Mildred and Elsie

CHAPTER XX

"She was the prideOf her familiar sphere – the daily joyOf all who on her gracefulness might gaze,And in the light and music of her wayHave a companion's portion." – Willis.

Wallace Ormsby was not behind his wife in admiration and liking for Frank Osborne; he enjoyed his sermons, too, and was desirous that Mr. Dinsmore should hear the young preacher, and make his acquaintance; therefore had persuaded him and Mr. Lord to an exchange of pulpits on the morrow, which was Sunday, and invited Frank to be his and Zillah's guest. Wallace was hospitably inclined, and not a little proud of his young wife's housekeeping.

The invitation was accepted, and the visit extended a day or two by urgent request. Of course the time was not all spent on the one side of the street, and Mr. Dinsmore, who was not lacking in observation, soon perceived how matters were tending between Ada and the young clergyman.

He spoke to his cousin about it, saying that "he was pleased with Mr. Osborne, finding him agreeable, well-informed, and an able sermonizer for his years; but surely his lack of means was an objection to the match, or would be if Ada were his daughter."

"Yes," she said, "but 'the blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.' If there is mutual love we will raise no barrier to their union. But I should greatly prefer to keep my dear daughter with me for some years yet."

"Yes; I do not doubt that. I am glad indeed that it must be many years before I am called to part with mine to some other man. But, Marcia, how is it that Mildred is still single? So sweet and attractive as she is in every way, it must certainly be her own fault."

In reply Mrs. Keith told him how it had been between Mildred and Charlie Landreth, and how six long years had now passed with no word from or of the wanderer.

He was deeply touched. "It would be well if she could forget him and bestow her affections upon another," he said, "for surely if still living, he is unworthy of her. I knew and liked him as a boy, but it is long since I have seen or heard of him. He and his uncle made a disastrous failure in business, though I understood that no blame attached to either; then the uncle died, and Charlie disappeared from our neighborhood, where nothing has been heard of him since, so far as I have learned. But I will make inquiries on my return, and may possibly be able to trace him. However, rest assured that I will do nothing to compromise Mildred," he added, noticing a doubtful look on his cousin's face.

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I can trust you, I know, Horace; and I cannot tell you how glad I should be to have my dear, patient child relieved of this torturing suspense."

This visit of their cousins was a grand holiday for all the younger Keiths, Fan and Annis more especially; they were excused from lessons, and had delightful daily walks and drives.

Every morning Elsie would take her Bible into her papa's room and spend a little while there with him, before they were called to breakfast. He sent her to bed regularly at half past eight, so that she was ready to rise betimes.

One evening when she came to bid him good-night, he kissed her several times, saying, "I shall probably not see you in the morning; very likely not until to-morrow evening, as I am going hunting with your uncle, and we expect to start very early."

"Oh, I wish little girls could go too!" Elsie exclaimed, clinging to him. "But mayn't I get up in time to see you before you go, papa?"

"I don't think you will be awake, daughter. We start before sunrise."

"But if I am, papa, mayn't I run into your room and kiss you good-by?"

"Yes; but try not to feel disappointed if you should miss the opportunity. And don't shed any tears over papa's absence," he added half jestingly.

"No, sir; but it will be a long day without you," she sighed, with her arm about his neck, her cheek to his.

"I think you will find the time pass much more rapidly than you expect," he said cheerily; "but whether or no, you must try to be bright and pleasant for the sake of those around you. Don't indulge selfishness, even in little things, darling."

"I will try not to, papa," she answered, giving and receiving a final hug and kiss.

No one was near enough at the moment to observe or overhear what passed between them, and no one knew anything about the few quiet tears Elsie shed as she went up the stairs to her Cousin Mildred's room where she was to sleep that night. Ada, Fan, and Annis had all had their turn – because all wanted the sweet little cousin for a bed-fellow – and now it was Mildred's. But she found her mammy waiting to prepare her for bed, and her little trouble was soon forgotten in sound, sweet sleep.

Mildred came up an hour later, and stepping softly to the bedside, stood for a minute or two gazing tenderly down upon the sweet little sleeping face. Its expression brought to her mind the lines – read she could not remember where —

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still Elsie hesitated.

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

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

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

"I know he does."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not cold," said Annis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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