Chapter VI: Part 6

"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.

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."

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."

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.

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."