CHAPTER XXI.

"I want to be marked for thine own—Thy seal on my forehead to wear."

"Dear little girlie," she whispered, bending over the child, "you wear it if ever mortal did! No wonder you are the very idol of your father's heart!"

Half an hour before sunrise Mildred was again moving quietly about, careful not to disturb her little room-mate while making a neat, though rapid toilet.

Going out, she left the door slightly ajar. Her cousin was just issuing from his, seemingly in full readiness for his expedition. They exchanged a pleasant, low-toned good morning.

"I did not know you were so early a riser," he said.

"I claimed the privilege of pouring out the coffee for you and father," she returned with a smile. Then pointing to the door, "Go in, if you like. I know you want to kiss your baby before you start; she's there asleep."

"Thank you."

He stole softly in and bent over the loved sleeper for a moment, his eyes devouring the sweet, fair face; he stooped lower, and his moustache brushed the round, rosy cheek.

"Papa," she murmured in her sleep; but a second kiss, upon her lips, awoke her.

Instantly her arm was round his neck. "O papa, I'm so glad you came! Please, may I get up and see you start?"

"No; lie still and take another nap, my pet. We'll be off before you could dress. There, good-by, darling. Don't expose yourself to the sun in the heat of the day, or to the evening air. Though I expect to be back in time to see to that last."

"I hope so, indeed, papa; but you know I will obey you just the same if you are not here to see."

"I don't doubt it in the least," he said.

Then the door closed on him, and the littlegirl, accustomed to implicit obedience, turned over and went to sleep again.

When Mildred came up a little before the usual breakfast hour, she found her dressed and reading her Bible.

"You love that book, Elsie dear?" she said.

"Yes, indeed, cousin. And I do love to have my papa read it with me. This is the first morning he has missed doing so since—since I was so very sick." The voice sounded as if tears were not far off.

"How nice to have such a good, kind father," Mildred remarked in a cheery tone.

"Oh it is so, cousin!" Elsie answered, her whole face lighting up. "I used to be continually longing for papa while he was away in Europe. I'd never seen him, you know, and have no mother or brother or sister—and now I just want to hold fast to him all the time:—my dear, dear papa!"

"And you are missing him now? Well, dear, take comfort in the thought that he is probably enjoying himself, and will soon return to his little pet daughter. I think he never forgets you—he asked what we could do with you to-day in his absence, and I told him my plan for the morning. He approved, and now shall I tell it to you?"

"Oh, yes, cousin! if you please," returned the child with a very interested look.

"Our sewing society meets this afternoon, and as we—mother, my sisters, and I—have some work to finish before we go, we will have to be busy with our needles. One generally reads aloud while the others sew, and we would like to have you join us; taking your turn at both sewing and reading, if you choose."

"Very much, cousin, if—if the book is one that papa approves; he never allows me to read anything without being sure of that."

"Ah, that was why he said 'Tell Elsie I say she may read or listen to anything her Aunt Marcia pronounces suitable for her.' We have some very nice books that may be new to you."

"Oh, then I think it will be ever so nice!"

"Well then," said Mildred, "we will take a short walk soon after breakfast, then spend the rest of the morning as I have proposed. Your papa says you can read aloud very nicely, and use your needle well, too."

"I don't know whether you will think so, cousin," Elsie returned modestly, "but I am willing to try, and shall do my very best."

They carried out their plans with only a short interruption from a caller. After dinner Annis was left to entertain Elsie for a fewhours while the others attended the meeting of the society.

It was an almost sultry afternoon, and Annis proposed taking the dolls to a grotto her brothers had made for her and Fan, near the spring that bubbled up at the foot of the high river bank, and was reached by a flight of steps that led down from the garden behind the house.

The grotto was tastefully adorned with moss, pebbles, and shells, and had a comfortable rustic seat, artistically formed of twigs and the smaller branches of trees with the bark still on them.

It was a pleasant place to sit and dream on a summer afternoon, with the clear bright water of the river lapping the pebbly shore almost at your feet, the leafy branches of a grape-vine overhead nearly concealing you from the view of any one on the further bank or in a passing boat. A pleasant place, too, for children to play, and not at all a dangerous one; the little Keith girls went there whenever they chose.

Elsie and Annis were congenial spirits, enjoyed each other's society, and had spent an hour or more very agreeably together in this cool retreat, when the sound of dipping oars near at hand drew their attention, and peeringout from behind the leafy screen of the grape-vine, they saw a canoe approaching propelled by the strong young arms of Cyril and Don, now grown to be lads of sixteen and fourteen.

"Hello! we thought we'd find you here, girls," Cyril called to them. "Don't you want to take a row?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed!" cried Annis, jumping up and clapping her hands with delight. "Come, Elsie, there couldn't be anything nicer, I'm sure!"

Elsie rose as if to comply, her face full of eager delight also, but its expression changed suddenly.

"I'm afraid I ought not, Annis," she said; "papa might not be willing, and I can't ask him, you know, because he is away."

The boys had now brought the canoe close up, and Cyril reached out his hand to help her in.

"Come, little coz," he said in his most persuasive tones, "I'm sure your father would not object; there isn't a particle of danger. I'm used to rowing on this river, as well as to fishing and swimming in it—and it's not deep or swift, except in mid-current, and I promise to keep near the shore."

"But papa is very strict and particular," Elsie said, hanging back, though with a longing look in her lovely brown eyes.

"But he likes to have you enjoy yourself, surely?" put in Don.

"Indeed, he does, when it's quite safe and right," Elsie returned with warmth; "he loves me dearly."

"Then he wouldn't like you to miss this pleasure," said Cyril. "The canoe is a borrowed one, and it isn't every day I can get it."

"And if you don't go I can't," remarked Annis.

"Oh, yes, you can," Elsie said; "don't stay for me. I'll go up to the house and amuse myself with a book till you come back."

"No, no, I couldn't think of leaving my company; it wouldn't be at all polite; and I couldn't enjoy it without you; yet I want to go ever so much. O Elsie, do come!"

"I want to, I'm sure; both to oblige you, Annis, and for my own pleasure," Elsie answered. "Oh I wish I were quite sure papa would be willing!"

"Take it for granted," said Cyril, "it's the best you can do, under the circumstances; so he surely can't be much displeased."

Still Elsie hesitated.

"Ah," said Cyril, mischievously, "is Cousin Horace so very severe! Are you afraid he will whip you?"

"No," Elsie said, reddening; "do you think so meanly of me as to suppose I obey my father only from fear of punishment?"

"No; and I beg your pardon. I know you're fond of him, too, and that you want to do right. But I have noticed that he is very polite and considerate of others, and don't you think he wishes you to be the same?"

"I know he does."

"Then surely he would tell you to go with us; because your refusal will spoil all our pleasure."

"Yes, Elsie; it was all for your sake we borrowed the canoe," said Don; "and if you refuse to go it will be a great disappointment. We wouldn't urge you if it would be disobedience; but did your father ever say you mustn't row with us on the river?"

"No, Don; but perhaps that was only because he never thought of your asking me."

"O Elsie, Elsie, do go!" entreated Annis. "I won't go without you, and I can't bear to lose the row."

"Didn't Cousin Horace leave you in mother's care!" asked Cyril.

"Yes."

"Well, then, what need of hesitation? Mother lets Annis go, and of course she would let you."

Elsie stood for a moment, silently weighing the question in her mind. Certainly her papa had great confidence in "Aunt Marcia's" opinion, for had he not said she might read whatever Aunt Marcia recommended? and he had left her in her care; also, he did teach her to be considerate of the wishes of others; he had told her only last night not to be selfish in little things. Surely he would not have her spoil the afternoon's pleasure of these three cousins.

Ah, but he was never willing to have her exposed to unnecessary danger! But Cyril said there was really no danger, and—she did so want to go! it looked so pleasant on the water!

The scales were almost evenly balanced, and finally she allowed inclination to decide her, gave Cyril her hand, and was quickly seated in the canoe with the delighted Annis by her side.

"Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss."Milton.

The boys took up their oars again, pushed out a little from the shore, and rowed up stream for a short distance, then turned and went down for a mile or more, keeping out of the main current all the time, according to promise.

Elsie felt a trifle timid at first, and a little troubled lest she had not done quite right in yielding to her cousins' persuasions; but gradually these disquieting thoughts and feelings passed away, and she gave herself up to thorough enjoyment of the present pastime.

They chatted, laughed, and sang; dipped their hands in the clear water; gazed through it at the pebbly bottom, and the fish darting hither and thither; landed in several places to gather bright autumn leaves; then re-entered the canoe for another row.

The air was delightful, and most of the way they were pretty well shaded from the sun by the high bank and its trees and bushes.

The boys did not soon tire with their work, for their load was light; going down stream required but little use of their oars, and even rowing up was not very laborious. So the afternoon slipped away before they knew it.

"I believe the sun is getting low," Cyril said at length, "and we are a good mile from home. We must turn, Don. What time is it, Elsie?"

Taking out her pretty watch, "Half-past five," she said in some dismay, "and the air begins to feel a little chilly. Don't you think so?"

"Yes; and it's supper-time. Come, Don, my lad, we must pull lustily."

"Yes, a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull both together," responded Don gayly, as he bent to his oar.

"We ought to have brought shawls along for you girls," Cyril remarked, with an anxious glance at his little cousin.

"I'm not cold," said Annis.

"But Elsie is. Here, little coz, let me put this round you," he said, pulling off his coat; "nobody will see, and I wouldn't have you take a chill from this expedition for anything in the world."

"But you will be cold," Elsie said, shrinkingback, as he would have put it about her shoulders.

"Not a bit; rowing keeps a fellow warm as toast this time of year," he returned, with a light laugh: and she made no further resistance.

Nearing the grotto, they saw Aunt Chloe standing at the water's edge, with a shawl on her arm, looking out anxiously for her nursling.

"O mammy! has papa come?" Elsie called to her.

"No, darlin'; 'spect massa'll be 'long dreckly. But what for my chile go off in de boat widout a shawl, when de ebenins gits so cool? Ise 'fraid massa be mighty vexed 'bout it. And s'pose you'd got drownded, honey, what den?"

"Come now, Aunt Chloe, it's all my fault, and if there's to be any scolding, I'm the one to take it," Cyril said good-humoredly, as he helped Elsie ashore.

"O mammy! was it naughty in me to go? Do you think papa will be displeased with me?" the little girl asked in an anxious whisper, while the nurse was busied in carefully wrapping the shawl about her; Cyril's coat having been returned with thanks.

"Maybe not. Dere, honey, don't you fret."

"Where was the harm in her going? But you won't tell of her, Aunt Chloe?" Annis said, as they climbed the steps that led up the bank.

"No, chile, s'pect not; ain't no 'casion no how; massa neber in de house bery long fo' Miss Elsie tell him all she's been adoin'."

"Shall you tell him, Elsie?" Annis asked, turning to her cousin as they gained the top of the flight of steps.

"Yes; I can't feel easy till papa knows all about it. I'm afraid I oughtn't to have gone."

There was a tone of distress in Elsie's voice, and, indeed, she began to be sorely troubled in prospect of her father's displeasure; for her mammy's words had caused her to see her conduct in going on the river in a new light, and she had now scarce a hope that it would meet his approval. Besides, they were certainly late for supper, and he was particular in regard to promptness at meals.

They hurried into the house, expecting to find their elders seated about the table. But there was no one in the dining-room, and though the table was set, the meal was not spread. The ladies had returned, but were waiting for the gentlemen, who had not yet come in.

Elsie was not sorry. She hastened up-stairs to be made neat for tea, and was down again in a few minutes.

Still nothing was to be seen or heard of the huntsmen, and she began to grow uneasy. Perhaps some accident had happened to her dear papa; maybe she was to be punished in that way for what she began to look upon as an act of disobedience or something very near it.

"Aunt Marcia," she said, drawing near to Mrs. Keith, "what do you think makes them stay so long?"

"I don't know, dear; but nothing serious, I trust. They probably went farther than they had intended. But don't be anxious; I do not see any cause for alarm," was the cheerful, kindly answer.

Supper had been delayed a full hour already, and Mrs. Keith decided that it should wait no longer. "It is not worth while," she said, "for very likely our gentlemen have supped somewhere on the road."

Elsie was unusually silent, and seemed to have lost her appetite. Her eyes turned every moment toward the door; her ear was strained to catch every sound from the street. Oh, what could be keeping her papa?

They left the table, and she stationed herselfat a front window to wait and watch for his coming.

Mildred drew near, passed an arm about the child's waist, and with a gentle kiss asked, "Why are you so troubled and anxious, dear little girlie? It is nothing strange that our fathers should be a little late in getting home to-night."

Then Elsie, laying her head on her cousin's shoulder, whispered in her sympathizing ear a tearful story of how the afternoon had been spent, and her fear that she had done wrong in going out in the canoe, and that perhaps she might be punished by something dreadful happening to her "dear, dear papa."

"I hardly think it was wrong, dear," Mildred said; "not a very serious fault, at any rate. And I cannot believe our Heavenly Father would visit you with such a punishment. He never treats us according to our deserts. He is 'a God ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness.'"

"Yes, I know; the Bible tells us that," Elsie returned, wiping away her tears. "How good he is to me, and to all his creatures; it makes me ashamed and sorry for all the sin in my heart and life."

Mildred presently began talking of the old days at Viamede and Roselands, trying thus to help the little girl to forgetfulness of her anxiety. Elsie grew cheerful and apparently interested in her cousin's reminiscences of her babyhood; but still her eyes turned every now and then to the window, and her ears seemed attentive to every sound from without.

The clock struck eight, and with a sigh she drew out her watch and compared the two.

"Oh," she said, "why don't they come? I must go to bed in half an hour, and I do so want to see papa first."

"Do you think he wouldn't let you stay up to wait for him?" asked Mildred.

"No, cousin, he always insists on my going to bed at the regular hour, unless he has given me permission to stay up longer."

The half hour was almost gone—only five minutes left—when at last Elsie's ear caught the sound of a well-known step and voice.

She ran to the door, "Papa, papa! I'm so glad, sogladyou've come! I was so afraid something had happened to you."

"Ah, I knew my little girl would be anxious," he said, bending down to give her a tender caress. "Well, there was nothing wrong, except that we went a little fartherthan we intended; and here we are safe and sound."

"And both tired and hungry, I dare say," said Mrs. Keith.

"The first, but not the last," returned her husband. "We took our supper an hour ago, at Ward's."

Mr. Dinsmore sat down and drew Elsie to his side. "Ah, is it so late?" he said, glancing at the clock. "Just your bed-time, daughter."

"Yes, papa, but—" and with her arm about his neck, her lips to his ear, she whispered the rest—"I want so much to tell you something. Mayn't I?"

"Yes; go up now and let Aunt Chloe make you ready for bed; then put on your dressing-gown and slippers and come to my room. I shall be there by that time, and we'll have our little talk. I should hardly like to go to bed without it myself."

Elsie obeyed, and he presently excusing himself, on the plea of fatigue, for so early a retirement, went to his room, where she found him waiting for her as he had promised.

"Well, my pet, have you anything particular for papa's ear to-night?" he asked, lifting her to his knee.

"Yes, papa. But aren't you too tired to hold me?"

"No; it rests me to have my darling in my arms," he answered, caressing her with his wonted tender fondness.

"Papa, I'm afraid I don't deserve it to-night," she murmured, hanging her head, while a deep blush suffused her cheek.

"I'm sorry indeed, if that is so," he said gently; "but very glad that my little daughter never tries to conceal any wrong-doing of her own from me."

Then he waited for her to speak; he knew there was no need to question her.

"Papa," she said, so low that he barely caught the words, "I went out on the river in a canoe, with Annis, this afternoon. Cyril and Don rowed it."

"And my little girl went without her father's permission?" His tone was one of grieved surprise.

"But you were not here to give it, papa," she said, bursting into tears.

"A very good and sufficient reason why my daughter should have refused to go."

"But, papa, I did not know you would object, and I thought you would not want meto spoil the pleasure of my cousins; and they said I would if I refused to go."

"I think you certainly knew me well enough to be quite sure, if you had taken time to consider the question fully, that I would be far from willing to let you run into danger for the pleasure of others."

"But, papa, Aunt Marcia let's Annis go: and Cyril said there was no danger."

"Nonsense! Cyril is only a boy; not capable of judging. The current of the river is very swift and strong. I should not have trusted you upon it in a canoe with those boys for any consideration, and am truly thankful that you escaped without accident. But I am not pleased with you."

"Papa, I am very sorry. Please don't be angry with me," she sobbed, hiding her face on his shoulder.

He was silent for a moment, then lifting her face, wiped away her tears with his handkerchief, and kissing her lips, said, "I suppose the temptation was strong, and as it was not an act of positive disobedience to orders, I forgive you. But, my little daughter, you must never do anything of the kind again."

"No, dear papa, I will not," she said, witha sigh of relief. "You are very kind not to punish me."

"Not kinder to you than to myself; it hurts me, I think, quite as much as it does you when I have to punish you," he said, with another loving caress. "Now, darling, bid me good-night and go to your bed."

"All flesh is grass, and all its glory fadesLike the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind."Cowper's Task.

Annis was in Mildred's room waiting to say good-night to her cousin, rather uneasy, too, lest she had got her into trouble, by coaxing her into the canoe.

"O Elsie!" she said, as the latter came in, "was your papa displeased? did he punish you? You look as if you had been crying."

"He said he was not pleased with me," Elsie answered, brushing away a tear; "that was punishment enough, I'm sure; but he forgave me the next minute and kissed me good-night."

"Oh, I'm glad that was all!" Annis exclaimed, giving Elsie a hug. "I began to be almost afraid he had whipped you."

"No, indeed! he never did that, and I don't believe he ever will," Elsie said, a quick, vivid blush dyeing her fair face and neck.

The next day the little girls were taking a walk on the river bank, Aunt Chloe ploddingalong a little in the rear, that she might watch over her nursling.

A boy coming from the opposite direction startled them by a loud "Hello, Tim! where are you going?"

Two boys were just passing them, and the younger, who looked to be about ten years old, made answer in a surly tone, and in words so profane that the little girls shuddered with horror.

"Well, I wouldn't want to go 'long with you; not to that place," remarked the first jeeringly; "but what's the use o' bein' so all-fired cross—swearin' at a feller just for askin' a civil question?"

"Come, Bill, just you let him alone," said Tim's companion; "he's worked up and mad, 'cause his mother told him not to go to the river, and that's where we're going this minute."

"Well, then, George, if he gits drowned, I guess he'll go where he said he was a-goin'," remarked Bill, passing on.

The little girls stood still, watching the other two as they hurried on down the bank, entered a canoe that lay on the water, made fast by a rope to a tree, loosed it, and pushed out into the stream.

They were not careful as Cyril had been to keep near the shore, and presently the current was carrying them down stream very rapidly.

A few hundred yards below the spot where they had embarked, a wooden bridge had formerly spanned the river; it had been torn down shortly before this, but the posts were left standing in the water. Against one of these the canoe struck and instantly overset, throwing the boys into the water where it was deepest and most dangerous.

The little girls and their attendant saw the mishap, and ran screaming toward some men who were at work at no great distance. The instant the men comprehended what had occurred, they made all haste to the scene of the disaster, and used every effort to rescue the lads.

They succeeded in bringing George out alive, but Tim had sunk to rise no more. They could not even find the body.

When this announcement was made, the two little girls, who had stood looking on in intense excitement and full of distress for the imperilled boys, burst into bitter weeping.

They hurried home, crying as they went, to tell the sad story.

Mrs. Keith was in the sitting-room, busied with some sewing, as usual, Mr. Dinsmore with her, when the children came rushing in, crying as if their hearts would break.

"Why, my child, what is the matter?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, in extreme surprise and alarm, as Elsie threw herself into his arms and clung to him, sobbing convulsively.

"O mother, mother! we've just seen a boy drowned!" cried Annis, burying her face in her mother's lap. "It was Tim Jones, and his mother had told him not to go to the river. And we heard him say such wicked words as he was going."

"And O papa! he's dead," sobbed Elsie, "and I can't even pray for him! O papa! he has lost his soul!"

"We do not know that certainly, dear daughter," he said, trying to comfort her; "we may have a little hope, for possibly he may have cried to Jesus for pardon and salvation, even after he was in the water."

"And Jesus is so kind, so ready to forgive and save us," she said, growing calmer. "But, O papa! it's such alittlehope we can have that he did find the way, and get a new heart in that one minute!"

"Yes, that is too sadly true," he sighed."Yet the thought uppermost in my mind just now is, What if this had happened to my child yesterday! O! my darling, how could I have borne such a loss? My heart aches for the parents of that boy."

"Dear papa, God was very good to us," she whispered, laying her cheek to his, as he held her close to his heart. "Oh, I am glad he did not let me fall into the river and drown, though I was so naughty as to go without your leave."

"But I had not forbidden you," he said tenderly; "and I know that my little girl loves Jesus, and tries to serve him; so I should have been spared the terrible pain of fearing that you were lost to me forever. Yet I cannot be thankful enough that I have you still, my precious, precious child!"

His tones were so low that Mrs. Keith could hardly have caught the words, even had she not been occupied, as she was, in soothing and comforting Annis.

"Oft what seemsA trifle, a mere nothing, by itself,In some nice situation, turns the scaleOf fate, and rules the most important actions."Thomson.

Because of the near approach of his appointed wedding-day Mr. Dinsmore could not linger long in Pleasant Plains. All felt the parting keenly, for even in the few days they had spent together a strong attachment had sprung up between Elsie and her cousins, while the renewal of former congenial intercourse had strengthened the tie of affection that had long existed between Mrs. Keith and her Cousin Horace.

Fan and Annis wept so bitterly as the stage whirled away out of sight, that their mother and Mildred found it necessary to deny themselves the indulgence of their own grief in order to comfort them.

At the same time Mr. Dinsmore was wiping the tears from Elsie's eyes, and soothing her with tender caresses and the hope that she andMildred and Annis would meet again before a great while.

"Who knows," he said in cheery tones, "but we may be able to persuade their father and mother to let them spend the winter at the Oaks next year!"

"O papa, how nice that would be!" exclaimed the child, smiling through her tears; "will you ask them?"

"Yes; if you will stop crying now. Perhaps if you keep on I may be tempted to join you," he added jestingly, "and how ashamed we would both feel."

That made Elsie laugh. Then he interested her in plans for purchasing gifts for the cousins they had just left, and for her "new mamma," when they should reach New York, and soon she was quite her usual sunny self.

Fortunately up to this time their little party had been the only occupants of the stage.

We have not space to speak further of their journey, which brought them finally to Philadelphia, Miss Rose Allison's home, and where the wedding was to take place.

On arriving in that city Mr. Dinsmore sent Elsie and her nurse to Mr. Allison's, while he, with his servant John, went to a hotel. He was to be married the next morning, and it wasalready late in the afternoon, so the separation would not be for long.

While taking his supper at the hotel table Mr. Dinsmore became the unconscious object of close scrutiny by a gentleman seated nearly opposite; a rather fine-looking man, tall, well-proportioned, with good features, an open, intelligent countenance, benevolent expression, clear blue eyes, light brown hair and beard.

"I can hardly be mistaken; it is no common face; but I will make certain," the stranger said to himself, as he rose and left the room at the conclusion of his meal.

He went to the hotel register and found Mr. Dinsmore's name among those entered that day. He saw it with a thrill of pleasure; and yet—"well, he could not know till he had tried to renew the acquaintance, whether to do so would be agreeable to the friend of his boyhood."

Mr. Dinsmore retired to his own apartment on leaving the table, and had scarcely done so when a servant handed in a card.

"Charles Landreth, M.D.," was the inscription it bore. Mr. Dinsmore read it at a glance. His first emotion was surprise, the next a mixture of feelings.

"Show the gentleman up here; tell him Ishall be happy to see him," he said to the waiter. Then, as the man closed the door and departed, he turned and paced the floor with slow, meditative step.

"It may be a good Providence that brings us together so unexpectedly just at this time," he said to himself. "I should never have expected dishonorable conduct from my old chum Charlie Landreth, and I'll give him the benefit of the doubt as long as I can. Ah, God grant I may be able to set this matter right for poor Mildred!"

Steps approached, the door opened, and the two stood face to face.

"Horace! you have not forgotten me?" The voice, the grasp of the hand, the beaming countenance, all spoke such sincere pleasure, such warmth of friendship, that Mr. Dinsmore's doubts vanished; that was not the face of a false, cold-hearted villain. He returned the greeting as cordially as it was given.

"Forgotten you, Charlie? No, indeed! and I'm particularly glad that you have made yourself known to-night; for to-morrow I shall be on my way south again."

"Ah, going back to the old neighborhood where we were boys together," and Charlie heaved a sigh to the memory of the days ofauld lang syne, as he accepted a mute invitation to be seated. "Have you been long absent?" he asked.

"For several months. I am lately returned from Indiana, where I have been visiting my cousins the Keiths."

As he pronounced the name Mr. Dinsmore looked keenly at his companion.

Landreth flushed hotly and his look was both eager and pained as he responded, with a little hesitation in his speech. "Ah! and were they—all well?"

"Yes, thank you, and prospering. One of the girls—there are five in all—is married."

"Mildred?" asked his listener in a hoarse whisper, and with half-averted face.

"No; she is still single, and it struck me as strange, for she is a most lovely and attractive girl in both person and character."

"A perfect woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a spirit still and bright,With something of an angel light."

"I think I never saw one to whom Wordsworth's description was more truly applicable."

Landreth turned and grasped Mr. Dinsmore's hand, his face all aglow with hope andjoy. "You have lifted me from the depths of despair!" he said in tremulous tones.

"You have cared for her?"

"Loved her as never man loved woman before!"

Mr. Dinsmore smiled at that, thinking of Rose, and his early love, the mother of his child, but did not care to combat the assertion. "She is worthy of it," was all he said.

"I heard she was married, and it nearly killed me," Landreth went on. "But I could not blame her, for she had steadily refused to pledge herself to me."

"But where have you been all these years, and how is it that I find you here now, Charlie? I should be glad to hear your story."

"I went first to the mines of South America," Landreth said, "saw very hard times for the first two years, then met with a wonderful turn of fortune—coming quite unexpectedly upon a very large nugget of gold. I didn't stay long after that. I had written to Mildred a good many times, but never received a line from her, and almost the first news I heard on returning to my native land was that of her marriage. As I have said, it nearly killed me; but, Dinsmore, my bitter sorrow and disappointment did for me what perhaps nothingelse could. I sought and found Him, of whom Moses in the law and the prophets did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the sinner's Saviour and Friend."

"Thank God for that, Charlie!" Mr. Dinsmore returned with emotion; and again their hands met in a warm brotherly clasp.

"Having found him," continued Landreth, "of course his service became my first object in life. I looked about for a sphere of usefulness, and decided upon the medical profession, because I had discovered that I had a liking for it, the necessities of the men in my employ having led me to dip into it a little. So I came here to pursue my studies, received my diploma a year ago, have been practicing in the hospitals since, and am now looking about for the best place in which to begin my career as a private physician and surgeon."

"Plenty of room in the West," observed Mr. Dinsmore sententiously and with a sparkle of fun in his eye.

Landreth sprang up. "And my darling is there, and you have given me hope that I may yet win her! Dinsmore, I shall make the necessary arrangements immediately, and set off for Pleasant Plains at the earliest possible moment."

"Right, Charlie; and you have my best wishes for your success both with her and in your chosen profession. But I hope you will not leave Philadelphia before to-morrow noon. I want you at my wedding. Mildred and the rest will be glad to hear an account of it from an eye-witness."

"Your wedding?"

"Yes, it is to take place at nine to-morrow morning. And I want the pleasure of introducing my intended cousin to my bride; to say nothing of showing you one whose charms of person and character are not eclipsed by even those of sweet and lovely Mildred Keith."

"She must be worth seeing, if that be the case," Landreth answered with a smile. "And I am keeping you from her now, I daresay; for which she certainly will not thank me."

"She is too kind-hearted not to be more than content for Mildred's and your sake."

"Mildred's do you say?" and Landreth's face was one glow of delight.

"Yes, Charlie, for Mildred's; since you have so frankly told me how it is with you, I shall not conceal from you that it is for your sake the sweet girl has remained single in spite of several good offers. I learned it from myCousin Marcia, her mother. And while I think of it," he added laughingly, "let me assure you that Marcia will make—does make—a model mother-in-law."

"I should be glad indeed to try her in that capacity," returned Landreth lightly. "I think it will hardly be possible for me to leave before to-morrow noon; so accept your invitation with thanks, Dinsmore. I have a curiosity to see your bride, and a very strong desire to renew my acquaintance with your little daughter, whom I used to see quite frequently in the first two years of her stay at Roselands. I have always thought her the sweetest little creature I ever beheld. She is with you of course?"

"In the city? Yes; you will see her to-morrow," Mr. Dinsmore answered, looking highly gratified by the encomium upon his darling child.

After a little more chat, principally of mutual friends and the changes that had taken place in their old neighborhood since Landreth left it, they separated with another cordial hand-shaking, both extremely glad of the casual meeting, and expecting to meet again on the morrow.

"Within her heart was his image,Cloth'd in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence."Longfellow.

It was evening. Mildred was alone in the parlor, all the rest of the family having gone to a concert. They had urged her to go too, but she had declined, saying she greatly preferred a quiet evening at home. Truth to tell she was oppressed with sadness, and wanted to be alone that she might indulge it for a little without restraint.

All day she had maintained a cheerfulness in the presence of others which she did not feel, for there had been scarce a moment when her lost love was absent from her thoughts. Why was it that her heart went out toward him to-night with such yearning tenderness—such unutterable longing to look into his eyes, to hear the sound of his voice, to feel the touch of his hand?

She tried in vain to read; the image of the lost one constantly obtruded itself between her mental vision and the printed page.

She rose and paced the floor, not weeping, but pressing her hand to her heart with heavy sighing.

The curtains were not closely drawn, or the shutters closed; a lamp burned brightly on the centre-table, and the room was full of warmth and cheer.

She did not hear the opening or shutting of the gate, or a quick, manly step that came up the gravel walk and into the porch; did not see the stranger pause before the bright window and gaze in, half-unconsciously, as if spell-bound by the sight of her graceful figure and fair though sad face. She turned to the open piano, struck a few chords, then seated herself and sang in clear, sweet tones, but with touching pathos:

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