Elsie's children

"Let them die,
Let them die now, thy children! so thy heart
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd
Within it to the last."
—MRS. HEMANS.

Lily seemed a little stronger in the morning, and the brothers and sisters were allowed to go in by turns and speak to her.

Violet chose to be the last, thinking that would, perhaps, secure a little longer interview.

Lily with mamma by her side, lay propped up with pillows—her eyes bright, a lovely color on her almost transparent cheek, her luxurious hair lying about her like heaps of shining gold, her red lips smiling a joyous welcome, as Vi stooped over her.

Could it be that she was dying?

"Oh, darling, you may get well even yet?" cried Vi, in tones tremulous with joy and hope.

Lily smiled, and stroked her sister's face lovingly with her little thin white hand.

Violet was startled by its scorching heat.

"You are burning up with fever!" she exclaimed, tears gushing from her eyes.

"Yes; but I shall soon be well," said the child clasping her sister close; "I'm going home to the happy land to be with Jesus, Vi; oh, don't you wish you were going too? Mamma I'm tired; please tell Vi my text."

"'And the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick; the people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity,'" the mother repeated in a low sweet voice.

"For Jesus' sake," softly added the dying one. "He has loved me and washed me from my sins in his own blood."

Vi fell on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in the clothes, vainly trying to stifle her bursting sobs.

"Poor Vi," sighed Lily. "Mamma, comfort her."

Mamma drew the weeper to her bosom, and spoke tenderly to her of the loving Saviour and the home he has gone to prepare for his people.

"Our darling will be so safe and happy there," she said, "and she is glad to go, to rest in his bosom, and wait there for us, as, in his own good time, he shall call one after another to himself.

"'Tis there we'll meet,
At Jesus' feet,
When we meet to part no more.'"

Tears were coursing down the mother's cheeks as she spoke, but her manner was calm and quiet. To her, as to her child standing upon the very brink of Jordan, heaven seemed very near, very real, and while mourning that soon that beloved face and form would be seen no more on earth she rejoiced with joy unspeakable, for the blessedness that should be hers forever and forevermore.

There were no tears in Lily's eyes, "Mamma, I'm so happy," she said smiling. "Dear Vi, you must be glad for me and not cry so. I have no pain to-day; and I'll never have any more when I get home where the dear Saviour is. Mamma, please read about the beautiful city."

Elsie took up the Bible that lay beside the pillow, and opening at the Revelation, read its last two chapters—the twenty-first and twenty-second.

Lily lay intently listening, Violet's hand fast clasped in hers.

"Darling Vi," she whispered, "you love Jesus, don't you?"

Violet nodded assent: she could not speak.

"And you're willing to let him have me, aren't you, dear?"

"Yes, yes," but the tears fell fast, and "Oh, what shall I do without you?" she cried with a choking sob.

"It won't be long," said Lily. "Mamma says it will seem only a very little while when it is past."

Her voice sank with the last words, and she closed her eyes with a weary sigh.

"Go, dear daughter, go away for the present," the mother said to Violet, who instantly obeyed.

Lily lingered for several days, suffering little except from weakness, always patient and cheerful, talking so joyfully of "going home to Jesus," that death seemed robbed of all its gloom; for it was not of the grave they thought in connection with her, but of the glories of the upper sanctuary, the bliss of those who dwell forever with the Lord.

Father, brothers and sisters often gathered for a little while about her bed; for she dearly loved them all; but the mother scarcely left her day or night; the mother whose gentle teachings had guided her childish feet into the path that leads to God, whose ministry of love had made the short life bright and happy, spite of weakness and pain.

It was in the early morning that the end came.

She had been sleeping quietly for some hours, sleeping while darkness passed away till day had fully dawned and the east was flushing with crimson and gold.

Her mother sat by the bedside gazing with tender glistening eyes upon the little wan face, thinking how placid was its expression, what an almost unearthly beauty it wore, when suddenly the large azure eyes opened wide, gazing steadily into hers, while the sweetest smile played about the lips.

"Mamma, dear mamma, how good you've been to me! Jesus is here, he has come for me. I'm going now. Dear, darling mamma, kiss me good-bye."

"My darling! my darling!" Elsie cried, pressing a kiss of passionate love upon the sweet lips.

"Dear mamma," they faintly whispered—and were still.

Kneeling by the bedside, Elsie gathered the little wasted form in her arms, pillowing the beautiful golden head upon her bosom, while again and again she kissed the pale brow, the cheeks, the lips; then laying it down gently she stood gazing upon it with unutterable love and mingled joy and anguish.

"It was well with the child," and no rebellious thought arose in her heart, but ah, what an aching void was there! how empty were her arms, though so many of her darlings were still spared to her.

A quiet step drew near, a strong arm was passed about her waist, and a kind hand drew her head to a resting-place on her husband's breast.

"Is it so?" he said in moved tones, gazing through a mist of tears upon the quiet face of the young sleeper. "Ah, darling, our precious lamb is safely folded at last. He has gathered her in his arms and is carrying her in his bosom."

There was no bitterness in the tears that were shed to the memory of little Lily; her short life had been so full of suffering, her passing away was so joyful that they must rejoice for her even while they wept for their own heavy loss.

They laid her body in the family burialground and mamma and the children went very often to scatter flowers upon the graves, reserving the fairest and sweetest for the little mound that looked so fresh and new.

"But she is not here," Rosie would say, "she's gone to the dear home above where Jesus is. And she's so happy. She'll never be sick any more because it says, 'Neither shall there be any more pain.'"

Lily was never spoken of as lost or as dead; she had only gone before to the happy land whither they all were journeying, and where they should find her again blooming and beautiful; they spoke of her often and with cheerfulness, though tears would sometimes fall at the thought that the separation must be so long.

Elsie was much worn out with the long nursing, which she would not resign to other hands, and, as Mr. and Mrs. Daly were well pleased to have it so arranged, they still retained their posts in the household.

But the children again enjoyed the pleasant evening talks, and the prized morning half hour with mamma. They might go to her at other times also, and it was not long before Vi found an opportunity to unburden her mind by a full account of all the doubts and perplexities that had so troubled her, and the manner in which they had been removed, to her great comfort and peace.

It was in the afternoon of the second day after the funeral, the two older girls being alone with their mother in her boudoir.

Elsie was startled at the thought of the peril her child had been in.

"I blame myself," she said, "that I have not guarded you more carefully against these fearful errors. We will now take up the subject together, my children and I, and study it thoroughly; and we will invite Isa and Virgy to join with us in our search after truth."

"Molly also, mamma, if she is willing," suggested her namesake daughter.

"Certainly; but I count her among my children. Ah, I have not seen her for several days! I fear she has been feeling neglected. I will go to her now," she added, rising from the couch on which she had been reclining. "And you may both go with me, if you wish."

Isa had been with Molly for the last half hour.

"I came on that unpleasant business of making a call of condolence," she announced on her entrance, "but they told me Cousin Elsie was lying down to rest and her girls were with her—Elsie and Vi—so not wishing to disturb them, I'll visit with you first, if you like."

"I'm glad to see you," Molly said. "Please be seated."

Isadore seemed strangely embarrassed and sat for some moments without speaking.

"What is the matter, Isa?" Molly asked at length.

"I think it was really unkind in mamma to send me on this errand; it was her place to come, but she said Cousin Elsie was so bound up in that child that she would be overwhelmed with grief, and she (mamma) would not know what to say; she always found it the most awkward thing in the world to try to console people under such afflictions."

"It will not be at all necessary," returned Molly dryly. "Cousin Elsie has all the consolation she needs. She came to me for a few moments the very day Lily died, and though I could see plainly that she had been weeping, her face was perfectly calm and peaceful; and she told me that her heart sang for joy when she thought of her darling's blessedness."

Isa looked very thoughtful.

"I wish I were sure of it," she said half unconsciously; "she was such a dear little thing."

"Sure of what?" cried Molly indignantly; "can you doubt for a moment that that child is in heaven?"

"If she had only been baptized into the true church. But there, don't look so angry! how can I help wishing it when I know it's the only way to be saved?"

"But you don't know it! you can't know it, because it isn't so. O Isadore, how could you turn Papist and then try to turn Violet?"

"So you've heard about it? I supposed you had," said Isadore coloring. "I suppose too, that Cousin Elsie is very angry with me, and that was why I thought it so unkind in mamma to send me in her place, making an excuse of a headache; not a bad enough one to prevent her coming, I'm sure."

"I don't know how Cousin Elsie feels about it, or even whether she has heard it," said Molly; "though I presume she has, as Vi never conceals anything from her."

"Well I've only done my duty and can't feel that I'm deserving of blame," said Isadore. "But such a time as I've had of it since my conversion became known in the family!"

"Your perversion, you should say," interrupted Molly. "Was Aunt Louise angry?"

"Very; but principally, I could see, because she knew grandpa and Uncle Horace would reproach her for sending me to the convent."

"And did they?"

"Yes, grandpa was furious, and of course uncle said, 'I told you so.' He has only reasoned with me, though he let me know he was very much displeased about Vi. Cal and Art, too, have undertaken to convince me of my errors, while Virginia sneers and asks why I could not be content to remain a Protestant; and altogether I've had a sweet time of it for the last two weeks."

"There's a tap at the door; will you please open it?" said Molly.

It was Mrs. Travilla, Elsie and Violet whom Isadore admitted. She recognized them with a deep blush and an embarrassed, deprecating air; for the thought instantly struck her that Vi had probably just been telling her mother what had occurred during her absence.

"Ah, Isa, I did not know you were here," her cousin said taking her hand. "I am pleased to see you."

The tone was gentle and kind and there was not a trace of displeasure in look or manner.

"Thank you, cousin," Isa said, trying to recover her composure. "I came to—mamma has a headache, and sent me——"

"Yes; never mind, I know all you would say," Elsie answered, tears trembling in her soft brown eyes, but a look of perfect peace and resignation on her sweet face; "you feel for my sorrow, and I thank you for your sympathy. But Isa, the consolations of God are not small with me, and I know that my little one is safe with him.

"Molly, my child, how are you to-day?"

"Very well, thank you," Molly answered, clinging to the hand that was offered her, and looking up with dewy eyes into the calm, beautiful face bending over her. "How kind you are to think of me at such a time as this. Ah cousin, it puzzles me to understand why afflictions should be sent to one who already seems almost an angel in goodness."

Elsie shook her head. "You cannot see my heart, Molly; and the Master knows just how many strokes of his chisel are needed to fashion the soul in his image; he will not make one too many. Besides should I grudge him one of the many darlings he has given me? or her the bliss he has taken her to? Ah no, no! his will be done with me and mine."

She sat down upon a sofa, and making room for Isa, who had been exchanging greetings with her younger cousins, invited her to a seat by her side.

"I want to talk with you," she said gently, "Vi has been telling me everything. Ah, do not think I have any reproaches for you, though nothing could have grieved me more than your success in what you attempted."

She then went on to give, in her own gentle, kindly way, good and sufficient reasons for her dread and hatred of—not Papists—but Popery, and concluded by inviting Isa to join with them in a thorough investigation of its arrogant claims.

Isa consented, won by her cousin's generous forbearance and affectionate interest in her welfare, and arrangements were made to begin the very next day.

Molly's writing desk stood open on the table by her side, and Violet's bright eyes catching sight of the address on a letter lying there, "Oh, cousin, have you heard?" she exclaimed, "and is it good news?"

"Yes," replied Molly, a flush of pride and pleasure mantling her cheek. "I should have told you at once, if—under ordinary circumstances;—but—" and her eyes filled as she turned them upon Mrs. Travilla.

"Dear child, I am interested now and always in all your pains and pleasures," responded the latter, "and shall heartily rejoice in any good that has come to you."

Then Molly, blushing and happy, explained that she had been using her spare time for months past, in making a translation of a French story, had offered it for publication, and, after weeks of anxious waiting, had that morning received a letter announcing its acceptance, and enclosing a check for a hundred dollars.

"My dear child, I am proud of you—of the energy, patience and perseverance you have shown," her cousin said warmly, and with a look of great gratification. "Success, so gained, must be very sweet, and I offer you my hearty congratulations."

The younger cousins added theirs, Elsie and Vi rejoicing as at a great good to themselves, and Isa expressing extreme surprise at the discovery that Molly had attained to so much knowledge, and possessed sufficient talent for such an undertaking.

"Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
—POPE.

The winter and spring passed very quietly at Ion. At Roselands there was more gayety, the girls going out frequently, and receiving a good deal of company at home.

Virginia was seldom at Ion, but Isadore spent an hour there almost every day pursuing the investigation proposed by her Cousin Elsie.

She was an honest and earnest inquirer after truth, and at length acknowledged herself entirely convinced of the errors into which she had been led, entirely restored to the evangelical faith; and more than that, she became a sincere and devoted Christian; much to the disgust and chagrin of her worldly-minded mother and Aunt Delaford, who would have been far better pleased to see her a mere butterfly of fashion, as were her sister and most of her younger friends.

But to her brother Arthur, and at both the Oaks and Ion, the change in Isa was a source of deep joy and thankfulness.

Also it was the means of leading Calhoun, who had long been halting between two opinions, to come out decidedly upon the Lord's side.

Old Mr. Dinsmore had become quite infirm, and Cal now took entire charge of the plantation. Arthur was busy in his profession, and Walter was at West Point preparing to enter the army.

Herbert and Meta Carrington were at the North; the one attending college, the other at boarding-school. Old Mrs. Carrington was still living; making her home at Ashlands; and through her, the Rosses were frequently heard from.

They were still enjoying a large measure of worldly prosperity, Mr. Ross being a very successful merchant. He had taken his son Philip into partnership a year ago, and Lucy's letter spoke much of the lad as delighting his father and herself, by his business ability and shrewdness.

They had their city residence, as well as their country seat. Gertrude had made her debut into fashionable society in the fall, and spent a very gay winter, and the occasional letters she wrote to the younger Elsie, were filled with descriptions of the balls, parties, operas and theatricals she attended, the splendors of her own attire, and the elegant dresses worn by others.

It may be that at another time Elsie, so unaccustomed to worldly pleasures, would have found these subjects interesting from their very novelty; but now while the parting from Lily was so recent, when her happy death had brought the glories of heaven so near, how frivolous they seemed.

They had more attraction for excitable, excitement-loving Violet; yet even she, interested for the moment, presently forgot them again, as something reminded her of the dear little sister, who was not lost but gone before to the better land.

Vi had a warm, loving heart; no one could be fonder of home, parents, brothers and sisters than she, but as spring drew on, she began to have a restless longing for change of scene and employment. She had been growing fast, and felt weak and languid.

Both she and Elsie had attained their full height, Vi being a trifle the taller of the two; they grew daily in beauty and grace, and were not more lovely in person than in character and mind.

They were as open as the day with their gentle, tender mother, and their fond, proud father—proud of his lovely wife, and his sons and daughters, whose equals he truly believed were not to be found anywhere throughout the whole length and breadth of the land. So Vi was not slow in telling of her desire for change.

It was on a lovely evening in May, when the whole family were gathered in the veranda, serenely happy in each other's society, the babe in his mother's arms, Rosie on her father's knee, the others grouped about them, doing nothing but enjoy the rest and quiet after a busy day with books and work.

Molly in her wheeled chair, was there in their midst, feeling herself quite one of them and looking as contented and even blithesome as any of the rest. She was feeling very glad over her success in a second literary venture, thinking of Dick too, and how delightful it would be if she could only talk it all over with him.

He had told her in his last letter that she was making him proud of her, and what a thrill of delight the words had given her.

"Papa and mamma!" exclaimed Violet, breaking a pause in the conversation, "home is very dear and sweet, and yet—I'm afraid I ought to be ashamed to say it, but I do want to go away somewhere for awhile, to the seashore I think; that is if we can all go and be together."

"I see no objection if all would like it," her father said, with an indulgent smile. "What do you say to the plan, little wife?"

"I echo my husband's sentiments as a good wife should," she answered with something of the sportiveness of other days.

"And we echo yours, mother," said Edward. "Do we not?" appealing to the others.

"Oh yes, yes!" they cried, "a summer at the seashore, by all means."

"In a cottage home of our own; shall it not be, papa?" added Elsie.

"Your mamma decides all such questions," was his smiling rejoinder.

"I approve the suggestion. It is far preferable to hotel life," she said. "Molly, my child, you are the only one who has not spoken."

Molly's bright face had clouded a little. "I want you all to go and enjoy yourselves," she said, "though I shall miss you sadly."

"Miss us! do you then intend to decline going along?"

Molly colored and hesitated; "I'm such a troublesome piece of furniture to move," she said half jestingly, bravely trying to cover up the real pain that came with the thought.

"That is nothing," said Mr. Travilla, so gently and tenderly that happy, grateful tears sprang to her eyes; "you go, of course, with the rest of us; unless there is some more insuperable objection—such as a disinclination on your part, and even that should, perhaps, be overruled; for the change would do you good."

"O Molly you will not think of staying behind?"

"We should miss you sadly," said Elsie and Vi.

"And if you go you'll see Dick," suggested Eddie.

Molly's heart bounded at the thought. "Oh," she said, her eyes sparkling, "how delightful that would be! and since you are all so kind, I'll be glad, very glad to go."

"Here comes grandpa's carriage. I'm so glad!" exclaimed Herbert, the first to spy it as it turned in at the avenue gate. "Now I hope they'll say they'll all go too."

He had his wish; the carriage contained Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, their son and daughter, and it soon appeared that they had come to propose the very thing Herbert desired, viz., that adjacent cottages at the seashore should be engaged for the two families, and all spend the summer there together.

It was finally arranged that the Dinsmores should precede the others by two or three weeks, then Mr. Dinsmore return for his daughter and her family, and Mr. Travilla follow a little later in the season.

Also that the second party should make their journey by water; it would be easier for Molly, and newer to all than the land route which they had taken much oftener in going North.

"Dear me, how I wish we were rich!" exclaimed Virginia Conly when she heard of it the next morning at breakfast, from Cal, who had spent the evening at Ion. "I'd like nothing better than to go North for the summer; not to a dull, prosy life in a cottage though, but to some of the grand hotels where people dress splendidly and have hops and all sorts of gay times. If I had the means I'd go to the seashore for a few weeks, and then off to Saratoga for the rest of the season, Mamma, couldn't we manage it somehow? You ought to give Isa and me every advantage possible, if you want us to make good matches."

"I shouldn't need persuasion to gratify you, if I had the money, Virginia," she answered dryly, and with a significant glance at her father and sons.

There was no response from them; for none of them felt able to supply the coveted funds.

"I think it very likely Cousin Elsie will invite you to visit them," remarked Arthur at length, breaking the silence which had followed his mother's remark.

"I shall certainly accept if she does," said Isa; "for I should dearly like to spend the summer with her there."

"Making garments for the poor, reading good books and singing psalms and hymns," remarked Virginia with a contemptuous sniff.

"Very good employments, all of them," returned Arthur quietly, "though I feel safe in predicting that a good deal more time will be spent by the Travillas in bathing, riding, driving, boating and fishing. They are no ascetics, but the most cheerful, happy family I have ever come across."

"Yes, it's quite astonishing how easily they've taken the death of that child," said Mrs. Conly, ill-naturedly.

"Mother, how can you!" exclaimed Arthur, indignant at the insinuation.

"O mamma, no one could think for a moment it was from want of affection!" cried Isadore.

"I have not said so; but you didn't tell me, I suppose, how Molly assured you her cousin had no need of consolation?"

"Yes, mother, but it was that her grief was swallowed up in the realizing sense of the bliss of her dear departed child. Oh they all talk of her to this day with glad tears in their eyes,—sorrowing for themselves but rejoicing for her."

Elsie did give a cordial invitation to her aunt and the two girls to spend the summer with her and it was accepted at first, but declined afterward when a letter came from Mrs. Delaford, inviting them to join her in some weeks' sojourn, at her expense, first at Cape May and afterward at Saratoga.

It would be the gay life of dressing, dancing and flirting at great hotels, for which Virginia hungered, and was snatched at with great avidity by herself and her mother.

Isadore would have preferred to be with the Travillas, but Mrs. Conly would not hear of it.

"Aunt Delaford would be mortally offended. And then the idea of throwing away such a chance! Was Isa crazy? It would be well enough to accept Elsie's offer to pay their traveling expenses and provide each with a handsome outfit; but her cottage would be no place to spend the summer in, when they could do so much better; they would meet few gentlemen there; Elsie and Mr. Travilla were so absurdly particular as to whom they admitted to an acquaintance with their daughters; if there was the slightest suspicion against a man's moral character, he might as well wish for the moon as for the entree to their house; or so much as a bowing acquaintance with Elsie or Vi. It was really too absurd."

"But, mamma," expostulated Isadore, "surely you would not be willing that we should associate with any one who was not of irreproachable character?"

Mrs. Conly colored and looked annoyed.

"There is no use in being too particular, Isadore," she said, "one can't expect perfection; young men are very apt to be a little wild, and they often settle down afterward into very good husbands."

"Really, I don't think any the worse of a young fellow for sowing a few wild oats," remarked Virginia, with a toss of her head: "they're a great deal more interesting than your good young men."

"Such as Cal and Art," suggested Isa, smiling slightly. "Mamma, don't you wish they'd be a little wild?"

"Nonsense, Isadore! your brothers are just what I would have them! I don't prefer wild young men, but I hope I have sense enough not to expect everybody's sons to be as good as mine, and charity enough to overlook the imperfections of those who are not."

"Well, mamma," said Isadore with great seriousness, "I have talked this matter over with Cousin Elsie, and I think she takes the right view of it; that the rule should be as strict for men as for women; that the sin which makes a woman an outcast from decent society, should receive the same condemnation when committed by a man; that a woman should require as absolute moral purity in the man she marries, as men do in the women they choose for wives; and so long as we are content with anything less, so long as we smile on men whom we know to be immoral, we are in a measure responsible for their vices."

"I endorse that sentiment," said Arthur, coming in from an adjoining room; "it would be a great restraint upon men's vicious inclinations, if they knew that indulgence in vice would shut them out of ladies' society."

"A truce to the subject. I'm tired of it," said Virginia. "Is it decided, mamma, that we take passage in the steamer with the Travillas?"

"Yes; and now let us turn our attention to the much more agreeable topic of dress; there are a good many questions to settle in regard to it;—what we must have, what can be got here, and what after we reach Philadelphia."

"And how one dollar can be made to do the work of two," added Virginia; "for there are loads and loads of things I must have in order to make a respectable appearance at the watering-places."

"And we have just two weeks in which to make our arrangements," added her mother.

"Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard."
—SHAKESPEARE.

Early in the morning of a perfect June day, our numerous party arrived at the wharf where lay the steamer that was to carry them to Philadelphia.

The embarkation was made without accident. Molly had had a nervous dread of her share in it, but under her uncle's careful supervision, was conveyed safely on board.

The weather was very warm, the sea perfectly calm, but as they steamed out of the harbor a pleasant breeze sprang up, and the voyage began most prosperously.

There were a hundred lady passengers, and not more than a dozen gentlemen; but to Virginia's delight, one of these last was a gay dashing young army officer, with whom she had a slight acquaintance.

He caught sight of her directly, hastened to greet her, and they were soon promenading the deck together, engaged in an evident flirtation.

Mr. Dinsmore, seated at some little distance with his daughter and her children about him, watched his niece's proceedings with a deepening frown. He was not pleased with either her conduct or her companion.

At length, rising and approaching his sister, "Do you know that young man, Louise?" he asked.

"Not intimately," she returned, bridling. "He is Captain Brice of the army."

"Do you know his character?"

"I have heard that he belongs to a good family, and I can see that he is a gentleman. I hope you are satisfied."

"No, I am not, Louise. He is a wild, reckless fellow, fond of drink, gambles——"

"And what of it?" she interrupted. "I don't suppose he's going to teach Virginia to do either."

"He is no fit associate for her or for any lady. Will you interpose your authority——"

"No, I won't; I'm not going to insult a gentleman, and I'm satisfied that Virginia has sense enough to take care of herself."

"Waving the question whether a man of his character is a gentleman, let me remark that it is not necessary to insult him in order to put a stop to this. You can call your daughter to your side, keep her with you, take an early opportunity to inform her of the man's reputation, and bid her discourage his attentions. If you do not interfere," he added in his determined way, "I shall take the matter into my own hands."

"Isadore," said Mrs. Conly, "go and tell your sister I wish to speak to her."

Virginia was extremely vexed at the summons, but obeyed it promptly.

"What can mamma want? I was having such a splendid time," she said pettishly to her sister, when they were out of the captain's hearing.

"It is more Uncle Horace than mamma."

Virginia reddened. She knew her uncle's opinions, and she was not entirely ignorant of the reputation borne by Captain Brice.

She feigned ignorance however, listened with apparent surprise to her uncle's account of him and promised sweetly to treat him with the most distant politeness in future.

Mr. Dinsmore saw through her, but what more could he do, except keep a strict watch over both.

The captain, forsaken by Virginia, sauntered about the deck and presently approaching an elderly lady who sat somewhat apart from the rest, lifted his cap with a smiling "How do you do, Mrs. Noyes?" and taking an empty chair by her side entered into a desultory conversation.

"By the by," he said, "what an attractive family group is that over yonder," with a slight motion of the head in the direction of the Travillas. "The mother is my beau-ideal of a lovely matron, in appearance at least—I have not the happiness of her acquaintance—and the daughters are models of beauty and grace. They are from your neighborhood, I believe?"

"Yes; I have a calling acquaintance with Mrs. Travilla. She was a great heiress; has peculiar notions, rather puritanical; but is extremely agreeable for all that."

"Could you give me an introduction?"

She shook her head. "I must beg you to excuse me."

"But why?"

"Ah, captain, do you not know that you have the reputation of being a naughty man? not very; but then, as I have told you, the mother is very strict and puritanical in her ideas; the father is the same, and I should only offend them without doing you any good; the girls would not dare, or even so much as wish to look at or speak to you."

Growing red and angry, the captain stammered out something about being no worse than ninetenths of the rest of the world.

"Very true, no doubt," she said; "and please understand that you are not tabooed by me. I'm not so strict. But perhaps," she added laughing, "it may be because I've no daughters to be endangered by young fellows who are as handsome and fascinating as they are naughty." He bowed his acknowledgments, then, as a noble looking young man was seen to approach the group with the manner of one on a familiar footing inquired, "Who is that fellow that seems so much at home with them?"

"His name is Leland; Lester Leland. He's a nephew of the Leland who bought Fairview from the Fosters some years ago. He's an artist and poor—the nephew—he had to work his own way in the world; has to yet for that matter. I should wonder at the notice the Travillas take of him, only that I've heard he's one of the good sort. Then besides you know he may make a great reputation some day."

"A pious fortune-hunter, I presume," sneered Brice, rising to give his seat to a lady; then with a bow he turned and walked away.

Mr. Dinsmore was taking his grandsons over the vessel, showing them the engine and explaining its complicated machinery.

Edward, who had quite a mechanical turn, seemed to understand it nearly as well as his grandfather, and Harold and Herbert, bright, intelligent boys of ten and twelve, looked and examined with much interest, asking sensible questions and listening attentively to the replies.

They were active, manly little fellows, not fool-hardy or inclined to mischief; nor was their mother of the over-anxious kind; she could trust them, and when the tour of inspection with their grandpa was finished, they were allowed to roam about by themselves.

Captain Brice took advantage of this to make acquaintance with them, and win their hearts by thrilling stories of buffalo hunts and encounters with wolves, grizzly bears and Indians, in which he invariably figured as conquering hero.

He thought to make them stepping stones to an acquaintance with their sisters, and congratulated himself on his success when, on being summoned to return to their mother, they asked eagerly if he would not tell them more to-morrow.

"Just try me, my fine fellows," he answered, laughing.

"Mamma, what do you want with us?" they asked, running up to her. "A gentleman was telling us such nice stories."

"I think the call to supper will come very soon," she said, "and I want you to smooth your hair and wash your hands. Dinah will take you to your state-room and see that you have what you need."

"I'm afraid we're going to have a gust," remarked Isadore as the lads hurried away to do their mother's bidding; "see how the clouds are gathering yonder in the northwest."

"A thunder-storm at sea; how romantic!" said Virginia; "'twill be something to talk about all our lives."

"Silly child!" said her mother, "to hear you talk, one would think there was no such thing as danger."

"Pshaw, mamma! we're hardly out of sight of land—our own shores," she retorted.

"That would but increase our danger if the storm were coming from the opposite direction," said her uncle; "but fortunately, it is from a quarter to drive us out to sea."

"Do you think it will be a gust, grandpa?" asked Violet, a little anxiously.

"I fear so; the heat has become so oppressive, the breeze has entirely died down, and the clouds look threatening; but, my child, do not fear; our Father, God, rules upon the sea as well as the land; the stormy wind fulfilling his word."

The storm came up rapidly, bursting on them in its fury before they had left the tea-table; the lightning's flash and the crash and roll of the thunder followed in quick succession; the stentorian voices of the officers of the vessel, shouting their orders to the crew, the heavy hasty tramp of the men's feet, the whistling of the wind through the rigging, the creaking of the cordage, the booming of the sea, mingling with the terrific thunder claps and the down-pouring of the rain, combined in an uproar fit to cause the stoutest heart to quake.

Faces grew pale with fear; the women and children huddled together in frightened groups; the men looked anxiously at each other, and between the thunder peals, spoke in low tones of the danger of being driven out to sea, and asked each other of the captain's skill, on what part of the coast they were, and whether the vessel were strong enough to outride the tempest, should it continue long.

"Oh, this is dreadful! I'm afraid we shall all go to the bottom, if it keeps on much longer," Mrs. Conly was saying to her niece, when there came a crash as if the very sky were falling; as if it had come down upon them; a shock that threw some from their seats, while others caught at the furniture to save themselves; the vessel shivered from stem to stern, seemed to stand still for an instant, then rushed on again.

"It struck! we're lost!" cried a number of voices, while many women and children screamed, and some fainted.

"Courage, my friends!" cried Mr. Dinsmore in loud clear tones, that could be distinctly heard by all, above the storm. "All is not lost that is in danger; and the 'Lord's hand is not shortened that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy that it cannot hear.'"

"Yes, it is time to pray," said an excited, answering voice; "the lightning has struck and shivered the mast; and look how it has run along over our heads and down yon mirror; as you may see by the melting of the glass. It has doubtless continued on to the hold, and set fire to the cotton stored there," the speaker—a thin, nervous looking man, who was pushing his way through the throng—added in a whisper close to Mr. Dinsmore's ear.

"Be quiet, will you!" said the latter sternly; "these helpless women and children are sufficiently frightened already."

"Yes, yes and I don't want to scare 'em unnecessarily; but we'd better be prepared for the worst."

Elsie had overheard the whispers and her cheek paled, a look of keen distress coming into her face as she glanced from one to another of her loved ones, dearer far than her own life.

But she showed no other sign of agitation; her heart sent up one swift cry to him to whom "all power is given in heaven and in earth," and faith and love triumphed over fear. His love to her was infinite nor was there any limit to his power. She would trust him that all would be well whether in life or death.

"'Even the wind and the sea obey him,'" she whispered to Violet, who was asking with pale trembling lips, "Mamma, mamma, what will become of us?"

"But mamma they say the vessel is loaded with cotton, and that the lightning has probably set it on fire."

"Still, my darling, he is able to take care of us; 'it is nothing with him to help whether with many or with them that have no power;' he is the Lord our God."

Her father had come to her side. "Daughter, my dear, dear daughter!" he said with emotion, taking her in his arms as was his wont in her early years.

"O grandpa, take care of mamma, whatever becomes of us!" exclaimed Elsie and Vi together.

"No, no!" she said, "save my children and never mind me."

"Mamma, you must be our first care!" said Eddie hoarsely.

"Your sisters, my son, and your brothers. Leave me to the last," she answered firmly.

"We will hope to save you all," Mr. Dinsmore said, trying to speak cheerfully; "but, my child, if you perish, I perish with you."

"Horace, is it true? is it true that the vessel is on fire?" gasped Mrs. Conly, clutching his arm and staring him in the face with eyes wild with terror.

"Try to calm yourself, Louise," he said kindly. "We do not know certainly yet, though there is reason to fear it may be so."

"Horrible!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I can't die! I've never made any preparations for death. Oh save me, Horace, if you can! No, no save my girls, my poor dear girls, and never mind me."

"Louise, my poor sister," he said, deeply moved, "we will not despair yet of all being saved; but try to prepare for the worst, turn now to him who has said, Look unto me and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth."

Virginia had thrown herself upon a sofa, in strong hysterics, and Isadore stood over her with smelling salts and fan.

Mrs. Conly hurried back to them with tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh what is to be done?" she sighed, taking the fan from Isa's hand. "If Cal and Art were but here to look after us! Your uncle has his hands full with his daughter and her children."

"Mamma let us ask God for help; he and he only can give it," whispered Isadore.

"Yes, yes, ask him! you know how and he will hear you. Virgy, my child, try to calm yourself."

Isa knelt by her sister's side; there were many on their knees crying for succor in this hour of terrible danger.

The storm was abating, the rain had nearly ceased to fall, and the wind to lash the waves into fury; the flashes of lightning were fewer and fainter and the heavy claps of thunder had given place to distant mutterings; they would not be wrecked by the fury of the tempest, yet alas, there still remained the more fearful danger of devouring fire.

It was a night of terror; no one thought of retiring, and few but young children closed an eye.

Every preparation was made for taking to the water at a moment's warning; those who had life preservers—and all our party were supplied with them—brought them out and secured them to their persons; boats were made ready to launch, and those who retained sufficient presence of mind and forethought, selected, and kept close at hand, such valuables as it seemed possible they might be able to carry about them.

The Travillas kept together, Mr. Dinsmore with them, and young Leland also.

He was to them only an ordinary friend, but one of them he would have died to save, and almost he would have done it for the others for her sake.

Poor Molly had never felt her helplessness more than now; fastened to her chair as with bands of steel, there was less hope of escape for her than for others.

Her thoughts flew to Dick in that first moment of terror, to Dick who loved her better than any other earthly thing. Alas, he was far away; but there was One near, her Elder Brother, who would never leave nor forsake her. With that thought she grew calm and strong to wait and to endure.

But her uncle did not forget her; with his own hands he fastened a life preserver about her.

"My poor helpless child," he said low and tenderly, "do not fear that you will be forgotten should there be any chance for rescue."

"Thank you, dear, kind uncle," she said with tears in her eyes, "but leave me to the last, my life is worth so much less than theirs," glancing toward her cousins; "there would be only Dick to mourn its loss——"

"No, no, Molly, we all love you!" he interrupted.

She smiled a little sadly, but went on, "and it would be more difficult to save me than two others."

"Still, do not despair," he said, "I will not leave you to perish alone; and I have hope that in the good providence of God, we shall all be saved."

Gradually the screaming, sobbing, fainting, gave place to a dull despairing waiting, waiting, with a trembling, sickening dread, for the confirmation of their worst fears.

Rosie had fallen asleep upon a sofa with her head in her eldest sister's lap, Vi on an ottoman beside them, tightly clasping a hand of each.

Elsie had her babe in her arms; he was sleeping sweetly, and laying her head back, she closed her eyes while her thoughts flew to Ion, to the husband and father who would perhaps learn to-morrow of the loss of all his treasures.

Her heart bled for him, as she seemed to see him bowed down with heart-breaking sorrow.

Then arose the question "what should the end bring to them—herself and her beloved children?"

For herself she could say, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil; for thou art with me." Elsie, Vi and Eddie she had good reasons to hope were true Christians; but Harold and Herbert?—A pang shot through her heart. Good, obedient children though they were, she yet knew not that they had ever experienced that new birth without which none can enter heaven.

Jesus said, "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God."

"Mamma, what is it?" Eddie asked, seeing her glance anxiously from side to side.

"Your brothers! I do not see them. Where are they?"

"They went into their state-room a moment since;—right here, you know. Shall I call them?"

"Yes, yes; I must speak to them."

They came hand in hand, in answer to Eddie's summons.

Herbert's eyes were full of tears, not of terror or grief; there seemed a new happy light in each boyish face.

"Mamma," whispered Harold, putting his arm round her neck, his lips to her ear, "we went away to be alone, Herbie and I; we knew what made you look so sorry at us;—because you were afraid we didn't love Jesus; but we do, mamma, and we went away to give ourselves to him; and we mean to be his always, whether we live or die."

Glad tears rolled down her cheeks as she silently embraced first one, then the other.

And so slowly the night wore away, a reign of terror for hours, while every moment they were watching with despairing hearts for the smell of fire or the bursting out of flames from the hold; their fears gave way to a faint hope as time passed on and the catastrophe was still delayed; a hope that grew gradually stronger and brighter, till at last it was lost in glad certainty.

The electricity, it appeared, had scattered over the iron of the machinery, instead of running on down into the hold.

Some said, "What a lucky escape!" others, "What a kind providence."

"Sacred love is basely bought and sold;
Wives are grown traffic, marriage is a trade."
—RANDOLPH.

They came safely into port. A little crowd of eager, expectant friends stood waiting on the wharf; among them a tall, dark-eyed young man, with a bright, intellectual face, whom Molly, seated on the deck in the midst of the family group, recognized with almost a cry of delight.

The instant a plank was thrown out, he sprang on board, and in another moment she was in his arms, sobbing, "Oh, Dick, Dick. I thought I'd never see you again!"

"Why?" he said with a joyous laugh, "we've not been so long or so far apart that you need have been in despair of that."

Then as he turned to exchange greetings with the others, his ear caught the words, "We had an awful night, expecting every moment to see flames bursting out from the hold."

"What, what does it mean?" he asked, grasping his uncle's hand, while his cheek paled, and he glanced hastily from side to side.

"We have had a narrow escape," said Mr. Dinsmore.

The main facts were soon given, the details as they drove to their hotel, and Dick rejoiced with trembling, as he learned how, almost, he had lost these dear ones.

A few days were spent in Philadelphia, then Mr. Dinsmore and the Travillas sought their seaside homes, Dick going with them.

Their coming was hailed with joy by Mrs. Dinsmore and her daughter Rose, who had been occupying their cottage for a week or more.

The Conlys would linger some time longer in the city, laying in a stock of finery for the summer campaign, then, joined by Mrs. Delaford, they too would seek the seashore.

The cottages were quite out of the town, built facing the ocean, and as near it as consistent with safety and comfort.

The children hailed the first whiff of the salt sea breeze with eager delight, were down upon the beach within a few minutes of their arrival, and until bedtime left it only long enough to take their tea, finishing their day with a long moonlight drive along the shore.

They were given perfect liberty to enjoy themselves to the full; the only restrictions being that they were not to go into danger, or out of sight of the house, or to the water's edge unless accompanied by some older member of the family or a trusty servant.

The next morning they were all out again for a ramble before breakfast, and immediately after prayers Vi, Rosie, Harold and Herbert, with a man servant in attendance, returned to the beach.

The girls were collecting shells and seaweed, the two boys skipping stones on the water, Ben, the servant, watching the sport with keen interest, and occasionally joining in it.

Absorbed in their amusements, none of them noticed the approach of a young man in undress uniform.

He followed them for some moments in a careless way, as if he were but casually strolling in the same direction, yet was watching with close attention every movement of Vi's graceful figure.

She and Rosie were unconsciously widening the distance between their brothers and themselves, not noticing that the boys had become stationary.

Perceiving this, and that they were now out of earshot, the stranger quickened his pace, and coming up behind the lads, hailed them with, "So here you are, my fine fellows! I'm pleased to meet you again!"

"Oh," exclaimed Herbert, looking round, "it's the gentleman that tells such nice stories! Good-morning, sir. We're glad to see you, too."

"Yes, indeed," assented Harold offering his hand, which the stranger grasped and shook heartily. "We're having a splendid time skipping stones. Did you ever do it?"

"Many a time when I was a little chap like you, I used to be a famous hand at it. Let's see if I can equal you now."

He was soon apparently as completely engrossed with the sport as any of them, yet through it all was furtively watching Vi and Rosie as they strolled slowly onward, now stooping to pick up a shell or pausing a moment to gaze out over the wide expanse of waters, then sauntering on again in careless, aimless fashion, thoroughly enjoying the entire freedom from ordinary tasks and duties.

The boys knew nothing about their new companion except what they had seen of him on board the vessel; their mother had not understood who was their story-telling friend, and in the excitement of the storm and the hasty visit to the city, he had been quite forgotten by all three. Nor were any of the family aware of his vicinity; thus it happened that the lads had not been warned against him.

Vi, however, had seen him with Virginia and knew from what passed directly afterward between her grandfather and aunt (though she did not hear the conversation) that the stranger was not one whom Mr. Dinsmore approved.

Not many minutes had passed before she looked back, and seeing that she had left her brothers some distance behind, hastily began to retrace her footsteps, Rosie with her.

The instant they turned to do so, the captain, addressing Harold, artfully inquired, "Do you know that young lady?"

"I should think so! she's my own sister," said the boy proudly. "The little one too."

"Pretty girls, both of them. Won't you introduce me?"

"Yes, I suppose so," returned the boy a little doubtfully, and taking a more critical survey of his new acquaintance than he had thought necessary before; "you—you're a gentleman and a good man, aren't you?"

"Don't I look like it?" laughed the captain. "Would you take me for a rogue?"

"I—I don't believe you'd be a burglar or a thief, but——"

"Well?"

"Please don't think I mean to be rude, sir, but you broke the third commandment a minute ago."

"The third? which is that? for I really don't remember."

"I thought you'd forgotten it," said Herbert.

"It's the one that says, 'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,'" answered Harold, in low reverent tones.

"I own to being completely puzzled," said the captain. "I certainly haven't been swearing."

"No, not exactly; but you said, 'By George,' and 'By Heaven,' and mamma says such words are contrary to the spirit of the command, and that no one who is a thorough gentleman and Christian will ever use them."

"That's a very strict rule," he said, lifting his cap and bowing low to Violet, who was now close at hand.

She did not seem to notice it, or to see him at all.

"Boys," she said with gentle gravity, "let us go home now."

"What for, Vi? I'm not tired of the beach yet," objected Herbert.

"I have something to tell you; something else to propose. Won't you go with me?"

"Yes," and with a hasty "good-bye," to the captain, they joined their sisters, who were already moving slowly toward home.

"What have you to tell us, Vi?" asked Harold.

"That I know grandpa does not approve of that man, and I am quite sure mamma would not wish you to be with him. The sun is getting hot and there are Dick and Molly on the veranda; let's go and talk with them for a while. It's nearly time now for our drive."

"Miss Wi'let," said Ben, coming up behind, "dat fellah's mighty pow'ful mad; swored a big oath dat you's proud as Luficer."

"Oh, then we won't have anything more to do with him!" exclaimed the boys, Herbert adding, "but I do wish he was good, for he does tell such famous stories."

They kept their word and were so shy of the captain that he soon gave up trying to cultivate their acquaintance, or to make that of their sisters.

Mrs. Noyes and he were boarding at the same hotel, and from her he learned that Mrs. Delaford and the Conlys were expected shortly, having engaged rooms on the same floor with herself.

The information was agreeable, as, though he did not care particularly for Virginia, flirting with her would, he thought, be rather an enjoyable way of passing the time; all the more so that it would be in opposition to Mr. Dinsmore's wishes; for the captain knew very well why, and at whose suggestion, Virginia had been summoned away from his society on board the vessel, and had no love for the man who so highly disapproved of him.

The girl, too, resented her uncle's interference, and on her arrival, with the perversity of human nature, went farther in her encouragement of the young man's attentions than she, perhaps, would otherwise have done.

Her mother and aunt looked on with indifference, if not absolute approval.

Isadore was the only one who offered a remonstrance, and she was cut short with a polite request to "mind her own business."

"I think I am, Virgy," she answered pleasantly, "I'm afraid you're getting yourself into trouble; and surely I ought to try to save you from that."

"I won't submit to surveillance," returned her sister. "I wouldn't live in the same house with Uncle Horace for anything. And if mamma and Aunt Delaford don't find fault, you needn't."

Isadore, seriously concerned for Virginia's welfare, was questioning in her own mind whether she ought to mention the matter to her uncle, when her mother set that doubt at rest by forbidding her to do so.

Isa, who was trying to be a consistent Christian, would neither flirt nor dance, and the foolish, worldly-minded mother was more vexed at her behavior than at Virginia's.

Isa slipped away to the cottage homes of the Dinsmores and Travillas whenever she could. She enjoyed the quiet pleasures and the refined and intellectual society of her relatives and the privileged friends, both ladies and gentlemen, whom they gathered about them.

Lester Leland, who had taken up his abode temporarily in that vicinity, was a frequent visitor and sometimes brought a brother artist with him. Dick's cronies came too, and old friends of the family from far and near.

Elsie sent an early invitation to Lucy Ross to bring her daughters and spend some weeks at the cottage.

The reply was a hasty note from Lucy saying that she deeply regretted her inability to accept, but they were extremely busy making preparations to spend the season at Saratoga, had already engaged their rooms and could not draw back; beside that Gertrude and Kate had set their hearts on going. "However," she added, "she would send Phil in her place, he must have a little vacation and insisted he would rather visit their old friends the Travillas, than go anywhere else in the world; he would put up at a hotel (being a young man, he would of course prefer that) but hoped to spend a good deal of time at the cottage."

He did so, and attached himself almost exclusively to the younger Elsie, with an air of proprietorship which she did not at all relish.

She tried to let him see it without being rude; but the blindness of egotism and vast self-appreciation was upon him and he thought her only charmingly coy; probably with the intent to thus conceal her love and admiration.

He was egregiously mistaken. She found him, never the most interesting of companions at times an intolerable bore; and was constantly contrasting his conversation which ran upon trade and money making, stocks, bonds and mortgages, to the exclusion of nearly everything else except fulsome flatteries of herself—with that of Lester Leland, who spoke with enthusiasm of his art; who was a lover of Nature and Nature's God; whose thoughts dwelt among lofty themes, while at the same time he was entirely free from vanity, his manner as simple and unaffected as that of a little child.

He was a favorite with all the family; his society enjoyed especially by the ladies.

He devoted himself more particularly to sculpture, but also sketched finely from nature, as did both Elsie and Violet; the latter was beginning to show herself a genius in both that and music, Elsie had recently under Leland's instructions, done some very pretty wood carving and modeling in clay, and this similarity of tastes made them very congenial.

Philip's stay was happily not lengthened, business calling him back to New York.

Letters came now and then from Mrs. Ross, Gertrude or Kate, telling of their gay life at Saratoga.

The girls seemed to have no lack of gentlemen admirers; among whom was a Mr. Larrabee from St. Louis, who was particularly attentive to Gertrude.

At length it was announced that they were engaged.

It was now the last of August. The wedding was to take place about the middle of October, and as the intervening six weeks would barely afford time for the preparation of the trousseau, the ladies hurried home to New York.

Then Kate came down to spend a week with the Travillas.

She looked fagged and worn, complained of ennui, was already wearied of the life she had been leading, and had lost all taste for simple pleasures.

Her faded cheek and languid air, presented a strange contrast to the fresh, bright beauty and animation of Elsie and Violet, a contrast that pained the kind, motherly heart of Mrs. Travilla, who would have been glad to make all the world as happy as she and her children were.

Elsie and Vi felt a lively interest in Gertrude's prospects, and had many questions to ask about her betrothed;—"Was he young? was he handsome? was he a good man? But, oh that was of course."

"No, not of course at all," Kate answered, almost with impatience. "She supposed he was not a bad man; but he wasn't good in their sense of the word—not in the least religious—and he was neither young nor handsome."

A moment of disappointed silence followed this communication, then Elsie said, a little doubtfully, "Well, I suppose Gerty loves him, and is happy in the prospect of becoming his wife?"

"Happy?" returned Kate, with a contemptuous sniff. "Well, I suppose she ought to be; she is getting what she wanted—plenty of money and a splendid establishment; but as to loving Mr. Victor Larrabee—I could about as soon love a—snake; and so could she. He always makes me think of one."

"Oh, Kate! and will she marry him?" both exclaimed in horror.

"She's promised to and doesn't seem inclined to draw back," replied Kate with indifference. Then bursting into a laugh, "Girls," she said, "I've had an offer too, and mamma would have had me accept it, but it didn't suit my ideas. The man himself is well enough, I don't really dislike him; but such a name! Hogg! only think of it! I told mamma that I didn't want to live in a sty, if it was lined with gold."

"No, I don't believe I could feel willing to wear that name," said Violet laughing. "But if his name suited, would you marry him without loving him?"

"I suppose so; I like riches, and mamma says such wealthy men as Mr. Hogg and Mr. Larrabee are not to be picked up every day."

"But, oh, it wouldn't be right, Kate! because you have to promise to love."

"Oh, that's a mere form!" returned Kate with a yawn. "Gerty says she's marrying for love—not of the man but his money," and Kate laughed as if it was an excellent joke.

The other two looked grave and distressed, their mother had taught them that to give the hand without the heart was folly and sin.