Chapter V: Part 5

"If you please, Adelaide," said he haughtily, "I should like to be allowed to manage my own child as I see proper, without any interference from others."

"Excuse me," replied his sister; "I had no intention of interfering; but really, Horace, I do think you have no idea how eagle-eyed you are for faults in her, nor how _very_ stern is the tone in which you always reprove her. I have known Elsie a great deal longer than you have, and I feel very certain that a gentle reproof would do her quite as much good, and not wound her half so much."

"Enough, Adelaide!" exclaimed her brother, impatiently. "If I were ten years _younger_ than yourself, instead of that much older, there might be some propriety in your advising and directing me thus; as it is, I must say I consider it simply impertinent." And he left the room with an angry stride, while Adelaide looked after him with the thought, "I am glad you have no authority over me."

All that Adelaide had said was true; yet Elsie never complained, never blamed her father, even in her heart; but, in her deep humility, thought it was all because she was "so very naughty or careless;" and she was continually making resolutions to be "oh! _so_ careful always to do just right, and please dear papa, so that some day he might learn to love her."

But, alas! that hope was daily growing fainter and fainter; his cold and distant manner to her and his often repeated reproofs had so increased her natural timidity and sensitiveness that she was now very constrained in her approaches to him, and seldom ventured to move or speak in his presence; and he would not see that this timidity and embarrassment were the natural results of his treatment, but attributed it all to want of affection. He saw that she feared him, and to that feeling alone he gave credit for her uniform obedience to his commands, while he had no conception of the intense, but now almost despairing love for him that burned in that little heart, and made the young life one longing, earnest desire and effort to gain his affection.

CHAPTER SIXTH

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and
thy staff, they comfort me."
--_Psalm_ xxiii. 4.

"'Tis but the cruel artifice of fate,
Thus to refine and vary on our woes,
To raise us from despair and give us hopes,
Only to plunge us in the gulf again,
And make us doubly wretched."
--TRAP's _Abramuh_.

It was Sabbath morning, and Elsie, ready dressed for church, stood in the portico waiting for her father to come down and lift her into the carriage, in which Adelaide, Louisa, and Enna were already seated.

The coachman was in his seat, and the horses, a pair of young and fiery steeds purchased by Mr. Dinsmore only a few days before, were impatiently stamping and tossing their heads, requiring quite an exertion of strength to hold them in.

"I don't exactly like the actions of those horses, Ajax," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as he came out putting on his gloves; "I did not intend to have them put in harness to-day. Why did you not give us the old bays?"

"Kase, Marster Horace, ole Kate she's got a lame foot, an' ole marster he says dese youngsters is got to be used some time or nuther, an' I reckoned I mout jis as well use 'em to-day."

"Do you feel quite sure of being able to hold them in?" asked his master, glancing uneasily first at the horses and then at Elsie.

"Ki! marster, dis here chile ben able to hold in a'most anything," exclaimed the negro, exhibiting a double row of dazzlingly white teeth; "an' besides, I'se drove dese here hosses twice 'fore now, an' dey went splendid. Hold 'em in! Yes, sah, easy as nuffin."

"Elsie," said her father, still looking a little uneasy, in spite of Ajax's boasting, "I think it would be just as well for you to stay at home."

Elsie made no reply in words, but her answering look spoke such intense disappointment, such earnest entreaty, that, saying, "Ah! well, I suppose there is no real danger; and since you seem so anxious to go, I will not compel you to stay at home," he lifted her into the carriage, and seating himself beside her, ordered the coachman to drive on as carefully as he could.

"Elsie, change seats with me," said Enna; "I want to sit beside Brother Horace."

"No," replied Mr. Dinsmore, laying his hand on his little daughter's shoulder, "Elsie's place is by me, and she shall sit nowhere else."

"Do you think we are in any danger of being run away with?" asked Adelaide, a little anxiously as she observed him glancing once or twice out of the window, and was at the same time sensible that their motion was unusually rapid.

"The horses are young and fiery, but Ajax is an excellent driver," he replied, evasively; adding, "You may be sure that if I had thought the danger very great I would have left Elsie at home."

They reached the church without accident, but on their return the horses took fright while going down a hill, and rushed along at a furious rate, which threatened every instant to upset the carriage.

Elsie thought they were going very fast, but did not know that there was real danger until her father suddenly lifted her from her seat, and placing her between his knees, held her tightly, as though he feared she would be snatched from his grasp.

Elsie looked up into his face. It was deadly pale, and his eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of anguish.

"Dear papa," she whispered, "God will take care of us."

"I would give all I am worth to have you safe at home," he answered hoarsely, pressing her closer and closer to him.

O! even in that moment of fearful peril, when death seemed just at hand, those words, and the affectionate clasp of her father's arm, sent a thrill of intense joy to the love-famished heart of the little girl.

But destruction seemed inevitable. Lora was leaning back, half fainting with terror; Adelaide scarcely less alarmed, while Enna clung to her, sobbing most bitterly.

Elsie alone preserved a cheerful serenity. She had built her house upon the rock, and knew that it would stand. Her destiny was in her Heavenly Father's hands, and she was content to leave it there. Even death had no terrors to the simple, unquestioning faith of the little child who had put her trust in Jesus.

But they were not to perish thus; for at that moment a powerful negro, who was walking along the road, hearing an unusual sound, turned about, caught sight of the vehicle coming toward him at such a rapid rate, and instantly comprehending the peril of the travellers, planted himself in the middle of the road, and, at the risk of life and limb, caught the horses by the bridle--the sudden and unexpected check throwing them upon their haunches, and bringing the carriage to an instant stand-still.

"Thank God, we are saved! That fellow shall be well rewarded for his brave deed," exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, throwing open the carriage door.

Then, leaping to the ground, he lifted Elsie out, set her down, and gave his hand to his sisters one after the other.

They were almost at the entrance of the avenue, and all preferred to walk the short distance to the house rather than again trust themselves to the horses.

Mr. Dinsmore lingered a moment to speak to the man who had done them such good service, and to give some directions to the coachman; and then, taking the hand of his little girl, who had been waiting for him, he walked slowly on, neither of them speaking a word until they reached the house, when he stooped and kissed her cheek, asking very kindly if she had recovered from her fright.

"Yes, papa," she answered, in a quiet tone, "I knew that God would take care of us. Oh! wasn't He good to keep us all from being killed?"

"Yes," he said, very gravely. "Go now and let mammy get you ready for dinner."

As Elsie was sitting alone in her room that afternoon she was surprised by a visit from Lora; it being very seldom that the elder girls cared to enter her apartment.

Lora looked a little pale, and more grave and thoughtful than Elsie had ever seen her. For a while she sat in silence, then suddenly burst out, "Oh, Elsie! I can't help thinking all the time, what if we had been killed! where would we all be now? where would _I_ have been? I believe _you_ would have gone straight to heaven, Elsie; but _I_--oh! I should have been with the rich man the minister read about this morning, lifting up my eyes in torment."

And Lora covered her face with her hands and shuddered.

Presently she went on again. "I was terribly frightened, and so were the rest--all but you, Elsie; tell me, _do_--what kept _you_ from being afraid?"

"I was thinking," said Elsie gently, turning over the leaves of her little Bible as she spoke, "of this sweet verse: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me;' and oh, Lora! it made me so happy to think that Jesus was there with me, and that if I were killed, I should only fall asleep, to wake up again in His arms; then how could I be afraid?"

"Ah! I would give anything to feel as you do," said Lora, sighing. "But tell me, Elsie, did you not feel afraid for the rest of us? I'm sure you must know that _we_ are not Christians; we don't even pretend to be."

Elsie blushed and looked down.

"It all passed so quickly, you know, Lora, almost in a moment," she said, "so that I only had time to think of papa and myself; and I have prayed so much for him that I felt quite sure God would spare him until he should be prepared to die. It was very selfish, I know," she added with deep humility; "but it was only for a moment, and I can't tell you how thankful I was for _all_ our spared lives."

"Don't look so--as if you had done something very wicked, Elsie," replied Lora, sighing again. "I'm sure we have given you little enough reason to care whatever becomes of us; but oh! Elsie, if you can only tell me how to be a Christian, I mean now to try very hard; indeed, I am determined never to rest until I am one."

"Oh, Lora, how glad I am!" cried Elsie, joyfully, "for I know that if you are really in earnest, you will succeed; for no one ever yet failed who tried aright. Jesus said, '_Every one_ that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it _shall_ be opened.' Is not _that_ encouraging? And listen to what God says here in _this_ verse: 'Ye shall seek me and _find_ me, when ye shall search for me with _all your heart_.' So you see, dear Lora, if you will only seek the Lord with your _whole heart_, you may be _sure_, _quite_ sure of finding Him."

"Yes," said Lora, "but you have not answered my question; _how_ am I to seek? that is, what means am I to use to get rid of my sins, and get a new heart? how make myself pleasing in the sight of God? what must I _do_ to be saved?"

"That is the very question the jailer put to Paul, and he answered, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved,'" replied Elsie, quickly turning to the chapter and pointing out the text with her finger, that Lora might see that she had quoted it correctly. "And in answer to your other question, 'How shall I get rid of my sins?' see here: 'In that day there shall be a fountain opened to the house of David and to the inhabitants of Jerusalem for sin and for uncleanliness.' That is in Zechariah; then John tells us what that fountain is when he says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin;' and again, 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood.'"

"Yes, Elsie, but what must I _do_?" asked Lora, eagerly.

"Do, Lora? only _believe_" replied Elsie, in the same earnest tone. "Jesus has done and suffered all that is necessary; and now we have nothing at all to do but go to Him and be washed in that fountain; believe Him when He says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal life;' just accept the gift, and trust and love Him; that is the whole of it, and it is so simple that even such a little girl as I can understand it."

"But surely, Elsie, I _can_, I _must do something_."

"Yes, God tells us to repent; and He says, 'Give me thine heart;' you can do that; you can love Jesus; at least He will enable you to, if you ask Him, and He will teach you to be sorry for your sins; the Bible says, 'He is exalted to give repentance and remission of sins;' and if you ask Him He will give them to you. It is true we cannot do anything good of ourselves; without the help of the Holy Spirit we can do nothing right, because we are so very wicked; but then we can always get that help if we ask for it. Jesus said, 'Your Heavenly Father is more willing to give His Holy Spirit to them that ask Him, than parents are to give good gifts unto their children. Oh, Lora! don't be afraid to ask for it; don't be afraid to come to Jesus, for He says, 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in nowise cast out;' and He is such a precious Saviour, so kind and loving. But remember that you must come very humbly; feeling that you are a great sinner, and not worthy to be heard, and only hoping to be forgiven, because Jesus died. The Bible says, 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.'"

Lora lingered the greater part of the afternoon in Elsie's room, asking her questions, or listening to her while she read the Scriptures, or repeated some beautiful hymn, or spoke in her sweet, childish way, of her own peace and joy in believing in Jesus.

But at last Lora went to her own room, and Elsie had another quiet half-hour to herself before the tea-bell again called the family together.

Elsie answered the summons with a light heart--a heart that thrilled with a new and strange sense of happiness as she remembered her father's evident anxiety for her safety during their perilous ride, recalling each word and look, and feeling again, in imagination, the clasp of his arm about her waist.

"Ah! surely papa does love me," she murmured to herself over and over again; and when he met her at the table with a kind smile, and laying his hand caressingly on her head, asked in an affectionate tone, "How does my little daughter do this evening?" her cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew bright with happiness, and she longed to throw her arms around his neck, and tell him how very, very much she loved him.

But that was quite impossible at the table, and before all the family; so she merely raised her glad eyes to his face and answered, "I am very well, thank you, papa."

But, after all, this occurrence produced but little change in Elsie's condition; her father treated her a little more affectionately for a day or two, and then gradually returned to his ordinary stern, cold manner; indeed, before the week was out, she was again in sad disgrace.

She was walking alone in the garden one afternoon, when her attention was attracted by a slight fluttering noise which seemed to proceed from an arbor near by, and on hastily turning in to ascertain the cause, she found a tiny and beautiful humming-bird confined under a glass vase; in its struggles to escape it was fluttering and beating against the walls of its prison, thus producing the sound the little girl had heard in passing.

Elsie was very tender-hearted, and could never see any living creature in distress without feeling a strong desire to relieve its sufferings. She knew that Arthur was in the habit of torturing every little insect and bird that came in his way, and had often drawn his persecutions upon herself by interfering in behalf of the poor victim; and now the thought instantly flashed upon her that _this_ was some of his work, and that he would return ere long to carry out his cruel purposes. Then at once arose the desire to release the little prisoner and save it further suffering, and without waiting to reflect a moment she raised the glass, and the bird was gone.

Then she began to think with a little tremor, how angry Arthur would be; but it was too late to think of that now, and, after all, she did not stand in very great dread of the consequences, especially as she felt nearly sure of her father's approval of what she had done, having several times heard him reprove Arthur for his cruel practices.

Not caring to meet Arthur then, however, she hastily retreated to the house, where she seated herself in the veranda with a book. It was a very warm afternoon, and that, being on the east side of the house and well protected by trees, shrubbery, and vines, was as cool a spot as could be found on the place.

Arthur, Walter and Enna sat on the floor playing jack-stones--a favorite game with them--and Louise was stretched full length on a settee, buried in the latest novel.

"Hush!" she said, as Walter gave a sudden shout at a successful toss Enna had just made; "can't you be quiet? Mamma is taking her afternoon nap, and you will disturb her; and, besides, I cannot read in such a noise."

Elsie wondered why Arthur did not go to see after his bird, but soon forgot all about it in the interest with which she was poring over the story of the "Swiss Family Robinson."

The jack-stone players were just finishing their game when they were all startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. Horace Dinsmore upon the scene, asking in a tone of great wrath who had been down in the garden and liberated the humming-bird he had been at such pains to catch, because it was one of a rare species, and he was anxious to add it to his collection of curiosities.

Elsie was terribly frightened, and would have been glad at that moment to sink through the floor; she dropped her book in her lap, and clasping her hands over her beating heart, grew pale and red by turns, while she seemed choking with the vain effort to speak and acknowledge herself the culprit, as conscience told her she ought.

But her father was not looking at her; his eye was fixed on Arthur.

"I presume it was you, sir," he said very angrily, "and if so, you may prepare yourself for either a flogging or a return to your prison, for one or the other I am determined you shall have."

"I didn't _do_ it, any such thing," replied the boy, fiercely.

"Of course you will deny it," said his brother, "but we all know that your word is good for nothing."

"Papa," said a trembling little voice, "Arthur did not do it; it was I."

"You," exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled anger and astonishment, as he turned his flashing eye upon her, "_you_, Elsie! can it be _possible_ that this is _your_ doing?"

Elsie's book fell on the floor, and, covering her face with both hands, she burst into sobs and tears.

"Come here to me this instant," he said, seating himself on the settee, from which Louise had risen on his entrance. "Come here and tell me what you mean by meddling with my affairs in this way."

"Please, papa, _please_ don't be so very angry with me," sobbed the little girl, as she rose and came forward in obedience to his command; "I didn't know it was your bird, and I didn't mean to be naughty."

"No, you _never mean_ to be naughty, according to your own account," he said; "your badness is all accident; but nevertheless, I find you a very troublesome, mischievous child; it was only the other day you broke a valuable vase" (he forgot in his anger how little she had really been to blame for that), "and now you have caused me the loss of a rare specimen which I had spent a great deal of time and effort in procuring. Really, Elsie, I am sorely tempted to administer a very severe punishment."

Elsie caught at the arm of the settee for support.

"Tell me what you did it for; was it pure love of mischief?" asked her father, sternly, taking hold of her arm and holding her up by it.

"No, papa," she answered almost under her breath. "I was sorry for the little bird. I thought Arthur had put it there to torture it, and so I let it go. I did not mean to do wrong, papa, indeed I did not," and the tears fell faster and faster.

"Indeed," said he, "you had no business to meddle with it, let who would have put it there. Which hand did it?"

"This one, papa," sobbed the child, indicating her right hand.

He took it in his and held it a moment, while the little girl stood tremblingly awaiting what was to come next. He looked at the downcast, tearful face, the bosom heaving with sobs, and then at the little trembling hand he held, so soft, and white, and tender, and the sternness of his countenance relaxed somewhat; it seemed next to impossible to inflict pain upon anything so tender and helpless; and for a moment he was half inclined to kiss and forgive her. But no, he had been very much irritated at his loss, and the remembrance of it again aroused his anger, and well-nigh extinguished the little spark of love and compassion that had burned for a moment in his heart. She should be punished, though he would not inflict physical pain.

"See, Elsie," laughed Louise, maliciously, "he is feeling in his pocket for his knife. I suspect he intends to cut your hand off."

Elsie started, and the tearful eyes were raised to her father's face with a look half of terrified entreaty, half of confidence that such _could not_ be his intention.

"Hush, Louise!" exclaimed her brother, sternly; "you _know_ you are not speaking truly, and that I would as soon think of cutting off my own hand as my child's. You should never speak anything but truth, especially to children."

"I think it is well enough to frighten them a little sometimes, and I thought that was what you were going to do," replied Louise, looking somewhat mortified at the rebuke.

"No," said her brother, "that is a very bad plan, and one which I shall never adopt. Elsie will learn in time, if she does not know it now, that I never utter a threat which I do not intend to carry out, and never break my word."

He had drawn a handkerchief from his pocket while speaking.

"I shall tie this hand up, Elsie," he said, proceeding to do so; "those who do not use their hands aright must be deprived of the use of them. There! let me see if that will keep it out of mischief. I shall tie you up hand and foot before long, if you continue such mischievous pranks. Now go to your room, and stay there until tea-time."

Elsie felt deeply, bitterly disgraced and humiliated as she turned to obey; and it needed not Arthur's triumphant chuckle nor the smirk of satisfaction on Enna's face to add to the keen suffering of her wounded spirit; this slight punishment was more to her than a severe chastisement would have been to many another child; for the very knowledge of her father's displeasure was enough at any time to cause great pain to her sensitive spirit and gentle, loving heart.

Walter, who was far more tender-hearted than either his brother or sister, felt touched by the sight of her distress, and ran after her to say, "Never mind, Elsie; I am ever so sorry for you, and I don't think you were the least bit naughty."

She thanked him with a grateful look, and a faint attempt to smile through her tears; then hurried on to her room, where she seated herself in a chair by the window, and laying her arms upon the sill, rested her head upon them, and while the bitter tears fell fast from her eyes she murmured half aloud, "Oh! why am I always so naughty? always doing something to displease my dear papa? how I wish I could be good, and make him love me! I am afraid he never will if I vex him so often."

Then an earnest, importunate prayer for help to do right, and wisdom to understand how to gain her father's love, went up from the almost despairing little heart to Him whose ear is ever open unto the cry of His suffering children. And thus between weeping, mourning, and praying, an hour passed slowly away, and the tea-bell rang.

Elsie started up, but sat down again, feeling that she would much rather do without her supper than show her tear-swollen eyes and tied-up hand at the table.

But she was not to be left to her choice in the matter, for presently there came a messenger bringing a peremptory command from her father "to come down _immediately_ to her supper."

"Did you not hear the bell?" he asked, in his sternest tone, as she tremblingly took her seat at his side.

"Yes, sir," she answered, in a low, tremulous tone.

"Very well, then; remember that you are always to come down the moment the bell rings, unless you are directed otherwise, or are sick; and the next time you are so late, I shall send you away without your meal."

"I don't want any supper, papa," she said, humbly.

"Hush," he replied, severely; "I will have no pouting or sulking; you must just eat your supper and behave yourself. Stop this crying at once," he added, in an undertone, as he spread some preserves on a piece of bread and laid it on her plate, "or I shall take you away from the table, and if I do, you will be very sorry."

He watched her a moment while she made a violent effort to choke back her tears.

"What is your hand tied up for, Elsie?" asked her grandfather; "have you been hurt?"

Elsie's face flushed painfully, but she made no reply.

"You must speak when you are spoken to," said her father; "answer your grandfather's question at once."

"Papa tied it up, because I was naughty," replied the little girl, vainly striving to suppress a sob.

Her father made a movement as if about to lead her from the table.

"O papa! _don't_" she cried, in terror; "I will be good."

"Let me have no more crying, then," said he; "this is shameful behavior for a girl eight years old; it would be bad enough in a child of Enna's age." He took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "Now," said he, "begin to eat your supper at once, and don't let me have to reprove you again."

Elsie tried to obey, but it seemed very difficult, indeed almost impossible, while she knew that her father was watching her closely, and _felt_ that everybody else was looking at her and thinking, "What a naughty little girl you are!"

"Oh!" thought the poor child, "if papa would only quit looking at me, and the rest would forget all about me and eat their suppers, maybe I could keep from crying." Then she sent up a silent prayer for help, struggling hard to keep back the tears and sobs that were almost suffocating her, and taking up her slice of bread, tried to eat.

She was very thankful to her Aunt Adelaide for addressing a question to her papa just at that moment, thus taking his attention from her, and then adroitly setting them all to talking until the little girl had had time to recover her composure, at least in a measure.

"May I go to my room now, papa?" asked the timid little voice as they rose from the table.

"No," he said, taking her hand and leading her out to the veranda, where he settled himself in an easy-chair and lighted a cigar.

"Bring me that book that lies yonder on the settee," he commanded.

She brought it.

"Now," said he, "bring that stool and set yourself down here close at my knee, and let me see if I can keep you out of mischief for an hour or two."

"May I get a book to read, papa?" she asked timidly.

"No," said he shortly. "You may just do what I bid you, and nothing more nor less."

She sat down as he directed, with her face turned toward him, and tried to amuse herself with her own thoughts, and watching the expression of his countenance as he read on and on, turning leaf after leaf, too much interested in his book to take any further notice of her.

"How handsome my papa is!" thought the little girl, gazing with affectionate admiration into his face. And then she sighed, and tears trembled in her eyes again. She admired her father, and loved him, "oh! _so_ dearly," as she often whispered to herself; but would she ever meet with anything like a return of her fond affection? There was an aching void in her heart which nothing else could fill; must it always be thus? was her craving for affection never to be satisfied? "O, papa! my own papa, will you never love me?" mourned the sad little heart. "Ah! if I could only be good always, perhaps he would; but I am so often naughty;--whenever he begins to be kind I am sure to do something to vex him, and then it is all over. Oh! I _wish_ I _could_ be good! I will try very, _very_ hard. Ah! if I might climb on his knee now, and lay my head on his breast, and put my arms round his neck, and tell him how sorry I am that I have been naughty, and made him lose his bird; and how much--oh! _how_ much I love him! But I know I never could tell him _that_--I don't know how to express it; no _words could_, I am sure. And if he would forgive me, and kiss me, and call me his dear little daughter. Oh! will he _ever_ call me _that?_ Or if I, might only stand beside him and lay my head on his shoulder, and he would put his arm around me, it would make me _so_ happy."

An exclamation from Enna caused Elsie to turn her head, and suddenly springing to her feet, she exclaimed in an eager, excited way, "Papa, there is a carriage coming up the avenue--it must be visitors; please, _please_, papa, let me go to my room."

"Why?" he asked coolly, looking up from his book, "why do you wish to go?"

"Because I don't want to see them, papa," she said, hanging her head and blushing deeply; "I don't want them to see me."

"You are not usually afraid of visitors," he replied in the same cool tone.

"But they will see that my hand is tied up, and they will ask what is the matter. O papa! do, _please_ do let me go quickly, before they get here," she pleaded in an agony of shame and haste.

"No," said he, "I shall not let you go, if it were only to punish you for getting off the seat where I bade you stay, without permission. You will have to learn that I am to be obeyed at all times, and under all circumstances. Sit down, and don't dare to move again until I give you leave."

Elsie sat down without another word, but two bitter, scalding tears rolled quickly down her burning cheeks.

"You needn't cry, Elsie," said her father; "it is only an old gentleman who comes to see your grandfather on business, and who, as he never notices children, will not be at all likely to ask any questions. I hope you will learn some day, Elsie, to save your tears until there is really some occasion for them."

The old gentleman had alighted while Mr. Dinsmore was speaking; Elsie saw that he was alone, and the relief was so great that for once she scarcely heeded her father's rebuke.

Another half-hour passed, and Mr. Dinsmore still sat reading, taking no notice of Elsie, who, afraid to speak or move, was growing very weary and sleepy. She longed to lay her head on her father's knee, but dared not venture to take such a liberty; but at length she was so completely overpowered by sleep as to do so unconsciously.

The sound of his voice pronouncing her name aroused her.

"You are tired and sleepy," said he; "if you would like to go to bed you may do so."

"Thank you, papa," she replied, rising to her feet.

"Well," he said, seeing her hesitate, "speak, if you have anything to say."

"I am very sorry I was naughty, papa. Will you please forgive me?" The words were spoken very low, and almost with a sob.

"Will you try not to meddle in future, and not to cry at the table, or pout and sulk when you are punished?" he asked in a cold, grave tone.

"Yes, sir, I will try to be a good girl always," said the humble little voice.

"Then I will forgive you," he replied, taking the handkerchief off her hand.

Still Elsie lingered. She felt as if she could not go without some little token of forgiveness and love, some slight caress.

He looked at her with an impatient "Well?" Then, in answer to her mute request, "No," he said, "I will not kiss you to-night; you have been entirely too naughty. Go to your room at once."

Aunt Chloe was absolutely frightened by the violence of her child's grief, as she rushed into the room and flung herself into her arms weeping and sobbing most vehemently.

"What's de matter, darlin'?" she asked in great alarm.

"O mammy, mammy!" sobbed the child, "papa wouldn't kiss me! he said I was too naughty. O mammy! will he ever love me now?"

CHAPTER SEVENTH

"The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on."
--SHAKESPEARE, _Richard III_.

"A blossom full of promise is life's joy,
That never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time,
Suns the young flow'ret in its gladsome light,
And it looks flourishing--a little while--
'Tis pass'd, we know not whither, but 'tis gone."
--MISS LANDON.

It was Miss Day's custom to present to the parents of her pupils a monthly report of their conduct and recitations. The regular time for this had occurred once since Mr. Horace Dinsmore's return, when she, of course, handed Elsie's to him.

It was very satisfactory, for Elsie was a most diligent scholar, carrying her religious principles into that as well as everything else; and disposed as Miss Day was to find fault with her, she could seldom see any excuse for so doing, in either her conduct or recitations.

Mr. Dinsmore glanced over the report and handed it back, saying, "It is all very good; very satisfactory indeed. I am glad to see that she is industrious and well behaved, for I wish her to grow up an intelligent and amiable woman."

Elsie, who was standing near, heard the words, and they sent a glow of pleasure to her cheeks. She looked up eagerly; but her father turned and walked away without taking any notice of her, and the glow of happiness faded, and the soft eyes filled with tears of wounded feeling.

It was now time for a second report; but alas! the past month had been a most unfortunate one for the little girl; the weather was very warm, and she had felt languid and weak, and so much were her thoughts occupied with the longing desire to gain her father's love, so depressed were her spirits by her constant failure to do so, that she often found it impossible to give her mind to her lessons.

Arthur, too, during much of the time before and since the week of his imprisonment, had been more than usually annoying, shaking her chair and jogging her elbow so frequently when she was writing, that her copy-book presented by no means so good an appearance as usual; and never had Miss Day made out so poor a report for her. She carried it with much secret satisfaction to the little girl's father, and entered a long complaint of the child's idleness and inattention.

"Send her to me," he said, angrily. "She will find me in my own room."

Miss Day had left Elsie in the school-room putting her desk in order after the day's work, and she found her still there on her return.

"Elsie," said she, with a malicious smile, "your father wishes to see you immediately. He is in his room."

The child turned red and pale by turns, and trembled so violently that for a moment she was quite unable to move; for she guessed from Miss Day's countenance what was probably in store for her.

"I advise you to go at once," said that lady, "for no doubt the longer you wait the worse it will be for you."

At the same moment Mr. Dinsmore's voice was heard calling in a stern, angry tone, "Elsie!"

Making a violent effort to control her feelings, she started up and hastened to obey.

The door of his room stood open, and she walked in, asking in a trembling voice, "Did you call me, papa?"

"Yes," said he, "I did. Come here to me."

He was sitting with the copy-book and report in his hand, and there was much severity in both tone and look as he addressed her.

She obeyed instantly, but trembling violently, and with a face pale as death, and eyes filled with tears. She lifted them pleadingly to his face; and, touched by her evident terror and distress, he said in a tone somewhat less stern, "Can you tell me, Elsie, how it happens that your teacher brings me so bad a report of your conduct and lessons during the past month? She says you have been very idle; and the report tells the same story; and this copy-book presents a shameful appearance."

The child answered only by tears and sobs.

They seemed to irritate him.

"Elsie," he said, sternly, "when I ask a question, I require an answer, and that instantly."

"O papa!" she answered, pleadingly, "I couldn't study. I'm very sorry--I'll try to do better--only don't be very angry with me, dear papa."

"I am angry with you; very angry, indeed," said he in the same severe tone, "and very strongly inclined to punish you. You _couldn't_ study, eh? What reason can you assign, pray? Were you not well?"

"I don't know, sir," sobbed the little girl.

"You don't _know_? Very well, then, I think you could not be very ill without knowing it, and so you seem to have no excuse at all to offer? However, I will not inflict any punishment upon you _this_ time, as you seem to be really sorry, and have promised to do better; but beware how you let me see such a report as this, or hear such complaints of idleness again, unless you wish to be _severely punished_; and I warn you that unless your next copy-book presents a better appearance than this, I certainly shall punish you.

"There are a number of pages here that look quite well," he continued, turning over the leaves; "that shows what you _can_ do, if you choose; now there is an old saying, 'A bird that _can_ sing, and _won't_ sing, must be _made_ to sing.' Hush!" as Elsie seemed about to speak; "not a word. You may go now." And throwing himself back in his easy-chair, he took up a newspaper and began to read.

Yet Elsie lingered; her heart so yearned for one word or look of sympathy and love; she so longed to throw herself into his arms and tell him how dearly, how _very_ dearly she loved him; she did so hunger and thirst for one fond caress--ah! how could she go away without it now, when for the very first time she found herself alone with him in his own room, where she had never ventured before, but where she had often been in her brightest dreams.

And so she lingered, trembling, hoping, fearing; but presently he looked up with a cold "Why do you stand there? I gave you permission to go; go at once." And with a sinking heart she turned away and sought the solitude of her own room, there to weep, and mourn, and pray that she might one day possess the love she so pined for, and bitterly to reproach herself for having by the failures of the past month put it farther from her.

And soon a thought came to her which added greatly to her distress. If Arthur continued his persecutions, how could she make the next copy-book more presentable? and in case it were not, her father had said positively that he would punish her; and oh! how could she bear punishment from him, when a word or look of displeasure almost broke her heart?

Miss Day seldom remained in the school-room during the whole of the writing hour, and sometimes the older girls were also absent, so that Arthur had ample opportunity to indulge his mischievous propensities; for Elsie was above the meanness of telling tales, and had she not been, Arthur was so great a favorite with his mother that she would have brought a great deal of trouble upon herself by so doing.

She therefore saw no escape from the dreaded punishment, unless she could persuade the perverse boy to cease his annoyances; and of that there was little hope.

But she carried her trouble to her Heavenly Father, and asked Him to help her. She was still on her knees, pouring out her sobs and prayers, when some one knocked at the door.

She rose and opened it to find her Aunt Adelaide standing there.

"Elsie," she said, "I am writing to Miss Rose; have you any word to send? You may write a little note, if you choose, and I will enclose it in my letter. But what is the matter, child?" she suddenly exclaimed, kindly taking the little girl's hand in hers.

With many tears and sobs Elsie told her the whole story, not omitting her papa's threat, and her fear that she could not, on account of Arthur's persecutions, avoid incurring the punishment.

Adelaide's sympathies were enlisted, and she drew the sobbing child to her side, saying, as she pressed a kiss on her cheek, "Never mind, Elsie, I will take my book or needle-work to the school-room every day, and sit there during the writing hour. But why don't you tell your papa about it?"

"Because I don't like to tell tales, Aunt Adelaide, and it would make your mamma so angry with me; and besides, I can't tell papa anything."

"Ah, I understand! and no wonder; he is strangely stern to the poor child. I mean to give him a good talking to," murmured Adelaide, more as if thinking aloud than talking to Elsie.

Then, kissing the little girl again, she rose hastily and left the room, with the intention of seeking her brother; but he had gone out; and when he returned he brought several gentlemen with him, and she had no opportunity until the desire to interfere in the matter had passed from her mind.

"And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer, and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." The promise had been fulfilled to Elsie, and help had been sent her in her trouble.

When her Aunt Adelaide left her, Elsie--first carefully locking the door to guard against a surprise visit from Enna--went to her bureau, and unlocking a drawer, took out a purse she was knitting for her father, to replace the one she had given to Miss Allison.

She had commenced it before his return, and having spent upon it nearly every spare moment since, when she could feel secure from intrusion, she now had it nearly completed. Ah! many a silent tear had fallen as she worked, and many a sigh over disappointed hopes had been woven into its bright meshes of gold and blue.

But now she had been much comforted and encouraged by her aunt's sympathy and kind promise of assistance, and, though there were still traces of tears upon it, the little face looked quite bright and cheerful again as she settled herself in her little sewing chair, and began her work.

The small white fingers moved right briskly, the bright shining needles glancing in and out, while the thoughts, quite as busy, ran on something in this fashion: "Ah! I am so sorry I have done so badly the past month; no wonder papa was vexed with me. I don't believe I ever had such a bad report before. What has come over me? It seems as if I _can't_ study, and must have a holiday. I wonder if it is all laziness? I'm afraid it is, and that I ought to be punished. I wish I could shake it off, and feel industrious as I used to. I will try _very_ hard to do better this month, and perhaps I can. It is only one month, and then June will be over, and Miss Day is going North to spend July and August, and maybe September, and so we shall have a long holiday. Surely I can stand it one month more; it will soon be over, though it does seem a long time, and besides, this month we are not to study so many hours, because it is so warm; and there's to be no school on Saturdays; none to-morrow, so that I can finish this. Ah! I wonder if papa will be pleased?" and she sighed deeply. "I'm afraid it will be a long, long time before he will be pleased with me again. I have displeased him twice this week--first about the bird, and now this bad report, and that shameful copy-book. But oh! I will try _so_ hard next month, and dear Aunt Adelaide will keep Arthur from troubling me, and I'm determined my copy-book shall look neat, and not have a single blot in it.

"I wonder how I shall spend the vacation? Last summer I had such a delightful visit at Ashlands; and then they were here all the rest of the time. It was then poor Herbert had such a dreadful time with his hip. Ah! how thankful I ought to be that I am not lame, and have always been so healthy. But I'm afraid papa won't let me go there this summer, nor ask them to visit me, because he said he thought Lucy was not a suitable companion for me. I _was_ very naughty when she was here, and I've been naughty a great many times since. Oh! dear, shall I never, never learn to be good? It seems to me I am naughty now much oftener than I used to be before papa came home. I'm afraid he will soon begin to punish me severely, as he threatened to-day. I wonder what he means?"

A crimson tide suddenly swept over the fair face and neck, and dropping her work, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh! he couldn't, _couldn't_ mean that! how could I ever bear it! and yet if it would make me really good, I think I wouldn't mind the pain--but the shame and disgrace! oh! it would break my heart. I could never hold up my head again! Oh! _can_ he mean that? But I must just try to be so very good that I will never deserve punishment, and then it will make no difference to me what he means." And with this consolatory reflection she took up her work again.

"Mammy, is papa in his room?" asked Elsie, the next afternoon, as she put the finishing touches to her work.

"No, darlin', Marster Horace he rode out wid de strange gentlemen more than an hour ago."

Elsie laid her needles away in her work-basket, and opening her writing-desk, selected a bit of note-paper, on which she wrote in her very best hand, "A present for my dear papa, from his little daughter Elsie!" This she carefully pinned to the purse, and then carried it to her papa's room, intending to leave it on his toilet-table.

Fearing that he might possibly have returned, she knocked gently at the door, but receiving no answer, opened it, and went in; but she had not gone more than half way across the room when she heard his voice behind her, asking, in a tone of mingled surprise and displeasure, "What are you doing here in my room, in my absence, Elsie?"

She started, and turned round, pale and trembling, and lifting her eyes pleadingly to his face, silently placed the purse in his hand.

He looked first at it, and then at her.

"I made it for you, dear papa," she said, in a low, tremulous tone; "do please take it."

"It is really very pretty," he said, examining it; "is it possible it is your work? I had no idea you had so much taste and skill. Thank you, daughter; I shall take it, and use it with a great deal of pleasure."

He took her hand as he spoke, and sitting down, lifted her to his knee, saying, "Elsie, my child, why do you always seem so afraid of me? I don't like it."

With a sudden impulse she threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her lips to his cheek; then dropping her head on his breast, she sobbed: "O papa! _dear_ papa, I _do love_ you so _very_ dearly! will you not love me? O papa! love me a _little_. I know I've been naughty very often, but I will _try_ to be good."

Then for the first time he folded her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, saying, in a moved tone, "I _do_ love you, my darling, my own little daughter."

Oh! the words were sweeter to Elsie's ear than the most delicious music! her joy was too great for words, for anything but tears.

"Why do you cry so, my darling?" he asked, soothingly, stroking her hair, and kissing her again and again.

"O papa! because I am so happy, so _very_ happy," she sobbed.

"Do you indeed care so very much for my love?" he asked; "then, my daughter, you must not tremble and turn pale whenever I speak to you, as though I were a cruel tyrant."

"O papa! I cannot help it, when you look and speak so sternly. I love you so dearly I cannot bear to have you angry with me; but I am not afraid of you now."

"That is right," he said, caressing her again. "But there is the tea-bell," he added, setting her down. "Go into the dressing-room there, and bathe your eyes, and then come to me."

She hastened to do his bidding, and then taking her hand he led her down and seated her in her usual place by his side.

There were visitors, and all his conversation was addressed to them and the older members of the family, but he now and then bestowed a kind look upon his little girl, and attended carefully to all her wants; and Elsie was very happy.