shriek the new-made widow went into strong hysterics; and, resuming her self-control, the little girl left the dead to wait upon and console the living parent.

"Mamma, dearest mamma," she said, in quivering tones, putting her arms about her mother, "think how blest he is; the angels are even now carrying him home with songs of gladness to be forever with the Lord; and he will never be sick or in pain any more."

"But what is to become of me?" sobbed her mother. "I cannot do without him, if you can. You couldn't have loved him half so well as I did or you would never take his loss so quietly."

"O Mamma!" cried the child, her tone speaking deeply wounded feeling, "if you could know how I loved him!—my dear, dear father! Oh, why am I left behind? why could I not go with him?"

"And leave your mother all alone!" was the reproachful rejoinder. "But you always loved him best; never cared particularly for me; and never will I suppose," she added, going into a stronger paroxysm than before.

"O mamma, don't!" cried Evelyn, in sore distress. "I love you dearly too; and you are all I have left." She threw an arm about her mother's neck as she spoke, but was thrust impatiently aside.

"You are suffocating me; can't you see it? Help me to bed in the next room, and call Hannah. She perhaps will have sense enough to apply restoratives."

But both Lester and Elsie had come to her aid, and the former, taking her in his arms, carried her to the bed, while Evelyn hastened to call the nurse who had for the past week or two assisted in the care of him who now no longer needed anything but the last sad offices.

Laura's grief continued to be very violent in its manifestations, yet did not hinder her from taking an absorbing interest in the preparation of her own and Evelyn's mourning garments. She was careful that they should be of the deepest black, the finest quality, the most fashionable cut; to all of which the bereaved child—a silent undemonstrative mourner—was supremely indifferent. Her mother noted it with surprise, for Evelyn was a child of decided opinions and wont to be fastidious about her attire.

"Flounces on this skirt, I suppose, Miss? how many?" asked the dressmaker.

"Just as mamma pleases; I do not care in the least," returned Evelyn.

"Why Eva, what has come over you?" queried her mother. "It is something new for you to be so indifferent in regard to your dress."

"You are the only one I care to please now, mamma," replied the little girl in tremulous tones. "I think there is no one else likely to be interested in the matter."

Laura was touched. "You are a good child," she said; "and I think you may well trust everything to my taste; it is considered excellent by my friends and acquaintance."

With thoughtfulness beyond her years Evelyn presently drew her mother aside, out of earshot of the dressmaker, and whispered, "Mamma dear, don't put too much expense on me; you know there is no one to earn money for us now."

"No, but he cannot have left us poor," rejoined the mother; "for I know his business has paid very well indeed for years past. And of course his wife and child inherit all he has left."

"I do not know! I do not care!" cried Evelyn, hot tears streaming from her eyes. "What is money without papa to help us enjoy it?"

"Something that it is very convenient, indeed absolutely necessary, to have in this practical world, as you will know when you are older and wiser," returned her mother, with some severity of tone; for Evelyn's words had seemed to her like a reproach, and an insinuation that Eric's daughter was a deeper and more sincere mourner for him than his widow.

Such was the fact, but she was by no means ready to admit it. And she had loved him, perhaps, as well as she was capable of loving any one but herself. Since her return home she had been too much occupied with his critical condition, and then his death, to give a thought to the state of his affairs or the disposition to be made of his property.

True, she had little cause for anxiety in regard to these things, knowing that he had no financial entanglements, and having heard him say on more than one occasion, that whatever he might possess at the time of his death would be left to his wife and child; yet had she been an unloving wife, queries, hopes and fears in regard to the amount he was leaving her would have found some place in her thoughts.

And now that Evelyn had in a manner opened the subject, they did so; she was no longer absorbed in her grief; it was present with her still, but her thoughts were divided between it on the one hand and her mourning and future prospects on the other.

It now occurred to her that Evelyn, being under age and heir to some property, must have a guardian.

"That should be left to me," she said to herself. "I am quite capable—her natural guardian too; and I trust he has not associated any one else with me. It would be too provoking, for he would be forever interfering in my plans and wishes for the child."

She waited till the day after that on which the body was laid away in its last resting-place, then finding herself alone with her brother-in-law, said to him, "I want a little talk with you, Lester, for it is time for me to be arranging my plans. As you were with your brother for some weeks before his death, I presume you can tell me all about his affairs. Did he make a will?"

"He did; leaving his entire estate to his wife and child," replied
Lester, in a grave but kindly tone.

"One third to me and two to her, I suppose?"

"Yes; but I think he said you would be the richer of the two, having some property of your own."

"That is quite correct. I am appointed executrix, and guardian to Evelyn of course?"

"No," Lester replied, with some hesitation, for he saw that she would be ill-pleased with the arrangements Eric had made; "at the earnest solicitation of my brother, I consented to become his executor and the guardian of his child."

Laura did not speak for a moment, but her eyes flashed and her cheek paled with anger. "Ah, I might have known it," she hissed at length; "had I not been the most innocent and unsuspicious of women I should have known better than to leave him for weeks to the wiles of designing relatives; when, too, his mind was weakened by disease."

"His mind was perfectly clear and strong from first to last, Laura," returned Lester mildly, "and you greatly mistake in supposing I had anything to gain by agreeing to his wishes or that I was at all covetous of either office."

"Pardon me," she sneered, "but if you do not receive a percentage for your trouble, you will be the first executor I ever heard of who did not."

"I shall not accept a cent," he retorted, with some slight indignation in his tones.

"We shall see; men can change their minds as well as women. But surely I am associated with you in the guardianship of Evelyn?"

"According to her father's will I am sole guardian," said Lester.

"It is too much; I am the child's natural guardian, and shall contest my rights if necessary," returned Laura, defiantly; and with the last word she rose and left the room.

Elsie, entering the parlor a moment later, found her husband pacing to and fro with a very disturbed and anxious air.

"What is the matter?" she asked, and he answered with an account of his interview with Laura.

"How strange!" she exclaimed. "Her love for her husband cannot have been very deep and strong, if she is so ready to oppose the carrying out of his dying wishes. But do not let it trouble you, Lester; she is venting her anger in idle threats, and will never proceed to the length of contesting the will in a court of law."

"I trust not," he said sighing. "Ah me! if my poor brother had but made a wiser choice."

In the library, whither Mrs. Laura Leland bent her steps on her sudden exit from the parlor, Evelyn was sitting in her father's vacant chair, her elbow resting on the table, her cheek in her hand, her eyes on the carpet at her feet, while her sad thoughts travelled back over many an hour spent there in the loved companionship of the dear departed.

She looked up inquiringly on her mother's abrupt entrance, and noted with surprise the flush on her cheek and the angry light in her eyes.

"Ah, here you are!" said Laura. "Pray, were you let into the secret of the arrangements made in my absence?"

"What arrangements, mamma?" asked the little girl wonderingly.

"In regard to your guardianship, and the care of the property left by your father."

"No, mamma, I never knew or thought anything about those things. Must I have a guardian? Why should I be under the control of anyone but you?"

"Yes, why indeed? I would not have believed it of your father! but he has actually left you to the sole guardianship of your Uncle Lester. You may well look astonished," she added, noting the expression of Evelyn's face. "I feel that I am robbed of my natural right in my child."

"You need not, mamma; I shall obey you just the same of course, for nothing can release me from the obligation to keep the fifth commandment. So do not, I beg of you, blame papa."

With what a quiver of pain the young voice pronounced that loved name!

"No; I blame your uncle; for no doubt he used undue influence with Eric while his mind was enfeebled by illness. And I blame myself also for leaving my husband to that influence; but I little thought he was so ill—so near his end; nor did I suspect his brother of being so designing a man."

"Mamma, you quite mistake in regard to both," exclaimed Evelyn, in a pained, indignant tone; "Uncle Lester is not a designing person, and papa's mind was not in the least enfeebled by his illness."

"No, of course not; it can not be doubted that a child of your age is far more capable of judging than a woman of mine," was the sarcastic rejoinder.

"Mamma, please do not speak so unkindly to me," entreated the little girl, unbidden tears springing to her eyes; "you know you are all I have now."

"No, you have your dear Uncle Lester and Aunt Elsie, and I foresee that they will soon steal your heart entirely away from your mother."

"Mamma, how can you speak such cruel words to me?" cried Evelyn. "I would not hurt you so for all the world."

CHAPTER VI.

"Farewell; God knows when we shall meet again."
SHAKSPEARE.

Laura said no more about breaking the will, but her manner toward Lester and Elsie was so cold and repellant that they were not sorry that she shut herself up in her own room during the greater part of each day while they and she remained at Crag Cottage.

Had they consulted only their own inclination, they would have taken their own departure immediately after seeing Eric laid in his grave; but Lester's duties as executor and guardian made it necessary for them to stay on for some weeks.

The cottage was a part of Evelyn's portion of the estate, but Laura was given the right to make it her home so long as she remained Eric's widow.

Laura knew this, having read the will, but as that instrument made no mention of Eric's desire that his daughter should reside with her guardian, she was not aware of that fact; and feeling well nigh certain that it would rouse her anger and opposition, Lester dreaded making the disclosure.

But while perplexing himself with the question how best to approach her on the subject, he found among his brother's papers, a sealed letter addressed to her.

Calling Evelyn, he put it into her hand, bidding her carry it to her mother.

Half an hour later the little girl was again at his side, asking in tearful tones, "Uncle Lester, must mamma and I be separated?"

He was in the library, seated before a table, and seemed very busy over a pile of papers laid thereon; but pushing back his chair, he threw his arm round her waist and drew her to his knee.

"No, my dear child, not necessarily," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek; "your mother will be made welcome at Fairview if she sees fit to go with us."

"But she wants to stay here and keep me with her; and it's my home, you know, the dear home where everything reminds me of—papa, Will you let me stay?"

"Do you really wish it, Evelyn? do you not desire to carry out the dying wishes of the father you loved so dearly?"

"Yes, uncle," she said, the tears stealing down her cheeks, "but—perhaps he wouldn't care now, and mamma is so sorely distressed at the thought of separation; and—and it hurts me too; for she is my mother, and I have no father now—or brother, or sister."

"You must let me be a father to you, my poor, dear child," he said in moved tones, and drawing her closer; "I will do my utmost to fill his place to you, and I hope you will come to me always with your troubles and perplexities, feeling the same assurance of finding sympathy and help that you did in carrying them to him."

"Oh, thank you!" she responded. "I think you are a dear, kind uncle, and very much like papa; you remind me of him very often in your looks, and words and ways."

"I am glad to hear you say so," he answered. "I had a great admiration for that dear brother, and for his sake as well as her own, I am very fond of his little daughter. And now about this question. I shall not compel your obedience to your father's wishes—at least not for the present—but shall leave the decision to your own heart and conscience. Take a day or two to think over the matter, and then let me hear your decision.

"In the meantime, if you can persuade your mamma to go with us to
Fairview, that will make it all smooth and easy for you."

"Thank you, dear uncle," she said, as he released her and turned to his work again, "I will go now and try what I can do to induce mamma to accept your kind invitation. And please excuse me for interrupting you when you were so busy."

"I am never too busy to attend to you, Evelyn," he returned in a kindly tone; "come freely to me whenever you will."

Crossing the hall, Evelyn noticed the carriage of an intimate friend of her mother drawn up before the entrance.

"Mrs. Lang must be calling on mamma," she said to herself; and pausing near the half-open parlor door, she saw them sitting side by side on a sofa, conversing in earnest, through subdued tones.

The call proved a long one. Evelyn waited with what patience she might, vainly trying to interest herself in a book; her thoughts much too full of her own near future to admit of her doing so.

At last Mrs. Lang took her departure, and Evelyn, following her mother into her bedroom, gave a detailed account of her late interview with her uncle.

"Mamma dear, you will go with us, will you not?" she concluded persuasively.

"No, I shall not!" was the angry rejoinder. "Spend weeks and months in a dull country place, with no more enlivening society than that of your uncle and aunt? indeed, no! You will have to choose between them and me; if you love them better than you do your own mother, elect, by all means, to forsake me and go with them."

"Mamma," remonstrated poor Evelyn, tears of wounded feeling in her eyes, "it is not a question of loving you or them best, but of obeying my father's dying wish."

For a moment Mrs. Leland seemed to be silently musing; then she said, "I withdraw my request, Evelyn. I have decided upon new plans for myself, and should prefer to have you go with your uncle. You needn't look hurt, child; I'm sure it is what you have seemed to desire."

"Mamma," said the little girl, going up to her, standing by the side of her easy-chair, and gazing down beseechingly into her eyes, "why will you persist in speaking so doubtfully of my love for you? It hurts me, mamma; it almost breaks my heart; especially now that you are all I have left."

"Well there, you need not fret; of course I know you must have some natural affection for your mother," returned Laura carelessly.

"Here, sit down on this stool at my feet, and you shall hear about my change of plans.

"Mrs. Lang called to tell me they are going to Europe—will sail in a fortnight—and to ask me to accompany them; and I have accepted the invitation. You were included in it also, but I shall have less care if I leave you behind; and though I have always intended that you should have the trip some day, I think it much the wiser plan to defer it for a few years till you are old enough to appreciate and make the best use of all its advantages.

"Beside, your uncle being your guardian, his consent would have to be gained, and I have no mind to stoop to ask it."

"Mamma, I am satisfied to stay," said Evelyn; "I should be very loath to add to your cares, or lessen in any way your enjoyment."

It was with no slight feeling of relief that Lester and Elsie heard of this new determination on the part of their sister-in-law; for her behavior toward them thus far had been such as to make her presence in their home anything but desirable.

With an aching heart Evelyn watched and aided in the preparations for her mother's departure, which would take place some weeks earlier than her own and that of her uncle and aunt.

But naturally quiet and undemonstrative, she usually kept her feelings locked up within her own breast, and in consequence was sometimes accused by her mother of being cold-hearted and indifferent.

Yet, as the day of separation drew near, Laura grew more affectionate toward her child than she had ever been before.

That was joy to Evelyn, but made the parting more bitter when it came. Mother and child wept in each other's arms, and Evelyn whispered with a bursting sob, "O mamma, if you would only give it up and go with us!"

"Nonsense, child! it is quite too late for that now," returned Laura, giving her a last embrace and hurrying into the carriage which was to convey her to the depot; for she was to travel by rail to New York City, and there take the steamer for Europe.

Lester went with her to the city, to see her safe on board the vessel, leaving his wife and child behind. Elsie's tender heart was full of pity for Evelyn—robbed of both parents, and left lonely and forlorn.

"Dear child, be comforted," she said, embracing her tenderly, as the carriage disappeared from sight down the drive, "you have not departed from your best Friend. 'When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.'

"And be assured your uncle and I will do all in our power to make you happy. I am not old enough to be a mother to you, but let me be as an older sister.

"And I will share my dear mother with you," she added with a sweet, bright smile. "Everybody loves mamma, and she has a heart big enough to mother all the motherless children with whom she comes in contact."

"Thank you, dear Aunt Elsie," Evelyn responded, smiling through her tears, then hastily wiping them away; "I am sure I shall love your mamma and be very grateful if she will count me among her children while my own mamma is so far away. Sure too, that I shall be as happy with you and Uncle Lester as I could be anywhere without papa."

"I hope so, indeed," Elsie said; "and that you will find pleasant companions in the Ion young people. Both my sister Rose and Lulu Raymond must be near your age; you probably come in between them."

"And I suppose they are very nice girls?" remarked Evelyn, inquiringly."

"I think they are," said Elsie; "they have their faults like the rest of us, but many good qualities too."

Desirous to divert Evelyn's thoughts from her sorrows, Elsie went on to give a lively description of Ion, and a slight sketch of the character and appearance of each member of the family, doing full justice to every good trait and touching but lightly upon faults and failings. Evelyn proving an interested listener. Fairview and then Viamede came under a similar review, and Elsie told the story of her mother's birth and her infant years passed in that lovely spot. After that of her honeymoon and of the visits paid by the family in later days.

"What a very sweet lady your mamma must be, Aunt Elsie," Evelyn remarked in a pause in the narrative; "I am glad I shall see and know her."

"Yes, dear; you well may be," Elsie responded with a happy smile; "'none knew her but to love her,' none can live in her constant companionship without finding it one of the greatest blessings of their lives."

"I think you must resemble her, auntie," said Evelyn, with an affectionate, admiring look into Elsie's bright, sweet face."

"It is my desire to do so," she answered, flushing with pleasure. "My dear, precious mother! I could hardly bear to leave her, Eva, even for your uncle's sake."

"But I am very glad you did," quickly returned the little girl. "I am so glad to have you for my aunt."

"Thank you, dear," was the pleased rejoinder. "I have never regretted my choice, or felt ashamed of having gone all the way to Italy to join my sick and suffering betrothed and become his wife, that I might nurse him back to health."

"Oh, did you?" exclaimed Evelyn, looking full of interest and delight, "please tell me the whole story, won't you? I should so like to hear it."

Elsie willingly complied with the request, and it would be difficult to say which enjoyed the story most—she who told it, or she who listened.

"I think you were brave, and kind and good, Aunt Elsie," was Evelyn's comment when the tale was told.

"I had a strong motive—the saving of a life dearer to me than my own," Elsie responded, half absently, as if her thoughts were busy with the past.

Both were silent for a little, Evelyn gazing with mournful eyes upon the lovely grounds and beautiful scenery about her home.

"Aunt Elsie," she said at length, "do you know what is to be done with the house while mamma and I are away? If it should be left long unoccupied it will fall into decay, and the grounds become a wilderness of weeds."

"Your mother suggested having it rented just as it stands—ready furnished," replied Elsie; "but she feared—as do we also—that strangers might abuse the property; then, as I thought it over, it occurred to me that we might rent it ourselves for a summer residence; and when away from it, leave it in charge of Patrick and his wife, who have no children to do mischief, and who have lived so long in the family—so your mother told us—that their character for trustworthiness is well established."

"Yes, indeed it is!" said Evelyn; "and that seems to me the best plan that could possibly be devised except that—"

"Well dear, except what?" Elsie asked pleasantly, as the little girl paused without finishing her sentence.

"I fear it will be a great expense to you and Uncle," was the half-hesitating reply, "and that you will get but little good of it, being so far away nearly all the year."

"You are very thoughtful for one so young," said Elsie in surprise.

"It is because papa talked so much with me about his affairs, and the uses of money, the difficulty of earning and keeping it, and the best ways of economising. He said he wanted to teach me how to take care of myself, if ever I were left alone in the world."

"That was wise and kind," said Elsie; "and I think you must have paid good attention to his teachings. But about the expense we shall incur in making the proposed arrangement: there is a large family of us, and I do not doubt that we shall have help with both the use of the house and the paying of the rent."

"And your mamma is very rich I've heard." remarked Evelyn half inquiringly.

"Very rich and very generous," returned her aunt.

"Are we to leave soon? and to go directly to your home?" asked Evelyn.

"It will be probably several weeks before your uncle can get everything arranged, and then he wants to spend some time sketching the scenery about Lake George and among the Adirondacks," replied Elsie; "and we are to go with him. Shall you like it?"

"Oh, yes indeed!" Evelyn exclaimed, her face lighting up with pleasure, then with gathering tears and in low, tremulous tones, "Papa had promised to take me to both places some day," she said.

CHAPTER VII.

FAIRVIEW AND ION.

It had been a cloudy afternoon and the rain began to fall as, shortly after sunset, the Lelands left the cars for the Fairview family carriage.

"A dismal home-coming for you, my love," remarked Lester, as the coachman closed the door on them and mounted to his perch again.

"Oh, no!" returned Elsie brightly, "the rain is needed, and we are well sheltered from it. Yet I fear it maybe dismal to Evelyn; but, my dear child, try to keep up your spirits; it does not always rain in this part of the country."

"Oh, no! of course not, auntie," said the little girl, with a low laugh of amusement; "and I should not want to live here if it did not rain sometimes."

"I should think not, indeed," said her uncle. "Well, Eva, we will hope the warmth of your welcome will atone to you for the inclemency of the weather."

"Yes," said Elsie, "we want you to feel that it is a home-coming to you as well as to us."

"Thank you both very much," murmured Evelyn, her voice a little broken with the thought of her orphaned condition; "I shall try to deserve your great kindness."

"We have done nothing yet to call for so strong an expression of gratitude, Eva," remarked her uncle in a lively tone.

In kitchen and dining-room at Fairview great preparations were going forward; in the one a table was laid, with the finest satin damask, glittering silver, cut-glass and china; in the other sounds and scents told of a coming "feast of fat things."

"Clar to goodness! ef it ain't a pourin' down like de clouds was a wantin' for to drownd Miss Elsie an' de rest!" exclaimed a young mulatto girl, coming in from a back veranda, whence she had been taking an observation of the weather; "an' its that dark, Aunt Kitty, yo' couldn't see yo' hand afo' yo' face."

"Hope Uncle Cuff keep de road and don't upset de kerridge," returned Aunt Kitty, the cook, opening her oven-door to glance at a fine young fowl browning beautifully there, and sending forth a most savory smell.

"He'd larf at de wery idear of upsettin' dat vehicle, he would, kase he tinks dar ain't nobody else knows de road ekal to hisself; but den 'taint always de folks what makes de biggest boastin' dat kin do de best; am it now, Lizzie?"

"No, I reckon 'taint, Aunt Kitty; but doan you be a prognosticatin' ob evil and skearin' folks out deir wits fo' de fac's am 'stablished."

"An' ain't gwine fo' to be 'stablished," put in another voice; "'spose de family been trabling roun' de worl' to come back an' git harm right afo' deir own do'? 'Co'se not."

"Hark! dere dey is dis bressed minit', I hear de soun' o' de wheels and de hosses' feet," exclaimed Aunt Kitty, slamming to her oven-door, laying down the spoon with which she had been basting her fowl, and hastily exchanging her dark cotton apron for a white one.

She brought up the rear of the train of servants gathering in the hall to welcome their master and mistress.

A glad welcome it was; for both Lester and Elsie were greatly beloved by their dependents; and Evelyn, too, came in for a share of the hand-shakings, the "God bless yous," and was assured again and again that she was welcome to Fairview.

"Well, Aunt Kitty, I suppose you have one of your excellent suppers ready for us hungry travelers?" remarked Mr. Leland interrogatively, as he divested himself of his duster.

"I'se done de wery bes' I knows, sah," she answered, dropping a courtesy and smiling all over her face. "Eberyting am done to a turn, an' I hopes you, sah, and de ladies mos' ready to eat afo' de tings get spoiled."

"We won't keep your supper waiting many minutes, Aunt Kitty," said her mistress pleasantly.

"Myra take the baby to the nursery. Evelyn, my dear, we will go up stairs and I will show you your room."

Reaching the second floor, Elsie led the way into a spacious, luxuriously-furnished apartment.

"This is your room, Eva," she said.

"It is just across the hall from your uncle's and mine; so I hope you will not feel lonely or timid. But if anything should alarm you at any time, come to our door and call to us."

"Thank you, dear Aunt Elsie. Such a beautiful room as it is!" exclaimed
Evelyn. "How very kind you and Uncle Lester are to me!"

There was a little tremble of emotion in the child's voice as she spoke.

Elsie put her arms lovingly about her. "Dear child," she said, "how could we be otherwise? We want you to feel that this is truly your own home, and to be very happy in it."

"I could not be so happy with any one else as with you and uncle," returned the little girl, with a sigh to the memory of the father she had loved so well.

"And to-morrow you shall see what a sweet home this is," Elsie said, releasing her with a kiss.

"Now we must hasten to make ourselves ready for supper. A change of dress will not be necessary. There will be no company tonight, and your uncle would prefer seeing us in our traveling dresses to having his meal spoiled by waiting."

Evelyn went to sleep that night to the music of the dashing of the rain upon the windows, but woke next morning to find the sun shining brightly in a deep blue sky wherein soft, fleecy white clouds were floating.

She drew aside the window curtain to take a peep at the surroundings of her new home. Lawn, shrubbery, flower garden, while larger than those at Crag Cottage, were quite as well kept; neatness and order, beauty and fragrance made them so attractive that Evelyn was tempted to a stroll while waiting for the call to breakfast.

She stole softly down the stairs, thinking her aunt and uncle might be still sleeping, but found the latter on the veranda, pacing to and fro with meditative air.

"Ah, good morning, little maid!" he said in a kindly tone. "I hope you slept well and feel refreshed?"

"Yes, uncle, thank you," she returned. "Don't you enjoy being at home again after your long absence?"

"I do, indeed!" he answered; "there is no place like home, is there? This is your home, too, now, Eva."

"Yes, sir," a little sadly. "You and Aunt Elsie are home to me now, almost as papa used to be in the dear old days; and perhaps I shall learn to love Fairview as well as I do Crag Cottage. May I go into the garden, uncle?"

"Yes, I will take you with pleasure. Your shoes are thick I see," glancing down at them, "and that is well; for the walks may be a little damp."

He led her about, calling her attention to one and another rare plant or flower in garden and green-house, and gathering a bouquet of beautiful and fragrant blossoms for her, then one for his wife.

Elsie joined them on the veranda as they came in at the summons to breakfast, and Lester presented his flowers, claiming a kiss in return.

"Help yourself," she said laughingly; "and many thanks for your flowers.
And now shall we go in to breakfast? we are a little late this morning."

"Ah, our mail is already here, I see," Lester remarked, as they entered the breakfast-room. "I will open the bag while you pour the coffee, my dear, hoping to find a letter for each of us."

"I think there should be one for me," remarked Evelyn, watching her uncle with wistful, longing eyes as he took out the letters and glanced over the addresses; "for I have heard but once from mamma since she went away."

"Twice now," her uncle said with a pleased smile, as he handed her the longed-for missive.

"You, too, hear from your mother this morning, my dear; and from several other friends. Here, Jane," to the servant girl in waiting, "hand these to your mistress."

"And here is a cup of coffee to reward you; mamma's letter alone is worth it," responded Elsie gaily, lifting the letters from the silver waiter on which they lay, and setting there, in their stead, a delicate china cup from whose steaming contents a delicious aroma greeted the nostrils.

"I must just peep into mamma's to see when we may expect them home," she added, breaking open its envelope; "the rest will keep till after breakfast."

"When was Aunt Wealthy's birthday?" queried her husband.

"Yesterday," she answered with her eyes on the letter. "Ah! Ned and Zoe start this morning for home. The rest will stay a week or so longer, and our cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Keith, and their daughter, Annis, will soon follow with the expectation of spending the winter as mamma's guests."

"Will you excuse me, Aunt Elsie, if I open my letter now just for a peep?" asked Evelyn with a slight shy smile.

"No, my dear, certainly not; as I never do the like myself, but always wait patiently till the meal is over," returned the young aunt with playful irony.

"Then I'll have to ask uncle or do it without permission," said Evelyn, blushing and laughing.

"Hark to the answer coming from the chicken yard," said her uncle facetiously, as the loud crow of a cock broke in upon their talk.

"I fail to catch your meaning, uncle," said Evelyn, with another blush and smile.

"Listen!" he answered, "he will speak again presently, and tell me if he doesn't say, 'Mistress rules here.' Some one has so interpreted it, and, I think, correctly.

"Oh," exclaimed Evelyn, laughing; "then, of course, it is of no use to appeal from auntie's decisions."

"No, even I generally do as I am bid," he remarked gravely.

"And I almost always," said Elsie. "Eva, would you like to drive over to
Ion with me this morning?"

"Very much indeed, Aunt Elsie," was the prompt and pleased reply.

"Mamma wishes me to carry the news of the expected arrival of my brother and his wife, and to see that all is in order for their reception," Elsie went on.

"And am I to be entirely neglected in your invitation?" asked her husband, in a tone of deep pretended disappointment and chagrin.

"Your company will be most acceptable, Mr. Leland, if you will favor us with it," was the gay rejoinder. "Baby shall go, too; an airing will do him good; and beside, mammy will want to see him."

"Of course; for she looks upon him as a sort of great-grand child, does she not?" said Lester.

"Either that or great-great," returned Elsie lightly.

"Who is mammy?" asked Evelyn.

"Mamma's old nurse, who had the care of her from her birth—indeed, and of her mother also—and has nursed each one of us in turn. Of course, we are all devotedly attached to her and she to us. Aunt Chloe is what she is called by those who are not her nurslings."

"She must be very, very old, I should think," observed Evelyn.

"She is," said Elsie, and very infirm. No one knows her exact age, but she cannot be much, if any younger than Aunt Wealthy, who has just passed her hundredth birthday; and I believe her to be, in fact, somewhat older."

"How I should like to see her!" exclaimed Evelyn.

"I hope to give you that pleasure to-day," responded Elsie. "Until very recently she always accompanied mamma—no, I mistake; she staid behind once; it was when Lilly was taken North as a last hope of saving her dear life. Papa and mamma thought best to take me and the baby along, and to leave mammy behind in charge of the other children.

"This summer she was too feeble to leave Ion; so we shall find her there. In deep sorrow too, no doubt; for her old husband, Uncle Joe, died a few weeks since."

"Eva must hear their story one of these days," remarked Mr. Leland; "it is very interesting."

"Yes; and some of it very sad; that which occurred before mamma's visit to Viamede, after she had attained her majority. That visit was the dawn of brighter days to them. I will tell you the whole story, Eva, some time when we are sitting quietly together at our needlework, if you will remind me."

"For what hour will you have the carriage ordered, my dear?" Lester asked, as they left the table. "Ten, if you please," she answered. "I hope you will go with us?"

"I shall do so with pleasure," he said. "It is a lovely morning for a drive; the rain has laid the dust and the air is just cool enough to be bracing."

Evelyn was on the veranda, gazing about her with a thoughtful air.

"Well, lassie, what think you of Fairview?" asked her uncle, coming to her side.

"I like it," she answered emphatically. "Didn't something happen here, uncle, in the time of the Ku-Klux raids? I seem to have heard there did."

"Yes; a coffin, with a threatening notice attached, was laid at the gate yonder one night. My uncle owned, and lived on, the place at that time, and by reason of his northern birth and Republican sentiments, was obnoxious to the members of the klan."

"And it was he they were threatening?"

"Yes. They afterward attacked the place, wounded and drove him into the woods, but were held at bay and finally driven off by the gallant defence of her home made by my aunt, assisted by her son, then quite a young boy.

"But get Elsie to tell you the story; she can do it far better than I; especially as she was living at Ion at that time, and though a mere child, has still a vivid recollection of all the circumstances."

"Yes," Elsie said, "including the attacks upon Ion—first the quarter, when they burnt the schoolhouse, and afterward the mansion—and several sad scenes connected with them."

"How interesting to hear all about them from an eye-witness," exclaimed
Evelyn. "I am eager to have you begin, Aunt Elsie."

"Perhaps I may be able to do so this evening," returned her aunt; "but now I must give my orders for the day, and then it will be time for our drive."

"What does your mamma say?" asked Lester of Evelyn, when Elsie had left them alone together.

"Not very much that I care for, uncle," sighed the little girl. "She's in good health, but very tired of foreign cookery; wishes she could have such a breakfast every morning as she has been accustomed to at home. Still she enjoys the sights, and thinks it may be a year, or longer, before she gets back. She describes some of the places, and paintings and statuary she has seen; but that part of the letter I have not read yet."

"Do you wish you were with her, Eva?" he asked, smoothing her hair as she stood by his side, and gazing down affectionately into her eyes.

"No, uncle; I should like to see mamma, of course, but at present I like this quiet home far better than going about among crowds of strange people."

He looked pleased. "I am glad you are content," he said.

Elsie was full of life and gayety as they set out upon their drive. Her husband remarked it with pleasure.

"Yes," she said lightly, "it is so nice to be going back to my old, childhood's home after so long an absence; to see mammy, too—dear old mammy! And yet it will hardly seem like home either, without mamma."

"No," he responded; "and it is quite delightful to look forward to having her there again in a week or two."

They had turned in at the great gates leading into the avenue, and presently Elsie, glancing eagerly toward the house, exclaimed with delight, "Ah, there is mammy on the veranda! watching for our coming, no doubt. She knew we were expected at Fairview yesterday, and that I would not be long in finding my way to Ion."

Evelyn, looking out also, perceived a bent and shriveled form, seated in an arm-chair, leaning forward, its two dusky hands clasping a stout cane, and its chin resting on the top.

As the carriage drew up before the entrance, the figure rose slowly and stiffly, and with the aid of the cane hobbled across the veranda to meet them.

"Bress de Lawd!" it cried, in accents tremulous with age and excitement, "it's one ob my chillens, sho' nuff; it's Miss Elsie!"

"Yes, mammy, it is I; and very glad I am to see you," responded Mrs. Leland, hurrying up the veranda steps and throwing Her arms about the feeble, trembling form.

"Poor old mammy," she said, tenderly; "you are not so strong as you used to be."

"No, darlin', yo' ole mammy's mos' at de brink ob de riber; de cold watahs ob Jordan soon be creepin' up roun' her ole feet."

"But you are not afraid, mammy?" Elsie said, tears trembling in her sweet, soft eyes, so like her mother's.

"No, chile, no; for Ise got fas' hold ob de Master's hand, and He holds me tight; de waves can't go ober my head, kase He bought me wid his own precious blood and I b'longs to Him; and He always takes care ob his own chillens."

"Yes, Aunt Chloe," Lester said, taking one withered hand in his, as Elsie withdrew herself from her embrace, and turned aside to wipe away a tear, "His purchased ones are safe for time and for eternity.

"'The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'"

"Dat's so, sah; grace to lib by, an' grace to die by, den glory wid Him in heaben! Ole Uncle Joe done 'speriencin' dat now; an' byme-by dis chile be wid him dar."

"Who dis?" she asked, catching sight of Evelyn standing by her side and regarding her with tearful eyes.

"My niece, Evelyn Leland, Aunt Chloe," answered Lester. "She has heard of you, and wanted to see you."

"God bless you, honey," Chloe said, taking the little girl's hand in her's, and regarding her with a look of kindly interest.

But the other servants had come flocking to the veranda as the news of the arrival passed from lip to lip; and now they crowded about Lester and Elsie eager to shake their hands and bid them welcome home again, mingling with their rejoicings and congratulations many inquiries about their loved mistress—her mother—and the other absent members of the family.

And here, as at Fairview, Evelyn received her full share of pleased attention.

Elsie delivered her mother's messages and directions, and taking Evelyn with her, went through the house to see that all was in order for the reception of her brother and his wife, then sat down in the veranda for a chat with "mammy" before returning to Fairview.

"Mammy, dear," she said interrogatively, "you are not grieving very much for Uncle Joe?"

"No, chile, no; he's in dat bressed land whar dah no mo' misery in de back, in de head, in any part ob de body; an' no mo' sin, no mo' sorrow, no mo' dyin', no mo' tears fallin' down the cheeks, no mo' trouble any kin'."

"But don't you miss him very much, Aunt Chloe?" asked Evelyn softly, her voice tremulous with the thought of her own beloved dead, and how sorely she felt his absence.

"Yes, chile, sho I does, but 'twont be for long; Ise so ole and weak, dat
I knows Ise mos' dar, mos' dar!"

The black, wrinkled face uplifted to the sky, almost shone with glad expectancy, and the dim, sunken eyes grew bright for an instant with hope and joy.

Then turning them upon Evelyn, and, for the first time, taking note of her deep mourning, "Po' chile," she said, in tender, pitying tones, "yo's loss somebody dat yo' near kin?"

Evelyn nodded, her heart too full for speech, and Elsie said softly, "Her dear father has gone to be forever with the Lord, in the blessed, happy land you have been speaking of, mammy."

"Bressed, happy man!" ejaculated the aged saint, again lifting her face heavenward, "an' bressed happy chile dat has de great an' mighty God for her father; kase de good book say, He is de father of de fatherless."

A momentary hush fell upon the little group. Then Mr. Leland, who had been looking into the condition of field and garden, as his wife into that of the house, joined them and suggested that this would be a good time and place for the telling of the story Eva had been asking for; especially as, in Aunt Chloe, they had a second eye-witness.

Elsie explained to her what was wanted.

"Ah, chillens, dat was a terrible time," returned the old woman, sighing and shaking her head.

"Yes, mammy," assented Elsie; "you remember it well?"

"Deed I does, chile;" and rousing with the recollection into almost youthful excitement and energy, she plunged into the story, telling it in a graphic way that enchained her listeners, though to two of them it was not new, and one occasionally assisted her memory or supplied a missing link in the chain of circumstances.[A]

[Footnote A: For the details of this story, see "Elsie's Motherhood.">[

CHAPTER VIII.

"Next stood hypocrisy, with holy leer,
Soft smiling and demurely looking down,
But hid the dagger underneath the gown."

—DRYDEN.

While old mammy told her story to her three listeners in the veranda at Ion, a train was speeding southward, bearing Edward and Zoe on their homeward way.

Zoe, in charmingly becoming and elegant traveling attire, her fond young husband by her side, ready to anticipate every wish and gratify it if in his power, was extremely comfortable, and found great enjoyment, now in chatting gaily with him, now sitting silent by his side watching the flying panorama of forest and prairie, hill, valley, rock, river and plain.

At length her attention was attracted to something going on within the car.

"Tickets!" cried the conductor, passing down the aisle, "Tickets!"

Edward handed out his own and his wife's. They were duly punched and given back.

The conductor moved on, repeating his call, "Tickets?"

Up to this moment Zoe had scarcely noticed who occupied the seat immediately behind herself and Edward, but now turning her head, she saw there two young women of pleasing appearance, evidently foreigners. Both were looking anxiously up at the conductor who held their tickets in his hand.

"You are on the wrong road," he was saying; "these are through-tickets for Utah."

"What does he say? something is wrong?" asked the younger of the two girls, addressing her companion in Danish.

"I do not understand, Alma," replied the other, speaking in the same tongue. "Ah, did we but know English! I do not understand, sir; I do not know one word you say," she repeated with a hopeless shake of the head, addressing the conductor.

"Do you know what she says, sir?" asked the man, turning to Edward.

"From her looks and gestures it is evident that she does not understand English," replied Edward, "and I think that is what she says. Suppose you try her with German."

"Can't, sir; speak no language but my mother tongue. Perhaps you will do me the favor to act as interpreter?"

"With pleasure;" and addressing the young woman, Edward asked in German if she spoke that language.

She answered with an eager affirmative; and he went on to explain that the ticket she had offered the conductor would not pay her fare on that road; then asked where she wished to go.

"To Utah, sir," she said. "Is not this the road to take us there?"

"No, we are traveling south, and Utah lies toward the northwest; very far west."

"O sir, what shall we do?" she exclaimed in distress. "Will they stop the cars and let us out?"

"Not just here; the conductor says you can get off at the next station and wait there for a train going back to Cincinnati; it seems it must have been there you made the mistake and left your proper route, and there you can recover it."

She sat silent, looking sadly bewildered and distressed.

"I feel very sorry for you," said Zoe kindly, speaking in German; "we would be glad to help you, and if you like to tell us your story, my husband may be able to advise you what to do."

"I am sure you are kind and good, dear lady, both you and the gentleman, and I will gladly tell you all," was the reply, after a moment's hesitation; and in a few rapid sentences she explained that she and Alma, her younger sister, had been left orphaned and destitute in Norway, their native land, and after a hard struggle of several months had fallen in with a Mormon missionary, who gave them glowing accounts of Utah, telling them it was the paradise of the poor; that if they would go with him and become members of the Mormon Church, land would be given them, their poverty and hard toil would become a thing of the past, and they would live in blissful enjoyment among the Latter-day Saints, where rich and poor were treated alike—as neighbors and friends.

She said that at first they could scarce endure the thought of leaving their dear, native land; but so bright was the picture drawn by the Mormon, that at length they decided to go with him.

They gathered up their few possessions, bade a tearful farewell to old neighbors and friends, and set sail for America in company with between two and three hundred other Mormon converts.

Their expectation was to travel all the way to Salt Lake City in the company; but, as they neared the end of the voyage, Alma fell ill, and when they landed was so entirely unfit for travel that they were compelled to remain behind for several weeks, and at an expense that so rapidly diminished their small store of money that when, at last, they set out on their long journey across the country, they were almost literally penniless.

They had, however, the through-ticket to Utah—which the Mormon missionary had made them buy before leaving them, and knowing no choice, and believing all his wily misrepresentations, they rejoiced in its possession as the passport to an earthly paradise.

"But we have lost our way," concluded Christine, with a look of distress, "and how are we to find it? how make sure of not again straying from the right path? Kind sir, can you, will you, give us some advice? Could I in any way earn the money to pay for our travel on this road? I know how to work, and I am strong and willing."

Edward mused a moment, then said, "We will consider that question presently; but let us first have a little more talk.

"Ah, what can be the matter?" he exclaimed in English, starting up to glance from the window; for the train had come to a sudden standstill in a bit of woods where there seemed no occasion for stopping. "What is wrong?" he asked of a man hurrying by toward the engine.

"A wreck ahead, sir," was the reply.

Every man in the car had risen from his seat, and was hastening to alight and view the scene of the disaster.

"Oh, Ned, is there any danger?" asked Zoe.

"No, dear, I think not. You won't mind if I leave you for a moment to learn how long we are likely to be detained here?"

"No, I won't, if you promise to be careful not to get into danger," she said, with some hesitation; and he hurried after the others.

Alma and Christine, looking pale and anxious, asked Zoe what was the matter.

She explained that there had been an accident—collision of cars—and that the broken fragments were lying on the track, and would have to be cleared away before their train could go on.

Then Edward came back with the news that there would be a detention of an hour or more.

Zoe uttered a slight exclamation of impatience.

"Let us not grumble, little wife," he said, cheerily, "but be thankful that things are no worse. And, do you know, I trust it will prove to have been a good providence; inasmuch as it gives us an opportunity to make an effort to rescue these poor dupes from the Mormon net."

"Oh, yes," she said, her countenance brightening; "I do hope so! Let us tell them all about it, and try to persuade them not to go to Utah."

"I shall do my best," he said; then addressing Christine again—in German as before—you tell me what are the teachings of Mormonism, according to your missionary?"

"They believe the Bible," she answered; "they preach the gospel of Christ as the Bible teaches it; else how could I have listened to him? how consented to go with him? for I know the Bible is God's word, and that there can be no salvation out of Christ."

"Did he not tell you that they teach and practice polygamy?"

"No, sir; no indeed! It surely cannot be true?"

"I am sorry to say it is only too true," said Edward, "that the Mormon priesthood do both teach and practice it. One of them, Orson Pratt, in a sermon preached August 29, 1852, said: 'The Latter-day Saints have embraced the doctrine of a plurality of wives as a part of their religious faith. It is incorporated as a part of our religion, and necessary for our exaltation to the fullness of the Lord's glory in the eternal world.'"

Christine looked inexpressibly shocked. "Oh, sir, are you quite sure of it?" she cried. "Not a word of such a doctrine was spoken to us. Had it been we would never have set out for Utah."

"It is a well-established fact," replied Edward; "and it is well known also that they conceal this doctrine from those whom they wish to catch in their net; to them they exalt the Bible and Christ; but when the poor dupes reach their promised paradise, and are unable to escape, they find the Bible kicked into a corner, the book of Mormon substituted for it, and Joe Smith exalted above the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Christine.

Alma too looked greatly shocked.

"But women may remain single if they choose?" she said, inquiringly.

"No, indeed!" replied Edward; "Mormon theology teaches that those who are faithful Mormons, living up to their privileges, and having a plurality of wives will be kings in the celestial world, and their wives queens; while those who have but one wife—though they will reach heaven, if they are faithful to the priesthood and in paying tithes—will not have a place of honor there; and those who are not married at all will be slaves to the polygamists.

"For this reason, among others, they desire to have many wives, and will have them, willing or unwilling.

"They send their missionaries abroad to recruit the Mormon ranks and supply wives for those who want them.

"The missionaries procure photographs of the single women whom they have persuaded to embrace Mormonism, and these are sent on in advance of the parties of emigrants. The Mormon men who want wives are then invited to look at the photographs and select for themselves.

"They do so, and when the train comes in, bringing the originals of the pictures, they are there to meet it; each man seizes the girl he has chosen by photograph, and drags her away, often shrieking for help, which no one gives. I have this on the testimony of an eyewitness, a minister of the Presbyterian Church, who has lived for years in Utah."

Alma grasped her sister's arm, her cheek paling, her eyes wild with affright.

"Oh, Christine! you know he has our likenesses; you know we gave them to him, suspecting no harm. Oh, what shall we do?"

"Be calm, sister; God has preserved us from that dreadful fate," said Christine, with quivering lips. "I know not what is to become of us, penniless in a strange land, but we will never go there; no not if we starve to death."

"You need not do that," exclaimed Zoe; "no one who is willing to work need starve in this good land; and my husband and I will befriend you, and find you employment."

"Oh, thanks, dear lady!" cried the sisters in a breath; "it is all we ask; we are able and willing to work."

"What can you do?" asked Edward; "what were you expecting to do in Utah?"

"We were to have some land," said Christine; that was the promise, and we thought to raise vegetables and fruits; fowls, too, and perhaps bees; but we can cook, wash the clothes, keep the house clean, spin, and weave, and sew."

"Oh," said Zoe, "if you know how to do all those things well, there will be no trouble in finding employment for you."

"But where, dear lady?" Christine asked with hesitation. "We have no money to pay our way to travel far; we must find the work near at hand, or not at all."

Zoe gave her husband a look, half inquiring half entreating; but he seemed lost in thought, and did not see it.

He was anxious to help these poor strangers, yet without wounding the pride of independence, which he perceived and respected. Presently he spoke.

"My wife and I live at some distance from here; we are not acquainted in this vicinity, but know there is plenty of such work as you want in our own. If you like, I will advance your travelling expenses, and engage to find employment for you; and you can repay the advance when it suits you."

The generous offer was accepted with deep gratitude.

The detention of their train lasted some time longer, and presently the talk about Mormonism was renewed.

It was Alma who began it, by asking if a Mormon's first wife was always willing that he should take a second.

"Oh, no, no!" Zoe exclaimed; "how could she be?"

"No," said Edward; "but she is considered very wicked if she refuses her consent, or even ventures upon a remonstrance.

"One day a Mormon and his family, consisting of one wife and several children, were seated about their table taking a meal, when the husband remarked that he thought of taking a second wife.

"His lawful wife—the mother of his children sitting there—objected. Upon that he rose from his seat, went to her, and, holding her head, deliberately cut her throat from ear to ear."

"And was executed for it?" asked Christine, while she shuddered with horror."

"No," said Edward; "he was promoted by the Mormon priesthood to a higher place in the church, as one who had done a praiseworthy deed."

"Murder a praiseworthy deed!" they cried in astonishment and indignation.
"How could that be?"

"They have a doctrine that they call 'blood-atonement,'" replied Edward. "Daring to teach, contrary to the express declarations of Scripture, that the blood of Christ is insufficient to atone for all sin, they assert that for some sins the blood of the sinner himself must be shed or he will never attain to eternal life, and that therefore it is a worthy deed to slay him.

"That terrible, wicked doctrine has been made the excuse for many assassinations, and was the ground for not only excusing the horrible crime of which I have just told you, but for also rewarding the wretched criminal.

"Polygamy is bad enough—especially as instances are not wanting of a man being married at the same time to a mother and her daughters, or several sisters, and in at least one instance to mother, daughter, and granddaughter; and Mormon theology teaches, too, that a man may lawfully marry his own sister. Yet it is not the worst of their crimes; we have it upon the testimony of credible witnesses—Christian citizens of Salt Lake City—that their temples and tithing-houses are 'built up by extortion and cemented with the blood of men, women, and children whose only offence was that they were not in sympathy with the unrighteous decrees of this usurping priesthood.' And 'that all manner of social abominations and domestic horrors, and mutilations, and blood-atonings, and assassinations and massacres have been perpetrated in the name and by the authority of the Mormon priesthood.'"

"Oh, sir, how very dreadful!" exclaimed Christine. "Are they not afraid of the judgments of God against such fearfully wicked deeds?"

"It seems not," said Edward. "The Bible speaks of some whose consciences are seared as with a hot iron."

"But why is such terrible wickedness and oppression allowed by your government?"

"There you have asked a question that many of our own people are asking, and which is difficult to answer without bringing a heavy charge against our law-makers at Washington; a charge of gross neglect, whether induced by bribery or not I do not pretend to decide."

"But it makes us blush for the honor of the land we love!" cried Zoe, with heightened color and flashing eyes.

CHAPTER IX.

"Heaven gives us friends."

The train moved on, and Zoe settled herself back in her seat with a contented sigh; it was so nice to think of soon being at home again after months of absence. She had grown to love Ion very much, and she was charmed with the idea of being mistress of the household for the week or two that was to elapse before the return of the rest of the family.

But she was greatly interested in the Norwegian girls, and presently began to occupy herself with plans for their benefit.

Edward watched her furtively, quite amused at the unwonted gravity of her countenance.

"What, may I ask, is the subject of your meditations, little woman?" he inquired, with a laughing look into her face, as the train came to a momentary standstill at a country station. One might suppose, from your exceeding grave and preoccupied air, that you were engaged in settling the affairs of the nation."

"No, no, my load of care is somewhat lighter than that, Mr. Travilla," she returned with mock seriousness. "It is those poor girls I am thinking of, and what employment can be found for them."

"Well, what is the conclusion arrived at? or is there none as yet?"

"I think—I am nearly sure, indeed—that if they are really expert needlewomen, we can find plenty for them to do in our own family connection; five families of us, you know."

"Five?"

"Yes: Ion, Fairview, The Laurels, The Oaks, and Roselands."

"Ah, yes; and it must take an immense amount of sewing to provide all the changes of raiment desired by the ladies and children," he remarked laughingly. "So that matter may be considered arranged, and my little wife freed from care."

"No, I have yet to consider how they are to be conveyed from the city to Ion, and what I am to do with them when I get them there. Mamma will not be there to direct, you know."

"The first question is easily settled; I shall hire a hack for their use. As to the other, why not let them have their meals served in the sewing-room and occupy the bedroom opening into it?"

"Why, to be sure! that will do nicely," she said, "if you think mamma would not object."

"I am quite certain she will find no fault, even if she should make a different arrangement on returning home. And you wouldn't mind that, would you?"

"Oh no, indeed! Are we not going very fast?"

"Yes; trying to make up lost time."

"I hope they will succeed, that our supper may not be spoiled with waiting. Do you think there will be any one but the servants at Ion to watch for our coming, Ned?"

"Yes; I expect to find the Fairview family there, and have some hope of seeing delegations from the other three. Mamma wrote Elsie when to look for us, and probably she has let the others know; all of them who have been absent from home this summer returned some days or weeks ago."

"And Lester and Elsie brought that orphan niece of his home with them, I suppose. I am inclined to be a warm friend to her, Ned; for I know how to feel for a fatherless child."

"As we all do, I trust. We are all fatherless, and may well have a fellow-feeling for her. We will do what we can to make life pleasant to her, and I think from my sister's report that we shall find her an agreeable addition to the Fairview family."

Elsie had given to Evelyn quite as agreeable a portraiture of Edward and Zoe as that she had furnished them of her, and the little girl was in some haste to make their acquaintance.

It was as Edward expected. The five families were very sociable; when all were at home there was a constant interchange of informal visits, and when some of their number returned after a lengthened absence, the others were ready to hail their coming with cordiality and delight: both of which were intensified on this occasion by the relief from the fear that some accident had happened to Edward and Zoe, inasmuch as they were several hours behind time in reaching home.

On their arrival they found the Lelands, the Lacys, the Dinsmores, and the Conlys gathered in the drawing-room and supper waiting.

"Two hours behind time! I really am afraid there has been an accident," Mrs. Lacy was saying, when the welcome sound of wheels called forth a general exclamation, "There they are at last!" and there was a simultaneous exit from the drawing-room into the hall, followed by numerous embraces, welcomes, congratulations, inquiries after health and the causes of detention.

They made a jovial party about the supper-table: all but Evelyn, who sat silently listening to the exchange of information in regard to the way in which each had passed the summer, and Edward's and Zoe's description of the celebration of their Aunt Wealthy's one hundredth birthday; all mingled with jest, laughter, and merry badinage.

As the child looked and listened, she was, half unconsciously, studying countenances, voices, words, and forming estimates of character.

She had been doing so all the evening; had already decided that the Lacys and Dinsmores were nice people who made her feel happy and at home with them; that she liked Mr. Calhoun Conly and his brother, Dr. Arthur, very much, but detested Ralph; thought Ella silly, proud, and haughty, and that with no excuse for either pride or arrogance. So now her principal attention was given to the latest arrivals—Edward and Zoe.

She liked them both; thinking it lovely to see their devotion to each other, and how unconsciously it betrayed itself in looks and tones, now and again, as the talk went on.

At length, as the flow of conversation slacked, Zoe turned to Evelyn, remarking with a winning smile, "What a quiet little mouse you are! I have been wanting to make your acquaintance, and I hope you will come often to Ion."

"Thank you; I shall enjoy doing so very much indeed," returned Evelyn, blushing with pleasure.

Edward seconded the invitation.

"And don't forget that the doors are wide open to you at the Laurels," said Mr. Lacy.

"At the Oaks also," said Mr. Dinsmore. And Calhoun Conly added, "And at Roselands; we shall expect frequent visits, and do our best for your entertainment; though unfortunately we have no little folks to be your companions."

Evelyn acknowledged each invitation gracefully and in suitable words. Then, the meal having come to a conclusion, all rose from the table and returned to the drawing-room; but presently, as it was growing late and the travelers were supposed to be wearied with their journey, one family after another bade good-by and departed.

"Well, Eva, what do you think of Mrs. Zoe?" asked Mr. Leland when they had turned out of the avenue into the road leading to Fairview. "I understood you were quite anxious to make her acquaintance."

"I think I shall like her very much, uncle," Eva answered; "she seems so bright, pleasant, and cordial. And she loves her husband so dearly."

Mr. Leland laughed at the concluding words. "And you think that an additional reason for liking her?"

"Yes, indeed! I think husbands and wives should be very unselfishly affectionate toward each other; as I have observed that you and Aunt Elsie always are."

Both laughed in a pleased way, her uncle saying, "So you have been watching us?"

"I never set myself at it," she said, "but I couldn't help seeing what was so very evident."

"And no harm if you did. To change the subject—I am greatly interested in those Norwegians. I hope, my dear, you can give them some employment."

"Yes, and shall do so gladly, if they are competent; for I, too, feel a deep interest in them."

"So do I," said Evelyn; "I wanted to see them."

"We will call at Ion to-morrow, and I think you will then get a sight of them, and I learn something of their ability in the sewing line," said her aunt.

Edward and Zoe had arrived at home a little in advance of their two protégées, and given orders in regard to their reception; and when the girls reached Ion they were received by Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, at a side entrance, kindly welcomed and conducted to the apartments assigned them, where they found a tempting meal spread for their refreshment and every comfort provided.

"Dis am de sewin'-room—an' fo' de present yo' dinin'-room also," she announced as she ushered them in; "an' dat am de bedroom whar Mr. Ed'ard an' Miss Zoe tole me you uns is to sleep. Dar's watah dar an' soap an' towels, s'posin' you likes fo' to wash off de dust ob trabel befo' you sits down to de table. 'Bout de time you gits done dat de hot cakes and toast and tea'll be fotched up from de kitchen."

With that she turned and left the room.

The sisters stood for a moment gazing in a bewildered way each into the other's face. Not one word had they understood; but the gestures had been more intelligible. Aunt Dicey had pointed toward the open door of the adjoining room, and they comprehended that it was intended for their occupancy.

"What a dark-skinned woman, sister," said Alma at last. "What did she say? What language does she speak?"

Christine shook her head. "Could it be English? I do not know; it did not sound like the English the gentleman and lady speak when talking to each other. But she brought us here, and from the motions she made while talking I think she said these two rooms were for us to use."

"These rooms for us? these beautiful rooms?" exclaimed Alma in astonishment and delight, glancing about upon the neat, tasteful, even elegant appointments of the one in which they were, then hastening into the other to find it in no way inferior to the first. "Ah, how lovely!" she cried; "see the pretty furniture, the white curtains trimmed with lace, the bed all white and looking, oh, so comfortable! everything so clean, so fair and sweet!"

"Yes, yes," said Christine, tears trembling in her eyes; "so far better than we ever dreamed. But it may be only for to-night; to-morrow, perhaps, we may be consigned to lodgings not half so good. Ah, I hear steps on the stairs; they will be bringing our supper. Let us wash the dust from hands and face that we may be ready to eat."

Presently, seated at the table, they found abundant appetite for the food set before them, and remarked to each other again and again, how very good it was, the best they had tasted in many, many days.

"We have fallen in with the best of friends, Christine," said Alma, "have we not? Oh, what a fortunate mistake was that that put us on the wrong road!"

"It was by the good guidance of our God, Alma," said Christine; "and oh, how shortsighted and mistaken were we in mourning as we did over the sickness that separated us from the rest of our company and left us to travel alone in a strange land; alone and penniless!"

"We will have more faith in future," said Alma; "we will trust the Lord, even when all is dark and we cannot see one step before us."

"God helping us," added Christine, devoutly; "but, alas! we are prone to unbelief; when all is bright and the path lies straight before us, we feel strong in faith; when clouds and darkness cover it from sight, our faith is apt to fail and our hearts to faint within us."

When the last of their guests of the evening had gone, Edward and Zoe bethought them of their protégées, and went to the sewing-room to inquire how they were, and if they had been provided with everything necessary to their comfort.

They found Christine seated in an arm-chair by the table, with the lamp drawn near her, and reading from a pocket Testament. She closed and laid it aside on their entrance, rising to give them a respectful greeting.

"Where is your sister?" asked Zoe, glancing round the room in search of
Alma.

Christine explained that, not having entirely recovered her strength since her illness, Alma was much fatigued with her journey and had already retired to rest.

"Quite right," said Edward; "I think you should follow her example very soon, for you are looking tired. I hope the servants have attended to all your wants?"

"Oh, sir, and dear lady," she exclaimed, "how good, how kind you are to us! what more could we possibly ask than has been provided us by your orders?"

"Our orders were that you should be well cared for," Edward said, "but we feared that for lack of an interpreter you might not be able to make your wants known."

"Indeed, sir, every want was anticipated," she answered, with grateful look and tone.

"That is well," he responded. "And now we will leave you to take your rest. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," she said; then turning to Zoe, "And you, dear lady, will let me do some work for you to-morrow?"

"Yes, if you are quite rested by that time," was the smiling reply. "Don't be uneasy; work and good wages will be found in abundance if you prove capable."

So Christine went to bed with a heart singing for joy and thankfulness.

Elsie and Evelyn drove over to Ion next morning and found Zoe attending to her housekeeping cares with a pretty matronly air that became her well; Aunt Dicey receiving her orders with the look and manner of one who is humoring a child, for such she considered the youthful lady.

"There, Aunt Dicey, I believe that is all for to-day," said Zoe; and turning from her to her callers, "Sister Elsie, how good in you to come over so early! And you too, little maid," to Evelyn: "I'm delighted to see you both."

"Thank you," returned Elsie, brightly. "How do you like housekeeping?"

"Very much so far, and my efforts seem to amuse Ned immensely," laughed Zoe. "It's too absurd that he will persist in looking upon me still as a mere child. Just think of it! when I've been married more than a year; yes, a year and a half."

"Ah, my dear little sister, don't be in too great a hurry to grow old," said Elsie, "or you may be wanting to turn about and travel back again one of these days. How do you like your new helpers, or rather their work? But I suppose you have hardly tried them yet."

"Yes; they are busy now in the sewing-room. I wanted them to take a few days to rest; but their pride of independence rose up so against it that I was fairly forced to give them something to do, and I find they do sew beautifully. Suppose you come and examine their work for yourself. You are included in the invitation, Evelyn," she added, as she rose and led the way.

In the cheerful, sunny sewing-room, beside a window that looked out upon the beautiful grounds, now gay with autumn flowers, Christine and Alma sat busily plying their needles and talking together thankfully of the present, hopefully of the future, when the door opened and the two ladies and little girl entered.

"How very industrious!" said Zoe. "I have brought my sister, Mrs. Leland, to see what competent needlewomen you are."

"They are that indeed," Elsie said, examining the work. "I shall be glad to engage you both to sew for me when you are no longer needed here," she added with a kindly glance and smile.

Then taking a chair which Zoe had drawn forward for her, she entered into conversation with the strangers, asking of their past history and their plans, hopes, and wishes for the future, and completely winning their confidence by her sweetly sympathizing tones and manner.

They were delighted with her, and she much pleased with them. Christine had a good, strong face, plain, rugged features, but a countenance that indicated so much good sense, probity, and kindliness of heart that it was attractive in spite of its lack of comeliness.

Alma seemed to lean very much upon this older sister. Hers was a more delicate organization; she was timid and shrinking, and with her fair complexion, deep blue eyes, golden hair, and look of refinement, was really quite pretty and ladylike in appearance.

CHAPTER X.

"Who knows the joys of friendship—The trust, security, and mutual tenderness, The double joys, where each is glad for both?"

ROWE.

Max Raymond was racing about Miss Stanhope's grounds with the dog that had given his sister Lulu so great a fright the first night of their stay in Lansdale. Up one walk and down another they went, the boy whistling, laughing, capering about, the dog bounding after, catching up with his playfellow and leaping upon him, now on this side and now on that; then presently finding himself shaken off and distanced in the race; but only for a moment; the next he was at the boy's side again or close at his heels.

"Max! Max!" called an eager child's voice, and Lulu came running down the path leading directly from the house.

"Well, what is it, Lu?" asked the lad, standing still to look and listen.
"Down, Nero, down! be quiet, sir!"

"Oh, I have something to tell you," replied Lulu, half breathlessly, as she hurried toward him. "That letter you brought Grandma Elsie from the post-office this morning was from Aunt Elsie; and they are at home by this time—she wrote just as they were ready to start—and Evelyn Leland is with them; she's to make her home at Fairview."

"Well, and what of it? what do I care about it? or you either?"

"Dear me, Max, you might care! I hope she may prove a nice friend for me; not a bit like Rosie, who has always despised and disliked me."

"I don't think Rosie does anything of the kind, Lulu," said Max, patting Nero's head; "she may not be very fond of you, and certainly does not admire your behavior at times, but I don't believe it amounts to dislike."

"I do, then," returned Lulu, a touch of anger in her tones. "Anyhow, I'd dearly love to have a real friend near my own age; and Aunt Elsie says Evelyn is only a little older than I am."

"Well, I hope you won't be disappointed. If she was a boy I'd be as glad of her coming, or his coming, as you are."

"Oh, Maxie, I wish, for your sake, she was a boy!" cried Lulu in her impulsive way, stepping closer and putting her arm about his neck. "How selfish in me to forget that you have no companion at all at Ion!"

"I have," returned Max; "I have you, you know, and you're right good company when you are in a good humor."

"And I'm not often in any other with you, Maxie; now am I?" she said coaxingly.

"No, sis, that's true enough, and I do believe I couldn't get along half so well without you. I'm glad for your sake that this—what's-her-name?—is coming."

"Her name is Evelyn. Oh, Max, I feel so sorry for her!"

"Why?"

"Because her father's dead, and they were so very, very fond of each other; so Aunt Elsie wrote."

"Rosie's father's dead too; and she and all of them were very fond of him."

"Yes; but it's a good while now since he died, and she's had time to get over it so far that she seems hardly ever to think of him; while it is only a few weeks since Evelyn lost hers; and Rosie has her nice, kind mother with her, while Evelyn's is away in Europe, and like enough isn't half so nice as Grandma Elsie anyhow. Oh, Max, I feel most heart-broken every time papa goes away, even though I expect to see him back again some day; and think how dreadful to have your father gone never to come back!"

"Yes, it would be awful!" said Max. "I'd rather lose ten years off my own life. But, Lu, if you really love papa so dearly, how can you behave toward him as you do sometimes—causing him so much distress of mind? I've seen such a grieved, troubled look on his face, when he thought nobody was watching him, and you were in one of your naughty moods."

"Oh, Max, don't!" Lulu said in a choking voice, as she turned and walked away, hot tears in her eyes.

Max ran after her. "Come, Lu, don't take it so hard; I didn't mean to be cruel."

"But you were! Go away! you've got me into one of my moods, as you call it, and I'd better be let alone," she returned almost fiercely, jerking herself loose—for he had caught a fold of her dress in his hand—and rushing away to the farther end of the grounds, where she threw herself on a rustic seat panting with excitement and the rapidity of her flight.

But the gust of passion died down almost as speedily as it had arisen; she could never be angry very long with Max, her dear, only brother; and now her thoughts turned remorsefully upon the conduct he had condemned. It was no news to her that she had more than once caused her father much anxiety and grief of heart, nor was it a new thing for her to be repentant and remorseful on account of her unfilial behavior.

"Oh, why can't I be as good as Max and Gracie?" she said to herself, covering her face with her hands and sighing heavily. "I wish papa was here so I could tell him again how sorry I am, and how dearly I do love him though I am so often naughty. I am glad I did tell him, and that he forgave me and told me he loved me just as well as any other of his children. How good in him to say that! I wonder if Evelyn Leland ever behaved badly to her father. If she ever was naughty to him, how sorry she must feel about it now!"

During the remainder of the short visit at Lansdale, and all through the homeward journey, Lulu's thoughts often turned upon Evelyn, and she had scarcely alighted from the carriage on their arrival at Ion before she sent a sweeping glance around the welcoming group on the veranda, in eager search of the young stranger.

Yes, there she was, a little slender girl in deep mourning, standing slightly apart from the embracing, rejoicing relatives. She was not decidedly pretty, but graceful and refined in appearance, with an earnest, intelligent countenance and very fine eyes. She seemed quite free from self-consciousness and wholly taken up with the interest of the scenes being enacted before her.

"How many of them there are! and how they love one another! how nice it is!" she was thinking within herself, when the two Elsies, releasing each other from a long, tender embrace, turned toward her, the older one saying, half inquiringly, "And this is Evelyn?"

"Yes, mamma. Eva, this is my dear mother," said Mrs. Leland.

Mrs. Travilla took the little girl in her arms, kissed her affectionately, and bade her welcome to Ion, adding, "And if you like you may call me Grandma Elsie, as the others do."

"Thank you, ma'am," Evelyn answered, coloring with pleasure; "but it seems hardly appropriate, for you look not very much older than Aunt Elsie; and she is young to be my aunt."

"That's right, Eva," Mrs. Leland said, with a pleased laugh; "I for one have never approved of mamma being called so by any one older than my baby-boy."

Mrs. Travilla's attention was claimed by some one else at that moment, and Lester, taking Evelyn by the hand, led her up to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore. She was introduced to the others in turn, every one greeting her with the utmost kindness. Rosie gave her a hasty kiss, but Lulu embraced her with warmth, saying, "I am sure I shall love you, and I hope you will love me a little in return."

"I'll try; it wouldn't be fair to let it be all on one side," Evelyn answered with a shy, sweet smile, as she returned the hug and kiss as heartily as they were given.

Lulu was delighted.

After supper, while the older people were chatting busily among themselves, she drew Evelyn into a distant corner and told her how glad she was of her coming, because she wanted a girl-friend near her own age and found Rosie uncongenial and indifferent toward her.

"She will probably be the same to me," said Evelyn; "she has so many of her very own dear ones about her, you know, that it cannot be expected that she will feel much interest in strangers like you and me. But," frankly, "I think I should love you best anyhow."

"How nice in you!" said Lulu, her eyes sparkling; "but I'm afraid you won't when you know me better, for I'm not a bit good; I get into terrible passions when anybody imposes on me or my brother or sister; and I sometimes disobey and break rules."

"You are very honest, at all events," remarked Evelyn pleasantly; "and perhaps I shall not like you any the less for having some faults. You see, if you were perfect, the contrast between you and myself would be most unpleasant to me."

"How correctly and like a grown-up person you speak!" said Lulu, regarding her new friend with affectionate admiration.

Evelyn's eyes filled. "It is because papa made me his constant companion and took the greatest pains with me," she said, in tones tremulous with emotion. "We were almost always alone together, for I never had a brother or sister to share the love he lavished upon me."

"I'm so, so sorry for you!" said Lulu, slipping an arm round Evelyn's waist. "I think I know a little how you feel, for my papa is with us only once in a while for a few days or weeks, and when he goes away again it nearly breaks my heart."

"But you can hope he may come back again."

"Yes; and I have Max and Gracie; so I am much better off than you."

"And such a sweet, pretty mamma," supplemented Evelyn, sending an admiring glance across the room to where Violet sat chatting with her sister Elsie.

"But you have your own mother, and that's a great deal better," returned
Lulu. "Mamma Vi is very beautiful and sweet, and very kind to Max and
Gracie and me, but a step-mother can't be like your own."

"I suppose not quite," Evelyn said with a sigh; "but I have no idea when
I shall see mine again."

"We are situated a good deal alike," remarked Lulu, reflectively. "My father and your mother are far away in this world, and your father and my mother are gone to heaven."

"Yes. Oh, don't you sometimes want to go to them there?"

"I'm not good enough—not fit in any way; and I believe I'd rather stay here—at least while papa does," Lulu said, with some hesitation.

"I hope he may be spared to you for many, many years," said Evelyn, gently; "at least till you are quite grown up, and perhaps have a family of children of your own."

"Were you ever so naughty that your father told you you gave him a great deal of trouble and heartache?" asked Lulu in a tremulous voice and with starting tears.

"Oh no; no, indeed!" exclaimed Eva, in surprise. "How could I, or any one, with such a father as mine?"

"No father could be better or kinder than mine," said Lulu, twinkling away a tear; "and yet I have been so passionate and disobedient that he has told me that several times."

"Oh, don't ever be so again; for if you do your poor heart will ache so terribly over it when he is taken away from you," Evelyn said with emotion, and pressing Lulu's hand affectionately in hers. "Oh, I can never be thankful enough," she went on, "that the day my dear father was called home he said to me, 'My darling, you have been nothing but a blessing and comfort to me since the day you were born.'"

"My father can never say that to me; I have already put it out of his power," thought Lulu to herself, with a great pain at her heart; and as soon as she found herself alone in her own room that night she wrote a little penitent note to him all blistered with tears.

Shortly after breakfast the next morning she went to "Grandma Elsie" with a request for permission to walk over to Fairview and spend an hour with Evelyn.

"You may, my dear, if you can get Max or some older person to walk with you," was Elsie's kind reply; "otherwise I will send you in the carriage, because it is not safe for you to walk that distance alone. I think you and Evelyn are going to be friends, and I am very glad of it," she added with a pleasant smile. "If she will come, you may bring her back with you to spend the day at Ion."

"Oh, thank you, Grandma Elsie; that will be so nice!" cried Lulu, joyously; then bounded away in search of her brother.

Max, having nothing else to do just then, readily consented to be her escort, and they set out at once.

"A brother is of some use sometimes, isn't he?" queried Max, complacently, as they walked briskly down the avenue together.

"Yes; and isn't a sister, too?" asked Lulu.

"Yes, indeed," he said; "you are almost always ready to do me a good turn, Lu. But, in fact, I'm taking this walk quite as much to please myself as you. It's a very pleasant one on a morning like this, and Uncle Lester and Aunt Elsie are pleasant folks to visit."

"I think they are," returned Lulu; "but I am going more to see Evelyn than anybody else. Oh, Max, I do hope, I do believe, it's going to be as I told you I wished."

"What?"

"That we'll be intimate friends and very fond of each other. Weren't you pleased with her, Max? I was."

"She's nice-looking," he replied; "but that's all I can say till we've had time to get acquainted."

"I feel quite well acquainted with her now; we had such a nice long talk together last night," said Lulu.

Evelyn was strolling about the grounds at Fairview, and came to the gate to meet them. She shook hands with Max, kissed Lulu affectionately, and invited them into the house.

They settled themselves in the veranda, where Mrs. Leland presently joined them. Then Lulu gave "Grandma Elsie's" invitation.

"May I go, Aunt Elsie?" asked Evelyn.

"Certainly, dear, if you wish to," Mrs. Leland answered kindly. "Your uncle and I will drive over early in the evening and bring you home."

"By moonlight!" Evelyn said; "that will be very nice. Auntie, you and uncle are very good to me."

"Indeed, child," returned Elsie, smiling, "you may well believe it is no hardship for us to go to Ion on any errand; or with none save the desire to see mamma and the rest."

Evelyn and Lulu passed the greater part of the day alone together, every one else seemingly lacking either leisure or inclination to join them, and the friendship grew rapidly, as is usually the case when two little girls are thus thrown together.

Each gave a detailed history of her past life and found the other deeply interested in it. Then they talked of the present and of the near future.

"Are you to go to school?" asked Lulu.

"No," Evelyn said with a contented smile, "I am to study at home and come here to recite with you."

"Oh, how nice!" cried Lulu, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"Yes, I think it very kind in Aunt Elsie's mother and grandfather to offer to let me do so," said Evelyn. "I shall try very hard to be studious and well-behaved and give them no trouble."

Lulu's cheek flushed at that remark, and for a moment she sat silent and with downcast eyes; then she burst out in her impetuous way, "I wish I were like you, Eva—so good and grateful. I'm afraid you wouldn't care for me at all if you knew what a bad, ungrateful thing I am. I've given ever so much trouble to Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie, though they have done more for me—for Max and Gracie too—than they are going to do for you."

"I don't believe you're half so bad as you make yourself out to be," returned Eva, in a surprised tone. "And I'm sure you are sorry and will be ever so good and grateful in the future."

"I want to, but—there does seem to be no use in my trying to be sweet-tempered and all that," said Lulu, dejectedly; "I've got such a dreadful temper."

"Papa used to tell me God, our heavenly Father, would help me to conquer my faults, if I asked Him with all my heart," said Evelyn, softly; "that, in His great love and condescension, He noticed even a little child and its efforts to please Him and do His will."

"Yes, I know; my papa has told me the same thing ever so often; but most always the temptation comes so suddenly I don't seem to have time to ask for help, and"—hesitatingly—"sometimes I don't want it."

CHAPTER XI.

"O blessed, happy child, to find
The God of heaven so near and kind!"

It was Sabbath afternoon. In the large dining-room at Ion a Bible-reading was being held, Mr. Dinsmore leading, every member of the household, down to the servants, who occupied the lower end of the apartment, bearing a share in the exercises; as also Lester, Elsie, and Evelyn from Fairview, and representatives from the other three families belonging to the connection, and the Keith cousins, who had arrived at Ion a few days before.

The portion of Scripture under consideration was the interview of Nicodemus with the Master when he came to Him by night (St. John iii.), the subject, of course, the necessity of the new birth, God's appointed way of salvation, and the exceeding greatness of His love in giving His only-begotten Son to die "that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

Each one able to read had an open Bible, and even Gracie and little
Walter listened with understanding and interest.

She whom the one called mamma, the other Grandma Elsie, had talked with them that morning on the same subject, and tenderly urged upon them—as often before—the duty of coming to Christ, telling them of His love to little children, and that they were not too young to give themselves to Him; and Mr. Dinsmore addressed a few closing words to them in the same strain.

They fell into Gracie's heart as seed sown in good ground. When the reading had come to an end and she felt herself unobserved, she slipped quietly away to her mamma's dressing-room, where she was not likely to be disturbed, and sat down to think more profoundly and seriously than ever before in her short life.

She went over "the old, old story," and tears stole down her cheeks as she whispered to herself, "And it was for me He died that dreadful death; for me just as truly as if it hadn't been for anybody else; and yet I've lived all this long while without loving Him, or trying to do right for the sake of pleasing Him.

"And how often I've been invited to come! Papa has told me about it over and over again; mamma too, and Grandma Elsie; and I haven't minded what they said at all. Oh, how patient and kind Jesus has been to wait so long for me to come! And He is still waiting and inviting me to come; just as kindly and lovingly as if it was the very first time, and I hadn't been turning away from Him.

"He is right here, looking at me, and listening for what I will say in answer to His call. Oh, I won't keep Him waiting any longer, lest He should go away and never invite me again; and because I do love Him for dying for me, and for being so good and kind to me all my life—giving me every blessing I have—and keeping on inviting me, over and over, when I wouldn't even listen to His voice.

"I'll go to Him now. Grandma Elsie said just to kneel down and feel that I am kneeling at His feet, and tell Him all about my sins, and how sorry I am, exactly as if I could see Him, and ask Him to forgive my sins and wash them all away in His precious blood, and take me for His very own child to be His forever, and serve Him always—in this world, and in heaven when he takes me there. Yes, I will do it now."

With the resolve she rose from the chair where she had been sitting, and kneeling before it with clasped hands and closed eyes, from which penitent tears stole down her cheeks, said, in low, reverent tones, "Dear Lord Jesus, I'm only a little girl and very full of sin; I've done a great many bad things in my life, and haven't done the good things I knew I ought to do; and I have a very bad heart that doesn't want to do right. Oh, please make it good; oh, please take away all the wickedness that is in me; wash me in Thy precious blood, so that I shall be clean and pure in Thy sight. Forgive me for living so long without loving Thee, when I've known all the time about Thy great love to me. Help me to love Thee now and forever more; I give myself to Thee to be all thine forever and forever. Amen."

Her prayer was ended, yet she did not at once rise from her kneeling posture; it was so sweet to linger there at the Master's feet; she remembered and trusted His promise, "Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out," and almost she could hear His dear voice saying in tenderest tones, "Daughter, thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee."

"I love them that love Me, and those that seek Me early shall find Me."

She seemed to feel the touch of His hand laid in blessing on her head, and her heart sang for joy.

Meanwhile the older children had gathered about Aunt Chloe, now seated in a back veranda—the weather being still warm enough for the outer air to be very pleasant at that time of day—and Rosie, as spokesman of the party, begged coaxingly for stories of mamma when she was a little girl.

"It's de Lawd's day, chillens," answered the old woman in a doubtful tone.

"Yes, mammy," acknowledged Rosie, "but you can easily make your story fit for Sunday; mamma was so good—a real Christian child, as you have often told me."

"So she was, chile, so she was; I's sho' she lub de Lawd, from de bery day her ole mammy fus' tole her how He lub her. Yes, you right, Miss Rosie; I kin tole you 'bout her, and 'twon't break de Sabbath day. Is yo' all hyar now?" she asked, glancing inquiringly about.

"All but Gracie," said Rosie, glancing round the little circle in her turn. "I wonder where she is. Betty," to a little negro maid standing in the rear, "go and find Miss Gracie, and ask if she doesn't want to hear the stories mammy is going to tell us."

"Yes, Miss Rosie, whar you s'pose Miss Gracie done gone?" drawled the little maid, standing quite still and pulling at one of the short woolly braids scattered here and there over her head.

"I don't know. Go and look for her," returned Rosie, somewhat imperiously. "Now hurry," she added, "or there won't be time for all mammy has to tell."

"Wisht I know whar Miss Gracie done gone," sighed Betty, reluctantly obeying.

"I saw her going upstairs," said Lulu; "so it's likely you'll find her in
Mamma Vi's rooms."

At that Betty quickened her pace, and the next moment was at Violet's dressing-room door, peeping in and asking, "You dar, Miss Gracie?"

"Yes," Grace answered, turning toward her a face so full of gladness that Betty's eyes opened wide in astonishment, and stepping in she asked wonderingly, "What—what de mattah, Miss Gracie? yo' look like yo' done gone foun' a gol' mine, or jes' sumfin' mos' like dat."

"Better still, Betty: I've found the Lord Jesus; I love Him and He loves me," Gracie said, her eyes shining, "and oh, I am so glad, so happy!"

"Whar yo' fin' Him, Miss Gracie?" queried Betty in increasing wonder and astonishment, and glancing searchingly round the room. "Is He hyar?"

"Yes; for He is God and is everywhere."

"Oh, dat de way He hyar? Yes, I knows 'bout dat; Miss Elsie tole me lots ob times. How yo' know He lub yo', Miss Gracie?"

"Because He says so, Betty.

"'Jesus loves me; this I know,
For the Bible tell me so.'"

"Yo's wanted down stairs, Miss Gracie," said Betty, bethinking herself of her errand. "Ole Aunt Chloe gwine tell 'bout old times when missus bery little and lib way off down Souf. Bettah come right 'long; kase Miss Rosie she in pow'ful big hurry fo' Aunt Chloe begin dat story."

"Oh yes; I never get tired hearing mammy tell that; Grandma Elsie was such a dear little girl," Grace said, making haste to obey the summons.

The others had already gathered closely about Aunt Chloe, but the circle promptly widened to receive Grace, and the moment she had taken her seat the story began, opening with the birth of its subject.

There were many little reminiscences of her infancy and early childhood, very interesting to all the listeners. The narrator dwelt at length upon the evidences of early piety shown in the child's life, and Aunt Chloe remarked, "Yo' needn't be 'fraid, chillens, ob bein' too good to lib: my darlin' was de bes' chile eber I see, and yo' know she has lib to see her chillen and her gran'chillens."

"I'm not at all afraid of it," remarked Rosie. "People who are certainly don't know or don't believe what the Bible teaches on that point; for it says, 'My son, forget not My law; but let thine heart keep My commandments; for length of days, and long life, and peace shall they add to thee.'"

"And there's a promise of long life and prosperity to all who keep the fifth commandment," said Max.

"'So far as it shall serve for God's glory and their own good,'" added
Evelyn, softly.

"Dat's so, chillens," said Aunt Chloe; "an' yo' ole mammy hopes ebery one ob yo's gwine try it all de days ob yo' life."

"Yes, we're goin' to, mammy; so now tell us some more," said Walter, coaxingly; "tell about the time when the poor little girl that's my mamma now had to go away and leave her pretty home."

"Yaas, chile, dat wur a sad time," said the old woman, reflectively; "it mos' broke de little chile heart to hab to leab dat home whar she been borned, an' all de darkies dat lub her like dar life."

She went on to describe the parting, then to tell of the journey, and was just beginning with the life at Roselands, when the summons came to the tea-table.

"We'll come back to hear the rest after tea, mammy, if you're not too tired," Rosie said as she turned to go.

But on coming back they found no one on the veranda but Betty, who, in answer to their inquiries, said, "Aunt Chloe hab entired fo' de night; she hab de misery in de back and in de head, and she cayn't tell no mo' stories fo' mawning."

"Poor old soul!" said Evelyn, compassionately; "I'm afraid we've tired her out."

"Oh no, not at all," answered Rosie; "she likes nothing better than talking about mamma. You never saw anything like her devotion; I verily believe she'd die for mamma without a moment's hesitation."

Most of the house-servants at Ion occupied cabins of their own at no great distance from the mansion, but Aunt Chloe, the faithful nurse of three generations, was domiciled in a most comfortable apartment not far from those of the mistress to whom she was so dear; and Elsie never laid her own head upon its pillow till she had paid a visit to mammy's room to see that she wanted for nothing that could contribute to ease of body or mind.

This night, stealing softly in, she found her lying with closed eyes and hands meekly folded across her breast, and, thinking she slept, would have gone away again as quietly as she came; but the loved voice recalled her.

"Dat yo', honey? Don' go; yo' ole mammy's got somefin to say; and de time is short, 'kase the chariot-wheels dey's rollin' fas', fas' dis way to carry yo' ole mammy home to glory."

"Dear mammy," Elsie said with emotion, laying her hand tenderly on the sable brow, "are you feeling weaker or in any way worse than usual?"

"Dunno, honey, but I hear de Master callin', an' I's ready to follow whereber He leads; eben down into de valley ob de shadow ob death. I's close to de riber; Is hear de soun' ob de wattahs ripplin' pas'; but de eberlastin' arms is underneath, an' I sho' to git safe ober to de oder side."

"Yes, dear mammy, I know you will," Elsie answered in moved tones. "I know you will come off more than conqueror through Him who loved you with an everlasting love."

"'Peat dat verse to yo' ole mammy, honey," entreated the trembling, feeble voice.

"What verse, mammy dear? 'Who shall separate us'?"

"Yes, darlin', dat's it! an' de res' dat comes after, whar de 'postle say he 'suaded dat deff nor nuffin else cayn't separate God's chillen from de love ob Christ."

Elsie complied, adding at the close of the quotation, "Such precious words! How often you and I have rejoiced over them together, mammy!"

"'Deed we hab, honey; an' we's gwine rejoice in dem togeder beside de great white throne. Now yo' go an' take yo' res', darlin', an' de Lawd gib yo' sweet sleep."

"I can't leave you, mammy if you are suffering; you must let me sit beside you and do what is in my power to relieve or help you to forget your pain."

"No, chile, no; de miseries am all gone an' I's mighty comfor'able, bery happy, too, hearin' de soun' ob de chariot-wheels and tinking I's soon be in de bressed lan' whar de miseries an' de sins am all done gone foreber; an' whar ole Uncle Joe an' de bressed Master is waitin' to 'ceive me wid songs ob joy and gladness."

Thus reassured, and perceiving no symptom of approaching dissolution,
Elsie returned to her own apartments and was soon in bed and asleep.

In accordance with an Ion rule which Lulu particularly disliked, the children had gone to their rooms an hour or more in advance of the older people.

Grace still slept with her mamma in her father's absence, but often made her preparations for bed in her sister's room, that they might chat freely together of whatever was uppermost in their minds.

To-night they were no sooner shut in there, away from other eyes and ears, than Grace put her arms round Lulu's neck, saying, while her face shone with gladness, "Oh, Lu, I have something to tell you!"

"Have you?" Lulu answered. "Then it must be something good; for in all your life I never saw you look so very, very happy. Oh, is it news from papa? Is he coming home on another visit?" she cried with a sudden, eager lighting up of her face.

The brightness of Grace's dimmed a trifle as she replied, "No, not that; they would never let him come again so soon. Oh, how I wish he was here! for he would be so glad of it too; almost as glad as I am, I think."

"Glad of what?" asked Lulu.

"That I've given my heart to Jesus. Oh, Lulu, won't you do it too? it is so easy if you only just try."

"Tell me about it; how did you do it?" Lulu asked gravely, her eyes cast down, a slight frown upon her brow.

"I did just as Grandma Elsie told us this morning. You know, Lu?"

"Yes, I remember. But how do you know that you were heard and accepted?"

"Why, Lulu!" was the surprised reply, "the Bible tells us God is the hearer and answerer of prayer—it's in one of the verses I've learned to say to Grandma Elsie since I came here. And Jesus says: 'Him that cometh unto Me I will in nowise cast out;' so of course He received me. How could I help knowing it?"

"You've got far ahead of me," Lulu said, with petulance born of an uneasy conscience, as she released herself from Grace's arms and began undressing with great energy and despatch.

"You needn't feel that way, Lu," Grace said pleadingly; "Jesus is just as willing to take you for His child as me."

"I don't believe it!" cried Lulu, with almost fierce impatience; "you've always been good, and I've always been bad. I don't see why I wasn't made patient and sweet-tempered too; it's no trouble to you to behave and keep rules and all that, but I can't; try as hard as I will."

"Oh, Lulu, Jesus will help you to be good if you ask Him and try as hard as you can, too," Grace said in tender, pleading tones.

"But suppose I don't want to be good?"

Grace's eyes opened wide in grieved surprise, then filled with tears. "Oh, Lulu!" she said; "but I'm sure you do want to be good sometimes. And can't Jesus help you to want to always? won't He if you ask Him?"

"I'm tired of the subject, and it's time for you to go to bed," was the ungracious rejoinder.

Usually so unkind a rebuff from her sister would have caused Grace a fit of crying, but she was too happy for that to-night. She slipped quietly away into her mamma's rooms, and when ready for bed came to the door again with a pleasant "Good-night, Lulu, and happy dreams!"

Lulu, already repentant, sprang to meet her with outstretched arms.
"Good-night, you dear little thing!" she exclaimed with a hug and kiss.
"I wish you had a better sort of a sister. Perhaps you will some day,—in
little Elsie."

"I love you dearly, dearly, Lu!" was the affectionate rejoinder, accompanied by a hearty return of the embrace.

"I wish mamma would come up, for I want to tell her; 'cause I know it will make her glad too," Grace said to herself as she got into bed. "I mean to stay awake till she comes."

But scarcely had the little curly head touched the pillow ere its owner was fast asleep, and so the communication was deferred till morning.

When Violet came into the room she stepped softly to the bedside, and bending over the sleeping child gazed with tender scrutiny into the fair young face.

"The darling!" she murmured, "what a passing sweet and peaceful expression she wears! I noticed it several times during the evening; a look as if some great good had come to her."

A very gentle kiss was laid on the child's forehead, and Violet passed on into Lulu's room, moved by a motherly solicitude to see that all was well with this one of her husband's children also.

The face that rested on the pillow was round and rosy with youth and health, the brow was unruffled, yet the countenance lacked the exceeding sweet expression of her sister's.

Violet kissed her also, and Lulu, half opening her sleepy eyes, murmured, "Mamma Vi you're very good and kind," and with the last word was fast asleep again.

Mrs. Elsie Travilla rose earlier the next morning than her wont,—a vague uneasiness oppressing her in regard to her aged nurse,—and waiting only to don dressing-gown and slippers went softly to Aunt Chloe's bedside; but finding her sleeping peacefully, she returned as quietly as she had come, thinking to pay another visit before descending to the breakfast-room.

Only a few minutes had passed, however, when the little maid Betty came rushing unceremoniously in, her eyes wild with affright. "Missus, missus," she cried, "suffin de mattah wid ole Aunt Chloe; she—"

Elsie waited to hear no more, but pushing past the child, flew to the rescue.

But one glance at the aged face told her that no human help could avail; the seal of death was on it.

A great wave of sorrow swept over her at the sight, but she was outwardly calm and composed as, taking the cold hand in hers, she asked, "Dear mammy, is it peace?"

"Yes, chile, yes," came in feeble yet assured accents from the dying lips; "an' I's almos' dar; a po' ole sinnah saved by grace. Good-by, honey; we's meet again at de Master's feet, neber to part mo mo'!"

One or two long-drawn gasping breaths followed and the aged pilgrim had entered into rest.

At the same instant a strong arm was passed round Elsie's waist, while a manly voice said tenderly, "We will not grieve for her, dear daughter, for all her pains, all her troubles are over, and she has been gathered home like a shock of corn fully ripe."

"Yes, dear father, but let me weep a little; not for her, but for myself," Elsie said, suffering him to draw her head to a resting-place upon his breast.

In the mean while Violet and Grace had wakened from sleep, and the little girl had told of her new-found happiness, meeting with the joyful sympathy which she had expected.

"Dear Gracie," Violet said, taking the little girl in her arms and kissing her tenderly, "you are a blessed, happy child in having so early chosen the better part which shall never be taken away from you. Jesus will be your friend all your life, be it long or short; a friend that sticketh closer than a brother; who will never leave nor forsake you, but will love you with an everlasting love, tenderer than a mother's, and be always near and mighty to help and save in every time of trouble and distress."

"Oh, mamma," said Grace, "how good and kind He is to let me love Him! I wish I could do something to please Him; what could I do, mamma?"

"He said to His disciples, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments;' and He says the same to you and me, Gracie, dear," Violet answered.

"I will try, mamma; and won't you help me?"

"All I can, dear. Now it is time for us to rise."

They had nearly completed their toilet when a tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Violet's mother, looking grave and sad, and with traces of tears about her eyes.

"Mamma, what is it?" Violet asked anxiously.

"Our dear old mammy is gone, daughter," Elsie answered, the tears beginning to fall again; "gone home to glory. I do not weep for her, but for myself. You know what she was to me."

"Yes, mamma, dearest, I am very sorry for you; but for her it should be all joy, should it not? Life can have been little but a burden, to her for some years past, and now she is at God's right hand where there are pleasures forever more."

Elsie assented; and sitting down, gave a full account of what had passed between Aunt Chloe and herself the previous night, and of the death-scene this morning.

"What a long, long journey hers has been!" remarked Violet; "but she has reached home at last. And here, mamma," drawing Grace forward, "is a little pilgrim who has but just passed through the wicket-gate, and begun to travel the strait and narrow way."

"Is it so, Gracie? It makes my heart glad to hear it," Elsie said, taking the child in her arms in a tender, motherly fashion. "You are none too young to begin to love and serve the Lord Jesus; and it's a blessed service. I found it such when I was a child like you, and such I have found it all the way that I have traveled since."

CHAPTER XII.

LULU REBELS.

Several weeks had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, during which life had moved on in its accustomed way at Fairview and Ion.

Evelyn was as happy in her new home as she could have been anywhere without her father and mother—perhaps happier than she would have been anywhere with the latter—and enjoyed her studies under Mr. Dinsmore's tuition; for, being very steady, respectful, studious, and in every way a well-behaved child, and also an interested pupil, she found favor with him, was never subjected to reproof or punishment, but smiled upon and constantly commended, and in consequence her opinion of him differed widely from that of Lulu, whose quick, wilful temper was continually getting her into trouble with him.

She was the only one of his scholars who caused him any serious annoyance, but he had grown very weary of contending with her, and one day when she had failed in her recitation and answered impertinently his well-merited reproof, he said to her, "Lucilla, you may leave the room and consider yourself banished from it for a week. At the end of that time I shall probably be able to decide whether I will ever again listen to a recitation from you."

Lulu, with cheeks aflame and eyes flashing, hardly waited for the conclusion of the sentence ere she rose and rushed from the room, shutting the door behind her with a loud slam.

Mr. Dinsmore stepped to it and called her back.

"I desire you to come in here again and then leave us in a proper and ladylike manner, closing the door quietly," he said.

For a single instant Lulu hesitated, strongly tempted to refuse obedience; but even she stood in some awe of Mr. Dinsmore, and seeing his stern, determined look, she retraced her steps, with head erect and eyes that carefully avoided the faces of all present; went quietly out again, closed the door gently, then hurried through the hall, down the stairs, and into her own room; there she hastily donned hat and sacque, then rapidly descended to the ground-floor, and the next instant might have been seen fairly flying down the avenue.

Her passion had slightly cooled by the time she reached the gate, and giving up her first intention of passing through into the road beyond, she turned into an alley bordered by evergreens which would screen her from view from the house, and there paced back and forth, muttering angrily to herself between her shut teeth,

"I hate him, so I do! the old tyrant! He's no business to give me such long, hard lessons and then scold because I don't recite perfectly."

Here conscience reminded her that she could easily have mastered her task if her time had not been wasted over a story-book.

"It's a pity if I can't have the pleasure of reading a story once in a while," she said in reply; "and I'm not going to give up doing it either for him or anybody else. He reads stories himself; and if it's bad, it's worse for grown folks than for children. Oh, how I do wish I was grown up and could do just as I please!"

Then came to mind her father's assurance that even grown people could not always follow their own inclinations; also his expressions of deep gratitude to Mr. Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie for giving his children a home with them and taking the trouble to teach and train them up for useful and happy lives. Lulu well knew that Mr. Dinsmore received no compensation for his labors in behalf of her brother and sister and herself, and that few people would be at such pains for no other reward than the consciousness of doing good; and reflecting upon all this, she at length began to feel really ashamed of her bad behavior.

Yet pride prevented her from fully acknowledging it even to her own heart. But recalling the doubt he had expressed as to whether he would ever again hear a recitation from her, she began to feel very uneasy as to what might be the consequence to her of such a refusal on his part.

Her education must go on; that she knew; but who would be her teacher if Mr. Dinsmore refused? In all probability she would be sent away to the much-dreaded boarding-school. Indeed she felt quite certain of it in case the question should be referred to her father; for had he not warned her that if she were troublesome or disobedient to Mr. Dinsmore, such would be her fate?

A fervent wish arose that he might not be appealed to—might forever be left in ignorance of this her latest act of insubordination. She would, it was true, have to make a report to him of the day's conduct, but she could refrain from telling the whole story; could smooth the matter over so that he would not understand how extremely impertinent and passionate she had been.

Everything that had passed between Mr. Dinsmore and herself had been seen and heard by all her fellow-pupils, and the thought of that did not tend to lessen Lulu's mortification and dread of consequences.

"Rosie will treat me more than ever like the Pharisee did the publican," she said bitterly to herself, "Max and Gracie will be ashamed of their sister, Walter will look at me as if he thought me the worst girl alive, and perhaps Evelyn won't be my friend any more. Mr. Dinsmore will act as if he didn't see me at all, I suppose, and Grandma Elsie and Aunt Elsie and Mamma Vi will be grave and sad. Oh dear, I 'most think I'm willing to go to boarding-school to get away from it all!"

Evelyn had been greatly shocked and surprised at Lulu's outburst of temper, for she had become strongly attached to her, and had not known her to be capable of such an exhibition of passion.

During the scene in the school-room, Rosie sent angry glances at Lulu, but Evelyn sat silent with eyes cast down, unwilling to witness her friend's disgrace. Max hid his face with his book, Gracie wept, and little Walter looked on in silent astonishment.

"She is the most ill-tempered piece I ever saw!" remarked Rosie, aloud, as the door closed upon Lulu for the second time.

"Rosie," said her grandfather, sternly, "let me hear no more such observations from your lips. They are entirely uncalled for and extremely uncharitable."

Rosie reddened and did not venture to speak again, or even to so much as raise her eyes from her book for some time.

The out-door air was quite keen and cold; Lulu was beginning to feel chilled, and debating in her own mind whether to return at once to the house spite of the danger of meeting some one who knew of her disgrace, and was therefore likely to look at her askance, when a light, quick step approached her from behind and two arms were suddenly thrown around her neck.

"Oh, Lu, dear Lu," said Evelyn's soft voice, "I am so, so sorry!"

"Eva! I did not think you would come to find me; do you really care for me still?" asked Lulu, in subdued tones, and half averting her face.

"Of course I do. Did you suppose I was not a true friend that would stand by you in trouble and disgrace, as well as when all goes prosperously with you?"

"But it was my own fault for not learning my lesson better, in the first place, and then for answering Grandpa Dinsmore as I did when he reproved me," said Lulu, hanging her head. "I know papa would say so if he were here, and punish me severely too."

"Still I'm sorry for you," Eva repeated. "I'm not, by any means, always good myself; I might have neglected my lessons under the same temptation, and if my temper were naturally as hot as yours I don't know that I should have been any more meek and respectful than you were under so sharp a rebuke."

"It's very good in you to say it; you're not a bit of a Pharisee; but I think Rosie is very much like the one the Bible tells about; the one who thought himself so much better than the poor publican."

"Isn't it just possible you may be a little hard on Rosie?" suggested Eva, with some hesitation, fearing to rouse the ungovernable temper again.

But Lulu did not show any anger. "I don't think I am," she replied, quite calmly. "What did she say after I left the room?"

Eva was very averse to tale-bearing, so merely answered the query with another. "Why do you suppose she said anything?"

"Because I know her of old; she dislikes and despises me, and is always ready to express her sentiments whenever the slightest occasion offers."

"That reminds me," said Evelyn, "that just before dismissing us Grandpa Dinsmore requested us to refrain from mentioning what had passed, unless it should become quite necessary to do so."

"You may be sure Rosie will find it necessary," Lulu said; "she will tell her mamma all about it—Mamma Vi, too—and it will presently be known all over the house; even by the Keiths. I wish they weren't here,"

"Don't you like them? I do."

"Yes; Aunt Marcia and Aunt Annis—as we children all call them—are kind and pleasant as can be; but I'd rather they wouldn't hear about this; though I don't care so very much either," she added, half defiantly. "What difference does it make what people think of you?"

"Some difference, surely," said Evelyn, gently; "for the Bible says, 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.' Papa used to tell me that to deserve a good name, and to have it, was one of the greatest blessings of life. I must go now," she added, pulling out a pretty little watch, one of the last gifts of that loved father; "Aunt Elsie will be expecting me."

"I wish I could go with you," said Lulu, sighing.

"Oh, that would be nice!" exclaimed Evelyn. "Can't you?"

Lulu shook her head. "Not without leave, and I don't want to ask it now. Oh, Eva, I do wish I hadn't to obey these people who are no relation to me!"

"But they are very kind; and Aunt Violet is your father's wife, and loves you for his sake, I am sure."

"But she's too young to be a real mother to me, and the rest are no relation at all. I begged papa not to say I must obey them, but he would say it."

"Then, loving him so dearly, as I am sure you do, I should think you would be quite willing to obey them, because it is his will that you should."

"I don't see that that follows," grumbled Lulu; "and—now you will think me very bad, I know—I have sometimes even refused to obey papa himself."

"Oh, how sorry you will be for it if ever he is taken away from you!" Eva said, with emotion. "But did he let you have your own way?"

"No, indeed; he is as strict in exacting obedience from his children as Grandpa Dinsmore himself. I'm dreadfully afraid Grandpa Dinsmore or somebody will write to him about to-day; I do hope they won't, for he said if I should be disobedient and troublesome he would take me away from here and put me in a boarding-school."

"And you wouldn't like that?"

"No, indeed! for how could I bear to be separated from Gracie and Max?"

"I hope you won't have to go; I should be sorry enough on my own account as well as yours," Evelyn said, with an affectionate kiss. "I must really go now; so good-by, dear, till to-morrow."

Evelyn had hardly gone when Max joined his sister. "Lulu, why can't you behave?" he exclaimed in a tone of impatience and chagrin. "You make Gracie and me both ashamed of your ingratitude to Grandpa Dinsmore."

"I don't choose to be lectured by you, Max," returned Lulu, with a toss of her head.

"No; but what do you suppose papa would say to this morning's behavior?"

"Suppose you write and tell him all about it, and see what he says," she returned scornfully.

"You know I would not do such a thing," said Max; "but I should think you would feel bound to do it."

"I intend to some day," she answered, almost humbly; "but I don't think I need just now; 'tisn't likely he'd get the story anyhow for weeks or months."

"Well, you'll do your own way, of course, but if it was my case I'd rather confess, and have it off my mind."

So saying, Max turned and walked toward the house, Lulu slowing following.

Though determined not to show it, she quite dreaded meeting any one belonging to the family; but she was already too thoroughly chilled to think of staying out another moment. Besides, the more she reflected upon the matter, the more plainly she saw that her misconduct could not be hidden from the family; they would notice that she did not go into the schoolroom as usual; they would see by Mr. Dinsmore's manner toward her that she was in disgrace with him, and would know it was not without cause; therefore to remain longer out in the cold was only delaying for a very little while the ordeal which she must face sooner or later. Still she deemed it cause for rejoicing that she succeeded in gaining her own room without meeting any one.

CHAPTER XIII.

"What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted."

BURNS.

Poor little Grace was sorely distressed over her sister's misconduct and the consequent displeasure of Mr. Dinsmore.

On being dismissed from the schoolroom she went directly to her mamma's apartments. She knew she would be alone there, as Violet had gone out driving, and shutting herself in, she indulged in a hearty cry.

She was aware of the danger that Lulu would be sent away, and could not bear the thought of separation from her—the only sister she had except the baby.

Their mutual love was very strong; and Lulu was ever ready to act as Grace's champion, did anyone show the slightest disposition to impose upon or ill-treat her; and it was seldom indeed that she herself was anything but the kindest of the kind to her.

Finding her young step-mother ever ready with sympathy—and help, too, where that was possible—Grace had long since formed the habit of carrying to her all her little troubles and vexations, and also all her joys.

She longed to open her heart now to "mamma," but Mr. Dinsmore's parting injunction as he dismissed his pupils for the day seemed to forbid it. Grace felt that even that partial relief was denied her.

But Violet came suddenly upon her, and surprised her in the midst of her tears.

"Why, my darling, what is the matter?" she asked in a tone full of concern, taking the little girl in her arms as she spoke.

"Oh, mamma, it's—But I mustn't tell you, 'cause Grandpa Dinsmore said we were not to mention it unless it was quite necessary."

"But surely you may tell your mamma anything that distresses you so! Is it that Grandpa Dinsmore is displeased?"

"Not with me, mamma."

"Then with Max or Lulu?"

"Mamma, I think I may tell you a little," Grace replied, with some hesitation. "It's with Lulu; but I can't say what for. But, oh, mamma, if Grandpa Dinsmore won't teach Lu any more will she have to go away to boarding-school?"

"I hope not, dearie; I think not if she will be content to take me for her teacher," Violet said, with a half-suppressed sigh, for she felt that she might be pledging herself to a most trying work; Lulu would dare much more in the way of disregarding her authority than that of her grandfather.

But she was rewarded by Grace's glad exclamation, "Oh, mamma, how good you are! I hope Lulu would never be naughty to you. How could she if you save her from being sent away?"

"I think Lulu wants to be good," Violet said gently; "but she finds her naturally quick temper very hard to govern."

"But she always grows sorry very soon," Grace remarked in a deprecating tone.

"Yes, dear, so she does. She is a dear child, as her father says, and one cannot help loving her in spite of her faults."

"Thank you, darling mamma, for saying that!" Grace exclaimed, throwing her arms round Violet's neck and kissing her cheek. "May I tell Lulu that you will teach her if Grandpa Dinsmore will not?"

"No, Gracie," Violet answered, with grave look and tone; "it will do her good, I think, to fear for a while that she may lose the privileges she enjoys here by not valuing them enough to make good use of them, or by indulging in improper behavior toward those whom her father has placed over her, and who are in every way worthy of her respect and obedience."

"Yes, mamma," Grace responded submissively.

"Where is Lulu?" Violet asked.

"I don't know, mamma. Oh yes, I see her coming up the avenue," she corrected herself, as she glanced from a window. "She's been taking a walk, I s'pose."