"Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss."
Milton.
The boys took up their oars again, pushed out a little from the shore,
and rowed up stream for a short distance, then turned and went down for
a mile or more, keeping out of the main current all the time, according
to promise.
Elsie felt a trifle timid at first, and a little troubled lest she
had not done quite right in yielding to her cousins' persuasions; but
gradually these disquieting thoughts and feelings passed away, and she
gave herself up to thorough enjoyment of the present pastime.
They chatted, laughed, and sang; dipped their hands in the clear water;
gazed through it at the pebbly bottom, and the fish darting hither and
thither; landed in several places to gather bright autumn leaves; then
re-entered the canoe for another row.
The air was delightful, and most of the way they were pretty well
shaded from the sun by the high bank and its trees and bushes.
The boys did not soon tire with their work, for their load was light;
going down stream required but little use of their oars, and even
rowing up was not very laborious. So the afternoon slipped away before
they knew it.
"I believe the sun is getting low," Cyril said at length, "and we are a
good mile from home. We must turn, Don. What time is it, Elsie?"
Taking out her pretty watch, "Half-past five," she said in some dismay,
"and the air begins to feel a little chilly. Don't you think so?"
"Yes; and it's supper-time. Come, Don, my lad, we must pull lustily."
"Yes, a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull both together," responded
Don gayly, as he bent to his oar.
"We ought to have brought shawls along for you girls," Cyril remarked,
with an anxious glance at his little cousin.
"I'm not cold," said Annis.
"But Elsie is. Here, little coz, let me put this round you," he said,
pulling off his coat; "nobody will see, and I wouldn't have you take a
chill from this expedition for anything in the world."
"But you will be cold," Elsie said, shrinking back, as he would have
put it about her shoulders.
"Not a bit; rowing keeps a fellow warm as toast this time of year," he
returned, with a light laugh: and she made no further resistance.
Nearing the grotto, they saw Aunt Chloe standing at the water's edge,
with a shawl on her arm, looking out anxiously for her nursling.
"O mammy! has papa come?" Elsie called to her.
"No, darlin'; 'spect massa'll be 'long dreckly. But what for my chile
go off in de boat widout a shawl, when de ebenins gits so cool? Ise
'fraid massa be mighty vexed 'bout it. And s'pose you'd got drownded,
honey, what den?"
"Come now, Aunt Chloe, it's all my fault, and if there's to be any
scolding, I'm the one to take it," Cyril said good-humoredly, as he
helped Elsie ashore.
"O mammy! was it naughty in me to go? Do you think papa will be
displeased with me?" the little girl asked in an anxious whisper, while
the nurse was busied in carefully wrapping the shawl about her; Cyril's
coat having been returned with thanks.
"Maybe not. Dere, honey, don't you fret."
"Where was the harm in her going? But you won't tell of her, Aunt
Chloe?" Annis said, as they climbed the steps that led up the bank.
"No, chile, s'pect not; ain't no 'casion no how; massa neber in de
house bery long fo' Miss Elsie tell him all she's been adoin'."
"Shall you tell him, Elsie?" Annis asked, turning to her cousin as they
gained the top of the flight of steps.
"Yes; I can't feel easy till papa knows all about it. I'm afraid I
oughtn't to have gone."
There was a tone of distress in Elsie's voice, and, indeed, she began
to be sorely troubled in prospect of her father's displeasure; for her
mammy's words had caused her to see her conduct in going on the river
in a new light, and she had now scarce a hope that it would meet his
approval. Besides, they were certainly late for supper, and he was
particular in regard to promptness at meals.
They hurried into the house, expecting to find their elders seated
about the table. But there was no one in the dining-room, and though
the table was set, the meal was not spread. The ladies had returned,
but were waiting for the gentlemen, who had not yet come in.
Elsie was not sorry. She hastened up-stairs to be made neat for tea,
and was down again in a few minutes.
Still nothing was to be seen or heard of the huntsmen, and she began to
grow uneasy. Perhaps some accident had happened to her dear papa; maybe
she was to be punished in that way for what she began to look upon as
an act of disobedience or something very near it.
"Aunt Marcia," she said, drawing near to Mrs. Keith, "what do you think
makes them stay so long?"
"I don't know, dear; but nothing serious, I trust. They probably went
farther than they had intended. But don't be anxious; I do not see any
cause for alarm," was the cheerful, kindly answer.
Supper had been delayed a full hour already, and Mrs. Keith decided
that it should wait no longer. "It is not worth while," she said, "for
very likely our gentlemen have supped somewhere on the road."
Elsie was unusually silent, and seemed to have lost her appetite. Her
eyes turned every moment toward the door; her ear was strained to catch
every sound from the street. Oh, what could be keeping her papa?
They left the table, and she stationed herself at a front window to
wait and watch for his coming.
Mildred drew near, passed an arm about the child's waist, and with a
gentle kiss asked, "Why are you so troubled and anxious, dear little
girlie? It is nothing strange that our fathers should be a little late
in getting home to-night."
Then Elsie, laying her head on her cousin's shoulder, whispered in her
sympathizing ear a tearful story of how the afternoon had been spent,
and her fear that she had done wrong in going out in the canoe, and
that perhaps she might be punished by something dreadful happening to
her "dear, dear papa."
"I hardly think it was wrong, dear," Mildred said; "not a very serious
fault, at any rate. And I cannot believe our Heavenly Father would
visit you with such a punishment. He never treats us according to our
deserts. He is 'a God ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to
anger, and of great kindness.'"
"Yes, I know; the Bible tells us that," Elsie returned, wiping away her
tears. "How good he is to me, and to all his creatures; it makes me
ashamed and sorry for all the sin in my heart and life."
Mildred presently began talking of the old days at Viamede and
Roselands, trying thus to help the little girl to forgetfulness of her
anxiety. Elsie grew cheerful and apparently interested in her cousin's
reminiscences of her babyhood; but still her eyes turned every now and
then to the window, and her ears seemed attentive to every sound from
without.
The clock struck eight, and with a sigh she drew out her watch and
compared the two.
"Oh," she said, "why don't they come? I must go to bed in half an hour,
and I do so want to see papa first."
"Do you think he wouldn't let you stay up to wait for him?" asked
Mildred.
"No, cousin, he always insists on my going to bed at the regular hour,
unless he has given me permission to stay up longer."
The half hour was almost gone--only five minutes left--when at last
Elsie's ear caught the sound of a well-known step and voice.
She ran to the door, "Papa, papa! I'm so glad, so _glad_ you've come! I
was so afraid something had happened to you."
"Ah, I knew my little girl would be anxious," he said, bending down to
give her a tender caress. "Well, there was nothing wrong, except that
we went a little farther than we intended; and here we are safe and
sound."
"And both tired and hungry, I dare say," said Mrs. Keith.
"The first, but not the last," returned her husband. "We took our
supper an hour ago, at Ward's."
Mr. Dinsmore sat down and drew Elsie to his side. "Ah, is it so late?"
he said, glancing at the clock. "Just your bed-time, daughter."
"Yes, papa, but--" and with her arm about his neck, her lips to his
ear, she whispered the rest--"I want so much to tell you something.
Mayn't I?"
"Yes; go up now and let Aunt Chloe make you ready for bed; then put on
your dressing-gown and slippers and come to my room. I shall be there
by that time, and we'll have our little talk. I should hardly like to
go to bed without it myself."
Elsie obeyed, and he presently excusing himself, on the plea of
fatigue, for so early a retirement, went to his room, where she found
him waiting for her as he had promised.
"Well, my pet, have you anything particular for papa's ear to-night?"
he asked, lifting her to his knee.
"Yes, papa. But aren't you too tired to hold me?"
"No; it rests me to have my darling in my arms," he answered, caressing
her with his wonted tender fondness.
"Papa, I'm afraid I don't deserve it to-night," she murmured, hanging
her head, while a deep blush suffused her cheek.
"I'm sorry indeed, if that is so," he said gently; "but very glad that
my little daughter never tries to conceal any wrong-doing of her own
from me."
Then he waited for her to speak; he knew there was no need to question
her.
"Papa," she said, so low that he barely caught the words, "I went out
on the river in a canoe, with Annis, this afternoon. Cyril and Don
rowed it."
"And my little girl went without her father's permission?" His tone was
one of grieved surprise.
"But you were not here to give it, papa," she said, bursting into tears.
"A very good and sufficient reason why my daughter should have refused
to go."
"But, papa, I did not know you would object, and I thought you would
not want me to spoil the pleasure of my cousins; and they said I would
if I refused to go."
"I think you certainly knew me well enough to be quite sure, if you had
taken time to consider the question fully, that I would be far from
willing to let you run into danger for the pleasure of others."
"But, papa, Aunt Marcia let's Annis go: and Cyril said there was no
danger."
"Nonsense! Cyril is only a boy; not capable of judging. The current
of the river is very swift and strong. I should not have trusted you
upon it in a canoe with those boys for any consideration, and am truly
thankful that you escaped without accident. But I am not pleased with
you."
"Papa, I am very sorry. Please don't be angry with me," she sobbed,
hiding her face on his shoulder.
He was silent for a moment, then lifting her face, wiped away her
tears with his handkerchief, and kissing her lips, said, "I suppose
the temptation was strong, and as it was not an act of positive
disobedience to orders, I forgive you. But, my little daughter, you
must never do anything of the kind again."
"No, dear papa, I will not," she said, with a sigh of relief. "You are
very kind not to punish me."
"Not kinder to you than to myself; it hurts me, I think, quite as much
as it does you when I have to punish you," he said, with another loving
caress. "Now, darling, bid me good-night and go to your bed."