"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and
thy staff, they comfort me."
--_Psalm_ xxiii. 4.
"'Tis but the cruel artifice of fate,
Thus to refine and vary on our woes,
To raise us from despair and give us hopes,
Only to plunge us in the gulf again,
And make us doubly wretched."
--TRAP's _Abramuh_.
It was Sabbath morning, and Elsie, ready dressed for church, stood in
the portico waiting for her father to come down and lift her into the
carriage, in which Adelaide, Louisa, and Enna were already seated.
The coachman was in his seat, and the horses, a pair of young and fiery
steeds purchased by Mr. Dinsmore only a few days before, were
impatiently stamping and tossing their heads, requiring quite an
exertion of strength to hold them in.
"I don't exactly like the actions of those horses, Ajax," remarked Mr.
Dinsmore, as he came out putting on his gloves; "I did not intend to
have them put in harness to-day. Why did you not give us the old bays?"
"Kase, Marster Horace, ole Kate she's got a lame foot, an' ole marster
he says dese youngsters is got to be used some time or nuther, an' I
reckoned I mout jis as well use 'em to-day."
"Do you feel quite sure of being able to hold them in?" asked his
master, glancing uneasily first at the horses and then at Elsie.
"Ki! marster, dis here chile ben able to hold in a'most anything,"
exclaimed the negro, exhibiting a double row of dazzlingly white teeth;
"an' besides, I'se drove dese here hosses twice 'fore now, an' dey went
splendid. Hold 'em in! Yes, sah, easy as nuffin."
"Elsie," said her father, still looking a little uneasy, in spite of
Ajax's boasting, "I think it would be just as well for you to stay at
home."
Elsie made no reply in words, but her answering look spoke such intense
disappointment, such earnest entreaty, that, saying, "Ah! well, I
suppose there is no real danger; and since you seem so anxious to go, I
will not compel you to stay at home," he lifted her into the carriage,
and seating himself beside her, ordered the coachman to drive on as
carefully as he could.
"Elsie, change seats with me," said Enna; "I want to sit beside Brother
Horace."
"No," replied Mr. Dinsmore, laying his hand on his little daughter's
shoulder, "Elsie's place is by me, and she shall sit nowhere else."
"Do you think we are in any danger of being run away with?" asked
Adelaide, a little anxiously as she observed him glancing once or twice
out of the window, and was at the same time sensible that their motion
was unusually rapid.
"The horses are young and fiery, but Ajax is an excellent driver," he
replied, evasively; adding, "You may be sure that if I had thought the
danger very great I would have left Elsie at home."
They reached the church without accident, but on their return the
horses took fright while going down a hill, and rushed along at a
furious rate, which threatened every instant to upset the carriage.
Elsie thought they were going very fast, but did not know that there
was real danger until her father suddenly lifted her from her seat, and
placing her between his knees, held her tightly, as though he feared
she would be snatched from his grasp.
Elsie looked up into his face. It was deadly pale, and his eyes were
fixed upon her with an expression of anguish.
"Dear papa," she whispered, "God will take care of us."
"I would give all I am worth to have you safe at home," he answered
hoarsely, pressing her closer and closer to him.
O! even in that moment of fearful peril, when death seemed just at
hand, those words, and the affectionate clasp of her father's arm, sent
a thrill of intense joy to the love-famished heart of the little girl.
But destruction seemed inevitable. Lora was leaning back, half fainting
with terror; Adelaide scarcely less alarmed, while Enna clung to her,
sobbing most bitterly.
Elsie alone preserved a cheerful serenity. She had built her house upon
the rock, and knew that it would stand. Her destiny was in her Heavenly
Father's hands, and she was content to leave it there. Even death had
no terrors to the simple, unquestioning faith of the little child who
had put her trust in Jesus.
But they were not to perish thus; for at that moment a powerful negro,
who was walking along the road, hearing an unusual sound, turned about,
caught sight of the vehicle coming toward him at such a rapid rate, and
instantly comprehending the peril of the travellers, planted himself in
the middle of the road, and, at the risk of life and limb, caught the
horses by the bridle--the sudden and unexpected check throwing them
upon their haunches, and bringing the carriage to an instant
stand-still.
"Thank God, we are saved! That fellow shall be well rewarded for his
brave deed," exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, throwing open the carriage door.
Then, leaping to the ground, he lifted Elsie out, set her down, and
gave his hand to his sisters one after the other.
They were almost at the entrance of the avenue, and all preferred to
walk the short distance to the house rather than again trust themselves
to the horses.
Mr. Dinsmore lingered a moment to speak to the man who had done them
such good service, and to give some directions to the coachman; and
then, taking the hand of his little girl, who had been waiting for him,
he walked slowly on, neither of them speaking a word until they reached
the house, when he stooped and kissed her cheek, asking very kindly if
she had recovered from her fright.
"Yes, papa," she answered, in a quiet tone, "I knew that God would take
care of us. Oh! wasn't He good to keep us all from being killed?"
"Yes," he said, very gravely. "Go now and let mammy get you ready for
dinner."
As Elsie was sitting alone in her room that afternoon she was surprised
by a visit from Lora; it being very seldom that the elder girls cared
to enter her apartment.
Lora looked a little pale, and more grave and thoughtful than Elsie had
ever seen her. For a while she sat in silence, then suddenly burst out,
"Oh, Elsie! I can't help thinking all the time, what if we had been
killed! where would we all be now? where would _I_ have been? I believe
_you_ would have gone straight to heaven, Elsie; but _I_--oh! I should
have been with the rich man the minister read about this morning,
lifting up my eyes in torment."
And Lora covered her face with her hands and shuddered.
Presently she went on again. "I was terribly frightened, and so were
the rest--all but you, Elsie; tell me, _do_--what kept _you_ from being
afraid?"
"I was thinking," said Elsie gently, turning over the leaves of her
little Bible as she spoke, "of this sweet verse: 'Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for
thou art with me;' and oh, Lora! it made me so happy to think that
Jesus was there with me, and that if I were killed, I should only fall
asleep, to wake up again in His arms; then how could I be afraid?"
"Ah! I would give anything to feel as you do," said Lora, sighing. "But
tell me, Elsie, did you not feel afraid for the rest of us? I'm sure
you must know that _we_ are not Christians; we don't even pretend to
be."
Elsie blushed and looked down.
"It all passed so quickly, you know, Lora, almost in a moment," she
said, "so that I only had time to think of papa and myself; and I have
prayed so much for him that I felt quite sure God would spare him until
he should be prepared to die. It was very selfish, I know," she added
with deep humility; "but it was only for a moment, and I can't tell you
how thankful I was for _all_ our spared lives."
"Don't look so--as if you had done something very wicked, Elsie,"
replied Lora, sighing again. "I'm sure we have given you little enough
reason to care whatever becomes of us; but oh! Elsie, if you can only
tell me how to be a Christian, I mean now to try very hard; indeed, I
am determined never to rest until I am one."
"Oh, Lora, how glad I am!" cried Elsie, joyfully, "for I know that if
you are really in earnest, you will succeed; for no one ever yet failed
who tried aright. Jesus said, '_Every one_ that asketh, receiveth; and
he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it _shall_ be
opened.' Is not _that_ encouraging? And listen to what God says here in
_this_ verse: 'Ye shall seek me and _find_ me, when ye shall search for
me with _all your heart_.' So you see, dear Lora, if you will only seek
the Lord with your _whole heart_, you may be _sure_, _quite_ sure of
finding Him."
"Yes," said Lora, "but you have not answered my question; _how_ am I to
seek? that is, what means am I to use to get rid of my sins, and get a
new heart? how make myself pleasing in the sight of God? what must I
_do_ to be saved?"
"That is the very question the jailer put to Paul, and he answered,
'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved,'" replied
Elsie, quickly turning to the chapter and pointing out the text with
her finger, that Lora might see that she had quoted it correctly. "And
in answer to your other question, 'How shall I get rid of my sins?' see
here: 'In that day there shall be a fountain opened to the house of
David and to the inhabitants of Jerusalem for sin and for
uncleanliness.' That is in Zechariah; then John tells us what that
fountain is when he says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth
us from all sin;' and again, 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us
from our sins in His own blood.'"
"Yes, Elsie, but what must I _do_?" asked Lora, eagerly.
"Do, Lora? only _believe_" replied Elsie, in the same earnest tone.
"Jesus has done and suffered all that is necessary; and now we have
nothing at all to do but go to Him and be washed in that fountain;
believe Him when He says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal life;' just
accept the gift, and trust and love Him; that is the whole of it, and
it is so simple that even such a little girl as I can understand it."
"But surely, Elsie, I _can_, I _must do something_."
"Yes, God tells us to repent; and He says, 'Give me thine heart;' you
can do that; you can love Jesus; at least He will enable you to, if you
ask Him, and He will teach you to be sorry for your sins; the Bible
says, 'He is exalted to give repentance and remission of sins;' and if
you ask Him He will give them to you. It is true we cannot do anything
good of ourselves; without the help of the Holy Spirit we can do
nothing right, because we are so very wicked; but then we can always
get that help if we ask for it. Jesus said, 'Your Heavenly Father is
more willing to give His Holy Spirit to them that ask Him, than parents
are to give good gifts unto their children. Oh, Lora! don't be afraid
to ask for it; don't be afraid to come to Jesus, for He says, 'Him that
cometh unto Me, I will in nowise cast out;' and He is such a precious
Saviour, so kind and loving. But remember that you must come very
humbly; feeling that you are a great sinner, and not worthy to be
heard, and only hoping to be forgiven, because Jesus died. The Bible
says, 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.'"
Lora lingered the greater part of the afternoon in Elsie's room, asking
her questions, or listening to her while she read the Scriptures, or
repeated some beautiful hymn, or spoke in her sweet, childish way, of
her own peace and joy in believing in Jesus.
But at last Lora went to her own room, and Elsie had another quiet
half-hour to herself before the tea-bell again called the family
together.
Elsie answered the summons with a light heart--a heart that thrilled
with a new and strange sense of happiness as she remembered her
father's evident anxiety for her safety during their perilous ride,
recalling each word and look, and feeling again, in imagination, the
clasp of his arm about her waist.
"Ah! surely papa does love me," she murmured to herself over and over
again; and when he met her at the table with a kind smile, and laying
his hand caressingly on her head, asked in an affectionate tone, "How
does my little daughter do this evening?" her cheeks flushed, and her
eyes grew bright with happiness, and she longed to throw her arms
around his neck, and tell him how very, very much she loved him.
But that was quite impossible at the table, and before all the family;
so she merely raised her glad eyes to his face and answered, "I am very
well, thank you, papa."
But, after all, this occurrence produced but little change in Elsie's
condition; her father treated her a little more affectionately for a
day or two, and then gradually returned to his ordinary stern, cold
manner; indeed, before the week was out, she was again in sad disgrace.
She was walking alone in the garden one afternoon, when her attention
was attracted by a slight fluttering noise which seemed to proceed from
an arbor near by, and on hastily turning in to ascertain the cause, she
found a tiny and beautiful humming-bird confined under a glass vase; in
its struggles to escape it was fluttering and beating against the walls
of its prison, thus producing the sound the little girl had heard in
passing.
Elsie was very tender-hearted, and could never see any living creature
in distress without feeling a strong desire to relieve its sufferings.
She knew that Arthur was in the habit of torturing every little insect
and bird that came in his way, and had often drawn his persecutions
upon herself by interfering in behalf of the poor victim; and now the
thought instantly flashed upon her that _this_ was some of his work,
and that he would return ere long to carry out his cruel purposes. Then
at once arose the desire to release the little prisoner and save it
further suffering, and without waiting to reflect a moment she raised
the glass, and the bird was gone.
Then she began to think with a little tremor, how angry Arthur would
be; but it was too late to think of that now, and, after all, she did
not stand in very great dread of the consequences, especially as she
felt nearly sure of her father's approval of what she had done, having
several times heard him reprove Arthur for his cruel practices.
Not caring to meet Arthur then, however, she hastily retreated to the
house, where she seated herself in the veranda with a book. It was a
very warm afternoon, and that, being on the east side of the house and
well protected by trees, shrubbery, and vines, was as cool a spot as
could be found on the place.
Arthur, Walter and Enna sat on the floor playing jack-stones--a
favorite game with them--and Louise was stretched full length on a
settee, buried in the latest novel.
"Hush!" she said, as Walter gave a sudden shout at a successful toss
Enna had just made; "can't you be quiet? Mamma is taking her afternoon
nap, and you will disturb her; and, besides, I cannot read in such a
noise."
Elsie wondered why Arthur did not go to see after his bird, but soon
forgot all about it in the interest with which she was poring over the
story of the "Swiss Family Robinson."
The jack-stone players were just finishing their game when they were
all startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. Horace Dinsmore upon the
scene, asking in a tone of great wrath who had been down in the garden
and liberated the humming-bird he had been at such pains to catch,
because it was one of a rare species, and he was anxious to add it to
his collection of curiosities.
Elsie was terribly frightened, and would have been glad at that moment
to sink through the floor; she dropped her book in her lap, and
clasping her hands over her beating heart, grew pale and red by turns,
while she seemed choking with the vain effort to speak and acknowledge
herself the culprit, as conscience told her she ought.
But her father was not looking at her; his eye was fixed on Arthur.
"I presume it was you, sir," he said very angrily, "and if so, you may
prepare yourself for either a flogging or a return to your prison, for
one or the other I am determined you shall have."
"I didn't _do_ it, any such thing," replied the boy, fiercely.
"Of course you will deny it," said his brother, "but we all know that
your word is good for nothing."
"Papa," said a trembling little voice, "Arthur did not do it; it was I."
"You," exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled anger and
astonishment, as he turned his flashing eye upon her, "_you_, Elsie!
can it be _possible_ that this is _your_ doing?"
Elsie's book fell on the floor, and, covering her face with both hands,
she burst into sobs and tears.
"Come here to me this instant," he said, seating himself on the settee,
from which Louise had risen on his entrance. "Come here and tell me
what you mean by meddling with my affairs in this way."
"Please, papa, _please_ don't be so very angry with me," sobbed the
little girl, as she rose and came forward in obedience to his command;
"I didn't know it was your bird, and I didn't mean to be naughty."
"No, you _never mean_ to be naughty, according to your own account," he
said; "your badness is all accident; but nevertheless, I find you a
very troublesome, mischievous child; it was only the other day you
broke a valuable vase" (he forgot in his anger how little she had
really been to blame for that), "and now you have caused me the loss of
a rare specimen which I had spent a great deal of time and effort in
procuring. Really, Elsie, I am sorely tempted to administer a very
severe punishment."
Elsie caught at the arm of the settee for support.
"Tell me what you did it for; was it pure love of mischief?" asked her
father, sternly, taking hold of her arm and holding her up by it.
"No, papa," she answered almost under her breath. "I was sorry for the
little bird. I thought Arthur had put it there to torture it, and so I
let it go. I did not mean to do wrong, papa, indeed I did not," and the
tears fell faster and faster.
"Indeed," said he, "you had no business to meddle with it, let who
would have put it there. Which hand did it?"
"This one, papa," sobbed the child, indicating her right hand.
He took it in his and held it a moment, while the little girl stood
tremblingly awaiting what was to come next. He looked at the downcast,
tearful face, the bosom heaving with sobs, and then at the little
trembling hand he held, so soft, and white, and tender, and the
sternness of his countenance relaxed somewhat; it seemed next to
impossible to inflict pain upon anything so tender and helpless; and
for a moment he was half inclined to kiss and forgive her. But no, he
had been very much irritated at his loss, and the remembrance of it
again aroused his anger, and well-nigh extinguished the little spark of
love and compassion that had burned for a moment in his heart. She
should be punished, though he would not inflict physical pain.
"See, Elsie," laughed Louise, maliciously, "he is feeling in his pocket
for his knife. I suspect he intends to cut your hand off."
Elsie started, and the tearful eyes were raised to her father's face
with a look half of terrified entreaty, half of confidence that such
_could not_ be his intention.
"Hush, Louise!" exclaimed her brother, sternly; "you _know_ you are not
speaking truly, and that I would as soon think of cutting off my own
hand as my child's. You should never speak anything but truth,
especially to children."
"I think it is well enough to frighten them a little sometimes, and I
thought that was what you were going to do," replied Louise, looking
somewhat mortified at the rebuke.
"No," said her brother, "that is a very bad plan, and one which I shall
never adopt. Elsie will learn in time, if she does not know it now,
that I never utter a threat which I do not intend to carry out, and
never break my word."
He had drawn a handkerchief from his pocket while speaking.
"I shall tie this hand up, Elsie," he said, proceeding to do so; "those
who do not use their hands aright must be deprived of the use of them.
There! let me see if that will keep it out of mischief. I shall tie you
up hand and foot before long, if you continue such mischievous pranks.
Now go to your room, and stay there until tea-time."
Elsie felt deeply, bitterly disgraced and humiliated as she turned to
obey; and it needed not Arthur's triumphant chuckle nor the smirk of
satisfaction on Enna's face to add to the keen suffering of her wounded
spirit; this slight punishment was more to her than a severe
chastisement would have been to many another child; for the very
knowledge of her father's displeasure was enough at any time to cause
great pain to her sensitive spirit and gentle, loving heart.
Walter, who was far more tender-hearted than either his brother or
sister, felt touched by the sight of her distress, and ran after her to
say, "Never mind, Elsie; I am ever so sorry for you, and I don't think
you were the least bit naughty."
She thanked him with a grateful look, and a faint attempt to smile
through her tears; then hurried on to her room, where she seated
herself in a chair by the window, and laying her arms upon the sill,
rested her head upon them, and while the bitter tears fell fast from
her eyes she murmured half aloud, "Oh! why am I always so naughty?
always doing something to displease my dear papa? how I wish I could be
good, and make him love me! I am afraid he never will if I vex him so
often."
Then an earnest, importunate prayer for help to do right, and wisdom to
understand how to gain her father's love, went up from the almost
despairing little heart to Him whose ear is ever open unto the cry of
His suffering children. And thus between weeping, mourning, and
praying, an hour passed slowly away, and the tea-bell rang.
Elsie started up, but sat down again, feeling that she would much
rather do without her supper than show her tear-swollen eyes and
tied-up hand at the table.
But she was not to be left to her choice in the matter, for presently
there came a messenger bringing a peremptory command from her father
"to come down _immediately_ to her supper."
"Did you not hear the bell?" he asked, in his sternest tone, as she
tremblingly took her seat at his side.
"Yes, sir," she answered, in a low, tremulous tone.
"Very well, then; remember that you are always to come down the moment
the bell rings, unless you are directed otherwise, or are sick; and the
next time you are so late, I shall send you away without your meal."
"I don't want any supper, papa," she said, humbly.
"Hush," he replied, severely; "I will have no pouting or sulking; you
must just eat your supper and behave yourself. Stop this crying at
once," he added, in an undertone, as he spread some preserves on a
piece of bread and laid it on her plate, "or I shall take you away from
the table, and if I do, you will be very sorry."
He watched her a moment while she made a violent effort to choke back
her tears.
"What is your hand tied up for, Elsie?" asked her grandfather; "have
you been hurt?"
Elsie's face flushed painfully, but she made no reply.
"You must speak when you are spoken to," said her father; "answer your
grandfather's question at once."
"Papa tied it up, because I was naughty," replied the little girl,
vainly striving to suppress a sob.
Her father made a movement as if about to lead her from the table.
"O papa! _don't_" she cried, in terror; "I will be good."
"Let me have no more crying, then," said he; "this is shameful behavior
for a girl eight years old; it would be bad enough in a child of Enna's
age." He took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "Now," said he,
"begin to eat your supper at once, and don't let me have to reprove you
again."
Elsie tried to obey, but it seemed very difficult, indeed almost
impossible, while she knew that her father was watching her closely,
and _felt_ that everybody else was looking at her and thinking, "What a
naughty little girl you are!"
"Oh!" thought the poor child, "if papa would only quit looking at me,
and the rest would forget all about me and eat their suppers, maybe I
could keep from crying." Then she sent up a silent prayer for help,
struggling hard to keep back the tears and sobs that were almost
suffocating her, and taking up her slice of bread, tried to eat.
She was very thankful to her Aunt Adelaide for addressing a question to
her papa just at that moment, thus taking his attention from her, and
then adroitly setting them all to talking until the little girl had had
time to recover her composure, at least in a measure.
"May I go to my room now, papa?" asked the timid little voice as they
rose from the table.
"No," he said, taking her hand and leading her out to the veranda,
where he settled himself in an easy-chair and lighted a cigar.
"Bring me that book that lies yonder on the settee," he commanded.
She brought it.
"Now," said he, "bring that stool and set yourself down here close at
my knee, and let me see if I can keep you out of mischief for an hour
or two."
"May I get a book to read, papa?" she asked timidly.
"No," said he shortly. "You may just do what I bid you, and nothing
more nor less."
She sat down as he directed, with her face turned toward him, and tried
to amuse herself with her own thoughts, and watching the expression of
his countenance as he read on and on, turning leaf after leaf, too much
interested in his book to take any further notice of her.
"How handsome my papa is!" thought the little girl, gazing with
affectionate admiration into his face. And then she sighed, and tears
trembled in her eyes again. She admired her father, and loved him, "oh!
_so_ dearly," as she often whispered to herself; but would she ever
meet with anything like a return of her fond affection? There was an
aching void in her heart which nothing else could fill; must it always
be thus? was her craving for affection never to be satisfied? "O, papa!
my own papa, will you never love me?" mourned the sad little heart.
"Ah! if I could only be good always, perhaps he would; but I am so
often naughty;--whenever he begins to be kind I am sure to do something
to vex him, and then it is all over. Oh! I _wish_ I _could_ be good! I
will try very, _very_ hard. Ah! if I might climb on his knee now, and
lay my head on his breast, and put my arms round his neck, and tell him
how sorry I am that I have been naughty, and made him lose his bird;
and how much--oh! _how_ much I love him! But I know I never could tell
him _that_--I don't know how to express it; no _words could_, I am
sure. And if he would forgive me, and kiss me, and call me his dear
little daughter. Oh! will he _ever_ call me _that?_ Or if I, might only
stand beside him and lay my head on his shoulder, and he would put his
arm around me, it would make me _so_ happy."
An exclamation from Enna caused Elsie to turn her head, and suddenly
springing to her feet, she exclaimed in an eager, excited way, "Papa,
there is a carriage coming up the avenue--it must be visitors; please,
_please_, papa, let me go to my room."
"Why?" he asked coolly, looking up from his book, "why do you wish to
go?"
"Because I don't want to see them, papa," she said, hanging her head
and blushing deeply; "I don't want them to see me."
"You are not usually afraid of visitors," he replied in the same cool
tone.
"But they will see that my hand is tied up, and they will ask what is
the matter. O papa! do, _please_ do let me go quickly, before they get
here," she pleaded in an agony of shame and haste.
"No," said he, "I shall not let you go, if it were only to punish you
for getting off the seat where I bade you stay, without permission. You
will have to learn that I am to be obeyed at all times, and under all
circumstances. Sit down, and don't dare to move again until I give you
leave."
Elsie sat down without another word, but two bitter, scalding tears
rolled quickly down her burning cheeks.
"You needn't cry, Elsie," said her father; "it is only an old gentleman
who comes to see your grandfather on business, and who, as he never
notices children, will not be at all likely to ask any questions. I
hope you will learn some day, Elsie, to save your tears until there is
really some occasion for them."
The old gentleman had alighted while Mr. Dinsmore was speaking; Elsie
saw that he was alone, and the relief was so great that for once she
scarcely heeded her father's rebuke.
Another half-hour passed, and Mr. Dinsmore still sat reading, taking no
notice of Elsie, who, afraid to speak or move, was growing very weary
and sleepy. She longed to lay her head on her father's knee, but dared
not venture to take such a liberty; but at length she was so completely
overpowered by sleep as to do so unconsciously.
The sound of his voice pronouncing her name aroused her.
"You are tired and sleepy," said he; "if you would like to go to bed
you may do so."
"Thank you, papa," she replied, rising to her feet.
"Well," he said, seeing her hesitate, "speak, if you have anything to
say."
"I am very sorry I was naughty, papa. Will you please forgive me?" The
words were spoken very low, and almost with a sob.
"Will you try not to meddle in future, and not to cry at the table, or
pout and sulk when you are punished?" he asked in a cold, grave tone.
"Yes, sir, I will try to be a good girl always," said the humble little
voice.
"Then I will forgive you," he replied, taking the handkerchief off her
hand.
Still Elsie lingered. She felt as if she could not go without some
little token of forgiveness and love, some slight caress.
He looked at her with an impatient "Well?" Then, in answer to her mute
request, "No," he said, "I will not kiss you to-night; you have been
entirely too naughty. Go to your room at once."
Aunt Chloe was absolutely frightened by the violence of her child's
grief, as she rushed into the room and flung herself into her arms
weeping and sobbing most vehemently.
"What's de matter, darlin'?" she asked in great alarm.
"O mammy, mammy!" sobbed the child, "papa wouldn't kiss me! he said I
was too naughty. O mammy! will he ever love me now?"