Chapter VII: Part 7

"Fine sentiment, eh, Boyd?"

The doctor was just drunk enough to spout poetry without knowing or caring whether it was exactly apropos or not.

"Very fine, though not quite to the point, it strikes me," answered Boyd, wincing under the not too gentle touch of the inebriate's shaking hand. "But how am I to get out of this? blind and nearly helpless as I am?"

"Well, sir, we've planned it all out for you--never forsake a brother in distress, you know. There's a warrant out for Bill Dobbs and he has to skedaddle too. He starts for Texas to-night, and will take charge of you."

Savage went on to give the details of the plan, then left with a promise to return at night-fall. He did so, bringing Dobbs and Smith with him. Boyd's wounds were attended to again, Dobbs looking on to learn the _modus operandi_; then the invalid, aided by Smith on one side and Dobbs on the other, was conducted to an opening in the woods where a horse and wagon stood in readiness, placed in it, Dobbs taking a seat by his side and supporting him with his arm, and driven a few miles along an unfrequented road to a little country station, where they took the night train going south.

The conductor asked no questions; merely exchanged glances with Dobbs, and seeing him apparently in search of a pin in the inside of his coat, opened his own and handed him one, then passed on through the car.

Boyd was missed from the breakfast table at Ashlands on the morning after the raid upon Ion. His aunt sent a servant to his room to see if he had overslept himself.

The man returned with the report that "Marse George" was not there and that his bed had certainly not been occupied during the night.

Still as his movements were at all times rather uncertain, and the ladies, having had no communication with the Oaks or Ion on the previous day, were in ignorance of all that had transpired there, his absence occasioned them no particular anxiety or alarm. The meal went on, enlivened by cheerful chat.

"Mamma," said Herbert, "it's a lovely morning: do give us a holiday and let's drive over to the Oaks; we haven't seen Aunt Rose and the rest for ever so long."

The other children joined in the petition; grandma put in a word of approval, and mamma finally consented, if the truth were told nothing loth to give, or to share the treat.

The carriage was ordered at once, and they set out shortly after leaving the table.

Arrived at their destination they found Mrs. Murray on the veranda, looking out with an eager, anxious face.

"Ah!" she said, coming forward as the ladies alighted, "I didna expect--my sight is no so keen as in my younger days, and I thocht till this moment 'twas Mr. Dinsmore's carriage, bringing them hame again after their dreadfu' nicht at Ion."

Both ladies turned pale, and old Mrs. Carrington leaned heavily upon her daughter-in-law for support. Her lips moved but no sound same from them, and she gasped for breath.

"Oh tell us!" cried Sophie, "what, what has happened?"

The children too were putting the same question in varying tones and words.

"The Ku Klux," faltered the housekeeper. "An' ye hadna heard aboot it, my leddies?"

"No, no, not a word," exclaimed Sophie, "but see, my mother is fainting. Help me to carry her into the house."

"No, no, I can walk: I am better now, thank you," said Mrs. Carrington, in low, faltering tones, "Just give me the support of your arm, Mrs. Murray."

They led her in between them, and laid her on a sofa.

"And that's where George was!" she sighed, closing her eyes wearily. Then half starting up, "Tell me, oh tell me, was--was--Mr. Travilla injured?"

"No, my leddy, he had been warned, and was ready for them."

"Thank God! thank God!" came faintly from the white quivering lips, as she sank back upon her pillow again, and two great tears stealing from beneath the closed eyelids rolled slowly down the furrowed cheeks.

"You have heard the particulars then?" said Sophie, addressing the housekeeper. "And my brother and sister were there?"

"Yes, ma'am, and Master Horace, and Miss Rosie too. Yes; and some of the men-servants. Mr. Dinsmore's man John was one o' them, and he's come back, and frae him I learned a' was richt with our friends."

"Oh call him in and let me hear all he can tell!" entreated the old lady.

The request was immediately complied with, and John gave a graphic and in the main correct account of the whole affair.

His tale was to all his auditors one of intense, thrilling, painful interest. They lost not a word and when he had finished his story the old lady cross-questioned him closely. "Did he know who had warned Mr. Travilla? were any of the raiders recognized?"

Both of these questions John answered in the negative. "At least," he corrected himself, "he had not heard that any one was recognized: they were all completely disguised, and they had carried away their dead and wounded; both the shot and the scalded."

At that moment Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage drove up, and John bowed and retired.

There were tearful embraces between the sisters and other relatives, and between Rose and the elder Mrs. Carrington.

"I feel as if you had been in terrible danger." said Sophie, wiping her eyes. "John has just been telling us all about it. What a mercy that Mr. Travilla was warned in time!"

"By whom, Horace? if it be not an improper question," asked the old lady, turning to Mr. Dinsmore.

"By a detective, Mrs. Carrington, who was secretly present at their meeting and heard all the arrangements."

"He then knew who were the members appointed to be of the attacking party?"

Mr. Dinsmore bowed assent.

"Was George one?"

"My dear madam I did not see the detective, but their raids are usually made by men coming from a distance."

"You are evading my question. I implore you to tell me all you know. George did not come down to breakfast; had evidently not occupied his bed last night, and this seems to explain his absence. I know, too, that he has bitterly hated Travilla since--since his arrest and imprisonment. Will you not tell me? Any certainty is to be preferred to this--this horrible suspense. I would know the worst."

Thus adjured Mr. Dinsmore told her George had been appointed one of the party, but that he could not say that he was actually there. Also he suppressed the fact that the appointment had been by George's own request.

She received the communication in silence, but the anguish in her face told that she felt little doubt of her nephew's guilt. And as days and weeks rolled on bringing no news of him, her suspicions settled into a sad certainty; with the added sorrowful doubt whether he were living or dead.

Chapter Twentieth.

"Before We end our pilgrimage, 'tis fit that we Should leave corruption, and foul sin behind us. But with washed feet and hands, the heathen dared not Enter their profane temples: and for me To hope my passage to eternity Can be made easy, till I have shook off The burthen of my sins in free confession, Aided with sorrow and repentance for them, Is against reason." --MASSINGER.

It began to be noticed that Wilkins Foster also had disappeared. It was said that he had not been seen since the raid upon Fairview, and the general supposition was that he had taken part in the outrage, received a wound in the affray and, on the advent of the troops, had fled the country.

His mother and sisters led a very retired life seldom going from home except to attend church and even there they had been frequently missing of late.

Elsie had been much engaged in efforts to comfort her old friend, Mrs. Carrington, and to entertain Mr. Lilburn, who was still at Ion; little excursions to points of interest in the vicinity, and visits to the plantations of the different families of the connection, who vied with each other in doing him honor, filled up the time to the exclusion of almost everything else, except the home duties which she would never allow herself to neglect.

Baskets of fruit and game, accompanied by kind messages, had found their way now and again from Ion to the cottage home of the Fosters, but weeks had passed since the sweet face of Ion's mistress had been seen within its walls.

Elsie's tender conscience reproached her for this, when after an absence of several Sabbaths Mrs. Foster again occupied her pew in the church of which both were members.

The poor lady was clad in rusty black, seemed to be aging fast, and the pale, thin face had a weary, heart-broken expression that brought the tears to Elsie's eyes.

When the service closed she took pains to intercept Mrs. Foster, who was trying to slip away unnoticed, and taking her hand in a warm clasp, kindly inquired concerning the health of herself and family.

"About as usual, Mrs. Travilla," was the reply.

"I am glad to hear it. I feared you were ill. You are looking weary; and no wonder after your long walk. You must let us take you home. There is plenty of room in the carriage, as the gentlemen came on horseback; and it will be a real pleasure to me to have your company."

The sincere, earnest, kindly tone and manner quite disarmed the pride of the fallen gentlewoman, and a momentary glow of grateful pleasure lighted up her sad face.

"But it will take you fully a mile out of your way," she said, hesitating to accept the proffered kindness.

"Ah, that is no objection; it is so lovely a day for a drive," said Elsie, leading the way to the carriage.

"This seems like a return of the good old times before the war!" sighed Mrs. Foster leaning back upon the softly cushioned seat, as they bowled rapidly along. "Ah Mrs. Travilla, if we could but have been content to let well enough alone! I have grown weary, inexpressibly weary of all this hate, bitterness and contention; and the poverty--Ah well, I will not complain!" and she closed her lips resolutely.

"It was a sad mistake," Elsie answered; echoing the sigh, "and it will take many years to recover from it."

"Yes, I shall not live to see it."

"Nor I, perhaps; not here, but yonder in the better land," Elsie answered with a smile of hope and gladness.

Mrs. Foster nodded assent; her heart too full for utterance, nor did she speak again till the carriage drew up before her own door.

Then repeating her thanks, "You have not been here for a long time, Mrs. Travilla," she said, "I know I have not returned your calls, but--" she paused seemingly again overcome with emotion.

"Ah, that shall not keep me away, if you wish me to come," returned Elsie.

"We would be very glad; hardly any one else so welcome."

"I fear I have neglected you, but shall try to come soon. And shall be pleased at any time to see you at Ion," Elsie answered as the carriage drove on.

A day or two afterward she fulfilled her promise, and was admitted by Annie, the eldest daughter.

She, too, looked pale and careworn, and had evidently been weeping.

"O, Mrs. Travilla!" she exclaimed, and burst into a fresh flood of tears.

Elsie, her own eyes filling with sympathetic drops, put her arm about her, whispering, "My poor dear child! what can I do to comfort you?"

"Nothing! nothing!" sobbed the girl, resting her head for a moment on Elsie's shoulder; "But come into the parlor, dear Mrs. Travilla, and let me call mamma."

"Ah, stay a moment," Elsie said, detaining her, "are you sure, quite sure that I can do nothing to help you?"

Annie shook her head. "This trouble is beyond human help. Yes, yes, you can pray for us, and for him."

The last words were almost inaudible from emotion, and she hurried away, leaving the guest sole occupant of the room.

Involuntarily Elsie glanced about her, and a pang went to her heart as she noticed that every article of luxury, almost of comfort, had disappeared; the pictures were gone from the walls, the pretty ornaments from mantel and centre-table; coarse cheap matting covered the floor in lieu of the costly carpet of other days, and rosewood and damask had given place to cottage furniture of the simplest and most inexpensive kind.

"How they must feel the change!" she thought within herself, "and yet perhaps not just now; these minor trials are probably swallowed up in a greater one."

Mrs. Foster came in looking shabbier and more heart-broken than at their last interview.

"My dear Mrs. Travilla, this is kind!" she said making a strong effort to speak with composure but failing utterly as she met the tender sympathizing look in the sweet soft eyes of her visitor.

Elsie put her arms about her and wept with her. "Some one is ill, I fear?" she said at length.

"Yes--my son. O Mrs. Travilla, I am going to lose him!" and she was well nigh convulsed with bitter, choking sobs.

"While there is life there is hope," whispered Elsie, "who can say what God may do for us in answer to our prayers?"

The mother shook her head in sad hopelessness.

"The doctor has given him up; says nothing more can be done."

"Dr. Barton?"

"No, no, Savage. Oh if we could but have had Barton at first the result might have been different. I have no confidence in Savage, even when sober, and he's drunk nearly all the time now."

"Oh then things may not be so bad as he represents them. Let me send over for Dr. Barton at once."

"Thank you, but I must ask Wilkins first. He was wounded some weeks ago; injured internally, and has been suffering agonies of pain ever since. I wanted Dr. Barton sent for at once, but he would not hear of it, said the risk was too great and he must trust to Savage. But now--" she paused, overcome with grief.

"But now the greater risk is in doing without him," suggested Elsie. "May I not send immediately?"

"Excuse me one moment, and I will ask," the mother said, leaving the room.

She returned shortly to say that Wilkins had consented that Dr. Barton should be summoned; accepted Mrs. Travilla's kind offer with thanks.

Elsie at once sent her servant and carriage upon the errand, and meanwhile engaged in conversation with her hostess. It was principally an account by the latter of her son's illness.

His sufferings, she said, had been intense: at first borne with fierce impatience and muttered imprecations upon the hand that had inflicted the wound. He had likened himself to a caged tiger, so unbearable was the confinement to him,--almost more so than the torturing pain--but of late a great change had come over him; he had grown quiet and submissive, and the bitter hate seemed to have died out of his heart.

"As it has out of mine, I hope," continued the mother, the big tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I am now sensible that the feelings I have indulged against some persons--the Lelands principally--were most unchristian, and I hope the Lord has helped me to put them away. It has been hard for us to see strangers occupying our dear old home; and yet it was certainly no fault of theirs that we were compelled to give it up."

"That is all true," Elsie said, "I think I can understand both your feelings and theirs, but they are dear good Christian people, and I assure you bear you no ill-will."

"Ah, is that so? I am told Leland has not really gone North, as was supposed, but has returned to the plantation since--since the coming of the troops."

"He has, and is nearly recovered from his wound."

"He was wounded, then?"

"Yes, pretty badly."

"And was in hiding somewhere; and his wife staying on alone with her children and servants? I wonder she had the courage."

"She put her trust in the Lord, as I believe both you and I do, my dear Mrs. Foster; and he has not failed her."

Mrs. Foster mused sadly for a moment. "I have felt hard to her," she murmured at length, in low, trembling tones; "and she a Christian, whom I should love for the Master's sake, and it was quite natural for her to--defend her husband and children. I should have done the same for mine."

She had not mentioned when or where Wilkins had received his wound, but Elsie knew now that it was at Fairview and that Mrs. Leland's or Archie's hand had sped the bullet that had done such fearful work.

Dr. Barton came: Mrs. Foster went with him to the sick-room and Elsie lingered, anxious to hear his opinion of the case.

But Annie came hurrying in with her tear-swollen face. "Dear Mrs. Travilla, won't you come too?" she sobbed. "Mamma will be so glad; and--and Wilkins begs you will come."

Elsie rose and put her arm about the waist of the weeping girl. "I will gladly do all I can for him, your mamma or any of you," she whispered.

There was no want of comfort or luxury in the sick-room. Mother and sisters had sacrificed every such thing to this idol of their hearts, this only son and brother. He lay propped up with pillows, his face pale as that of a corpse, and breathing with great difficulty.

Dr. Barton sat at the bedside with his finger on the patient's pulse while he asked a few brief questions, then relapsed into a thoughtful silence.

All eyes were turned upon him with intense anxiety, waiting in almost breathless suspense for his verdict; but his countenance betrayed nothing.

"O doctor!" sighed the mother at length, "have you no word of hope to speak?"

"Let us have none of false hope, doctor," gasped the sufferer, "I would know--the--worst."

"My poor lad," said the kind-hearted old physician, in tender, fatherly tones, "I will not deceive you. Whatever preparation you have to make for your last long journey, let it be made at once."

With a burst of uncontrollable anguish the mother and sisters fell upon their knees at the bedside.

"How--long--doctor?" faltered the sick man.

"You will hardly see the rising of another sun."

The low, gently-spoken words pierced more than one heart as with a dagger's point.

"Was--this--wound--mortal in the--first place?" asked Wilkins.

"I think not if it had had prompt and proper attention. But that is a question of little importance now: you are beyond human skill. Is there anything in which I can assist you?"

"Yes--yes--pray for--my guilty soul."

It was no new thing for Dr. Barton to do: an earnest Christian, he ministered to the souls as well as the bodies of his patients. He knelt and offered up a fervent prayer for the dying one, that repentance and remission of sins might be given him, that he might have a saving faith in the Lord Jesus, and trusting only in His imputed righteousness, be granted an abundant entrance into His kingdom and glory.

"Thanks--doctor," gasped Wilkins, "I--I've been a bad man; a--very bad, wicked--man; can there be any hope for--me?"

"'Whosoever _will_ let him take the water of life freely.' 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'"

"Isn't it--too--late?" The hollow eyes gazed despairingly into the doctor's face.

"'Whosoever will': you may come if you will; so long as death has not fixed your eternal state."

"I will! Lord, help--save me! me a poor--lost--vile--helpless--sinner!" he cried, lifting his eyes and clasped hands to heaven, while great tears coursed down his sunken cheeks. "I cast myself--at--thy feet; oh pardon, save me or--I am--lost--lost forever."

The eyes closed, the hands dropped, and for a moment they thought he had passed away with that agonized cry for mercy and forgiveness; but a deep sigh heaved his breast, his lips moved, and his mother bent over him to catch the words.

"Leland; send--for--him."

With streaming eyes she turned to Elsie and repeated the words, adding, "Do you think he would come?"

"I am quite sure of it. I will go for him at once."

The white lips were moving again.

The mother explained, amid her choking sobs. "He says the wife too, and--and your husband and father. Oh, will they come? Tell them my boy is dying and would go at peace with all the world."

"I will; and they will come," Elsie answered, weeping, and hurried away.

She drove directly to Fairview and was so fortunate as to find her husband and father there conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Leland.

Her sad story was quickly told, and listened to by all with deep commiseration for the impoverished and afflicted family.

"You will not refuse the poor dying man's request, papa? Edward?" she said in conclusion.

"Certainly not!" they answered, speaking both together, "we will set out immediately. And you, Leland?"

"Will gladly accompany you. I bear the poor man no malice, and would rejoice to do him any good in my power. What do you say, Mary?"

She looked at him a little anxiously, "Is it quite safe for you?"

"Quite, I think," he replied, appealing to the other gentlemen for their opinion.

They agreed with him, Mr. Dinsmore adding, "I have no doubt the man is sincere; and I have still more confidence in his mother, whom I have long looked upon as a truly Christian woman."

"Besides," remarked Mr. Travilla, "the Ku Klux would hardly dare venture an outrage now. The most desperate have fled the country, and the rest stand in wholesome awe of the troops."

"I am quite, quite sure there is no risk in going," said Elsie earnestly, "but whatever is done must be done quickly, for Wilkins is evidently very near his end; may, perhaps, expire before we arrive, even though we make all haste."

At that there was a general, hurried movement, and in less time than it takes to tell it, they were on their way; Mrs. Leland in the carriage with Elsie, and the gentlemen on horseback.

Under the influence of restoratives administered by Dr. Barton, great apparent improvement had taken place in Wilkins' condition; he was in less pain, breathed more freely, and spoke with less difficulty.

At sight of his visitors his pale face flushed slightly, and an expression of regret and mortification swept over his features.

"Thank you all for coming;" he said feebly. "Please be seated. I am at the very brink of the grave, and--and I would go at peace with all men. I--I've hated you every one. And you--Leland, I would have killed if I could. It was in the attempt to do so that I--received my own death wound at the hands of your wife."

Mrs. Leland started, trembled and burst into tears. That part of the story Elsie had omitted, and she now heard it for the first time.

"Don't be disturbed," he said, "you were doing right--in defending yourself, husband and children."

"Yes, yes," she sobbed, "but oh, I would save you now if I could! Can nothing be done?"

He shook his head sadly. "Will you, can you all forgive me?" he asked in tones so faint and low, that only the death-like silence of the room made the words audible.

"With all my heart, my poor fellow, as I hope to be forgiven my infinitely greater debt to my Lord," Mr. Leland answered with emotion, taking the wasted hand and clasping it warmly in his.

Foster was deeply touched. "God bless you for the words," he whispered. "How I've been mistaken in you, sir!"

His eyes sought the faces of Dinsmore and Travilla, and drawing near the bed, each took his hand in turn and gave him the same assurance he had already received from Leland.

Then the last named said, "I ask your forgiveness, Foster, for any exasperating word I may have spoken, or anything else I have done to rouse unkind feelings toward me."

In reply the dying man pressed Leland's hand in moved silence.

Mrs. Leland rose impetuously and dropped on her knees at the bedside. "And me!" she cried, with a gush of tears, "will you forgive me your death? I cannot bear to think it was my work, even though done in lawful self-defense, and to save my dear ones."

"It is--all--right between us," he murmured, and relapsed into unconsciousness.

"We are too many here," said the physician, dismissing all but the mother.

Elsie remained in an adjoining room, trying to comfort the sisters, while Mrs. Leland and the gentlemen repaired to the veranda, where they found Mr. Wood, who had just arrived; having been sent for to converse and pray with the dying man.

"How does he seem?" he asked, "can I go at once to the room?"

"Not now; he is unconscious," said Mr. Dinsmore and went on to describe Foster's condition, mental, moral, and physical, as evidenced in his interview with them and the earlier one with Dr. Barton; of which Elsie had given them an account.

"Ah, God grant he may indeed find mercy, and be enabled to lay hold upon Christ to the saving of his soul, even at this eleventh hour!" ejaculated the pastor. "A death-bed repentance is poor ground for hope. I have seen many of them in my fifty years ministry, but of all those who recovered from what had seemed mortal illness, but one held fast to his profession.

"The others all went back to their former evil ways, showing conclusively that they had been self-deceived and theirs but the hope of the hypocrite which 'shall perish: whose hope shall be cut off, and whose trust shall be a spider's web.'

"Yet with our God all things are possible, and the invitation is to all who are yet on praying ground; 'Whosoever will.'"

At this moment Elsie glided into their midst, and putting her hand into that of her pastor, said in low, tearful tones, "I am so glad you have come! He is conscious again, and asking for you."

He went with her to the bedside.

The glazing eyes grew bright for an instant.

"You have--come: oh tell me--what--I must--do--to--be saved!"

"I can only point you to 'the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world,'" returned the pastor, deeply moved: "only repeat his invitation, 'Look unto me, and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth.'"

"I--am--trying--trying," came faintly from the pale lips, while the hands moved slowly, feebly, from side to side as if groping in the dark, "Lord save--"

A deep hush filled the room, broken presently by the mother's wail as she fell on her knees at the bedside, and taking the cold hand in hers covered it with kisses and tears.

With the last word the spirit had taken its flight; to him time should be no longer, eternity had begun.

Few and evil had been his days; he was not yet thirty, and, possessed of a fine constitution and vigorous health, had every prospect of long life had he been content to live at peace with his fellow-men; but by violent dealing he had passed away in the midst of his years.

"Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days." "The wages of sin is death."

Chapter Twenty-first.

"Kindness has resistless charms." --Rochester.

Through all the trying scenes that followed, Elsie was with the Fosters, giving aid and comfort such as the tenderest sympathy and most delicate kindness could give. She and her husband and father took upon themselves all the care and trouble of the arrangements for the funeral, quietly settled the bills, and afterward sent them, receipted, to Mrs. Foster.

Wilkins had been the chief support of the family, the ladies earning a mere pittance by the use of the needle and sewing-machine. Nothing had been laid by for a rainy day, and the expenses of his illness had to be met by the sale of the few articles of value left from the wreck of their fortunes. And now, but for the timely aid of these kind friends, absolute want had stared them in the face.

They made neither complaint nor parade of their poverty, but it was unavoidable that Elsie should learn much of it at this time, and her heart ached for them in this accumulation of trials.

The girls were educated and accomplished, but shrank with timidity and sensitive pride from exerting themselves to push their way in the world.

"I think they could teach," Mrs. Poster said to Elsie, who, calling the day after the funeral, had with delicate tact made known her desire to assist them in obtaining some employment more lucrative and better adapted to their tastes and social position; "I think they have the necessary education and ability, and I know the will to earn an honest livelihood is not lacking; but where are pupils to be found?"

"Are you willing to leave that to Mr. Travilla and me?" asked Elsie, with gentle kindliness.

"Ah, you are too good, too kind," said Mrs. Foster, weeping.

"No, no, my dear friend," returned Elsie; "does not the Master say, 'This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you?' Now tell me, please, what sort of situations they would like, and what branches they feel competent to teach."

"Annie is a good musician and draws well. She would be glad indeed to get a class of pupils in the neighborhood to whom she might give lessons, here or at their own homes, in drawing and on the piano and harp. Lucinda thinks she could teach the English branches, the higher mathematics, and French.

"But, indeed, my dear Mrs. Travilla, they will be thankful for anything: especially if it does not take them away from me."

"We will see what can be done,--my husband, papa, and I," Elsie said, rising to take leave. "And do not be anxious; remember those precious words, 'Casting all your care on Him for He careth for you.'"

"Do not go yet!" entreated Mrs. Foster, taking and holding fast the hand held out to her, "if you only knew what a comfort your presence is--Ah, dear, kind friend, God has made you a daughter of consolation to his bereaved, afflicted ones!"

Elsie's eyes filled. "It is what I have prayed that he would do for me," she whispered. "But I think I must go now: my husband was to call for me, and I see him at the gate."

Elsie repeated the conversation to her husband as they rode homeward, and consulted him in regard to a plan which had occurred to her.

He approved, and instead of stopping at Ion they rode on to Roselands.

Arrived there, Mr. Travilla joined the gentlemen in the library, while Elsie sought her aunts in the pretty parlor usually occupied by them when not entertaining company.

After a little desultory chat on ordinary topics, she spoke of the Fosters, their indigent circumstances, and her desire to find employment for the girls in teaching.

"Always concerning yourself in other people's business;" remarked Enna. "Why don't you do like the rest of us, and leave them to mind their own affairs?"

"Because I see that they need help, and we are told, 'Look not every man on his own things but every man also on the things of others.' And again, 'As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.'

"I heard you, not long since, Aunt Louise, wishing you could afford a day governess and knew of a suitable person. Would you--would you be willing to employ one at my expense, and give the situation to Lucinda Foster?"

"And let her give it out among our acquaintance that you were paying for the education of my children!" exclaimed Louise, coloring angrily. "No, I thank you."

"Not at all; she need know nothing of the arrangement except that you employ her to instruct your children, and pay her for it. You and Enna, if she will accept the same from me, for herself."

"Dear me," exclaimed Enna, "how you're always spending money on strangers, when your own relations could find plenty of use for it!"

Elsie smiled slightly at this peculiar view taken of her generous offer, but only added, "I would, if you would accept--"

"I'm no object of charity," interrupted Louise, coldly.

"Certainly not," Elsie said, coloring, "yet why should you object to giving so near a relative the pleasure of--But in this instance 'tis I who am asking a favor of you. I want to help the Fosters and cannot do so directly, without wounding their honest pride of independence."

"You will of course employ Lucinda to teach your own?"

"No, I am not in want of a governess. Would you like to have Anna give lessons to your girls in music and drawing?"

"Is she to teach yours?" asked Enna.

"No; M. Reboul has them under his instruction, and as he gives entire satisfaction, I could not feel it right to turn him away."

"H'm! teachers that are not good enough for your children, are not good enough for ours."

"If I were in want of teachers, I should employ the Misses Foster," was Elsie's quiet reply.

Nothing more was said for a moment, then rising to go, "I am then to consider my proposition declined?" she remarked, inquiringly.

"Well no, since you put it on the ground of a favor to yourself, I should be sorry to refuse to gratify you," said Louise.

"Thank you. And you, Enna?"

"She can teach mine if she wants to, and if I could afford it, Annie should give music lessons to Molly; drawing too; but if I can't, I can't."

"It need be no expense to you," said Elsie.

"Very well then, you can engage her and fix the terms to suit yourself."

"Thank you; I shall enjoy their pleasure in hearing that they have so many pupils already secured."

Elsie's benevolent kindness did not stop here; she called on a number of families in the vicinity, and succeeded in obtaining almost as many pupils for the girls as they could well attend to.

Then another difficulty arose:--the distances were too great for the young ladies to traverse on foot, and they had no means of conveyance.

But this was obviated for the present by giving them the use of Prince and Princess, either with or without the phaeton, during the hours of the day that such help was needed.

The ponies were sent over to the cottage every morning, after the children had had their ride, by an Ion servant, who returned for them in the afternoon.

Mrs. Leland heard of her friend's efforts, and going over to Ion, asked, "Why did you not call on me? my children need instruction."

"I hardly liked to ask it of you."

"And I feel a delicacy about proposing the thing to the Fosters, but--I would be very glad to help them; and if you can learn that they would not mind coming to Fairview for the sake of several more scholars, I authorize you to make the engagement for me."

Elsie undertook the errand and did it so well that the Fosters were deeply touched by this kindness on the part of one whom they had formerly hated and reviled, and whose husband their brother had tried to kill.

The offer was gratefully accepted, the young Lelands became the pupils of these former foes, little courtesies and kind offices were exchanged, and in the end warm friendship took the place of enmity.

Chapter Twenty-second.

"The mother, in her office holds the key Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin Of character, and makes the being who would be a savage, But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. Then crown her queen of the world." --OLD PLAY

The families from the Oaks and Ashlands had been spending the day at Ion.

It was late in the afternoon and while awaiting the call to tea, they had all gathered in the drawing-room, whose windows overlooked the avenue and lawn on one side, on the other a very beautiful part of the grounds, and a range of richly wooded hills beyond.

A pause in the conversation was broken by Mr. Travilla. "Wife," he said, turning to Elsie, "Cousin Ronald should see Viamede: our old friend here, Mrs. Carrington, needs change of scene and climate; two good things that would not hurt any one present: shall we not invite them all to go and spend the winter with us there?"

"O, yes, yes indeed! what a delightful plan!" she cried with youthful enthusiasm. "Ah, I hope you will all accept; the place is almost a paradise upon earth, and we would do all in our power to make the time pass agreeably. Cousin Ronald, don't refuse. Papa dear, don't try to hunt up objections."

"Ah ha! um h'm! I've not the least idea of it, cousin," said the one.

"I am not," said the other, smiling fondly upon her, "but must be allowed a little time to consider."

"O papa, don't say no!" cried Rosie. "Mamma, coax him quick before he has time to say it."

"I think there's no need," laughed Rose. "Can't you see that he is nearly as eager as the rest of us? and how could he do a whole winter without your sister? How could any of us, for that matter?"

"You have advanced an unanswerable argument, my dear," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and I may as well give consent at once."

"Thank you, mamma," said Elsie, "thank you both. Now if the rest of you will only be as good!" and she glanced persuasively from one to another.

"As good!" said Sophie smiling, "if to be ready to accept the kindest and most delightful of invitations be goodness, then I am not at all inclined to be bad. Mother, shall we not go?"

"O grandma, you will not say no?" cried the young Carringtons who had listened to the proposition with eager delight.

"No, please don't," added little Elsie, putting her arms coaxingly about the old lady's neck. "Mamma, papa, grandpa and mammy all say it is so lovely there, and we want you along."

"Thanks, dear, thanks to your papa and mamma too," said the old lady, clasping the little girl close, while tears filled her aged eyes, "yes, yes, I'll go; we will all go; how could I reject such kindness!"

The children, from Rosie Dinsmore--who would hardly have consented to be put into that list--down to Harold Travilla, were wild with delight, and for the rest of the evening could scarce speak or think of anything else than Viamede and the pleasures they hoped to enjoy there.

"Now all have spoken but you, brother mine," Elsie said, turning to Horace Jr. "You surely do not intend to reject our invitation?"

"Not entirely, sister, but papa seems to have left the considering for me, and I've been at it. There should be some one to look after the plantations here, and upon whom but myself should that duty devolve?"

"We all have good overseers."

"Yes, but there should be some one to take a general supervision over them. I think I will go with you, make a short visit and return; if you all like to trust me with the care of your property."

"You're welcome to take care of Ashlands, Cousin Horace, and I'll be obliged to you too," spoke up young Herbert Carrington "and so will mother and grandma, I know."

"Indeed we will," said the old lady.

"And it will leave us quite free from care, you good boy," added the younger.

Mr. Travilla expressed similar sentiments in regard to Horace's offer as it concerned Ion, and Mr. Dinsmore was quite as willing to leave the Oaks in his son's care.

As it was now late in the fall and no very extensive preparations were needed, it was agreed that they would start in a few days.

"We shall make a large party," remarked Sophie, "Are you sure, Elsie, that you will have room for so many?"

"Abundance; the house is very large; and the more the merrier. I wish I could persuade Aunt Wealthy, May and Harry to come, with their babies too, of course. I shall write to Lansdale to-night."

"That would be a delightful addition to the party," remarked Mr. Dinsmore; "but aunt is now in her eightieth year, and I fear will think herself much too old for so long a journey."

"Ah, yes, papa, but she is more active than most women of seventy and can go nearly all the way by water;--down the Ohio and the Mississippi and along the Gulf. At all events I shall do my best to persuade her."

"And you are so great a favorite that your eloquence will not be wasted, I think," said Mr. Travilla.

He was right; the old lady could not resist the urgent entreaties of her dearly loved grand-niece, joined to the pleasant prospect of spending some months with her and the other relatives and friends, each of whom held a place in her warm, loving heart.

An answering letter was sent from Lansdale by return of mail, promising that their party would follow the other to Viamede at an early day.

May too was enchanted with the thought of a winter in that lovely spot, and the society of her two sisters, and Elsie, who was almost as near.

But to return. As soon as the children learned that the winter was really to be spent at Viamede, and that they would set off in a few days, the whole flock--leaving their elders to settle the dry details--hastened in quest of "mammy."

They found her in the nursery, seated before a crackling wood fire, with little Herbert in her arms.

Quickly their news was told, and gathering round her, they plied her with questions about her old Louisiana home.

"Well, chillins," she said, her old eyes growing bright with joy at the thought of soon seeing it again--for of course she would be included in the party--"it's jes lubly as lubly kin be! de grand ole house, an' de lawn, an' de shrubbery, an' de gardens, an' fields, an' orchards, an' eberyting:--yes, it am de lubliest place dis chile eber see."

"Horses to ride," said Eddie.

"Yes, Mars Eddie, hosses to ride, an' kerridges to drive out in; 'sides a beautiful boat on de bayou, an' fish dere dat you kin ketch wid a hook an' line. Ole Uncle Joe he kotch dem mos' ebery day for de table, an Massa Ed'ard an' Miss Elsie say dey's bery fine."

"And what else?" asked the eager voice of little Daisy Carrington.

"Oranges! ripe oranges growing out of doors on the trees!" cried her brother Harry, clapping his hands and capering about the room, smacking his lips in anticipation of the coming feast.

"Yes, chillins, orange trees on de lawn, an' a 'mense orchard wid hundreds an' millions ob dem on de branches an' on de ground. An' den de gardens full ob roses an' all lubly flowers, an' vines climbin' ober de verandas an' roun' de pillahs an' de windows, an' clar up to de roof."

"Oh how sweet!" cried the children, their eyes dancing with delight. "But Aunt Chloe, will there be room for us all?" asked Meta Carrington, who was next to Herbert in age.

"Yes, chile: dere's rooms, an' rooms an' rooms in dat house."

"A play-room, mammy?" asked Eddie.

"Yes, chillins, a big room whar yo' grandma used to play when she was a little chile."

Mammy's voice grew low and husky for a moment, and great tears stood in her eyes. But she struggled with her emotion and went on, "Her dolls are dere yet, an' de baby house ole marster hab made for her; an' de beautiful sets ob little dishes, an' a great many tings mo'; for she hab lots ob toys an' neber destroyed nuffin. An' nobody eber goes dar but Aunt Phillis when she hab a clarin' up time in dat part ob de house."

"Yes," said little Elsie, who had been as silent and intent a listener as though the tale were quite new to her, "mamma has told us about those things, and that they are always to be kept very carefully because they belonged to her dear mamma."

"And we can't ever play with them!" exclaimed Vi, "but mamma will show them all to us; she said she would when she takes us to Viamede."

"Oh I'd like to play with them!" exclaimed Meta, "Doesn't anybody ever?"

"No, chile," said mammy, shaking her head gravely, "dere ain't nobody eber 'lowed to go in dat room but Aunt Phillis, when Miss Elsie not dar. But run away now, chillins, dere's de tea-bell a ringin'."

Mamma, too, on coming up at the usual hour to see her darlings safe in bed, had many questions put to her on the same subject.

They were all patiently answered, some further details given, and sweet sympathy shown in their gladness over the pleasant prospect before them; then with the accustomed tender good-night kiss, and with a parting injunction not to lie awake talking, she left them.

"Did anybody ever have such a dear mamma as ours!" exclaimed Vi, nestling close to her sister.

"No, I think not," replied Elsie in a tone of grave consideration. "But now we mus'n't talk anymore; because she bade us not: and I've come to bed early to-night to please you--"

"Yes, you dear, good sister, you very dearest girl in all the world!" interrupted Vi, rising on her elbow for a moment to rain a perfect shower of kisses upon the sweet face by her side.

Elsie laughed low and musically and hugging her tight returned the caresses, then went on, "But I mus'n't keep you awake. So now let's lie down and not say one word more."

"No; not a single one," returned Vi, cuddling down again.

"Mamma," said Eddie, coming into the school-room next morning with a slight frown on his usually pleasant face, "why do you call us to lessons? can't we have holidays now that we are going away so soon?"

"No, my son; I think it best to attend now to our regular duties. You will have a rest from study while taking the journey, and for a few days after we reach Viamede. Will not that be better?" she asked, with a motherly smile, as she softly smoothed back the dark clustering curls from his broad open brow.

"But I don't want to say lessons to-day," he answered with a pout, and resolutely refusing to meet her glance.

"My little son," she said, with tender gravity, "were we sent into this world to please ourselves?"

"No, mamma."

"No; 'even Christ pleased not himself,' and we are to try to be like him. Whose will did he do?"

"His Father's, mamma."

"Yes, and whose will are you to do?"

"God's will, you've taught me, mamma, but--"

"Well, son?"

"Mamma, will you be angry if I say my thought?"

"I think not: let me hear it."

"Mamma, isn't--isn't it your will this time? About the lessons I mean. Please mamma, don't think I want to be naughty, asking it?"

She drew him closer, and bending down pressed her lips to his forehead. "No, my son, you want it explained, and I am glad you told me your thought. Yes, it is my will this time, but as God bids children honor and obey their parents, is it not his will also?"

"I s'pose so, mamma. But I wish it didn't be your will to have me learn lessons to-day."

Elsie was forced to smile in spite of herself. With another slight caress she asked, "Do you think I love you, Eddie?"

"Oh yes, yes mamma, I know you do, and I love you too: indeed I do dearly, dearly!" he burst out, throwing his arms about her neck. "And I know you just want to make me good and happy and that your way's always best. So I won't be naughty any more."

At that there was a general exclamation of delight from the other three, who had been silent, but deeply interested listeners, and all crowded round mamma vying with each other in bestowing upon her tender caresses and words of love.

Each had felt more or less disinclination for the regular routine of work, but that vanished now, and they went through their allotted tasks with more than usual spirit and determination.

Ah what a sweetener of toil is love! love to a dear earthly parent, and still more love to Christ: there is no drudgery in the most menial employment where that is the motive power.

Chapter Twenty-third.

"Put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite." --PROVERBS xxiii. 2.

The happy day came, full soon to the fathers and mothers, at long last to the eager expectant children.

Old Mr. Dinsmore had accepted a pressing invitation from his granddaughter and her husband, to join the party, and with the addition of servants it was a large one.

As they were in no haste, and the confinement of a railroad car would be very irksome to the younger children, it had been decided to make the journey by water.

It was late in the afternoon of an unusually warm, bright November day that they found themselves comfortably established on board a fine steamer bound for New Orleans.

There were no sad leave-takings to mar their pleasure, the children were in wild spirits, and all seemed cheerful and happy as they sat or stood upon the deck watching the receding shore as the vessel steamed out of the harbor.

At length the land had quite disappeared; nothing could be seen but the sky overhead and a vast expanse of water all around, and the passengers found leisure to turn their attention upon each other.

"There are some nice looking people on board," remarked Mr. Travilla, in an undertone, to his wife.

"Beside ourselves," added Cousin Ronald, laughing.

"Yes," she answered; "that little group yonder: a young minister and his wife and child, I suppose. And what a dear little fellow he is just about the age of our Harold, I should judge."

"Yes, mamma," chimed in the last named young gentleman, "he's a nice little boy. May I go speak to him? May I, papa?"

Permission was given and the next moment the two stood close together each gazing admiringly into the other's face.

"Papa," remarked the little stranger, looking up at his father, "I very much wish I had a face like this little boy's."

"Do you, son?" was the smiling rejoinder. "He certainly looks like a very nice little boy. Suppose you and he shake hands, Frank."

"Yes, sir," said the child, holding out a small, plump hand, "What's your name, little boy?"

"Harold Travilla, and yours is Fank?"

"Yes, Frank Daly. Don't you like this nice big boat?"

"Yes I do. Won't you come wis me and speak to my mamma and papa?"

Frank looked inquiringly at his father.

"Yes, you may go if you wish," returned the latter, and the two started off hand in hand.

"Mamma, see! isn't he a dear little boy?" asked Harold, leading his new friend up before her with an air of proud ownership.

"Yes indeed," she said, bending down to kiss Frank and stroke his hair.

"I think he's a good boy, 'cause he didn't come till his papa told him to," continued Harold.

"A very good way to judge of a boy," said Cousin Ronald.

"His name is Fank," said Harold. "Fank, that's Cousin Ronald, and this is papa, and this is grandpa," and so on, leading him from one to another till he had introduced him to the whole party, not even omitting Baby Herbert and mammy.

Then Frank's papa came for him, saying the air was growing very cool, and it was time to go in.

Our friends were of the same opinion and all repaired to the ladies' saloon, where, through the children, they and the Dalys soon made acquaintance.

Mr. Daly was a minister going South for the winter for the sake of his own and his wife's health.

Cousin Ronald took Frank on his knee and asked, "What are you going to do, my little fellow, when you get to be a man."

"Preach the gospel, sir."

"Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm, um h'm! and what will you say?"

"I'll tell the people we'll sing the twenty-third piece of ham. How will that sound?"

"Rather comical, I think, my man. Are ye no afraid the folk might laugh?"

"No sir: they don't laugh when papa says it."

"Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm!"

Mr. Daly smiled. "I never knew before," said he, "that my boy intended to follow my profession."

The ladies were weary, and retired to their state rooms shortly after tea, but the gentlemen sought the open air again and paced the deck for some time.