"Is you, honey? but co'se you is; you mos' neber wears nuffin but white when de warm days comes; an' massa can't do widout his darlin' pet, now all de res' am gone."

"No; nor I without him," Elsie said, tears springing to her eyes. "Oh, don't these rooms seem lonely, mammy? Don't you miss Annis?"

"Co'se, honey, co'se I dose; but tank de Lord, I'se got my own darlin' chile lef'."

"And I have you and papa left," returned the little girl, smiling through her tears, "and that's a great deal; papa alone is more than half of all the world to me, and you know I could never do without you, mammy."

"Yo' ole mammy hopes you'll always tink like dat, honey," said Chloe, taking out the articles needed for the little girl's toilet. "'Pears like ole times come back," she remarked presently, combing a glossy ringlet round her finger; "de ole times befo' we went up Norf and massa got married to Miss Rose."

"Yes; and oh, mammy, papa has said I may be with him all day long, from the time I'm up in the morning and dressed, till I have to go to bed at night. Isn't it nice?"

"Berry nice plan, honey; 'spect it keep bofe you and massa from feelin' mos' pow'ful lonesome."

"Yes," Elsie said; "and I like it ever so much for a little while, but I wouldn't for anything be without mamma and Horace all the time."

Aunt Chloe was still busy with the ringlets. She took almost as much pride and delight in their beauty and abundance as the fond father himself, and was apt to linger lovingly over her task. But Elsie, though wont to endure with exemplary patience and resignation the somewhat tedious and trying ordeal of combing and curling, never complaining, though now and then compelled to wince when the comb caught in a tangle and mammy gave a pull that was far from pleasant, would sometimes have been glad to have them cut off would papa only have given consent.

"Dar, honey, dat job am done," Aunt Chloe said at length, laying aside the comb and brush. "Now fo' de dress and ribbons, an' den you kin go back to massa."

"I want to just as soon as I can," said the little girl.

"What goin' be done 'bout pourin' de tea to-night?" asked Aunt Chloe presently, rather as if thinking aloud than speaking to Elsie.

"Why," queried the little girl, "won't Mrs. Murray do it as usual?"

"Dunno, chile, she hab pow'ful bad headache."

"Has she? How sorry I am! Oh, I wonder if papa would let me try!"

"'Spect so, honey, ef you axes him," said Aunt Chloe, giving a final adjustment to the bows of the sash and the folds of the dress.

"So I will," cried the little girl, skipping away. But the next instant, coming to a sudden standstill and turning toward her nurse a face full of concern, "Mammy," she asked, "do you think I can do anything to help poor Mrs. Murray's head?"

"No, chile, she ain't wantin' nuffin but to be let 'lone till de sickness am gone."

"I wish I could help her," sighed Elsie, in a tenderly pitying tone; "I'm very sorry for her, but hope she will be well again to-morrow."

Two gentlemen were sitting in the veranda. Each turned a smiling, affectionate look upon the little girl as she stepped from the open doorway, the one saying, "Well, daughter," the other, "How are you to-day, my little friend?"

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Travilla. How are you, sir?" she said, putting her small white hand into the larger, browner one he held out to her.

He kept it for a minute or two while he chatted with her about the cousins who had just left for their Northern home, after spending the winter as guests at the Oaks, and of her mamma and baby brother, who were travelling to Philadelphia in their company.

"I dare say the house seems very quiet and rather lonely?" he remarked, inquiringly.

"Yes, sir; especially in my rooms," she said, glancing round at her father, who was silently listening to their talk; "but papa has promised to let me be with him all the time during the day. So I shall not mind it so much."

"Was not that a rather rash promise, Dinsmore?" asked Mr. Travilla, with mock gravity. "Well, if you tire of her company at any time, we of Ion shall be delighted to have her sent to us."

"Thank you," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a humorous look at his little girl; "I shall certainly send her to you directly I tire of her society."

Elsie glanced searchingly into his face; then with a happy laugh ran to him, and putting her arm about his neck, said, "I'm not the least bit frightened, papa; not at all afraid that you will want to be rid of me. I hope I'm not quite so silly as I was once when Mr. Travilla made me think you might give me away to him."

"But it was only a loan I was asking for this time, my little friend," was Mr. Travilla's pleasant rejoinder.

"Yes, sir; but if you borrow me you'll have to borrow papa too for the same length of time," Elsie said, with a merry laugh. "Won't he, papa?"

"I think he cannot have you on any easier terms," Mr. Dinsmore answered; "for I certainly cannot spare you from home while I stay here alone."

"A very satisfactory arrangement to me, provided we are allowed to keep you both as long as we wish," Mr. Travilla said, rising as if to take leave.

But an urgent invitation to stay to tea induced him to resume his seat.

Then Elsie preferred her request.

It was granted at once, her father saying, with a pleased look, "I should like to see how well you can fill your mamma's place; and if you show yourself capable, you may do so always in her absence, if you wish."

"Oh, thank you, papa," she cried in delight. "I'll do my very best. But I'm glad there are no strangers to tea to-night to see me make my first attempt. You are a guest, Mr. Travilla, but not a stranger," she added, with a bright, winsome look up at him.

"Thank you, my dear," he said; "it would be a grief of heart to me to be looked upon in that light by the little girl whose affection I value so highly."

"You are very kind to say so, sir," she returned, with a blush and a smile, "and I believe I'm every bit as fond of you as if you were my uncle. I have often heard papa say you and he were like brothers, and that would make you my uncle, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," her father said; "and so good and kind an uncle would be something to be thankful for, wouldn't it? Ah," rising and taking her hand, "there is the tea-bell. Now for your experiment. Will you walk out with us, Travilla?"

Both gentlemen watched the little girl with loving interest while she went through the duties of her new position with a quiet grace and dignity that filled her father with proud delight, and increased the admiration already felt for her by his friend.

On leaving the table they returned to the veranda, where the gentlemen sat conversing, with Elsie between them.

But presently Mr. Dinsmore, hearing that some one from the quarter wished to speak to him, left the other two alone for a while.

"Elsie," Mr. Travilla said softly, taking the little girl's hand in his, "I have something to tell you."

Her only reply was an inquiring look, and he went on: "Something which I am sure you will be glad to hear. But first let me ask if you remember a talk we had together one morning at Roselands, the first summer after your father and I returned from Europe?"

"You were so kind as to talk to me a good many times, sir," Elsie answered doubtfully.

"This was the morning after your fall from the piano-stool. I found you in the garden reading your Bible and crying over it," he said. "And in the talk that followed you expressed great concern at the discovery that I had no love for the Lord Jesus Christ. A text you quoted – 'If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be anathema maranatha' – has since come very frequently to my recollection, and troubled my conscience not a little."

Elsie was now listening with intense interest. Mr. Travilla paused for a moment, his face expressing deep emotion; then resumed: "I think God's Holy Spirit has thoroughly convinced me of the exceeding sinfulness of unbelief; of refusing or neglecting His offered salvation through the atoning blood of His dear Son; refusing to give to the Lord Jesus the poor little return of the best love of my heart for all He has done and suffered in my stead. This is what I had to tell you, my dear little friend. I have found Jesus – have given myself unreservedly to Him, to be His for time and for eternity, and I have been led to do this mainly through your instrumentality."

Tears of joy filled the little girl's eyes. "I am so glad, Mr. Travilla, so very glad!" she exclaimed. "It is the best news I could possibly have heard."

"Thank you, my dear," he said, with feeling. "I can now understand your anxiety for my conversion, for I myself am conscious of a yearning desire for the salvation of souls, especially of those of my friends and acquaintances."

"And now you will join the church, won't you, sir?"

"I don't know, Elsie; that is a question of duty I have not yet decided. There are so many of its members who are a disgrace to their profession, that I fear I might prove so also. What do you think about it?"

"I'm only a little child, not half so wise as you are, sir," she answered, with unaffected modesty.

"Still, I should like to hear your opinion."

After a moment's hesitation and silent thought she lifted a very earnest face to his. "God tells us that He is able to keep us from falling. And don't you think, Mr. Travilla, that it's what the Bible says we should be guided by, and not what somebody else thinks?"

"Yes; that is quite true."

"'To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them,'" she quoted.

"You have studied the Bible so much longer than I," he said, "can you tell me where to look for its directions in regard to this matter? Does it really give any?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes! Is not joining the church confessing Christ before men, owning Him as our Master, our Lord, our God?"

He nodded assent.

Elsie called to a servant lounging near, and sent him for her Bible.

"Can you find the texts you want without a concordance?" Mr. Travilla asked, regarding her with interest as she took the book and opened it.

"I think I can," she answered, turning over the leaves; "I have read them so often. Yes, here – Matt. 10:32, 33 – is one: 'Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven.'"

She gave him a questioning, pleading look.

"Yes," he said, in a subdued tone, "I think that is to the point; at least, if we grant that joining the church is the only way of confessing Christ."

"Oh, don't you see? Don't you think, Mr. Travilla, that if we love Him with all our hearts we will want to confess Him everywhere and in every way that we can? Won't we want everybody to know that we belong to Him, and own Him as our Master, our Lord, our King?" she exclaimed with eager enthusiasm, her voice taking a tone of earnest entreaty.

"I believe you are right," he said; "that would be the natural effect of such love as we ought to feel – as I am sure you do feel for Him."

"I do love Him, but not half so much as I ought," she answered with a sigh, as again she turned over the leaves of her Bible. "I often wonder how it is that my love to Him is so cold compared to His for me. It is as though I gave Him but one little drop in return for a mighty ocean." A tear fell on the page as she spoke.

Then again she read: "'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' 'The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth and in thy heart' – that is, the word of faith which we preach; 'that if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.'"

Looking up at him, "Oh, Mr. Travilla," she said, "shall we refuse to be soldiers at all because there are some traitors in the army? Isn't there all the more need of brave, true men for that very reason? plenty of them to fight the Lord's battles and conquer His enemies?"

"Yes; but cannot one do that without becoming a member of a church?"

"Wouldn't that be a queer kind of an army where there was no concert of action, but every man fought separately in the way that seemed best to himself?" she asked, with modest hesitation. "I've read about the armies and battles of our Revolution and other wars, and I don't remember that there was ever a great victory except where a good many men were joined under one leader."

"Very true," he replied, thoughtfully.

"And if you love Jesus, Mr. Travilla, how can you help wanting to obey His dying command, 'Do this in remembrance of me'? And that we cannot do unless we are members of some church."

"I should not hesitate, Elsie, if I were but sure of being able to hold out, and not disgrace my profession," he said.

Mr. Dinsmore returned to the veranda and sat down again by Elsie's side, just in time to hear his friend's last sentence.

"It is a profession of religion you are speaking of, I presume," he said, half inquiringly. "Well, Travilla, we must be content to take one step at a time as we follow our Leader; to put on the armor and go into battle trusting in the Captain of our salvation to lead us on to final victory. He bids us 'fear not; I will help thee.' 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' 'He keepeth the feet of His saints.' 'Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?.. We are more than conquerors through Him that loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord,' for His chosen, His redeemed ones are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation. For 'He is able to keep you from falling.'"

Chapter Second

"This we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat." – 2 Thess. 3:10.

Mr. Travilla had gone, and Mr. Dinsmore and his little daughter sat alone upon the veranda; she upon his knee, his arm about her waist. Some moments had passed without a word spoken by either. Elsie's eyes were downcast, her face full of solemn joy.

"What is my little girl thinking of?" her father asked at length.

"Oh, papa, I am so glad, so happy, so thankful!" she said; and as she looked up into his face he saw that tears were glistening in her eyes.

"You are seldom other than happy, I think and hope," he responded, softly stroking her hair.

"Yes, very seldom, dear papa. How could anybody be unhappy with so many, many blessings to be thankful for, especially such a dear, kind father to love and take care of me? But I am happier than usual to-night because of the good news Mr. Travilla has told me."

"Ah, what was that?"

"That he has found the Saviour, papa, and that it was partly through my instrumentality. Isn't it strange that God should have so honored a child like me?"

"Ah, I don't know that it is. 'A little child shall lead them,' the Bible says. 'Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise.' God often works by the feeblest instrumentality, that thus all may see that the glory is due to Him alone. I rejoice with you, my darling, for no greater blessing can be ours than that of being permitted to win souls to Christ."

"Yes, papa; but I am so far from being what I ought," she added, with unaffected humility, "that I wonder I have not proved a stumbling-block instead of a help."

"Give the glory to God," he said.

"Yes, papa, I know it all belongs to Him. Oh, don't you hope Mr. Travilla will be with us next Sabbath?"

"At the Lord's table? I do indeed. It is a precious privilege I have long wished to share with him; a means of grace no Christian ought ever to neglect; a command that as the last and dying one of our blessed Master we should joyfully obey whenever opportunity is afforded us, yet with the utmost endeavor to be in a proper frame of mind; for 'he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body.' It is a dreadful sin for any one to sit down to that table without having examined himself of his knowledge to discern the Lord's body, of his faith to feed upon Him, repentance, love, and new obedience. Let us both pray earnestly for grace and help to partake worthily, repenting of every sin, hating and forsaking it, and devoting ourselves anew and unreservedly to the Master's service."

"I will, papa," she said. "And should we not meditate on Jesus while at His table?"

"Yes, He should be the principal theme of our thoughts all through the exercises; we should remember Him – the loveliness of His character, the life He led, the death He died, and all that He has done and suffered for us."

They fell into silent thought again. Elsie was the first to speak. "I wonder where they are now, papa?"

"Who, our travellers? Well, we cannot tell precisely; but I hope it will not be very long before we shall hear of their safe arrival in Philadelphia."

"That will end the journey for mamma and Horace," she remarked; "but what a long one the others will still have before them! I should think Annis would feel as if she must hurry on as fast as possible till she gets home to her father and mother."

"Very possibly she may; but I know that Dr. Landreth and Mildred intend resting for some days in Philadelphia. So Annis will be obliged to curb her impatience, which the sights of the city will no doubt help her to do."

At that instant Elsie gave a sudden start, asking in an awed, tremulous whisper, "Papa, what is that?" nestling closer to him as she spoke.

It was growing dusk, and a shadowy figure, dimly seen by the waning light, had just emerged from the shadow of a large tree at some distance down the drive. It was now stealing cautiously in their direction.

"Don't be alarmed, dearest," Mr. Dinsmore said, tightening his clasp of Elsie's slight form; "I presume it is some runaway whom hunger has forced to show himself." Then calling to the figure which continued to advance with slow, faltering steps, "Halt! Who are you, and what is your business here?" he asked.

"I'se Zeke, massa," answered a trembling voice; "I'se come back to wuk, an' hopes you won't be hawd on a po' niggah wha's repentin' an' pow'ful sorry fo' takin' a holiday widout yo' leave, sah." Mr. Dinsmore made no reply, and the man drew nearer. "I'se pow'ful sorry, massa," he repeated, pausing at the foot of the veranda steps, and standing there in a cringing attitude, his rags fluttering in the evening breeze, the remnant of a straw hat in his hand; "hope you won't order me no floggin'."

"If you choose to go back where you came from, I shall not interfere with you, Zeke," returned Mr. Dinsmore, coolly.

"I'se done tired o' de swamp, sah; I'se like to starve to deff dar; hain't tasted not de fust mawsel o' victuals fo' de las' two days."

"Oh, poor fellow, how hungry he must be!" exclaimed Elsie. "Papa, won't you please give him something to eat?"

"He won't work, Elsie; since I have known him he has never earned his salt."

"But, papa," she pleaded, "wouldn't it be wrong and cruel to let him starve while we have plenty and to spare?"

"Would it? God's command is, 'Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work.' And Paul says to the Thessalonians, 'Even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.'"

Elsie turned to the suppliant. "Zeke, you hear what the Bible says, and you know we must all obey its teachings."

"Yes, Miss Elsie, dat's true nuff."

"Then will you promise papa that if he feeds you now you will go to work industriously to-morrow, if God spares your life?"

"Sho'n I will, Miss Elsie, 'cept I gets de misery in de back, or de head, or somewheres else."

"He can always find a hole to creep out at, Elsie," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a slight laugh; "those miseries never elude a determined search."

"But, Zeke," said Elsie, "you mustn't give up for a little misery; you mustn't try to feel one."

"Sho' not; but dey jes' comes dere-selves, little missy."

"And some people give them every encouragement, while others work on in spite of them," remarked his master, with some sternness of tone. "I assure you, Zeke, that I have myself done many an hour's work while enduring a racking headache."

"You, sah? T'ought you didn't never do no wuk."

"Just because you never saw me take hold of spade or hoe? One may toil far harder with the mind, Zeke. Well, I will give you one more trial. Go to the kitchen and tell Aunt Dinah, from me, that she is to give you something to eat; and to-morrow you must go to work with the rest in the field or – starve. And mind, if you have been without food as long as you say, you mustn't eat nearly so much as you want to-night, or you'll kill yourself."

"Tank you, sah, I 'cepts de conditions;" and with a low bow, first to Mr. Dinsmore, then to Elsie, he turned and shambled off in the direction of the kitchen.

"Papa, is he so very lazy?" asked Elsie.

"Very; he would do nothing but lie in the sun if allowed to follow his own pleasure, though he is young, strong, and healthy. He disappeared some days ago, but I permitted no search to be made for him, and should have been better pleased had I never seen him again."

"Papa, perhaps he might do better at some other work; in the garden or about the stables."

"Possibly. I think I shall try acting upon your suggestion."

"Oh, thank you, sir," she said. Then after a moment's thoughtful silence: "Papa, we are sitting here doing nothing at all; yet I know you must think it right, else you wouldn't do it, or let me."

"It is right: neither body nor mind was made capable of incessant exertion; we need intervals of rest, and can accomplish more in the end by taking them when needed. Jesus once said to His disciples, 'Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while.'"

"Oh, yes! I remember it now," she said. "How good and kind, how thoughtful for others, He always was! Papa, I do so want to be like Him."

"I think you are, my darling," he answered in moved tones, and pressing her closer to him; "like Him in sufficient measure for those who know you in your daily life to 'take knowledge of you that you have been with Jesus' and learned of Him."

"Papa, you couldn't say sweeter words to me," she whispered, with her arm about his neck; and he felt a tear fall on his cheek. "And you, papa; oh, I am sure no one could be long in your company without feeling sure you were one of Jesus' disciples."

"I hope that is so," he said with feeling; "for, like you, I most earnestly desire to honor Him by my daily walk and conversation, and to be always and everywhere recognized as His servant."

Elsie, who had the kindest of hearts, thought of Zeke while her mammy was preparing her for bed that night, and again while going through the duties of her morning toilet. That completed, she hastened to her father with a request that Zeke might be set to work in her own little garden.

"Weeding and watering it would be very pleasant, easy work, I am sure," she added. "I like to do it myself."

"I doubt if Zeke would know weeds from flowers," her father said, smiling down into the eager little face.

"But I will show him, papa, if I may."

"You may do just as you please about it," was the indulgent reply. "We will have our reading and prayer together, and then you may send for Zeke, and give him his instructions."

"Oh, thank you, papa!" she exclaimed, with as sincere joy and gratitude as though she had won some great favor for herself.

Mr. Dinsmore rang for a servant, and sent a message to Zeke. He was directed to make himself clean and decent, and come to the veranda for further orders.

He obeyed. Elsie found him waiting there, and taking him to her garden explained minutely what she wished him to do, calling his attention particularly to the difference between the leaves of the weeds that were to be uprooted and those of some annuals not yet in bloom.

He promised faithfully to attend to her directions and to be industrious.

"Don't you think it's nicer, easier work than what you would have had to do in the field?" she asked.

"Ya-as, Miss Elsie," he drawled, "but it's stoopin' all de same, and I'se got de misery in de back."

She gave him a searching look, then said reproachfully, "O Zeke, you don't look the least bit sick, and I can't help being afraid you are really lazy. Remember God knows all about it, and is very much displeased with you, if you are not speaking the truth."

"Sho I'se gwine to wuk anyhow, honey," he answered, with a sound between a sigh and a groan, as he bent down and pulled up a weed.

"That's right," she said pleasantly, as she turned and left him.

An hour later, coming out to see what progress he was making, she found nearly all her beloved annuals plucked up by the roots, and lying withering among the weeds in the scorching sun.

"Oh, how could you, Zeke!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears.

"Why, what's de mattah, Miss Elsie?" he asked, gaping at her in open-mouthed wonder, not unmixed with apprehension and dismay.

"Matter? You have been pulling up flowers as well as weeds. That is one you have in your fingers now."

Zeke dropped it as if it had been a hot coal, and stood staring at it where it lay wilting on the hot ground. "Sho, Miss Elsie, I didn't go fo' to do no sech t'ing," he said plaintively; "t'ought I was doin' 'bout right. Shall I plant 'em agin?"

"No; they wouldn't grow," she said.

"Dis niggah's mighty sorry, Miss Elsie. You ain't gwine to hab him sent back to de wuk in de field, is you?" he asked, with humble entreaty.

"I'm afraid that is all you are fit for, Zeke; but the decision rests with papa. I will go and speak to him about it. Don't try to do any more work here, lest you do more mischief," she said, turning toward the house.

He hurried after her. "Please now, Miss Elsie, don' go for to 'suade massa agin dis po' niggah."

"No, I shall not," she answered kindly; "perhaps there is something else you can be set at about the house or grounds. But, Zeke," turning to him and speaking very earnestly, "you will never succeed at anything unless you strive against your natural laziness, and try to do your best. That is what God bids us all do. He says, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' 'Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not unto men.'"

"S'pect dat's so, Miss Elsie," he drawled; "but de Lawd He ain't gwine to take no notice what a po' niggah's 'bout in de field or de garden."

"That's a great mistake, Zeke," she said. "His eye is always on you – on everybody; and He is pleased with us if He sees us trying to do faithfully the work He has given us, no matter how low the task may seem to us or other human creatures, and displeased if we are not trying to do it 'as to the Lord and not unto men.'"

"You ain't 'fended 'bout dose po' flowahs what dis po' niggah bin pull up in a mistake, is you now, Miss Elsie?" he asked.

Evidently her religious teachings had made no more impression than the idle whistling of the wind.

"No, Zeke, I only can't trust you again," she said, turning away with a slight sigh over her failure to win him from his inborn indolence.

She hastened to her father with the story of what had occurred.

"Ah! it is about what I had expected," he said. "I am sorry for your loss, but it can soon be repaired. Have you left Zeke there to finish the work of destruction?"

"No, sir; I told him to stop till he heard from you."

"He shall go back to the field at once; there is no propriety in giving him an opportunity to do further mischief," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a decision that left no room for remonstrance; and summoning a servant sent the order.

Elsie heard it with a sigh. "What now? You are not wasting pity on that incorrigibly lazy wretch?" her father asked, drawing her caressingly to his knee.

"I did hope to do him some good, papa," she sighed, "and I'm disappointed that I can't."

"There may be other opportunities in the future," he said. "And do not fret about the flowers. You are welcome to claim all in my gardens and conservatories."

"How good and generous you always are to me, you dear father!" she said, thanking him with a hug and kiss, while her face grew bright with love and happiness. "No, I won't fret; how wicked it would be for one who has so many blessings! But, papa, I can't help feeling sorry for the little tender plants, plucked up so rudely by the roots and left to perish in the broiling sun. They were live things, and it seems as if they must have felt it all, and suffered almost as an insect or an animal would."

Her father smiled, and smoothed her hair with softly caressing hand. "My little girl has a very tender heart, and is full of loving sympathy for all living things," he said. "Ah, Travilla. Glad to see you!" as at that instant that gentleman galloped up and dismounted.

"So am I, sir," Elsie said, leaving her father's knee to run with outstretched hand to meet and welcome their guest.

He clasped the little hand in his, and held it for a moment, while he bent down and kissed the sweet lips of its owner. "What news?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, when he had given his friend a seat and resumed his own.

"None that I know of, except that I have come to your view (which is my mother's also) of the subject we were discussing yesterday, and have decided to act accordingly," Mr. Travilla answered, with a rarely sweet smile directed to little Elsie.

"Oh!" she cried, her face growing radiant, "I am so glad, so very glad!"