"Joy! the lost one is restored!!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board."
MRS. HEMANS.
"O remembrance!
Why dost thou open all my wounds again?"
LEE'S THEODOSIUS.
"I am a fool,
To weep at what I am glad of."
SHAKS. TEMPEST.
"But these are tears of joy! to see you thus, has filled
My eyes with more delight than they can hold."
CONGREVE.
Mr. Dinsmore was roused from the painful reverie into which he had
fallen by a light rap on his dressing-room door; and, supposing it to
be some one sent to consult him concerning the necessary arrangements
for the funeral, he rose and opened it at once, showing to the doctor,
who stood there, such a grief-stricken countenance as caused him to
hesitate whether to communicate his glad tidings without some previous
preparation, lest the sudden reaction from such despairing grief to joy
so intense should be too great for the father to bear.
"You wish to speak to me about the--"
Mr. Dinsmore's voice was husky and low, and he paused, unable to finish
his sentence.
"Come in, doctor," he said, "it is very kind in you, and--"
"Mr. Dinsmore," said the doctor, interrupting him, "are you prepared for
good news? can you bear it, my dear sir?"
Mr. Dinsmore caught at the furniture for support, and gasped for breath.
"What is it?" he asked hoarsely.
"_Good_ news, I said," Dr. Barton hastened to say, as he sprang to his
side to prevent him from falling. "Your child yet lives, and though her
life still hangs by a thread, the crisis is past, and I have some hope
that she may recover."
"Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed the father, sinking into a seat; and
burying his face in his hands, he sobbed aloud.
The doctor went out and closed the door softly; and Horace Dinsmore,
falling upon his knees, poured out his thanksgivings, and then and there
consecrated himself, with all his talents and possessions, to the service
of that God who had so mercifully spared to him his heart's best
treasure.
Adelaide's joy and thankfulness were scarcely less than his, when to her,
also, the glad and wondrous tidings were communicated. And Mr. Travilla
and his mother shared their happiness, as they had shared their sorrow.
Yet they all rejoiced with trembling, for that little life was still for
many days trembling in the balance; and to the father's anxiety was also
added the heavy trial of being excluded from her room.
The physician had early informed him that it would be risking her life
for him to enter her presence until she should herself inquire for him,
as they could not tell how great might be the agitation it would cause
her. And so he waited, day after day, hoping for the summons, but
constantly doomed to disappointment; for even after she had become strong
enough to look about her, and ask questions, and to notice her friends
with a gentle smile, and a word of thanks to each, several days passed
away, and she had neither inquired for him nor even once so much as
mentioned his name.
It seemed passing strange, and the thought that perhaps his cruelty had
so estranged her from him that she no longer cared for his presence or
his love, caused him many a bitter pang, and at times rendered him so
desperate that, but for the doctor's repeated warnings, he would have
ended this torturing suspense by going to her, and begging to hear from
her own lips whether she had indeed ceased to love him.
Adelaide tried to comfort and encourage him to wait patiently, but
she, too, thought it very strange, and began to have vague fears that
something was wrong with her little niece.
She wondered that Dr. Barton treated the matter so lightly.
"But, then," thought she, "he has no idea how strongly the child was
attached to her father, and therefore her strange silence on the subject
does not strike him as it does us. I will ask if I may not venture to
mention Horace to her."
But when she put the question, the doctor shook his head.
"No," he said; "better let her broach the subject herself; it will be
much the safer plan."
Adelaide reluctantly acquiesced in his decision, for she was growing
almost as impatient as her brother. But fortunately she was not kept
much longer in suspense.
The next day Elsie, who had been lying for some time wide awake, but
without speaking, suddenly asked: "Aunt Adelaide, have you heard from
Miss Allison since she went away?"
"Yes, dear, a number of times," replied her aunt, much surprised at the
question; "once since you were taken sick, and she was very sorry to hear
of your illness."
"Dear Miss Rose, how I want to see her," murmured the little girl
musingly. "Aunt Adelaide," she asked quickly, "has there been any letter
from papa since I have been sick?"
"Yes, dear," said Adelaide, beginning to tremble a little; "one, but it
was written before he heard of your illness."
"Did he say when he would sail for America, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked
eagerly.
"No, dear," replied her aunt, becoming still more alarmed, for she feared
the child was losing her reason.
"Oh, Aunt Adelaide, do you think he will _ever_ come home? Shall I ever
see him? And do you think he will love me?" moaned the little girl.
"I am sure he _does_ love you, darling, for indeed he mentions you very
affectionately in his letters," Adelaide said, bending down to kiss the
little pale cheek. "Now go to sleep, dear child," she added, "I am afraid
you have been talking quite too much, for you are very weak yet."
Elsie was, in fact, quite exhausted, and closing her eyes, fell asleep
directly.
Then resigning her place to Chloe, Adelaide stole softly from the room,
and seeking her brother, repeated to him all that had just passed between
Elsie and herself. She simply told her story, keeping her doubts and
fears confined to her own breast; but she watched him closely to see
if he shared them.
He listened at first eagerly; then sat with folded arms and head bent
down, so that she could not see his face; then rising up hastily, he
paced the floor to and fro with rapid strides, sighing heavily to
himself.
"Oh, Adelaide! Adelaide!" he exclaimed, suddenly pausing before her,
"are _my_ sins thus to be visited on my innocent child? better death a
thousand times!" And sinking shuddering into a seat, he covered his face
with his hands, and groaned aloud.
"Don't be so distressed, dear brother, I am sure it cannot be so bad as
you think," whispered Adelaide, passing her arm around his neck and
kissing him softly. "She looks bright enough, and seems to perfectly
understand all that is said to her."
"Dr. Barton!" announced Pompey, throwing open the door of the parlor
where they were sitting.
Mr. Dinsmore rose hastily to greet him.
"What is the matter? is anything wrong with my patient?" he asked
hurriedly, looking from one to the other, and noticing the signs of
unusual emotion in each face.
"Tell him, Adelaide," entreated her brother, turning away his head to
hide his feelings.
Adelaide repeated her story, not without showing considerable emotion,
though she did not mention the nature of their fears.
"Don't be alarmed," said the physician, cheerfully; "she is _not_ losing
her mind, as I see you both fear; it is simply a failure of memory for
the time being; she has been fearfully ill, and the mind at present
partakes of the weakness of the body, but I hope ere long to see them
both grow strong together.
"Let me see--Miss Allison left, when? a year ago last April, I think you
said, Miss Adelaide, and this is October. Ah! well, the little girl has
only lost about a year and a half from her life, and it is altogether
likely she will recover it; but even supposing she does not, it is no
great matter after all."
Mr. Dinsmore looked unspeakably relieved, and Adelaide hardly less so.
"And this gives you one advantage, Mr. Dinsmore," continued the doctor,
looking smilingly at him; "you can now go to her as soon as Miss Adelaide
has cautiously broken to her the news of your arrival."
When Elsie waked, Adelaide cautiously communicated to her the tidings
that her father had landed in America, in safety and health, and hoped to
be with them in a day or two.
A faint tinge of color came to the little girl's cheek, her eyes
sparkled, and, clasping her little, thin hands together, she exclaimed,
"Oh! can it really be true that I shall see my own dear father? and do
you think he will _love_ me, Aunt Adelaide?"
"Yes, indeed, darling; he _says_ he loves you dearly, and longs to have
you in his arms."
Elsie's eyes filled with happy tears.
"Now you must try to be very calm, darling, and not let the good news
hurt you," said her aunt kindly; "or I am afraid the doctor will say
you are not well enough to see your papa when, he comes."
"I will try to be very quiet," replied the little girl; "but, oh! I
_hope_ he will come soon, and that the doctor will let me see him."
"I shall read to you now, dear," remarked Adelaide, taking up Elsie's
little Bible, which had been returned to her some days before; for she
had asked for it almost as soon as she was able to speak.
Adelaide opened to one of her favorite passages in Isaiah, and read in a
low, quiet tone that soon soothed the little one to sleep.
"Has my papa come?" was her first question on awaking.
"Do you think you are strong enough to see him?" asked Adelaide, smiling.
"Oh, yes, Aunt Adelaide; is he here?" she inquired, beginning to tremble
with agitation.
"I am afraid you are not strong enough yet," said Adelaide doubtfully;
"you are trembling very much."
"Dear Aunt Adelaide, I will try to be very calm; _do_ let me see him,"
she urged beseechingly; "it won't hurt me half so much as to be kept
waiting."
"Yes, Adelaide, she is right. My precious, precious child! they shall
keep us apart no longer." And Elsie was gently raised in her father's
arms, and folded to his beating heart.
She looked up eagerly into his face.
It was full of the tenderest love and pity.
"Papa, papa, my _own_ papa," she murmured, dropping her head upon his
breast.
He held her for some moments, caressing her silently; then laid her
gently down upon her pillow, and sat by her side with one little hand
held fast in his.
She raised her large, soft eyes, all dim with tears, to his face.
"Do you love me, my own papa?" she asked in a voice so low and weak he
could scarcely catch the words.
"Better than life," he said, his voice trembling with emotion; and he
leaned over her, passing his hand caressingly over her face.
"Does my little daughter love me?" he asked.
"Oh, so very, _very_ much," she said, and closing her eyes wearily, she
fell asleep again.
And now Mr. Dinsmore was constantly with his little girl. She could
scarcely bear to have him out of her sight, but clung to him with the
fondest affection, which he fully returned; and he never willingly
left her for an hour. She seemed to have entirely forgotten their first
meeting, and everything which had occurred since, up to the beginning of
her illness, and always talked to her father as though they had but just
begun their acquaintance; and it was with feelings half pleasurable, half
painful, that he listened to her.
It was certainly a relief to have her so unconscious of their
estrangement, and yet such an utter failure of memory distressed him
with fears of permanent and serious injury to her intellect; and thus
it was, with mingled hope and dread, that he looked forward to the
fulfilment of the doctor's prophecy that her memory would return.
She was growing stronger, so that she was able to be moved from her bed
to a couch during the day; and when she was very weary of lying, her
father would take her in his arms and carry her back and forth, or,
seating himself in a large rocking-chair, soothe her to sleep on his
breast, holding her there for hours, never caring for the aching of his
arms, but really enjoying the consciousness that he was adding to her
comfort by suffering a little himself.
Mrs. Travilla had some time since found it absolutely necessary to give
her personal attention to her own household, and Adelaide, quite worn out
with nursing, needed rest; and so, with a little help from Chloe, Mr.
Dinsmore took the whole care of his little girl, mixing and administering
her medicines with his own hand, giving her her food, soothing her in her
hours of restlessness, reading, talking, singing to her--exerting all his
powers for her entertainment, and never weary of waiting upon her. He
watched by her couch night and day; only now and then snatching a few
hours of sleep on a sofa in her room, while the faithful old nurse took
his place by her side.
One day he had been reading to Elsie, while she lay on her sofa.
Presently he closed the book, and looking at her, noticed that her eyes
were fixed upon his face with a troubled expression.
"What is it, dearest?" he asked.
"Papa," she said in a doubtful, hesitating way, "it seems as if I had
seen you before; have I, papa?"
"Why, surely, darling," he answered, trying to laugh, though he trembled
inwardly, "I have been with you for nearly two weeks, and you have seen
me every day."
"No, papa; but I mean before. Did I _dream_ that you gave me a doll once?
Were you ever vexed with me? Oh, papa, help me to think," she said in a
troubled, anxious tone, rubbing her hand across her forehead as she
spoke.
"Don't try to think, darling," he replied cheerfully, as he raised her,
shook up her pillows, and settled her more comfortably on them. "I am not
in the least vexed with you; there is nothing wrong, and I love you very,
_very_ dearly. So shut your eyes and try to go to sleep."
She looked only half satisfied, but closed her eyes as he bade her, and
was soon asleep. She seemed thoughtful and absent all the rest of the
day, every now and then fixing the same troubled, questioning look on
him, and it was quite impossible to interest her in any subject for more
than a few moments at a time.
That night, for the first time, he went to his own room, leaving her
entirely to Chloe's care. He had watched by her after she was put in bed
for the night, until she had fallen asleep; but he left her, feeling a
little anxious, for the same troubled look was on her face, as though
even in sleep memory was reasserting her sway.
When he entered her room again in the morning, although it was still
early, he found her already dressed for the day, in a pretty, loose
wrapper, and laid upon the sofa.
"Good-morning, little daughter; you are quite an early bird to-day, for a
sick one," he said gayly.
But as he drew near, he was surprised and pained to see that she was
trembling very much, and that her eyes were red with weeping.
"What is it, dearest?" he asked, bending over her in tender solicitude;
"what ails my little one?"
"Oh, papa," she said, bursting into tears, "I remember it all now. Are
you angry with me yet? and must I go away from you as soon as--"
But she was unable to finish her sentence.
He had knelt down by her side, and now raising her gently up, and laying
her head against his breast, he kissed her tenderly, saying in a moved
tone, in the beautiful words of Ruth, the Moabitess, "The Lord do so to
me, and more also, if aught but death part me and thee." He paused a
moment, as if unable to proceed; then, in tones tremulous with emotion,
said: "Elsie, my dear, my _darling_ daughter, I have been a very cruel
father to you; I have most shamefully abused my authority; but never
again will I require you to do anything contrary to the teachings of
God's word. Will you forgive your father, dearest, for all he has made
you suffer?"
"Dear papa, don't! oh, _please_ don't say such words to me!" she said;
"I cannot bear to hear them. You had a right to do whatever you pleased
with your own child."
"No, daughter; not to force you to disobey God," he answered with deep
solemnity. "I have learned to look upon you now, not as absolutely my
own, but as belonging first to him, and only lent to me for a time; and
I know that I will have to give an account of my stewardship."
He paused a moment, then went on: "Elsie, darling, your prayers for me
have been answered; your father has learned to know and love Jesus, and
has consecrated to his service the remainder of his days. And now, dear
one, we are travelling the same road at last."
Her happiness was too deep for words--for anything but tears; and putting
her little arms around his neck, she sobbed out her joy and gratitude
upon his breast.
Aunt Chloe had gone down to the kitchen, immediately upon Mr. Dinsmore's
entrance, to prepare Elsie's breakfast, and so they were quite alone. He
held her to his heart for a moment; then kissing away her tears, laid her
gently back upon her pillow again, and took up the Bible, which lay
beside her.
"I have learned to love it almost as well as you do, dearest," he said.
"Shall we read together, as you and Miss Rose used to do long ago?"
Her glad look was answer enough; and opening to one of her favorite
passages, he read it in his deep, rich voice, while she lay listening,
with a full heart, to the dearly loved words, which sounded sweeter
than ever before.
He closed the book. He had taken one of her little hands in his ere he
began to read, and still holding it fast in a close, loving grasp, he
knelt down and prayed.
He thanked God for their spared lives, and especially for the recovery of
his dear little one, who had so lately been tottering upon the very verge
of the grave--and his voice trembled with emotion as he alluded to that
time of trial--and confessed that it was undeserved mercy to him, for he
had been most unfaithful to his trust. And then he asked for grace and
wisdom to guide and guard her, and train her up aright, both by precept
and example. He confessed that he had been all his days a wanderer from
the right path, and that if left to himself he never would have sought
it; but thanked God that he had been led by the gracious influences of
the Holy Spirit to turn his feet into that straight and narrow way; and
he prayed that he might be kept from ever turning aside again into the
broad road, and that he and his little girl might now walk hand in hand
together on their journey to the celestial city.
Elsie's heart swelled with emotion, and glad tears rained down her
cheeks, as thus, for the first time, she heard her father's voice in
prayer. It was the happiest hour she had ever known.
"Take me, papa, please," she begged, holding out her hands to him, as he
rose from his knees, and drawing his chair close to her couch sat down by
her side.
He took her in his arms, and she laid her head on his breast again,
saying, "I am _so_ happy, so _very_ happy! Dear papa, it is worth all
the sickness and everything else that I have suffered."
He only answered with a kiss.
"Will you read and pray with me every morning, papa?" she asked,
"Yes, darling," he said, "and when we get into our own home we will call
in the servants morning and evening, and have family worship. Shall you
like that?"
"_Very_ much, papa! Oh, how nice it will be! and will we go _soon_ to our
own home, papa?" she asked eagerly.
"Just as soon as you are well enough to be moved, dearest. But here is
Aunt Chloe with your breakfast, so now we must stop talking, and let you
eat."
"May I talk a little more now, papa?" she asked, when she had done
eating.
"Yes, a little, if it is anything of importance," he answered smilingly.
"I wanted to say that I think our new home is very, very lovely, and that
I think we shall be _so_ happy there. Dear papa, you were so very kind to
furnish those pretty rooms for me! thank you _very_ much," she said,
pressing his hand to her lips. "I will try to be so good and obedient
that you will never regret having spent so much money, and taken so much
trouble for me."
"I know you will, daughter; you have always been a dutiful child," he
said tenderly, "and I shall never regret anything that adds to your
happiness."
"And will you do all that you said in that letter, papa? will you teach
me yourself?" she asked eagerly.
"If you wish it, my pet; but if you prefer a governess, I will try to
get one who will be more kind and patient than Miss Day. One thing is
certain, _she_ shall never teach you again."
"Oh, no, papa, please teach me yourself. I will try to be very good, and
not give you much trouble," she said coaxingly.
"I will," he said with a smile. "The doctor thinks that in a day or two
you may be able to take a short ride, and I hope it will not be very
long before we will be in our own home. Now I am going to wrap you up,
and carry you to my dressing-room to spend the day; for I know you are
tired of this room."
"How pleasant!" she exclaimed; "how kind you are to think of it, papa! I
feel as glad as I used to when I was going to take a long ride on my
pony."
He smiled on her a pleased, affectionate smile, and bade Chloe go and see
if the room was in order for them.
Chloe returned almost immediately to say that all was in readiness; and
Elsie was then raised in her father's strong arms, and borne quickly
through the hall and into the dressing-room, where she was laid upon a
sofa, and propped up with pillows. She looked very comfortable; and very
glad she was to have a little change of scene, after her long confinement
to one room.
Just as she was fairly settled in her new quarters, the breakfast-bell
rang, and her father left her in Chloe's care for a few moments, while he
went down to take his meal.
"I have brought you a visitor, Elsie," he said when he returned.
She looked up, and, to her surprise, saw her grandfather standing near
the door.
He came forward then, and taking the little, thin hand she held out to
him, he stooped and kissed her cheek.
"I am sorry to see you looking so ill, my dear," he said, not without a
touch of feeling in his tone--"but I hope you will get well very fast
now."
"Yes, grandpa, thank you; I am a great deal better than I was," she
answered, with a tear in her eye; for it was the first caress she ever
remembered having received from him, and she felt quite touched.
"Have the others come, grandpa?" she asked.
"Yes, my dear, they are all at home now, and I think Lora will be coming
to speak to you presently, she has been quite anxious to see you."
"Don't let her come until afternoon, father? if you please," said his
son, looking anxiously at his little girl. "Elsie cannot bear much yet,
and I see she is beginning to look exhausted already." And he laid his
finger on her pulse.
"I shall caution her on the subject," replied his father, turning to
leave the room. Then to Elsie, "You had better go to sleep now, child!
sleep and eat all you can, and get strong fast."
"Yes, sir," she said faintly, closing her eyes with a weary look.
Her father placed her more comfortably on the pillows, smoothed the
cover, closed the blinds to shut out the sunlight, and sat down to
watch her while she slept.
It was a long, deep sleep, for she was quite worn out by the excitement
of the morning; the dinner-hour had passed, and still she slumbered on,
and he began to grow uneasy. He was leaning over her, with his finger on
her slender wrist, watching her breathing and counting her pulse, when
she opened her eyes, and looking up lovingly into his face, said "Dear
papa, I feel so much better."
"I am very glad, daughter," he replied; "you have had a long sleep; and
now I will take you on my knee, and Aunt Chloe will bring up your
dinner."
Elsie's appetite was poor, and her father spared neither trouble nor
expense in procuring her every dainty that could be thought of which was
at all suited to her state of health, and he was delighted when he could
tempt her to eat with tolerable heartiness. She seemed to enjoy her
dinner, and he watched her with intense pleasure.
"Can I see Lora now, papa?" she asked, when Chloe had removed the dishes.
"Yes," he said. "Aunt Chloe, you may tell Miss Lora that we are ready to
receive her now."
Lora came in quite gay and full of spirits; but when she caught sight of
Elsie, lying so pale and languid in her father's arms, she had hard work
to keep from bursting into tears, and could scarcely command her voice to
speak.
"Dear Lora, I am so glad to see you," said the little girl, holding out
her small, thin hand.
Lora took it and kissed it, saying, in a tremulous tone, "How ill you
look!"
Elsie held up her face, and Lora stooped and kissed her lips; then
bursting into tears and sobs, she ran out of the room.
"Oh, Adelaide!" she cried, rushing into her sister's room, "how she is
changed! I should never have known her! Oh! do you think she can ever
get well?"
"If you had seen her two or three weeks ago, you would be quite
encouraged by her appearance now," replied her sister. "The doctor
considers her out of danger now, though he says she must have careful
nursing; and that I assure you she gets from her father. He seems to
feel that he can never do enough for her, and won't let me share the
labor at all, although I would often be very glad to do it."
"He _ought_ to do all he can for her! he would be a _brute_ if he
didn't, for it was all his doing, her being so ill!" exclaimed Lora
indignantly. "No, no; I ought not to say that," she added, correcting
herself immediately, "for we were _all_ unkind to her; I as well as the
rest. Oh, Adelaide! what a bitter thought that was to me when I heard she
was dying! I never realized before how lovely, and how very different
from all the rest of us she was."
"Yes, poor darling! she has had a hard life amongst us," replied
Adelaide, sighing, while the tears rose to her eyes. "You can never know,
Lora, what an agonizing thought it was at the moment when I believed that
she had left us forever. I would have given worlds to have been able to
live the last six years over again. But Horace--oh, Lora! I don't believe
there was a more wretched being on the face of the earth than he! I was
very angry with him at first, but when I saw how utterly crushed and
heartbroken he was, I couldn't say one word."
Adelaide was crying now in good earnest, as well as Lora.
Presently Lora asked for a full account of Elsie's illness, which
Adelaide was beginning to give, when a servant came to say that Elsie
wanted to see her; so, with a promise to Lora to finish her story another
time, she hastened to obey the summons.
She found the little girl still lying languidly in her father's arms.
"Dear Aunt Adelaide," she said, "I wanted to see you; you haven't been in
to-day to look at your little patient."
Adelaide smiled, and patted her cheek.
"Yes, my dear," she said, "I have been in twice, but found you sleeping
both times, and your father keeping guard over you, like a tiger watching
his cub."
"No, no, Aunt Adelaide; papa isn't a bit like a tiger," said Elsie,
passing her small, white hand caressingly over his face. "You mustn't
say that."
"I don't know," replied Adelaide, laughing and shaking her head; "I think
anybody who should be daring enough to disturb your slumbers would find
there was considerable of the tiger in him."
Elsie looked up into her father's face as if expecting him to deny the
charge.
"Never mind," said he, smiling; "Aunt Adelaide is only trying to tease us
a little."
A servant came in and whispered something to Adelaide.
"Mr. and Mrs. Travilla," she said, turning to her brother; "is Elsie able
to see them?"
"Oh, yes, papa, please," begged the little girl in a coaxing tone.
"Well, then, for a few moments, I suppose," he answered rather
doubtfully; and Adelaide went down and brought them up.
Elsie was very glad to see them; but seeing that she looked weak and
weary they did not stay long, but soon took an affectionate leave of her,
expressing the hope that it would not be many weeks before she would be
able to pay a visit to Ion.
Her father promised to take her to spend a day there as soon as she was
well enough, and then they went away.
Elsie's strength returned very slowly, and she had many trying hours of
weakness and nervous prostration to endure. She was almost always very
patient, but on a few rare occasions, when suffering more than usual,
there was a slight peevishness in her tone. Once it was to her father she
was speaking, and the instant she had done so, she looked up at him with
eyes brimful of tears, expecting a stern rebuke, or, at the very least, a
look of great displeasure.
But he did not seem to have heard her, and only busied himself in trying
to make her more comfortable; and when she seemed to feel easier again,
he kissed her tenderly, saying softly: "My poor little one! papa knows
she suffers a great deal, and feels very sorry for her. Are you better
now, dearest?"
"Yes, papa, thank you," she answered, the tears coming into her eyes
again. "I don't know what makes me so cross; you are very good not to
scold me."
"I think my little girl is very patient," he said, caressing her again;
"and if she were not, I couldn't have the heart to _scold_ her after all
she has suffered. Shall I sing to you now?"
"Yes, papa; please sing 'I want to be like Jesus.' Oh, I _do_ want to be
like him! and then I should never even _feel_ impatient."
He did as she requested, singing in a low, soothing tone that soon lulled
her to sleep. He was an indefatigable nurse, never weary, never in the
least impatient, and nothing that skill and kindness could do for the
comfort and recovery of his little daughter was left undone. He carried
her in his arms from room to room; and then, as she grew stronger, down
into the garden. Then he sent for a garden chair, in which he drew her
about the gardens with his own hands; or if he called a servant to do it,
he walked by her side, doing all he could to amuse her, and when she was
ready to be carried indoors again, no one was allowed to touch her but
himself. At last she was able to take short and easy rides in the
carriage--not more than a quarter of a mile at first, for he was very
much afraid of trying her strength too far--but gradually they were
lengthened, as she seemed able to bear it.
One day he was unusually eager to get her into the carriage, and after
they had started, instead of calling her attention to the scenery, as he
often did, he began relating a story which interested her so much that
she did not notice in what direction they were travelling until the
carriage stopped, the foot-man threw open the door, and her father,
breaking off in the middle of a sentence, sprang out hastily, lifted her
in his arms, and carried her into the house.
She did not know where she was until he had laid her on a sofa, and,
giving her a rapturous kiss, exclaimed--
"Welcome home, my darling! welcome to your father's house."
Then she looked up and saw that she was indeed in the dear home he had
prepared for her months before.
She was too glad to speak a word, or do anything but gaze about her
with eyes brimming over with delight; while her father took off her
bonnet and shawl, and setting her on her feet, led her across the room to
an easy-chair, where he seated her in state.
He then threw open a door, and there was another pleasant surprise; for
who but her old friend, Mrs. Murray, should rush in and take her in her
arms, kissing her and crying over her.
"Dear, _dear_ bairn," she exclaimed, "you are looking pale and ill, but
it does my auld heart gude to see your winsome wee face once more. I hope
it will soon grow as round and rosy as ever, now that you've won to your
ain home at last. But where, darling, are all your bonny curls?" she
asked suddenly.
"In the drawer, in my room at grandpa's," replied the little girl with a
faint smile. "They had to be cut off when I was so sick. You were not
vexed, papa?" she asked, raising her eyes timidly to his face.
"No, darling, not _vexed_ certainly, though very sorry indeed that it was
necessary," he said in a kind, gentle tone, passing his hand caressingly
over her head.
"Ah, well," remarked Mrs. Murray cheerfully, "we winna fret about it;
it will soon grow again, and these little, soft rings of hair are very
pretty, too."
"I thought you were in Scotland, Mrs. Murray; when did you come back?"
asked the little girl.
"I came to this place only yesterday, darling; but it is about a week
since I landed in America."
"I am so glad to see you, dear Mrs. Murray," Elsie said, holding fast to
her hand, and looking lovingly into her face. "I haven't forgotten any
of the good things you taught me." Then turning to her father, she said,
very earnestly, "Papa, you won't need now to have me grow up for a long
while, because Mrs. Murray is such an excellent housekeeper."
He smiled and patted her cheek, saying pleasantly, "No, dear, I shall
keep you a little girl as long as ever I can; and give Mrs. Murray plenty
of time to make a good housekeeper of you."
"At what hour will you have dinner, sir?" asked the old lady, turning to
leave the room.
"At one, if you please," he said, looking at his watch. "I want Elsie to
eat with me, and it must be early, on her account."
Elsie's little face was quite bright with pleasure. "I am so glad, papa,"
she said, "it will be very delightful to dine together in our own house.
May I always dine with you?"
"I hope so," he said, smiling. "I am not fond of eating alone."
They were in Mr. Dinsmore's study, into which Elsie's own little
sitting-room opened.
"Do you feel equal to a walk through your rooms, daughter, or shall I
carry you?" he asked, bending over her.
"I think I will try to walk, papa, if you please," she said, putting her
hand in his.
He led her slowly forward, but her step seemed tottering, and he passed
his arm around her waist, and supported her to the sofa in her own pretty
little boudoir.
Although it was now quite late in the fall, the weather was still
warm and pleasant in that southern clime--flowers were blooming in
the gardens, and doors and windows stood wide open.
Elsie glanced out of the window, and then around the room.
"What a lovely place it is, papa!" she said; "and everything in this dear
little room is so complete, so very pretty. Dear papa, you are very,
_very_ kind to me! I will have to be a very good girl to deserve it all."
"Does it please you, darling? I am very glad," he said, drawing her
closer to him. "I have tried to think of everything that would be useful
to you, or give you pleasure; but if there is anything else you want,
just tell me what it is, and you shall have it."
"Indeed, papa," she said, smiling up at him, "I could never have thought
of half the pretty things that are here already; and I don't believe
there is anything else I could possibly want. Ah! papa, how happy I am
to-day; so very much happier than when I was here before. Then I thought
I should never be happy again in this world. There is your picture. I
cried very much when I looked at it that day, but it does not make me
feel like crying now, and I am so _glad_ to have it. Thank you a thousand
times for giving it to me."
"You are very welcome, darling; you deserve it all, and more than all,"
replied her father tenderly. "And now," he asked, "will you look at the
other rooms, or are you too tired?"
"I want to try the piano first, if you please, papa," she said; "it is so
long since I touched one."
He opened the instrument, and then picked her up and seated her on the
stool, saying, "I am afraid you will find yourself hardly equal to the
exertion; but you may try."
She began a little piece which had always been a favorite of his--he
standing beside her, and supporting her with his arm--but it seemed hard
work; the tiny hands trembled so with weakness and he would not let her
finish.
"You must wait until another day, dearest," he said, taking her in his
arms; "you are not strong enough yet, and I think I will have to _carry_
you through the other rooms, if you are to see them at all. Shall I?"
She assented, laying her head down languidly on his shoulder, and had
very little to say, as he bore her along through the dressing-room, and
into the bed-room beyond.
The bed looked very inviting with its snowy drapery, and he laid her
gently down upon it, saying, "You are too much fatigued to attempt
anything more, and must take a nap now, my pet, to recruit yourself
a little before dinner."
"Don't leave me, papa! _please_ don't!" she exclaimed, half starting up
as he turned toward the door.
"No, dearest," he said, "I am only going to get your shawl to lay over
you, and will be back again in a moment."
He returned almost immediately, but found her already fast asleep.
"Poor darling! she is quite worn out," he murmured, as he spread the
shawl carefully over her. Then taking a book from his pocket, he sat down
by her side, and read until she awoke.
It was the sound of the dinner-bell which had roused her, and as she sat
up looking quite bright and cheerful again, he asked if she thought she
could eat some dinner, and would like to be taken to the dining-room.
She assented, and he carried her there, seated her in an easy-chair,
wheeled it up to the table, and then sat down opposite to her, looking
supremely happy.
The servants were about to uncover the dishes, but motioning them to
wait a moment, Mr. Dinsmore bowed his head over his plate, and asked a
blessing on their food. It sent a glow of happiness to Elsie's little,
pale face, and she loved and respected her father more than ever. She
seemed to enjoy her dinner, and he watched her with a pleased look.
"The change of air has done you good already, I think," he remarked; "you
seem to have a better appetite than you have had since your sickness."
"Yes, papa, I believe everything tastes good because it is home," she
answered, smiling lovingly up at him.
After dinner he held her on his knee a while, chatting pleasantly with
her about their plans for the future; and then, laying her on the sofa
in her pretty boudoir, he brought a book from his library, and read
to her.
It was a very interesting story he had chosen; and he had been reading
for more than an hour, when, happening to look at her he noticed that her
eyes were very bright, and her cheeks flushed, as if with fever. He
suddenly closed the book, and laid his finger on her pulse.
"Oh! papa, please go on," she begged; "I am so much interested."
"No, daughter, your pulse is very quick, and I fear this book is entirely
too exciting for you at present--so I shall not read you any more of it
to-day," he said, laying it aside.
"Oh! papa, I want to hear it so much; do please read a _little_ more, or
else let me have the book myself," she pleaded in a coaxing tone.
"My little daughter must not forget old lessons," he replied very
gravely.
She turned away her head with almost a pout on her lip, and her eyes full
of tears.
He did not reprove her, though, as he once would have done; but seeming
not to notice her ill-humor, exerted himself to soothe and amuse her, by
talking in a cheerful strain of other matters; and in a very few moments
all traces of it had disappeared, and she was answering him in her usual
pleasant tone.
They had both been silent for several minutes, when she said, "Please,
papa, put your head close down to me, I want to say something to you."
He complied, and putting her little arm around his neck, she said, in a
very humble tone, "Dear papa, I was very naughty and cross just now; and
I think I have been cross several times lately; and you have been so good
and kind not to reprove or punish me, as I deserved. Please, papa,
forgive me; I am very sorry, and I will try to be a better girl."
He kissed her very tenderly.
"I do forgive you freely, my little one," he said, "I know it seemed hard
to give up the story just there, but it was for your good, and you must
try always to believe that papa knows best. You are very precious to your
father's heart, Elsie, but I am not going to _spoil_ my little girl
because I love her so dearly; nor because I have been so near losing
her."
His voice trembled as he pronounced the last words, and for a moment
emotion kept him silent. Then he went on again.
"I shall never again bid you do violence to your conscience, my daughter,
but to all the commands which I _do_ lay upon you I shall still expect
and require the same ready and cheerful obedience that I have heretofore.
It is my duty to require, and yours to yield it."
"Yes, papa, I know it is," she said with a little sigh, "but, it is very
difficult sometimes to keep from wanting to have my own way."
"Yes, darling, I know it, for I find it so with myself," replied her
father gently; "but we must, ask God to help us to give up our own wills,
and be satisfied to do and have what we _ought_, rather than what we
would _like_."
"I will, papa," she whispered, hugging him tighter and tighter. "I am so
glad you teach me that."
They were quite quiet again for a little while. She was running her
fingers through his hair.
"Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, "I see two or three white hairs! I am so
sorry! I don't want you to get old. What made these come so soon, papa?"
He did not reply immediately, but, taking her in his arms, held her close
to his heart. It was beating very fast.
Suddenly she seemed to comprehend.
"Was it because you were afraid I was going to die, papa?" she asked.
"Yes, dearest, and because I had reason, to think that my own cruelty had
killed you."
The words were almost inaudible, but she heard them.
"Dear _dear_ papa, how I love you!" she said, putting her arms around his
neck again; "and I am so glad, for your sake, that I did not die."
He pressed her closer and closer, caressing her silently with a heart too
full for words.
They sat thus for some time, but were at length interrupted by the
entrance of Chloe, who had been left behind at Roselands to attend to the
packing and removal of Elsie's clothes, and all her little possessions.
She had finished her work, and her entrance was immediately followed by
that of the men-servants bearing several large trunks and boxes, the
contents of which she proceeded at once to unpack and rearrange in the
new apartments.
Elsie watched this operation with a good deal of interest, occasionally
directing where this or that article should be put; but in the midst of
it all was carried off by her father to the tea-table.
Soon after tea the servants were all called together, and Mr. Dinsmore,
after addressing a few words to them on the importance of calling upon
God--the blessings promised to those who did, and the curses pronounced
upon those individuals and families who did not--read a chapter from the
Bible and offered up a prayer.
All were solemn and attentive, and all seemed pleased with the
arrangement--for Mr. Dinsmore had told them it was to be the regular
custom of the house, morning and evening--but Elsie, Mrs. Murray, and
Chloe fairly wept for joy and thankfulness.
Elsie begged for another chapter and prayer in the privacy of her own
rooms, and then Chloe undressed her, and her father carried her to her
bed and placed her in it with a loving good-night kiss. And thus ended
the first happy day in her own dear home.