MILDRED AT ROSELANDS.

Chapter First.

"Prayer ardent opens heaven."

--Young.

It was near noon of a bright warm day early in October. Mrs. Keith was

alone in her pretty sitting-room, busily plying her needle at the open

window looking out upon the river.

Occasionally she lifted her head and sent a quick, admiring glance at

its bright, swiftly-flowing waters and the woods beyond, beautiful and

gorgeous in their rich autumnal robes.

There was a drowsy hum of insects in the air; and mingling with it

the cackle of a rejoicing hen, the crowing of a cock and other rural

sounds; the prattle of childish voices too came pleasantly to her ear,

from the garden behind the house where the little ones were at play,

calling, once and again, a tender, motherly smile to her lips.

Yet a slight cloud of care rested on her usually calm and placid

features and thought seemed very busy in her brain.

It was of Mildred she was thinking. Father and mother both had noticed

with a good deal of anxiety, that the young girl did not recover fully

from the severe strain of the long weeks of nursing that had fallen to

her lot during the past summer.

She was mush paler and thinner than her wont, had frequent headaches

and seemed weak and languid, a very little exertion causing excessive

fatigue.

Only last night they had lain awake an hour or more talking about it,

and consulting together as to what could be done for the "dear child."

They feared the severity of the coming winter would increase her

malady, and wished very much that they could send her away for some

months, or a year, to a milder climate; but the difficulty--apparently

an insuperable one--was to find means.

It took no small amount to feed, clothe and educate such a family as

theirs, and sickness had made this year one of unusual expense.

As the loving mother sat there alone she had turned over in her mind

plan after plan for accomplishing this, which for her child's good, she

so ardently desired to do; but only to reject each in turn as utterly

impracticable.

Aunt Wealthy, she knew, would gladly receive Mildred into her pleasant

home for as long a time as her parents might be willing to spare her;

but still there was the money to be provided for the journey, and

besides a yet milder climate than that of Lansdale was desirable.

But the slight cloud lifted from Mrs. Keith's brow, and a sweet

expression of perfect peace and content took its place as she bethought

of her best Friend and His infinite love and power. He could clear

away all these difficulties and would do so in answer to prayer, if in

His unerring wisdom He saw that it would be for their real good--their

truest happiness.

Her heart went up to him in a silent petition; and then a sweet, glad

song of praise burst half unconsciously from her lips.

As she ceased a rap at the door into the hall--which as well as the

outer one, stood wide open--caught her ear.

She turned her head to see a tall gentleman, a fine looking,

middle-aged man standing there and regarding her with a pleased smile.

"Uncle Dinsmore! is it possible! Oh how glad I am to see you!" she

cried, dropping her work and springing toward him with both hands

extended.

He took them, drew her to him and kissing her affectionately, first on

one cheek, then on the other, said gayly, "I flattered myself you would

be, else I should not have traveled some hundreds of miles for the

express purpose of paying you a visit. Fair and sweet as ever, Marcia!

Time deals more gently with you than is his wont with the most of the

world."

"Ah, I remember you as always given to pretty compliments," she

returned, with a pleased, but half incredulous smile, as she drew

forward the most comfortable chair in the room and made him seat

himself therein, while she relieved him of his hat and cane.

"So I have taken you by surprise?" he said inquiringly and with a

satisfied look.

"I did not even know you were at the North. When did you leave

Roselands? Were they all well? Are any of them with you?"

"One question at a time, Marcia," he said with a good-humored laugh.

"I left home in June, bringing all the family with me as far as

Philadelphia. They are visiting now in eastern Pennsylvania. I went on

to New York a month ago to see Horace off for Europe, then concluded

to come on into Ohio and Indiana, to have a look at this great western

country, your Aunt Wealthy and yourself. I purpose spending a week or

two with you, if quite convenient and agreeable, then to return, taking

Lansdale in my way, and paying a short visit there."

"Convenient and agreeable!" she cried, with a joyous laugh, and glad

tears shining in her eyes, "sunlight was never more welcome, and the

longer you stay, the better. You came by the stage? Where is your

luggage?"

"Yes, by the stage. My valise is--Ah!" half rising from his chair, with

extended hand, as a handsome, intelligent looking lad of fifteen or

sixteen, in working dress, but neat and clean, came in from the hall,

carrying a valise.

"I found this on the porch," he began, but broke off abruptly at sight

of the stranger.

"Rupert, our eldest son," said Mrs. Keith, with a glance full of

motherly pride directed toward the lad. "Rupert, this is Uncle

Dinsmore, your Cousin Horace's father."

The two shook hands warmly, Rupert saying, "I am very glad to see you,

sir, I have heard mother speak of you so often."

The gentleman answering, "Thank you, my boy. Yes, your mother and I are

very old friends, though I am older than she, by a score of years or

more."

"That must be your uncle's, Rupert, take it to the spare room," said

Mrs. Keith, glancing at the valise.

"A fine looking fellow, but all Keith, isn't he, Marcia?" remarked her

uncle, as the lad left the room. Then as Cyril bounded in at another

door, "Ah! this one's a Stanhope! Come and shake hands with your uncle,

my man."

Don and the two little girls were close behind Cyril, and these had

scarcely been introduced, when Mr. Keith came in from his office,

bringing with him Mildred, Zillah and Ada, whom he had met on the way.

Mr. Dinsmore was a stranger to them all, but every one seemed glad that

he had come to visit them, and he was quite charmed with the cordiality

of his reception, and the bright, intelligent faces, and refined

manners of both parents and children.

They made him very welcome, very comfortable, and spared no exertion

for his entertainment.

Being an observant man, he soon discovered that Mildred, toward whom

he felt specially drawn from the first, was ailing, and immediately

proposed taking her home with him to spend the winter in the sunny

South.

This was on the afternoon of the day succeeding that of his arrival, as

he and Mr. and Mrs. Keith sat conversing together in the parlor, the

young people having scattered to their work or play.

The father and mother exchanged glances, each reading in the other's

face a longing desire to accept the invitation for their child, mingled

with the sad conviction that it was impossible to do so.

This Mr. Keith presently put into words, accompanied with warm thanks

for the intended kindness to Mildred.

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Dinsmore, "don't talk of kindness, the obligation

will be on my part; and as to the impossibility, it is all in your

imaginations. I, of course, shall bear all the expense of the journey,

and--No, Marcia, don't interrupt me. I owe it to you, for I can never

repay the kindness you showed your aunt in her last sickness, and to

poor Horace and myself after she was gone. And you owe it to your child

not to refuse for her what is really necessary to her restoration to

health."

"Dear uncle, you are most kind, you must let me say it," said Mrs.

Keith, with tears in her eyes. "I will not deny that the expense is

the greatest obstacle, for the family purse is low at present, and

I will not let my pride stand in the way of the acceptance of your

generous offer, but there are other difficulties. I do not see how I

could get her ready in the few days to which you have limited your

visit here."

"I'll stretch it to a fortnight, then, if that'll answer," he

returned, in a short, quick, determined way, that bespoke him little

used to opposition to his will. "Besides," he went on, "what need of

so much preparation? purchases can be made to much better advantage

in Philadelphia, and sewing done at Roselands, where we have two

accomplished seamstresses among the servants. I've heard Mrs. Dinsmore

boast that one of them can cut and fit, make and trim a dress as well

as any mantuamaker she ever saw."

Mrs. Keith expressed a lively sense of his kindness, but suggested that

in all probability Mrs. Dinsmore found plenty of employment for the two

women in sewing for herself and family.

Her uncle scouted the idea, asserting that they had not enough to do to

keep them out of mischief.

Mrs. Keith was driven from her last refuge of excuse, and truth to

tell was not sorry to have it so. Mr. Keith gave consent, Mildred was

summoned and the plan laid before her to her great astonishment and

delight.

"Oh, Uncle Dinsmore, how kind!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing,

her eyes sparkling. "It seems too good to be true, that I shall see

Roselands, the beautiful place mother has so often described to us!

But no, no, it will never do for me to go and leave mother to bear

the cares and burdens of housekeeping and the children all alone!"

she cried with sudden change of tone. "How could I be so selfish as

to think of it for a single moment. Mother dear, I don't want to go,

indeed I do not."

"But my dear child, I want you to go," Mrs. Keith said, smiling through

unshed tears. "You need rest and change of scene; and though I shall

miss you sadly, I shall enjoy the thought that you are gaining in many

ways, and in the prospect of soon having you at home again."

"Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, "travel is improving, and you can go on with

your studies at Roselands if you fancy doing so: we have an excellent,

thoroughly educated lady as governess, and masters coming from the city

twice a week to give instruction in music and drawing. You shall share

their attentions if you will.

"Come, it is not worth while to raise objections; for I can overrule

them all, and am quite determined to carry my point.

"Mr. Keith," he added, rising and looking about for his hat, "suppose

we take a walk round the town, leaving the ladies to talk over the

necessary arrangements."

The gentlemen went out together, but the next moment Mr. Dinsmore

stepped back again to hand Mrs. Keith a letter, saying, as he did so,

"I owe you an apology, Marcia, for my forgetfulness. Horace entrusted

this to my care and it should have been given you immediately on my

arrival. Au revoir, ladies!" and with a courtly bow he was gone.

Mrs. Keith broke the seal and unfolded the sheet. There was an

enclosure, but she did not look at it until she had read the note,

which she did almost at a glance, for it was plainly written and very

brief.

Dear Marcia.--Excuse a hasty line, as I am going aboard the steamer

which is to carry me to Europe.

"I know my father wants to take Mildred with him on his return to

Roselands. I hope you will let her go, and that you will do me

the great kindness of accepting the enclosed trifle, to be used in

providing her with an outfit such as you may deem suitable. It is a

very small part of the debt I have owed you ever since the death of my

loved mother.

Your affectionate cousin,

Horace Dinsmore."

"The dear generous fellow!" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes:

then as she unfolded the bank note, "A trifle, indeed! Mildred, child,

it is a hundred dollars!" and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"But you will not take it, mother, surely!" said Mildred, her cheeks

flushing hotly; her pride up in arms at once at the thought of coming

under such an obligation, even to a relative.

"My child," said Mrs. Keith, "I could not bear to hurt him as I well

know he would be hurt by a rejection of his kindness. We will accept

it: if not as a gift, as a loan to be repaid some day when we are

able. Another reason why I feel that we ought not to let pride lead

us to refuse this, is that it seems to have come--it and your uncle's

invitation also--so directly in answer to prayer."

She went on to tell Mildred of their anxiety in regard to her, and in

particular of the petitions she had been putting up on her behalf, just

before Mr. Dinsmore's arrival.

"Ah!" she said in conclusion, "how good is our God! He has fulfilled to

me his gracious promise, 'And it shall come to pass, that before they

call, I will answer, and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.'"

A moment's silence, then Mildred said in half tremulous tones, "Oh, it

is a blessed thing to trust in God! I hope my faith will grow to be

as strong as yours, mother, and I hope I am thankful for this money,

but--mother, am I very wicked to feel it something of a trial to have

to take it?"

"I hope not," Mrs. Keith answered, with a smile and a sigh, "I do not

want to see my children too ready to take help from others. I trust

they will always prefer any honest work by which they may earn their

bread, to a life of luxury and ease and dependence. That they will

always remember the command, 'Every man shall bear his own burden' but,

since we are also told to bear one another's burdens, and that it is

more blessed to give than to receive, I must believe there are cases

where it is right, yes, even a duty, to accept some assistance from

those who give freely and gladly, and from their abundance, as I know

Cousin Horace does."

"Well, I must try not to be so selfish as to grudge him his

blessedness," remarked Mildred, playfully, though tears still shone in

her eyes. "But, mother, how are you to do without me?"

"Oh, very nicely! Zillah and Ada are growing very helpful, Annie is no

longer a mere baby, and--why, there is Celestia Ann!" she exclaimed

joyously, suddenly breaking off her sentence, as a casual glance

through a window showed her the tall, muscular figure of their former

and most efficient maid-of-all-work coming in at the gate.

"Oh! if she has only come to stay, I shall feel as if I can be spared,"

cried Mildred, "Mother, how strangely difficulties are being taken out

of the way."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Second.

"'Tis you alone can save, or give my doom."

--Ovid.

Celestia Ann had come to stay if wanted, of which in her secret soul

she had no doubt; want of self-appreciation not being one of her

failings--she knew her own value quite as well as did any one else.

"If you've got a girl, and don't want me," she remarked, upon

announcing her errand, "it don't make no difference; I'm not perticler

about workin' out this fall; if I was there's places enough; though I

am free to own I feel a leetle more at home here than anywheres else,

and set great store by you all."

"We have a girl," said Mrs. Keith, "but she leaves us in another week,

and in the meanwhile, I shall be glad to have two, as Mildred and I

will be very busy with the preparations for her journey."

"Journey! is she goin' off? 'taint on her weddin' trip, is it? I heerd

there was talk of her gettin' married, and I said then I was bound to

have a finger in that pie--makin' the weddin' cake."

"Oh, no, she's quite too young for that yet," Mrs. Keith said, with a

slight smile, "she's only going South on a visit to some relations."

"And I want you to promise to stay and take care of mother till I come

back, Celestia Ann," added Mildred.

"Well, you've got to promise first that you'll not stay forever,"

prudently stipulated Miss Hunsinger. "When do you 'low to come back?"

"Next spring."

"H'm! well, I don't mind engagin' for that length of time, provided my

folks at home keeps well, so's I'm not needed there."

"Then it's a bargain?" queried Mildred joyously.

"Yes, I reckon."

And Celestia Ann hung up her sun-bonnet behind the kitchen door,

and set to work at once with her wonted energy, while Mrs. Keith

and Mildred withdrew to the bedroom of the latter to examine into

the condition of her wardrobe, and consult as to needed repairs and

additions.

They quickly decided that no new dresses should be purchased, and very

little shopping of any kind done until her arrival in Philadelphia, as

she could of course buy to much better advantage there, and learn what

were the prevailing fashions, before having the goods made up.

Mrs. Keith had never made dress a matter of primary importance with

herself or with her children, yet thought it well enough to conform to

the fashions sufficiently to avoid being conspicuous for singularity of

attire.

"We must give thought enough to the matter to decide how our clothes

are to be made," she said, "and it is easier to follow the prevailing

style than to contrive something different for ourselves; provided it

be pretty and becoming; for I think it a duty we owe our friends to

look as well as we can."

And on this principle she was desirous that Mildred's dress should be

entirely suitable to her age and station, handsome and fashionable

enough to ensure her against being an eyesore and annoyance to Mrs.

Dinsmore, whose guest she was to be.

"The fashions are so slow in reaching these western towns that I know

we must be at least a year or two behind," she remarked in a lively

tone, as she turned over and examined Mildred's best dress--a pretty

blue black silk, almost as good as new. "That doesn't trouble me so

long as we are at home; but I don't want you to look outré to our

relations and their friends, because that would be a mortification to

them as well as to yourself. So though this is perfectly good, I think

it will be best to try to match it and have it remodeled."

"Mother," said Mildred, "when it comes to buying dresses for myself how

I shall miss you! I'm afraid I shall make some sad mistakes."

The young girl looked really troubled and anxious as she spoke and her

mother answered in a kindly reassuring tone,

"I am not afraid to trust to your taste or judgment, so you need not

be."

"But I shall not know where to go to find what I want, or whether the

price asked is a fair one."

"Well, my dear child, even these trifling cares and anxieties we may

carry to our kind heavenly Father, feeling sure that so a way will be

provided out of the difficulty. Probably your aunt or uncle, or some

other friend, will go with you."

The mother's tone was so cheerful and confident that Mildred caught her

spirit and grew gay and light-hearted over her preparations.

Although the dressmaking was deferred, there was still enough to be

done in the few days of the allotted time, to keep both mother and

daughter very busy; which was just as well, as it left them no leisure

to grieve over the approaching separation.

The news that she was going so far away and to be absent so long,

created some consternation in the little coterie to which Mildred

belonged.

Claudina Chetwood and Lu Grange declared themselves almost

inconsolable, while Wallace Ormsby was privately of the opinion that

their loss was as nothing compared to his.

Months ago he had decided that life would be a desert without Mildred

to share it with him; but he had never found courage to tell her so,

for he feared the feeling was not reciprocated--that she had only a

friendly liking for him.

He had hoped to win her heart in time, but now the opportunity was to

be taken from him and given to others. It was not a cheerful prospect;

and Mildred was so busy there seemed no chance of getting a word alone

with her.

"My mother tells me you are going away, Mildred, on a long journey

and for a lengthened stay?" Mr. Lord remarked inquiringly, and with

a regretful tone in his voice, as he shook hands with her after the

weekly evening service.

He had been absent from town for a week or two.

"Yes," she returned gayly, putting aside with determination the thought

of the partings that must wrench her heart at the last. "I am all

ready, trunk packed and everything, and expect to start to-morrow

morning."

"Ah, it's unfortunate. We shall miss you sadly. May I--"

But some one called to him from the other side of the room; he was

obliged to turn away without finishing his sentence, and Wallace Ormsby

seized the opportunity to step up and offer his arm to Mildred.

She accepted it and they walked on in silence till they were quite out

of earshot of the rest of the congregation.

Then Wallace opened his lips to speak, but the words he wanted would

not come; he could only stammer out a trite remark about the weather.

"Yes; it's beautiful," said Mildred. "I do hope it will last so, at

least till we reach the Wabash. However, we go in a covered vehicle,

and I suppose will not get wet even if it should rain."

"I wish you weren't going!" cried Wallace impetuously. "No, not that

either; for I think, I hope, the journey will do you good: but--O

Mildred, I cannot bear the thought that you may--that somebody else

will win you away from me. I--I don't presume to say that I have any

right, but I love you dearly, and always shall, and I do think I could

make you happy if you only could return it," he went on speaking fast,

now that he had found his tongue: "O Mildred, do you think you could?"

"I don't know, Wallace," she said, her voice trembling a little; "I

have a very great respect and esteem for you, affection too," she added

with some hesitation, and feeling the hot blood surge over her face at

the words, "but I don't think it's quite the sort you want."

"You love somebody else?" he whispered hoarsely.

"No, no: there is no one I like better than I do you. But we are both

very young and--"

"Perhaps you might learn to like me in time?" he queried eagerly,

tremulously, as one hoping even against hope.

"Yes: though I do _like_ you now: but it ought to be something

stronger, you know, and I couldn't make any promises now, and neither

must you."

"I should be glad to," he said, "for I am perfectly certain I should

never repent."

He bade her good night at the gate, saying he would not make it

good-bye if he might come to see her off in the morning.

"Certainly, Wallace," she said: "you are like one of the family; you

have seemed that to all of us ever since your great kindness to us last

summer."

"Don't speak of it," he answered hastily, "you conferred a great

obligation in allowing me, for it was the greatest pleasure in life to

be permitted to share your burdens."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Third.

"How poor a thing is pride!"--Daniel.

The parting was no slight trial to her who went or those who stayed

behind, particularly the loving, tender mother. But both she and

Mildred bore it bravely, though the heart of the latter almost failed

her as she felt the clinging arms of the little ones about her neck,

heard their sobs and saw their tears; and again as she found herself

clasped to her father's and then to her mother's breast with many a

fond caress and lowbreathed word of farewell and affection.

Wallace wrung her hand with a whispered word of passionate entreaty, "O

Mildred, darling, don't forget me! I'll remember you to the day of my

death."

The weather was fine, the air crisp, cool and bracing, and when the

town and a few miles of prairie had been left behind, their way led

through woods beautiful with all the rich tints of October's most

lavish mood.

Mr. Dinsmore exerted himself to be entertaining and ere long he and

Mildred were chatting and laughing right merrily.

They took dinner at a farm house newly built on a little clearing in

the forest, finding themselves not daintily served, but supplied with

an abundance of good, substantial, well cooked food--bread, butter,

coffee, ham and eggs, and two or three kinds of vegetables, with stewed

dried apple pie for dessert.

After an hour's rest for themselves and horses, they traveled on again,

reaching a little town in time to get their supper and night's lodging

at its tavern, where the fare and accommodations were on a par with

those of the farm-house.

They had found the roads rough: those they passed over the next day

were worse still, mostly corduroy, over the rounded logs of which the

wheels passed with constant jolting, and where one had been displaced

or rotted away, as was occasionally the case, there would be a sudden

descent of, first the fore then the hind wheels, with a violent jerk

that nearly, or quite threw them from their seats.

They reached Delphi on the Wabash, where they were to take a steamboat,

sore, weary and very glad to make the change.

A night at the Delphi hotel, and the next morning they went aboard the

boat which carried them down the Wabash and up the Ohio to Madison;

where they landed again and passed part of a day and night. Embarking

once more in a larger craft, they continued on their way up the Ohio as

far as Portsmouth, whence a stage carried them across the country to

Lansdale.

Miss Stanhope had not received the letter which should have informed

her of their coming. She was sitting alone by the fire, quietly

knitting and thinking, perchance of the dear ones far away in Pleasant

Plains, when the loud and prolonged "Toot! toot!" of a horn, followed

by the roll and rumble of wheels, aroused her from her reverie.

"The evening stage," she said half-aloud, then rose hastily, dropped

her knitting, and hurried to the door; for surely it had stopped at her

gate.

Yes, there it was; a gentleman had alighted and was handing out a lady,

while the guard was at the boot getting out their trunks. She could see

it all plainly by the moonlight, as she threw the door wide open.

"Who can they be?" she asked herself, as she stepped quickly across the

porch and down the garden path, to meet and welcome her unexpected

guests.

The next moment Mildred's arms were about her neck and both were

weeping for joy.

"Dear child, this is a glad surprise!" cried Miss Stanhope, straining

the young girl to her breast. "But where are the rest?"

"Here; I'm the only one, Sister Wealthy," said Mr. Dinsmore, lifting

his hat with one hand, while the other one was held out to her.

"Haven't you a word of welcome for me?"

"Arthur Dinsmore, my brother-in-law!" she cried, taking the hand and

offering him her lips. "I was never more surprised or delighted!

"Come in, come in, both of you. You must be cold, tired and hungry. I

hope you've come to make a long stay. Simon will carry in the trunks,"

she went on rapidly as she seized Mildred's hand and led the way to the

house, half beside herself with the sudden delight of seeing them.

She had many questions to ask, but the comfort of the weary travelers

was the first thing to be attended to. She removed Mildred's wraps with

her own hands, rejoicing over her the while as a mother might over a

lost child restored, and would have done the same by Mr. Dinsmore if

he had waited for her.

She soon had each cosily seated in a comfortable armchair beside the

blazing fire, Simon kindling fires in the spare rooms, and Phillis in

the kitchen, preparing a tempting meal.

"You couldn't be more welcome than you are, brother, or you Mildred, my

dear child," she said, coming back from overseeing all these matters,

"but you might have fared rather better, perhaps, if you had sent me

word that you were coming."

"I wrote from Pleasant Plains," he answered. "The letter has been

either lost or delayed in the mails."

"Ah well, we won't fret about it," she responded cheerily. "I at least

am far too happy to fret about anything," she added, feasting her eyes

upon Mildred's face.

"Dear child, you are worn and thin!" she exclaimed presently, her eyes

filling, "that nursing was far too hard for you. How I wish I could

have saved you from some of it! But you have come to stay all winter

with me and have a good rest, haven't you?"

"No, no, she belongs to me for the winter," interposed Mr. Dinsmore,

before Mildred could open her lips to reply. "If you want her company,

Sister Wealthy, you must even make up your mind to be our guest also.

What is to hinder you from shutting up your house and going with us to

Roselands? I am sure I need not say that we would be delighted to have

you do so."

"You are very kind, brother," she said, giving him an affectionate

look, "but there are reasons why it would not do for me to leave home

for so long a visit. Where is Horace? My dear sister Eva's son. I wish

he had come with you. Poor boy!" and she sighed deeply.

A slight frown gathered on Mr. Dinsmore's brow at that. "He is hardly

a subject for pity," he remarked, "he has just sailed for Europe with

pleasant prospects before him and in apparently excellent spirits."

He looked fixedly at her, then glanced at Mildred, and taking the hint,

she dropped the subject for that time.

She was at no loss for topics of conversation, so eager was she to

learn all that could be told her in regard to the dear ones Mildred

had left behind. Also she felt a lively interest in the family at

Roselands, though they were not actually related to her, being the

children of the present Mrs. Dinsmore, who was the second wife and

successor to Horace's mother.

But finding herself alone with Mr. Dinsmore the next day, Miss Stanhope

said, "You tell me Horace has gone to Europe? Will he be long absent?"

"It is quite uncertain," he answered carelessly, "he may prolong his

stay to a year or more."

"He has his child with him, I hope."

"His child!"

Mr. Dinsmore seemed much annoyed.

"Certainly not," he said after a moment's disturbed pause; "what

could he do with her? But I really hoped you knew nothing about that

ridiculous affair. Pray how did you learn it?"

"Horace told Marcia and requested her to write the particulars to me,"

Aunt Wealthy answered meekly. "And she is still with her guardian--poor

little dear?"

"Yes, and will be I trust for years to come. That mad escapade of

Horace's--for I can call his hasty, ill-timed, imprudent marriage by

no other name--has been to me a source of untold mortification and

annoyance."

"It was not a bad match except on account of their extreme youth?" Miss

Stanhope said in a tone between assertion and inquiry.

"I consider it so most decidedly," he returned, his eyes kindling

with anger. "Elsie Grayson, the daughter of a man who, though wealthy,

has made all his money by trade, was no fit match for my son, and I

consider it a fortunate thing that she did not live: it would have

been, in my estimation, still more fortunate if her child had died with

her."

Miss Stanhope was shocked.

"O Arthur, how can you!" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes,

"how can you feel so toward your own little granddaughter; a poor

motherless baby too! Truly pride must be a great hardener of the heart."

"Old Grayson's grandchild," he muttered, rising to pace the floor in a

hasty excited manner. "Please oblige me by not mentioning this subject

again," he said: "it is exceedingly unpleasant to me."

Miss Stanhope sighed inwardly.

"Arthur," she said, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty

spirit before a fall."

She did not broach the subject again during the remainder of his brief

stay with her.

"I am going out for a look at your town," he said, taking up his hat.

"I hope," turning back at the door, with his hand on the knob, "that

Mildred has heard nothing of this affair?" he remarked inquiringly.

"She knows all that I do, I believe," Miss Stanhope answered quietly.

"It seemed to be Horace's wish that she should be told."

Mr. Dinsmore went out with a groan, and Mildred coming in at that

instant by another door, heard, and inquired somewhat anxiously, of her

aunt, what was the matter.

Miss Stanhope thought it best to tell her and advise avoidance of any

allusion to Horace's wife or child, when in her uncle's presence;

unless he should himself take the initiative.

Mildred promised to be careful, "Though why he should feel so I cannot

understand," she added, "I, for my part, feel the greatest interest in

that little child, and regret exceedingly that I shall not see her. But

Cousin Horace's feelings toward her are more inexplicable still. How

can he help loving his own little baby girl, who seems to have no one

else to love and cherish her except the servants!"

It was now an hour since they had left the breakfast table: Miss

Stanhope's morning duties connected with the care of the household,

had been attended to, Phillis and Simon had received their orders for

the day, and the good lady might conscientiously indulge herself and

Mildred in the lengthened chat both had been longing for ever since the

arrival of the latter the previous night.

Of course the first and most absorbingly interesting topic was the home

circle at Pleasant Plains. That thoroughly discussed, they passed on

to friends and neighbors both there and here, each finding numerous

questions to ask the other, and many a bit of news to give.

"What has become of poor Mrs. Osborne and Frank?" Mildred inquired.

"Ah, she has gone home at last, and is forever done with pain and

sickness," Miss Stanhope answered. "It was hard for Frank, but a

blessed release to her--poor dear woman! It was three weeks ago she

went, and a week after Frank came to bid me good-bye. He's going to

work his way through college, he told me, and make his mark in the

world. And, Milly, my dear," she added with a slightly mischievous

smile, "he hinted pretty broadly that when his laurels were won they

would be laid at the feet of a certain young girl of my acquaintance;

if I thought there might be some faint hope that she would not deem it

presumption."

"And what did you answer to that, Aunt Wealthy;" queried Mildred, with

heightened color and a look of mingled vexation and amusement. "He is

such a mere boy!" she added, "I never thought of him as anything else."

"Of course not; nor did I. But he is a good, true, noble fellow,

bright and intelligent above the ordinary, and very modest and

unassuming with it all. He will make a fine man."

"Yes; I think so too, and if he happens to fancy one of my younger

sisters, I'll consent with all my heart, and do what I can to further

his suit."

Aunt Wealthy shook her head and smiled. "It's not what he wants now;

but who knows? Time does work wonderful changes now and then."

Mildred's thoughts seemed to have wandered away from the subject; she

was silent for a moment; then suddenly asked, "Aunt Wealthy, do you

know what sort of person--Dear me, what am I to call her? Mrs. or Aunt

Dinsmore? What would you do about it?"

"I should ask her what title she preferred, and act accordingly. No; I

have never met her, and know very little about her, except that she is

not a pious woman."

"And uncle?"

"Is not a Christian either," Miss Stanhope said sorrowfully, as Mildred

paused, leaving her sentence unfinished; "believes nothing more

necessary to secure salvation than an honest, upright, moral life. My

dear child, you are going into an atmosphere of worldliness, and will

need to watch and pray, keeping close to the Master. Ah! what joy that

we need never be any farther away from him in one place than another!"

"Yes, that was what mother said," murmured Mildred, tears filling her

eyes at the thought of the many miles now lying between her and that

loved parent and friend; "she promised to pray daily for me that I

might be kept from the evil, and you will do so, too, Aunt Wealthy,

will you not?"

"Indeed I will, dear child," was the earnest response.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Fourth.

"Wear this for me."--Shakespeare.

"Your traveling suit is very neat and becoming--very ladylike," Miss

Stanhope remarked, with an approving glance at Mildred's trim figure,

"I don't think your Uncle Dinsmore can have felt that he had any reason

to be ashamed of you."

"I hope not," was the smiling rejoinder, "and I did not see any

indications of it."

"But how about the rest of your wardrobe, child? I fear you had small

choice of material in Pleasant Plains, and very little time for making

up your purchases. We might do rather better here, if we could persuade

your uncle to lengthen his intended stay."

"Thank you, auntie dear, you are always so kind and thoughtful,"

Mildred said, "but I don't think he could be persuaded, and indeed I

should not like to have him delay for my sake, because I know he and

his wife are anxious to get home before the cold weather sets in."

She went on to explain her plans, and to tell of her Cousin Horace's

generous gift.

"That was just like him, he's an open-handed, noble fellow," was Aunt

Wealthy's comment, "you need never hesitate to take a kindness from

him, because he enjoys it, and is abundantly able. But I must not be

outdone by him," she continued with a smile, rising and going to her

bureau--for they were in her bedroom now--"or rather, I wish to do my

share in proportion to my ability."

Mildred protested that her wants were already well supplied; but

playfully bidding her be quiet and let older and wiser heads judge of

that, Miss Stanhope proceeded to take a key from her pocket, unlock the

drawers of her bureau, and bring forth her treasures:--a quantity of

rich old lace, that the finest lady in the land might have been proud

to wear, several handsome rings, a diamond pin, and a beautiful gold

chain for the neck.

"They are old fashioned, dearie," she said, "but no one will mistake

them for pinchbeck and colored glass," she added, with her low musical

laugh, as she threw the chain about Mildred's neck, and slipped the

rings upon her fingers.

The girl's cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled.

"O, Aunt Wealthy," she cried, "how can you trust such treasures to my

keeping? Old fashioned indeed! They are all the more delightful for

that, as showing that one does not belong to the mushroom gentry, but

to a good, substantial old family. But you must not let me use them,

lest they should be lost or stolen. I should be frightened out of my

wits in either case."

"Nonsense, child! You would have no need; for the loss would be more

yours than mine; I shall never wear them again, and they will all

belong, some day, to you or your sisters," Miss Stanhope said, turning

to her bureau once more.

Lifting out something carefully wrapped in a towel, she laid it in

Mildred's lap, saying, "This, too, you must take with you. You will

want a handsome wrap in Philadelphia, before you can go out to buy, and

this will answer the purpose even better than anything you would feel

able to purchase. Won't it?" she queried with another of her sweet,

silvery laughs.

Mildred fairly caught her breath in delighted surprise.

"O, Aunt Wealthy! your beautiful India shawl! you can't mean to lend

_that_ to me!"

"That is just what I mean, Milly; stand up a minute, dear," she

answered gayly, taking it from its wrappings and draping it about the

slender girlish figure. "There! nothing could be more becoming. I can

only lend, not give it, because it is already willed to your mother.

But it is to descend always to the eldest daughter."

"Aunt Wealthy, I'm afraid to borrow it; afraid something might happen

to it. So please put it away again."

"Tut, child! something might happen to it at home. Suppose the house

should burn down with everything in it; wouldn't I be glad the shawl

was saved by being far away in your keeping?"

It was very rich and costly, and highly prized by Miss Stanhope as the

gift of a favorite brother, long since dead. He had been a wanderer,

lived many years in China and India, whence he had sent her, from time

to time, rare and beautiful things, of which this was one, then at

length he came home to die in her arms, leaving her the bulk of his

fortune, enough to make her very comfortable.

Her means were ample for her own needs, but not for her abundant

charities; for she spent little on herself, but gave with a liberal

hand.

"Yes, I know you would, auntie," Mildred said, passing her hand

caressingly over the soft, rich folds; "but in my wildest dreams I

never supposed you would lend this to me. And if I were in your place I

don't think I'd do it," she concluded with an arch look and smile.

"You are a careful little body and I'm not afraid to trust you. You

must carry it with you, my child, and wear it too; as a favor to

me; for you can't suppose I feel willing to have Mrs. Dinsmore's

aristocratic nose turn up at niece of mine for lack of a little finery

that lies idle in my bureau drawer?"

"Ah, if you put it on that score I can't refuse," laughed Mildred, her

face sparkling with pleasure, "and oh, but you're good to let me have

it! It is so handsome, auntie! it seems like a whole outfit in itself,"

she went on, dancing about the room in almost wild delight.

Then sobering down a little and standing before the glass to note

the effect, "I don't think," she said, "that I had seen it over half

a dozen times before--when worn on some grand occasion by you or

mother--and it has always inspired me with a kind of awe, as something

to be looked at from a respectful distance and by no means handled. So

it seems almost beyond belief that I am actually to wear it."

The few days Mr. Dinsmore had apportioned to their visit to Lansdale

flew rapidly by; all too rapidly for Miss Stanhope, who was loath

to part with them, Mildred especially; but the young girl, full of

youthful eagerness to see the world, was hardly sorry to go, spite of

her sincere affection for her aunt.

They returned to the Ohio River as they had come, striking it at the

nearest point, where they once more embarked in a steamboat; taking

passage for Pittsburgh.

They were again favored with pleasant weather, for the most of the

time, and Mildred enjoyed the trip. Mr. Dinsmore was very kind and

attentive to her comfort, and she made some agreeable acquaintances

among her fellow passengers.

They dined and spent some hours at a hotel in Pittsburgh, then took the

cars for Philadelphia.

It was a new mode of travel to Mildred, and not what she would have

chosen; she had read newspaper accounts of railroad accidents and felt

in going upon the train, that she was risking life and limb.

But she kept her fears to herself, determined not to be an annoyance to

her uncle, and he never suspected how her heart was quaking as she took

quiet possession of the seat he selected for her.

"We are early," he remarked with a glance about the almost empty car,

as he sat down beside her; then looking at his watch, "Yes, fully

fifteen minutes to wait before the train starts. Well, that's a good

deal better than being too late.

"Mildred, there's something I want to say to you before we join your

aunt, and perhaps this is as good a time for it as any. There! don't be

alarmed," as she gave him a startled look, "it's nothing unpleasant;

only that I would rather you would not say anything to Mrs. Dinsmore

about your father's circumstances. My dear, I am not meaning to wound

your feelings," he added hastily, for she was blushing painfully and

her eyes had filled.

"I think quite as much of him, and of you all as if you were rolling

in wealth. But my wife is--well, does not always see things precisely

as I do, and it will make us more comfortable all round if she is left

to suppose that your mother is still in possession of the fortune she

once had."

He paused and Mildred, understanding that some answer was expected from

her, said, a little tremulously, for she was hurt, "I cannot act a lie,

Uncle Dinsmore, and poverty ought not to be considered a disgrace."

"Of course it shouldn't and I am not asking you to practice deceit any

more than just to keep things to yourself which others have no right

to pry into. It need not be difficult; for Mrs. Dinsmore is not one of

the prying kind; and Horace and I will regard it as a favor to us, if

you will simply leave it to me to take care of your expenses without

question or remark."

This last was spoken with such winning kindness of tone and manner that

even Mildred's pride was disarmed: grateful tears shone in her eyes as

she turned them upon him.

"My dear good uncle," she whispered, laying her hand upon his with a

gesture of confiding affection, "I don't know how to thank you and

Cousin Horace, and I cannot refuse to do as you wish, but indeed you

must not let me be any more expense to you than if I were but an

ordinary guest; instead of the extraordinary one I am," she added,

laughing to hide her emotion.

"I shall have my own way about it, you may depend, whatever that may

chance to be," he answered with mock severity of tone.

Mildred laughed again, this time a really mirthful, happy laugh;

feeling her heart grow strangely light.

After all she could not help being glad that Mrs. Dinsmore was not to

know their comparative poverty; that she herself was not to be looked

upon as a poor relation who might be snubbed at pleasure and perhaps

twitted with her lack of means: or worse still, treated with lofty, or

with pitying condescension.

"Yes," Mr. Dinsmore went on, half to himself, half to her, "wealth is

but a secondary matter after all; family is the main thing. I believe

in blood, and want nothing to do with your parvenu aristocracy, be they

never so rich. Well what say you, my dear?" for Mildred's face had

grown very thoughtful.

"I'm afraid I am naturally inclined to think just so, but--"

"Well, are not my views correct and proper?" he asked good humoredly,

as she paused with a look of some confusion.

"Is not character what we should look at, rather than anything else?"

she modestly inquired, "is not true nobility that of the heart and

life? It is what father and mother have taught me, and I think, too, is

most consistent with the teachings of God's word."

At that moment there was a sudden and large influx of passengers, some

of them talking noisily, and her query remained unanswered.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Fifth.

"Walk

Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast.

There is a hand above will help thee on."

--Birley's Festus.

"Well, my dear, what do you think of her?" asked Mr. Dinsmore,

addressing his wife.

Mildred had just left the room to don bonnet and shawl preparatory to a

shopping expedition. She and her uncle had arrived in Philadelphia late

the previous night, and Mrs. Dinsmore and the children having already

retired, Mildred's first sight of them had been at the breakfast

table this morning;--the meal being partaken of in the private parlor

belonging to the suite of apartments the Dinsmores were occupying in

one of the best hotels of the city.

"I am agreeably disappointed, I must confess," Mrs. Dinsmore replied to

her husband's query. "She is decidedly pretty and extremely ladylike

in manner and appearance. Even her dress,--though not quite in the

fashion--bespeaks her a person of taste and refinement. In fact I think

I shall enjoy playing chaperone to her and introducing her to our

friends at the South."

"Ah, I thought you could not fail to be pleased with her," Mr. Dinsmore

said, looking much gratified, "and I knew you were when you bade her

call you aunt. I imagine she had been a little troubled to decide just

how she was to address you."

"Well, since I find she is not the sort one need feel ashamed of, I've

no objection to her claiming relationship, though there is none at all

in point of fact; but if she had proved the awkward, ungainly, uncouth

girl I expected, I should have requested her to call me Mrs. Dinsmore,"

remarked that lady languidly. "I wonder if she has much shopping to do?

I hope not, for I really do not feel equal to the exertion of assisting

her."

"Driving about in a carriage and sitting in the stores; I should not

think it need be so very fatiguing," remarked her husband.

"Of course not, Mr. Dinsmore; men never do see why anything should

fatigue their wives," she retorted with some petulance.

"Then Miss Worth and I will have to manage it between us. You expect

her to-day, do you not?"

"She was to come to-day; but of course she won't. People never do as

they promise. The fact is she oughtn't to have gone at all, leaving me

here alone with servants and children; so selfish and inconsiderate!"

"But, my dear, it would have been very hard for her to go back without

having spent a short time with her family."

"And her pleasure is to be considered before my comfort, of course."

"Really, I had hoped your comfort had not been neglected," Mr. Dinsmore

said, in a tone of some irritation, as he glanced from the richly

attired figure in the easy chair, opposite his own, to the luxurious

appointments of the room; "what more can you wish?"

The entrance of Mrs. Dinsmore's maid, bringing her bonnet and shawl,

saved the lady the necessity of replying to the somewhat inconvenient

query, and her husband turned to the morning paper.

Then Mildred came in.

Mrs. Dinsmore, standing before the pier glass, saw the girl's figure

reflected there, and the latter could not help enjoying her start of

surprise.

"What an elegant shawl!" she exclaimed, turning hastily about to take

a better view, "real India! You needn't be ashamed to show yourself

anywhere in that! Though your bonnet is quite out of date, as you

warned me," she added by way of preventing too great elation from her

praise of the shawl.

"No matter," interposed Mr. Dinsmore, throwing down his paper, "we'll

soon set that right. The carriage is waiting. Are any of the children

going?"

"Yes, Adelaide, Louise and Lora. Mammy and Fanny have taken the younger

ones out."

The three little girls came in at the moment. They were gayly and

expensively dressed, in the height of the fashion. They looked

curiously at Mildred, then Louise, the second in age, a child of ten,

whispered to her mother,

"What a fright of a bonnet, it's not in the style at all, and I don't

want her along if she's going to wear that."

"Hush! it's no matter," returned the mother in the same low key, "she

won't be seen in the carriage, and we'll drive directly to Mrs. Brown's

and get her a handsome one."

"Oh! what a pretty shawl, cousin," exclaimed Adelaide, "real India,

isn't it? Come on, mamma, and all of you," she added, hurrying into the

hall, "it's time we were off."

"Adelaide always wants to direct the rest of us," complained Louise, "I

wish, mamma, you'd make her know her place."

"Tut, tut! remember she's three years older than you. But if you

children are going to quarrel, you must stay behind," said Mr.

Dinsmore, standing back to let his wife and Mildred pass out first.

"No, no, papa, that won't do, because we're to be fitted with hats and

shoes," laughed the youngest of the three, putting her hand into his,

"besides, I didn't quarrel."

"That's true enough, Lora," he answered, leading her down the stairs,

"and in fact, I believe no one did but Louise, who is apt to be the

complainer."

The drive to the milliner's was so short that Mildred thought they

might as well have walked. She would have preferred it as giving her

a better opportunity to see the city; but no; in that case she would

have had to mortify her friends by an exhibition of her unfashionable

head-gear.

The next half hour was spent in turning over ribbons, flowers and

feathers, discussing styles, and trying on bonnets.

At length one was found which pleased both Mrs. Dinsmore and Mildred,

but the price asked seemed to the latter extravagant.

"Do you think I ought to go so high, Aunt?" she asked in an undertone.

"Is it worth it?"

"I think the price reasonable, and the hat no finer than you ought to

wear," returned Mrs. Dinsmore coldly.

Mildred, blushing, turned to the saleswoman, saying, "I will take it,"

and began counting out the money.

"Stay," said her aunt, "you will want a hat for travelling in."

A plainer and less expensive one was selected for that purpose, the

handsome bonnet put on, the bill paid, and they returned to their

carriage, Mildred feeling pleasantly conscious of her improved

appearance, yet a trifle uneasy at the thought of how fast her money

was melting away.

Their next visit was to a fashionable shoe store. Mrs. Dinsmore had the

children and herself fitted with several pairs each, and by her advice,

Mildred, too, bought slippers for the house, and heavy walking shoes.

"You must have, besides, a pair of gaiters to match each handsome dress

you buy," Mrs. Dinsmore said to her as they re-entered the carriage.

That announcement filled Mildred with dismay. At this rate her purse

would be emptied before the demands upon it were nearly satisfied. What

was she to do? She had been eager to select her dresses, but now was

thankful for the respite afforded her by Mrs. Dinsmore's declaration

that she was too much fatigued for any more shopping, and that

therefore they would return to their hotel.

"I'm going to lie down till it is time to dress for dinner, and would

advise you to do the same," she said to Mildred as they re-entered

their parlor, and our heroine retreated at once to her own room, glad

of the opportunity to think over her perplexity in solitude, and ask

guidance and help of her best Friend, who, as she rejoiced in knowing,

was abundantly able and willing to help her in every time of need.

She cast her burden on Him, then threw herself on the bed, and being

very weary with her long journey, soon fell asleep.

Two hours later she was roused by a knock at her door. She sprang up

and opened it to find a porter there with an armful of brown paper

parcels and a note for her.

"Is there not some mistake?" she asked in surprise.

"No, Miss: No. 95, and here's the name on the note and the bundles."

"Why yes, it is my name, sure enough!" she exclaimed. "Well, you may

bring them in."

The man laid the packages down and departed, while Mildred, only

waiting to close the door after him, tore open the note.

"My dear niece," so it ran, "you must please excuse the liberty I have

taken in selecting your dresses for you. Your Aunt Wealthy put some

money into my hands to be laid out for you. The letter containing her

remittance and also one from Roselands which hurries us home, came to

hand a few minutes after you and Mrs. Dinsmore had left the hotel. Miss

Worth arrived while I was in the act of reading them, and with her

assistance I ventured to do your shopping for you. The contents of the

parcels sent with this are the result.

"Hoping they may suit your taste, I am your affectionate uncle, A. D."

For some minutes after the note had been hastily read and laid aside,

Mildred's fingers were very busy with twine and wrapping paper,

bringing to light beautiful and costly things, while her cheeks burned

with excitement and her eyes danced with delight, or filled with tears

of mingled pleasure and pain.

She could not fail to rejoice in such wealth of lovely things, yet it

hurt her pride of independence that she must take them as gifts; and

that from one who was scarcely related to her, for well she knew that

Mr. Dinsmore must have paid a large proportion of the price from his

own purse. There were materials for three beautiful evening dresses, a

sage colored merino, fine and soft, an all wool delaine--royal purple

with an embroidered sprig; also three silks--a black, a dark brown, and

a silver grey; each rich and heavy enough to almost stand alone, and

there was a box of kid gloves; one or two pairs to match each dress,

the rest white for evening wear. Nor had suitable trimmings for the

dresses been forgotten: they were there in beautiful variety--ribbons,

buttons, heavy silk fringes; nothing had been overlooked.

Mildred seemed to herself to be in a dream; she could hardly believe

that such riches were really hers.

But there came a rap at the door and opening she found Mr. Dinsmore

standing there.

"May I come in?" he asked with grave cheerfulness.

She stepped back silently, her heart too full for speech, and passing

in he closed the door.

"My dear child, you will excuse me?" he began, but throwing her arms

round his neck she burst into tears.

"O, uncle, you are so kind! but it is too much," she sobbed, hiding her

face on his shoulder.

"Nonsense! the merest trifle!" he said, stroking her hair. "But if you

don't like them--"

"Like them!" she cried. "They're just lovely! every one of them, but--"

"No, no! no buts," he said gayly; "if they suit your taste it's all

right. The gaiters that Mrs. Dinsmore says are necessary to match the

dresses, can be made nearer home and we'll have two days, Friday and

Saturday for sight seeing. This is Thursday, and early Monday morning

we leave for Roselands."

"But O, uncle, you shouldn't have spent so much money on me," began

Mildred.

"I, child? your Aunt Wealthy you mean. Didn't you read my note?"

"Yes sir; and I know I must thank her for a part, but only a part of

these beautiful things."

"Dear me, how very wise we are," he said jocosely and chucking her

playfully under the chin; "yet perhaps not quite so wise as we think.

Now if you want to do me a favor, just call to mind our talk in the

cars the other day, and say no more about this.

"Mrs. Dinsmore and Miss Worth know nothing but that I had money of

yours in my hands and have used it in doing your shopping for you; and

it is decidedly my wish that they neither know nor suspect anything

further. Will you oblige me by being quiet about it?"

"I would do anything I possibly could to oblige you, Uncle Dinsmore,"

she answered, looking into his eyes with hers full of grateful tears.

"Ah, that's my good girl," he said, "Now dry your eyes and we'll go

down to dinner. It is to be served for the family in our own parlor,

and is probably on the table now."

Dinner was on the table, and as they entered the family were in the act

of taking their places about it.

Miss Worth the governess was with them. She was an intelligent

looking, but rather plain featured woman of perhaps thirty-five. Her

manners were unobtrusive, she was very quiet and reserved, seemingly

self-absorbed.

Mildred's first impressions were not too favorable. The thought in the

girl's mind was, "she's a disagreeable old maid, and I'm sure I shall

never like her."

Yet the face, though slightly sad and careworn when at rest, would by

many have been preferred to Mrs. Dinsmore's in its faded beauty, and

listless or fretful and annoyed expression.

The bright, fresh young faces of the children pleased Mildred better

than either. There were six of them in all; Arthur, Walter, and Enna

were all younger than the three little girls whose acquaintance she

had made in the morning--the last named a mere baby. They were pretty

children and not ill-behaved considering that they had been used to an

almost unlimited amount of petting and indulgence.

"Miss Worth has been telling me about your dresses, Mildred," remarked

Mrs. Dinsmore, "I hope you will like them; I should think from her

description, they must be very handsome."

"They are, _very_," Mildred answered, with a vivid blush. "I don't

think I could possibly have been better suited." And turning to Miss

Worth, she thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken in her

behalf.

"It was no trouble, and you are heartily welcome, Miss Keith,"

returned the governess, a smile lighting up her features into positive

comeliness.

Mr. Dinsmore changed the subject, by a proposal to take his wife and

Mildred to some place of amusement for the evening.

"How thoughtless you are, my dear," said Mrs. Dinsmore, "I am sure

Mildred must be too much fatigued by her journey to think of going out."

"I doubt it," he returned, laughing. "What do you say, Milly?"

"That I don't think I am," she answered brightly, "a two hours' nap

this afternoon having refreshed me wonderfully."

"Then we'll go," he said, "there's an opportunity to hear some fine

music, and I don't want to miss it. You will go with us, Mrs. Dinsmore?"

"No," she said coldly, "I do not feel equal to the exertion."

She was not an invalid, but had barely escaped becoming such through

extreme aversion to exercise of body or mind.

Mr. Dinsmore then extended his invitation to Miss Worth, overruled her

objection, that she feared the children would require her attention, by

saying that the servants would give them all the care they needed, and

insisted upon her acceptance, unless she, too, must plead fatigue as an

excuse for declining.

Before the governess had time to open her lips in reply, Mrs. Dinsmore

suddenly announced that she had changed her mind; she would go, and

really she could not feel easy about the children, unless Miss Worth

were there to see that they were properly attended to.

It was a disappointment to the latter, who seldom enjoyed such a treat,

but she quietly acquiesced, sighing inwardly, but giving no outward

sign.

"Shall we walk or ride?" queried Mr. Dinsmore, looking at Mildred. "The

distance is about four squares."

"Oh, let us walk," she was about to exclaim, feeling an eager desire

for the exercise, and to look at the buildings and brightly lighted

windows; but Mrs. Dinsmore decided this question also with an emphatic,

"We will take a carriage of course. What can you be thinking of, Mr.

Dinsmore?"

They had left the table and Mildred was considering how she should

excuse herself, that she might retire to her own room and finish a

letter to her mother, when Mrs. Dinsmore said, "You must show me your

pretty things now, Mildred. There'll be plenty of time before we have

to dress for the concert."

"Dress!" echoed Mildred in dismay, "really Aunt, I have nothing more

suitable to wear than this I have on," glancing down at the blue black

silk she had been wearing all that day.

"What matter? that's neat fitting and handsome enough for any

occasion," interrupted Mr. Dinsmore.

"It will do very well, if you don't throw back your shawl," remarked

his wife, glancing askance at the really neat, ladylike and pretty

dress.

"The place will be crowded and warm," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and if you

find your shawl burdensome, Mildred, you are to throw it back and be

comfortable." His wife gave him an indignant glance.

"She can take a fan," she said shortly, "I'll lend her one that I'll

not be ashamed to see her carry."

Mildred was glad she could say she had a pretty fan of her own, and

would not need to borrow, and with it said she would doubtless be

able to refrain from throwing back her shawl in a way to exhibit the

unfashionable make of her dress.

Mrs. Dinsmore graciously condescended to approve of the purchases made

by her husband and the governess, saying she really thought she hardly

could have done better herself, and it was an immense relief to know

that the thing was done without any worry or responsibility coming upon

her, she was so ill able to bear such things.

On hearing which, our heroine felt unspeakably thankful that her

assistance had not been asked.

Mildred enjoyed the concert extremely; also the sight-seeing, which

with a little more shopping fully occupied the next two days, and the

church-going of the day following. She found time before breakfast

Saturday morning, for doing her packing and finishing the letter to

her mother. On Monday morning there was little time for anything but

breakfast before they must go on board the steamer which was to carry

them to a seaport town within a few miles of Roselands.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Sixth.

"O'er the glad water of the dark, blue sea."

Byron.

It was Mildred's first sight of the ocean. The November air was chill

but the sun shone brightly, and well wrapped up, she found the deck

not an uncomfortable place; so kept her station there all through

the passage down the river and bay; though Mrs. Dinsmore very soon

retreated, shivering, to the cabin, and called in nurses and children;

with exception of Adelaide, who insisted upon remaining with her father

and cousin, and was, as usual, allowed to have her own way.

"There, we have a full view of old ocean," Mr. Dinsmore said, as they

steamed out of the bay. "You never saw anything like that before,

Mildred?"

"Yes; the great lakes look very similar," she answered, gazing away

over the restless waters, her eyes kindling with enthusiasm. "How

grandly beautiful it is! I think I should never weary of the sight and

should like to live where I could watch it day by day in all its moods."

"Roselands is not so very far off from the coast," said Adelaide. "A

ride of a few miles in one direction gives us a distant view."

"Oh, I am glad of that!" Mildred exclaimed.

"And we will place a pony and servant at your command, so that you can

ride in that direction whenever you will," added Mr. Dinsmore.

Mildred took her eyes from the sea long enough to give him a look of

delight that fully repaid him; nor did she spare words, but told him he

was wonderfully kind to her.

"Tell about being on the lakes, cousin," pleaded Adelaide. "When was it

and who was with you?"

There had been a little homesickness tugging at Mildred's heartstrings,

and that last question brought the tears to her eyes and a tremble to

her lips. She had a short struggle with herself before she could so

command her voice as to speak quite steadily.

But when she had once begun it was not difficult to go on and give a

circumstantial account of their journey to Indiana: especially as

Adelaide proved a delighted and deeply interested listener.

"Thank you," she said, when the story had come to an end. "But do tell

me more about your brothers and sisters--everything you can think of.

What a lot of them there is! I think Cyril and Don must be comical

little fellows."

"Yes; and very provokingly mischievous at times," Mildred said,

laughing at the recollection of some of their pranks, which she went on

to describe for Adelaide's entertainment.

But the sun had set and the air was so cold that they were compelled to

seek the shelter of the cabin.

They found warmth and brightness there. Mrs. Dinsmore was half

reclining on a sofa, her husband reading the evening paper by her side.

"Well, I'm glad you've come in at last," she said, with a reproachful

look directed at Mildred. "It was really very thoughtless to keep

Adelaide out so late."

"She didn't keep me, mamma," answered the child with spirit. "I could

have come in any minute if I had chosen. I was not even asked to stay."

"Don't be pert, Adelaide," said her mother. "Dear me, how the vessel

begins to rock! I shall be deathly sick before morning."

"That would have been less likely to happen if you had followed

Mildred's example in staying on deck as long as possible," remarked her

husband, turning his paper and beginning another article.

"I should have caught my death of cold," she retorted snappishly,

"but perhaps you wouldn't have cared if I had. And I think it's quite

insulting to have a chit of a girl like that held up to me as an

example."

Mildred had walked away and did not hear this last remark. Adelaide had

slipped her hand into Mildred's, and was saying, "I like you, cousin.

We'll be good friends, shan't we?"

"It shall not be my fault if we're not," Mildred said, forcing a smile;

for Mrs. Dinsmore's fault-finding had hurt her feelings and caused a

decided increase of the homesickness. But determined to overcome it she

gathered the children about her at a safe distance from their mother,

and told them stories till interrupted by the summons to the tea table.

They had a rather rough sea that night and the next day, causing a

good deal of sickness among the passengers. Mildred, taught by past

experience, fought bravely against it seeking the deck soon after

sunrise and spending almost the whole day there in company with her

uncle.

The second day she experienced no difficulty and was joined by her

cousins; but Mrs. Dinsmore kept her berth to the end of the voyage, and

when the vessel arrived in port, came from her stateroom pale, weak and

disconsolate.

The last stage of the journey was made in carriages.

They reached Roselands just as the sun was setting amid a mass of

crimson, gold and amber-colored clouds forming a gorgeous background to

a landscape of more than ordinary beauty.

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Mildred, as her uncle handed her from the

carriage. "I was prepared to be charmed with the place, but it exceeds

my expectations."

"Let me bid you welcome and hope that first impressions may prove

lasting, your stay here most enjoyable," he said, with a gratified

smile.

But now Mildred's attention was taken up by the reception that had been

prepared for them:--just such an one as she had often heard described

by her mother.

The plantation was large; the dwelling also; and a dozen or more of

house servants headed by the housekeeper, who was a very respectable

white woman, had ranged themselves in a double row across the veranda,

and down the wide entrance hall.

Their faces were full of delight, their hands held out in joyous

greeting, glad words of welcome on every tongue, as master, mistress,

guest, and children, with their attendants, passed slowly between the

ranks, shaking hands and making kind inquiries right and left.

Some of the older ones remembered Mildred's mother, and our heroine's

heart warmed toward them as they sounded "Miss Marcia's" praises, and

averred that her daughter bore a striking resemblance to her in looks.

"Mrs. Brown, this young lady is my niece," said Mr. Dinsmore, laying a

hand on Mildred's shoulder, and addressing himself to the housekeeper,

"and I commend her to your special care. Please see that she is well

waited upon, and wants for nothing that house or plantation can supply.

Here, Rachel," to a young mulatto girl, "I appoint you Miss Mildred's

waiting maid; you are to be always at her call, and do whatever she

directs."

"Yes, massa," the girl answered, dropping a deep courtesy first to

him, then to Mildred whom she regarded with a look of smiling approval,

"dis chile berry glad ob de chance. Shall I show de way to yo' room,

now, miss?" Mildred gave a smiling assent, and was immediately

conducted to a spacious, elegantly furnished apartment, where an open

wood fire blazed and crackled, sending around a ruddy light that

rendered that of the wax candles in the heavy, highly polished silver

candlesticks on the mantel, almost a superfluity.

Mildred sent a very satisfied, appreciative glance about her, then

turning to her young handmaiden, who stood quietly awaiting her orders,

asked if there were time to change her dress before tea.

"Yes, Miss, plenty time. Whar yo' trunks, Miss? Oh! heyah dey come,"

slipping out of the way of two of the men servants as they entered with

Mildred's luggage.

Mrs. Brown followed close in their rear, bade them unstrap the trunks

before leaving, inquired of Mildred if there were anything more she

could do for her, and said she hoped she would be very comfortable.

"Rachel is young and has not had much experience in the duties of

ladies' maid," she added, "but I think you will find her trusty and

willing. Would you not like to have her unpack your things and arrange

them in the bureau and wardrobe? Then the trunks can be put away out of

sight till they are wanted again."

"Yes, that will be very nice," said Mildred, producing the keys. "But

will there be time before tea?"

"Hardly, I'm afraid, Miss Keith, if you have any change to make in your

dress; but later in the evening, if that will answer?"

"Oh, yes, quite as well."

Mrs. Brown took her departure, Mr. Dinsmore looked in for a moment

to see that his young guest had not been neglected, and how she was

pleased with her new quarters; then Mildred, left alone with her maid,

opened a trunk, laid out the dress and ornaments she wished to wear,

and proceeded with Rachel's assistance, to make a somewhat hurried

toilet.

The tea-bell rang, and Adelaide's bright face peeped in at the door.

"Ready, cousin? I'll show you the way."

They entered the supper-room looking fresh and blooming as two roses.

Mr. Dinsmore assigned Mildred the seat of honor at his right hand, and

complimented her on the becomingness of her attire.

She was the only guest, the children were all allowed to come to the

table, and they were a merry family party, everybody rejoicing in being

at home again after an absence of several months.

The table was loaded with delicacies, skillfully prepared; for old

Phebe, the cook, was a real genius in the culinary art--the cloth was

of finest damask, the service of rare china and costly silverware, and

the attendance all that could be desired.

Pleading excessive fatigue, Mrs. Dinsmore retired to her own apartments

immediately upon the conclusion of the meal.

"You look quite too fresh and bright to be thinking of bed yet,"

Mr. Dinsmore remarked, laying his hand affectionately on Mildred's

shoulder; "will you come to the library with me?"

She gave a pleased assent and they were soon cosily seated on either

side of the fire there, a table covered with books, papers and

periodicals drawn up between them.

"How do you like this room?" Mr. Dinsmore asked.

"Oh, very much!" Mildred answered, sending a sweeping glance from side

to side, noting all the attractions of the place, from the rich Turkey

carpet, handsome rugs, comfortable chairs, couches and tables, to the

long lines of well filled book shelves, statues, statuettes and busts,

and two or three fine paintings on the walls.

"That is right," he said with a pleased smile. "I want you to feel

perfectly at home here; coming in whenever you please and staying just

as long as you like, reading, writing, studying or lounging; helping

yourself with perfect freedom to books and writing materials; for

whatever is in the room is entirely at your service."

Mildred was beginning to thank him, but he cut her short with, "Never

mind that. Here's better occupation for you," handing her a package of

letters as he spoke.

She took it with a joyful exclamation. "Letters from home! oh, I have

been so hungry for them."

"Yes," he said, enjoying her delight, "but don't run away," for she had

risen to her feet, evidently with that intention; "perhaps there may be

a bit here and there that you'd like to read to me. And if they bring

tears to your eyes, I'll not think the worse of you. Besides I shall be

too busy with my own correspondence to take notice."

So she sat down again and presently forgot his presence in the interest

of those written pages which seemed almost to transport her into the

very midst of the dear home circle.

It was a family letter, every one, from her father down to Annis,

contributing something; the little ones having each dictated a message

to "Sister Milly;" but the greater part was from her mother, giving

in pleasing detail the doings, sayings and plannings in their little

world, the small successes and failures, the apparently trivial

occurrences, the little joys and sorrows, little trials and vexations

and little pleasures that make or mar the happiness of daily home life.

The mother's sweet, loving, trustful spirit breathed through it all.

There were little jests that brought the smile to Mildred's lips or

made her laugh outright--and these she read aloud to her uncle:--there

were words of faith and patience that filled her eyes with tears; then

at the last wise, tender, motherly counsels that stirred her heart to

its inmost depths.

She would have given a great deal at that moment to be at home again,

within sound of that beloved voice, looking into the dear eyes, feeling

the gentle touch of the soft caressing hand. Oh, could she stay away

for months?

The tears would come. She rose, crossed the room and stood before a

painting, with her back to her uncle, who at that instant seemed wholly

absorbed in a business letter which he held in his hand.

Recovering herself, she came back to the table.

Mr. Dinsmore looked up.

"I think we must have a ride to-morrow morning, Milly, you and Adelaide

and I, shall it be at nine o'clock?"

Her eyes grew bright and her cheeks flushed with pleasure. She was very

fond of riding on horseback.

"I shall be delighted to go, uncle," she said, "and can be ready at any

hour that may suit you best."

He considered a moment.

"I should not be surprised if you and Adie find yourselves inclined

to take a long morning nap after your journey," he said. "We will say

directly after breakfast, which will not be earlier than nine. Now I

see you are wanting to retire; so bid me good night and away with you

to slumbers sweet," and with a fatherly kiss he dismissed her.

Mildred's room was bright, warm and cheery as she had left it. Rachel

was not there; and the trunks had vanished also, but the opening of

wardrobe doors and bureau drawers showed their contents neatly bestowed

therein.

An easy chair stood invitingly before the fire and dropping into it

Mildred gave her letter a second perusal, mingling laughter and tears

over it as before.

She sighed softly to herself as she folded it up, then glancing about

the spacious, handsomely appointed room, smiled at thought of the

contrast between her present circumstances and surroundings and those

of a few weeks ago, when she was occupying a small, very plainly

furnished room, and instead of having a maid at her beck and call, was

constantly waiting upon and working for others.

The rest and ease of the present were certainly very enjoyable, yet she

had no desire that the change should become a permanent one; home with

all its toils and cares was still the sweetest, dearest place on earth.

Rachel came in to replenish the fire and ask if there was anything more

she could do for the young lady's comfort.

"No, thank you, my wants are fully supplied," Mildred said with a

smile. "I think I shall get ready for bed now."

"Den missy want her slippers and night clo's," remarked the girl

hastening to bring them. "Shall dis chile' take down yo' hair and brush

um out?"

"Yes," Mildred said; "when I have put on my dressing gown; and I'll

read to you while you do it."

"Tank you, missy, dis child be berry glad to hear readin'," the girl

answered with a look of pleasure, "can't read none herself and neber

expects to know how. Dat's for white folks."

"Then I'll read the Bible to you every night and morning while you do

up my hair," Mildred said. "It is God's word, Rachel; his letter to

tell us the way to heaven and we need to know what it says."

"Spect we does, miss," responded the girl, with wide open, wondering

eyes fixed on Mildred's face. "But nobody neber tole me dat befo'."

"Then here is work for me to do for the Master," thought Mildred, and

sent up a silent petition, "Lord, teach me how to lead her to thee."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Seventh.

"O thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands, life hath snares!"

--Longfellow.

A bright ray of sunshine stealing in between the silken curtains fell

athwart Mildred's eyes and awoke her.

The fire was blazing cheerily on the hearth, Rachel was at hand to wait

upon her, and she found it by no means unpleasant to sit still and have

her hair skilfully arranged for her instead of doing the work with

her own hands, as she had been accustomed to do since she was quite a

little girl.

She occupied herself the while in reading aloud from the Bible,

according to promise, and Rachel seemed well pleased to listen.

Her toilet completed, Mildred went to the library to answer her letter,

while waiting for the breakfast bell, and there Mr. Dinsmore found her.

"That is quite right," he said. "Send my love to them all. But don't

close your letter yet, you'll want to tell your mother about your ride.

We'll take one that used to be a favorite with her."

Mildred looked up brightly. "I shall enjoy it all the more for knowing

that."

"You are accustomed to riding on horseback?" he said inquiringly.

"Enough to be able to keep my seat on a well behaved steed," she

answered laughingly. "I hope to improve very much under your tuition,

Uncle Dinsmore."

"Gyp, the pony I have assigned to you while you stay, is quite safe, I

think; sufficiently spirited but well trained," he said, giving her his

arm to conduct her into the breakfast room, for the bell had rung.

"I hear you are going to ride, Mildred," Mrs. Dinsmore remarked as they

rose from the table. "Have you a riding habit?"

Mildred was very glad to be able to reply in the affirmative.

The horses were already at the door.

She hurried to her room and was down again in a few minutes arrayed in

a manner that entirely satisfied Mrs. Dinsmore.

It was a delicious morning, riders and steeds seemed alike in fine

spirits, and Mildred had seldom found anything more enjoyable than

the brisk canter of the next hour over a good road and through new and

pleasing scenes.

On their return Mrs. Dinsmore followed her to her room.

"You must have some of your dresses made at once, Mildred," she said.

"Can you get out the materials and come now to the sewing-room to be

fitted? The black silk should be first, I think, and finished this

week, that you may have it to wear to church next Sunday."

"You are very kind, aunt," Mildred said, looking much pleased; "but are

not the services of your seamstresses needed just now for yourself and

the children?"

"No; there is nothing hurrying," was the reply; "we all had fall

dresses made up in Philadelphia, and you must be prepared to show

yourself to visitors; for our friends and neighbors will soon be

calling on you, as well as on us; of course I shall take pride in

having them find my husband's niece suitably attired."

Mildred was nothing loath to accept the offer; in fact was filled with

an eager desire, natural to her age, to see how all these beautiful

things would look when made up, and how well they would become her.

But her love of independence and the industrious habits in which she

had been trained, alike forbade her to leave all the work to Mrs.

Dinsmore's maids; her own deft and busy fingers accomplished no small

share of it; the greater part of every day for the next two or three

weeks being occupied in that way.

Mrs. Dinsmore disliked exertion of any kind and seldom took a needle in

her hand, but she had no distaste toward seeing others employed, and

generally spent her mornings lounging in the sewing-room, ready to give

her opinion in regard to styles of trimming, and so forth, and enjoying

a comfortable sense of conferring a great favor thereby.

The black silk was completed in time to be worn on Mildred's first

Sunday at Roselands, and Mrs. Dinsmore, subjecting her to a careful

scrutiny when she came down ready dressed for church, assured her that

she was quite a stylish looking young lady, whom she herself was not

ashamed to exhibit to her acquaintance as belonging to the Dinsmore

family.

A glance into a pier glass in the drawing-room told Mildred the

compliment was not undeserved, and I fear there was no little gratified

vanity in the smile with which she turned away and followed her aunt to

the carriage waiting for them at the door, and that the consciousness

of her finery and its becomingness seriously interfered with the

heartiness of her devotions in the house of God, and the attention she

should have given to the preaching of the Word, and services of prayer

and praise.

She was in some measure aware of this herself, and felt condemned on

account of it; but was not helped to recover lost ground by the worldly

conversation carried on about her during the greater part of the day.

There was a good deal of friendly chat in the vestibule of the church,

after the close of the services, neighbors and acquaintances gathering

about the Dinsmores to welcome and congratulate them on their return

from their late trip, and inquire concerning their health and enjoyment

of their lengthened sojourn in the North.

Mr. Dinsmore was extremely hospitable and fond of entertaining his

friends, nor had he any scruples about doing so on the Sabbath; and at

his urgent invitation two gentlemen and a very gayly dressed and lively

young lady accompanied his family and himself to Roselands to dine and

spend the remainder of the day.

The talk was just what it might have been on any other occasion; of

politics, amusements, dress, anything and everything but the topics

suited to the sacredness of the day; and Mildred, while yielding to

the temptation to join in it, felt painfully conscious that in so doing

she was not obeying the command, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it

holy."

It was late in the evening when the visitors left, and she retired to

her room weary and sleepy, hurried through the form of devotion, giving

but little heart to it, and was soon in bed and asleep.

She tried to do better the next morning, but her thoughts ran very much

on dress and the vanities of earth.

"How could she help that?" she asked herself, half despairingly, half

in excuse, "she must assist in making her clothes, and decide, too, how

it should be done."

Another dress was begun that day, and head and hands were fully

occupied over it.

Her uncle insisted on a ride or walk every day, callers began to come,

hours had to be spent in the drawing-room, and work on the new dresses

to be pushed all the harder the rest of the day to recover lost time.

Then she must attire herself in her most becoming finery, and drive out

with Mrs. Dinsmore to return her calls, during which the talk generally

ran upon the merest trifles, furnishing no food for mind or heart.

Flatteries and compliments were showered upon our heroine, for she

was pretty, graceful and refined, quick at repartee, self-possessed,

without being conceited, well informed for her years, and a good

conversationalist.

Her aunt and uncle were altogether satisfied with the impression she

made; but her parents would have been sorely troubled could they have

known how the world and its vanities were engrossing the thoughts of

their beloved child, to the exclusion of better things.

There were brilliant entertainments given in her honor; first, by Mrs.

Dinsmore, afterward by others who had been her invited guests.

The weather continuing remarkably mild and pleasant for some weeks,

there were excursions gotten up to various points of interest in the

vicinity; there were dinner parties and tea drinkings; days when the

house was filled with gay company from morning to night, or when Mr.

and Mrs. Dinsmore visited in like manner at the houses of neighboring

planters, taking Mildred with them.

Then there were drives to the city: in the daytime to shop for more

finery, in the evening for the purpose of attending some place of

amusement,--now a concert, now a lecture, and at length the opera and

the theatre.

Into these latter and questionable, not to say forbidden, places of

resort, to one reared as Mildred had been, she was at first decoyed;

but becoming intoxicated with their sensual sweets, she went again and

again of her own free will.

Thus for a month or more she ran a giddy round of worldly pleasures,

scarcely taking time to think, and refusing to listen to the warnings

and upbraidings of conscience.

But her gayeties began to tell unfavorably upon her health, the

recovery of which had been her principal object in leaving home, and

she was obliged to relinquish them in part.

Then a long storm set in, confining her to the house for a week, and

keeping away visitors. She was forced to stop and consider, and a long,

loving letter from her mother coming just then, freighted with words of

Christian counsel, had a blessed effect in helping to open her eyes to

her guilt and danger.

In the silence and solitude of her room, the sighing of the wind

without, and the rain and sleet beating against the windows, the only

sounds that reached her ear, Mildred read and wept over this letter,

and over the mental review of the life she had been leading since

coming to Roselands.

To a mere worldling it might have seemed innocent enough, but not so

to Mildred's enlightened conscience; a butterfly existence was not the

end for which she had been created; yet she could not shut her eyes

to the fact that that was the best that could be said of her life of

late; she had been neither doing nor getting any good, but rather the

contrary--injuring her health by her dissipations, setting an example

of worldliness, and falling behind in the Christian race.

She had not neglected the forms of religious service,--had attended

church every Sunday, read her Bible, and repeated a prayer night and

morning; but all, as she now saw with grief and shame, with a sadly

wandering heart, thoughts full of dress and earthly vanities.

Alas! how far she had wandered out of the way in which she had

covenanted to walk! and that though she had proved in days past, that

"Wisdom's ways were ways of pleasantness, and all her paths were peace."

And as she questioned with herself whether she had found real enjoyment

in these by-paths of worldliness and sin, she was forced to acknowledge

that in spite of much thoughtless gayety and mirth, there had been no

genuine, solid happiness, but instead a secret uneasiness which she

vainly strove to banish, and could only forget for a time in the giddy

round of amusement.

Should she go on as she had begun? No: by the help of God she would

turn and find again the path she had left; even as her mother in this

timely letter advised and entreated.

Mrs. Keith knew to some extent, the worldly atmosphere of the house

into which her young daughter had gone, and she had written with the

fear in her heart that Mildred might succumb to its temptations even as

she had done.

She entreated her to be on her guard, watching unto prayer and thus

keeping close to the Master.

"And, dear daughter," she added, "should you ever find that you have

wandered, lose not a moment in returning to him and pleading for

cleansing, for pardon, and restoration to his favor through his own

precious blood. Let not Satan tempt you to stay away one moment with

the lie that the Lord is not ever waiting to be gracious and ever

ready and willing to forgive; or that he would have you delay till

your repentance is deeper or you have done something to atone in some

measure for your sin.

"God's time is always now; to the back-slider in heart or life, as

well as to the impenitent sinner; and to both he says: 'Him that cometh

unto me, I will in no wise cast out!'"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Eighth.

"I have deeply felt

The mockery of the hollow shrine at which my spirit knelt."

Whittier.

Mildred had been alone for several hours;--very profitable ones to

her--when opening the door in answer to a gentle rap, she found Mr.

Dinsmore standing there.

"If you will invite me in," he said with a smile, "I may perhaps

accept."

"Do come in, uncle," she replied, returning the smile; "it is very

pleasant here, and I can give you a warm welcome. See, my fire is

blazing cheerily; and does not that easy chair look inviting?"

"Yes," he answered, taking her hand and gazing searchingly into her

face, seeing something there that puzzled him greatly; for though the

traces of tears were very evident, it wore a look of peace that had

been foreign to it of late, "but what is the matter? not bad news from

home, I hope."

"No, oh no!" she said, "they were all well and nothing amiss when

mother wrote," but her eyes filled and her lips quivered as she spoke.

"Homesick, I'm afraid," he said kindly, patting and stroking the hand

he held; "the natural effect of news from there, I suppose; especially

in this wretched weather; but don't give up to it, my dear. We'll find

ways to make the time pass pleasantly spite of the storm; home sports,

amusing books."

"You are very kind always, dear uncle," she said with a grateful look,

"but it is not that; I have been living too much for mere amusement of

late."

And with burning cheeks and tear-dimmed eyes, she went on to explain,

in a few rapid sentences, how condemned she felt on account of the

waste of time and opportunities for improvement, and the worldly

conformity of which she had been guilty; and how she had determined, by

God's help, to do so no more.

He listened in much surprise, but did not interrupt her.

When she had finished, there was a moment's silence, she sitting

with downcast eyes, her breast still heaving with emotion; he gazing

musingly into the fire.

Presently he turned to her again with a kindly smile.

"Thank you, my dear, for your confidence," he said pleasantly, "but

really, I do not see that you have done anything to be distressed

about. It strikes me you were fairly entitled to a few weeks of

play-time, after the fatigues of that long nursing and the journey

here."

"Perhaps so," she said, "but I haven't taken just the right sort; so

much excitement, and such late hours have wearied instead of resting me

physically, and on my spiritual nature the effect has been still worse.

I blame no one but myself," she added humbly, and with a deprecating

look into his grave, somewhat troubled face.

"I'm afraid I have been your tempter," he said, "though I meant well.

But I ought to have remembered the strict ideas entertained by your

parents, and in which they had brought you up. Well, what can I do to

retrieve my error, and to help you in living as you think you should?"

"It mostly depends upon myself, I think," she answered thoughtfully,

"but if you will not oppose me in declining invitations to what I

deem to be wrong or questionable amusements, and will excuse me from

attendance in the drawing-room on Sundays, when there is company it

will help me very much."

"My dear girl," he returned, "you are of course perfectly free to do

exactly as you please in both respects. We appreciate your society,

but if you think best to withdraw it from us, we can only submit. I

will arrange with Mrs. Dinsmore that young people shall be invited on

week days and only older people, whom you will not feel called upon to

entertain, on Sundays."

She thanked him warmly.

"And you will give up the opera and theatre?" he said inquiringly, "I

thought you enjoyed them very much."

"I did," she answered, blushing.

"Then why resign so innocent a pleasure?"

"It is not innocent for me, uncle," she said, lifting her glistening

eyes to his, "it utterly destroys the spirit of devotion. I come from

them with my mind full of the play, and thoughts about dress and the

gay people I have seen, and with no heart for prayer or the study of

God's word. And the short-lived pleasure I derive from them is nothing

to be compared with the sweet peace and joy they rob me of."

"But if you persist in such a course of conduct, you will be sneered at

as self-righteous, puritanical, and what not; politely to your face,

more disagreeably behind your back."

"I am willing to be singular for Christ," she answered, her eyes

kindling, "Oh, how little that would be to bear for him compared with

what he endured for me! how much less I resign than multitudes of

others have given up for him! Moses chose 'rather to suffer affliction

with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a

season, esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the

treasures in Egypt.'"

"And you purpose to begin doing something in the way of study and

the cultivation of your accomplishments?" he said inquiringly, not

unwilling to change the subject of conversation.

"Yes, uncle, I should like to accept your generous offer to let me

share the instructions of Adelaide's masters in music and painting,

French and German; and Miss Worth's in the higher mathematics."

"All that will keep you pretty busy even without the reading you are

sure to do," he commented with a smile.

"Usefully employed," she answered brightly "and that, I have learned

from experience is the way to be happy."

The first sneer Mildred had to bear came from Mrs. Dinsmore, who heard

with great vexation her husband's report of the young girl's resolve.

"Ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "If there's anything I do detest and

despise, it is your rigid, puritanical sectary, who stands ready to

cry out 'sinful! wicked!' at every sort of enjoyment! I am too much

provoked. She is really a pretty and lady-like girl, and has attracted

a good deal of attention; so that I was actually growing quite proud of

her, and took pleasure in showing her off.

"But that is all over now, of course, and there'll be no end to the

annoyance I shall have to endure in hearing her criticized for her odd

behavior, and in parrying questions and remarks as to how she came by

such strange notions."

"Well, my dear, it can't be helped," Mr. Dinsmore responded, between

a smile and a sigh, "but if I were you I should very decidedly snub

any one who should offer a disparaging remark about her to me. Being

myself, I certainly intend to do so."

"Can't be helped! I believe you could reason her out of it if you

would!"

"I am flattered by your belief, but do not share it," he said with a

bow of acknowledgment; "nor if I did, would I attempt to change her

views. 'Twould be too great a responsibility and a breach of the trust

her parents have reposed in me."

The conversation was here brought to a conclusion by the summons to the

dinner table.

Mildred made her appearance with the rest and was greeted by Mrs.

Dinsmore with a cold inquiry after her health, followed by a covert

taunt in regard to her resolve to forsake the worldly amusements in

which she had of late indulged.

Mildred bore it with patience and humility, "not answering again,"

though the flushing of her cheek showed that she felt the unkindness

keenly enough.

"Do you intend to make a complete hermit of yourself and go nowhere at

all?" queried the irate lady.

"Oh, no, aunt," returned Mildred pleasantly, "I hope still to take

walks, rides and drives; and do not object to calls and social visits,

or to concerts or lectures; unless attending necessitates the keeping

of later hours than are good for my health."

"Humph! 'twould have been wiser to my thinking, if you had begun as

you meant to continue."

"Yes, aunt, it would," Mildred said, again coloring deeply, "and I wish

I had; but it is better to do right at last than not at all. Do you not

think so?"

"Don't ask me," sharply. "Adelaide, Louise and Lora, you may consider

yourselves fortunate in having a cousin who is more capable of deciding

questions of duty than your parents, I trust you will not fail to

profit by her excellent example; not that which she has set, you will

observe, but that which she is going to set you in the future."

The children giggled, while Mildred colored more deeply than before.

A frown had gathered on Mr. Dinsmore's brow.

"Children, if you cannot behave properly you must leave the table,"

he said sternly; then with a displeased look at his wife, "I for one

highly approve of Mildred's resolve to do what she considers her duty;

and it is my desire that she be allowed to follow the dictates of her

conscience in peace."

Mr. Dinsmore was an indulgent husband and seldom found fault with

anything his wife chose to do or say but experience had taught her

that when he did interfere, she might as well submit at once. The

subject was dropped and never revived again in his presence.

With her accustomed promptness and energy Mildred sought out Miss Worth

that very afternoon, made arrangements for recitations, and began her

studies.

She determined to devote four hours a day to them and her

accomplishments. As she was accustomed to early rising and the

breakfast hour at Roselands was late, it would not be difficult, she

thought, to secure two hours before that meal; the other two she would

take during Mrs. Dinsmore's afternoon siesta and the elaborate toilet

which usually followed; and thus be as much as ever at that lady's

command as a companion either at home or abroad.

Mrs. Dinsmore had few resources within herself, was a martyr to ennui

and could not bear to be alone; and Mildred esteemed it both a duty and

a pleasure to do all in her power to add to the comfort and enjoyment

of her kind entertainers; she had succeeded thus far in doing so, in

some measure, to all, from her uncle down to Baby Enna.

The children had found out weeks ago that Cousin Milly possessed an

apparently inexhaustible fund of nursery tales and songs, and could

teach them many amusing games.

They would have been glad to monopolize her, and entered many a

complaint of the shortness and infrequency of her visits to the nursery.

Thinking of that now, she resolved to try to give them more of her

time and attention; perhaps she could mingle some instruction with the

amusement she furnished them; and she would be very glad to do so; for

her heart was filled with pity for the young things as she thought of

the great difference between their mother and hers; the one absorbed in

her own selfish pleasures, and paying no attention to the cultivation

of the minds and hearts of her children; the other giving herself with

earnest, whole-souled devotion to seeking the best interests of her

darlings, teaching and training them for happiness and usefulness here

and hereafter.

"Precious mother! what a blessing to have been born your child,"

Mildred mentally exclaimed as she thus dwelt upon the contrast between

the two, recalling with tear-dimmed eyes the loving care that had

surrounded her from her very birth and in which each brother and sister

had an equal share.

While Mildred thus laid her plans, Mrs. Dinsmore was somewhat similarly

employed. Reclining upon a softly cushioned couch in her boudoir, idly

listening to the pattering of the rain against the window, she mused in

discontented mood of Mildred, and her unexpected resolve. It interfered

with her schemes, for she had purposed filling the house with gay young

company during the approaching Christmas holidays and making the two

weeks one continued round of festivity.

To be sure she could do so still, but Mildred's refusal to take part

in much of the sport would throw a damper upon the enjoyment of the

others; besides giving occasion for unpleasant criticisms.

Mrs. Dinsmore's vexations increased as she turned the matter over in

her mind.

But a bright thought struck her, and starting up with something like

energy, she exclaimed, half aloud; "Why that's the very thing! and I'll

do it at once. Hagar," addressing her maid, "bring me my writing desk."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Ninth.

"There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away."

Byron.

"Dear me! another dull, rainy, tedious day!" sighed Mrs. Dinsmore the

next morning, as she turned from the breakfast-table, walked to the

window and looked out upon the gardens and fields where everything

was dripping with wet, "will the storm never end? No hope of visitors

to-day, or of setting out to see anybody. I shall be literally eaten up

with ennui."

"Here's Mildred," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "I have always found her good

company."

"Humph! she has no time to waste upon me."

"I am quite at your service, Aunt," said our heroine pleasantly.

"Indeed! what's to become of your all-important studies?"

"They have already had two hours devoted to them this morning, besides

two last night; so I think I have fairly earned the pleasure of your

society for so much of the day as you care to have mine," returned the

girl, in a sprightly tone.

Mrs. Dinsmore looked languidly surprised and pleased.

"You are an odd girl to rise so early when you might just as well

indulge in a morning nap," she said.

"I don't find it difficult if I have gotten to bed in good season the

night before," said Mildred gayly, "I have been trained to it from

childhood; my father being a firm believer in the old adage,

"Early to bed and early to rise,

Makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,"

and it is really very pleasant after one is fairly up and dressed."

"Yes; and I dare say we would all be the better for it if we would

follow your example," said Mr. Dinsmore.

"You are altogether mistaken as far as I am concerned," remarked his

wife pettishly, "my best sleep is in the morning."

"I suppose people differ about that as well as in the amount of sleep

they require," observed Mildred, "some needing eight hours, while

others can do quite as well with only four."

"Yes," admitted her uncle, "constitutions differ, and I have no idea of

asking my wife to give up her morning nap. There is a possibility of

carrying the thing to an extreme. Remember that, Miss Milly," he added,

playfully, "and don't let that sensitive conscience of yours force you

up at unchristian hours."

"And how am I to decide what are such, sir?" she asked, laughing.

Mildred laid herself out that day for her aunt's entertainment, and

with a success that restored her almost entirely to favor; at least,

for the time being.

The following day there was a slight abatement in the storm, and some

gentlemen called.

One, a young man who had been her escort on several occasions, and whom

Mildred liked very much as a friend, inquired particularly for her.

He had come with an invitation to a public ball to be given a week

later by a military club of which he was a member, and to ask that he

might be her escort thither.

Mildred declined with thanks.

He seemed much disappointed, and pressed for her reasons.

"I have several, Mr. Landreth," she said, coloring slightly, but

meeting his eye unflinchingly; "I find that late hours injure my

health; that is one; another is that I have been brought up to consider

it wrong to attend balls."

"Why more so than going to the theatre?" he asked.

"I do not know that it is."

"Excuse me, but you go there."

"It is true; I have been several times, but that was very wrong in me,

and I do not intend to go again," Mildred said, humbly, yet firmly,

though the color deepened on her cheek and her voice trembled slightly.

The words had cost her no small effort, but she was glad when they were

spoken; it seemed to lift a load from her heart and conscience.

Mr. Landreth looked full of regret and surprise.

"I am sorry," he said, "will it be taking too great a liberty to ask

why you think it wrong?"

It seemed a difficult and trying thing to undertake. Mildred hesitated

a moment, her eyes cast down, her cheeks burning; but remembering the

words of the Master, "Whosoever, therefore, shall confess me before

men, him will I confess also before my father which is in heaven. But

whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my

father which is in heaven," she answered.

"Because I profess to be a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and as

such, to take his word as my rule of faith and practice. That word bids

us 'whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all

to the glory of God,' and I find it impossible to obey that command in

attending such places of worldly amusement.'"

"You are very young to give up all pleasure," he said, with an

involuntary sigh, "one ought to have some happiness, some enjoyment in

youth. I should say it would be quite time enough to resign all these

things when we arrive at middle age."

"Ah, you quite mistake me, Mr. Landreth," she answered, looking up

brightly, "I only resign a few miserable unsatisfying pleasures for

those that are infinitely higher and more enduring."

He gazed at her incredulously.

"Religion has always seemed to me a very gloomy thing," he said, "very

good and valuable on a deathbed, no doubt, but--I should rather do

without it till then, I must confess."

"I would not," she answered earnestly, "I want it to sweeten my life

all the way through. Mr. Landreth, believe me, it does do that as

nothing else can. I have found it so in my own limited experience, and

I know that my parents have in theirs, which has extended over so many

more years.

"I have seen them wonderfully sustained by it under sore trials, and

have noticed that in times of happiness and prosperity it more than

doubled their joy and gladness. 'Godliness with contentment is great

gain!'"

"Well, Miss Keith," he said, after a moment's pause, "I think you

deserve that it should be gain to you in some way, since you sacrifice

so much for its sake."

"Ah, you are determined to consider it a sacrifice, I see," she

returned smiling. "And I deserve that you should," she added

sorrowfully.

"Excuse me," he said, "I do not doubt your sincerity, but the

Christians with whom I am most intimately acquainted, seem to me

anything but happy; if I may judge from their countenances and the

gloomy austerity of their lives."

"Ah, if I could only show you my mother!" exclaimed Mildred, "if you

could know her as I do, you would tell a different story."

Mildred afterward repeated this last remark of Mr. Landreth's to her

aunt.

"Yes," said Mrs. Dinsmore with an expressive shrug of the shoulders,

"I know all about that, and you will understand it too, when you have

seen his aunt--or rather his uncle's wife--Mrs. James Landreth, and her

house. By the way, we must call there; she called on me one day not

long since, when we were out."

"What is she like?" asked Mildred.

"Don't ask; wait till you see her; no description could do her justice.

At least none that I could give," Mrs. Dinsmore answered, a little

impatiently.

Mildred's curiosity was excited and she was eager to make the proposed

call.

After a few days' delay for good roads and good weather, she and her

aunt set out, taking an early start, as they had a drive of some miles

before them, and designed paying several other visits.

"The Landreths live in the suburbs of the city," Mrs. Dinsmore

remarked, "and I have ordered Ajax to drive there first. I always like

to get disagreeable things over."

"I wish," said Mildred, "that one might confine one's calls to those

whom it is a real pleasure to visit."

"Of course it would be very delightful if one could," said her aunt,

"but there is no use in talking about it; you can't tell people, I

don't wish to keep up acquaintance with you because your society is not

agreeable to me."

"No, of course not," returned Mildred laughing. "Do you suppose Mrs.

Landreth calls on us, too, because the customs of society require it?"

"Really I can't tell. I know she doesn't enjoy it; because I am not one

of her sort. I'm certain she looks upon me as a very worldly minded,

wicked woman, a kind of heathen in fact, and perhaps she considers

herself doing missionary work in coming to see me."

"The house and grounds are handsome," Mildred remarked with some

surprise, as they alighted at Mr. Landreth's door.

"Outside," Mrs. Dinsmore returned significantly.

Mrs. Landreth was at home and they were shown into the drawing-room.

It was a spacious, rather dreary looking apartment, very plainly

furnished and almost wholly destitute of ornament, with the exception

of a few old family portraits. The only really attractive objects in

the room were a brightly blazing fire and a very fine painting over

the mantel.

This last riveted Mildred's attention in a moment, and she exclaimed at

its beauty.

"Yes," whispered Mrs. Dinsmore, "it's the one handsome thing in the

house, and she's always at her husband to sell it."

"Why?" and Mildred's look expressed unfeigned astonishment.

"Praise it to her and you will hear all about it."

Their hostess entered. She was tall, angular, of sallow complexion, and

strong featured. Her black hair, streaked here and there with grey, was

drawn straight back from a forehead crossed by many lines.

Caps were much worn even by youthful matrons at that day, but Mrs.

Landreth had resorted to no such artifice to conceal from view the

partially bald spot on the top of her head; neither did the close

fitting, black stuff gown hide one angle of her stiff, ungainly figure.

Her movements were ungraceful, her countenance was solemn as might have

befitted a funeral occasion.

"She is certainly far from pleasing in appearance," thought Mildred,

furtively scanning the unattractive face, and mentally contrasting it

with the dear, bright, cheerful one that had made the sunshine of her

childhood's home.

Mrs. Landreth's face served as a good foil even to Mrs. Dinsmore's

faded beauty; a fact of which that lady was by no means unaware or

intolerant.

The two conversed together for some minutes; Mildred sitting silently

by. They were speaking of the weather, then of some common acquaintance

of whom she knew nothing, and not feeling interested she half

unconsciously suffered her eyes to wander about the room.

"You do not find much to admire here?" Mrs. Landreth said,

interrogatively, turning abruptly to her. "There are no pretty trifles

scattered here and there as at Roselands."

"I admire that painting over the mantel exceedingly," Mildred answered

with a blush, and turning her gaze upon it again; "such a lovely, sunny

landscape! it gives one a restful feeling just to look at it."

"Yes, it is a fine painting, but I have often told my husband that I

think he committed a sin in putting so much money into an unnecessary

luxury; something we could do perfectly well without. The Bible bids us

be content with food and raiment; and we ought not to indulge ourselves

in anything more; or to spend much on them while there are so many

deserving objects of charity in the world. That is why you find me so

plain in my attire and in the furnishing of my house.

"Mr. Landreth holds different views and would like house and wife to

look as well as those of his neighbors, as he often says; but I must

act according to the dictates of my conscience."

"But don't you think it a duty to try to please your husband and

make his home attractive?" Mildred asked modestly. "I know my mother

considers it hers and her great pleasure also."

"Quite natural then that you should; but doubtless I am an older woman

than she; and years should teach wisdom," rejoined Mrs. Landreth,

somewhat loftily.

"Yes, madam, I suppose they should, but do you think people are always

wise just in proportion to their age?"

"Of course not always. Mr. Landreth is older than I.

"But now to return to the original topic. We are taught that we

ought to practice self-denial and to give liberally to the poor. The

interest of the money paid for that picture (five thousand dollars)

would enable me to largely increase my benefactions, if I had it. And

besides how much useful work the artist might have done in the time he

spent--wasted one may well say--in painting it."

"I cannot think the time was wasted, or that God would have given him

the talent if he were not to use it, or that it is wrong to surround

ourselves with beautiful things if we have the means," ventured

Mildred, still thinking of her mother's practice and the opinions she

had heard her express.

Mrs. Landreth gave her a look that said as plainly as words, "I

consider you a very opinionated and silly young person," and Mrs.

Dinsmore arose to take leave.

"That woman," she remarked as she threw herself back in her carriage,

"has done more to disgust me with religion than anybody or anything

else! She is always parading her self-denial and benevolence, always

looks as solemn as if it was a sin to laugh, seems unhappy herself and

anxious to make everybody else so. If that is Christianity I want none

of it! and I know that is just how Charlie Landreth feels!"

"But it isn't Christianity, aunt," Mildred said earnestly. "And do you

not know some Christians who are very different?"

"Yes, there's Mrs. Travilla, at Ion, where we are going now. She is

always cheerful, quite merry at times, and a great deal better woman,

to my thinking, than Mrs. Landreth, though she doesn't appear to think

so herself. In fact she's too good for me; gives me an uncomfortable

sense of my own inferiority in that respect."

"Are the Landreths poor?" asked Mildred.

"Poor; child," exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore, laughing. "Wouldn't Charlie

and his uncle be mortified if they could hear that question! Poor! no,

indeed! Mr. Landreth could afford twenty paintings as costly as that;

but he isn't allowed to enjoy one, and the house looks forlorn and

comfortless from garret to cellar."

"And is she really so benevolent?"

"She gives a great deal to missions, and to the poor, and the church,

but I think it would be well for her to remember that charity begins at

home, and to bestow a little kindness upon her husband and his nephew.

If they were beggars she would perhaps think it worth while to pay some

attention to their comfort; as it is they get nothing from her but

sermons and lectures on their worldliness and wickedness."

"But Mr. Charlie Landreth doesn't seem to me like a bad young man,"

said Mildred, in surprise.

"He isn't," said Mrs. Dinsmore, "he's a thorough gentleman and has no

vices; there isn't a finer young man the country round. But he isn't

pious; so of course she considers him a reprobate."

"I have heard my mother speak of Mrs. Travilla as a lovely Christian

lady and an intimate friend of Aunt Eva," said Mildred, willing to

introduce a new topic.

"Yes; and I always feel that she is making comparisons, unfavorable to

me of course, between Mr. Dinsmore's first wife and myself. So I can

hardly be expected to be very fond of her."

"But isn't it possible that you may be mistaken, Aunt Isabel?"

"I'm not given to fancies," was the ungracious rejoinder.

Then there was a short silence broken presently by a query from Mildred.

"Has Mrs. Travilla any daughters?"

"No; only a son; and he's away in Europe. The families--ours and

theirs--have always been intimate, Edward Travilla and Horace

inseparable companions, and they went to Europe together."

"It seems odd I should have been here so long without meeting Mrs.

Travilla."

"She has been away; went North with her son, and did not return till

quite recently. She called at Roselands the same day Mrs. Landreth did

and inquired for you."

Mildred was greatly pleased with both Ion and its mistress.

The grounds were extensive, beautiful and well cared for, the house,

a fine old mansion handsomely furnished, abounded in tasteful

ornamentation; there were articles of _vertu_ scattered through its

rooms--rare and costly bits of painting and sculpture. Also less

expensive adornments, singing birds and blooming plants and flowers;

all showing a refined and cultivated taste, and forming together a most

harmonious and charming whole.

Mrs. Travilla was perhaps some years older than Mrs. Dinsmore, and with

her, too, youthful bloom had fled; but it had given place to beauty of

another and higher order--the illumination of a richly cultivated mind

and heart.

She was attired with simple elegance and a due regard to her age,

circumstances and what best became her style of beauty. Her manner was

simple and cordial, her conversation sprightly, her voice low and sweet

toned.

"You resemble your mother," she said with a kindly smile, taking

Mildred's hand in parting, and gazing earnestly into her face. "I

remember her well for I saw a good deal of her in her visits to

Roselands: and truly to know her was to love her. Some day soon, if

your aunt can spare you, you must spend a day with me, and we will have

a long talk about her. I want to hear all you have to tell."

"Oh, I should be delighted!" Mildred exclaimed, her cheeks glowing, her

eyes sparkling. Mrs. Travilla had found the way to her heart, and from

that moment they were fast friends.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Tenth.

"There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother."

Proverbs 18. 24.

"You found Mrs. Travilla a decided contrast to the other lady,"

remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, as they drove down the avenue at Ion; "pray,

which do you think is right in her religious views?"

"There is no question in my mind as to which is the more attractive,"

said Mildred, "or which seems to recommend her religion the most by

her looks and ways; yet Mrs. Landreth's self-denial certainly appears

commendable, but--oh, I confess that I am really puzzled and must take

time to consider."

"Well, I hope you won't pattern after Mrs. Landreth."

"No, never!" Mildred exclaimed, with energy. "I know it cannot be right

to make home uninviting and cheerless; my mother has taught me better

than that, both by precept and example."

"There is a letter for you, my dear," Mr. Dinsmore said, handing his

wife and niece from the carriage.

"From whom?" she asked, with interest.

"I have not opened it, but the address is in your sister Delia's hand."

"Ah! then it is just the one I want."

At the tea table Mrs. Dinsmore made an announcement.

"My nieces, Juliet and Reba Marsden, are coming on a visit here. We may

expect them to-night or to-morrow."

"To-night?" said Mr. Dinsmore inquiringly. "They come by the stage, eh?"

"Yes; it passes at what hour?"

"Eight; Pomp," to the servant in waiting, "tell Aunt Phoebe to have a

hot supper ready at quarter past eight."

"Young ladies, Aunt?" asked Mildred, looking up with a bright, pleased

face.

"Yes, eighteen and twenty. Company for you, I hope."

Mildred slipped away to her own room shortly before the time for the

arrival of the stage. She had a lesson to prepare, a letter to write,

and thought her aunt would want to have her nieces to herself for the

first hour or two. Besides Mrs. Dinsmore had expressed an intention to

send them to bed betimes, that they might be fresh for the ball which

was to come off the next evening.

On the stairway Mildred met her three cousins, Adelaide, Louise, and

Lora.