Grandmother Elsie

"Man proposes, but God disposes."

Donald left Ion the next morning, going away sadly and alone, yet trying to be truly thankful that his friend's injuries, though severe, were not permanent, and that he left him where he would have the best of medical treatment and nursing.

"Don't be uneasy about the captain," Mr. Dinsmore said in parting; "I can assure you that Arthur is a skilful physician and surgeon, and we have several negro women who thoroughly understand nursing. Beside my wife, Elsie and I will oversee them and do all in our power for the comfort and restoration of the invalid."

"Thank you, cousin. I am sure nothing will be left undone that skill and kindness can do," Donald said, shaking with warmth the hand Mr. Dinsmore held out to him. "Raymond is one in a thousand. I've known him for years, and he has been a good and valuable friend to me. I wish it were possible for me to stay and wait on him myself; but army men are not their own masters, you know. He'll be wanting to get back to his ship before he's able. Don't let him."

"Not if I can prevent it," was Mr. Dinsmore's laughing rejoinder. "By the way, should not some word be sent to his wife?"

"Wife! She has been dead some two years, I think. I asked him if there was any relative he would wish informed of his condition, and he said no; his parents were not living, he had neither brother nor sister, and his children were too young to be troubled about it."

"Poor fellow!" ejaculated Mr. Dinsmore, thinking of his own happier lot—the sweet wife and daughter at Ion, the other daughter and son, father, sisters, grandchildren and nephews who would flock about him in tender solicitude, were he laid low by sickness or accident.

Leaving Donald in the city, he drove back to Ion full of sympathy for his injured guest and admiration for his courage and fortitude; for he had made no moan or complaint, though evidently suffering great pain and much solicitude on account of the long prospective detention from official duty.

The doctor's verdict was, a week or more in bed, probably six weeks before the ankle could be used.

"You must get me up much sooner than that, doctor, if it be a possible thing," Captain Raymond said most emphatically.

"I can only promise to do my best," was Arthur's response. "Nature must have time for her work of recuperation."

Elsie met her father in the entrance hall on his return. "Ah, papa," she said, looking up smilingly into his face, "I think you will have to rescind your order."

"In regard to what?" he asked, stopping to lay a hand lightly on her shoulder, while he smoothed her hair caressingly with the other.

"The week of entire rest you bade me take."

"No; there is to be no recall of that order."

"But our poor injured guest, father? injured in the noble effort to save the life of another!"

"He shall have every care and attention without any assistance from you; or Rose either; at least for the present."

"But, dear papa, to have you worn out and made ill would be worse than anything else."

"That does not follow as an inevitable consequence, and you may safely trust me to take excellent care of number one," he said, with playful look and tone.

"Ah, papa, there is not the least use in your trying to make me believe there is any selfishness in you!"

"No, I presume not; you have always been persistently blind to my many imperfections. Well, daughter, you need not be troubled lest I should waste too much strength on the poor captain. I do not imagine him to be an exacting person, and we have enough efficient nurses among the servants to do all the work that is needful. My part will be, I think, principally to cheer him, keep up his spirits, and see that he is provided with everything that can contribute to comfort of mind and body. I must leave you now and go to him. I advise a drive for you and your mamma as soon as you can make ready for it; the air is delightfully clear and bracing."

"Thank you, papa; the advice shall be followed immediately so far as I am concerned, and the order carefully obeyed," she answered, as he moved on down the hall.

The smile with which the captain greeted Mr. Dinsmore's entrance into the room where he lay in pain and despondency was a rather melancholy one.

"My dear sir, I feel for you!" Mr. Dinsmore said, seating himself by the bedside, "but you are a brave man and a Christian, and can endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ!"

There was a flash of joy in the sufferer's eyes as he turned them upon the speaker, "That, sir, is the most comforting and sustaining thing you could have said to me! Through what suffering was the Captain of our salvation made perfect! And shall I shrink from enduring a little in His service? Ah no! And when I reflect that I might have been killed, and my dear children left fatherless, I feel that I have room for nothing but thankfulness that it is as well with me as it is."

"And that some good will be brought out of this trial we cannot doubt," Mr. Dinsmore said; "for 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.'"

"Yes; and 'I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.' 'We glory in tribulation also, knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope, and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.'"

"What a wonderful book the Bible is!" remarked Mr. Dinsmore meditatively; "what stores of comfort and encouragement it contains for all in whatever state or condition! 'The law of thy mouth is better unto me than thousands of gold and silver.'"

"Yes; how true it is, Mr. Dinsmore, that 'it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps'! I had so fully resolved to return to-day to my vessel, and now when may I hope to see her? Not in less than six weeks, the doctor tells me."

"A weary while it must seem in prospect. But we will do all we can to make it short in passing and prevent you from regretting the necessity of tarrying with us for so much longer time than you had intended," Mr. Dinsmore answered in a cheery tone.

"Your great kindness is laying me under lasting obligations, Mr. Dinsmore," the captain responded, with glistening eyes, "obligations which I shall never, I fear, have an opportunity to repay."

"My dear sir, I am truly thankful to have it in my power to do what can be done to alleviate your sufferings and restore the health and vigor you so nobly sacrificed for another. Beside, what Christian can recall the Master's assurance that He will consider any kindness done to any follower of His as done to Himself, and not rejoice in the opportunity to be of service to a fellow-disciple, be it man, woman, or child?"

"Yes, And the King shall answer and say unto them, 'Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'"

"Ah, captain, don't talk of obligation to one who has a recompense such as that in view!" Mr. Dinsmore said, a smile on his lip, a glad light in his eye.

The captain stretched out his hand and grasped that of his host. "What cause for gratitude that I have fallen into the care of those who can appreciate and act from such motives!" he exclaimed with emotion.

"You are the hero of the hour, my friend," Mr. Dinsmore remarked after a short silence. "I wish you could have seen the faces of my wife, daughter, and granddaughter when they heard of the noble, unselfish, and courageous deed which was the cause of your sore injuries."

"Don't mention it!" exclaimed the captain, a manly flush suffusing his face; "who could stand by and see a fellow-creature perish without so much as stretching out a helping hand?"

In the weeks that followed Captain Raymond won golden opinions from those with whom he sojourned, showing himself as capable of the courage of endurance as of that more ordinary kind that incites to deeds of daring; he was always patient and cheerful, and sufficiently at leisure from himself and his own troubles to show a keen interest in those about him.

After the first week he was able to take possession of an invalid-chair, which was then wheeled into the room where the family were wont to gather for the free and unconstrained enjoyment of each other's society.

They made him one of themselves, and he found it a rare treat to be among them thus day after day, getting such an insight into their domestic life and true characters as years of ordinary intercourse would not have given him. He learned to love them all—the kind, cheerful, unselfish older people; the sweet-faced, gentle, tender mother; the fair and lovely maiden, lovely in mind and person; the brave, frank, open-hearted lads, and the dear, innocent little ones.

He studied them all furtively and with increasing interest, growing more and more reconciled the while to his involuntary detention among them.

Oftentimes they were all there, but occasionally one of the grandparents or the mother would be away at Roselands for a day or two, taking turns in ministering to Mrs. Conly, and comforting and cheering her feeble old father.

"You have no idea, my dear sir," the captain one day remarked to his host, "how delightful it is to a man who has passed most of his life on shipboard, away from women and children, to be taken into such a family circle as this! I think you who live in it a highly favored man, sir!"

"I quite agree with you," Mr. Dinsmore said "I think we are an exceptionally happy family, though not exempt from the trials incident to life in this world of sin and sorrow."

"Your daughter is an admirable mother," the captain went on, "so gentle and affectionate, and yet so firm; her children show by their behavior that their training has been very nearly ii not quite faultless. And in seeing so much of them I realize as never before the hardship of the constant separation from my own which my profession entails, as I ask myself, 'If I were with them thus day after day, should I find them as obedient, docile, and intelligent as these little ones? Will my Max be as fine a lad as Harold or Herbert? Can I hope to see Lulu and Gracie growing up into such lovely maidenhood as that of Miss Violet?"

"I sincerely hope you may be so blessed, captain," Mr. Dinsmore said, "but much will depend upon the training to which they are subjected. There is truth in the old proverb, 'Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.'"

"Yes, sir; and a higher authority says, 'Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.' But my difficulty is that I can neither train them myself, nor see that the work is rightly done by others."

"That is sad, indeed," Mr. Dinsmore replied with sincere sympathy. "But, my dear sir, is there not strong consolation in the thought that you can pray for them, and that 'the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much'?"

"There is indeed, sir!" the captain said with emotion. "And also in the promise, 'I will establish my covenant between me and thee, and thy seed after thee in their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.'"

"One Pinch, hungry, leanfac'd villain."
—Shake.

Captain Raymond's two little daughters were at this time in a village in one of the Northern States, in charge of Mrs. Beulah Scrimp, a distant relative on the mother's side.

Mrs. Scrimp was a widow living in rather genteel style in a house and upon means left her by her late husband. She was a managing woman, fond of money; therefore glad of the increase to her income yielded by the liberal sum Captain Raymond had offered her as compensation for the board and care of his motherless little girls.

She had undertaken Max also at first, but given him up as beyond her control; and now, though continuing to attend school in the town, he boarded with the Rev. Thomas Fox, who lived upon its outskirts.

Mrs. Scrimp was a woman of economies, keeping vigilant watch over all expenditures, great and small, and employing one servant only, who was cook, housemaid, and laundress all in one, and expected to give every moment of her time to the service of her mistress, and be content with smaller wages than many who did less work.

Mrs. Scrimp was a woman of theories also, and her pet one accorded well with the aforementioned characteristic. It was that two meals a day were sufficient for any one, and that none but the very vigorous and hard-working ought to eat anything between three o'clock in the afternoon and breakfast-time the next morning.

That was a rule to which neither Max nor Lulu could ever be made to submit; but Grace, the youngest, a delicate, fragile child, with little force of will, had no strength or power to resist, so fell a victim to the theory; each night went supperless to bed, and each day found herself too feeble and languid to take part in the active sports in which her stronger sister delighted.

It is quite possible that Mrs. Scrimp had no intention of being cruel, but merely made the not uncommon mistake of supposing that what is good for one person is of course good for everybody else. She was dyspeptic, and insisted that she found her favorite plan exceedingly beneficial in her own case; therefore she was sure so delicate a child as Gracie ought to conform to the same regimen.

She seemed fond of the little girl, petted and caressed her, calling her by many an endearing name, and telling her very often that she was "a good, biddable child; far better than fiery-tempered, headstrong Lulu."

Lulu would hear the remark with a scornful smile and toss of the head, sometimes saying proudly, "I wouldn't let anybody call you names to me, Gracie; and I wouldn't be such a little goose as to be wheedled and flattered into putting up with being half-starved."

There had been a time when Mrs. Scrimp tried to prevent and punish such daring words, but she had given it up long since, and contented herself with sighing sadly over the "depravity of that irrepressible child."

She had once or twice threatened to write to Captain Raymond and tell him that Lulu was unmanageable, but the child coolly replied, "I wish you would; for then papa would send Gracie and me somewhere else to stay."

"Where you would, perhaps, fare a great deal worse," returned Mrs. Scrimp wrathfully.

"I am willing to risk it," Lulu said; and that was the end of it, for Mrs. Scrimp would have been very loath to lose the children's board.

One pleasant October morning Lulu came down a trifle late to her breakfast. Mrs. Scrimp and Gracie were already seated at the table and had began their meal.

"Lulu," said Mrs. Scrimp with a portentous frown, "you were in the pantry last night, helping yourself."

"Of course I was," returned the child as she took her seat at the table. "I told you I wouldn't go without my supper, and you didn't have Ann get any for me; so what could I do but go and help myself?"

"You have no right to go to my pantry and take the food that belongs to me. It's neither more nor less than stealing, Miss Lulu Raymond."

"Well, Aunt Beulah, what do you call it when you take the money my father pays you for feeding Gracie and me, and don't give us the food he has paid for?"

Mrs. Scrimp colored violently at that, but quickly answered, "He doesn't pay for any particular kind or quantity, and doesn't want you overfed; and I don't consider it at all good for you to eat after three o'clock, as I've told you fifty times."

"Oftener than that, I dare say," returned Lulu with indifference, "but you might say it five hundred times and I shouldn't believe it a bit the more. Papa and mamma never had us put to bed without our supper; they always gave us plenty to eat whenever we were hungry, and Gracie was far stronger then than she is now."

Mrs. Scrimp was exasperated into a return to old tactics. "Lulu, you are the most impudent child I ever saw!" she exclaimed, "and shall go without supper to-night, if it were only to punish you for talking as you have this morning."

"No, I'll not. I'll have something to eat if I must go to the neighbors for it."

"I'll lock you up."

"Then I'll call out to the people in the street and tell them you won't give me enough to eat. And just as soon as papa comes I'll tell him all about it right before you."

"You wouldn't dare tell him how you've talked to me; he'd punish you for your impertinence."

"No, he would say it was justifiable under the circumstances."

"Dear me!" sighed Mrs. Scrimp, lifting hands and eyes in holy horror, "what a time your stepmother will have with you! I shouldn't want to be in her place."

"My stepmother!" cried Lulu, growing very red, while her dark eyes flashed with anger. "I haven't any! What do you mean by talking in that way, Aunt Beulah?"

Mrs. Scrimp's laugh jarred very unpleasantly upon the nerves of the excited child.

"Your father will be presenting you with one some of these days, I'll warrant," she said in a tantalizing tone.

Lulu felt ready to burst into passionate weeping, but would not give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her do so. She struggled determinedly with her emotion, and presently was able to say in a tone of perfect indifference: "Well, I don't care if he does; anything will be better than staying here with you."

"Ungrateful, hateful child!" said Mrs. Scrimp. "Gracie's a real comfort to me, but you are just the opposite."

"Aunt Beulah," said Lulu, fixing her keen eyes steadily upon Mrs. Scrimp's face, "you've called me ungrateful ever so many times. Now I'd like to know what I have to be grateful for toward you? My father pays you well for everything you do for Gracie and me."

"There are some things that can't be bought with money, and that money can't pay for, Miss Impertinence;" and Mrs. Scrimp, having satisfied her appetite, rose from the table and, taking Gracie by the hand, walked out of the room with her in the most dignified manner.

Presently afterward Lulu saw her, through the window, in bonnet and shawl and with a basket on her arm, going out to do the marketing.

Having finished her breakfast, Lulu walked into the sitting-room.

Gracie lay on the sofa looking pale and weak. Lulu went to her, stroked her hair, and kissed her.

"Poor little Gracie! weren't you hungry for some supper last night?"

"Yes, Lulu," replied the child, lifting a thin white little hand and stroking her sister's face, "but Aunt Beulah says it makes me worse to eat at night."

"I don't believe it!" cried Lulu vehemently, and half stamping her foot, "and I'm going to write a letter to papa and tell him how she starves you, and would starve me too if I'd let her!"

"I wish papa would come!" sighed Gracie. "Lulu, did it use to make us sick to eat supper when we lived with papa and mamma?"

"No, never a bit! O Gracie, Gracie, why did mamma die? why did God take her away from us when we need her so much? I can't love Him for that! I don't love Him!" she exclaimed with a sudden shower of tears, albeit not much given to shedding them.

"Don't cry, Lulu," Gracie said in distress, "maybe papa will find another mamma for us. I wish he would."

"I don't! stepmothers are always hateful! I'd hate her and never mind a word she said. O Max, Max! I'm so glad to see you!" as a handsome, dark-eyed, merry-faced boy came rushing in.

"I've just come for a minute!" he cried half breathlessly, catching her in his arms, giving her a resounding kiss, then bending over Gracie with a sudden change to extreme gentleness of manner; she was his baby sister and so weak and timid.

"Poor little Gracie!" he said softly. "I wish I was a big man to take you and Lulu away and give you a good time!"

"I love you, Max," she returned, stroking and patting his cheek. "I wish you'd be a good boy, so you could live here with us."

"I don't want to," he answered, frowning. "I mean I don't want to live with her; I sha'n't ever call her aunt again. I wouldn't have come in if I hadn't known she was out. I saw her going to market. I'm going off to Miller's Pond to fish for trout. You know it's Saturday and there's no school. Jim Bates is going with me and we're to be back by noon; that is, old Tommy said I must."

Lulu laughed at Max's irreverent manner of alluding to the man who had the oversight of him out of school hours; then jumping up, "O Max!" she cried, "I want to go too! I'll be ready in a minute."

"What'll Mrs. Scrimp say?" laughed Max.

Lulu tossed her head with a scornful smile which said more plainly than words that she did not care what Mrs. Scrimp might do or say in regard to the matter, ran into the hall, and returned almost instantly with hat and sacque.

"Come, Max," she said, "we'd better be off before she gets back. Gracie, you won't mind being left alone for just a little bit? Ann's in the kitchen, you know."

"I wish I could go too!" sighed Gracie. "I wish I could run about and have good times like you and Max!"

"Maybe you will, some o' these days. Good-by, little one," said Max, giving a parting pat to the little white cheek.

"Good-by," cried Lulu from the doorway; "don't fret, because maybe I'll find something pretty to bring you when I come back."

She took a small basket from the table in the hall, Max shouldered his fishing-rod, which he had left there behind the front door, and they went out together.

"Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted,
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint."
—Shaks.

The children walked very fast, glancing this way and that till satisfied that there was no longer any danger of encountering Mrs. Scrimp, then their pace slackened a little and they breathed more freely.

"Won't she be mad because you came without asking her, Lu?" queried Max.

"I s'pose so."

"What'll she do about it?"

"Scold, scold, scold! and threaten to make me fast; but she knows she can't do that. I always manage to get something to eat. I've found a key that fits the pantry door; so I just help myself. She doesn't know about the key and wonders how it happens; thinks she forgot to lock it."

"But, Lulu, you wouldn't steal!"

"'Taint stealing to take what papa pays for! Max, you're too stupid!" cried Lulu indignantly.

Max gave a long, low whistle. "Fact, Lu! that's so! our father does pay for more than we can possibly eat, and expects us to have all we want."

"Do you get enough, Max?"

"Yes; and right good too. Mrs. Fox is real good and kind; but he's just awful! I tell you, Lu, if I don't thrash him within an inch of his life when I grow to be a man, it'll be queer."

"Tell me about him! what is it he does to you?"

"Well, in the first place, he pretends to be very good and pious; he preaches and prays and talks to me as if I were the greatest sinner in the world, while all the time he's ten times worse himself and the biggest kind of a hypocrite. He tells me it's very wicked when I get angry at his hateful treatment of me, and gets as mad as a March hare himself while he's talking about it."

"Well, I'd let him storm and never care a cent."

"Yes, but that isn't all; he beats me dreadfully for the least little thing, and sometimes for nothing at all. One time he bought a new padlock for the barn-door and pretty soon it disappeared. He couldn't find it anywhere, so he called me and asked me what I had done with it. I said I hadn't touched it, hadn't seen it, didn't even know he had bought one; and that was the truth. But he wouldn't believe me; he said I must have taken it, for I was the only mischievous person about the place, and if I didn't own up and show him where it was, he'd horsewhip me till I did."

"O Max! the wicked old wretch!" cried Lulu, between her clenched teeth. "What did you do? You couldn't tell a lie!"

"No, I thought I couldn't, Lu; and oh, I'm so ashamed!" said Max, growing very red and tears starting to his eyes. "But he beat me, and beat me, and beat me till I thought he'd kill me; and so to stop him at last I said I took it. But I didn't gain anything, for of course he asked next where it was, and I couldn't tell him, because I didn't know. So he began again; but I fainted, and I suppose that scared him and made him stop. He didn't say anything more about the padlock till weeks afterward it was found in the hay, and it was clear that I hadn't anything to do with it."

"Oh, the old wretch!" cried Lulu again. "Did he tell you then he was sorry for having abused you so when you were innocent?"

"No, indeed! not he! He said, 'Well, you didn't deserve it that time, but I've no doubt you've escaped many a time when you did.'"

"Max, I'd never stand it! I'd run away!" exclaimed Lulu, stopping short and facing her brother with eyes that fairly blazed with indignation.

"I've thought of that, Lu; I've felt tempted to do it more than once," Max said with a sigh; "but I thought how papa would feel hearing of it. I'd rather bear it all than have him feel that his son had done anything to disgrace him."

"Max, you're better than I am!" cried Lulu with affectionate warmth. "I'd never have thought of anything but how to get away as fast as possible from that horrid, horrid beast of a man."

"Papa thinks he's good, and that's the reason he put me with him. Oh, but don't I wish he knew the truth!"

"I should think the old rascal would be afraid of what papa may do when he comes and hears all the things you'll have to tell."

"I suppose he thinks papa will believe his story instead of mine; and perhaps he will," said Max a little sadly.

"No; don't you be one bit afraid of that!" cried Lulu, hotly. "Papa knows you're a truthful boy. His children couldn't be liars!"

"But you know I can't say any more that I've never told an untruth," said Max, coloring painfully.

"Well, you couldn't help it," Lulu said, trying to comfort him. "I'm afraid that I might have done it myself to keep from being killed."

"Hello! here comes Jim!" cried Max with a sudden change of tone, his face brightening wonderfully as a lad somewhat older in appearance than himself, and carrying a fishing-rod over his shoulder, came hurrying down a lane and joined them.

"Hello! Max," he said; "we've a splendid day for fishing, haven't we?" Then in a whisper, "Who's this you're taking along?"

"My sister Lulu," Max answered aloud. "She'll help us dig worms for bait, won't you, Lu?"

"Yes, if you'll let me fish a little after you've caught some."

"Good-morning, Miss Lulu," said Jim, lifting his hat.

"Good-morning," she returned, giving him a careless nod.

"It's a long walk for a girl," he remarked.

"Oh," said Max, laughing, "she's half boy; ain't you, Lu?"

"I s'pose; if you mean in walking, jumping and running. Aunt Beulah calls me a regular tomboy. But I'd rather be that than stay cooped up in the house all the time."

They had now left the town behind, and presently they turned from the highway and took a narrow path that led them deep into the woods, now in the very height of their autumnal beauty.

The sun shone brightly, but through a mellow haze; the air was deliciously pure, cool, and bracing.

The children's pulses bounded, they laughed and jested; the boys whistled and Lulu sang in a voice of birdlike melody.

"O Max," she said, "I wish Gracie was well and with us here!"

"Yes, so do I," he answered; "but 'tisn't likely she can ever be strong like you and me, Lu."

"Well, I'll tell her all about it and take her all the pretty things I can find. Oh, what a lovely place!" as they came out upon the shore of the pond, a tiny sheet of clear still water surrounded by woods and hills except where a rivulet entered it on one side and left it on the other.

"Yes," assented Jim, "it's a right nice place, is Miller's Pond, and has lots of nice fish in it."

The boys laid down their rods, Lulu her basket, and all three fell to digging for earth-worms.

When they deemed that they had a sufficient quantity of bait, the lads seated themselves on the roots of a fallen tree close to the water, each, with fishing-rod in hand, and Lulu, picking up her basket, wandered off among the trees and bushes.

"Don't go too far away and get lost," Max called after her.

"No," she answered, "I'll not go out of sight of the pond; so I can easily find my way back. But don't you go off and leave me."

"No; if you're not here, I'll hallo when we're 'most ready to start."

What treasures Lulu found as she wandered here and there, every now and then turning to look for the pond, and make sure that she was not losing herself, there were acorn-cups, lovely mosses, beautiful autumn leaves—red, orange, golden and green; there were wild grapes too, and hazel-nuts, brown and ripe. Of all these she gathered eagerly until her basket was full, thinking that some would delight Gracie, others propitiate Aunt Beulah.

And now she made her way back to the spot where the boys still sat, each with his line in the water.

"Have you caught any?" she asked.

"Yes," said Max, "I've caught six and Jim has eight. There! I've got another!" giving his line a jerk that sent a pretty speckled trout floundering in the grass.

"I'll take it off the hook for you," said Lulu, springing forward and dropping on her knees beside it. "And then you'll let me try, won't you?"

"Yes," Max answered in a half-reluctant tone, getting up to give her his place.

"There are hazel-nuts right over there a little way," Lulu said, pointing with her finger.

"Oh, then I'll have some!" cried Max, starting on a run in the direction indicated.

He came back after a while bringing some in his hat, picked up some stones, and seating himself near the others, cracked his nuts, sharing generously with them.

Presently Lulu had her first bite, succeeded in bringing her prize safely to land, and was quite wild with delight.

Max rejoiced with her, taking brotherly pride in her success.

"You'll do for a fisherman or fisherwoman," he said gayly. "I sha'n't be much surprised if you beat me at it one o' these days."

Then struck with a sudden unwelcome thought, "I wonder what time it is!" he exclaimed, jumping up from the ground in haste and perturbation. "Do you s'pose it's noon yet, Jim?"

"Which way's the sun?" queried the latter, glancing toward the sky; "it ought to be right overhead at noon. Why, it's down some toward the west! I shouldn't wonder if it's as late as two o'clock."

"Two o'clock!" cried Max in dismay, "and I was to be back by noon! Won't I catch it!" and he began gathering up his fish and fishing-tackle in great haste, Jim doing likewise, with the remark that he would be late to dinner and maybe have to go without.

Lulu was giving Max all the assistance in her power, her face full of sympathy.

"Max," she whispered, hurrying along close at his side as they started on their homeward way, "don't let that horrid, cruel, wicked man beat you! I wouldn't. I'd fight him like anything!"

Max shook his head. "'Twouldn't do any good, Lulu; he's so much bigger and stronger than I am that fighting him would be worse for me than taking the thrashing quietly."

"I could never do that!" she said. "But don't wait for me if you want to go faster."

"I don't," said Max.

"Well, I b'lieve I'd better make all the haste I can," said Jim. "So good-by," and away he sped.

"Oh, if papa only knew all about how that brute treats you!" sighed Lulu.

"Max, can't we write him a letter?"

"I do once in a while, but old Tom always reads it before it goes."

"I wouldn't let him. I'd hide away somewhere to write it, and put it in the post-office myself."

"I have no chance, he gives me only a sheet of paper at a time, and must always know what I do with it. It's the same way with my pocket money; so I can't buy postage-stamps; and I don't know how to direct the letter either."

"Oh dear! and it's just the same way with me!" sighed Lulu. "When will papa come? I'm just sick to see him and tell him everything!"

When they reached Mrs. Scrimp's door Max gave Lulu his string of fish, saying, "Here, take them, Sis. It's no use for me to keep 'em, for I shouldn't get a taste; and maybe they'll put her in a good humor with you."

"Thank you," she said. "O Max, I wish you could eat them yourself!" Her eyes were full of tears.

"I'd rather you'd have 'em; you and Gracie," he said cheerfully. "Good-by."

"Good-by," she returned, looking after him as he hurried away, whistling as he went.

"He's whistling to keep his courage up. O Max! poor Max! I wish I could give that man the worst kind of a flogging!" Lulu sighed to herself, then turned and went into the house.

She heard Mrs. Scrimp's voice in the kitchen scolding Ann for letting the bread burn in the oven. It was an inauspicious moment to appear before her, but Lulu marched boldly in, holding up her string of fish.

"See, Aunt Beulah! they're just fresh out of the water, and won't they make us a nice dinner?"

"And they're your favorite fish, ma'am, them pretty speckled trout is," put in Ann, glad to make a diversion in her own favor, as well as to help Lulu out of a scrape; "and I'll go right to work to clean 'em and have 'em ready for the frying-pan in less than no time."

"Yes, they'll be very nice; and the meat will keep for to-morrow," was the gracious rejoinder. "You oughtn't to have gone off without leave, Lulu; but I suppose Max couldn't wait."

"No, Aunt Beulah, he said he couldn't stay more than a minute. Shall I help Ann clean the fish?"

"No; go and make yourself tidy. Your hands are dirty, your apron soiled, and your hair looks as if it hadn't been combed for a week."

Mrs. Scrimp's face was gathering blackness as she scanned the figure of the young delinquent from head to foot, spying out all that was amiss with it.

"I will," said Lulu, moving toward the door with cheerful alacrity. "Oh, I forgot!" and rushing into the hall, she came back the next minute bringing her basket of treasures.

"See, Aunt Beulah, I've brought you lots of lovely leaves; you know you said you wanted some to make a wreath; and here are mosses, and grapes, and hazel-nuts."

"Why you have made good use of your time," Mrs. Scrimp said, now entirely mollified. "Bring your basket into the sitting-room, where Gracie is; and we'll look over its contents."

Max was less fortunate to-day than his sister. His custodian was on the look-out for him, cowhide in hand, and seizing him roughly, as he entered the gate, with a fierce, "I'll teach you to disobey orders another time, you young vagabond! I told you to come home at noon, and you're over two hours behind time!" began to administer an unmerciful flogging.

"Stop!" cried Max, trying to dodge the blows. "How could I tell the time? I came as soon as I thought it was noon."

But his tormentor was in a towering passion and would not stay his hand to listen to any excuse.

"Do you mean to kill me?" screamed Max. "You'll hang for it if you do. And my father——"

"Your father believes in enforcing obedience to orders, sir; and I'll——"

But at this instant there was an interference from a third party.

At a little distance some men were at work hewing timber. They had been working there for weeks, in which Max had made acquaintance and become a great favorite with them, particularly one called by his companions, "Big Bill," because of his great size and strength.

He was a rough, good-natured man, with nothing of the bully about him, but regarded with intense scorn and indignation any attempt on the part of the strong to tyrannize over the weak and defenceless.

He and his comrades had seen and heard enough in these weeks of labor in the vicinity of Fox's residence to inspire them with contempt and dislike toward him on account of his treatment of Max. They had among themselves already pronounced him "a wolf in sheep's clothing, a hypocrite and a coward."

They had seen him watching for the boy with his instrument of torture in his hand, and their wrath had waxed hot.

When Max came in sight they dropped their tools and looked to see what would happen, and at the first blow "Big Bill" muttering between his clenched teeth, "I'll settle his hash for him," started for the scene of action. "Stop that!" he roared, "stop that, you old hypocritical scoundrel! You hit that boy another lick and I'll knock you as flat as a flounder!"

The hand that held the whip dropped at Fox's side, and the other loosed its hold on Max as he turned and faced his assailant.

"What do you mean by coming here to interfere in my business?" he demanded.

"I mean to protect the weak against the strong, sir. I consider that my business. You've given that boy more unmerciful beatings already than he ought to have had in a lifetime, and he not at all a bad boy either. I know all about that padlock affair, though he's never breathed a word to me on the subject, and I'd enjoy nothing better than thrashing you soundly; what's more I'll do it if ever I know you to strike him again; or my name's not Bill Simpson. Max, if he ever does, you've only to let 'Big Bill' hear of it and he'll get ten times more than he's given."

"Thank you, Bill," said Max, running to the big, kind-hearted fellow and giving him his hand. "I'm glad to be protected from him, though I don't want him hurt if he'll only let me alone."

Fox had already stalked away in the direction of the house, swelling with inward wrath, but assuming an air of injured innocence and offended dignity.

Standing in wholesome fear of Max's self-constituted defender, he never again ventured to lay violent hands on the lad, but contented himself with inflicting many petty annoyances.

"Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon."
—Shakspeare.

It was already past the middle of November when Captain Raymond received his injuries, so that the six weeks or more of enforced inaction would carry him into the month of January.

He had hoped to spend Christmas with his children, but that was now clearly impossible, as he sadly owned to himself, for he was a loving father and felt the disappointment keenly on both his own account and theirs.

There would be no festivities at Ion this year, bereavement was still too recent with themselves, too imminent with those very near by the ties of kindred. But there was to be an exchange of gifts; there had been that even last year when but a few months had elapsed since the departure to the better land of the beloved husband and father.

Captain Raymond, sitting quietly in his invalid chair, generally to all appearance buried in a book, overheard many a consultation in regard to what would be most acceptable to this or that one who happened to be absent from the room at the moment, for it was intended that most of the gifts, at least, should be a surprise to the recipients.

One day when the talk was of those to be provided for Rosie and Walter, Mrs. Dinsmore noticed that their guest was listening with a very interested look.

"Captain Raymond," she said, turning to him with an engaging smile, "we purpose to go into the city to-morrow to shop for these things; can we do anything in that line for you?"

"Thank you," he said heartily, his face brightening very much; "if it would not be overtaxing you, I should be very glad indeed to do some shopping by proxy; glad to have the benefit of your and Mrs. Travilla's taste and judgment in the selection of some Christmas presents for my children. It will be all I can do for them this year. I had thought of sending money for the purpose, to the persons in charge of them, but it would be far more satisfactory to me to have some share in the choice of the articles."

Both ladies assured him that it would give them pleasure to do whatever they could to assist him in making the desired purchases, and Mr. Dinsmore suggested that a variety of goods might be sent out from the city stores for him to select from.

He said that was a good idea, but he would leave it to the ladies to have that done, or to choose for him a book for each of his children, a doll for each girl, and writing-desks, fully furnished, for Max and Lulu.

"I think," he added with a smile, "whatever I may give will seem to them more valuable if sent from this distance than if bought near at hand."

"Yes," Mrs. Dinsmore said, "that is human nature."

The shoppers set out the next morning soon after breakfast, expecting to return about the usual dinner-hour.

Watching the departure from the window near which he was seated, the captain observed with pleasure that Violet was not of the party, hoping that if left behind, she would give him the enjoyment of her society during the absence of the others.

Presently she came in, bringing some needlework; Rosie and Walter with her.

The captain closed the book he had been reading and turned toward them with a pleased smile.

"So I am not to be left to solitude, as I feared," he remarked.

"You must please send us away, sir, whenever you think that preferable to our company," returned Violet lightly.

"Do you deem me capable of such rudeness, Miss Travilla?" he asked with playful look and tone.

"We will not consider it such," she answered, seating herself and beginning her work, "since we can wander at will all over the house, while, for the present, you, sir, are a prisoner confined to this room and the next."

"That reminds me," he said, "that of late you have absented yourself a great deal from this room; to my no small discontent."

"It is flattering to my vanity and self-appreciation to learn that you have missed me," she returned sportively, but with a slightly heightened color.

"You can never be away from the rest of us without being missed, Vi," remarked Rosie; "especially now that Sister Elsie is away."

"And do you not mean to gratify my curiosity as to what has been the cause of your many and prolonged absences, Miss Violet?" queried the captain.

"I have been busy elsewhere, sir. But is it not an understood thing that curiosity is a peculiarly feminine trait?"

"I am able to plead guiltless to the charge of ever having made such an insinuation," said the captain; "and do now confess to having a full share of inquisitiveness."

"May I tell, Vi?" asked Rosie.

"We must first learn whether Captain Raymond can keep a secret," Vi answered, glancing at him with a saucy smile.

"Yes, indeed!" he said, "as you shall learn if you will but allow me the opportunity."

"Then I may tell I!" cried Rosie; and hardly waiting for her sister's nod of acquiescence, went on. "She is preparing such a nice surprise for dear mamma, Captain Raymond, a miniature of papa which she has been painting on ivory. I think it looks more like him than any photograph or painted portrait that we have. And I am sure mamma could not have a more acceptable present. Besides that, Vi has painted two flower-pieces; one for grandpa and one for grandma."

"You have certainly been very industrious, Miss Violet," he remarked. "I have heard your studio spoken of. May I hope for the pleasure of visiting it when I recover the free use of my limbs?"

"That will not be for some weeks, sir; and in the mean while I will take your request into consideration," she answered demurely.

The morning passed very rapidly to the captain; the children amused him with their prattle, and when after an hour or two, Rosie grew tired of the bit of fancy-work she was doing under her sister's supervision, and yielded to Walter's entreaties to "come to the nursery and build block-houses," thus leaving Violet his sole companion, the moments sped faster than before; for he found her a very interesting and entertaining conversationist.

On their return the shopping-party brought with them the articles he had mentioned. He pronounced them all entirely satisfactory, and they were packed and sent northward with the addition of some pretty things for the dolls, contributed by Violet and Rosie.

Some unusual impulse of fatherly solicitude and affection led the captain to put his own address upon several envelopes in each writing-desk, stamping them also and adding a note to each of the three children.

To Max and Lulu he said that he wanted letters from them which should not pass through the hands of a third person, "letters that should be like a bit of private chat with papa."

Seeing how tenderly and carefully the little Travillas were nurtured and what love was lavished upon them, had turned his thoughts frequently upon his own motherless ones, and set him to thinking and asking himself rather anxiously how they were faring in those respects. He had come to realize more thoroughly than ever before his responsibility as a parent.

The Christmas work which had kept Violet busy in her studio was now finished, and henceforth she spent much more of her time with the rest of the family; greatly to Captain Raymond's satisfaction, for much as he admired the other ladies and enjoyed conversing with them and with Mr. Dinsmore, he was quite conscious of a constant uneasiness and discontent when Violet absented herself from the room.

His admiration for her beauty and grace had been unbounded from the first, and gradually as he discovered more and more of her sterling worth, her sweetness and unselfishness of disposition, her talent, industry, and genuine piety, his heart had gone out to her in ardent affection; in fact with a deeper and stronger love than he had ever before known or dreamed of.

He began to ask himself how he could ever go away and leave her, and whether he dared seek to make her his own. He was fully as loath as Donald Keith to appear in the rôle of fortune-hunter. Would Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter, so noble themselves, be ready to impute so unworthy a motive to him? He hoped not, he believed they would judge him by themselves. And they who so fully knew and appreciated all that Violet was must see and believe that no man whose affections were not already engaged could be thrown into intimate association with her day after day, as he had been for so many weeks, and not learn to love her for herself alone.

Then he had learned incidentally from Dr. Conly, that the older daughter had married a poor artist with the full consent of her parents and grandfather, his lack of wealth being considered no objection to his suit.

Captain Raymond did not look upon wealth as the highest patent of nobility even in this republican country, but thought, in his manly independence, that his well-established reputation as an honorable, Christian gentleman, and officer of the United States Navy, made him in rank fully the peer of the Dinsmores and Travillas; and he believed that they would entirely agree with him in that.

But he was not a conceited man, and felt by no means sure that Violet herself would give a favorable hearing to his suit. Under the peculiar and trying circumstances of his sojourn at Ion he had not been able to offer her any attention, and her uniform kindness had probably been shown only to her mother's invalid guest. And as he thought of the disparity of years between them, and how many younger, and perhaps in every way more attractive men, must have crossed her path, his hopes sank very low.

Yet he was not too proud to allow her the opportunity to reject him. Saying to himself, "Were I certain that she is indifferent to me, I would not give her the pain of doing so—for I know her kind heart would feel it a pain—but as I am not sure of her feelings, it is only fair and just to her to let her know of mine and abide the issue," he decided that he would not go away without speaking, yet that he would first ask the consent of her natural guardians.

He therefore seized the first opportunity when alone with Mr. Dinsmore to tell of his love for Violet, and ask if he could obtain his and the mother's consent to the prosecution of his suit.

Mr. Dinsmore seemed both surprised and moved. He did not speak for a moment, then, with a heavy sigh, "Has it come to this already," he said "that we are likely to lose our little Vi? I don't know how either her mother or I can ever do without her! ever make up our minds to resign her to any one else!"

"I don't wonder at it, sir," the captain said with feeling. "But may I understand that you do not object to me personally?"

"No, sir, oh no! I see no objection to you more than to any other, except disparity of years, Violet being so young; and that is not so great as it was between her parents."

"Then you give me some hope?"

"If you have won her affections, yes. How is it in regard to that?"

"I have said no word to her on the subject, Mr. Dinsmore—feeling that the more honorable course was first to ask permission of her mother and yourself—and am by no means certain that she cares for me at all except as a friend of the family and of her cousin, Lieut. Keith. Have I your consent, sir?"

"I will talk with my daughter, captain, and let you know the result."

He rose as if to leave the room, but the captain detained him.

"Let me tell you," he said, coloring in spite of himself, "that I am not rich, having very little beside my pay."

"That is a matter of small importance," Mr. Dinsmore answered in a kindly tone, "seeing that riches are so apt to take wings and fly away, and that the Master said, 'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.' If her mother's wealth remains, Violet will be well provided for, as I presume you are aware, yet I cannot for a moment suppose you capable of seeking her on that account. In fact," he concluded with a smile, "the child has nothing at all of her own, and her mother can, should she choose, leave her penniless."

"And I should be more than willing to take her so, if I could get her," the captain answered, returning the smile; "it would be a dear delight to me to provide her with all things desirable by my own exertions."

"Excuse the question, Capt. Raymond, but have you taken into consideration the fact that Violet's extreme youth must render her unfit for the cares and responsibilities of motherhood to your children?"

"Mr. Dinsmore, there is not a woman in a thousand of those twice her age whom I would as willingly trust. But she shall have no care or labor that I can save her from, always supposing I can be so happy as to win her for my own."

The family had retired for the night to their own apartments. Mrs. Travilla, almost ready to seek her couch, sat alone in her dressing-room in front of the brightly blazing wood fire; her open Bible was in her hand, a lamp burning on a little table by the side of her easy-chair.

Her dressing-gown of soft white cashmere became her well, and her unbound hair lying in rich masses on her shoulders lent a very youthful look to face and figure.

Her father thought, as he came softly in and stood at her side, gazing down upon her, that he had seldom seen her more rarely beautiful.

She lifted her eyes to his with the old sweet smile of filial love and reverence, shut her book and laid it on the table.

He laid his hand gently on her head, bent down and kissed her on brow and cheek and lip.

"Dear papa, won't you sit down?" she said, rising to draw up a chair for him.

"Yes," he answered; "I want a little talk with you. How wonderfully young you look to-night!—so like my little girl of other days that I feel a strong inclination to invite you to your old seat upon my knee. Will you take it?" sitting down and drawing her gently toward him.

She yielded to his wish, saying, as she put her arm about his neck and gazed lovingly into his eyes, "I am still child enough to enjoy it greatly, if I am not so heavy as to weary you, my dear father."

"I do not feel your weight unpleasantly," he returned. "You must remember I am a very strong man, and you but a slight and delicate woman. Not so plump as I could wish to see you," he added, pushing up the sleeve of her gown and clasping his fingers round the white arm.

"Isn't there plenty of flesh there to hide the bones?" she asked laughingly.

"The bones are well hidden, but the flesh is not so solid as I would have it."

"Ah, papa, you must not be so hard to please!" she said, with playful look and tone. "I think I'm in very good condition; am glad I'm not too heavy to sit here and play at being your own little girl again. What happy days those were! when I had not a care or anxiety except to please my earthly and my heavenly father."

"Would you like to go back to them?"

"No, dear father, your love and tender care made me a very happy child, but I have no desire to retrace my steps. I should far rather press forward to the heavenly home whither you are travelling with me—'the rest that remaineth to the people of God,' rest from sin as well as from sorrow, pain, and care."

"'Casting all you care upon Him, for He careth for you.' He who ever liveth; He who hath all power in heaven and in earth; He who has said, 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love,' 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' Dear daughter, if cares and anxieties oppress you, ask yourself what right a Christian has to be troubled with them."

"None, papa," she answered humbly; "I am thankful that I can say a belief in His love and power prevents them from pressing very heavily, yet it is my grief and shame that my faith is often too weak to lift the burden entirely."

"What is the particular burden to-night?" he asked tenderly.

"My absent darlings, papa: my Elsie, now beginning with the cares of married life, my eldest son exposed to I know not what dangers and temptations."

"But with the very same Almighty Friend their mother has to watch over and protect, to comfort and sustain them."

"Yes, papa! Oh, I ought not to have one anxious thought about them!"

"When such thoughts will arise, dear child, turn them into petitions on their behalf, and believing in God's willingness to hear and answer prayer, your heart may grow light.

"But this is not exactly what I came to talk about." Then he repeated the substance of his conversation with Capt. Raymond, and asked what answer she would give.

Her surprise was as great as her father's had been, and a look of sore pain came into her face as she exclaimed, "Violet! my little Vi! must I lose her too?"

"Perhaps not, dearest; it may be that she cares nothing for him. But you need decide nothing to-night, and must try not to let the question keep you awake."

For a moment she seemed lost in thought, then lifting to his, eyes brimful of tears, "Papa," she said tremulously, "I cannot stand in the way of my child's happiness, therefore I must let him speak, and learn from her own lips whether she cares for him or not."

"Yes, I think you are right. And now, daughter dear, I must bid you good-night. But first I want you to promise me that you will determinately cast this care on the Lord, and not let it rob you of needed sleep."

They had both risen, and as he spoke he took her in his arms and held her close to his heart.

"I will, papa, in obedience to Him and to you," she said, while for a moment her arm was about his neck, her head laid upon his breast.

"On you most loved, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment must expect my fate."
—Addison.

Naturally Elsie's first waking thoughts on the following morning were of Violet and her future. She was not a "match-making mamma," not at all desirous to be rid of her daughters, and had never once thought of Capt. Raymond as a possible suitor for Violet.

He was not a very young man, and it was difficult to realize that Vi was grown up enough for her hand to be sought in marriage by even one near her own age, much less by the father of a family whose eldest child could not be very many years younger than she.

"She surely cannot fancy him!" the mother said to herself with a sigh of relief; but instantly came the remembrance that the disparity of years had been still greater between herself and the husband she had loved with all the strength of her nature—so loved that never for a moment could she admit the idea of the possibility that any other could fill his place in her heart. What more could she ask for her beloved child, for this life, than such wedded bliss as she herself had known?

But how could she spare her! especially so soon after resigning her sweet namesake daughter to another. It was only the unselfishness of her mother love which could at all reconcile her to the thought.

She longed to know whether she were likely to be called upon to make the sacrifice, but generously resolved to use no means to discover the state of her child's feelings until the captain had spoken. In the mean while she would neither make an opportunity for him nor throw any obstacle in his way.

Her toilet was scarcely complete, and she had just dismissed her maid, when a tap on her dressing-room door was followed by her father's entrance.

"Ah, papa! good-morning!" she said, her face growing bright with pleasure. "Are you well, my dear father?" going to him and putting her arms about his neck.

"Perfectly, my darling," he said, caressing her. "How are you? how did you sleep?"

"I am able to answer, Very well indeed, to both questions, papa," she returned brightly.

"You didn't let worrying thoughts keep you awake?"

"Oh, no, sir!"

"And is your answer to Capt. Raymond still the same?"

"Yes, papa," she said, with an involuntary sigh.

"I don't believe you wish him success," he remarked, with a slight smile and a keen, searching look into her face.

"No," she said, the tears starting to her eyes; "I had thought to keep my sweet child for years to come."

"But you have no objection to him, more than you would have to any one else?"

"No, papa, I have learned to think very highly of him, and believe my darling's happiness will be safe in his hands—if she loves him. Yet I trust far more to your judgment than to my own. You approve of him, do you not?"

"Entirely; yet, like yourself, am so loath to part with Violet that I shall heartily rejoice if she declares herself indifferent to him."

"I long to end my suspense in regard to that," Elsie said, "but have decided to endure it until the captain has spoken; because it seems better and kinder not to embarrass her by any hint of the state of his feelings."

Her father expressed approval of her resolve, then as her children came trooping in for their loved morning half hour with "mamma," with their bright faces and cheery greetings to her and grandpa, he left her and went down to the parlor, where he found Capt. Raymond, and rejoiced his heart with the favorable response to his request.

There was something so peculiar in the mother's gaze into Violet's face as they exchanged their morning greetings, it was so unwontedly keen and searching, half sad and anxious too, that the young girl asked in surprise, "What is it, mamma?"

"My darling, you are very sweet, very precious to your mother's heart!" Elsie said with an earnest, tender kiss; then turned quickly away to hide the tell-tale moisture in her eyes.

Capt. Raymond was not long in finding or making his opportunity.

It was the day before Christmas, and Rosie and Walter made frequent allusion to the exchange of gifts in which they expected to share that evening. They were chatting with the captain about it, in the parlor, soon after breakfast; talking of his children also; asking if he thought they had received his presents by this time, and that they would have a tree.

Violet was sitting near, helping Rosie to dress some dolls for the little cousins at the Laurels. Presently, one being quite ready, Rosie must run and show it to mamma, and Walter went with her.

The door had scarcely closed on them, leaving Violet and the captain sole occupants of the room, when he rose from his chair and, moving with some care and difficulty, took another close at her side.

"Are you not disobeying orders, sir, and in some danger of suffering for it?" she asked, looking at him with a mischievous smile.

"No; I have the doctor's permission to try the ankle a little to-day," he answered. Then, with a slightly embarrassed air, "Miss Travilla," he said, "I should like to—would you accept a Christmas gift from me?"

"You are very kind, sir," she said, blushing vividly, "but I think I must decline. Mamma highly disapproves of young girls accepting presents from their gentlemen friends."

"But I have consulted her and your grandfather in regard to this, and obtained their permission to offer it and ask for a return in kind. Will you accept my hand (the heart you have already won) and give me yours in exchange? Ah, I fear that you must think my presumption very great! I know I am asking what a king might covet. I know that you, in your peerless beauty—so fair, so sweet, so good, so talented, so admired and sought after—are worthy of a throne, and I have not even wealth to offer you—nothing, in fact, but the love of a man whose honor is unstained, and who would cherish you as the apple of his eye. Ah, dearest girl, I have no words to express the strength and power of the passionate affection with which you have inspired me!"

All this and much more in the same strain was poured out so rapidly and ardently that Violet seemed overwhelmed by the torrent of words that had come rushing upon her so unexpectedly and without any warning.

A deep blush overspread the fair face and neck, while her work fell from her hand and her eyes sought the floor.

When at length he paused for a reply, she started up, saying confusedly, in low, tremulous tones, "I—I am far from meriting the praises you have heaped upon me, and I am very young and foolish—not fit for—for so noble and good a man—so worthy to be highly honored. And I—oh, how could I leave my dear, widowed mother!" Then, as approaching footsteps were heard in the hall without, she turned and fled from the room.

"Ah, grandpa's little cricket, what is it? what has disturbed you so?" asked a well-known voice, in tones that spoke more pleasure than alarm, and Vi, as she hurried through the hall, half blinded by the tears in her eyes, felt herself closely clasped by two strong arms that held her fast.

"Oh, grandpa! I—I wish he hadn't!" she stammered, dropping her face upon his breast and bursting into tears.

"Who, my pet? who has dared to ill use you?" he asked, caressing her.

Vi lifted her head and looked up at him in surprise, for certainly his tone was rather amused than angry or stern. Then at a sudden remembrance of the captain's assertion that he had sought and obtained her grandfather's permission to offer her his hand, "Oh, grandpa, why did you let him?" she said, again hiding her blushing face on his breast; "you know I could never, never leave mamma! dear, dear mamma!"

"I am glad to hear it!" he returned with satisfaction, repeating his caresses, "for I don't know what either she or I could do without you. And that was your answer to Capt. Raymond?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, go and tell mamma about it—she will be as glad as I am to hear that we are not to lose our darling little Vi—while I see what I can say to comfort the captain."

He released her as he spoke, and she flew to do his bidding.

Rosie and Walter were still with their mother in her boudoir, but as Violet came in with her flushed, agitated face, they were gently bidden to run away for a little while.

As the door closed on them, Violet dropped on her knees by her mother's chair and laid her head in her lap, hiding her face.

"My dear child! my dear, precious little daughter!" Elsie said, softly smoothing the golden tresses.

"Mamma, you know?"

"Yes, dearest."

"O mamma, I can't leave you! how could I?"

"Dear child! it would be a sore trial to have to part with you; and I cannot be sorry that you are not ready or willing to go. You are one of the very great blessings and comforts of your mother's life!"

"Dearest mother, thank you! They are very sweet words to hear from your lips," Violet said, lifting her face to look up into her mother's with a beautiful smile.

"And so you have said your suitor nay?" Elsie asked, with playful look and tone.

"I hardly know what I said, mamma, except that I was too young and foolish and couldn't leave you!"

"You do not care for him at all?"

"I—I don't know, mamma!" and the sweet, innocent face was suffused with blushes; "I had never thought of his fancying me—hardly more than a child—while he—mamma, is he not very noble and good and wise? and so brave and unselfish!—you know how he risked his life to save a poor old negress; and how much he has suffered in consequence, and how patiently he has borne it all!"

"And how handsome he is?"

"Yes, mamma, one reads the nobility of his nature in his face, and his bearing is soldierly."

"Ah, my little girl! my heart misgives me that I hold you by a very frail tenure!" Elsie sighed between a smile and a tear, as she bent her head to look searchingly into the depths of the azure eyes.

Violet's face crimsoned, and her head went down again into her mother's lap.