"A case of lynching occurred in one of the southern counties of Texas,

about two weeks ago. A man named Joseph White, said to be from one

of the Northern States, suspected of horse stealing, was taken by a

posse of some forty armed men, carried into the woods and hung. He was

given ten minutes to prepare for death; died bravely, protesting his

innocence to the last; but of course nobody believed him, as the proof

against him was strong."

Sick and faint with horror, Mildred laid down the paper and dropped,

shuddering, into a chair. Oh, this was worse than all! If he was that

poor woman's husband, and she loved him, no wonder news so dreadful,

and coming at such a time as this, should bring her down to the very

gates of death.

The girlish heart was filled with a great compassion for the poor

stricken creature, a great longing to comfort her in her grief and

desolation.

"She will not live, she cannot," she whispered to herself; "I should

not wish to were I in her place; for oh, it is so horrible, so

horrible! How can men be such savages as to take human life to atone

for the loss of an animal! and that perhaps the life of an innocent

man?"

"I should be loath to assume your responsibility in this matter,"

remarked Mr. Dinsmore to his wife, as Mildred left them lingering over

their dessert.

"Why?" she demanded, bridling; "did _I_ cause the ruin of her brother

or the poverty of the family?"

"You seem to have added to that last burden; thus supplying the one

drop that makes the cup overflow."

"I only did my duty to my children," she retorted angrily.

"I cannot see it," he said; "the children have improved very much in

the two years that she has been with us."

"And of course all the credit of that belongs to her! there is none at

all due to me. I often wonder, Mr. Dinsmore, how you came to marry a

woman for whom you entertain so little admiration or respect."

"That is hardly a fair inference from what I have said," he rejoined in

a tone of weariness and disgust; for she had tried his patience not a

little that day with her whims and follies.

He rose with the last word and withdrew to the library. He was sitting

before the fire in his easy chair, seemingly lost in thought, when the

door opened softly and Mildred glided across the room and stood at his

side.

As he looked up he saw that her features were working with emotion, her

eyes full of tears.

"What is it?" he asked, in a startled tone; "she's not gone, I hope?"

Mildred shook her head, and with a burst of tears and a whispered "I

could almost wish she was if--if I was quite sure she was prepared,"

pointed significantly to the marked paragraph in the paper which she

held before him.

He read it, and then looked up at her with an inquiring "Well?" upon

which Mildred told her reasons for connecting that item of news with

Miss Worth's sudden seizure, repeating the words gasped out by the

pale, trembling lips of the governess on her partial restoration to

consciousness.

"I thought then that her mind wandered," concluded Mildred, "but since

reading this, I fear her words were only too true."

"Poor thing!" he sighed. "I'm afraid she knows by sad experience all

that she rescued Juliet from. Well, Milly, we will do the best we can

for her. And, child, don't distress yourself unnecessarily. It will do

her no good, you know."

"You are always kind and thoughtful for me, uncle," she responded

gratefully, "but this seems no time to be considering myself. Do you

know what the doctor thinks of her?"

"He told me that the attack must have been occasioned by some severe

mental shock coming upon an exhausted frame. What she has had to

exhaust her I don't know--her duties were light enough, I supposed--but

the shock I took to have been the arrest of her brother. It would seem,

however, from this, that a far more terrible one was superadded."

"Yes," Mildred said, shuddering. "Oh, my heart bleeds for her. But how

strange that she is married? Why should she have kept it so profound a

secret? going back to her maiden name?"

"That I cannot tell," Mr. Dinsmore answered; "but probably it was a

clandestine and unfortunate affair, and she wished to avoid unpleasant

explanations. We will say nothing about it to your aunt, as it would

only increase her displeasure against the unhappy woman?"

"Ah, uncle," Mildred said musingly, "how little idea I have had

hitherto of the dreadful distress that comes into some lives! I begin

to think myself a very fortunate mortal."

"It is well to learn to appreciate our blessings," he returned with a

smile that had little of mirth in it; for he was thinking with concern

of the condition and prospects of the stranger within his gates.

"I must ask Dr. Barton whether she is likely to be long ill," he

said, thinking aloud rather than addressing Mildred, "that we may

make arrangements accordingly. And I think we should show him this,"

indicating the fatal news item.

"It is her secret," Mildred suggested doubtfully.

"True, my dear, but physicians have often to be entrusted with the

secrets of their patients and Dr. Barton is a safe depository for such

things."

Mrs. Dinsmore was impatient for Dr. Barton's opinion, very impatient

over the unfortunate circumstances of the serious seizure of the

governess underneath her roof; for she entertained an utter detestation

of sickness and death, and was always ready to fly from them at a

moment's warning; whatever might be the character of the illness, she

insisted there was danger of contagion, and saw it to be clearly her

duty to take care of herself by running away.

She spent the afternoon in overseeing the packing of trunks, that

she might be prepared for any emergency; then anxiously awaited the

doctor's report.

It was her husband who brought it to her at last, late in the evening.

He had been closeted for a quarter of an hour with the physician, and

now came into his wife's boudoir with a countenance full of grave

concern.

"Well, what is it? what does Dr. Barton say?" she queried fretfully, "I

thought you would never come back to tell me."

"He fears there is little hope of recovery," her husband answered

gravely, pacing slowly to and fro with the air of one who is seriously

disturbed.

"And is she going to be sick long?"

"It may be for some weeks, he cannot tell certainly."

"Can she be moved?"

"Moved? What occasion for that? The room she occupies now is

comfortable; is it not?"

"Dear me, Mr. Dinsmore, you can be very stupid! I want to know if she

can't be sent to the village to a hotel or boarding house. It isn't at

all pleasant to think of her dying here. I don't want any haunted rooms

in my house."

He paused in his walk, and stood looking at her in amazement, that

presently gave place to an expression of extreme chagrin and disgust.

"Isabella!" he exclaimed, "are you utterly heartless? utterly destitute

of womanly compassion for the helpless and suffering?"

"Of course I'm not," she said, resorting to tears, as was her wont when

at a loss for better weapons of defence. "I'm sure she could be made

very comfortable there, and I spared the necessity of being turned out

of my own home in the depth of winter. But you can think of everybody's

comfort and happiness except your wife's; _it_ isn't of the least

consequence, and never will be."

"Really," he said, "I do not know what you are talking about. I

certainly have not proposed your leaving home, and cannot see the

slightest necessity for your doing so."

"No, you would be quite as well pleased to have me stay here and get

sick and die, and give you a chance to find a younger and prettier

wife."

He disdained a reply to that, and presently she went on:

"I shall take the children, and go to Kentucky to visit my sister. It's

fortunate that Mr. Marsden comes to-morrow, and is going to return

immediately. I could not have a better escort."

"As you please; I have become somewhat used to being left out of my

wife's plans," he said coldly, turning on his heel to leave the room.

"Go if you like," he added, turning toward her again, "but don't talk

of necessity; for there is not the remotest danger of Miss Worth's

sickness proving contagious. She is dying of a broken heart."

"Ridiculous!" she muttered as he went out and shut the door, "the idea

of a governess coming to such a romantic end. It's far more likely to

turn out scarlet fever or small-pox."

By morning she had worked herself up to the belief that such was really

the case.

The next step was to bring her nieces to a like conviction; in which

she succeeded so well that they were greatly alarmed, Juliet nearly

forgetting the disappointment and disgrace of her late attempt at

elopement, in the fear that small-pox might rob her of her beauty.

She had not much to lose, to be sure, but of that fact she was

comfortably ignorant, and as what she had was but skin deep, small-pox

would have made sad havoc with it.

Mr. Marsden arrived in the evening, and early the following morning

the whole party, consisting of himself and his two daughters, Mrs.

Dinsmore and her six children, with their nurses, set out for his home

in Kentucky.

They departed without seeing Mildred, who had been so much in the

sick-room that they were afraid of her, but left good-bye for her with

Mr. Dinsmore.

He made no effort to detain his family, but simply remarked to his

wife, on taking leave of her, that when she felt it safe to return, he

would be happy to see her and their children.

The house seemed strangely quiet and deserted as he turned back into it

after seeing them off.

He went up to the sick-room. Mildred was there, moving softly about,

supplementing the work of the housemaid with a few skillful touches

here and there, that seemed to brighten up the place wonderfully.

He had said to her at the first, "Mildred, you are not to bear any part

of this burden. Mrs. Brown and Aunt Delia are both excellent nurses,

and will not neglect anything that can be done for her relief or

restoration; and I cannot have you wearing yourself out."

He said substantially the same thing now, speaking in an undertone that

could not disturb the patient, who was sleeping under the influence of

medicine.

"I shall not wear myself out, uncle, never fear," she answered in the

same low key, smiling up affectionately into his face, "but I cannot be

content to stay away all the time, for she seems to cling to me."

"Yes," said Mrs. Brown, coming in; "and Miss Mildred has a wonderfully

soothing way with her that quiets her in her fits of restlessness and

distress, when nothing else can.

"And I think, Mr. Dinsmore," she added, in a still lower tone, "that

it won't be long the poor creature will be troubling any of us. I see

death in her pale, sunken face now."

Mildred stole out into the hall, and her uncle following her, found

her wiping away the fast-falling tears.

"O, uncle," she sobbed, "what do you think I have discovered? that she

has been wearing herself out sitting up half the night, for months

past, writing articles and stories for newspapers and magazines, in

order to earn a little more for the support of that mother and sister."

"Indeed!" he said, looking much concerned. "I am very sorry; I would

rather have added a hundred dollars to her salary, if I had known it.

But unfortunately it is too late now."

"I can't help feeling angry at them!" cried Mildred; "why didn't they

bear their own burdens according to the Bible command? And then that

brother--and husband! Oh, it is too bad!"

"Have you learned any more of her story?" he asked.

"No, sir; she hardly speaks at all except that I have heard her murmur

to herself in, oh, such a heart broken way, 'My darling, my darling,

oh, my darling?' and two or three times she has whispered to me, 'Tell

me about Him--that Friend.'"

"That Friend? whom does she mean?"

"The Lord Jesus. I told her of Him once when I found her sad and

troubled, and it seemed to do her good."

"You are a blessed little comforter! you must have taken lessons of

your mother," he said in a moved tone, as he turned and went away.

Going down stairs, he ordered his carriage and drove over to Ion.

When he returned, Mrs. Travilla was with him.

It was a glad surprise to Mildred, a greater comfort than anything else

but the arrival of her own mother could have been; for here was one

with a heart ever tenderly alive to human woe, and far more capable

than herself of pointing the sufferer to the only true source of help

and consolation.

Together they watched, day after day, by the sick and dying bed; for

the poor woman had indeed received her death blow in that last terrible

announcement.

She said little, made no complaint, but lay there growing weaker, and

often lifting her eyes to their faces with a look of hopeless anguish

in them that wrung their hearts.

Then Mrs. Travilla would lean over her and in low, tender tones tell of

the love and sympathy of Jesus, repeating now one, now another of the

many exceeding great and precious promises of His word.

"'As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you; and ye shall

be comforted.'

"'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give

you rest.'

"'I have loved them with an everlasting love.'

"'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'"

"Ah, if He loves me, why does He send such fearful trials?" she asked

one day.

"My dear," said Mrs. Travilla, "He told his disciples, 'In the world

ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the

world.'

"'We must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God.' But

'our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far

more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'

"Trust Him and He will do for you just what is best; will give you

strength to bear all that He sends, and take you at last to Himself to

be unspeakably happy forever and forever."

"I will, I do," she said. "Ah, Miss Keith," turning her sad eyes upon

Mildred, who sat near with tears streaming down her cheeks, "I thank

God that you were sent here to tell me of this heavenly Friend! for His

love is all that sustains me in this dread hour."

She closed her eyes, and for some moments they thought she slept; but

opening them again, "I am dying," she whispered; "but I am not afraid,

for He is with me. Ah, how much easier than _his_ death--_his_--_my

darling's_!" she added with a shudder. "Only ten minutes to prepare;

and--I--fear he had never found this Friend."

The keenest look of anguish they had ever seen came into her eyes with

those words, and for some minutes she was too much overcome to proceed.

When at last she did it was in tones so low and tremulous that they

strained their ears to catch the sounds.

"Six years ago we married; secretly,--against my parents' wishes. They

were right; he was wild--loved wine, cards, fast horses, but me too,

and oh, _how_ I loved him! He was Harry's ruin; both had to fly, and I

have never taken his name openly; no one knew what he was to me, but my

own family; and I thought no one need know. Perhaps it was wrong--but

how could I bare my heart to a stranger?"

"You were not called upon to do so," Mrs. Travilla said, with emotion;

for the sad story had deeply touched her heart.

The mournful eyes turned upon her with a grateful look, then closed in

the sleep of utter exhaustion.

She passed away that night very calmly and peacefully, trusting in her

Redeemer; and as Mildred gazed upon the solemn scene she thanked God

that she had been permitted to lead one soul to Him, to smooth one

dying pillow, and that Heaven would make amends to the sorely tried

one, for all she had been called upon to endure on earth.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Nineteenth.

"A lovely being, scarcely formed or molded,

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."

--Byron.

On the veranda of a lordly mansion over-looking a velvety lawn of

emerald green, spangled with flowers and dotted here and there with

giant oaks, magnolias and orange trees, between which might be caught

the silvery gleam of the bright waters of a lakelet beyond, a young

child, a lovely little girl of four, was sporting with her nurse:

tossing to and fro a many-colored ball with many a sweet baby laugh and

shout.

Presently it flew over the railing and rolled away among the flowers in

the grass.

"Let's go get it, mammy," said the little one, hurrying down the steps;

"let' stoss it on the lawn."

"Wait, honey," returned the nurse, following her. "Ki! let ole mammy

hol' you up to see what's comin' down dar on de wattah."

"Oh, the boat, the boat!" shouted the child, as Aunt Chloe lifted her

to her shoulder. "Will it stop, mammy? Is uncle comin' on it?"

"Dunno, darlin'; 'spect he is," Aunt Chloe answered moving on across

the lawn in the direction of the little pier where the boat was already

rounding to. "Ki! yes, dar he am, standin' on de deck."

The child clapped her pretty hands with a cry of delight. "I see him!

I see him! Please go on, mammy. Now let me down. I want to run to meet

him."

A man was stepping ashore, gentlemanly in dress and appearance,

of medium height, rather stoutly built, sandy hair and whiskers,

plentifully sprinkled with grey, a grave, thoughtful face, with stern

mouth, but kindly grey eyes.

At sight of the fairy little figure bounding toward him, he set down

a valise he carried, stooped and held out his arms, the stern lips

relaxing into a smile, the grey eyes twinkling.

In an instant she was clinging about his neck, the rosebud mouth

pressing sweet kisses on his lips.

"Well, my bonny bairn, are you glad to see your old uncle come home?"

he asked, fondling her for a moment; then setting her on her feet and

taking her hand, he walked on toward the house, Aunt Chloe and a negro

boy with the valise, following.

A pleasant-faced matron, in a neat muslin dress and cap, met them on

the veranda.

"Welcome home, sir, Mr. Cameron," she said shaking hands with him.

"Your room's a' ready, and tea will be on the table in ten minutes.

Elsie, my bonnie pet, will ye no stay wi' me while uncle changes his

linen?"

"Yes, Mrs. Murray, wis you and mammy," the child answered, with

cheerful acquiescence. "Uncle won't go 'way to-morrow nor nex' day

'cause he said so."

The child's meals were usually taken alone in the nursery, earlier

hours than those preferred by the older people better suiting her

tender years; but to-night she took tea with her guardian and Mr.

Murray, Mrs. Murray sitting opposite him and presiding over the tea

urn, Elsie between them at his right hand; while Aunt Chloe stood at

the back of her chair, ready to give instant attention to every want

and wish.

The evenings were cool enough to make an open wood fire very agreeable,

and a fine one blazed and crackled on the hearth in the library,

whither Mr. Cameron bent his steps on leaving the table.

He had scarcely taken possession of an easy chair beside it, when Elsie

crept to his side and claimed a seat on his knee.

"Poor bit fatherless bairn!" he muttered, as he took her up. "Some folk

are, as the good book says, 'without natural affection.'"

"Why, uncle, I's dot a papa, hasn't I?" she asked, catching in an

understanding way only the first half of his remark; "Mrs. Murray tells

me 'bout him sometimes."

"Yes; so you have," he said, "but he isn't here to take care of his

little lassie, you know."

"I wis' he was! I wis' he'd come dus' now!

"And my mamma in heaven where Jesus is," she prattled on, "my sweet,

pretty mamma," and pulling at a gold chain about her neck, she drew

out from the bosom of her gown a miniature set in gold and diamonds, a

likeness of a very beautiful young girl.

"Dear mamma, sweet, pretty mamma!" she repeated, fondly kissing the

pictured face.

"Let me look at it, Elsie," he said, as she was about to return it to

its hiding place.

"The bonniest face I ever saw," he mused half aloud, gazing intently

upon it. "Woe's me that the sods of the valley should ha' covered it

from sight sae soon! Was I wrong! Eh, how could I know that she cared

so much for that wild youth? I thought it was the gowd he was after,

and I think so still."

But he heaved a profound remorseful sigh, as he relinquished the

miniature to its rightful owner.

As he did so he caught sight of Aunt Chloe standing near, her dark

eyes fixed on him with an expression of keenest sorrow, mingled with

reproach.

"She blames me," he thought uneasily. "Well, well, I meant it all for

the best."

"Aunt Chloe," he said, speaking aloud, "bring me a parcel you'll find

on my dressing-table."

She left the room, and presently returned bringing what he had sent her

for.

"Something for you, Elsie," he said, laying it in her lap.

It was loosely wrapped in brown paper which she quickly unfolded with

her small white fingers, bringing to light a large, beautiful and

handsomely-dressed doll.

"Oh, oh! see, mammy, see!" she cried in delight; "such a big dolly!

biggest of all I's dot!"

Then she thanked the giver with kisses and smiles and sweet words

of baby gratitude; for she was a child of most grateful and loving

disposition.

Mrs. Murray must be called in to see and admire the new treasure;

then with it hugged closely in her arms, the delighted darling bade

good-night and suffered her mammy to lead her away to bed.

"What a bonny wean it is! One canna think well o' the father that

neglects it," remarked Mr. Cameron, as the tiny, fairy-like figure

disappeared through the doorway.

"It's unaccountable, and whiles makes me hae grave doubts of the

reality of his love for the mother," said the housekeeper. "But if once

he got sight o' the bairn it would surely be different. Who could see

the bit winsome thing and not love her dearly? Can ye no manage to get

him here by hook or by crook, Mr. Cameron?"

"I cannot say that I'm over anxious," he answered drily. "He's too

fiery and hot-headed a youth to deal comfortably with; besides he's

away in Europe."

"Ah! when will he return?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Murray, I got no hint o' that, except that his stay was

likely to be lengthy."

She had brought in her accounts of household expenditures for the past

month, and some time was spent in going over them and conversing of

various business matters.

"Mr. Cameron," she said, as the interview was about to close, "life and

health are both uncertain wi' us all. In case onything should happen to

you, sir, what--"

"I will give you the address of my solicitor, and o' the bairn's

grandfather," he said, without waiting for the conclusion of her

sentence; and turning to his writing desk he wrote both on a card,

which he handed to her, saying, "It would be advisable for you, or the

overseer to send them both word immediately if aught occur to deprive

me of the ability to attend to the affairs o' the estate and the

welfare o' the bit lassie."

Scarce a week had elapsed when Mrs. Murray found reason to be thankful

for this act of prudent foresight. Mr. Cameron was taken suddenly

and violently ill, soon became delirious, and after a few days of

suffering, breathed his last, without an interval in which he could

have attended to business, however important.

As soon as it was known that the illness was likely to terminate

fatally, letters were dispatched to the addresses given.

The lawyer living no further away than New Orleans, was able to reach

Viamede in time for the funeral; but it would take weeks for the letter

to Mr. Dinsmore to wend its way to Roselands.

Little Elsie saw nothing of her guardian after he was taken sick; she

was not shown the corpse, and during the funeral her nurse had her away

in a distant part of the grounds.

"She's too young to be saddened wi' thoughts o' death and the grave,"

said Mrs. Murray; "we'll just tell her, when she asks for her uncle,

that he's gone to the beautiful heaven where the Saviour is; and her

sweet, pretty mamma, too. And she'll hae only pleasant thoughts about

it, the darling pet!"

The good woman had a very strong, motherly affection for the lovely

little one, and was more concerned in regard to the possible, not to

say probable, separation from her, consequent upon Mr. Cameron's death,

than with any other question touching her own earthly future. She did

not know what disposal would be made of the child, but was resolved not

to endure separation if it could be avoided, even by a considerable

pecuniary sacrifice.

The lawyer could tell her nothing except that the child's father would

now assume entire control of both her person and property.

"Then," she said with the tears stealing down her cheeks, "I fear we

may have to part; but I will ever comfort myself with the thought that

God reigns and the mon's heart is in His hand as the rivers of water;

so that He can turn it whithersoever He will."

"You seem strongly attached to her," remarked the lawyer. "Well, she's

a pretty little creature and a great heiress; the estate was large

at the time of the grandfather's death, and has flourished under my

friend Cameron's care; his investments were always judicious. In fact

he couldn't have handled the funds more wisely and carefully if it had

been his own. Mr. Dinsmore has been sent for, you say?"

"The grandfather, sir; the father's away in Europe."

"Ah! rather unfortunate, I fear. Well, Mrs. Murray, I have finished the

business that brought me here, and shall leave by the next boat; which

passes, I understand, half an hour from this," he concluded, consulting

his watch.

"Yes," she said; "but you will first step into the dining-room and take

some refreshment, will you not, sir? It is quite ready."

He accepted the invitation, and while sipping his tea, said, "I shall

see Mr. Dinsmore in New Orleans; he will doubtless call upon me there

before coming on to Viamede, and you may depend, Mrs. Murray, that if

I have any influence it will be exerted in favor of the plan of leaving

the little girl in your care."

"I thank you, sir," she said. "I love the sweet bairn as I loved my

own, now all gone before to the heavenly rest, and perhaps, as they

hae never seemed to care to trouble wi' her, they may be willing to

continue her in my charge."

Mrs. Murray was by no means the only one at Viamede who dreaded the

changes that might come as an indirect consequence of the death of

Elsie's guardian; there were many anxious hearts among the older and

more intelligent of the servants. Would the little mistress, whom they

fairly idolized, be carried away from them? Would there be a change of

overseers? Would any of them be sold away from home and kindred?

Work had been suspended on account of the funeral. It was over, and

returning to their accustomed haunts about the mansion and the quarter,

they collected in little groups here and there, looking sadly into each

other's faces, talking in subdued tones, with many a dubious shake of

the head, and not a few tears dropped to the memory of the fair young

creature who had left them four years agone to lie down beside her

parents in the family burial ground on a grassy slope not far away.

Ah, could they but have kept her! so sweet, so gentle, so kind.

Presently Aunt Chloe and her young charge, taking the quarter on

their way to the mansion, appeared among them, the baby girl looking

wondrously like to her whom they mourned; the same fair, oval face,

large, lustrous brown eyes, golden brown hair and sunny smile.

They gathered about her with honeyed words of endearments, kissing the

small white hands, the golden ringlets, even the hem of her richly

embroidered white dress; she scattering gracious winsome words and

smiles like a little queen among her loyal subjects.

It was truly the homage of the heart, for scarce one of them would have

hesitated to risk life and limb in her service.

She dispensed her favors with great impartiality, and was borne to the

house on the shoulders of several of these ardent admirers, each taking

his turn in carrying her part of the way, that all might share in the

privilege; since the loving little heart would not favor one to the

rejection of the others.

It was just as Mr. Coonly, the solicitor, was about taking his

departure that the baby girl was thus borne in triumph to the veranda,

and set down there all flushed and rosy and crowing with delight.

"Nice ride, Uncle Ben, and all you other uncles," she said, kissing her

hand to them, "Mammy will get you some cakes."

"She's a beautiful child!" exclaimed the solicitor in an aside to Mrs.

Murray.

"Yes, sir; and a dear bairn, sweet and good as she is fair."

"Will you give me a good-bye kiss, my little dear?" he asked, stepping

toward her.

"Yes," she said, holding up her rosebud mouth. "But I don't know you.

Did you come to see my uncle? Where is he?"

He gave her a puzzled look, then saying, "I haven't time to tell you

now, my little girl," hurried away.

She looked after him for a moment, then turning to Mrs. Murray,

repeated her question.

"Gone away, darling," was the answer. "Now come in and eat your supper;

and then we'll have a nice bit talk."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twentieth.

"Not mine--yet dear to me--fair, fragrant blossom

Of a fair tree--

Crushed to the earth in life's first glorious summer,--

Thou'rt dear to me,

Child of the lost, the buried and the sainted."

--Mrs. Wiley.

The housekeeper's room, to which she now led the little Elsie, was a

cheery, pleasant place, On a small round table, covered with snowy

satin-like damask, and a service of glittering silverware, cut glass

and Sevres china, a tempting little repast was laid out for the two.

Mrs. Murray took her seat, and Aunt Chloe lifted Elsie into a high

chair opposite.

The little one closed her eyes, folded her baby hands and bent

reverently over her plate, while Mrs. Murray asked, in a few simple

words, a blessing on their food.

Aunt Chloe waited on them while they ate, devoting herself particularly

to her infant charge, as another servant was in attendance, then

withdrew to the servants' hall to eat her own supper.

And now Mrs. Murray, seating herself in a low rocking-chair, took the

child on her lap.

Elsie nestled in her arms, laid her head on her shoulder, and softly

patting her cheek, said, "I love you, Mrs. Murray."

"I dinna doubt it, my sweet, bit lassie, and I love you too; dearly,

dearly," the good woman returned, accompanying the words with tender,

motherly caresses. "And the dear Lord Jesus loves you better still,

darling. Never forget that, never doubt that you are His own precious

lambkin, and that He is always near to hear you when you pray."

"Yes, I know," answered the child, "Jesus loves little children, Jesus

loves little Elsie. And some day He'll let Elsie go to live wis Him and

wis her sweet, pretty mamma. Jesus loves my mamma, and lets her live

'long wis Him."

"Yes, dear, she is there in that happy land. And uncle has gone to be

with her now."

The child started, lifted up her head, and gazing earnestly,

questioningly into the housekeeper's eyes, asked, "Uncle gone too? Will

he come back again?"

"No, dear bairn, they never want to come back from that blessed land;

they are so happy there with the dear Saviour."

"Why didn't he take Elsie 'long!" cried the child, bursting into

tears; "I want to go dere too."

"Jesus didn't send for you this time, sweet pet," the housekeeper

answered with emotion, and folding the little form closer to her heart;

"He would have you and me bide here yet a bit; but some day He will

call us home too. He's getting a very lovely home ready for us there."

"For my papa too?"

"I trust so, darling."

"Where is my papa? why doesn't he come to Elsie."

"I don't know, my bonnie bairn. I think he will come some day."

"And take Elsie on his knee, and kiss her and love her?"

"Surely, surely, darling. And you have a grandpa, who will be here

before many days, I trust."

"Grandpa that's gone to heaven?"

"No; that is Grandpa Grayson, your sweet mamma's father; this is

Grandpa Dinsmore, your papa's father."

The child looked thoughtful for a moment, then with a joyous smile

exclaimed, "Elsie's so glad! I wish he'd come now. Elsie will love him

ever so much."

"May the Lord open his heart to love you in return, sweet bairnie,"

sighed the good woman. "But not to take you frae me," she added

mentally.

The child pleaded for "stories 'bout mamma; Elsie's mamma when she was

little girlie, and played wis her little brothers and sisters."

Mrs. Murray having been housekeeper at Viamede for nearly twenty years,

had a plentiful store of these laid up in her memory. Each one had been

repeated for the little girl's entertainment a score of times or more,

but repetition seemed to have no power to lessen their interest for her.

"Why doesn't Elsie have brothers and sisters?" she asked during a pause

in the narration. "Elsie do want some so bad!"

"Our Father didna see fit to give you any, dear bairn; and so you must

try to be content without," Mrs. Murray answered, with a tender caress;

"we canna have all we would like in this world; but when we get home

where the dear Lord Jesus is, we'll have nothing left to wish for; our

cup o' joy will be full to overflowing. Now bid me good-night, my wee

bonnie, bonnie darling, for here's mammy come to take you to bed."

The child complied with alacrity. She and her mammy were devotedly

attached to each other, and had seldom been apart for an hour since the

little girl first saw the light.

And the nurse, though wholly uneducated, was as simple-hearted and

earnest a Christian as Mrs. Murray herself, and faithfully carried out

the dying injunction of the young mother, to try to teach her little

one, from her earliest years, to love and fear the Lord.

She talked and sang to her of Jesus before she was a year old, and

as soon as she began to speak, taught her to kneel night and morning

with folded hands and lisp her little prayer. And she, too, told her

sweet stories of the mother she had never known, of the beautiful home

whither she had gone, of the loving Saviour who was with her there, and

also on earth watching over her darling.

Every night she rocked her to sleep in her arms, soothing her to rest

with these ever new stories, and the sweet wild melodies common among

her race.

Aunt Chloe had known sorrows many and bitter, not the least of them

the untimely death of Elsie's mother, and with none left to her in

whose veins her own blood flowed, clung to this nursling with a love

that would have hesitated at no sacrifice for the good of its object,

a passionate, yearning tenderness that would have led her to choose

death for herself rather than separation. The big tears chased each

other down her sable cheeks at the bare thought of such a possibility,

as she held her sleeping treasure in her arms that night.

She knew little of the child's father, nothing whatever of the

grandfather or any other of the paternal relatives, and her heart

misgave her lest there might be trouble in store for herself and her

beloved charge.

Some one came in softly through the open door, and Chloe looked up with

the tears still on her cheeks, to find the housekeeper close at her

side. "What is it, Aunt Chloe?" she asked, in a tone of alarm; "the

dear bairn is not ill?"

Chloe only shook her head, while her bosom heaved with half-suppressed

sobs.

"Ah, I know what it is!" sighed Mrs. Murray; "your heart trembles wi'

the vera same fear that oppresses mine:--lest the darling o' our dear

love be torn frae our arms. But we winna greet for sorrow that may

never come; we winna doubt His love and power who doeth all things

well. Let us no forget that He loves her better far than we do.

"Said the saintly Rutherford, 'I shall charge my soul to believe and to

wait for Him, and shall follow His providence, and not go before it,

nor stay behind it.' Let us make the same resolve, Aunt Chloe, and be

happy while we may; be happy alway; for His loving kindness shall never

fail.

"Dinna ye mind his word, 'I am the Lord who exercise loving kindness,

judgment and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight,

saith the Lord?'"

"Ef dey take my bressed lamb away, dis ole heart break for sure!"

sobbed Chloe, clasping the child closer. "I's done gone los' eberyting

else!"

"No, no, Aunt Chloe! not the Lord!"

"No, missus, not de Lord! dat true. Hope He forgib de sinful word!"

"And not the hope of heaven!"

"No, no, missus, not dat either, bress His holy name!"

"It is a world of trial, Aunt Chloe, but He never sends one that is na

needful for us; and 'when His people cannot have a providence of silk

and roses, they must be content with such an one as he carveth out for

them.' 'How soon would grace freeze without a cross!'"

"Dat true, missus; an' we mus' take de cross first or we can't hab de

crown at de las'," she assented with a heavy sigh. "Missus, do you

know what gwine be done now? will dey sell de plantation?"

"Oh, no! it belongs to the bairn."

"De servants?"

"I don't think there is any danger o' that either; for they, too, are

hers."

Aunt Chloe breathed more freely. "Will Massa Dinsmore come an' lib

heyah hisself?" she asked.

"That I canna tell," Mrs. Murray said, shaking her head and sighing

slightly. "But, Aunt Chloe, I dinna think ye need fear bein' parted

frae the bairn. They may take her frae me, but they'll no be likely

to separate her from her mammy; wherever she goes you will, in a'

probability, go also."

Chloe asked if Elsie was to be taken away from Viamede; to which the

housekeeper answered that she did not know; indeed, nothing could be

known till Mr. Dinsmore came.

"But," she added, "whether the sweet Bairn's home be here or elsewhere,

an attendant will be needed, and I see no reason why the old mammy, who

loves her sae dearly, should be exchanged for another. I wad be blithe

to think myself as secure o' bein' kept near her; but they're no sae

likely to want a housekeeper as a nurse, should they decide to change

her abode."

"Tank de Lord for dat!" ejaculated Aunt Chloe, half under her breath,

as she rose and gently laid the sleeping child in her bed. "I tink my

bressed lamb neber be happy widout her ole mammy to lub her, an' I

hopes dey'll let you stay too, missus. I'e afraid Massa Dinsmore not

care much 'bout his little chile; 'cause ef he do, why he neber come

for to see her?"

The words sounded to Mrs. Murray like the echo of her own thoughts.

"I dinna understand it," she whispered, bending over the little one

to press a tender kiss on the softly rounded, rosy cheek. "I canna

comprehend it; but the sweet wean has had a happy life thus far, and

please God, Aunt Chloe, she'll ne'er want for love while he leaves her

in our care."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-first.

"A sweet, heartlifting cheerfulness,

Like springtime of the year,

Seemed ever on her steps to wait."

--Mrs. Hale.

"I should like to have a little chat with you, Milly, my dear," Mr.

Dinsmore said pleasantly, looking across the table at her, where she

sat behind the tea urn; her accustomed place now in Mrs. Dinsmore's

absence; "can you give me an hour or two of your company, in the

library, this evening?"

"Just as much of it as you may happen to want, uncle," she answered

brightly.

"Thank you," he said. "I rejoice every day in having you here; it would

be extremely dull without you. But I wonder sometimes how you keep

up your spirits. Nearly six weeks since Mrs. Dinsmore went away, and

nobody in the house, the greater part of the time, but yourself, the

housekeeper and servants."

"It is a little lonely sometimes," she acknowledged, "but I have you

at meals and in the evenings, generally, now and then a call from one

of the neighbors, and almost every day I ride over to Ion and spend an

hour or two with dear Mrs. Travilla. So with the assistance of books,

music and drawing, and writing letters to mother and the rest, I find

the days pass quite rapidly."

"Ah! there is a great deal in being disposed to be contented!" he said,

smiling. "You are like your mother in that, too.

"We have not yet succeeded in finding a suitable person to fill Miss

Worth's place, and that is one reason your aunt gives for lingering

so long at her sister's. The place affords excellent educational

advantages."

There was a little more desultory chat, and then, having finished their

meal, they repaired to the library, Mildred not a little curious to

learn what her uncle had to say; for she felt quite certain from his

manner that it was something of unusual importance.

He drew an easy chair to the fire, seated her comfortably therein, then

turning away, paced the floor for some moments in silence, and with an

abstracted air and clouded brow.

She watched him furtively, wondering more and more at his evident

disturbance.

At last, heaving a profound sigh, he seated himself near her,

"You are already acquainted, Mildred, so your Aunt Wealthy informed

me," he began, in the tone of one who approaches a very distasteful

subject, "with a certain chapter in my son Horace's history, which

I would be exceedingly glad to bury in forgetfulness; but that

circumstances have rendered impossible--since the child of that most

imprudent, ill-advised marriage has seen fit to live, and of course her

existence cannot be entirely ignored."

Mildred was growing indignant. Her color heightened and her eyes

sparkled; though unperceived by him, as his face was half averted.

"Is there anything wrong with her, uncle?" she ventured as he came to a

pause.

"Wrong with her?" he echoed. "Heaven forbid! It is bad enough as it

is. But, indeed, I have never taken the trouble to ask. In fact, I

believe I half unconsciously hoped she might never cross my path. But,"

and again he sighed, "that is past. A letter received this morning

from Louisiana, brings news of the death of her guardian--that is,

you understand, the man who was left guardian to her mother and the

property; which, by the way, is very large."

Mildred began to listen with eager interest. She had wished very much

to see Horace's child; could it be that that wish was to be gratified?

"The child heirs it all," Mr. Dinsmore went on. "The mother married and

died under age, and by the conditions of the will the property remained

in Mr. Cameron's care; the child also, Horace not caring to remove her.

Now, however, the responsibility all falls upon me, in his absence.

I must look after both estate and heiress. It involves an immediate

journey to Louisiana, probably a stay of some weeks, to get matters

settled.

"And I must bring the child home with me, as of course leaving her

there with servants only is not to be thought of, and, in fact, I know

of no other home for her; for being a mere babe she cannot be sent to

boarding-school.

"I anticipate some complaint from Mrs. Dinsmore; she will not like it,

I know, but it really cannot be helped, and need not add to her cares

in the least."

"Poor little motherless thing!" sighed Mildred softly, and as Mr.

Dinsmore gave her a hasty glance he saw that her eyes were full of

tears.

"It is a pity about her," he said. "Strange that she was destined to

survive her mother; it would really have been so much more comfortable

for all parties if she had not."

"It does seem as though it might have been a happy thing for her,"

Mildred answered drily.

But he did not notice the tone. Turning to her with a smile, "How would

you like to go with me to Louisiana?" he asked.

Her face grew radiant with delight at the bare suggestion. "O, uncle!

how delightful! But it would be a very expensive journey, wouldn't it?"

and her countenance fell.

"That would be my concern, since I invite you," he said, laughing and

playfully tapping her cheek. "Where did you learn to be so careful and

economical? Don't trouble yourself about expense. I shall consider the

pleasure of your company cheaply purchased at the cost of settling all

the bills. Now will you go?"

"Yes, indeed, and thank you a thousand times! if--"

"If what? father and mother give consent? There's no time to ask it, as

I leave day after to-morrow; but I am sure it would not be withheld. So

we'll do as we please first and ask permission afterward."

"Yes," Mildred responded, after a moment's musing, "I feel convinced

that they would be very glad to have me accept your kind, generous

offer; for it is such an opportunity as I am not likely to meet with

again."

The remainder of the evening was devoted to the writing of a long,

bright and cheery letter to her mother, telling of the pleasant

prospect before her, and promising that the home circle should share

in the enjoyments of her trip so far as descriptions of scenery and

adventures, written in her best style, could enable them to do.

Mildred's letters had come to be considered a very great treat in

that little community, their reception looked forward to with eager

anticipation. The enjoyment would be doubled when they told of scenes

new and fascinating, and of Cousin Horace's little girl, in whom they

already felt so deep an interest.

Mildred had enjoyed her visit to Roselands but since the death of

Miss Worth the atmosphere of the house had seemed somewhat lonely and

depressing. So she was very glad of her uncle's invitation; which

promised a change in every way delightful.

The journey was tedious and wearisome in those days, compared to what

it would be now--staging across the country to the nearest point on

the Mississippi, thence by steamboat to New Orleans, where they

remained several weeks, Mr. Dinsmore being engaged in making necessary

arrangements in regard to that portion of little Elsie's inheritance

which lay in the Crescent City; then on to Viamede.

It pleased Mildred that this part of their trip was to be all the way

by water, and after they entered Teche Bayou it seemed to her like a

passage through fairy land, so bright were the skies, so balmy the

breezes, so rich and varied was the scenery; swamps, forest, plain,

gliding by in rapid succession, the eye roving over the richest

vegetation; resting now upon some cool, shady dell gayly carpeted with

flowers, now on a lawn covered with velvet-like grass of emerald green,

and nobly shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, now catching sight

of a lordly villa peeping through its groves of orange trees, and anon

of a tall white sugar house, or a long row of cabins, the homes of the

laborers.

It was a new region of country to Mr. Dinsmore as well as herself, and

he remarked that he considered the sight of it a sufficient recompense

of itself for the trouble and expense of the journey.

"But beside that," he added, "I have had the satisfaction of learning

that the estate is even much larger than I supposed. That Scotchman

was faithful to his trust; very shrewd, too, in making investments,

and his death gives Horace control, during the child's minority, of a

princely income."

"Then you do not regret his marriage so much as you did?" Mildred said

inquiringly.

"I do not say that," was the cold, almost stern reply; and she said no

more.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-second.

"I would that thou might'st ever be

As beautiful as now;

That time might ever leave as free

Thy yet unwritten brow."

--Willis.

"When will my grandpa come?" little Elsie asked again and again, and

finding that no one could tell her, she set herself to watch the

passing boats, often coaxing her mammy out upon the lawn or down to the

very water's edge, in her eagerness for a sight of him; her first look

into the face of a relative.

She was fond of Mrs. Murray as she had been of Mr. Cameron, and clung

with ardent affection to her mammy, yet the baby heart yearned for

parental love, and naturally she expected it from her grandfather.

Had she heard that her father was coming, she would have been wild with

joy; the arrival of her grandfather seemed the next best thing that

could happen.

Mildred knew nothing of the child's anticipations, yet her heart ached

for the little creature as she perceived how determined Mr. Dinsmore

was to shut her out from his.

"She's a fortunate little miss," he remarked of her, as they came in

sight of a sugar and orange plantation exceeding in size and fertility

almost any they had passed, and the captain of the boat, pointing it

out, said, "That's Viamede; the old Grayson place."

They were sweeping by a large sugar house; then came an immense orange

orchard, and then a long and wide stretch of lawn, with the loveliest

carpet of velvety green and most magnificent shade trees they had ever

beheld; half concealing, with their great arms and abundant foliage, a

lordly mansion set far back among them.

So surpassingly lovely was the whole scene, that for a moment Mildred

could have echoed her uncle's words, and almost found it in her heart

to envy the young heiress of it all; but the next she said to herself,

"No, no, not for all this would I be so lonely and loveless as she,

poor, little, forlorn girlie!"

The boat rounded to at the little pier. Close by, in the shade of a

great oak, stood an elderly colored woman with a child in her arms--a

little girl of fairy-like form, and face perfect in outline and

feature, a complexion of dazzling brilliance, a countenance radiant

with delight--as she watched the travelers stepping ashore.

"This is she, I presume," Mr. Dinsmore said coolly, halting in front of

the two. "What's your name, child?"

"Elsie Dinsmore," she answered, her lip quivering, the large soft eyes

filling with tears. "I fought it was my grandpa comin'."

"And so it is," he said, slightly touched by her evident

disappointment. "Have you a kiss for me?"

For answer she threw both arms about his neck, as he bent toward her,

and pressed her red lips to his.

He disengaged himself rather hastily, stepping back to give place to

Mildred, who, gazing with delight upon the beautiful little creature

was eagerly awaiting her turn.

"You darling!" she cried, clasping the child in a warm embrace. "This

is Cousin Milly; and she is going to love you dearly, dearly!"

"Tank you, Miss," said Aunt Chloe, with tears in her eyes. "And welcome

to Viamede, Miss; welcome, Massa," dropping a courtesy to each.

Mrs. Murray and several servants now came hurrying toward them; there

were more courtesies and welcomes; the baggage was seized and quickly

transported to the house; the travelers, Mrs. Murray, and Aunt Chloe

with her little charge, following it leisurely.

Mildred was filled with delight at the beauty surrounding her, yet more

attracted by the child than by all else. She turned toward her with

an affectionate smile, and the little one, now walking by her nurse's

side, returning it with one of rare sweetness, ran to her and slipped a

tiny, soft, white hand into hers.

"Is she not beautiful, uncle?" Mildred asked with enthusiasm, at the

first opportunity for doing so without being overheard.

"She's no Dinsmore," he said coldly; "not a trace of Horace's looks

about her; must be all Grayson, I presume."

"Oh, how can he!" thought Mildred, "how can he harden his heart so

against anything so gentle and beautiful!"

They were standing on the veranda for a moment, admiring the view and

watching the departure of the boat which had brought them; while Mrs.

Murray was busied in giving directions in regard to the disposal of

their luggage.

A suit of delightful apartments had been appropriated to Mildred's

use during her stay. Conducted thither by Aunt Chloe and her nursling,

she took possession with great content, and with the assistance of a

skilled waiting maid, also placed at her service, soon arrayed her neat

figure in a becoming dinner dress, little Elsie and her mammy looking

on admiringly the while.

"Isn't my cousin _so_ pretty, mammy?" whispered the little one.

Mildred heard, and turning with a pleased smile, held out her hand to

the child. "Won't you come and sit on cousin's lap a little while? I

can tell you about your dear papa; for I know him."

The child's face grew radiant, and she hastened to accept the

invitation.

"Oh," she said, "please do! Will he come here soon? I want to see my

papa! I want to kiss him and love him."

The soft eyes filled with tears, and the red lips quivered.

Mildred clasped the little form close in her arms and kissed the sweet,

fair face over and over, exclaiming in tremulous tones, "You dear,

precious baby! if he could only see you, I'm sure he couldn't help

loving you with all his heart!"

The travelers were summoned to the dinner table, and little Elsie

partook with them, conducting herself with the utmost propriety.

"She seems a well-behaved child," her grandfather remarked graciously.

"How old are you, my dear? can you tell?"

"I's four," piped the bird-like voice; "I's a big girl now, grandpa;

too big to be naughty; but sometimes I's not very good."

"Ah! that's honest," he said, with an amused smile. "Well, what do they

do to you when you're naughty?"

"When I was a little girl, mammy put me in de corner sometimes."

"And what now you are so large?"

"She jus' say, 'Jesus not pleased wis my darlin' child, when she

naughty.'"

"But you don't mind that, do you?" he asked curiously.

She looked at him with innocent, wondering eyes. "Elsie loves Jesus;

Elsie wants Jesus to love her and make her His little lamb; she asks

Him to do it every day."

"Stuff!" he muttered, in a tone of annoyance; but tears of joy and

thankfulness welled up in Mildred's eyes.

"Blessed baby!" she thought, "you will not have a lonely, loveless

life if you have so soon begun to seek the dear Saviour. Ah, how my

mother's heart will rejoice to hear this!"

On coming to the table the little one had folded her tiny hands, and

bending with closed eyes over her plate, murmured a short grace; but

Mr. Dinsmore, busying himself in carving a fowl, did not seem to notice

it; yet it had not escaped him; he was watching the child furtively,

and with far more interest than he would have liked to own.

"I'm afraid they're making a canting hypocrite of her," he said to

Mildred when they had retired to the drawing-room.

"O, uncle, do not say that!" exclaimed Mildred. "It is just the way my

dear mother, whom you admire so much, trains and teaches her children."

"Ah!" he said, "then I shall have to retract."

"What pretty manners she has, uncle; both at the table and elsewhere,"

remarked Mildred; "she handles knife, fork and spoon as deftly as

possible, and is so gentle and refined in all she does and says."

"Yes," he said with some pride, "I trust an uncouth, ill-mannered

Dinsmore might be considered an anomaly, indeed."

"Then you acknowledge that she is a Dinsmore?" Mildred said playfully.

"Have I ever denied that she was Horace's child?" he answered with a

smile.

"I wish he could see her at this moment. I am sure he could not help

feeling that he had good reason to be proud of her," Mildred said,

approaching a window that looked out upon the lawn, where the little

one was wandering about gathering flowers; "see, uncle! is not every

movement full of grace?"

"You seem to be quite bewitched with her," he returned, good humoredly,

following the direction of her glance. "Children's movements are not

apt to be ungraceful, I think.

"This is a fine old mansion," he went on, "and seems to be well

furnished throughout. Have you been in the library? No? Then come; we

will visit it now. Your heart will rejoice at sight of the well-filled

book shelves.

"Ah, I knew it!" watching the expression of keen satisfaction with

which she regarded them, when he had taken her there.

They consisted largely of very valuable works in every branch of

literature, and Mildred's sole regret was that she would have so little

time to examine and enjoy them.

There were also some few fine paintings and beautiful pieces of

statuary in the room, and indeed scattered through all the principal

rooms of the house; the drawing-room being especially rich in them.

They lingered for some time over these works of art, then went out

upon the veranda, presently wandering on from that to the lawn, where

they strolled about a little, and finally seated themselves under a

beautiful magnolia.

"Ah, see what a pretty picture they make!" Mildred exclaimed, glancing

in the direction of another, at some little distance, in whose shade

Aunt Chloe was seated upon the grass with Elsie in her lap, both busied

with the flowers they had been gathering.

"Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore; "and what a striking contrast! the child so

young, and delicately fair, the nurse so black and elderly; she seems

much attached to her charge."

"Yes, indeed! You do not think of separating them, uncle?"

"Certainly not! why should I?"

Mildred answered only with a pleased look, for at that moment little

Elsie left her mammy and came running with a lovely bouquet in each

hand.

"One for you, grandpa, and one for Cousin Milly," she said, dropping a

graceful little courtesy as she presented them.

"Thank you, dear; how pretty they are!" Mildred said, kissing her.

"Humph! what shall I do with it?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, accepting his.

"Put it in your buttonhole," said the child. "That's the way uncle

does."

"Uncle? who is he? You have none that you ever saw, so far as I know."

"Massa Cameron, sah," explained Aunt Chloe, coming up; "he always tole

my chile call him dat."

"Well, she needn't do so any more. I don't like it. Do you hear?" to

Elsie, "don't call that man uncle again. He was no relation whatever to

you."

His tone spoke displeasure, and the little one drew back to the shelter

of her mammy's arms, with a frightened look, her lip trembling, her

soft, brown eyes full of tears.

"There, there!" he said, more gently, "don't cry; I'm not angry with

you; you knew no better."

He rose and wandered away toward the rear of the mansion, and Mildred

drew Elsie to a seat upon her lap, caressing her tenderly.

"Sweet little girlie," she said, "cousin loves you dearly, already,

and cannot bear to see tears in those eyes. Tell me about your sweet,

pretty mamma."

"Here she is, cousin. Don't you love her too?" prattled the babe,

drawing forth the miniature from her bosom, and quickly forgetting her

momentary grief in displaying it. "She's gone up to heaven to stay wis

Jesus, and some day he'll take Elsie there too."

"Mildred," said Mr. Dinsmore, coming back, "I hear there are fine

saddle horses in the stables. If I order two of them brought round,

will you ride over the plantation with me?"

"Gladly!" she said, putting the child gently down, and rising with

alacrity. "I will go at once and don my riding habit. You shall tell me

the rest another time, little pet."

Already enthusiastic admirers of Viamede, they returned from their ride

doubly impressed with its beauties.

"It seems an earthly paradise," Mildred wrote to her mother, "and the

little owner is the loveliest, most fairy-like little creature you can

imagine--so sweet, so gentle, so beautiful! and good as she is pretty.

Mrs. Murray tells me she is generosity itself, and she doesn't believe

there is a grain of selfishness in her nature. Elsie showed me her

mamma's miniature, and it is so sweet and beautiful that I do not

wonder Cousin Horace lost his heart at first sight."

But it was not until the next day that this letter was written. Mildred

had enough to do that day in looking about her and making acquaintance

with Elsie and her attendants.

After tea, Mr. Dinsmore being closeted with the overseer, she made her

way to the nursery, coaxed the little one into her lap again--though

indeed no great amount of persuasion was needed--and amused her for an

hour or two with stories and nursery rhymes.

But the child's bedtime drew near, and with a tender good-night,

a lingering, loving caress, Mildred left her and went down to the

drawing-room.

Her uncle was not there, and passing out to the veranda, she fell

into chat with Mrs. Murray, whom she found seated there enjoying the

beautiful scenery and the soft evening air.

Their talk turned naturally upon Viamede and the Grayson family;

particularly Horace Dinsmore's wife, the last of the race; Mrs. Murray

giving many details that were of great interest to her hearer.

"She was very lovely," she said, "baith in person and in character; a

sweet, earnest, child-like Christian; and the bairn is wonderfully

like her. She seemed to me a lamb of the fold from her very birth; and

nae doot in answer to the mother's prayers. Ye ken, Miss Keith, that

she lived scarce a week after her babe was born, and all her anxiety

was that it should be trained up in the nurture and admonition o' the

Lord, her constant prayer that He would be pleased to mak' it His own.

"The bit bairnie isna perfect, of course, but quite as near it as grown

folk. It's very evident that she tries to please the blessed Saviour;

that she grieves when she has done wrong, and canna rest till she's

been awi' by hersel' to beg His forgiveness.

"I tell her whiles aboot the new heart God gives to his children, and

that He will give it to a' such as ask earnestly; and she will look

up in my face with those great innocent eyes and answer, 'Yes, Mrs.

Murray; and I do ask earnestly every day'."

The old lady brushed away a tear, and her voice was slightly tremulous

as she added, "Mr. Cameron used to fret a bit whiles, lest she was too

gude to live:--like her mother before her, he wad say. But I canna

think early piety any sign that life will be short. Except, indeed,

that when the work o' grace is fully done glory follows. She's come

o' a God-fearing race, Miss Keith, and the Lord's aye faithful to His

promise;--showing mercy to thousands o' generations o' them that love

Him and keep His commandments."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-third.

"She was like

A dream of poetry, that may not be

Written or told--exceeding beautiful."

--Willis.

As Mildred sat at the open window of her dressing-room the next

morning, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, the delicious perfume of

myriads of dew-laden shrubs and flowers, the gentle summer breeze and

the glad songs of the birds, her ear caught the patter of little feet

in the corridor without, then a gentle rap upon her door.

She made haste to open it, and a vision of loveliness met her view:--a

tiny, fairy form arrayed in spotless white, of some thin, delicate

fabric, trimmed with costly lace, and a broad sash of pale blue, with

slippers to match; a shining mass of golden brown curls clustering

about the sweet face and rippling over the fair neck and shoulders.

The soft brown eyes looked up lovingly into her face, and the rosebud

mouth was held up for a kiss.

"Good morning, cousin," said the bird-like voice; "do Elsie 'sturb you

coming so soon?"

"No, darling, indeed you don't!" cried Mildred, giving her a rapturous

embrace; "I can't see too much of you, dear little pet! Will you come

and sit in my lap while we have another nice talk?"

The child hesitated. "Don't you want to come wis me, cousin, and see my

mamma when she was a little girl, and my mamma's things?"

"I should like it greatly," Mildred answered, suffering herself to be

led along the corridor and into an open door at its farther end.

Here she found herself in a beautiful boudoir; evidently no expense had

been spared in furnishing it in the most luxurious and tasteful manner;

even Mildred's inexperienced eye recognized the costly nature of many

of its adornments, though there was nothing gaudy about them.

Elsie led her directly to a full-length, life-sized picture of a little

girl of ten or twelve, before which Mildred stood transfixed with

delight,--face and form were so life-like, and so exquisitely lovely.

She gazed upon it for many minutes with ravished eyes, then glancing at

the little one standing by her side, said half aloud, "Beautiful as it

is, I do not believe it is flattered; for it is just what she will be

six or eight years hence."

"It's my mamma when she was a little girl," Elsie said, "and this,"

drawing the miniature from her bosom, "is my mamma when she was a lady."

Mildred gazed upon it again long and earnestly, thinking as before,

that there was abundant excuse for her cousin Horace's passion and his

inconsolable grief over his loss.

There were two other portraits in the room, which Elsie said were

"Grandpa and Grandma Grayson."

She pointed out, too, her mother's writing-desk and her work-table, a

dainty basket upon this last, with its little gold thimble and a bit of

embroidery with the needle still sticking in it, just as it had been

laid down by the white hands on the morning of the day on which the

little one first saw the light.

It was Aunt Chloe, coming in in search of her nursling, who told

Mildred this.

But Elsie drew her on through a beautiful dressing-room into a spacious

and elegantly furnished bedroom beyond, and Aunt Chloe following,

pointed out, with bitter weeping, the pillow on which the dying

head had lain, and described the last hours of her idolized young

mistress:--her mournful leave-taking of her little babe, and dying

injunction to her to bring her up to love the Lord Jesus.

It was all intensely interesting and deeply affecting to Mildred.

"Don't cry, mammy, you dear ole mammy!" said Elsie, pulling her nurse

down into a chair, and with her own tiny white handkerchief wiping

away her tears, "don't cry, 'cause dear mamma is very happy wis Jesus,

and you and Elsie are goin' dere, too, some day. An' den I'll tell my

sweet, pretty mamma you did be good to her baby, and took care of her

all the time."

At that Aunt Chloe strained the tiny form convulsively to her breast

with a fresh burst of sobs, and looking up at Mildred with the great

tears rolling down her sable cheeks, faltered out, "O, Miss Milly, dey

ain't gwine take my chile 'way and disseparate ole Chloe from de las'

ting she got lef' to lub in dis world?"

"O, mammy, no, no! dey shan't, dey shan't!" cried the child, clinging

about her neck in almost wild affright. "Elsie won't go! Elsie will

always stay wis her dear ole mammy!"

"No, no, you are not to be parted," Mildred hastened to say; "Elsie,

darling, your grandpa told me you were not. So don't cry, pet."

"O, Miss Milly, dat bressed news!" cried Aunt Chloe, smiling through

her tears. "I's tank you berry much. Dere, dere, honey darlin', don'

cry no mo'! I's ole fool mammy to make you cry like dat."

The breakfast bell rang, and hastily removing the traces of the tears

called forth by Aunt Chloe's narrative, Mildred obeyed the summons. Mr.

Dinsmore seemed in excellent spirits, chatting in quite a lively strain

all through the meal. He was enchanted with the place, he said, and

intended, if agreeable to Mildred, to remain some weeks, believing that

the change of scene and climate would prove beneficial to them both.

Mildred assured him, her eyes sparkling with delight the while, that

she was perfectly willing to stay as long as suited his convenience and

pleasure.

"There are horses, carriages and servants always at your command," he

remarked; "a pleasure boat on the lakelet, too, and oarsmen to row it,

so that you can go out on the water, ride or drive whenever you wish."

"O, uncle, how nice!" she cried; "I shall enjoy it all greatly with

little Elsie for a companion and you will sometimes go with us when

you have leisure, will you not?"

"I shall be most happy," he said, "but fear it will be but seldom that

I can."

The family carriage was ordered at once, and the greater part of the

morning was spent by Mildred, Elsie and Aunt Chloe in driving from one

lovely spot to another.

At little Elsie's request they visited the family burial ground, and

Mildred viewed with pensive interest the last resting-place of her

Cousin Horace's young wife--"the sweet, pretty mamma," of whom the baby

girl so constantly prattled. The spot was beautiful with roses and many

sweet-scented shrubs and flowers growing there, and daily Elsie and

her mammy came thither with love's offering in the shape of buds and

blossoms gathered from the lawn and gardens, which they scattered with

lavish hands over each lowly mound, but ever reserving the most and the

loveliest for the grave of her whom they loved best.

There was seldom a day when the quarter was not visited also, Aunt

Chloe taking her nursling from cabin to cabin to inquire concerning the

welfare of the inmates, and give to each the pleasure of the sight of

the little fair face that was so dear to them all.

Their devotion to her, and various ways of manifesting it, greatly

pleased and interested Mildred; and she was not long in discovering

that they were exceedingly anxious in regard to the question whether

both she--their idolized little mistress--and they were to be allowed

to remain at Viamede.

Some of them even ventured, in their great anxiety, to inquire of the

young lady visitor if she could tell them aught about these things.

She evaded the question so far as it referred to Elsie, feeling that

she could not endure the sight of their grief when they should learn

that they were to lose her; as to the other part she said, truly, that

she was ignorant, but hoped there was no real danger.

She ventured at length to sound her uncle on the subject, telling of

the fears of the poor creatures; and to her delight was given liberty

to assure them that none would be sold unless unruly and disobedient to

orders.

She availed herself of this permission on her next visit to the quarter.

The communication was received with joy and gratitude; but there still

remained the great fear that Mr. Dinsmore would carry away their

darling; and this Mildred was powerless to remove.

She told Mrs. Murray about it, and the good woman confessed with tears,

that she, too, was tortured with the fear of separation from "the sweet

bairn she had learned to love as her very own;" asking if Mildred knew

whether that trial awaited her.

Mildred looked grieved and perplexed. "I only know," she said,

after a moment's hesitation, "that uncle intends taking his little

granddaughter home with him. Should you feel willing to leave Viamede,

Mrs. Murray?"

"The bairn is far dearer to me than the place; though I hae spent mony

o' the best years o' my life here," was the reply. "I wad gang ony

where sooner than part frae my bonnie bit lassie. I have a mother's

heart for her, Miss Keith, and hae often wanted to bid her call me by

some dearer name than Mrs. Murray; but knowing the Dinsmores were proud

folk, I feared to offend; and I perceive it was well I refrained, since

I hae learned frae Aunt Chloe that the grandfather was no pleased that

she spoke o' Mr. Cameron as her uncle."

"No, he didn't seem to like it, and told her not to do so again. But

might not that be the jealousy of affection?"

Mildred blushed as she spoke, half ashamed--in view of Mr. Dinsmore's

evident lack of love for the child--of making the suggestion.

"Affection!" repeated Mrs. Murray, with a faint, incredulous smile; "I

dinna see much in his manner toward the bairn that looks like it."

To this remark Mildred had no answer save a deeper blush.

But at this moment Mrs. Murray was summoned to a conference with Mr.

Dinsmore in the library. She came back with a face full of joy and

thankfulness.

Mr. Dinsmore had received a letter that day from Mrs. Brown, the

housekeeper at Roselands, saying that her health was failing, the

physician recommended change of climate, and therefore she must resign

her situation for a year or more.

Mr. Dinsmore now offered it to Mrs. Murray, and Aunt Phillis, an old

servant in the family and every way competent to the task, would be

left in charge of the mansion here.

"I am very glad for both you and little Elsie," said Mildred, "and yet

I feel sorry for you, and for her, that you must leave this lovely

spot. Is it not a trial?"

"I canna deny that it is," the housekeeper answered, with a sigh, "for

I hae lived at Viamede many years; years in which I hae seen much o'

baith joy and sorrow, and I had hoped to end my days here; but as the

saintly Rutherford says,

"'This is the Lord's lower house; and while we are lodged here we have

no assurance to lie ever in one chamber, but must be content to remove

from one Lord's nether house to another, resting in hope that when we

come up to the Lord's upper city, Jerusalem, that is above, we shall

remove no more; because then we shall be at home.' Ah, Miss Milly, what

a joyous day it will be when we win there!"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-fourth.

"Must I leave thee, Paradise? thus leave

Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,

Fit haunts of Gods?"

--Milton.

Mr. Dinsmore was, in the main, a kind-hearted man, therefore felt

a good deal uncomfortable in prospect of the grief likely to be

manifested by the four or five hundred negroes belonging to the

plantation, and particularly the house-servants, when called upon to

part with little Elsie.

Both Mrs. Murray and Mildred had spoken to him of their strong

attachment to the child, and his own observation had told him the

same thing. He knew that they almost idolized her, and would feel her

removal as a heavy blow. Desirous to lighten the stroke, he determined

to allow Elsie to make a farewell present to each, and engaged Mildred

and Mrs. Murray to assist her in preparing a list of suitable articles

to be sent for. The child, knowing nothing of her grandfather's

reasons for permitting this unusual outlay, was highly delighted.

It was Mr. Dinsmore's will that his plans with regard to Elsie should

be kept secret from her and the servants until near the end of his

visit, still some weeks distant.

Those weeks flew fast to Mildred, spent in a round of innocent, restful

enjoyments, marred only by the knowledge that they must be so fleeting.

The day set for the departure from Viamede was drawing near when the

sight of some of the needful preparations revealed the truth to the

house-servants, and from them the sad tidings quickly spread to the

field-hands, causing great grief and consternation.

Elsie was perhaps the last to learn the truth. She was running through

the lower hall one morning soon after breakfast, when Aunt Phillis

suddenly caught her in her arms, and holding her tight, covered the

little fair face with kisses and tears.

"Why, Aunt Phillis, what's the matter?" asked the child, winding her

small arms, so plump and white, about the woman's neck; "what makes you

cry? is you sick?"

"O, honey, darlin'," sobbed the disconsolate creature, "it's heap wus

dan dat! Dey's gwine to carry you 'way, bressed darlin' pet 'way off

Norf, where Aunt Phillis won't neber see yo' sweet face no mo'. Oh,

dear! oh, dear!"

"No, no!" cried the child, struggling to release herself. "Elsie's not

goin' 'way, Aunt Phillis. Where's mammy? I want mammy!"

Aunt Chloe came at the call, and Elsie ran into her arms, crying in

a frightened way "Mammy, mammy, is dey going to take me 'way? Mammy,

don't let dem!"

"Darlin', your ole mammy neber leave you!" Aunt Chloe said soothingly,

evading the question she could not answer as she wished.

"Elsie doesn't want to go 'way!" sobbed the child. "Dis is Elsie's

home, dis is Elsie's house. Elsie wants to stay here wis Aunt Phillis

and all Elsie's people! O, mammy, mammy, does Elsie have to go?"

"Don't cry, honey, don't, darlin' pet; you won't have to go 'way from

mammy; mammy 'll go 'long, too," was all Aunt Chloe could say.

The house-servants were crowding around them, all weeping and wailing,

and the little girl seemed quite inconsolable.

Mildred heard and came to the rescue.

"Darling child," she said, kneeling on the carpet by Elsie's side, and

softly stroking the beautiful hair, "you are going to your papa's home;

and perhaps you will see him there before long; and I think you will

come back to Viamede some day."

At that the little head was lifted, and a smile broke like a sunbeam

through the rain of tears.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, "will Elsie see her dear papa dere? Den I won't

cry any more!" and she wiped away her tears. "Don't cry, Aunt Phillis

and Aunt Sally, and de rest of you; my papa will bring me back again."

"Dat be a long time off!" muttered Aunt Phillis, shaking her head as

she moved slowly away.

"Roselands, your grandpa's and papa's home, is a very pretty place,"

Mildred went on, still caressing the shining curls, "and there are

little boys and girls there that Elsie can play with."

"Brothers and sisters for me?" asked the little one joyously.

"Your papa's brothers and sisters, nice playfellows for you," Mildred

answered. "There is Enna, who is just a baby girl, only two years old."

"I's four, I's big girl," put in the child.

"Yes; and Walter is past three, nearly as old as you; and what nice

plays you can have together."

"Yes, I want to take him a present; and one for the baby, and--what's

dere names? de other children?"

Mildred went over the list, and the baby girl repeated her wish to take

a gift to each.

"We will ask your grandpa about it," Mildred said.

"Has dey dot a mamma?" was the next query; and that being answered

in the affirmative, the wish was expressed that she, too, should be

remembered with a pretty present, and that Cousin Milly would ask

grandpa's permission for all these purchases.

Mildred took an early opportunity to do so.

"Who has put that nonsense into the child's head?" he asked in some

vexation.

"No one, uncle; it was entirely her own idea; perhaps suggested by the

thought of her proposed gifts to those she leaves behind."

"Very likely; but let her forget it. I do not want to encourage her

spending money upon my family."

"But her heart is very full of it, uncle, and I really think it would

help to reconcile her to leaving Viamede. I'm afraid, uncle, that is

going to be a hard trial for the little creature; for she dearly loves

her home, and her people, as she calls the negroes."

"She will soon forget it all, and perhaps like Roselands quite as well.

Childish griefs are not lasting."

"But terribly hard while they do last, uncle. I am not so old yet as to

have forgotton that."

"No?" he said with a smile, followed by a sigh. "Ah, well, I'm sorry

for the little thing, but don't see how it can be helped."

"But you will lessen the trial by humoring her in this and everything

else that is reasonable?" persisted Mildred, in her most persuasive

tone.

"Well, well, if I must, I must, I suppose! What an excellent advocate

you are. But really I feel ashamed to allow it."

"Ah, uncle, it's your turn now," said Mildred, laughing. "I had mine in

Philadelphia. But isn't Elsie rich enough to be allowed to spend such

an amount on her own gratification?"

"Humph! what amount, pray? Ah, I have you there?" he added, laughing at

her perplexed look.

"Not so fast, uncle!" she returned, brightening. "I can be definite.

May she spend two hundred dollars for this?"

"No."

"One hundred and fifty, then?"

"H'm! I don't know: we'll see about it when we get to New Orleans."

"Then I may tell her that she is to be allowed to buy presents for

them?"

"Yes. Now, don't make me commit myself any further."

After this Mildred talked a great deal to the little girl about the

children at Roselands, the games and romps she would have with them,

what should be bought for them, and how pleased they would be with her

gifts. Also of all she was likely to see on her journey that would be

new and interesting: how nice it was that Mrs. Murray and mammy were to

go with her; grandpa, too, and Cousin Milly; and that the dear Saviour

and "her own sweet, pretty mamma," would be just as near her there in

her new home as at Viamede.

It was thus she tried to tide the darling over the trial that awaited

her in the sundering of the tender ties that bound her to the home of

her early infancy.

Those were April days with the baby girl, from the time of Aunt

Phillis's unfortunate revelation of what awaited her until the blow

fell.

They were to leave in the morning, though not at a very early hour,

and at Elsie's request the field-hands were excused from work for the

half day, and directed to come up to the house soon after the family

breakfast, to say good-bye to their little mistress.

They gathered in a crowd in the rear of the mansion. The family

party--Mr. Dinsmore, Mildred, Elsie and Mrs. Murray--were assembled

upon the back veranda, where stood a table piled with the goods to be

distributed. The little girl sat beside it on her mammy's lap, Mildred

and Mrs. Murray near at hand to give their assistance; the overseer,

standing on the topmost step, called the roll, and each, coming forward

in answer to his name, received a gift presented by the child herself,

and was allowed to kiss the small white hand that bestowed it.

This was esteemed a great privilege, and many held the hand a moment,

dropping tears as well as kisses upon it, and heaping blessings on the

head of the little fair one; pouring out their lamentations, also, over

her approaching departure, till at length her tears fell so fast that

her grandfather interfered, forbidding any further allusion to that

subject, on pain of having to receive their gifts from some other hand.

No one was neglected, no one had been forgotten, but each, from

octogenarian, no longer able or expected to work, down to the babe of

a few days, received a gift of substantial worth to him or her; after

which came a liberal distribution of pies, cakes, candies and fruits.

The baby girl dried her tears, and even laughed right merrily more than

once, as she watched them at their feast. But her grief burst forth

afresh, and with redoubled violence, when the time came for the final

parting, and the house-servants gathered, weeping, about her.

She embraced them in turn, again and again, clinging about their necks,

crying, "Oh, Elsie can't go 'way and leave you! Elsie must stay wis

you! Elsie loves you! Elsie loves her own dear home, and can't go

'way!" while they strained the little form to their hearts with bitter

wailing and lamentation.

To Mildred the scene was heart-rending, and her tears fell fast; Mrs.

Murray was scarcely less moved; Aunt Chloe was sobbing, and tell-tale

moisture stood in Mr. Dinsmore's eyes.

"Come, come," he said at length, speaking somewhat gruffly, to hide his

emotion, "we have had enough of this! there's no use in fretting over

what cannot be helped. Elsie's father will be bringing her back one of

these days; so dry your eyes, Aunt Phillis, and all of you. The boat is

waiting, the captain wanting to be off. Are you quite ready, ladies?"

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, "Then let us go on board at

once," he said, and would have taken his little granddaughter in his

arms; but Aunt Phillis begged the privilege of carrying her to the

pier. Then with one last, long, clinging embrace, she resigned her to

her nurse.

"Dere, honey darlin', dry yo' eyes and don' cry no mo'. Wipe de tears

away so you can see your home while we's goin' 'long past de orchard

and fields," Aunt Chloe said, standing on the deck and lifting the

child high in her arms. "An' look, pet, dere's all de darkies standing

'long de sho' to see de boat move off; and dat's de way dey'll stand

and watch it, when you and ole mammy comes back."

Yes, there they were, gathered in a crowd close to the water's edge,

weeping and wailing, Aunt Phillis in the foreground wringing her hands,

and with the big tears rolling fast down her cheeks.

The child saw and stretched out her arms to her with a cry of mingled

love and distress; then, as the boat swept onward, turned and buried

her face in her mammy's bosom.

Mildred saw it all through eyes dimmed with tears. "Don't cry,

darling!" she whispered to Elsie. "Think about the time when your dear

papa will bring you back. Now lift up your head and look again at your

beautiful home."

"Will my own papa bring Elsie back and live here wis me?" asked the

little one, lifting her head as she was bidden, and smiling through her

tears, as she gazed out over the lovely landscape.

"I hope so," Mildred said. "And you mustn't forget what a nice time

we're going to have in New Orleans, buying the pretty things for the

children at Roselands."

That was a wise suggestion, very helpful in cheering the sorrowful baby

heart. In the discussion of the momentous and interesting questions

what those gifts should be, and in what sort of places they would be

found, she presently grew quite cheerful and animated.

A wonderful new world opened upon the baby eyes as they neared the

city. She was filled with eager curiosity and delight, manifested in

ways so entertaining and winsome, and by questions showing so much

native wit, that her grandfather's heart warmed toward her. Then,

wherever they went he found her attracting so much attention, by reason

of her beauty, sweetness and intelligence, that he grew proud of her in

spite of himself.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-fifth.

"Envy is but the smoke of low estate,

Ascending still against the fortunate."

--Lord Brooke.

"Mamma, what's the matter?" asked Adelaide Dinsmore.

They were at the breakfast table; Mrs. Dinsmore was reading a letter

from her husband, and Adelaide had been studying her face the while,

noting the gathering frown upon the brow, the flushing of the cheek,

the compression of the lips that spoke of increasing anger.

"Matter? I was never so provoked in my life!" cried Mrs. Dinsmore,

crushing the letter passionately in her hands, then tearing it into

bits. "The idea of bringing that child here! and not merely for a visit

(which would be bad enough), but to stay permanently. I don't know what

your father can be thinking of! It seems it's not enough that I've been

tormented with a stepson, but I must have a step--"

"Step what, mamma?" from all three of the little girls, as she broke

off abruptly, leaving her sentence unfinished.

"Nonsense! be quiet, will you!" she answered angrily.

They waited a moment for her passion to cool; then Adelaide began again.

"What child, mamma? Is papa coming home, and going to bring a child

with him?"

"Yes; your brother Horace's child! You may as well know it first as

last, I suppose."

Three pairs of eyes opened wide with amazement, three young voices

crying out together, "Brother Horace's child! why, mamma, what can

you mean? We didn't know he had any. We never even heard that he was

married!"

"Of course you didn't," said Mrs. Dinsmore, pushing away her plate;

"and probably you never would if this child hadn't been stubbornly

determined to live in spite of losing her mother before she was a week

old.

"No; we were never proud of the match, and had kept the thing quiet;

but now it will be a nine days' wonder to the neighbourhood, and the

whole story will have to come out."

"Then you might as well tell it to us," was Adelaide's sage rejoinder.

"Come, mamma, do, I'm dying of curiosity."

"It can be told in a few words," said Mrs. Dinsmore, in a tone of

wearied impatience. "Five years ago Horace went on a visit to New

Orleans, met an orphan girl of large fortune, fell in love with her,

and persuaded her to marry him. The thing was clandestine, of course;

for they were mere boy and girl. They lived together for two or three

months, then her guardian, who had been away, came home, found it out,

and was furious.

"He carried the girl off, nobody knew where; your father sent Horace

North to college, and some months afterward we heard that the girl was

dead and had left a baby. She's four years old now; the guardian is

dead, and your father is bringing her home to live.

"There, I've given you the whole story, and don't intend to be bothered

with any more questions."

"But, mamma," burst out the children, who had listened with breathless

interest, "you haven't told us her name, or when they are coming?"

"Her name is Elsie, and they will be here in about a week. There, now,

not another question. I'm bored to death with the subject."

"Four years old; why, she's just a baby," remarked Adelaide to her

sisters. "Let's go tell mammy the news, and that she's going to have

another baby to take care of."

"No, she's not," said Mrs. Dinsmore sharply; "the child has a mammy of

her own that's coming with her."

"What relation is she to us, Ade?" asked Lora.

"Who? the black woman? None to me, I'm sure," laughed Adelaide.

"You know I didn't mean that!" Lora retorted, in a vexed tone.

"Why, we're aunts!" exclaimed Louise. "Now, isn't that funny? And

mamma's a grandmother! that's funnier still!" she added, with a burst

of laughter.

Mrs. Dinsmore was in the act of leaving the room, but turned back to

say wrathfully, "No such thing! the child is not related to me in the

least. So don't let me hear any more of that nonsense."

"Mamma's mad," laughed Louise, "mad enough to shake me, I do believe.

She doesn't like to be thought old enough to be a grandmother."

"May be she isn't," said Lora. "Horace was a pretty big boy when papa

and mamma were married; wasn't he, Ade?"

"I can't remember before I was born," Adelaide answered teasingly.

"Well, if you don't know about anything but what has happened since you

were born, you don't know much," Lora retorted with spirit. "But I'll

go and ask mammy. She'll know, for she was here before he was born."

It was a lovely spring day, and from the windows of the breakfast-room

they could see Aunt Maria, the old colored woman who had been nurse

in the family ever since the birth of Mr. Dinsmore's eldest child,

and whom they all called mammy, walking about under the trees in the

garden, with Baby Enna in her arms, while Arthur and Walter gambolled

together on the grass near by.

"Ki, chillens! what's de mattah?" she exclaimed, pausing in her walk,

as the three little girls came bounding toward her in almost breathless

excitement.

"O, mammy!" they cried, all speaking at once, "did you know that

brother Horace was married and has a baby girl? and that papa's

bringing her home to live?"

"Ki chillens, what you talkin' 'bout?" returned the old woman,

incredulously. "You's tryin' to fool your ole mammy."

"No, no, indeed, mammy! it's all so: mamma has just been telling us;"

and they went on to repeat substantially what they had just learned

from their mother.

Aunt Maria was an intensely interested and astonished listener; and

they had several others before their story was finished; Arthur and

Walter came running up to ask what it was all about, and two or three

servants also joined the little group.

"You look pleased, mammy; are you, really?" asked Adelaide.

"To be sure I is, chile," returned the old nurse, with a broad grin of

satisfaction. "Marse Horace one ob my chillens, and I'll be mighty glad

to see his little chile."

The news spread rapidly among the servants, and formed their principal

topic of conversation from that time till the arrival of their master

and his young charge.

On leaving the breakfast-room Mrs. Dinsmore bent her steps toward the

nursery. She found it untenanted except by a housemaid, who was engaged

in putting it in order for the day.

"Go and tell Mrs. Brown that I wish to speak to her immediately,"

commanded the mistress, dropping into an easy chair.

"Yes, missus," and the girl disappeared, to return shortly, accompanied

by the housekeeper.

"You have heard from Mr. Dinsmore?" remarked the lady inquiringly,

addressing Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, ma'am. He writes that Mrs. Murray, the housekeeper at Viamede,

has consented to take my place for the coming year."

"Yes; I'm afraid she won't suit me as well. It's a great pity you

should have got such a notion in your head; I mean as to the necessity

or desirability of going away. I don't think you'll find a healthier

place anywhere else than Roselands."

"I've no fault to find with the place ma'am; but I need rest, the

doctor says, from the care and--"

"Dr. Barton's full of notions!" interrupted Mrs. Dinsmore impatiently.

"Well, you'll stay, I suppose, until this Mrs. Murray learns from you

about the ways of the house?"

"Yes, ma'am; since you wish it."

Mrs. Dinsmore gave her orders for the day, as usual, then said,

"There's another thing, Mrs. Brown. You have probably heard that Mr.

Dinsmore is bringing a child with him?"

"Yes, ma'am; he mentioned it in his letter to me, saying that a room

must be got ready for her and her nurse."

"That is what I was coming to."

Mrs. Dinsmore arose and opened a door leading into an adjoining

apartment.

"This room will answer very well. Have the trunks and boxes carried

to the attic, the floor, paint, and window washed, a single bedstead,

washstand, bureau, and two or three chairs brought in, and put up a

white muslin curtain to the window."

"But, ma'am--Mrs. Dinsmore--" and Mrs. Brown looked almost aghast at

her employer.

"Well?" exclaimed the latter, with sharpness.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but isn't--I understood that the little lady was Mr.

Dinsmore's granddaughter, and--and quite an heiress."

"Well, and supposing she is all that?"

"I beg pardon, Mrs. Dinsmore, but isn't the room rather small? Only one

window, too, and I presume she's been used to--"

"It makes no difference what she's been used to, and you are presuming

too far. You will be good enough to see that my orders are carried out

at once;" and Mrs. Dinsmore was sweeping from the room in her most

dignified style, but turned at the door to add, "A cot bed can be put

up here for the nurse, and the door left open between at night:" then

sailed majestically down the hall.

"Dear, dear, whatever will Mr. Dinsmore say to having his granddaughter

put into such a hole as that!" exclaimed the housekeeper, half to

herself, and half to the housemaid. "Well, it can't be helped. I'll

just have to do the best I can, and tell him 'twasn't my fault.

Sally, do you go down and send up two of the boys to carry away these

trunks; and tell Aunt Phoebe to heat a kettle of soft water for the

scrubbing."

Mrs. Brown did her best; had the room thoroughly cleaned, neatly

papered and carpeted, a set of pretty cottage furniture carried in, put

a lace curtain to the window, looped it back with pink ribbon, made up

the bed in the daintiest fashion, and on the day the travelers were

expected to arrive, decorated the small apartment profusely, with the

loveliest and most fragrant flowers that could be found, transforming

it into a bower of beauty.

Mrs. Dinsmore paid no attention to her proceedings, but the children

watched them with interest, wondering the while that so mean a room

had been selected for their little niece.

They were quite amused and gratified with the idea of being aunts

and uncles, and if left to themselves would have been disposed to

welcome the little stranger warmly; but the slighting, sneering way in

which their mother alluded to her and her mother's family, presently

impressed them with the idea that she was to be looked upon as an

object of contempt, if not as a positive disgrace to the family.

They reasoned among themselves, the older ones at least, that probably

Horace thought so too, or he would have told them about her.

But when they saw the carriage which was bringing her, their father,

and Mildred from the city, actually rolling up the avenue, all this

was forgotten, and they rushed to the door to meet them, filled with

curiosity and delight.

There was a tumultuous embracing of their father and cousin; then they

turned to look at the child.

What they saw was a small, fairy-like figure in the arms of a

pleasant-looking, middle-aged colored woman, a delicate oval face,

tinted with the loveliest shades of pink and white, framed in by a

mass of golden ringlets, and lighted by a pair of eyes of the softest

hazel, which were gazing half shyly, half eagerly at them.

"Oh, you darling, you pretty darling!" cried Adelaide, reaching her

with a bound, and giving her a vigorous hug and kiss. "Do you know that

I'm your auntie? and don't you think it's funny?"

The embrace was instantly returned, a beautiful smile breaking over the

sweet little face, while the baby voice cooed, "Yes, Elsie loves you."

"Don't teaze the child, Adelaide. Children, let her alone," said Mrs.

Dinsmore, sharply.

But no one seemed to hear or heed; children and servants had gathered

round in quite a little crowd, and were hugging and kissing and making

much of her, examining her with as much curiosity as if she were a new

specimen of the genus homo, calling her "Brother Horace's little girl,"

"Massa Horace's baby," remarking upon the beauty of her complexion,

her eyes, her hair, the pretty round white shoulders and arms, and the

tiny, shapely hands and feet.

"They'll hae the bairn fairly puffed up wi' vanity Miss Mildred!"

exclaimed Mrs. Murray in a dismayed aside to our heroine.

"Never mind," whispered Mildred, joyously; "I'm only too glad she

should have such a welcome, the darling! and I don't believe it will

hurt her in the least."

"There, children, and the rest of you, that will do," said Mr. Dinsmore

with authority. "The child is tired with her long journey. Carry her to

her room, Aunt Chloe, and let her have something to eat and a nap."

Aunt Chloe obeyed; Mildred hurried after to see the child comfortably

established, and then dress herself for dinner; Mrs. Brown invited

Mrs. Murray to her new quarters, and Mr. Dinsmore, waiting only to

give an order to his body servant, hastened after the little girl and

her attendant, following the sound of their voices; for the child

was prattling to her mammy and Mildred, and they were answering her

innocent questions and remarks.

"Dis my little missus's room?" Mr. Dinsmore heard Aunt Chloe exclaim

in a tone of astonishment and contempt, as the little party, guided by

Sally, the housemaid, reached the door of the room selected by Mrs.

Dinsmore.

He hurried forward. "What, this pigeon-hole?" he exclaimed, turning

wrathfully to the girl. "Who bade you bring the young lady, Mr.

Horace's daughter, here?"

"Missus tole de housekeeper fix dis room fo' de little lady, massa,"

replied the girl, trembling with affright.

"Stupid, you must have misunderstood her," he said. "This way, Aunt

Chloe."

The room to which he conducted them adjoined that appropriated to

Mildred, and was equally large, airy, and cheerful; equally well

furnished.

Aunt Chloe surveyed it with a look of relief and satisfaction, and

bidding her send Sally for whatever was wanted for the child, Mr.

Dinsmore left them and went down to his wife.

She read displeasure in his countenance, and drew out her handkerchief

in preparation for her usual mode of defense.

"Pray, madam," he demanded in irate tone, "by whose orders was that

cubby-hole prepared for the use of Horace's child?"

"That very nice little room next the nursery was the one selected by

myself," she answered with dignity.

"Nice little room, indeed!" he returned with scorn; "ten feet by

twelve! that for one born in a palace and reared, thus far, in the very

lap of luxury!"

"Plenty good enough and big enough for old Grayson's grandchild!"

observed the wife, turning up her aristocratic nose in supreme

contempt.

"Madam, she is also my grandchild, and heiress in her own right to over

a million."

Mrs. Dinsmore's look expressed, first, astonishment, then jealous rage

and envy. "And the very incarnation of beauty!" she muttered between

her clenched teeth. "What did you bring her here for--to cast our

children into the shade? I hate her! What have you been doing? where

have you put her?"

"In the blue room."

"The blue room! one of the very best in the house! the blue satin

damask cushions of the chairs and sofas are so handsome and delicate!

and to think of the sun being let in to fade them, and a baby rubbing

its shoes over them, and scattering greasy crumbs on them; and that

exquisite carpet! It's too trying for flesh and blood to stand!" and

the handkerchief went up to her eyes.

"It's not worth while to distress yourself," he remarked coolly; "her

income is quite sufficient to allow of it's being refurnished at double

the cost every six months if necessary."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Dinsmore, throwing up her

wealth to me in that style!" sobbed the much-tried and very ill-used

woman.

Little Elsie was brought down to the drawing-room after tea, Mildred

leading her in, while Aunt Chloe followed, bearing a paste-board box.

Fresh pangs of envy and jealousy assailed Mrs. Dinsmore at sight of the

little fair one, now rested and refreshed, beautifully and tastefully

attired, and looking even more bewitchingly lovely than on her arrival.

Running to her grandfather, she asked coaxingly, "Please, grandpa, may

Elsie dive de fings now?"

"As well now as any time," he said, not unkindly, and she ran back to

Mildred, who had taken the box from Aunt Chloe, and now opened and held

it so that the child could handle the contents.

"This is the one for Enna's mamma," Mildred whispered, pointing to a

jewel case; "I would give it first."

The small white hands seized it, the soft brown eyes glanced about the

room till they rested upon the figure of a richly-dressed lady in an

easy chair; then the little twinkling feet tripped across, and with a

shy look, up in the not too pleasant face, the case was laid in her

lap, the baby voice lisping sweetly, "Please, Enna's mamma, Elsie wants

to dive you dis."

Mrs. Dinsmore started with surprise, opened the case hastily, and

seeing a very handsome gold bracelet lying there, condescended to smile

and murmur a few words of thanks.

But the little one had not waited for them; back to Mildred she ran in

eager haste to finish the work of presenting her love tokens to these

new-found relatives; a handsome gold ring to each of the three little

girls (received with kisses, thanks and exclamations of delight), and

toys for the others, which seemed to give equal satisfaction.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-sixth.

"Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow,

And floats before my eyes;

As meek and pure as doves art thou,

Or beings of the skies."

--Robert Morris.

"Do you like it, aunt?" asked Mildred, approaching Mrs. Dinsmore, as

she was in the act of clasping the bracelet on her arm.

"Yes, it's very handsome; but I think there might as well have been a

pair of them."

"Ah!" returned Mildred with a smile, directed toward Mr. Dinsmore;

"little Elsie would have been glad to make it so, but uncle held the

purse-strings, and was inexorably determined that it should be but one."

"Just like him!" said the wife, snappishly.

"My dear, I felt extremely mean in allowing so much as I did to be

spent upon my family," he said, with a gravity that was almost stern.

"I don't see why you need," she replied, with irritation, "sacrificing

the comfort of your family, as you are, by taking her in."

"I must confess," he returned, "that I see no sacrifice about it. The

child will not be the slightest expense to us. But rather the reverse;

nor will her presence in the house add in the very least to your cares."

"The children seem well pleased with their gifts," Mildred remarked,

giving him a cheery smile, as she moved away toward them, gathered in

a little throng about Elsie, amusing themselves by making her talk;

asking her questions, and bidding her pronounce their names in turn,

with the prefix of aunt or uncle.

"You're the darlingest little thing that ever was!" Adelaide exclaimed,

catching her in her arms, and kissing her again and again.

"She's too pretty; nobody will ever look at us when she's by. I heard

mamma say so," muttered Louise, discontentedly.

"Pooh! what's the use of talking in that way!" said Lora. "We can hide

her up-stairs when we want to be looked at."

"Of course," said Mildred, laughing; "and being such a mere baby, I

don't think you need fear that she will prove a serious rival."

"I'm her uncle," remarked Arthur drawing himself up, with dignity;

"say Uncle Arthur again, baby girl."

"I isn't a baby," she said, smiling up into his face. "Elsie's a big

girl now; Enna's de baby. Pretty baby! Elsie loves you!" she added,

lovingly stroking Enna's hair.

"It's high time those children were in bed," said Mrs. Dinsmore, from

the other side of the room. "Aunt Maria, take Enna and the boys to the

nursery."

Aunt Chloe, not slow to take a hint, picked up her nursling and

followed the other woman, Elsie looking back, and kissing her hand to

her grandfather, with a pleasant "Good-night, grandpa; good-night,

Enna's mamma, and all de folks."

Mildred went with them to enjoy a little talk and play with the child,

as had been her custom at Viamede, but did not venture to stay long,

lest Mrs. Dinsmore should be displeased at her absenting herself from

the drawing-room on this first evening after her return.

On going down again, she found Mr. Landreth there. He spent the

evening, and made himself very agreeable. Mildred was quite full of

Viamede, and its little heiress, and he seemed much interested in all

she had to say about them.

Mr. Landreth was a favorite with Mrs. Dinsmore; she considered him an

excellent match in point of wealth and family, possessed also of the

added recommendations of good education, polished address and genial

disposition.

He had been a frequent visitor to Roselands in the past months, and she

had spared no pains to show off to him the attractions of her nieces,

and throw him as much as possible into their society; at the same time

adroitly keeping Mildred in the background.

But the young man was sufficiently keen-sighted to see through her

schemes, and while seemingly falling in with them, in reality reserved

all his admiration for Mildred; who on her part was taken up with other

interests, and thought of him only as a pleasant acquaintance, whose

visits to the house meant nothing to her.

Mrs. Dinsmore had been disappointed by her failure to secure him for

one or the other of her nieces; but they were now engaged, and having

come to have as warm a liking for our heroine as it was in her selfish

nature to entertain for any one not connected with herself by ties of

blood, she desired, as the next best thing, to bring about a match

between her and Mr. Landreth.

But Mildred did not second her efforts, showing no particular

preference for Mr. Landreth's society above that of any one of the half

dozen or more other unmarried gentlemen who frequented the house.

She treated them all courteously, but gave encouragement to none,

seeming far more interested in little Elsie, and in the studies almost

discontinued during her stay at Viamede, but taken up again with

renewed zeal directly on her return to Roselands.

But Mr. Landreth was not to be discouraged; he paid court to Elsie,

learning soon to love the little creature for her own sweet sake, and

managed after a time to associate himself with several of Mildred's

pursuits.

The time had now arrived when, according to the original plan, Mildred

was to return home, and those who loved her there were looking forward

with eager impatience for her coming.

But Mr. Dinsmore wrote to her parents, entreating that he might be

allowed to keep her some months longer, and bringing forward several

cogent reasons why his request should be granted; Mildred was improving

in health, making the best use of opportunities to perfect herself in

accomplishments, etc.; was a most pleasant companion to himself and

wife, ought not to be permitted to undertake the long journey alone;

and at present no suitable escort could be found.

The parents carefully weighed his arguments, and for their child's sake

finally gave consent, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

Mildred was both glad and sorry, having a yearning desire for home and

its dear occupants, but at the same time feeling that the parting from

wee Elsie would be very sad; so tender was the attachment that had

sprung up between herself and the motherless babe.

Pity was a large element in Mildred's love for the child, and that

increased as the weeks and months rolled on; for both the grandfather

and the young uncles and aunts, yielding gradually to Mrs. Dinsmore's

baleful influence, treated her with less kindness and consideration;

while Mrs. Dinsmore's tyranny was such that not unfrequently Mildred

could scarce refrain from expressing violent indignation.

The child was not subjected to blows, but angry looks and harsh words

and tones, that to her sensitive spirit were worse than blows would

have been to a more obtuse nature, were plentifully dealt out to her;

also ridicule, sneers and snubs.

And there was no respect shown to her rights of property; the other

children might rob her of her toys, books and pictures, with entire

impunity, if she ventured to carry them outside her own room; Mrs.

Dinsmore averring that if she showed them, and so excited a desire for

them in the breasts of her children, she deserved to lose them.

"She is quite able to afford to present them with anything they want,"

she would add, "and I am not going to have them tormented with the

sight of pretty things that are to be refused them."

Elsie was so unselfish and generous that, as a usual thing, she could

be easily induced to give even what she highly valued; but to have her

possessions laid violent hands upon and forced from her outraged her

sense of justice, and though she seldom offered much resistance, it

often cost her many bitter tears.

She was a careful little body, who never destroyed anything, and

her loving nature made her cling even to material things, in some

instances, which she had owned and amused herself with for years;

an old dollie, that she had loved and nursed from what was to her

time immemorial, was so dear and precious, that no new one, however

beautiful and fine, could possibly replace it. And a living pet took

such a place in her heart from the first--a tame squirrel that she had

brought with her, and a white dove given her by Mr. Landreth soon after

her arrival.

But all these were taken from her; the doll had to be resigned to Enna,

the dove to Walter, and the squirrel to Arthur.

There was a short struggle each time, then she gave it up and sobbed

out her sorrow in her mammy's arms, or on Mildred's sympathizing bosom.

"Oh, Elsie wants to go back to her own dear home!" she would cry.

"Can't Elsie go back? Must Elsie stay here, where dey take her fings

all away?"

Mildred at first hoped her uncle would interfere; but no, he did not

enjoy contention with his wife, and, like many another man, could not

understand how things of value so trifling in his sight, could be worth

so much to the child.

He was willing to replace them, and thought it only ill-temper and

stubbornness when she refused to be comforted in that manner.

It was a sore trial to the three hearts in the house that loved her

so dearly; but all they could do was to soothe her with caresses and

assurances of their love, and of the love of Jesus, and that if she

bore her trials with meekness and patience, returning good for evil to

those who used her so ill, it would be pleasing to Him.

Mildred would talk to her of her papa, too, and the happy times she

would have when he came home;--how he would love and pet and fondle her.

"For surely," she reasoned with herself, "he cannot possibly do

otherwise when he sees how sweet and lovely she is."

The prospect seemed to give the little one intense pleasure, and she

would often ask to be told "'bout de time when Elsie's dear papa will

come."

She would watch her grandfather, too, as he petted and fondled his

little ones, with a wistful longing in the sweet brown eyes that

brought tears to those of Mildred, and made her heart ache.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Chapter Twenty-seventh.

"Wooing thee, I found thee of more value

Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags;

And 'tis the very riches of thyself

That now I aim at."

--Shakspeare.

Early in June, the Dinsmores repaired to the sea-shore, taking Mildred

with them; also little Elsie and her mammy.

The whole summer was spent at watering-places, and Mr. Landreth was

generally one of their party.

Mildred enjoyed it, the time spent at the sea-shore, especially,

very much in a quiet way, taking no part in the gaieties of the

fashionables, but delighting in walks and drives along the beach, and

in boating and bathing.

Elsie was fond of a morning stroll on the beach, with "Cousin Milly,"

Aunt Chloe being always at hand to carry her pet when the little feet

grew tired, and Mildred was never averse to the companionship of the

sweet child, never in too great haste to accommodate her pace to that

of the little one, or to stop to examine and explain whatever excited

her curiosity, or to let her pick up sea-weed, shells and pebbles.

Sometimes the other children joined them; occasionally Mr. Landreth

also. Later in the day he was almost sure to be Mildred's companion,

unless she contrived to elude him.

This she attempted quite frequently toward the latter part of the

summer, declining his attentions whenever she could, without positive

rudeness.

At first he would not believe it was by design, but at length he

could no longer shut his eyes to the fact, and, much disturbed and

mortified, he determined to seek an explanation; he must know what

was her motive--whether aversion to his society, or fear that he was

trifling with her; and if the latter, it should speedily be removed; he

would tell her what was the sober truth, that he esteemed and admired

her above all the rest of her sex, and would be supremely happy if she

would consent to be his wife.

They and their party had left the sea-shore for a fashionable resort

among the mountains, where they had now been for a fortnight or

more, and where they had found the elder Mr. Landreth and his wife

established for the season.

Mildred set out for a walk, one morning, directly after breakfast,

taking Elsie and her nurse with her.

They found a cool, shady spot, beside a little brook, at the foot of

a hill where the grass was green, and a rustic seat under a spreading

tree invited to rest.

They sat down, and Elsie amused herself with throwing pebbles and bits

of bark into the water.

"Aunt Chloe," Mildred said, presently, "I want to climb this hill, for

the sake of the view; so will leave you and Elsie here. I don't intend

to be gone long, but if she gets tired waiting, you can take her back

to the house, and I will follow."

So saying, she tripped away back to the road, made her ascent, seated

herself upon a log, at a spot which commanded a fine view of the

mountain, hill and vale, and taking out her drawing materials, was

about to sketch the scene, when a voice addressed her.

"Good-morning, Miss Keith. I am happy to have come upon you just now,

and alone.

"I'm quite out of breath with climbing the hill," the voice went on, as

Mildred, turning her head, recognized Mrs. Landreth, responded to her

greeting, and made room for her on the log. "Thank you; yes, I will sit

down here beside you, for I want to rest and to have a little talk with

you."

"I am at your service, Mrs. Landreth," Mildred said, closing her

sketch-book, recalling as she did so her companion's formerly

expressed opinion that such employment was a sinful waste of time, and

anticipating a lecture on that subject.

However, the good woman's thoughts were, at that moment, too full of a

more important theme to allow her to so much as notice with what the

young girl had busied herself.

"My dear," she began, "I have a strong liking and high respect for

you; because you seem to me sincerely desirous to do right and live in

a Christian way, according to your light. You are gayer, of course,

in your dress than I can think quite consistent; but we don't all see

alike; and I should be rejoiced to receive you into the family if that

might be without the danger to you--spiritually--which it involves."

Mildred rose, her cheeks burning, her eyes flashing.

"When I have shown my desire to enter your family, Mrs. Landreth, it

will be time enough to--"

"Ah, my dear, my dear, you quite misunderstand me," interrupted the

older lady. "Except for your own sake and your duty as a Christian to

marry only in the Lord, I should be delighted. And I've never felt at

all sure that Charlie could get you; but I see plainly that he wants

you; and so it seemed my duty to warn you not to take him."

Mildred was very angry. Drawing herself up to her full height, and

speaking with hauteur, "Excuse me, madam," she said, "if I venture to

remind you that unasked advice is seldom acceptable; and if I add that

it is especially unpalatable when it involves the meddling with matters

too delicate for even the most intimate friend to allude to uninvited."

"What a temper! I begin to think you are none too good for him

after all," grimly commented Mrs. Landreth, rising in her turn.

"Good-morning, miss," and she stalked away down the hill, while Mildred

dropped upon the grass, and hiding her face in her hands, indulged in a

hearty cry.

It was a mixture of emotions that brought the tears in those plentiful

showers; anger burned still in her breast, yet at the same time she

was bitterly remorseful on account of it, sorry and ashamed that she

had so disgraced her Christian profession; bringing reproach upon the

Master's cause; and--ah, what meant the pang that meddling woman's

words had caused? could it be the fear that duty called her to resign

that which had become very dear to her heart? Alas, yes! it cried out

with a yearning, passionate cry for this love that she must reject, if,

indeed, it was offered her.

Did he, indeed, love her? Oh, what joy! what bliss! But, oh, the bitter

anguish if she must put that cup of joy aside untasted! How could she?

yet how dare she do otherwise? The Bible did speak of marrying only

in the Lord; it did say, "Be ye not unequally yoked together with

unbelievers."

Some one knelt on the grass at her side, gently lifted up her head and

took her hands in his.

"Don't, darling; I cannot bear to see tears in those dear eyes. I know

all--I met her, and she told me. How dared she so wound your delicacy!

But it is true that I love you; yes, a thousand times better than she

can imagine! and that I am utterly unworthy of you. But, Mildred,

dearest, sweetest, best of women, give me a little hope, and I will

try to become all you can ask."

She could not speak. She tried to hide her blushing face, and to

withdraw her hands; but he held them fast, and continued to pour out

earnest pleadings and passionate expressions of love and devotion.

"I cannot, oh, I cannot!" she stammered at last. "I'm afraid she is

right. Not, oh, not that I am any better than you! but--but we are

traveling different roads, and 'how can two walk together except they

be agreed?'"

"I would never interfere with your religion," he said. "I know it is

different from that which makes my poor uncle's home the most desolate

place on earth. O, Mildred, think that you may be the saving of me! I

am willing to walk in your road if you will show me the way; even to

join the church at once if that will satisfy you."

She looked up wistfully into his face. "Ah, Charlie--Mr. Landreth--is

that your idea of what it is to be a Christian? Ah, it is more, much

more.

"'With the heart man believeth unto righteousness'--gets the

righteousness of Christ put upon him, imputed to him, while holy living

proves the reality of the change, the saving nature of his faith--'and

with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.'

"Do you not see that conversion must come before joining the church?"

"I don't understand these things," he said; "but I am willing to learn.

O, Mildred, be my wife, and you may lead me whither you will!"

She shook her head sorrowfully, tears stealing down her cheeks.

"I am too weak, too ready to stray from the path myself, too easily led

by those I--"

"Love?" he whispered eagerly, and bending over her, as she paused in

confusion, "O, Mildred, darling, say the sweet word! You do love me!

you do! I see it in your dear eyes, and I will never despair. But speak

the word, dearest, once, just once!"

"Oh, Charlie!" she groaned, covering her face, "I should learn to love

you too well to bear the thought that we were not to spend eternity

together."