"I drink
So deep of grief, that he must only think,
Not dare to speak, that would express my woe:
Small rivers murmur, deep gulfs silent flow."
MARSTON'S SOPHONIESA.
It was no want of love for his child that had kept Mr. Dinsmore from at
once obeying Adelaide's summons. He had left the place where she supposed
him to be, and thus it happened that her letters did not reach him nearly
so soon as she had expected.
But when at length they were put into his hands, and he read of Elsie's
entreaty that he would come to her, and saw by the date how long she had
been ill, his distress and alarm were most excessive, and within an hour
he had set out on his return, travelling night and day with the greatest
possible despatch.
Strangers wondered at the young, fine-looking man, who seemed in such
desperate haste to reach the end of his journey--sat half the time with
his watch in his hand, and looked so despairingly wretched whenever the
train stopped for a moment.
Elsie was indeed, as Adelaide had said, the very idol of his heart;
and at times he suffered but little less than she did; but his will was
stronger even than his love, and he had fondly hoped that this separation
from him would produce the change in her which he so much desired; and
had thus far persuaded himself that he was only using the legitimate
authority of a parent, and therefore acting quite right; and, in fact,
with the truest kindness, because, as he reasoned, she would be happier
all her life if once relieved from the supposed necessity of conforming
to rules so strict and unbending. But suddenly his eyes seemed to have
been opened to see his conduct in a new light, and he called himself a
brute, a monster, a cruel persecutor, and longed to annihilate time and
space, that he might clasp his child in his arms, tell her how dearly he
loved her, and assure her that never again would he require her to do
aught against her conscience.
Again and again he took out his sister's letters and read and re-read
them, vainly trying to assure himself that there was no danger; that she
_could_ not be so very ill. "She is so young," he said to himself, "and
has always been healthy, it _cannot_ be that she will die." He started
and shuddered at the word. "Oh, no! it is impossible!" he mentally
exclaimed. "God is too merciful to send me so terrible an affliction."
He had not received Adelaide's last, and was therefore quite unprepared
to find his child so near the borders of the grave.
It was early on the morning of the day after her fearful relapse, that a
carriage drove rapidly up the avenue, and Horace Dinsmore looked from its
window, half expecting to see again the little graceful figure that had
been wont to stand upon the steps of the portico, ready to greet his
arrival with such outgushings of joy and love.
But, "Pshaw!" he exclaimed to himself, "of course she is not yet able to
leave her room; but my return will soon set her up again--the darling! My
poor little pet!" he added, with a sigh, as memory brought her vividly
before him as he had last seen her, and recalled her sorrowful, pleading
looks and words; "my poor darling, you shall have all the love and
caresses now that your heart can desire." And he sprang out, glancing up
at the windows above, to see if she were not looking down at him; but she
was not to be seen; yet it did not strike him as strange that all the
shutters were closed, since it was the east side of the house, and a warm
summer's sun was shining full upon them.
A servant met him at the door, looking grave and sad, but Mr. Dinsmore
waited not to ask any questions, and merely giving the man a nod,
sprang up the stairs, and hurried to his daughter's room, all dusty
and travel-stained as he was.
He heard her laugh as he reached the door. "Ah! she must be a great deal
better; she will soon be quite well again, now that I have come," he
murmured to himself, with a smile, as he pushed it open.
But alas! what a sight met his eye. The doctor, Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide,
and Chloe, all grouped about the bed, where lay his little daughter,
tossing about and raving in the wildest delirium; now shrieking with
fear, now laughing an unnatural, hysterical laugh, and so changed that
no one could have recognized her; the little face so thin, the beautiful
hair of which he had been so proud all gone, the eyes sunken deep in
her head, and their soft light changed to the glare of insanity. Could it
be Elsie, his own beautiful little Elsie? He could scarcely believe it,
and a sickening feeling of horror and remorse crept over him.
No one seemed aware of his entrance, for all eyes were fixed upon the
little sufferer. But as he drew near the bed, with a heart too full for
speech, Elsie's eye fell upon him, and with a wild shriek of mortal
terror, she clung to her aunt, crying out, "Oh, save me! save me! he's
coming to take me away to the Inquisition! Go away! go away!" and she
looked at him with a countenance so full of fear and horror, that the
doctor hastily took him by the arm to lead him away.
But Mr. Dinsmore resisted.
"Elsie! my daughter! it is I! your own father, who loves you dearly!" he
said in tones of the keenest anguish, as he bent over her, and tried to
take her hand. But she snatched it away, and clung to her aunt again,
hiding her face, and shuddering with fear.
Mr. Dinsmore groaned aloud, and no longer resisted the physician's
efforts to lead him from the room. "It is the delirium of _fever_," Dr.
Barton said, in answer to the father's agonized look of inquiry; "she
will recover her reason--if she lives."
The last words were added in a lower, quicker tone.
Mr. Dinsmore covered his face, and uttered a groan of agony.
"Doctor, is there _no_ hope?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Do you wish me to tell you precisely what I think?" asked the physician.
"I do! I do! let me know the worst!" was the quick, passionate rejoinder.
"Then, Mr. Dinsmore, I will be frank with you. Had you returned one week
ago, I think she _might_ have been saved; _possibly_, even had you been
here yesterday morning, while she was still in possession of her reason;
but now, I see not one ray of hope. I never knew one so low to recover."
He started, as Mr. Dinsmore raised his face again, so pale, so haggard,
so grief-stricken had it become in that one moment.
"Doctor," he said in a hollow, broken voice, "save my child, and you may
take all I am worth. I cannot live without her."
"I will do all I can," replied the physician in a tone of deep
compassion, "but the Great Physician alone can save her. We must look
to him."
"Doctor," said Mr. Dinsmore hoarsely, "if that child dies, I must go to
my grave with the brand of Cain upon me, for I have killed her by my
cruelty; and oh! doctor, she is the very light of my eyes--the joy of
my heart! How _can_ I give her up? Save her, doctor, and you will be
entitled to my everlasting gratitude."
"Surely, my dear sir, you are reproaching yourself unjustly," said the
physician soothingly, replying to the first part of Mr. Dinsmore's
remark. "I have heard you spoken of as a very fond father, and have
formed the same opinion from my own observation, and your little girl's
evident affection for you."
"And I _was_, but in _one_ respect. I insisted upon obedience, even when
my commands came in collision with her conscientious scruples; and she
was firm; she had the spirit of a martyr--and I was very severe in my
efforts to subdue what I called wilfulness and obstinacy," said the
distracted father in a voice often, scarcely audible from emotion. "I
thought I was right, but now I see that I was fearfully wrong."
"There is _life_ yet, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked the doctor compassionately;
"and though human skill can do no more, he who raised the dead child of
the ruler of the synagogue, and restored the son of the widow of Nain to
her arms, can give back your child to your embrace; let me entreat you to
go to _him_, my dear sir. And now I must return to my patient. I fear it
will be necessary for you to keep out of sight until there is some
change, as your presence seems to excite her so much. But do not let that
distress you," he added kindly, as he noticed an expression of the
keenest anguish sweep over Mr. Dinsmore's features; "it is a common thing
in such cases for them to turn away from the very one they love best when
in health."
Mr. Dinsmore replied only by a convulsive grasp of the friendly hand
held out to him, and hurrying away to his own apartments, shut himself
up there to give way to his bitter grief and remorse where no human eye
could see him.
For hours he paced backward and forward, weeping and groaning in such
mental agony as he had never known before.
His usual fastidious neatness in person and dress was entirely forgotten,
and it never once occurred to his recollection that he had been
travelling for several days and nights in succession, through heat and
dust, without making any change in his clothing. And he was equally
unconscious that he had passed many hours without tasting any food.
The breakfast-bell rang, but he paid no heed to the summons. Then John,
his faithful servant, knocked at his door, but was refused admittance,
and went sorrowfully back to the kitchen with the waiter of tempting
viands he had so carefully prepared, hoping to induce his master to eat.
But Horace Dinsmore could not stay away from his child while she yet
lived; and though he might not watch by her bed of suffering, nor clasp
her little form in his arms, as he longed to do, he must be where he
could hear the sound of that voice, so soon, alas! to be hushed in death.
He entered the room noiselessly, and took his station in a distant
corner, where she could not possibly see him.
She was moaning, as if in pain, and the sound went to his very heart.
Sinking down upon a seat, he bowed his head upon his hands, and struggled
to suppress his emotion, increased tenfold by the words which the next
instant fell upon his ear, spoken in his little daughter's own sweet
voice.
"Yes, mamma; yes," she said, "I am coming! Take me to Jesus."
Then, in a pitiful, wailing tone, "I'm _all alone_! There's nobody to
love me. Oh, papa, kiss me just once! I will be good; but I must love
Jesus best, and obey him always."
He rose hastily, as if to go to her, but the doctor shook his head, and
he sank into his seat again with a deep groan.
"Oh, papa!" she shrieked, as if in mortal terror, "don't send me there!
they will kill me! Oh, papa, have mercy on your own little daughter!"
It was only by the strongest effort of his will that he could keep his
seat.
But Adelaide was speaking soothingly to her.
"Darling," she said, "your papa loves you; he will not send you away."
And Elsie answered, in her natural tone, "But I'm going to mamma. Dear
Aunt Adelaide, comfort my poor papa when I am gone."
Her father started, and trembled between hope and fear. Surely she was
talking rationally now; but ah! those ominous words! Was she indeed about
to leave him, and go to her mother?
But she was speaking again in trembling, tearful tones: "He wouldn't kiss
me! he said he never would till I submit; and oh! he never breaks his
word. Oh! papa, papa, will you _never_ love me any more? I love _you_ so
_very_ dearly. You'll kiss me when I'm dying, papa dear, won't you?"
Mr. Dinsmore could bear no more, but starting up he would have approached
the bed, but a warning gesture from the physician prevented him, and he
hurried from the room.
He met Travilla in the hall.
Neither spoke, but Edward wrung his friend's hand convulsively, then
hastily turned away to hide his emotion, while Mr. Dinsmore hurried to
his room, and locked himself in.
He did not come down to dinner, and Adelaide, hearing from the anxious
John how long he had been without food, began to feel seriously alarmed
on his account, and carried up a biscuit and a cup of coffee with her
own hands.
He opened the door at her earnest solicitation, but only shook his head
mournfully, saying that he had no desire for food. She urged him, even
with tears in her eyes, but all in vain; he replied that "he could not
eat; it was impossible."
Adelaide had at first felt inclined to reproach him bitterly for his
long delay in returning home, but he looked so very wretched, so utterly
crushed by the weight of this great sorrow, that she had not the heart to
say one reproachful word, but on the contrary longed to comfort him.
He begged her to sit down and give him a few moments' conversation. He
told her why he had been so long in answering her summons, and how he
had travelled night and day since receiving it; and then he questioned
her closely about the whole course of Elsie's sickness--every change in
her condition, from first to last--all that had been done for her--and
all that she had said and done.
Adelaide told him everything; dwelling particularly on the child's
restless longing for him, her earnest desire to receive his forgiveness
and caress before she died, and her entreaties to her to comfort her
"dear papa" when she was gone. She told him, too, of her last will and
testament, and of the little package which was, after her death, to be
given to him, along with her dearly loved Bible.
He was deeply moved during this recital, sometimes sitting with his head
bowed down, hiding his face in his hands; at others, rising and pacing
the floor, his breast heaving with emotion, and a groan of anguish ever
and anon bursting from his overburdened heart, in spite of the mighty
effort he was evidently making to control himself.
But at last she was done; she had told him all that there was to tell,
and for a few moments both sat silent, Adelaide weeping quietly, and he
striving in vain to be calm.
At length he said, in a husky tone, "Sister Adelaide, I can never thank
you as you deserve for your kindness to her--my precious child."
"Oh, brother!" replied Adelaide, sobbing, "I owe her a debt of gratitude
I can never pay. She has been all my comfort in my great sorrow; she has
taught me the way to heaven, and now she is going before." Then, with a
burst of uncontrollable grief, she exclaimed: "Oh, Elsie! Elsie! darling
child! how _can_ I give you up?"
Mr. Dinsmore hid his face, and his whole frame shook with emotion.
"My punishment is greater than I can bear!" he exclaimed in a voice
choked with grief. "Adelaide, do you not despise and hate me for my
cruelty to that angel-child?"
"My poor brother, I am very sorry for you," she replied, laying her hand
on his arm, while the tears trembled in her eyes.
There was a light tap at the door. It was Doctor Barton. "Mr. Dinsmore,"
he said, "she is begging so piteously for her papa that, perhaps, it
would be well for you to show yourself again; it is just possible she
may recognize you"
Mr. Dinsmore waited for no second bidding, but following the physician
with eager haste, was the next moment at the bedside.
The little girl was moving restlessly about, moaning, "Oh! papa, papa,
will you never come?"
"I am here, darling," he replied in tones of the tenderest affection. "I
_have_ come back to my little girl"
She turned her head to look at him. "No, no," she said, "I want my papa."
"My darling, do you not know me?" he asked in a voice quivering with
emotion.
"No, no, you shall not! I will never do it--_never_. Oh! make him go
away," she shrieked, clinging to Mrs. Travilla, and glaring at him with a
look of the wildest affright, "he has come to torture me because I won't
pray to the Virgin."
"It is quite useless," said the doctor, shaking his head sorrowfully;
"she evidently does not know you."
And the unhappy father turned away and left the room to shut himself up
again alone with his agony and remorse.
No one saw him again that night, and when the maid came to attend to his
room in the morning, she was surprised and alarmed to find that the bed
had not been touched.
Mr. Travilla, who was keeping a sorrowful vigil in the room below, had he
been questioned, could have told that there had been scarcely a cessation
in the sound of the footsteps pacing to and fro over his head. It had
been a night of anguish and heart-searching, such as Horace Dinsmore had
never passed through before. For the first time he saw himself to be what
he really was in the sight of God, a guilty, hell-deserving sinner--lost,
ruined, and undone. He had never believed it before, and the prayers
which he had occasionally offered up had been very much in the spirit of
the Pharisee's, "God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are!"
He had been blessed with a pious mother, who was early taken from him;
yet not too early to have had some influence in forming the character of
her son; and the faint but tender recollection of that mother's prayers
and teachings had proved a safeguard to him in many an hour of
temptation, and had kept him from falling into the open vices of some
of his less scrupulous companions. But he had been very proud of his
morality and his upright life, unstained by any dishonorable act. He had
always thought of himself as quite deserving of the prosperity with which
he had been blessed in the affairs of this world, and just as likely as
any one to be happy in the next.
The news of Elsie's illness had first opened his eyes to the enormity
of his conduct in relation to her; and now, as he thought of her pure
life, her constant anxiety to do right, her deep humility, her love to
Jesus, and steadfast adherence to what she believed to be her duty, her
martyr-like spirit in parting with everything she most esteemed and
valued rather than be guilty of what seemed to others but a very slight
infringement of the law of God--as he thought of all this, and contrasted
it with his own worldly-mindedness and self-righteousness, his utter
neglect of the Saviour, and determined efforts to make his child as
worldly as himself, he shrank back appalled at the picture, and was
constrained to cry out in bitterness of soul: "God be merciful to me, a
sinner."
It was the first _real_ prayer he had ever offered. He would fain have
asked for the life of his child, but dared not; feeling that he had so
utterly abused his trust that he richly deserved to have it taken from
him. The very thought was agony; but he dared not ask to have it
otherwise.
He had given up all hope that she would be spared to him, but pleaded
earnestly that one lucid interval might be granted her, in which he could
tell her of his deep sorrow on account of his severity toward her, and
ask her forgiveness.
He did not go down to breakfast, but Adelaide again brought him some
refreshment, and at length he yielded to her entreaties that he would try
to eat a little.
She set down the salver, and turned away to hide the tears she could not
keep back. Her heart ached for him. She had never seen such a change in a
few hours as had passed over him. He seemed to have grown ten years older
in that one night--he was so pale and haggard--his eyes so sunken in his
head, and there were deep, hard lines of suffering on his brow and around
his mouth.
His meal was soon concluded.
"Adelaide, how is she?" he asked in a voice which he vainly endeavored to
make calm and steady.
"Much the same; there seems to be very little change," replied his
sister, wiping away her tears. Then drawing Elsie's little Bible from her
pocket, she put it into his hand, saying, "I thought it might help to
comfort you, my poor brother;" and with a fresh burst of tears she
hastily left the room and hurried to her own, to spend a few moments in
pleading for him that this heavy affliction might be made the means of
leading him to Christ.
And he--ah! he could not at first trust himself even to look at the
little volume that had been so constantly in his darling's hands, that
it seemed almost a part of herself.
He held it in a close, loving grasp, while his averted eyes were dim with
unshed tears; but at length, passing his hand over them to clear away the
blinding mist, he opened the little book and turned over its pages with
trembling fingers, and a heart swelling with emotion.
There were many texts marked with her pencil, and many pages blistered
with her tears. Oh, what a pang that sight sent to her father's heart! In
some parts these evidences of her frequent and sorrowful perusal were
more numerous than in others. Many of the Psalms, the Lamentations of
Jeremiah, and the books of Job and Isaiah, in the Old Testament, and St.
John's gospel, and the latter part of Hebrews, in the New.
Hour after hour he sat there reading that little book; at first
interested in it only because of its association with her--his loved one;
but at length beginning to feel the importance of its teachings and their
adaptedness to his needs. As he read, his convictions deepened the
inspired declaration that "without holiness no man shall see the Lord,"
and the solemn warning, "See that ye refuse not him that speaketh. For if
they escaped not who refused him that spake on earth, much more shall not
we escape, if we turn away from him that speaketh from heaven," filled
him with fear of the wrath to come; for well he remembered how all his
life he had turned away from the Saviour of sinners, despising that blood
of sprinkling, and rejecting all the offers of mercy; and he trembled
lest he should not escape.
Several times during the day and evening he laid the book aside, and
stole softly into Elsie's room to learn if there had been any change;
but there was none, and at length, quite worn out with fatigue and
sorrow--for he had been several nights without any rest--he threw himself
down on a couch, and fell into a heavy slumber.
About midnight Adelaide came and woke him to say that Elsie had become
calm, the fever had left her, and she had fallen asleep.
"The doctor," she added, "says this is the crisis, and he begins to have
a _little_ hope--very faint, indeed, but still a _hope_--that she may
awake refreshed from this slumber; yet it might be--he is fearful it
is--only the precursor of death."
The last word was almost inaudible.
Mr. Dinsmore trembled with excitement.
"I will go to her," he said in an agitated tone. "She will not know of
my presence, now that she is sleeping, and I may at least have the sad
satisfaction of looking at her dear little face."
But Adelaide shook her head.
"No, no," she replied, "that will never do; for we know not at what
moment she may awake, and the agitation she would probably feel at the
sight of you would be almost certain to prove fatal. Had you not better
remain here? and I will call you the moment she wakes."
Mr. Dinsmore acquiesced with a deep sigh, and she went back to her post.
Hour after hour they sat there--Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide, the doctor, and
poor old Chloe--silent and still as statues, watching that quiet slumber,
straining their ears to catch the faint sound of the gentle breathing--a
sound so low that ever and anon their hearts thrilled with the sudden
fear that it had ceased forever; and one or another, rising noiselessly,
would bend over the little form in speechless alarm, until again they
caught the low, fitful sound.
The first faint streak of dawn was beginning in the eastern sky when
the doctor, who had been bending over her for several minutes, suddenly
laid his finger on her pulse for an instant; then turned to his
fellow-watchers with a look that there was no mistaking.
There was weeping and wailing then in that room, where death-like
stillness had reigned so long.
"Precious, precious child! dear lamb safely gathered into the Saviour's
fold," said Mrs. Travilla in quivering tones, as she gently laid her hand
upon the closed eyes, and straightened the limbs as tenderly as though it
had been a living, breathing form.
"Oh, Elsie! Elsie! dear, _dear_ little Elsie!" cried Adelaide, flinging
herself upon the bed, and pressing her lips to the cold cheek. "I have
only just learned to know your value, and now you are taken from me.
Oh! Elsie, darling, precious one; oh! that I had sooner learned your
worth! that I had done more to make your short life happy!"
Chloe was sobbing at the foot of the bed, "Oh! my child! my child! Oh!
now dis ole heart will break for sure!" while the kind-hearted physician
stood wiping his eyes and sighing deeply.
"Her poor father!" exclaimed Mrs. Travilla at length.
"Yes, yes, I will go to him," said Adelaide quickly. "I promised to call
him the moment she waked, and _now_--oh, _now_, I must tell him she will
never wake again."
"No!" replied Mrs. Travilla, "rather tell him that she has waked in
heaven, and is even now singing the song of the redeemed."
Adelaide turned to Elsie's writing-desk, and taking from it the packet
which the child had directed to be given to her father as soon as she was
gone, she carried it to him.
Her low knock was instantly followed by the opening of the door, for he
had been awaiting her coming in torturing suspense.
She could not look at him, but hastily thrusting the packet into his
hand, turned weeping away.
He well understood the meaning of her silence and her tears, and with a
groan of anguish that Adelaide never could forget, he shut and locked
himself in again; while she hurried to her room to indulge her grief in
solitude, leaving Mrs. Travilla and Chloe to attend to the last sad
offices of love to the dear remains of the little departed one.
The news had quickly spread through the house, and sobs and bitter
weeping were heard in every part of it; for Elsie had been dearly loved
by all.
Chloe was assisting Mrs. Travilla.
Suddenly the lady paused in her work, saying, in an agitated tone,
"Quick! quick! Aunt Chloe, throw open that shutter wide. I thought I felt
a little warmth about the heart, and--yes! yes! I was not mistaken; there
_is_ a slight quivering of the eyelid. Go, Chloe! call the doctor! she
may live yet!"
The doctor was only in the room below, and in a moment was at the
bedside, doing all that could be done to fan into a flame that little
spark of life.
And they were successful. In a few moments those eyes, which they had
thought closed forever to all the beauties of earth, opened again, and
a faint, weak voice asked for water.
The doctor was obliged to banish Chloe from the room, lest the noisy
manifestation of her joy should injure her nursling, yet trembling upon
the very verge of the grave; and as he did so, he cautioned her to
refrain from yet communicating the glad tidings to any one, lest some
sound of their rejoicing might reach the sick-chamber, and disturb the
little sufferer.
And then he and the motherly old lady took their stations at the bedside
once more, watching in perfect silence, and administering every few
moments a little stimulant, for she was weak as a new-born infant, and
only in this way could they keep the flickering flame of life from dying
out again.
It was not until more than an hour had passed in this way, and hope began
to grow stronger in their breasts, until it became almost certainty that
Elsie would live, that they thought of her father and aunt, so entirely
had their attention been engrossed by the critical condition of their
little patient.
It was many minutes after Adelaide left him ere Mr. Dinsmore could think
of anything but the terrible, crushing blow which had fallen upon him,
and his agonized feelings found vent in groans of bitter anguish, fit to
melt a heart of stone; but at length he grew somewhat calmer; and as his
eye fell upon the little packet he remembered that it was her dying gift
to him, and with a deep sigh he took it up and opened it.
It contained his wife's miniature--the same that Elsie had always worn
suspended from her neck--one of the child's glossy ringlets, severed from
her head by her own little hands the day before she was taken ill--and a
letter, directed in her handwriting to himself.
He pressed the lock of hair to his lips, then laid it gently down, and
opened the letter.
"Dear, dear papa," it began, "my heart is very sad to-night! There is
such a weary, aching pain there, that will never be gone till I can lay
my head against your breast, and feel your arms folding me tight, and
your kisses on my cheek. Ah! papa, how often I wish you could just look
down into my heart and see how _full_ of love to you it is! I am always
thinking of you, and longing to be with you. You bade me go and see the
home you have prepared, and I have obeyed you. You say, if I will only be
submissive we will live there, and be so very happy together, and I
cannot tell you how my heart longs for such a life with you in that
lovely, lovely home; nor how happy I could be there, or _anywhere_ with
you, if you would only let me make God's law the rule of my life; but, my
own dear father, if I have found your frown so dreadful, so _hard_ to
bear, how much more terrible would my Heavenly Father's be! Oh, papa,
_that_ would make me wretched indeed! But oh, I cannot _bear_ to think of
being sent away from you amongst strangers! Dear, _dear_ papa, will you
not spare your little daughter this trial? I will try to be so very good
and obedient in everything that my conscience will allow. I am so sad,
papa, so very sad, as if something terrible was coming, and my head feels
strangely. I fear I am going to be ill, perhaps to die! Oh, papa, will I
never see you again? I want to ask you to forgive me for all the naughty
thoughts and feelings I have ever had towards you. I think I have never
disobeyed you in _deed_, papa--except the few times you have known of,
when I forgot, or thought you bade me break God's law--but twice I have
rebelled in my heart. Once when you took Miss Rose's letter from me, and
again when mammy told me you had said she must go away. It was only for a
little while each time, papa, but it was very wicked, and I am very,
_very_ sorry; will you please forgive me? and I will try never to indulge
such wicked feelings again."
The paper was blistered with Elsie's tears, and _other_ tears were
falling thick and fast upon it now.
"_She_ to ask forgiveness of me, for a momentary feeling of indignation
when I so abused my authority," he groaned. "Oh, my darling! I would give
all I am worth to bring you back for one hour, that I might ask _your_
forgiveness, on my knees."
But there was more of the letter, and he read on:
"Dear papa," she continued, "should I die, and never see you again in
this world, don't ever feel vexed with yourself, and think that you have
been too severe with me. I know you have only done what you had a right
to do--for am I not your own? Oh, I _love_ to belong to you, papa! and
you meant it all to make me good; and I needed it, for I was loving you
_too_ dearly. I was getting away from my Saviour. But when you put me
away from your arms and separated me from my nurse, I had no one to go
to but Jesus, and he drew me closer to him, and I found his love very
sweet and precious; it has been all my comfort in my great sorrow. Dear
papa, when I am gone, and you feel sad and lonely, will not _you_ go to
Jesus, too? I will leave you my dear little Bible, papa. Please read
it for Elsie's sake, and God grant it may comfort you as it has your
little daughter. And, dear papa, try to forget these sad days of our
estrangement, and remember only the time when your little girl was always
on your knee, or by your side. Oh! it breaks my heart to think of those
sweet times, and that they will never come again! Oh, for one kiss, one
caress, one word of love from you! for oh, how _I love_ you, my own dear,
be loved, precious papa!
"Your little daughter,
"ELSIE."
Mr. Dinsmore dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned aloud. It was
his turn now to long, with an _unutterable_ longing, for one caress, one
word of love from those sweet lips that should never speak again. A long
time he sat there, living over again in memory every scene in his life in
which his child had borne a part, and repenting, oh, so bitterly! of
every harsh word he had ever spoken to her, of every act of unjust
severity; and, alas! how many and how cruel they seemed to him now!
Remorse was eating into his very soul, and he would have given worlds
to be able to recall the past.