Elsie's Womanhood

"Joy never feasts so high
As when the first course is of misery."
—SUCKLING.

Adelaide's marriage was fixed for Christmas eve, and Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie decided to take their trip to Louisiana at once, that they might be able to return in season for the wedding, at which Elsie was to be first bridesmaid.

It was Elsie herself who broke the news of her intended journey to her faithful old nurse, explaining why she felt it her duty to go, and kindly leaving to Chloe's own decision whether she would accompany her or not.

The dusky face grew very sad for a moment, tears springing to the dark eyes; but the voice was almost cheerful as she answered, "Yes, you's right, honey darlin' you's all right to go and see 'bout dem poor souls and let 'em see dere beau'ful young missus; and your ole mammy 'll go 'long too, for she neber could stay and let her chile run all dem risks on de boats an' cars an' she no dar to take care ob her."

"That's right, my own dear old mammy. I shall be glad to have you along, and hope you will find it pleasanter than you expect; but we must trust the Lord to take care of us all; for He only can prevent the accidents you fear."

"Yes, yes, honey, dat's de truff; an' we'll trust Him an' not be 'fraid, 'cause don't He say, 'Not a hair ob your head shall perish.'"

"'What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee,'" murmured Elsie, softly. "Ah, the joy, the peace, of knowing that His presence and His love will ever go with us everywhere; and that He has all power in heaven and in earth."

A week later, Mr. Dinsmore was showing his daughter the beauties of New Orleans, where they had arrived without accident or loss. They remained in the city long enough to attend thoroughly to the business which had called them there, and to see everything worth looking at.

Elsie's plantation was in the Teche country, the very loveliest part of grand old Louisiana. In order that suitable preparations might be made for their reception, word had been sent that they might be expected on a certain day.

"We have allowed more time than necessary for this place," said Mr. Dinsmore to his daughter one evening on returning to their hotel, after seeing the last of the lions of the Crescent City; "we have two days to spare; what shall be done in them?"

"Let us go on to Viamede at once then, papa," replied Elsie, promptly. "I have been regretting that we sent notice of our coming. I doubt if it would not have been wiser to take them by surprise."

"There would not be the same preparations for your comfort," replied her father, taking a seat by her on the sofa, for they were in their own private parlor; "you may find unaired bed-linen and an empty larder, which, beside inconveniencing yourself, would sorely mortify and trouble Aunt Phillis and her right-hand woman, Sarah, the cook."

"I should be sorry you should have an inhospitable reception, papa, but fires are soon kindled and linen aired, and is not the pantry kept supplied with canned and preserved fruits? and are there not fresh fruits, vegetables, chickens, and eggs at hand for immediate use?"

"Yes, certainly; and we are not likely to suffer. We Will, then, leave here to-morrow, if you wish, taking the steamer for Berwick Bay. But why prefer to come upon them unexpectedly?"

Elsie smiled, and blushed slightly. "You know I never have any concealments from you, papa, and I will be frank about this," she said. "I don't think I apt to be suspicious, and yet the thought has come to me several times within the last few days, that the overseer has had every opportunity to abuse my poor people if he happens to be of a cruel disposition. And if he is ill-treating them I should like to catch him at it," she added, her eyes kindling, and the color deepening on her cheek.

"And what would you do in that case?" her lather asked, with a slight smile, drawing her close to him and touching his lips to the blooming cheek.

"Dismiss him, I suppose, papa; I don't know what else I could do to punish him or prevent further cruelties. I should not like to shoot him down," she added, laughingly; "and I doubt if I should have strength to flog him."

"Doubt?" laughed her father, "certainly you could not, single-handed; unless his politeness should lead him to refrain from any effort to defend himself; and I, it would seem, am not expected to have anything to do with the matter."

A deeper blush than before now suffused Elsie's fair cheek. "Forgive me, dear papa," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, and fondly stroking his face with her pretty white hand. "Please consider yourself master there as truly as at the Oaks, and as you have been for years; and understand that your daughter means to take no important step without your entire approval."

"No, I do not go there as master, but as your guest," he answered, half playfully, half tenderly.

"My guest? That seems pleasant indeed, papa; and yet I want you to be master too. But you will at least advise me?"

"To the best of my ability, my little girl."

"Thank you, my dear kind father. I have another reason for wishing to start to-morrow. I'm growing anxious and impatient to see my birthplace again: and," she added low and tenderly, "mamma's grave."

"Yes, we will visit it together for the first time; though I have stood there alone again and again, and her baby daughter used to be taken there frequently to scatter flowers over it and play beside it. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, sir, as an almost forgotten dream, as I do the house and grounds and some of the old servants who petted and humored me."

While father and daughter conversed thus together in the parlor, a dusky figure sat at a window in the adjoining bedroom, gazing out upon the moonlighted streets and watching the passers-by. But her thoughts, too, were straying to Viamede; fast-coming memories of earlier days, some all bright and joyous, others filled with the gloom and thick darkness of a terrible anguish, made her by turns long for and dread the arrival at her journey's end.

A light touch on her shoulder, and she turned to find her young mistress at her side.

"My poor old mammy, I bring you news you will be sorry to hear," said Elsie, seating herself upon the ample lap, and laying her arm across the broad shoulders.

"What dat, honey?"

"We start to-morrow for Viamede; papa has sent John to engage our passage on the steamer."

"Dat all, darlin'?" queried Chloe, with a sigh of relief, "if we's got to go, might's well go quick an' hab it ober."

"Well, I'm glad you take so sensible a view of it," remarked Elsie, relieved in her turn; "and I hope you will find much less pain and more pleasure than you expect in going back to the old home."

The next morning, as Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter sat upon the deck of the steamer, enjoying the sunlight, the breeze, and the dancing of the water, having cleared their port and gotten fairly out into the gulf, a startling incident occurred.

Chloe stood at a respectful distance, leaning over the side of the vessel, watching the play of the wheel and the rainbow in the spray that fell in showers at its every revolution. An old negro busied about the deck; drew near and addressed her:

"Well, auntie, you watchin' dat ole wheel dar? Fust time you trable on dis boat, eh?"

Chloe started at the sound of the voice, turned suddenly round and faced the speaker, her features working with emotion: one moment of earnest scrutiny on the part of both, and with a wild cry, "Aunt Chloe! my ole woman," "Uncle Joe! it can't be you," they rushed into each other's arms, and hung about each other's neck, weeping and sobbing like two children.

"Papa! what is it?" exclaimed Elsie, greatly surprised at the little scene.

"Her husband, no doubt: he's too old to be a son."

"Oh, how glad, how glad I am!" and Elsie started to her feet, her eyes full of tears, and her sweet face sparkling all over with sympathetic joy. "Papa, I shall buy him! they must never be parted again till death comes between."

A little crowd had already gathered about the excited couple, every one on deck hurrying to the spot, eager to learn the cause of the tumult of joy and grief into which the two seemed to have been so suddenly thrown.

Mr. Dinsmore rose, and giving his arm to Elsie, led her towards the throng, saying in answer to her last remark, "Better act through me, then, daughter, or you will probably be asked two or three prices."

"O papa, yes; please attend to it for me—only—only I must have him, for dear old mammy's sake, at whatever cost."

The crowd opened to the lady and gentleman as they drew near.

"My poor old mammy, what is it? whom have you found?" asked Elsie.

But Chloe was speechless with a joy so deep that it wore the aspect of an almost heart-breaking sorrow. She could only cling with choking sobs to her husband's arm. "What's all this fuss, Uncle Joe?" queried the captain. "Let go the old darkie; what's she to you?"

"My wife, sah, dat I ain't seed for twenty years, sah," replied the old man, trying to steady his trembling tones, obeying the order, but making no effort to shake off Chloe's clinging hold.

"Leave him for a little now, mammy dear; you shall never be parted again," whispered Elsie in her nurse's ear. "Come with me, and let papa talk to the captain."

Chloe obeyed, silently following her young mistress to the other side of the deck, but ever and anon turning her head to look back with wet eyes at the old wrinkled black face and white beard that to her were so dear, so charming. His eyes were following her with a look of longing, yearning affection, and involuntarily he stretched out his arms towards her.

"Off to your work, sir," ordered the captain, "and let's have no more of this nonsense."

Old Joe moved away with a patient sigh.

"The woman is your property, I presume, sir?" the captain remarked in a respectful tone, addressing Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yes, my daughter's, which amounts to the same thing," that gentleman replied in a tone of indifference; then changing the subject, made some inquiries about the speed and safety of the boat, the length of her trips, etc.

The captain answered pleasantly, showing pride in his vessel. Then they spoke of other things: the country, the crops, the weather.

"Sit down, mammy," said Elsie pityingly, as they reached the settee where she and her father had been sitting; "you are trembling so you can scarcely stand."

"O darlin', dat's true 'nuff, I'se mos' ready to drop," she said tremulously, coming down heavily upon a trunk that stood close at hand. "Oh, de good Lord hab bring me face to face wid my ole Uncle Joe; oh, I neber 'spected to see him no more in dis wicked world. But dey'll take 'im off again an' dis ole heart'll break," she added, with a bursting sob.

"No, no, mammy, you shall have him, if money can accomplish it."

"You buy 'im, darlin'? Oh, your ole mammy can neber t'ank you 'nuff!" and a low, happy laugh mingled with the choking sobs. "But dey'll ask heaps ob money."

"You shall have him, let the price be what it will," was Elsie's assurance. "See papa is bargaining with the captain now, for they look at Uncle Joe as they talk."

Chloe regarded them with eager interest; yes, they were looking at Uncle Joe, and evidently speaking of him.

"By the way," Mr. Dinsmore remarked carelessly, "does Uncle Joe belong to you? or is he merely a hired hand?"

"He's my property, sir."

"Would you like to sell?"

"I am not anxious; he's a good hand, faithful and honest: quite a religious character in fact," he concluded with a sneer; "overshoots the mark in prayin and psalm-singing. But do you want to buy?"

"Well yes; my daughter is fond of her old mammy, and for her sake would be willing to give a reasonable sum. What do you ask?"

"Make me an offer."

"Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred? ridiculous! he's worth twice that."

"I think not, he is old—not far from seventy and will soon be past work and only a burden and expense. My offer is a good one."

"Make it seven hundred and I'll take it."

Mr. Dinsmore considered a moment. "That is too high," he said at length, "but for the sake of making two poor creatures happy, I will give it."

"Cash down?"

"Yes, a check on a New Orleans bank."

"Please walk down into the cabin then, sir, and we'll conclude the business at once."

In a few moments Mr. Dinsmore returned to his daughter's side, and placing the receipted bill of sale in her hands, asked, "Have I given too much?"

"Oh, no, papa, no indeed! I should have given a thousand without a moment's hesitation, if asked it—five, ten thousand, if need be, rather than have them parted again," she exclaimed, the bright tears shining in her eyes. "Mammy, my poor old mammy, Uncle Joe belongs to me now, and you can have him always with you as long as the Lord spares your lives."

"Now bress de Lord!" cried the old woman devoutly, raising her streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven; "de good Lord dat hears de prayers ob His chilen's cryin' to Him when dere hearts is oberwhelmed!"

"Go break the news to Uncle Joe, mammy," said Elsie; "see, yonder he stands looking so eager and wistful."

Chloe hurried to his side, spoke a few rapid words; there was another long, clinging, tearful embrace, and they hastened to their master and mistress to pour out their thanks and blessings upon them, mingled with praises and fervent thanksgivings to the Giver of all good.

The joy and gratitude of the poor old couple were very sweet, very delightful to Elsie, and scarcely less so to her father.

"Mammy dear, I never saw you wear so happy a face," Elsie said, as Chloe returned to her after an hour or two spent in close conversation with her newly recovered spouse.

"Ah, honey, your ole mammy tinks she neber so glad in all her life!" cried the poor old creature, clasping her hands together in an ecstasy of joy and gratitude while the big tears shone in her eyes. "I'se got ole Uncle Joe back agin, an' he not de same, he bettah man, Christian man. He say, 'Aunt Chloe we uns trabble de same road now, honey: young Joe proud, angry, swearing drinkin' boy, your Ole Joe he lub de Lord an' try to sarve Him wid all he might. And de Lord good Massa. De debbil berry bad one.'"

"Dear mammy, I am very glad for you; I think nothing else could have made you so happy."

Chloe, weeping again for joy, went on to tell her young mistress that Uncle Joe had discovered a grandchild in New Orleans, Dinah by name, waiting-maid in a wealthy family.

"But how is that, mammy? Papa and I thought all your children died young."

"No, darlin', when Massa Grayson buy me in New Orleans, an' de odder gentleman buy Uncle Joe, we hab little girl four years ole, an' de ole missus keep her," sobbed Chloe, living over again the agony of the parting, "an' Dinah her chile."

"Mammy, if money will buy her, you shall have her, too," said Elsie earnestly.

The remainder of the short voyage was a happy time to the whole of our little party, Chloe, with her restored husband by her side, now looking forward to the visit to Viamede with almost unmingled pleasure.

As they passed up the bay, entered Teche Bayou and pressed on, threading their way through lake and lakelet, past plain and forest, plantation and swamp, Elsie exclaimed again and again at the beauty of the scenery. Cool shady dells carpeted with the rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of lawns as smoothly shaven, as velvety green and as nobly shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, as any king's demesne; lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white, sugar-houses and the long rows of cabins of the laborers; united to form a panorama of surpassing loveliness.

"Is Viamede as lovely as that, papa?" Elsie would ask, as they steamed past one fine residence after another.

"Quite," he would reply with a smile, at length adding, "There is not a more beautiful or valuable estate in the country; as you may judge for yourself, for this is it."

"This, papa? Oh it is lovely, lovely! and everything in such perfect order," she cried delightedly as they swept on past a large sugar-house and an immense orange orchard, whose golden fruit and glossy leaves shone brightly in the slanting rays of the nearly setting sun, to a lawn as large, as thickly carpeted with smoothly shaven grass and many-hued flowers, and as finely shaded with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and groves of orange trees, as any they had passed. The house—a grand old mansion with spacious rooms, wide cool halls and corridors—was now in full view, now half concealed by the trees and shrubbery.

The boat rounded to at a little pier opposite the dwelling, and in another moment our friends had landed, and leaving the servants to attend to the baggage were walking on towards the house.

"Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
Draw near them then in being merciful,
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge."
—SHAKESPEARE.

"Papa, it seems an earthly paradise," said Elsie, "and like a dream that I have seen all before."

"A dream that was a reality. And it is all your own, my darling," he answered with a proud, fond look into the bright animated face, keenly enjoying her pleasure.

"But what, what is going on there?" she asked, gazing intently in the direction of the negro quarter, where a large crowd of them, probably all belonging to the plantation, were assembled.

At that instant something rose in the air and descended again, and a wild shriek, a woman's wail of agony, rent the air.

Elsie flew over the ground as though she had been a winged creature, her father having to exert himself to keep pace with her. But the whip had descended again and again, another and another of those wild shrieks testifying to the sharpness of its sting, ere they were near enough to interfere.

So taken up with the excitement of the revolting scene were all present, that the landing and the approach of our friends had not been observed until Elsie, nearing the edge of the crowd, called out in a voice of authority, and indignation, "Stop! not another blow!"

The crowd parted, showing a middle-aged negress stripped to the waist and tied to a whipping post, writhing and sobbing with pain and terror, while a white man stood over her with a horse-whip in his uplifted hand, stayed in mid-air by the sudden appearance of those in authority over him.

"How dare you! how dare you!" cried Elsie, stamping her foot, and drawing a long, sobbing breath. "Take her down this instant."

"Mr. Spriggs, what is the meaning of this?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, in tones of calm displeasure; "did I not forbid all cruel punishment on this estate?"

"I've got to make 'em work; I'm bound they shall, and nothing but the whip'll do it with this lazy wretch," muttered Spriggs, dropping his whip and stepping back a little, while two stalwart fellows obeyed Elsie's order to take the woman down, a murmur at the same time running from lip to lip, "It's Marse Dinsmore, and our young missus."

Elsie shuddered and wept at sight of the bleeding back and shoulders. "Cover her up quickly, and take her away where she can lie down and rest," she said to the women who were crowding round to greet and welcome herself. "I will speak to you all afterwards, I'm glad to be here among you." Then leaning over the sufferer for an instant, with fast-dropping tears, "Be comforted," she said, in tones of gentle compassion, "you shall never have this to endure again."

"Come, daughter, speak to these eager people, and let us go into the house," said Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yes, papa, in one moment."

Drawing herself up to her full height, and flashing one look of scorn and indignation out of her dark eyes upon the crest-fallen Spriggs, she addressed him with the air of a queen. "You, sir, will meet me in the library at eight o'clock this evening."

Turning to the men, "Dig up that post, and split it into kindling-wood for the kitchen fire."

Her father, while shaking hands with the blacks, speaking a kindly word to each, regarded her with mingled curiosity and admiration; thoroughly acquainted with his child as he had believed himself to be, he now saw her in a new character.

She took his arm, and he felt that she was trembling very much. He supported her tenderly, while the women flocked about them, eagerly welcoming her to Viamede; kissing her hand, and declaring with tears in their eyes, that it was just their "dear dead young missus come back to them, like a beautiful white angel."

The first who claimed her attention, introduced herself as "Aunt Phillis de housekeepah. An' I'se got eberyting ready for you, honey; de beds is aired, de fires laid in de drawin'-room, an' library, an' sleepin' rooms, an' de pantry full ob the nicest tings dis chile an' ole Aunt Sally know how to cook; an' I sent Jack right to de house to start de fires de fust minute dese ole eyes catch sight ob massa an' young missus, an' knows dey heyah."

"My dear child, all this is quite too much for you," said Mr. Dinsmore, attempting to draw his daughter away.

"Just a moment, papa, please," she answered in a slightly unsteady voice; "let me speak to them all." He yielded, but cut short the garrulity of some who would have liked to mingle reminiscences of her baby-hood with their rejoicing over her return, telling them they must reserve such communication for a more suitable time, as their young mistress was faint and weary, and must have rest.

The appearance of Chloe and her recovered husband upon the scene, now created a diversion in their favor, and he presently succeeded in leading Elsie to the house.

A young mulatto girl followed them into the drawing-room, where a bright wood-fire was blazing on the hearth, asking if she should take Miss Elsie's things.

"Yes," Mr. Dinsmore said, removing his daughter's hat and shawl, and handing them to her.

She left the room; and taking Elsie in his arms, and gently laying her head upon his breast, "Let the tears have their way, darling," he said, "it will do you good."

For several minutes the tears came in floods. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "to think that my people, my poor people, should be so served. It must never, never be again!"

"No," he said, "we will find means to prevent it. There, you feel better now, do you not?"

"Yes, sir. Papa dear, welcome, welcome to my house; the dearest guest that could come to it." And wiping away her tears, she lifted her loving eyes to his, a tender smile playing about the sweet lips.

"Save one," he answered half-playfully, passing his hand caressingly over her hair, and bending down to press his lips on brow, and cheeks, and mouth. "Is not that so?"

"No, my own dear father, save none," with a charming blush, but eyes looking steadily into his; "when he comes, it shall be as master, not guest. But now tell me, please, what can I do with this Spriggs? I should like to pay him a month's wages in advance, and start him off early to-morrow morning."

Mr. Dinsmore shook his head gravely. "It would not do, my child. The sugar-making season will shortly begin; he understands the business thoroughly; we could not supply his place at a moment's notice, or probably in a number of months, and the whole crop would be lost. We must not be hasty or rash, but remember the Bible command, 'Let your moderation be known unto all men.' Nor should we allow ourselves to judge the man too hardly."

"Too hardly, papa! too hardly, when he has shown himself so cruel! But I beg pardon for interrupting you."

"Yes, too hardly, daughter. He is a New Englander, used to see every one about him working with steady, persevering industry, and the indolent, dawdling ways of the blacks, which we take as a matter of course, are exceedingly trying to him. I think he has been very faithful to your interests, and that probably his desire and determination to see them advanced to the utmost, led, more than anything else, to the act which seems to us so cruel."

"And could he suppose that I would have blood wrung from my poor people that a few more dollars might find their way into my purse?" she cried in indignant sorrow and anger. "Oh, papa, I am not so cruel, you know I am not."

"Yes, my darling, I know you have a very tender, loving heart."

"But what shall I do with Spriggs?"

"For to-night, express your sentiments and feelings on the subject as calmly and moderately as you can, and enjoin it upon him to act in accordance with them. Then we may consider at our leisure what further measures can be taken."

"Papa, you are so much wiser and better than I," she said, with loving admiration, "I'm afraid if you had not been here to advise me, I should have sent him away at once, with never a thought of crops or anything except securing my people from his cruelties."

"You should never allow yourself to act from mere impulse, except it be unquestionably a right one, and the case admitting of no time for deliberation. As to my superior wisdom," he added with a smile, "I have lived some years longer than you, and had more experience in the management of business matters."

"I am very sorry, my darling, that the pleasure of your return to the home of your infancy should be so marred. But you have scarcely taken a look yet at even this room. What do you think of it?"

She glanced about her with freshly aroused curiosity and interest. "Papa, it is just to my taste!"

The firelight gleamed upon rare old cabinets, gems of art in painting and statuary, and rich, massive, well-preserved, though old-fashioned sofas, chairs, tables, etc. But it was already growing dark, deep shadows were gathering in the more distant parts of the spacious apartment, and only near the fire could objects be distinctly seen. Elsie was about to ring for lights, when Sarah, the mulatto girl, appeared, bringing them, Chloe following close in the rear.

"Have you fires and lights in the library, the dining-room, and your master's rooms and mine?" inquired Elsie.

"De fires is lit, Miss Elsie."

"Then add the lights at once, and put them in all the principal rooms of the house. We will have an illumination in honor of our arrival, papa," she said, in a sprightly tone, turning to him with one of her sweetest smiles, "and besides, I want to see the whole house now."

"Are you not too much fatigued, daughter? and would it not be better to defer it till to-morrow?"

"I don't think I'm too tired, papa; but if you forbid me——"

"No, I don't forbid or even advise, if you are sure you feel equal to the exertion."

"Thank you, sir, I think I'll be better able to sleep if I've seen at least the most of it; old memories are troubling me, and I want to see how far they are correct You will go with me?"

"Certainly," he said, giving her his arm. "But while the servants are obeying your order in regard to the lights, let us examine these paintings more attentively. They will repay close scrutiny, for some of them are by the first masters. Your Grandfather Grayson seems to have been a man of cultivated taste, as well as great business talent."

"Yes, papa. What is it, mammy?"

"Does you want me, darlin'?"

"No, not now. Go and enjoy yourself with your husband and old friends."

Chloe expressed her grateful thanks, and withdrew.

Elsie found the paintings and statuary a study, and had scarcely finished her survey of the drawing-room and its treasures of art, when Aunt Phillis came to ask if they would have tea served up immediately.

Elsie looked at her father.

"Yes," he said; "you will feel stronger after eating, and it is about our usual time."

"Then let us have it, Aunt Phillis. How is that poor creature now?" asked her young mistress.

"Suse, honey? oh, she'll do well 'nuff; don't do her no harm to take some ob de lazy blood out. Massa Spriggs not so terrible cross, Miss Elsie; but he bound de work git done, an' Suse she mighty powerful lazy, jes' set in de sun an' do nuffin' from mornin' to night, ef nobody roun' to make her work."

"Ah, that is very bad; we must try to reform her in some way. But perhaps she's not well."

"Dunno, missus; she's always 'plaining ob de misery in her back, an' misery in her head; but don't ebery one hab a misery, some kind, most days? an' go on workin' all de same. No, missus, Suse she powerful lazy ole nigga."

With that Phillis retired, and shortly after, tea was announced as ready.

Elsie played the part of hostess to perfection, presiding over the tea-urn with ease and grace, and pressing upon her father the numerous dainties with which the table was loaded. She seemed to have recovered her spirits, and as she sat there gayly chatting—of the room, which pleased her as entirely as the other, and of her plans for usefulness and pleasure during her stay, he thought he had never seen her look happier or more beautiful.

"What rooms have you prepared for your mistress, Aunt Phillis?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, as they rose from the table.

"De same whar she was born, massa, an' whar her dear bressed ma stay when she livin' heyah."

A slight shadow stole over Elsie's bright face. "That was right," she said, low and softly. "I should prefer them to any others. But where are papa's rooms?"

"Jes' across de hall, Miss Elsie."

"That is a good arrangement," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Now, daughter, I think we should repair to the library. It is near the hour you appointed for Mr. Spriggs."

"Just as handsome, as tastefully, appropriately, and luxuriously furnished as the others," was Elsie's comment on the library. "I seem to see the same hand everywhere."

"Yes, and it is the same all over the house," replied her father. "The books here will delight you; for a private library it is a very fine one, containing many hundred volumes, as you may see at a glance; standard works on history, and the arts and sciences, biographies, travels, works of reference, the works of the best poets, novelists, etc."

"Ah, how we will enjoy them while here! But it seems a sad pity they should have lain on those shelves unused for so many years."

"Not entirely, my child; I have enjoyed them in my brief visits to the plantation, and have always allowed the overseer free access to them, on the single condition that they should be handled with care, and each returned promptly to its proper place when done with. But come, take this easy chair by this table; here are some fine engravings I want you to look at."

Elsie obeyed, but had scarcely seated herself when the door was thrown open and a servant's voice announced, "Massa Spriggs, Massa Dinsmore and Miss Elsie."

Spriggs, a tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully-built man, with dark hair and beard and a small, keen black eye, came forward with a bold free air and a "Good-even', miss, good-even', sir;" adding, as he helped himself to a seat without waiting for an invitation, "Well, here I am, and I s'pose you've somethin' to say or you wouldn't have appointed the meetin'."

"Yes, Mr. Spriggs," said Elsie, folding her pretty hands in her lap and looking steadily and coldly into his brazen face, "I have this to say; that I entirely disapprove of flogging, and will have none of it on the estate. I hope you understand me."

"That's plain English and easy understood, Miss Dinsmore, and Dinsmore, and of course you have a right to dictate in the matter; but I tell you what, these darkies o' yours are a dreadful lazy set, specially that Suse; and it's mighty hard for folks that's been used to seein' things done up spick and span and smart to put up with it."

"But some amount of patience with the natural slowness of the negro is a necessary trait in the character of an overseer who wishes to remain in my employ."

"Well, miss, I always calculate to do the very best I can by my employers, and when you come to look round the estate, I guess you'll find things in prime order; but I couldn't ha' done it without lettin' the darkies know they'd got to toe the mark right straight."

"They must attend to the work, of course, and if they won't do so willingly, must under compulsion; but there are milder measures than this brutal flogging."

"What do you prescribe, Miss Dinsmore?"

"Deprive them of some privilege, or lock them up on bread and water for a few days," Elsie answered; then turned an appealing look upon her father, who had as yet played the part of a mere listener.

"I have never allowed any flogging on my estate," he observed, addressing Spriggs, "and I cannot think it at all necessary."

There was a moment of silence, Spriggs sitting looking into the fire, a half-smile playing about his lips; then turning to Elsie, "I thought, miss, you'd a mind this evening to dismiss me on the spot," he remarked inquiringly.

She flushed slightly, but replied with dignity, "If you will comply with my directions, sir, pledging yourself never again to be so cruel, I have no desire to dismiss you from my service."

"All right then, miss. I promise, and shall still do the best I can for your interests; but if they suffer because I'm forbidden to use the lash, please remember it's not my fault."

"I am willing to take the risk," she answered, intimating with a motion of her hand that she considered the interview at an end; whereupon he rose and bowed himself out.

"Now, papa, for our tour of inspection," she cried gayly, rising as she spoke, and ringing for a servant to carry the light. "But first please tell me if I was sufficiently moderate."

"You did very well," he answered, smiling. "You take to the role of mistress much more naturally than I expected."

"Yet it does seem very odd to me to be giving orders while you sit by a mere looker-on. But, dear papa, please remember I am still your own child, and ready to submit to your authority, whenever you see fit to exert it."

"I know it, my darling," he said, passing an arm about her waist, as they stood together in front of the fire, and gazing fondly down into the sweet fair face.

Aunt Chloe answered the bell, bringing a lamp in her hand.

"That is right, mammy," Elsie said. "Now lead the way over the house."

As they passed from room to room, and from one spacious hall or corridor to another, Elsie expressed her entire satisfaction with them and their appointments, and accorded to Aunt Phillis the meed of praise due her careful housekeeping.

"And here, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said at length, leading the way through a beautiful boudoir and dressing-room into an equally elegant and attractive bedroom beyond, "they tell me you were born, and your beloved mother passed from earth to heaven."

"An' eberyting in de room stands jees' as dey did den, honey," said Aunt Chloe. And approaching the bed, her eyes swimming in tears, and laying her hand upon the pillow, "jes' here my precious young missus lie, wid cheeks 'mos' as white as de linen, an' eyes so big an' bright, an' de lubly curls streamin' all roun', an' she say, weak an' low, 'Mammy, bring me my baby.' Den I put you in her arms, darlin', an' she kiss you all ober your tiny face, an' de tears an' sobs come fast while she say, 'Poor little baby; no fader no mudder to lub her! nobody but you, mammy; take her an' bring her up to lub de dear Lord Jesus.'"

Silent tears rolled down Elsie's cheeks as she looked and listened; but her father drew her to his breast and kissed them away, his own eyes brimming, his heart too full for speech.

Presently he led her back to the boudoir, and showed her the portraits of her maternal grandparents, and one of her mother, taken at ten or twelve years of age.

"What a lovely little girl she was," murmured Elsie, gazing lovingly upon it.

"Very much like what her daughter was at the same age," he answered. "But come, this, too, will interest you." And lifting the lid of a dainty work-basket, he pointed to a bit of embroidery, in which the needle was still sticking, as though it had been laid down by the deft fingers but a few moments ago.

Elsie caught it up and kissed it, thinking of the touch of those dear dead fingers, that seemed to linger over it yet.

"She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere, the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way
Have a companion's portrait,"
—WILLIS' POEMS.

Elsie had fallen asleep thinking of the dear mother whose wealth she inherited, and whose place she was now filling; thinking of her as supremely blest, in that glorious, happy land, where sin and sorrow are unknown. Thinking, too, of Him, through whose shed blood she had found admittance there.

The same sweet thoughts were still in the loving daughter's mind, as she woke to find the morning sun shining brightly, a fire blazing cheerily on the hearth, and Aunt Chloe coming in with a silver waiter filled with oranges prepared for eating in the manner usual in the tropics.

She had gathered them the night before, taken off the peel, leaving the thick white skin underneath except on the top of each, where she cut it away from a spot about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar. She then placed them on a waiter, with the cut part uppermost, and set them where the dew would fall on them all night. Morning found them with the skin hard and leathery, but filled with delicious juice, which could be readily withdrawn from it.

At that sight, a sudden memory seemed to flash upon Elsie, and starting up in the bed, "Mammy!" she cried, "didn't you do that very thing when I was a child?"

"What, honey? bring de oranges in de mornin'?"

"Yes, I seem to remember your coming in at that door, with just such a waiterful."

"Yes, darlin', de folks allus eats dem 'foah breakfast. Deys jes' lubly, Miss Elsie; massa say so, lubly and delicious." And she brought the waiter to her bedside, holding it out for her young mistress to help herself.

"Yes, mammy dear, they look very tempting, but I won't eat with unwashed hands and face," said Elsie gayly. "And so papa has stolen a march upon me and risen first?"

"Yes, darlin', massa out on the veranda, but he say 'Let your missus sleep long as she will.'"

"My always kind and indulgent father! Mammy, I'll take a bath; and then while you arrange my hair, I'll try the oranges. Go now and ask papa when he will have his breakfast, and tell Aunt Phillis to see that it is ready at the hour he names."

Chloe obeyed, and an hour later Elsie met her father in the breakfast-room so glad, so gay, so bright, that his heart swelled with joy and pleasure in his child, and all fears that she had overfatigued herself vanished from his mind.

She was full of plans for the comfort and profit of her people, but all to be subject to his approval "Papa dear," she said as soon as their morning greetings had been exchanged, "I think of sending for a physician to examine Suse and tell us whether there is reason for her complaints. She must not be forced to work if she is really ill."

"I think it would be well," he replied. "There is an excellent physician living about three miles from here."

Elsie was prompt in action by both nature and training, and instantly summoning a servant, despatched him at once on the proposed errand.

"And now what next?" smilingly inquired her father.

"Well, papa, after breakfast and prayers—how some of the old servants seemed to enjoy them last night—I think of going down to the quarter to see what may be needed there. Unless you have some other plan for me," she added quickly.

"Suppose we first mount our horses and ride over the estate, to learn for ourselves whether Mr. Spriggs has been as faithful as he would have us believe."

"Ah yes, papa; yours is always the better plan."

Their ride in the clear, sweet morning air was most delightful, and both felt gratified with the fine appearance of the crops and the discovery that Spriggs' boast was no idle one; everything being in the nicest order.

They took the quarter on the way to the house, and dismounting, entered one neatly whitewashed cabin after another, kindly inquiring into the condition and wants of the inmates, Elsie making notes on her tablets that nothing might be forgotten.

Everywhere the visit was received with joy and gratitude, and an almost worshipful homage paid to the sweet young mistress whom they seemed to regard as akin to the angels: probably in a great measure because of her extraordinary likeness to her mother, of whom, for so many years they had been accustomed to think and speak as one of the heavenly host.

Spriggs' victim of the previous day was in bed, complaining much of a misery in back and head and limbs.

"De doctah hab been heyah," she said, "an' leff me dese powdahs to take," drawing a tiny package from under her pillow.

Elsie spoke soothingly to her; said she should have some broth from the house, and should be excused from work till the doctor pronounced her quite fit for it again; and left her apparently quite happy.

It was the intention of our friends to spend some weeks at Viamede.

"I want you to have every possible enjoyment while here, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said, as they sat together resting after their ride, in the wide veranda at the front of the house, looking out over the beautiful lawn, the bayou, and the lovely scenery beyond. "There are pleasant neighbors who will doubtless call when they hear of our arrival."

"I almost wish they may not hear of it then," Elsie said half laughing; "I just want to be left free from the claims of society for this short time, that I may fully enjoy being alone with my father and attending to the comfort of my people. But excuse me, dear papa, I fear I interrupted you."

"I excuse you on condition that you are not again guilty of such a breach of good manners. I was going on to say there are delightful drives and walks in the vicinity, of which I hope we will be able to make good use; also, we will have a row now and then on the bayou, and many an hour of quiet enjoyment of the contents of the library."

"Yes, papa, I hope so; I do so enjoy a nice book, especially when read with you. But I think that, for the present at least, I must spend a part of each day in attending to the preparation of winter clothing for house-servants and field hands."

"I won't have you doing the actual work, the cutting out and sewing, I mean," he answered decidedly; "the head work, calculating how much material is needed, what it will cost, etc., may be yours; but you have servants enough to do all the rest."

"But, papa, consider; over three hundred to clothe, and I want it all done while I am here to oversee."

"Have not some of the house-servants been trained as seamstresses?"

"Yes, sir, two of them, mammy tells me."

"Very well; she knows how to run a sewing-machine. Send for one when you order your material; both can be had in the nearest town. Aunt Chloe can soon teach the girls how to manage it; Uncle Joe, too; he has had no regular work assigned him yet, and the four can certainly do all without anything more than a little oversight from you; yes, without even that."

"What a capital planner you are, papa," she said brightly; "I never thought of getting a machine or setting Uncle Joe to running it; but I am sure it's just the thing to do. Mammy can cut and the girls baste, and among them the machine can easily be kept going from morning to night. I'll make out my orders and send for the things at once."

"That is right, daughter; it pleases me well to note how you put in practice the lesson of promptness I have always tried to teach you. I will help you in making your estimate of quantities needed, prices to be paid, etc., and I think we can accomplish the whole before dinner. Come to the library and let us to work."

"You dear, kind father, always trying to help me and smooth the least roughness out of my path, and make life as enjoyable to me as possible," she said, laying her hand on his arm and looking up into his face with eyes beaming with filial love, as they rose and stood together for a moment.

"A good daughter deserves a good father," he answered, smoothing with soft caressing motion the shining hair. "But have you the necessary data for our estimates?"

"The number to be clothed, papa? I know how many house-servants, how many babies and older children at the quarter, but not the number of field hands."

"That will be easily ascertained. I will send a note to Spriggs, who can tell us all about it."

Mr. Dinsmore's plans were carried out to the letter, and with entire success. This was Saturday; the orders were sent that afternoon, and on Monday morning the work began. Aunt Chloe proved fully equal to the cutting of the garments, and Uncle Joe an apt scholar under her patient, loving teaching, and a willing worker at his new employment. There was scarcely need of even oversight on the part of the young mistress. She would drop in occasionally, commend their industry, and inquire if anything were wanting; then felt free for books, rides or walks, music or conversation with her father.

But she was often down at the quarter visiting the sick, the aged and infirm, seeing that their wants were supplied, reading the Bible to them, praying with them, telling of the better land where no trouble or sorrow can come, and trying to make the way to it, through the shed blood of Christ, very plain and clear. Then she would gather the children about her and tell them of the blessed Jesus and His love for little ones.

"Does He lub niggahs, missus?" queried one grinning little wooly head.

"Yes, if they love Him: and they won't be negroes in heaven."

"White folks, missus? Oh, dat nice! Guess I go dar; ef dey let me in."

But we are anticipating somewhat, though Elsie found time for a short visit to the sick and aged on the afternoon of even that first day at Viamede. The next was the Sabbath, and as lovely a day as could be desired. The horses were ordered for an early hour, and father and daughter rode some miles together to morning service, then home again.

As the shadows began to lengthen in the afternoon, Elsie was sitting alone on the veranda, her father having left her side but a moment before, when an old negro, familiarly known as Uncle Ben, came round the corner of the house, and slowly approached her.

Very sweet and fair, very beautiful she looked to his admiring eyes. She held a Bible in her hand, and was so intent upon its perusal that she was not aware of his coming until he had drawn quite near. Ascending the steps, and standing at a respectful distance, hat in hand, he waited till she should notice and address him.

Glancing up from her book, "Ah, Uncle Ben, good evening," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"Missus," he answered, making a low salam, "all de darkies is gadered togedder under a tree 'round de house yondah, and dey 'pint me committee to come an' ax de young missus would she be so kind for to come an' read the Bible to dem, an' talk, an' pray, an' sing like she do for de sick ones down to de quarter? Dey be berry glad, missus, an' more dan obliged."

"Indeed I will, uncle," Elsie said, rising at once and going with him, Bible in hand; "I had been thinking of doing this very thing."

She found a rustic seat placed for her under a giant oak, and garlanded with fragrant flowers. Aunt Phillis, Aunt Chloe, Uncle Joe, and the rest of the house-servants, gathered in a semicircle around it, while beyond, the men, women, and children from the quarter sat or lay upon the grass, enjoying the rest from the toils of the week, the quiet, the balmy air laden with the fragrance of the magnolia and orange, and all the sweet sights and sounds of rural life in that favored region.

Every one rose at the appearance of their young mistress, and there were murmurs of delight and gratitude coming from all sides. "Now bress de Lord, she read the good book for us." "She good an' lubly as de angels." "Missus berry kind, de darkies neber forget."

Elsie acknowledged it all with a smile and a few kindly words, then commanding silence by a slight motion of the hand, addressed them in a clear, melodious voice, which, though not loud, could be distinctly heard by every one of the now almost breathless listeners.

"I shall read to you of Jesus and some of His own words," she said, "but first we will ask Him to help us to understand, to love, and to obey His teachings."

Then folding her hands and lifting her eyes to the clear blue sky above, she led them in a prayer so simple and childlike, so filial and loving in spirit and expression, that the dullest understood it, and felt that she spoke to One who was very near and dear to her.

After that she read with the same distinct utterance the third chapter of John's Gospel, and commented briefly upon it. "You all want to go to heaven?" she said, closing the book.

"Yes, Miss Elsie." "Yes missus, we all does."

"But to be able to go there you must know the way, and now I want to make sure you do know it. Can you tell me what you must do to be saved?"

There were various answers. "Be good," "Mine de rules an' do 'bout right." "Pray to de Lord," etc., etc.

Elsie shook her head gravely. "All that you must do, and more besides. What does Jesus say? 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' We must believe in Jesus—believe all that the Bible tells us about Him, that He was very God and very man, that He came down from heaven, was born a little babe and laid in a manger, that He grew up to be a man, went about doing good, and at last suffered and died the cruel death of the cross; and all to save poor lost sinners.

"But even that is not enough: the devils believe so much; they know it is all true. But beside this, we must believe on Christ Jesus. He offers to be our Saviour. 'Come unto Me ... and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out,' And you must come, you must take the eternal life He offers you; you must rest on Him and Him only.

"Suppose you were out on the bayou yonder, and the boat should upset and float beyond your reach, or be swept away from you by the wind and waves, and you couldn't swim; but just as you are sinking, you find a plank floating near; you catch hold of it, you find it strong and large enough to bear your weight, and you throw yourself upon it and cling to it for life. Just so you must cast yourself on Jesus, and cling to Him with all your strength: and He will save you; for He is able and willing 'to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him.'

"He will wash away your sins in His own precious blood, and dress you in the beautiful robe of His perfect righteousness; that is, set His goodness to your account, so that you will be saved just as if you had been as good and holy as He was. Then you will love Him and try to do right to please Him; not to buy heaven; you cannot do that, for 'all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags,' and we cannot be saved unless we trust only in Jesus and His righteousness."

Something in the faces before her caused Elsie to turn her head. Her father stood with grave, quiet air, but a few feet from her.

"Papa," she said, in an undertone, and blushing slightly, "I did not know you were here. Will you not speak to them? you can do it so much better than I."

She sat down, and stepping to her side he made a brief and simply worded address on the necessity of repentance and faith in Jesus, "the only Saviour of sinners," His willingness to save all who come to Him, and the great danger of delay in coming. Then with a short prayer and the singing of a hymn, they were dismissed.

With murmured thanks and many a backward look of admiring love at their already almost idolized young mistress, and her father, who had won their thorough respect and affection years ago, they scattered to their homes.

"You must have a shawl and hat, for the air begins to grow cool," said Mr. Dinsmore to his daughter.

"Yes, massa, I'se brought dem," said Chloe, hurrying up almost out of breath, with the required articles in her hand.

"Thank you, mammy, you are always careful of your nursling;" Elsie said, smilingly, as the shawl was wrapped carefully about her shoulders and the hat placed upon her head.

Her father drew her hand within his arm and led her across the lawn.

"There is one spot, very dear to us both, which we have not yet visited," he said, low and feelingly, "and I have rather wondered at your delay in asking me to take you there."

She understood him. "Yes, sir," she said, "I should have done so last evening, but that you looked weary. It has hardly been out of my mind since we came, and I have only waited for a suitable time."

"None could be better than the present," he answered.

On a gently sloping hillside, and beneath the shade of a beautiful magnolia, they found what they sought: a grave, with a headstone on which was carved the inscription:

"Fell asleep in Jesus,
March 15, 18—,
ELSIE, WIFE OF HORACE DINSMORE,
and only remaining child of
WILLIAM AND ELSPETH GRAYSON,
Aged 16 years, and 2 weeks.
'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.'"

They read it standing side by side.

"How young," murmured the daughter, tears filling her eyes, "how young to be a wife, a mother, and to die and leave husband and child! Oh, papa, how I used to long for her, and dream of her—my own precious mamma!"

"When, my darling?" he asked in moved tones, drawing her tenderly to him and passing an arm about her waist.

"Before I knew you, papa, and before you began to love me so dearly and be father and mother both, to me, as you have been for so many years," The low, sweet voice was tremulous with emotion, and the soft eyes lifted to his were brimming over with tears of mingled grief and joy, gratitude and love.

"I have tried to be," he said; "but no one could supply her place. What a loving, tender mother she would have been! But let us forget our loss in the bliss of knowing that it is so well with her."

It was a family burying-ground; there were other graves; those of our Elsie's grandparents, and several of their sons and daughters who had died in infancy or early youth; and in the midst uprose a costly monument, placed there by Mr. Grayson after the death of his wife. The spot showed the same care as the rest of the estate, and was lovely with roses and other sweet flowers and shrubs.

"My mother's grave!" said Elsie, bending over it again. "Papa, let us kneel down beside it and pray that we may meet her in heaven."

He at once complied with the request, giving thanks for the quiet rest of her who slept in Jesus, and asking that, when each of them had done and suffered all God's holy will here on earth, they might be reunited to her above, and join in her glad song of praise to redeeming love.

Elsie joined fervently in the "Amen," and rising, they lingered a moment longer, then wended their way in sweet and solemn silence to the house.

They sat together in the library after tea, each occupied with a book. But Elsie seemed little interested in hers, looking off the page now and then, as if in deep and troubled thought. At length closing it, she stole round to the side of her father's easy chair, and taking possession of a footstool, laid her head on his knee.

"I have my little girl again to-night," he said, passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek.

"I almost wish it was, papa."

"Why? is anything troubling you, dearest?" And he pushed his book aside, ready to give his whole attention to her.

"I am anxious about my poor people, papa; they are so ignorant of the truths necessary to salvation; and what can I teach them in three or four weeks? I have almost decided that I ought—that I must stay as many months."

"And that without even consulting your father? much less considering his permission necessary to your action?" Though the words seemed to convey reproach, if not reproof, his tone was gentle and tender.

"No, no, papa! I must cease to think it my duty if you forbid it."

"As I do most positively, I cannot stay, and I should never think for a moment of leaving you here!"

"But, papa, how then am I to do my duty by these poor ignorant creatures? how can I let them perish for lack of knowledge whom Christ has put into my care?"

"Procure a chaplain, who shall hold regular services for them every Sabbath, and do pastoral work among them through the week. You will not grudge him his salary."

"Papa, what an excellent idea! Grudge him his salary? No, indeed; if I can get the right man to fill the place, he shall have a liberal one. And then he will be a check upon Mr. Spriggs, and inform me if the people are abused. But how shall I find him?"

"What do you do when in want of something you do not know exactly how to procure?"

"Pray for direction and help," she answered, low and reverently.

"We will both do that, asking that the right man may be sent us; and I will write to-morrow to some of the presidents of the theological seminaries, asking them to recommend some one suited for the place."

"Papa," she cried, lifting a very bright face to his, "what a load you have taken from my mind."

"A mighty pain to love it is
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."
—COWLEY.

One lovely afternoon in the second week of their stay at Viamede, Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter were seated in the shade of the trees on the lawn, she busied with some fancy-work while her father read aloud to her.

As he paused to turn a leaf, "Papa," she said, glancing off down the bayou, "there is a steamer coming, the same that brought us, I think; and see, it is rounding to at our landing. Can it be bringing us a guest?"

"Yes, a gentleman is stepping ashore. Why, daughter, it is Harold Allison."

"Harold! oh, how delightful!" And rising they hastened to meet and welcome him with truly Southern warmth of hospitality.

"Harold! how good of you!" cried Elsie. "Mamma wrote us that you were somewhere in this region, and if I'd had your address, I should have sent you an invitation to come and stay as long as possible."

"And you have done well and kindly by us to come without waiting for that," Mr. Dinsmore said, shaking the hand of his young brother-in-law with a warmth of cordiality that said more than his words.

"Many thanks to you both," he answered gayly. "I was conceited enough to feel sure of a welcome, and did not wait, as a more modest fellow might, to be invited. But what a lovely place! a paradise upon earth! And, Elsie, you, in those dainty white robes, look the fit presiding genius."

Elsie laughed and shook her head. "Don't turn flatterer, Harold; though I do not object to praise of Viamede."

"I have not heard from Rose in a long time," he said, addressing Mr. Dinsmore. "She and the little folks are well, I hope?"

"I had a letter this morning, and they were all in good health when it was written."

The servants had come trooping down from the house, and seizing Harold's baggage had it all ready in the guest-chamber to which Aunt Phillis ordered it. Aunt Chloe now drew near to pay her respects to "Massa Harold," and tell him that his room was ready.

"Will you go to it at once? or sit down here and have a little chat with papa and me first?" asked Elsie.

"Thank you; I think I shall defer the pleasure of the chat till I have first made myself presentable for the evening."

"Then let me conduct you to your room," said Mr. Dinsmore, leading the way to the house.

Elsie had come in the course of years to look upon the older brothers of her stepmother as in some sort her uncles, but for Harold, who was so much nearer her own age, she entertained a sincere sisterly regard. And he was worthy of it and of the warm place his many noble qualities had won for him in Mr. Dinsmore's heart.

They did all they could to make his visit to Viamede a pleasant one; there were daily rides and walks, moonlight and early morning excursions on the bayou, rowing parties; oftenest of the three alone, but sometimes in company with gallant chivalrous men and refined, cultivated women and charming young girls from the neighboring plantations.

One of these last, a beautiful brunette, Elsie had selected in her own mind for Harold, and she contrived to throw them together frequently.

"Don't you admire Miss Durand?" she asked, after they had met several times. "I think she is lovely; as good, too, as she is beautiful; and would make you a charming wife."

He flushed hotly. "She is very handsome, very fascinating and talented," he said; "but would never suit me. Nor do I suppose I could win her if I wished."

"Indeed! if you are so hard to please, I fear there will be nothing for you but old bachelorhood," laughed Elsie. "I have picked her out for you, and I believe you could win her if you tried, Harold; but I shall not try to become a match-maker."

"No, I must select for myself; I couldn't let even you choose for me."

"Choose what?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda, where Harold stood leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, his blue eyes fixed with a sort of wistful, longing look upon Elsie's graceful figure and fair face, as she sat in a half-reclining posture on a low couch but a few feet from him.

"A wife," he answered, compelling himself to speak lightly.

"Don't let her do it," said Mr. Dinsmore, taking a seat by his daughter's side; "I've warned her more than once not to meddle with match-making." And he shook his head at her with mock gravity.

"I won't any more, papa; I'll leave him to his own devices, since he shows himself so ungrateful for my interest in his welfare," Elsie said, looking first at her father and then at Harold with a merry twinkle in her eye.

"I don't think I've asked how you like your new home and prospects, Harold," said Mr. Dinsmore, changing the subject.

"Very much, thank you; except that they take me so far from the rest of the family."

A few months before this Harold had met with a piece of rare good fortune, looked at from a worldly point of view, in being adopted as his sole heir by a rich and childless Louisiana planter, a distant relative of Mrs. Allison.

"Ah, that is an objection," returned Mr. Dinsmore; "but you will be forming new and closer ties, that will doubtless go far to compensate for the partial loss of the old. I hope you are enjoying yourself here?"

"I am indeed, thank you." This answer was true, yet Harold felt himself flush as he spoke, for there was one serious drawback upon his felicity; he could seldom get a word alone with Elsie; she and her father were so inseparable that he scarcely saw the one without the other. And Harold strongly coveted an occasional monopoly of the sweet girl's society. He had come to Viamede with a purpose entirely unsuspected by her or her apparently vigilant guardian.

He should perhaps, have confided his secret to Mr. Dinsmore first, but his heart failed him; and "what would be the use?" he asked himself, "if Elsie is not willing? Ah, if I could but be alone with her for an hour!"

The coveted opportunity offered itself at last, quite unexpectedly. Coming out upon the veranda one afternoon, he saw Elsie sitting alone under a tree far down on the lawn. He hastened towards her.

"I am glad to see you," she said, looking up with a smile and making room for him on the seat by her side. "You see I am 'lone and lorn,' Mr. Durand having carried off papa to look at some new improvement in his sugar-house machinery."

"Ah! and when will your father return?"

"In about an hour, I presume. Shall you attend Aunt Adie's wedding?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so. Don't you sometimes feel as if you'd like to stay here altogether?"

"Yes, and no; it's very lovely, and the more charming I believe, because it is my own; but—there is so much more to bind me to the Oaks, and I could never live far away from papa."

"Couldn't you? I hoped—— Oh, Elsie, couldn't you possibly love some one else better even than you love him? You're more to me than father, mother, and all the world beside. I have wanted to tell you so for years, but while I was comparatively poor your fortune sealed my lips. Now I am rich, and I lay all I have at your feet; myself included; and——"

"Oh, Harold, hush!" she cried in trembling tones, flushing and paling by turns, and putting up her hand as if to stop the torrent of words he was pouring forth so unexpectedly that astonishment had struck her dumb for an instant; "oh! don't say any more, I—I thought you surely knew that—that I am already engaged."

"No. To whom?" he asked hoarsely, his face pale as death, and lips quivering so that he could scarcely speak.

"To Mr. Travilla. It has been only for a few weeks, though we have loved each other for years. Oh, Harold, Harold, do not look so wretched! you break my heart, for I love you as a very dear brother."

He turned away with a groan, and without another word hastened back to the house, while Elsie, covering her face with her hands, shed some very bitter tears.

Heart-broken, stunned, feeling as if every good thing in life had suddenly slipped from his grasp, Harold sought his room, mechanically gathered up his few effects, packed them into his valise, then sat down by the open window and leant his head upon his hand.

He couldn't think, he could only feel that all was lost, and that he must go away at once, if he would not have everybody know it, and make the idol of his heart miserable with the sight of his wretchedness.

Why had he not known of her engagement? Why had no one told him? Why had he been such a fool as to suppose he could win so great a prize? He was not worthy of her. How plainly he saw it now, how sorely repented of the conceit that had led him on to the avowal of his passion.