From Trenton Grandma Elsie, the captain, and their young charges went on to Princeton, where they received a most joyful welcome from Harold and Herbert Travilla, now spending their last year at the seminary.
Their mother had written to them of the intended visit, and all necessary arrangements had been made. Carriages were in waiting, and shortly after their arrival the whole party were on their way to the battleground, where the attention of the young people was drawn to the various points of interest, particularly the spot where fell General Mercer.
"The general's horse was wounded in the leg by a musket ball," explained Harold, in reply to a question from his little brother; "he dismounted, and was rallying his troops, when a British soldier felled him to the ground by a blow from a musket.
"He was supposed to be Washington. A shout, was raised, 'The rebel general is taken!' and at that others of the enemy rushed to the spot calling out, 'Call for quarter, you d—d rebel!'
"'I am no rebel!' Mercer answered indignantly, though half a dozen of their bayonets were at his breast; and instead of calling for quarter he continued to fight, striking at them with his sword till they bayoneted him and left him for dead.
"He was not dead, however, but mortally wounded.
"After the British had retreated he was carried to the house of Thomas Clark," continued Harold, pointing out the building as he spoke, "where he lingered in great pain till the 12th and then died."
"I'm glad it wasn't Washington," said Walter.
"Was Washington hurt at all, papa?" asked Grace.
"No, though exposed to the hottest fire he escaped without injury," replied the captain. "God our Heavenly Father preserved him for his great work—the salvation of our country. 'Man is immortal till his work is done'—and Washington's was not done till years afterward."
"Not even when the war was over; for he was our first president, I remember," said Lulu.
"Yes," replied her father, "and he did much for his country in that capacity.
"The night before this battle of Princeton he and his army were in a critical situation, theBritish being fully equal in numbers and their troops well disciplined, while about half of Washington's army was composed of raw militia—so that a general engagement the next day would be almost sure to result in defeat to the Americans.
"Washington called a council of war. It was he himself who proposed to withdraw from their present position—on the high ground upon the southern bank of the Assanpink—before dawn of the next morning, and, by a circuitous march to Princeton, get in the rear of the enemy, attack them at that place, and if successful march on to New Brunswick and take or destroy his stores there.
"The great difficulty in the way was that the ground was too soft, from a thaw, to make it safe and easy to move their forty pieces of cannon.
"But a kind Providence removed that hindrance, the weather suddenly becoming so extremely cold that in two hours or less the roads were hard enough for the work."
"As Lossing says," remarked Grandma Elsie, "'The great difficulty was overcome by a power mightier than that of man. Our fathers were fighting for God-given rights and it was by his help they at last succeeded.'"
"What's the rest of the story?" asked Walter. "How did Washington and his army slipaway without the British seeing them? For I suppose they had sentinels awake and out."
"Washington had a number of camp fires lighted along his front," replied Harold, to whom the question seemed to be addressed, "making them of the fences near at hand. That made the British think he was encamped for the night, and Cornwallis, when some one urged him to make an attack that night, said he would certainly 'catch the fox in the morning.' The fox, of course, was Washington, but he didn't catch him. It was not till dawn he discovered that the fox had eluded him and slipped away, fleeing so silently that the British did not know in what direction he had gone till they heard the boom of the cannon in the fight here.
"Cornwallis thought it was thunder, but Sir William Erskine recognized it as what it was and exclaimed, 'To arms, General! Washington has outgeneraled us. Let us fly to the rescue at Princeton.'"
"How long did the battle last?" queried Walter.
"The fight right here lasted about fifteen minutes, but was very severe," replied his brother. "Then Washington pushed on to Princeton, and in a ravine near the college had another sharp fight with the Fifty-fifth British regiment."
"And whipped them too?"
"Yes; they were soon flying toward Brunswick, the Fortieth regiment going along with them.
"A part of a regiment was still in the college buildings, and Washington had some cannon placed in proper position, then began firing on them. One of the balls—it is said to have been the first—passed into the chapel and through the head of a portrait of George the Second that hung in a large frame on the wall. A few more shots were fired, and then the Princeton militia, and some other daring fellows, burst open a door of Nassau Hall and called upon the troops there to surrender, which they did promptly."
"And Cornwallis had not reached there yet?" Walter said interrogatively.
"No," returned Harold, "and when he did arrive he found that the battle was over, and Washington, with his victorious troops and prisoners, had already left the town and was in hot pursuit of the fleeing Fortieth and Fifty-fifth regiments."
"And our poor fellows so tired and cold!" sighed Eva.
"Yes," said the captain, "they had fought at Trenton on the 26th, after being up, probably, all night, getting across the river, had spent the next night in marching upon Princeton and the day in fighting; so that they must have been terribly fatigued even had they had the warmclothing and nourishing food they needed; but less than half of them had been able to procure any breakfast or dinner; and, as you all know, many of them were without shoes or stockings. Ah, how we should prize the liberty which was so dearly bought!"
"So to save his army," resumed Harold, "Washington refrained from an effort to seize the rich prize at New Brunswick, and let them rest that night and refresh themselves with food; then retired to his winter quarters at Morristown.
"Now, good people, if you are ready to retrace your steps, let us go back and look at the town souvenirs of the revolution; among them the portrait of Washington in the frame that used to hold that of George the Second."
Our friends made but a short stay at Princeton, leaving that evening, and the next day visited the scene of the battle of Monmouth. The captain gave a rapid sketch of the movements of the opposing armies, as he did so pointing out the various positions of the different corps, describing Lee's disgraceful conduct at the beginning of the fight, telling of the just indignation of Washington, his stern reproof, Lee's angry rejoinder, and then with what consummate skill and despatch his errors were repaired by the general-in-chief—the retreating, almost routed, troops rallied, and order brought out of confusion, and how fearlessly he exposed himself to the iron storm while giving his orders so that that patriot army, which had been so near destruction, within half an hour was drawn up in battle array and ready to meet the foe.
"It was a very hot day, wasn't it, papa?" asked Lulu.
"One of the hottest of the season," replied her father, "ninety-six degrees in the shade; and the sun slew his victims on both sides."
"Don't you think Lee was a traitor, Captain?" queried Evelyn.
"Either that or insane. I think it would have been a happy thing for America if both he and Gaines had remained in their own land. They did the American cause far more harm than good. Though I by no means accuse Gaines of treachery, but he was envious of Washington, and so desirous to supersede him that he was ready to sacrifice the cause to that end."
"I just wish he'd been sent back to England," said Walter. "But please tell us the rest about the battle, Brother Levis, won't you?"
The captain willingly complied.
"It was a dreadful battle," remarked Evelyn with a sigh, as his story came to a conclusion.
"Yes, one of the most hotly contested of the war," he assented, "and resulted in victory tothe Americans in spite of Lee's repeated assertion that the 'attempt was madness.'
"All the other American generals did well, the country resounded with praises of Washington, and Congress passed a unanimous vote of thanks to him 'for his great and good conduct and victory.'"
"It was in this battle Captain Molly fought, wasn't it?" asked Rosie.
"Yes," the captain replied; and, noticing the eagerly inquiring looks of Grace and Walter, he went on to tell the story.
"Molly was the wife of a cannoneer who was firing one of the field-pieces, while she, disregarding the danger from the shots of the enemy, made frequent journeys to and from a spring near at hand, thus furnishing her husband with the means of slacking his thirst, which must have been great at such work in such weather.
"At length a shot from the enemy killed him, and an order was given to remove the cannon, as there was no one among the soldiers near who was capable of its management.
"But Molly, who had seen her husband fall, and heard the order, dropped her bucket, sprang to the cannon, seized the rammer, and, vowing that she would avenge his death, fired it with surprising skill, performing the duty probably as well as if she had belonged to the sterner sex.
"The next morning General Greene presentedher—just as she was, all covered with dust and blood—to Washington, who gave her the commission of sergeant as a reward for her bravery; in addition to that he recommended her to Congress as worthy to have her name placed upon the list of those entitled to half-pay during life.
"The French officers so admired her bravery that they made her many presents. Lossing tells us that she would sometimes pass along their lines and get her cocked hat full of crowns. He also says the widow of General Hamilton told him she had often seen 'Captain Molly,' as she was called, and described her as a red-haired, freckle-faced young Irish woman, with a handsome piercing eye."
"Papa, did she wear a man's hat?" asked Grace.
"Yes, and also an artilleryman's coat over her woman's petticoats. She had done a brave deed about nine months before the battle of Monmouth, when Fort Clinton was taken by the British. She was there with her husband when the fort was attacked, and when the Americans retreated from the fort, and the enemy were scaling the ramparts, her husband dropped his match and fled, but Molly picked it up and fired the gun, then scampered off after him. That was the last gun fired in the fort by the Americans."
"And this battle of Monmouth was a greatvictory for us—for the Americans, I mean?" Walter said inquiringly.
"Yes, in spite of the shameful retreat of Lee and the unaccountable detention of Morgan and his brave riflemen, who were within sound of the fearful tumult of the battle and eager to take part in it, Morgan striding to and fro in an agony of suspense, and desire to participate in the struggle, yet unaccountably detained where he was."
"And that was some of that traitor Lee's doings, I suspect," exclaimed Lulu hotly. "Wasn't it, papa?"
"My dear child, I do not know," returned the captain, "but it seems altogether probable that if Morgan could have fallen, with his fresh troops, upon the weary ones of Sir Henry Clinton, toward the close of the day, the result might have been such a surrender as Burgoyne was forced to make at Saratoga.
"But as it was, while Washington and his weary troops slept that night, the general looking forward to certain victory in the morning, when he could again attack his country's foes with his own troops strengthened and refreshed by sleep, Sir Henry and his army stole silently away and hurried toward Sandy Hook."
"Did Washington chase him?" asked Walter.
"No," said the captain; "when he consideredthe start the British had, the weariness of his own troops, the excessive heat of the weather, and the deep sandy country, with but little water to be had, he thought it wiser not to make the attempt."
"Papa, was it near here that the British shot Mrs. Caldwell?" asked Lulu.
"No; that occurred in a place called Connecticut Farms, about four miles northwest of Elizabethtown, to which they—the Caldwells—had removed for greater safety.
"It was in June, 1780. The British under Clinton and Knyphausen crossed over to Elizabethtown and moved on toward Springfield. The Americans, under General Greene, were posted upon the Short Hills, a series of high ridges near Springfield, and came down to the plain to oppose the invasion of the British. I will not go into the details of the battle, but merely say that the British were finally repulsed, Greene being so advantageously posted by that time that he was anxious for an engagement, but Knyphausen, perceiving his own disadvantage, retreated, setting fire to the village of Connecticut Farms (now called Union) on his way.
"The people of the town fled when they perceived the approach of the British, but Mrs. Caldwell remained, and with her children and maid retired to a private apartment and engaged in prayer.
"Presently her maid, glancing from a window, exclaimed that a red-coated soldier had jumped over the fence and was coming toward the window.
"At that Mrs. Caldwell rose from the bed where she had been sitting, and at that moment the soldier raised his musket and deliberately fired at her through the window, sending two balls through her body, killing her instantly, so that she fell dead among her poor frightened children.
"It was with some difficulty that her body was saved from the fire which was consuming the town. It was dragged out into the street, and lay exposed there for some time—several hours—till some of her friends got leave to remove it to a house on the other side of the street.
"Her husband was at the Short Hills that night, and in great anxiety and distress about his family; the next day he went with a flag of truce to the village, found it in ruins, and his wife dead.
"That cold-blooded murder and wanton destruction of the peaceful little village aroused great indignation all over the land and turned many a Tory into a Whig."
"Did anybody ever find out who it was that killed her, papa?" asked Grace.
"The murderer is said to have been a manfrom the north of Ireland, named McDonald, who for some unknown reason had taken a violent dislike to Mr. Caldwell.
"But little more than a year afterward Mr. Caldwell himself was slain, in a very similar manner, but by an American soldier."
"An American, Brother Levis?" exclaimed Walter, in unfeigned surprise. "Did he do it intentionally?"
"The shooting was intentional, but whether meant to kill I cannot say," replied the captain; "the fellow who did it is said to have been a drunken Irishman. It happened at Elizabethtown, then in possession of the Americans. A sloop made weekly trips between that place and New York, where were the headquarters of the British army at that time—and frequently carried passengers with a flag, and also parcels.
"The Americans had a strong guard at a tavern near the shore, and one or two sentinels paced the causeway that extended across the marsh to the wharf.
"One day in November, 1781, the vessel came in with a lady on board who had permission to visit a sister at Elizabethtown, and Mr. Caldwell drove down to the wharf in his chaise to receive her; then, not finding her on the wharf, went aboard the sloop and presently returned, carrying a small bundle.
"The sentinel on the causeway halted Mr.Caldwell and demanded the bundle for examination, saying he had been ordered not to let anything of the kind pass without strict investigation.
"Mr. Caldwell refused to give it to the man—James Morgan, by name—saying it was the property of a lady and had been merely put in his care.
"The sentinel repeated his demand and Mr. Caldwell turned and went toward the vessel, it is presumed to carry the bundle back to its owner, when the sentinel leveled his piece and shot him dead upon the spot.
"Morgan was arrested, tried for murder, and hung. He was first taken to the church, where a sermon was preached from the text 'Oh, do not this abominable thing which I hate.'
"Mr. Caldwell had been much beloved as a pious and excellent minister. He was shot on Saturday afternoon, and the next day many of his people came in to attend church knowing nothing of the dreadful deed that had been done till they arrived.
"Then there was a great sound of weeping and lamentation. The corpse was placed on a large stone at the door of the house of a friend whither it had been carried, and all who wished to do so were allowed to take a last look at the remains of their beloved pastor. Then, before the coffin was closed, Dr. Elias Boudinot ledthe nine orphan children up to the coffin to take their last look at the face of their father, and, as they stood weeping there, made a most moving address in their behalf."
A few more days were spent by our friends in and about Philadelphia, during which brief visits were paid to places interesting to them because the scenes of historical events of the Revolution—Whitemarsh, Germantown, Barren Hill, Valley Forge, beside those within the city itself.
But the summer heats were over and the hearts of one and all began to yearn for the sweets of home; all the more when word reached them through the mails that the members of their party left in the Newport cottages had already succumbed to the same sort of sickness, and were on their homeward way by land. A day or two later theDolphin, with her full complement of passengers, was moving rapidly southward.
Max had a most pleasant surprise when the mail was distributed on that first morning after his arrival at the Naval Academy. Till his name was called, he had hardly hoped there would be anything for him, and then as a letter was handed him, and he recognized upon it his father's well-known writing, his cheek flushed and his eyes shone.
A hasty glance at his mates showed him that each seemed intent upon his own affairs,—no one watching him,—so he broke the seal and read with swelling heart the few sentences of fatherly advice and affection the captain had found time to pen before theDolphinweighed anchor the previous evening. He knew the homesickness that would assail his son on that first day of separation from himself and all composing the dear home circle, and was fain to relieve it so far as lay in his power.
Max read the letter twice, then, refolding, slipped it into his pocket to read again and ponder upon when he could find a moment of leisure and freedom from observation.
More firmly convinced than ever, if thatwere possible, was the lad that his was the best, kindest, and dearest of fathers.
"And if I don't do him credit and make him happy and proud of his first-born, it shall not be for want of trying," was his mental resolve.
It was fortunate for Max that his father had been seen and admired by the cadets, who one and all thought him a splendid specimen of naval officer, and were therefore well disposed toward his son.
Then Max himself had such a bright, intelligent face and genial manner, was so ready to assist or oblige a comrade in any right and honorable way that lay in his power, so very conscientious about obeying rules and doing his duty in everything, and brave in facing ridicule, insolence, and contempt, when the choice was between that and wrong-doing, that no one of them could help respecting him, whether willing to acknowledge it or not.
At first the "plebes," or boys in the same class (the fourth), who had entered in June of the same year, showed a disposition to treat him, as well as the other "Seps,"—as the lads entering in September are styled,—with scorn, as knowing less than themselves; but that soon changed under the exhibition Max was able to make of all he had learned from his father during the weeks on board theDolphin, showing himself perfectly at home in "rigging-loft work," rowing, and swimming, and by no means slow in taking to great-gun exercise, infantry tactics, and field artillery.
Nor was he less ready in the art of swinging a hammock. His father had not neglected that part of his education, and Hunt and others who had hoped for some fun in watching his maiden effort had to own themselves defeated and disappointed. Max was as expert at that as the oldest member of the class.
So the "plebes" soon dropped their air of conscious superiority and presently began to treat him as an equal; a change which he reported to his father with evident satisfaction. He wrote frequently and with much openness to that father, telling of his duties and pleasures and asking advice in any perplexity as freely as he could have asked it of any one near his own age, and with full confidence in the wisdom and the affection for him which would dictate the reply.
Nor was he disappointed; almost every day a letter came from the captain, breathing strong fatherly affection, giving commendation, encouragement, and the best of advice; also telling everything about the doings and happenings in the family that was not related by Mamma Vi or one of Max's sisters, who not unfrequently added a note to papa's larger letter.
All those letters, like the first, were highly prized by the recipient and read and reread inleisure moments till he could have repeated their contents almost word for word; and every perusal increased the lad's desire and determination to be and do all those dear ones—especially his father—could wish; also to please and honor him to whose service he had consecrated his life and all his powers.
Max was not perfect, but he was honest and true, and sincerely desirous to do right.
He was much interested in the accounts received of the visits of his father and the others to the scenes of revolutionary events in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and, though far from regretting his choice of a profession, could not help wishing he could have made one of the party.
One day, after he had spent some weeks in the Academy, he was disappointed in his expectation of receiving a letter; none came the next day; but then it occurred to him that theDolphinwas probably on her homeward way and he would soon get a letter from Woodburn, telling of the arrival there of all belonging to the dear home circle.
And he was right; a package of letters came presently giving an account of the events of the last days spent in Philadelphia, the return voyage, and the joy of the arrival at their own beautiful and happy home.
Ah, as Max read, how he longed to be withthem! Yet the concluding sentences of his father's letter restored him to contentment with things as they were.
The captain had just received and read the report of his boy's conduct and academic standing for his first month and was much pleased with it. He made that very clear to the lad, calling him his dear son, his joy and pride, and telling him that until he was a father himself he could never know the joy and happiness such a report of a son's behavior and improvement of his opportunities could give.
"Ah," thought the boy, "I'll try harder than ever since it gives such pleasure to my kindest and best of fathers. How glad I am to have the chance! How thankful I ought to be! I doubt if there was ever a more fortunate boy than myself."
Max and his room-mate, Hunt, liked each other from the first, and seldom had the slightest disagreement.
According to the rules they took turns, week about, in keeping their room in order, each trying to outdo his mate in the thoroughness with which he attended to all the minutiæ of the business.
They were good-natured rivals too in other matters connected with the course of instruction they were going through: gymnastic exercises, fencing and boxing, and the drill called fire-quarters, in which the whole battalion is formed into a fire-brigade, and when the fire-bell is sounded each cadet hastens to his proper place in the troop, and the steam fire-engine and hose-carriages belonging to the Academy are brought out and used as they would be in case some building were in flames and the cadets were called upon to assist in extinguishing the blaze.
Max and his chum had become quite expert at that exercise, when one night they were roused from sleep by the sound of the fire-bell, and springing up and running to their window saw that a dwelling several squares from the Academy was in flames.
"It's a real fire this time!" cried Hunt, snatching up a garment and beginning a very hurried toilet, Max doing the same, "and now we'll have a chance to show how well we understand the business of putting it out."
"And we must try to do credit to our training here in the Academy," added Max.
An hour or more of great excitement and exertion followed, then, the fire extinguished, the brigade returned to the Academy, and the lads to their sleeping-room, so weary with their exertions that they were very soon sound asleep again.
The experiences of that night furnished Max with material for an interesting letter to his father and the rest of the home folks.
"I didn't know the cadets were taught how to put out fires," remarked Grace, when her father had finished reading aloud, to his wife and children, Max's story of the doings of the cadets on that night.
"Yes," the captain said, "that is an important part of their education. There are a great many things a cadet needs to know."
"I suppose so, papa," said Lulu, "and though Maxie doesn't say much about his own share in the work, I feel very sure he did his part. And aren't you proud of him—your eldest son?"
"I am afraid I am," replied her father, with a smile in his eyes. "It may be all parental partiality, but my boy seems to me one of whom any father might well be proud."
"And I am quite of your opinion, my dear," said Violet. "I am very proud of my husband's son—the dear, good, brave fellow."
But the captain's eyes were again upon the letter, his face expressing both interest and amusement.
"What is it, Levis?" she asked; "something more that you can share with the rest of us?"
"Yes," he returned; then read aloud:
"That was Friday night, and this is Saturday evening. This afternoon Hunt and I were allowed to go into the city. We were walking along one of the side streets, and came upon aman who was beating his horse most unmercifully.
"The poor thing was just a bag of bones, that seemed to have nothing but skin over them, and was hitched to a cart heavily loaded with earth and stones; its head was down, and it looked ready to drop, while the savage wretch (not worthy to be called a man) was beating it furiously, and cursing and swearing in a towering passion; men and boys gathering around, and some calling him to stop.
"But he didn't pay the smallest attention, till the poor beast spoke—at least the voice seemed to come from its mouth—'Aren't you ashamed to be beating me so, and swearing at me, too, when you've starved me till I haven't strength to drag even myself another step?'
"At that the man stopped both his beating and swearing, and stood looking half scared out of his wits. The crowd, too, looked thunderstruck; and presently one fellow said, 'It's the story of Balaam and his ass over again. There must be an angel somewhere round,' glancing from side to side as he spoke, in a way that almost made me laugh, angry as I was at the human brute, or rather the inhuman scoundrel, who had been treating the poor creature so cruelly.
"Others looked too, but didn't seem to be able to see the angel.
"Hunt, standing close at my side, gave a lowwhistle. 'What, upon earth?' he said. 'Oh, there must be a ventriloquist somewhere in the crowd. I'd like to know who he is. Wouldn't you, Max?'
"Do you really think that's the explanation?' I asked. 'Certainly,' he answered, in a tone as if he was rather disgusted at my stupidity. 'How else could you account for the seeming ability of that wretched animal to talk?'
"'I can't think of any other explanation,' I answered, 'but I hope that inhuman wretch of a driver doesn't know anything about ventriloquists, and so will be afraid to ill-use the poor creature any more.' 'I hope so, indeed,' he said. 'See, the crowd are stroking and patting it, and yonder comes a man with a bucket of water, and another with a panful of oats. The ventriloquist has done some good.'
"'I'm glad of it,' I replied. Then, looking at my watch, I saw that it was time for us to go back to the Academy.
"Hunt told the story to some of the other fellows that evening, and there was great wonderment about the ventriloquist, and a good many wished they could have a chance to see him and some of his tricks. Some of them remarked, in a wondering way, that I seemed very indifferent about it, and then I told them of Cousin Ronald and his doings at Ion, which interested them verymuch, and several said they would like greatly to make his acquaintance and see and hear what he could do. Isn't it good, papa, that they have never once suspected me?"
"Well," exclaimed Lulu, "Max used his talent to do good that time. Didn't he, papa?"
"He did, indeed," replied the captain. "I hope that poor horse will, as a consequence, receive better treatment in future."
"I'm so glad Maxie could frighten the man so and make him stop treating it so dreadfully," remarked Grace, with a sigh of relief. "I never thought before that that talent of his was good for anything but to make fun for folks."
"The ability to afford amusement to others is a talent not to be despised," said her father; "for innocent mirth often does good like a medicine; but power to rescue even a dumb beast from ill-treatment is still more to be coveted, and I shall be glad indeed if Max will use his gift in that way whenever opportunity offers."
A week or more had passed since the return of our friends from their vacation in the more northern part of their loved native land, and Lulu and Grace, who had at first missed their older brother sorely from the family circle, had now begun to feel somewhat accustomed to his absence, and were very merry and happy.
They had resumed their studies, reciting, as before, to their father, and took daily walks and rides on their ponies, varied by an occasional drive with the captain, Violet, and the little ones.
The Ion and Fairview families, too, had gone back to old pleasures and employments; but so busy had all been, taking up familiar cares and duties, and making needed preparations for approaching winter, that only few and short visits had as yet been exchanged between them.
It was in the sitting-room, and just after breakfast, that the captain had read Max's letter aloud to his wife and children.
"Go to the schoolroom now, daughters, and look over your lessons for the day," he said, presently, addressing Lulu and Grace.
They obeyed instantly, and as they left the room a servant came in with a note from Violet's mother, which he handed to his mistress, saying one of the Ion servants had just brought it.
"Mamma's handwriting," Violet remarked to her husband as she took the note and glanced at the address upon it.
"Ah! I hope they are all well?" he returned half inquiringly.
"No, mamma herself is certainly not quite well," Violet answered with a disturbed look, after glancing hastily down the page; "she says as much, and that she wants me to come and spend a few days with her, bringing all the children if I choose; they will not disturb her. And you also will be most welcome. Dear, dear mamma! I shall go to her at once—unless my husband objects," she added, looking up at him with a rather sad sort of smile.
"As he certainly could not think of doing, my love," he replied, in tender tones. "We must go, of course; you and the little ones, at least; we will consider about the older ones, and I shall spend my time between the two places, not being willing to stay constantly away from you, yet having some matters to attend to here, some things that ought not to be delayed."
"But you will be with us a part of everyday?" returned Violet, with a wistful half-inquiring look up into his face.
"Yes, oh yes!" he hastened to say; "with my wife so near at hand I could not let a day go by without inflicting my presence upon her for some small part of it," he concluded in a half jesting tone, and with a fond look down into the sweet, troubled face; for he was standing close at her side.
"I think it could not be harder for you than for me, my dear," she returned, with a loving smile up at him. "I should like to take all the children," she went on, "but Alma is here to make up some dresses for Lulu, and will need her at hand to try them on and make sure of the fit."
"And I should seriously object to allowing Lulu to drop her studies again just as she has made a fresh and fair start with them," said the captain; "so of course she will have to stay at home. Grace also, I think, as there would be the same objection to her absence from home—as regards the lessons I mean."
"But if you will allow it, I can hear her recite at Ion," Violet said. "She could learn her lessons there and still have a good deal of time to play with her little sister, who thinks no one else quite equal to her Gracie,—as she calls her,—for a playfellow."
"Well, my dear, we will make that arrangement if you wish it," responded the captain.
"And yet how Lulu will miss her," Violet said, a troubled look coming over her face. "I wish we could manage it so that she could go too, the dear child!"
"I should be glad to give her the pleasure," returned Captain Raymond; "but really think it will not do to have her studies so interfered with now when she has but just well settled down to them. It will be a little hard for her, but perhaps not a bad lesson in patience and self-denial."
"But a lesson I fear she will not enjoy," remarked Violet, with a regretful smile.
Going into the schoolroom presently the captain found his two little girls industriously busy with their tasks.
"Gracie, daughter," he said, "your mamma is going over to Ion for a few days, because Grandma Elsie is not very well and wants her companionship, and Mamma Vi wants you,—for little Elsie's sake,—having found you very successful in entertaining her and baby Ned. We are all invited, indeed; but I must be here the greater part of the time, as I have various matters to oversee, and Lulu cannot be spared from home as Alma is at work upon some dresses for her, and I wish her to go on diligently with her studies."
"But don't I need to be attending to mine, papa?" queried Grace, looking regretfully at her sister, over whose face had come a look of keen disappointment, succeeding one of pleased anticipation called out by the beginning of her father's communication.
"Yes," he said, with a smile; "we are going to let you attend to them there, Mamma Vi acting as governess."
"Isn't she willing to do the same for me too, papa?" asked Lulu, in a slightly hurt tone.
"I think so," he answered pleasantly; "but there is the dressmaking, and I couldn't think of such a thing as asking to have that carried on at Ion."
Lulu seemed to have nothing more to say and Grace gave her a troubled look; then, with a little hesitation, "Papa," she said, "I—I think I'd rather stay at home with Lu, if I may."
"No, daughter," he answered, still speaking very pleasantly. "I have not time to give my reasons just now; but I want you to go, and Lulu to stay. It will probably be for only a few days; and I think she may trust her father not to allow her to be very lonely in the meanwhile," he added, with a smile directed to Lulu, but which she did not seem to see, keeping her face down and her eyes fixed upon her book.
Then he left the room, saying to Grace as he went out, "Make haste, daughter, to gather upyour books and whatever else you may wish to take with you. I have already ordered the carriage and there is no time to waste. Lulu may help you if she will."
"Will you, Lu?" asked Grace, with a very sympathizing look at her sister. "Oh, I wish papa had said you were to go too! Whatever shall I do without my dear, big sister!"
"Never mind, Gracie; I'm sure I don't want to go where I'm not wanted," replied Lulu, in a hurt tone.
"I'm sure it isn't because they wouldn't like to have you there," returned Grace, running to her sister and putting her arms about her neck.
"Why don't they ask me, then?" queried Lulu, a little angrily.
"May be they did. I'm most sure Grandma Elsie wouldn't forget to include you in her invitation; and, oh, yes! don't you remember papa did say we were all invited? But you know there are the lessons, and I suppose papa would rather hear them himself."
"But he could hear them there."
"Yes; so he could if he wanted to. But then there's the dressmaking, you know."
"That could be put off for a few days," returned Lulu, with a very grown-up air. "There are plenty of ways when people want to do a thing—plenty of excuses to be thought of when they don't. Alma has numerous customers andcould sew for somebody else first, giving her my time, and me hers after we get home."
"Oh, maybe it could be managed in that way!" exclaimed Grace joyously; "and I'd so much rather have you along. I think I'll ask papa."
"No, don't you do any such thing," returned Lulu, in a not particularly amiable tone. "If I'm not wanted, I'm sure I don't wish to go. But you'll have to hurry, Gracie. You know papa is very particular about our being prompt in obeying his orders."
"Yes," returned Grace, who was again at her desk, "but I have been busy all this time getting out the books and other things I must take along, and now I'll go upstairs and get dressed and put up the things there that I want. Won't you go with me? You'll know so much better than I what I need to take."
"Yes, Gracie, dear; I'll be glad to give you all the help I can. I'm glad papa said I might. Oh, but it will be lonely here without you! I do think papa might have said I could go, too."
"I'd be ever so glad if he had, or would," said Grace, as hand in hand they left the room together, "but you know, Lu dear, we always find out in the end that his way is the best."
"So we do, and I'll try to believe it now," returned Lulu, in a more cheerful tone than shehad used since learning that the rest of the family were to go to Ion and she was to remain at home.
With her good help Grace was ready in a few minutes, and just then they heard their father call to her to come at once, as the carriage was at the door.
The sisters embraced each other hastily, Grace saying, "Oh, Lu, good-by, I do wish you were going along, for I can hardly bear to go without you."
"Never mind, but just try to enjoy yourself as much as ever you can," returned Lulu. "Go down now, dearie, for we should never keep papa waiting, you know. Here's Agnes to carry down your satchel. I hope you won't stay long enough away from me to need many clothes, and if you do it will be easy enough to send them—the carriage going back and forth every day."
Grace was half-way down the stairs before Lulu had finished.
"Ain't you a gwine down to see de folks off, Miss Lulu?" queried Agnes, as she took up the satchel.
"No," returned Lulu shortly; "I'm going back to the schoolroom to attend to my lessons."
Agnes gave her a look of surprise as she left the room, thinking she had never known Miss Lu fail to be at the door when any of the othermembers of the family were leaving for more than a short drive, and she staying behind.
"Where is Lulu, Gracie?" asked Violet, as the captain handed the little girl into the carriage. "I hadn't time to hunt her up, and thought she would be here at the door to say good-by to us all."
"She said she must hurry back to her lessons, mamma," answered Grace, blushing for her sister. "You see she stopped to help me get ready, and I suppose she's afraid she'll not know them well by the time papa wants to hear her recite."
"It would have taken very little of her time," the captain remarked, with a grave and somewhat displeased look.
"Oh, well, you can bring her over to Ion, perhaps this afternoon or to-morrow, for a call, Levis," Violet hastened to say in a cheery tone.
"Possibly," he answered, and was about to step into the carriage when a servant came hurrying up to ask directions in regard to some work to be done in the grounds.
"My dear," said the captain to Violet, "I think it would be better for you and the children to drive on without waiting for me. I shall probably follow you in another hour or two."
"Very well; please don't disappoint us if you can help it," returned Violet, and the carriage drove on, while Captain Raymond walkedaway in the opposite direction, to give the needed orders to his men.
"I think it's a shame that I should be left behind when all the rest of the family are going to Ion to have a good time," muttered Lulu angrily, as she seated herself at her desk again and opened a book. "Papa could hear my lessons there just as well as here if he chose, and Mamma Vi might have arranged to have my dresses made a week or two later."
"Miss Lu," said Agnes, opening the door and putting in her head, "Miss Alma tole me for to tell you she's 'bout ready fo' to try on yo' new dress."
"Tell her to take it to my room. I'll go up there to have it tried on," replied Lulu, in a vexed, impatient tone.
Then, as Agnes withdrew her head and closed the door, "Horrid thing! why couldn't she have come to me while I was up there? Here I am, hardly fairly settled to my work, and I must drop it and go back again. I'd better take my book with me, for there's no knowing how long she may keep me while she alters something that she has got wrong, for she's generally too stupid to make a thing right at the first trial. Well, perhaps she'll get done by the time papa comes back and is ready to hear me recite."
So saying she went slowly from the school room and upstairs to her own apartment.
There were a few minutes of waiting for Alma, which did not improve Lulu's temper, and as the girl came in she received an angry glance, accompanied by the remark, in no very pleasant tones, that she had no business to send for people till she was ready to attend to them.
At that Alma colored painfully. "I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Miss Lu," she said, "but I'll try not to keep you so very long."
"If you don't, it will be about the first time that you haven't," snapped Lulu. "I think you are just about the slowest, most blundering dressmaker I ever did see."
At that unkind remark, Alma's eyes filled with tears, but she went on silently with her work, making no rejoinder, while Lulu—the reproaches of conscience rendering her uneasy and irritable—fidgetted and fussed, thus greatly increasing the difficulty of the task.
"Miss Lu," Alma said at last, in a despairing tone, "if you can't keep stiller, it is not possible for me to make the dress to fit you right."
"Indeed!" returned Lulu scornfully, "I don't feel sure of your ability to fit it right under any circumstances—such a stupid, awkward thing as you are, and——"
Her sentence was left unfinished, for at that instant, to her astonishment and dismay, her father's voice called to her from his dressing-room, in sterner accents than she had heard from him in a long while. "Lucilla, come here to me!" She had not known of his detention at home, but supposed he had gone with the others to Ion.
Jerking off the waist, which Alma had already unfastened,—snatching up a dressing-sack and putting it on as she went,—she appeared before him, blushing and shamefaced.
"I am both surprised and mortified by what I have just overheard," he said. "I had a better opinion of my dear, eldest daughter than to suppose she would ever show herself so heartless. You surely must have forgotten that poor Alma is a stranger, in a strange land, while you are at home, in your father's house. Go to her now, and apologize for your rudeness."
Lulu made no movement to obey, but stood before him in sullen silence and with downcast, scowling countenance.
He waited a moment; then said sternly, "Lucilla, you will yield instant obedience to my order, or go immediately to your own room, and not venture into my presence again until you can tell me you have obeyed."
At that she turned and left the room, more angry and rebellious than she had ever been since that dreadful time at Ion when her indulgence in a fit of passion had so nearly cost little Elsie's life.
"Papa will have a pretty time making me do it," she muttered angrily to herself, as she stood by a window in her bedroom looking out into the grounds. "Ask Alma's pardon, indeed! She's not even a lady; she's nothing but a poor woman, who has to support herself with her needle,—or rather with a sewing machine, and cutting and fitting,—and I think it's just outrageous for papa to tell me I must ask her pardon. I'll not do it, and papa needn't think he can make me, though——" she added, uneasily, the next minute, "to be sure, he always has made me obey him; but I'm older now; too old, I think, even he would say, to be whipped into doing what I don't choose to do.
"But he forbade me to come into his presence till I obeyed, and—oh, dear, I can't live that way, because I love him so—better than any one else in all the wide world; and—and—it would just kill me to have to go without his love and his caresses; never to have him hug and kiss me, and call me his dear child, his darling. Oh, I couldn't bear it! I never could! it would just break my heart!" and her tears began to fall like rain.
She cried quite violently for a while; then began to think of Alma more kindly and pityingly than ever before, as an orphan and a stranger in a strange land.
"Oh, I am ashamed to have treated her so!" she exclaimed at length, "and I will ask her pardon; not only because papa has ordered me to do so, but because I am sorry for her, and really mortified to think of having treated her so badly."
Fortunately, just at that moment Alma's timid rap was heard at the door and her voice saying, in a hesitating, deprecating way, "Miss Lu, please, I need to try the dress once more. I'm very sorry to disturb and trouble you, but I know you want it to be a good fit."
"Yes, of course I do, Alma," returned Lulu gently, opening the door as she spoke; "you are quite right to come back with it. I'm sorry and ashamed of having been so rude and unkind to you when you were in here before," she added, holding out her hand. "It was shameful treatment. Papa said I must ask your pardon, and I think I would do it now, even if he hadn't ordered me."
"It is too much, Miss Lu," Alma said, blushing, and with tears in her eyes. "I could never ask such a thing as that of a young lady like you."
"Indeed, my behavior has been very unladylike to-day," sighed Lulu; "and papa is very, very much displeased with me."
"I am sorry, Miss," Alma responded, in a sympathizing tone. "But the captain will not stay angry; he is so very fond of his children."
"Yes; and so kind and indulgent that I ought to be the best girl in the world. Oh, I wish I had not behaved so badly!"
"He will forgive you, Miss; he will not stay displeased, for his love for you is so very great," returned Alma. "There, Miss, the dress does fit you now. See in the glass. Does it not?"
"Yes," Lulu replied, surveying herself in the mirror; "I could not ask a better fit, Alma."
"It is lovely, Miss Lu; the stuff so fine and soft, and the colors so beautiful!" remarked the girl, gazing upon it with admiring eyes. "It is good, Miss Lu, to have a kind papa, rich enough to gif you all things needful for a young lady to wear."
"Yes, and so generous and kind as mine is," sighed Lulu. "It is a very great shame that I ever do anything to displease him."
Alma went back to the sewing-room, and Lulu hastened to the door of the room where her father had been when he called to her. But a glance within showed her that he was not there now. Then she ran downstairs and through library, parlors, halls,—everywhere,—looking for him.
"Oh, where is he?" she sighed. "I must find him and tell him how sorry I am for mynaughtiness. I can't have one minute of happiness till I have done so and got a kiss of forgiveness."
Snatching a hat from the rack and putting it on as she went, she ran out and round the porches and the grounds; but nowhere was he to be seen.
"Miss Lu," called a servant, at length, "is you lookin' fo' de cap'n? He's done gone to Ion, I 'spects; kase dere's whar Miss Wi'let went in de kerridge."
"Did he say when he would come back?" asked Lulu, steadying her voice with quite an effort.
"He gwine come back dis evenin' fo' suah, Miss Lu, to see 'bout de work on de plantation," was the reply, as the man turned to his employment again. And with a heavy sigh Lulu turned about and re-entered the house.
"Oh, it's so lonesome for me here all by myself!" she said half-aloud.
But there was no one near enough to hear her, and she went back to her tasks, trying to forget her troubles in study; an effort in which she was for the time partially successful.
"I hope there is nothing serious ailing dear mamma," Violet said rather anxiously to herself, as the carriage rolled swiftly on toward Ion; "there was really nothing in her note to indicate it, but she has never been one to complain of even a pretty serious ailment. She is not old yet; we may hope to keep her with us for many, many years. But then she is so good—so ripe for heaven!" And a silent prayer went up to God that the dear mother might be spared for many years to help others on their pilgrim way, especially her children and grandchildren. "For oh, how we need her!" was the added thought; "what could we ever do without her—the dear, kind, loving mother to whom we carry all our troubles and perplexities, sure of comfort, the best of advice, and all the help in her power to give. Dear, dear mamma! Oh, I have never prized her as I ought!"
It was only the previous evening that Mrs. Travilla herself had learned that she was assailed by more than a trifling ailment. What seemed to her but a slight one, causing discomfort, and at times quite a good deal of pain, she had beenconscious of for some weeks or months, but had not thought it necessary to speak of it to anyone.
About the time of her return home, however, there had been a very decided increase in the suffering; which at length led her to confide her trouble to her cousin and family physician, Dr. Arthur Conly, and she had learned from him that it was far more serious than she had supposed; that in fact her only escape from sure and speedy death lay in submission to a difficult and dangerous surgical operation.
Arthur told her as gently and tenderly as he could—assuring her that there was more than a possibility of a successful result—bringing relief from her suffering and prolonging her life for many years.
His first words—showing her ailment as so much more serious than she had ever for a moment supposed it to be—gave her a shock at the thought of the sudden parting from all her dear ones—father, children, and grandchildren; yet before he had finished she was entirely calm and composed.
"And what would death be but going home?" she said; "home to the mansions Jesus my Saviour has prepared for those he died to redeem, and to the dear ones gone before, there to await the coming of those who will be left behind for a little while. Ah, it is nothingto dread or to fear, for 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"
"And yet, Cousin Elsie," Arthur returned, with ill-concealed emotion, "how illy you could be spared by any of those who know and love you. Even I should feel it an almost heartbreaking thing to lose you out of my life, and your father, children——"
"Yes, I know, dear cousin, and shall not hesitate to do or bear all that holds out a hope of prolonging my days here upon earth; for otherwise I should feel that I was rushing into the Master's presence unbidden, and that without finishing the work he has given me to do here.
"Nor would I be willing to so pain the hearts of those who love me. I am ready to submit at once to whatever you deem necessary or expedient. But ah, my dear father! How distressed he will be when he learns all that you have just told me! I wish he might be spared the knowledge till all is over. But it would not do. He must be told at once, and—I must tell him."
"That will be very hard for you, dear cousin; would it not be better——" Arthur began, but paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.
"It will come best from me, I think," she returned, with a sad sort of smile. "But when?"
"Day after to-morrow, if you will. I thinkyou would prefer to have the trial over as soon as possible?"
"Yes; I think it will save both me and all concerned from some of the suffering of anticipation, if you can make it suit your convenience."
"Perfectly," he answered; "there are few preparations to be made and I do not want long to contemplate doing what must be a trial to so many whom I love."
Their talk had been in her boudoir. He lingered but a few moments longer, then went down to the drawing-room.
"Uncle," he said, in a low aside to Mr. Dinsmore, "I have just left Cousin Elsie in her boudoir and she wishes to see you there."
"She is not well, Arthur?" asked the old gentleman, with a slightly startled look, as he rose from his easy chair and the two passed out into the hall together.
"Not very, uncle," was the sad-toned reply. "She has been consulting me and there is something she wishes to say to you."
Mr. Dinsmore paled to the very lips. "Don't keep me in suspense, Arthur; let me know the worst, at once," he said, with almost a groan. "Why has anything been hidden from me—the father who loves her better than his life?"
"I have been as ignorant as yourself, uncle, till within the last half hour," replied the doctor, in a patient, deeply sympathizing tone. "It isastonishing to me that she has been able to endure so much for weeks or months past without a word of complaint. But do not despair, my dear uncle; the case is by no means hopeless."
"Tell me all, Arthur; hide nothing, nothing from me," Mr. Dinsmore said with mingled sternness and entreaty, hastily leading the way as he spoke to the little reception room opening from the other side of the hall, and closing the door against any chance intruder.
Arthur complied, stating the case as briefly as possible, and laying strong emphasis upon the fact that there was reason to hope for, not spared life alone, but entire and permanent relief.
"God grant it!" was the old gentleman's fervent, half agonized response. "My darling, my darling! would that I could bear all the suffering for you! Arthur, when—when must my child go through the trial which you say is—not to be escaped?"
"We have agreed upon the day after to-morrow, uncle, both she and I wishing to have it over as soon as possible."
A few minutes later, Mr. Dinsmore passed quietly into his daughter's boudoir, where he found her alone, lying on a lounge, her eyes closed, her countenance, though deathly pale, perfectly calm and peaceful.
He bent down and touched his lips to the white forehead; then as the sweet eyes opened and looked up lovingly into his, "Oh, my darling, idol of my heart," he groaned, "would that your father could himself take the suffering that I have just learned is in store for you."
"Ah no, no, my dear, dear father, I could illy bear that," she said, putting an arm about his neck; "suffering and danger to you would be far harder for me than what I am now enduring or expecting in the near future. Arthur has told you all?"
"Yes; kind-hearted and generous fellow that he is, he felt that he must spare you the pain of telling it yourself."
"Yes, it was very, very kind," she said, "Dear papa, sit down in this easy chair, close by my side, and take my hand in yours while we talk together of some matters that need to be settled before—before I am called to go through that which may be the end of earthly life for me."
Then, in response to the anguished look in his face as he bent over her with another silent caress, "My dear father, I do not mean to distress you. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure and years of health and strength to follow; yet surely it is but the part of wisdom to prepare for either event."
"Yes; and I am sure you are fully prepared,at least so far as your eternal welfare is concerned; should you be called away—our grief will be for ourselves alone."
"I am glad the choice is not left with me," she said, in low, sweet tones, after a moment's silence. "For your dear sake, papa, and that of my beloved children, I am more than willing to stay here on earth for many more years, yet the thought of being forever with the Lord—near him and like him—thrills my heart with joy unspeakable, while added to that is a great gladness in the prospect of reunion with the dear husband who has gone before me to that happy land. So I am not to be pitied, my dear father," she added, with a beautiful smile; "and can you not rejoice with me that the choice is not mine but lies with him whose love for us both is far greater than ours for each other?"
"Yes," he replied with emotion; "blessed be his holy name that we may leave it all in his hands, trusting in his infinite wisdom and love; knowing that if called to part for a season, we shall be reunited in heaven, never again to be torn asunder."
"Yes, dear father; we cannot expect to go quite together, but when reunited there in that blessed land, never again to part, the time of separation will seem to have been very short; even as nothing compared to the long, the unending eternity we shall spend together.
"And oh, what an eternity of joy and bliss, forever freed from sin and suffering, near and like our Lord, altogether pleasing in his sight, no doubts, no fears, the battle fought, the victory won. 'And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign for ever and ever!'"
"Yes, my darling; blessed be his holy name for the many great and precious promises of his word, and I have not a doubt of your full preparation for either event; but oh, that it may please him to spare you to me as the light, comfort, joy of my remaining days! Yet should it please him to take you to himself—ah, I cannot, dare not allow myself to contemplate so terrible a bereavement," he added, in low anguished accents, as he bent over her, softly smoothing her hair with tenderly caressing touch.
"Then do not, dear father," she said, lifting to his eyes full of ardent love and sympathy; "try to leave it all with the dear Master, and he will fulfil to you his precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' Has it not ever been the testimony of all his saintsconcerning his precious promises that not one faileth?"
"Yes," he said, "and so will it ever be. By his grace I will trust and not be afraid for you, my beloved child; nor for myself, his most unworthy servant."
Then with an upward glance, "'Lord increase our faith.' Oh, help us each to trust in thee and not to be afraid, be the way ever so dark and dreary, remembering thy gracious promise, 'I will in no wise fail thee, neither will I in anywise forsake thee.'"
"Sweet, sweet words, papa," she said, low and tremulously, lifting to his eyes full of glad, grateful tears.
"And those others, 'When thou passeth through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.'
"Oh, what more could I ask? what have I to do with doubt or fear, since he is mine and I am his?"
"Only the physical pain," he said, low and tenderly; "and Arthur tells me that with the help of anæsthetics there will be little or none of that during the operation, but——"
"What may come afterward can be easilyborne, dear papa," she said, as he paused, overcome by emotion.
"My dear, brave darling! a more patient, resigned sufferer never lived!" was his moved, though low-breathed, exclamation.
A moment's silence fell between them, he leaning over and caressing her with exceeding tenderness; then, "Papa," she said, with a loving look up into his eyes, "I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure, of speedy and entire recovery; and we may be spared to each other for many years if the will of God be so; but—surely it is my wisest plan to prepare for every possibility.
"I feel very easy about my dear children, most of them having already arrived at years of maturity, and being comfortably settled in life; Edward and my two older daughters, at least; while the others I can leave in the safest of earthly hands, even those of my dear andhonoredfather, whose love for them is only secondary to my own; and for each one I have reason to hope that the good part has been chosen which can never be taken away."
"I do indeed love them very dearly," he responded, "for their own sake, their father's, and most of all because they are the offspring of my own beloved child. Should I outlive her, they shall want for nothing their grandfather can do to make them happy."
"I know it, dear father, and can leave them to your and their heavenly Father's care without a doubt or fear," she said, with a gentle sigh over the thought of the parting with her darlings that might be so near.
She went on to speak of some business matters, then said: "I think that is all, papa. I do not care to make any alteration in my will; and, as you know, you and brother Horace are my executors. To-morrow I must have a little talk with each of my children, and then I shall be ready for Arthur and his assistants.
"I want all my children near at hand in case of an unfavorable result and that I am able to say a few last words, bidding them all farewell."
There was again a moment of silence, her father seeming too much overcome to speak; then she went on: "I think they must not be told to-night, that the two younger ones need know nothing of the danger till the morning of the operation. I would spare them all the suffering of anticipation that I can; and were I but sure, quite sure, of going safely through it all, they should know nothing of it till afterward; but I cannot rob them of a few last words with their mother."
"My darling! always unselfish, always thinking of others first!" Mr. Dinsmore said, in moved tones, bending over her and pressing hislips again and again to her pale cheek and brow.
"Surely almost any mother would think of her children before herself," she returned with a sweet, sad smile.
But just at that instant childish footsteps were heard in the hall without, then a gentle rap on the door, and Walter's voice asking, "Mamma, may I come in?"