Chapter IX: Part 9

Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest were conversing among themselves, to take Vi's hand and draw her to her side.

"I think my little girl has something to say to mother," she whispered softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into the tear-stained face.

Violet nodded assent; her heart was so full she could not have spoken a word without bursting into tears and sobs.

Mamma understood, rose and led her from the room; led her to her own dressing-room where they could be quite secure from intrusion. Then seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my dear little daughter?" she asked.

"O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's neck and hiding her face on her breast.

"Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi unhappy. What is it? what can mother do to comfort you."

"Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish, 'stead of comforting. But I just want to tell about my own self; you know I can't tell tales, mamma."

"No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself."

"Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry."

"Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake."

"O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I--I wish I hadn't, hadn't been naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's things that you forbade us to touch, and--and one lovely plate got broken all up."

"I am very sorry to hear that," returned the mother, "yet far more grieved by my child's sin. But how did you get the door open and the plates off the shelf?"

"I didn't, mamma: they were out."

"Some one else did it?"

"Yes, mamma; but you know I can't tell tales. It wasn't any of our children, though, none of them were naughty but just me."

"Were you playing with the plate? did you break it?"

"No mamma, I didn't touch the plates, but I was dressing one of the dollies. They are all locked up again now, mamma, and I don't think anybody will touch them any more."

A little tender, serious talk on the sin and danger of disobedience to parents, and the mother knelt with her child, and in a few simple words asked God's forgiveness for her. Then telling Vi she must remain alone in that room till bedtime, she left her.

Not one harsh or angry word had been spoken, and the young heart was full of a passionate love to her mother that made the thought of having grieved her a far bitterer punishment than the enforced solitude, though that was at any time irksome enough to one of Vi's social, fun-loving temperament.

It cost the mother a pang to inflict the punishment and leave the darling alone in her trouble; but Elsie was not one to weakly yield to inclination when it came in conflict with duty. Hers was not a selfish love; she would bear any present pain to secure the future welfare of her children.

She rejoined her friends in the drawing-room apparently as serenely happy as her wont, but through all the afternoon and evening her heart was with her little one in her banishment and grief, yearning over her with tenderest mother love.

Little Elsie, too, missed her sister, and returning from her walk, went in search of her. She found her at last in their mamma's dressing-room seated at the window, her cheek resting on her hand, the tears coursing slowly down, while her eyes gazed longingly out over the beautiful fields and lovely orange groves.

"Oh my own Vi, my darling little sister! what's the matter?" asked Elsie, clasping her in her arms, and kissing the wet cheek.

A burst of bitter sobs, while the small arms clung about the sister's neck, and the golden head rested for an instant on her shoulder, then the words, "Ah I'd tell you, but I can't now, for you must run right away, because mamma said I must stay here all alone till bedtime."

"Then I must go, pet; but don't cry so: if you've been naughty and are sorry, Jesus, and mamma too, will forgive you and love you just the same," Elsie said, kissing her again, then releasing her, hurried from the room, crying heartily in sympathy.

On the upper veranda, whither she went to recover her composure, before rejoining her mates, she found her mother pacing slowly to and fro.

"Is my Elsie in trouble, too?" Mrs. Travilla asked, pausing in her walk and holding out her hand.

"For my Vi, mamma," sobbed Elsie, taking the hand and pressing it to her lips.

"Yes, poor little pet! mother's heart aches for her too," Mrs. Travilla answered, her own eyes filling. "I am glad my little daughters love and sympathize with each other."

"Mamma, I would rather stay with Vi, than be with the others. May I?"

"No, daughter, I have told her she must spend the rest of the day alone."

"Yes, mamma, she told me so and wouldn't let me stay even one minute to hear about her trouble."

"That was right."

Time crept by very slowly to Violet. She thought that afternoon the longest she had ever known. After a while she heard a familiar step, and almost before she knew it papa had her in his arms.

With a little cry of joy she put hers around his neck and returned the kiss he had just given her.

"Oh I'm so glad!" she said, "but, papa, you'll have to go away, because nobody must stay with me; I'm--"

"Papa may," he said, sitting down with her on his knee. "So you told mamma about the naughtiness?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am glad you did. Always tell mamma everything. If you have disobeyed her never delay a moment to go and confess it."

"Yes, papa: but if it's you?"

"Then come to me in the same way. If you want to be a happy child have no concealment from father or mother."

"Shall I tell you about it now, papa?"

"You may do as you like about that since your mother knows it all."

"Papa, I'm afraid you wouldn't love such a naughty girl any more."

"Mamma loves you quite as well, and so shall I; because you are our own, own little daughter. There were tears in mamma's eyes when she told me that she had had to punish our little Vi."

"Oh I'm so sorry to have made mamma cry," sobbed the child.

"Sin always brings sorrow and suffering sooner or later, my little girl; remember that; and that it is because Jesus loves us that he would save us from our sins."

After a little more talk, in which Violet repeated to him the same story of her wrong doing that she had already told her mother, her papa left her and she was again alone till mammy came with her supper--a bowl of rich sweet milk and bread from the unbolted flour, that might have tempted the appetite of an epicure.

"Come, honey, dry dose wet eyes an' eat yo' supper," said mammy, setting it out daintily on a little table which she placed before the child and covered with a fine damask cloth fresh from the iron. "De milk's mos' all cream, an' de bread good as kin be: an' you kin hab much as eber you want ob both ob dem."

"Did mamma say so, mammy?"

"Yes, chile; an' don't shed no mo' dose tears now; ole mammy lubs you like her life."

"But I've been very naughty, mammy," sobbed the little girl.

"Yes, Miss Wi'let, honey: an' we's all been naughty, but de good Lord forgib us for Jesus' sake if we's sorry an' don't 'tend neber to do so no mo'."

"Yes, mammy, Oh I wish you could stay with me I but you musn't: for mamma said I must be all alone."

"Yes, darlin'; an' if you wants mo' supper, jes ring dis, an' mammy'll come."

She placed a small silver bell on the table beside Vi, and with a tender, compassionate look at the tear-swollen face, went away.

The young Travillas were sometimes denied dainties because of misconduct, but always allowed to satisfy their youthful appetites with an abundance of wholesome, nourishing food.

Vi ate her supper with a keen relish, and found herself greatly comforted by it. How much one's views of life are brightened by a good comfortable meal that does not overtax the digestive organs. Vi suddenly remembered with a feeling of relief that the worst of her trouble--the confession--was over, and the punishment nearly so.

It was only a little while till mamma came, took her on her lap, kissed and forgave her.

"Mamma, I'm so, _so_ sorry for having disobeyed and grieved you!" whispered the child, weeping afresh: "for I do love you very, very much, my own mamma."

"I know it, dearest; but I want you to be far more sorry for having disobeyed God, who loves you more, a great deal, than your parents do, and has given you every good thing you have."

"Yes, mamma, I've asked God many times to forgive me for Jesus's sake, and I think he has."

"Yes, if you asked with your heart, I am sure he has; for Jesus said, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it you.'"

There was a little pause, Vi nestling close in her mother's arms; then with a quiver in her voice, "Mamma," she sighed, "will you ever trust me again?"

"Just the same as before, my child; because I believe you are truly sorry for your sin against God and against me."

"Thank you, dear, dear mamma! oh I hope God will help me to keep from ever being naughty any more."

Chapter Twenty-seventh.

"Conscience makes cowards of us all."

Meta was not in a cheerful or companionable mood during the walk that afternoon; the stings of conscience goaded her and she was haunted by the fear that Violet, so young and innocent, so utterly unused to concealments, would betray her share in the mischief done, even without intending to do so.

"Meta, what's the matter with you?" Herbert asked at length; "you haven't spoken a pleasant word since we came out."

"I'm not ill," was the laconic reply.

"Then you must be in the sulks, and ought to have staid at home," returned the plain-spoken brother.

"Oh don't tease her," said little Elsie. "Perhaps she has a headache, and I know by myself that that makes one feel dull, and sometimes even cross."

"You cross! I don't believe you ever were in your life," said Herbert. "I've never seen you any thing but pleasant as a May morning."

"Don't quarrel, children, but help me to gather some of these lovely flowers to scatter over the graves up there on the hill," said Rosie Dinsmore.

"Our graves," said Eddie, softly. "Yes I'd like to; but, Aunt Rosie, I don't believe we can get in."

"Yes, we can," she answered. "Uncle Joe's up there at work, weeding and trimming the rosebushes."

"Then I'll gather plenty of these beauties," said Eddie, stooping to pluck the lovely, many-hued blossoms that spangled the velvety grass at their feet in every direction.

"How beautiful! how beautiful they are! and some of them so fragrant!" exclaimed Elsie, rapidly filling a pretty basket she carried in her hand. "How good God is to give us so many lovely things!"

"Yes," returned Rosie, "it seems a pity to pluck them from their stems and make them wither and die; but there is such a profusion that what we take can hardly be missed."

"And it's honoring our graves to scatter flowers over them: isn't it, Aunt Rosie?" Eddie asked.

"Why do you say our graves? just as if you were already buried there," laughed Herbert.

"Come," said Rosie, "I think we have enough now."

"O Aunt Rosie, down in that little dell yonder they are still thicker than here, and more beautiful, I think," exclaimed Elsie.

"But we have enough now; your basket is full. We'll go to that dell as we come back, and gather some to take home to our mammas."

"Oh yes, that will be best," Elsie said, with cheerful acquiescence.

"I shall go now and get some worthy to honor the dead," said Meta, starting off in the direction of the dell.

"Meta likes to show her independence," said Rosie, smiling; "we won't wait for her."

They climbed the hill, pushed open the gate of the little enclosure and passed in; very quietly, for their youthful spirits were subdued by the solemn stillness of the place, and a feeling of awe crept over them at thought of the dead whose dust lay sleeping there.

Silently they scattered the flowers over each lowly resting place, reserving the most beautiful for that of her who was best known to them all--the first who had borne the name of Elsie Dinsmore.

"Our dear grandma!" whispered Elsie and Eddie, softly.

"I can't help feeling as if she was some relation to me too," said Rosie, "because she was my sister's mother, and papa's wife."

The breeze carried the words to the ear of Uncle Joe, who was at work on the farther side of the enclosure, and had not till that moment been aware of the vicinity of the young people.

He rose and came hobbling toward them, pulling off his hat and bowing respectfully.

"Dat's so, Miss Rosie, ef you lubs de Lord, like she did, de dear young Missus dat lays heyah; for don't de 'postle say ob de Lord's chillen dat dey's all one in Christ Jesus? all one, Miss Rosie: heirs ob God and joint heirs wid Christ."

"Yes, Uncle Joe, that is true."

"Ah, she was lubly an' lubbed de Master well," he went on, leaning upon his staff and gazing fixedly at the name engraved on the stone, "She's not dead, chillen: her soul's wid de Lord in dat land ob light an' glory, an' de body planted heyah till de mornin' ob de resurrection."

"And then she will rise more beautiful than ever," said little Elsie. "Mamma has told me about it. 'The dead in Christ shall rise first.'"

"Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord," repeated Rosie.

"Yes, Miss Rosie. Bressed hope." And Uncle Joe hobbled back to his work.

"Here, look at these!" said Meta hurrying up, heated and out of breath with running, "Aren't they beauties?"

She emptied her apron upon the grave as she spoke, then pulled out her handkerchief with a jerk, to wipe the perspiration from her face Something fell against the tombstone with a ringing, metallic sound.

"A key! a door key!" cried Herbert, stooping to pick it up. "Why, Meta, what key is it? and what are you doing with it?"

"I never heard that it had any particular name," she answered tartly, snatching it from him and restoring it to her pocket, while her cheeks flushed crimson.

The others exchanged surprised glances, but said nothing.

"But what door does it belong to? and what are you doing with it?" persisted Herbert.

"Talk of the curiosity of women and girls!" sneered Meta: "men and boys have quite as much; but it's against my principles to gratify it."

"Your principles!" laughed Herbert "You, prying, meddling Meta; talking about other people's curiosity! Well, that's a good one!"

"You insulting boy! I'll tell mamma of you," retorted Meta, beginning to cry.

"Ha! ha! I wish you would! tell her my remarks about the key, and she'll soon make you explain where it belongs, and how it came into your possession."

At that Meta, deigning no reply, put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried away toward the house.

"There, she's gone to tell mamma," said Harry.

"Not she," said Herbert, "she knows better; she'd only get reproved for telling tales, and be forced to tell all about that key. She's been at some mischief, I haven't a doubt: she's always prying, and meddling with what she's been told not to touch. Mamma says that's her besetting sin."

"And what does she say is yours?" asked Rosie, looking him steadily in the eye.

Herbert colored and turned away.

His mother had told him more than once or twice, that he was quite too much disposed to domineer over, and reprove his younger brother and sisters.

"Well, I don't care!" he muttered to himself, "'tisn't half so mean a fault as Meta's. I'm the oldest, and Harry and the girls ought to be willing to let me tell them of it when they go wrong."

The key, which belonged to a closet in Mr. Lilburn's dressing-room, seemed to burn in Meta's pocket. She was frightened that Herbert and the others had seen it.

"They all looked as if they knew something was wrong," she said to herself, "and to be sure what business could I have with a door-key. Dear me! why wasn't I more careful. But it's like 'murder will out;' or what the Bible says; 'Be sure your sin will find you out.'"

She was afraid to meet her mother with the key in her possession, so took so circuitous a route to reach the house, and walked so slowly that the others were there some time before her.

Her mother was on the veranda looking out for her. "Why, how late you are, Meta," she said. "Make haste to your room and have your hair and dress made neat; for the tea-bell will soon ring."

"Yes, ma'am," and Meta flew into the house and up to her room, only too glad of an excuse for not stopping to be questioned.

She was down again barely in time to take her seat at the table with the others. She glanced furtively at the faces of her mother, grandmother, and Aunt Elsie, and drew a sigh of relief as she perceived that they had evidently learned nothing yet of her misconduct.

After tea she watched Mr. Lilburn's movements and was glad to see him step into the library, seat himself before the fire, and take up a book.

"He's safe to stay there for awhile," she thought, "so fond of reading as he is," and ran up to her room for the key, which she had left there hidden under her pillow.

She secured it unobserved and stole cautiously to the door of his dressing-room. She found it slightly ajar, pushed it a little wider open, crept in, gained the closet door, and was in the act of putting the key into the lock, when a deep groan, coming from within the closet, apparently, so startled her that she uttered a faint cry, and dropped the key on the floor; then a hollow voice said, "If you ever touch that again, I'll--"

But Meta waited to hear no more; fear seemed to lend her wings, and she flew from the room in a panic of terror.

"Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! you were at some mischief, no doubt, my lassie. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' the good Book tells us," said the occupant of the room, stepping out from the shadow of the window-curtain.

He had laid down his book almost immediately, remembering that he had some letters to write, and had come up to his apartments in search of one he wished to answer.

It was already dark, except for the light of a young moon, but by some oversight of the servants the lamps had not yet been lighted here.

He was feeling about for matches, when hearing approaching footsteps he stepped behind the curtain and waited to see who the intruder was.

He recognized Meta's form and movements, and sure that no legitimate errand had brought her there at that time, resolved to give her a fright.

Tearing down the hall, Meta suddenly encountered her mother, who, coming up to her own apartments, had reached the head of the stairs just in time to witness Meta's exit from those of Mr. Lilburn.

"Oh I'm so frightened! so frightened, mamma!" cried the child, throwing herself into her mother's arms.

"As you richly deserve to be," said Mrs. Carrington, taking her by the hand and leading her into her dressing-room. "What were you doing in Mr. Lilburn's apartments?"

Meta hung her head in silence.

"Speak, Meta; I will have an answer," her mother said, with determination.

"I wasn't doing any harm; only putting away something that belonged there."

"What was it?"

"A key."

"Meddling again! prying even into the affairs of a strange gentleman!" groaned her mother. "Meta, what am I to do with you? this dreadful fault of yours mortifies me beyond everything. I feel like taking you back to Ashlands at once, and never allowing you to go from home at all; lest you should bring a life-long disgrace upon yourself and me."

"Mother, I wasn't prying or meddling with Mr. Lilburn's affairs," said Meta, bursting into sobs and tears.

"What were you doing there? tell me all about it without any more ado."

Knowing that her mother was a determined woman, and seeing that there was now no escape from a full confession, Meta made it.

Mrs. Carrington was much distressed.

"Meta, you have robbed your Aunt Elsie, your Aunt Elsie who has always been so good, so kind to me and to you: and I can never make good her loss; never replace that plate."

"Just that one tiny plate couldn't be worth so very much," muttered the offender.

"Its intrinsic value was perhaps not very great," replied Mrs. Carrington, "but to my dear friend it was worth much as a memento of her dead mother. Meta, you shall not go with us to-morrow, but shall spend the day locked up in your own room at home."

An excursion had been planned for the next day, in which the whole party, adults and children, were to have a share. They were to leave at an early hour in the morning, travel several miles by boat, and spend the day picnicking on a deserted plantation--one Meta had not yet seen, but had heard spoken of as a very lovely place.

She had set her heart on going, and this decree of her mother came upon her as a great blow. She was very fond of being on the water, and of seeing new places, and had pictured to herself the delights of roaming over the large old house, which she had heard was still standing, peeping into the closets, pulling open drawers, perhaps discovering secret stairways and--oh delightful thought!--possibly coming upon some hidden treasure forgotten by the owners in their hasty flight.

She wept bitterly, coaxed, pleaded, and made fair promises for the future, but all in vain. Her mother was firm.

"You must stay at home, Meta," she said. "It grieves me to deprive you of so great a pleasure, but I must do what I can to help you to overcome this dreadful fault. You have chosen stolen pleasures at the expense of disobedience to me, and most ungrateful, wicked behavior toward my kind friend; and as a just and necessary punishment you must be deprived of the share you were to have had in the innocent enjoyments planned for to-morrow. You shall also make a full confession to your Aunt Elsie and ask her forgiveness."

"I won't!" exclaimed Meta angrily; then catching the look of pained surprise in her mother's face, she ran to her and throwing her arms about her neck, "O mamma! mamma! forgive me!" she cried. "I can't bear to see you look so grieved: I will never say that again; I will do whatever you bid me."

Mrs. Carrington kissed her child in silence, then taking her by the hand, "Come and let us have this painful business over," she said, and led the way to Mrs. Travilla's boudoir.

Elsie had no reproaches for Meta, but kindly forgave her, and even requested that she might be permitted to share in the morrow's enjoyment, but Mrs. Carrington would not hear of it.

Chapter Twenty-eighth.

"Mature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts, By mountain, meadow, streamlet grove or cell." --SMOLLET.

Mr. Dinsmore was pacing the front veranda, enjoying the cool, fresh morning air, when little feet came pattering through the hall and a sweet child voice hailed him with, "Good morning, my dear grandpa."

"Ah, grandpa's little cricket, where were you last evening?" he asked, sitting down and taking her on his knee.

It was his pet name for Vi, because she was so merry.

The fair face flushed, but putting her arms about his neck, her lips to his ear, "I was in mamma's dressing-room, grandpa," she whispered. "I was 'bliged to stay there, 'cause I'd been naughty and disobeyed mamma."

"Ah, I am sorry to hear that I but I hope you don't intend to disobey any more."

"No, indeed, grandpa."

"Are you considered good enough to go with us to-day?"

"Yes, grandpa, mamma says I was punished yesterday, and I don't be punished twice for the same thing."

"Mamma is quite right," he said, "and grandpa is very glad she allows you to go."

"I don't think I deserve it, grandpa, but she's such a dear, kind mamma."

"So she is, pet, and I hope you will always be a dear good daughter to her," said grandpa, holding the little face close to his.

Meta was not allowed to come down to breakfast. Vi missed her from the table, and at prayers, and going up to Mrs. Carrington, asked, "Is Meta sick, Aunt Sophie?"

"No, dear, but she has been too naughty to be with us. I have said she must stay in her own room all day."

"And not go to the picnic? Oh please let her go, auntie!"

The other children joined their entreaties to Vi's, but without avail; and with streaming eyes Meta, at her window, saw the embarkation, and watched the boats glide away till lost to view in the distance.

"Too bad!" she sobbed, "it's too, too bad that I must stay here and learn long hard lessons while all the rest are having such a good time!"

Then she thought remorsefully of her mother's sad look, as she bade her good-bye and said how sorry she was to be obliged to leave her behind, and as some atonement set to work diligently at her tasks.

The weather was very fine, the sun shone, the birds filled the air with melody, and a delicious breeze danced in the tree-tops, rippled the water, and played with the brown and golden ringlets of little Elsie and Vi, and the flaxen curls of Daisy Carrington.

The combined influences of the clear, pure air, the pleasant motion, as the rowers bent to their oars, and the lovely scenery meeting the eye at every turn, were not to be resisted; and all, old and young, were soon in gayest spirits. They sang songs, cracked jokes, told anecdotes, and were altogether a very merry company.

After a delightful row of two hours or more the rounding of a point brought suddenly into view the place of their destination.

The boats were made fast and the party stepped ashore, followed by the men servants bearing rugs and wraps and several large well-filled hampers of provisions.

With joyous shouts the children ran hither and thither; the boys tumbled on the grass, the girls gathered great bouquets of the beautiful flowers, twisted them in their curls, and wore garlands for their hats.

"Walk up to de house, ladies an' gentlemen; Massa an' Missus not at home now, but be berry glad to see you when dey gets back," said a pleasant voice close at hand.

All but Mr. Lilburn looked about for the speaker, wondered at seeing no one, then laughed at themselves for being so often and so easily deceived.

"Suppose we accept the invitation," said Mr. Travilla, leading the way.

The two old ladies preferred a seat under a wide-spreading tree on the lawn; but the others accompanied him in a tour of the deserted mansion already falling rapidly to decay.

They climbed the creaking stairs, passed along the silent corridors, looked into the empty rooms, and out of the broken windows upon the flower gardens, once trim and gay, now choked with rubbish, and overgrown with weeds, and sighed over the desolations of war.

Some of the lower rooms were still in a pretty good state of preservation, and in one of these the servants were directed to build a fire and prepare tea and coffee.

Plenty of dry branches strewed the ground in a bit of woods but a few rods distant. Some of these were quickly gathered and a brightly blazing fire presently crackled upon the hearth and roared up the wide chimney.

Leaving the house, which in its loneliness and dilapidation inspired only feelings of sadness and gloom, our party wandered over the grounds, still beautiful even in their forlornly neglected state.

The domain was extensive, and the older boys having taken an opposite direction from their parents, were presently out of their sight and hearing, the house being directly between. Uncle Joe, however, was with the lads, so no anxiety was felt for their safety.

Wandering on, they came to a stream of limpid water flowing between high grassy banks, and spanned by a little rustic bridge.

"Let's cross over," said Herbert, "that's such a pretty bridge, and it looks lovely on the other side."

"No, no, 'tain't safe, boys, don't you go for to try it," exclaimed Uncle Joe.

"Pooh! what do you know about it?" returned Herbert, who always had great confidence in his own opinion. "If it won't bear us all at once, it certainly will one at a time. What do you say, Ed?"

"I think Uncle Joe can judge better whether it's safe than little boys like us."

"Don't you believe it: his eyes are getting old and he can't see half so well as you or I."

"I kin see dat some ob de planks is gone, Marse Herbert; an' de ole timbahs looks shaky."

"Shaky! nonsense! they'll not shake under my weight, and I'm going to cross."

"Now, Herbie, don't you do it," said his brother. "You know mamma wouldn't allow it if she was here."

"'Twon't be disobedience though; as she isn't here, and never has forbidden me to go on that bridge," persisted Herbert.

"Mamma and papa say that truly obedient children don't do what they know their parents would forbid if they were present," said Eddie.

"I say nobody but a coward would be afraid to venture on that bridge," said Herbert, ignoring Eddie's last remark. "Suppose it should break and let you fall! the worst would be a ducking."

"De watah's deep, Marse Herbert, and you might git drownded!" said Uncle Joe. "Or maybe some ob de timbahs fall on you an' break yo' leg or yo' back."

They were now close to the bridge.

"It's very high up above the water," said Harry, "and a good many boards are off: I'd be afraid to go on it."

"Coward!" sneered his brother. "Are you afraid too, Ed?"

"Yes, I'm afraid to disobey my father; because that's disobeying God."

"Did your father ever say a word about not going on this bridge?"

"No; but he's told me never to run into danger needlessly; that is when there's nothing to be gained by it for myself or anybody else."

"Before I'd be such a coward!" muttered Herbert, deliberately walking on to the bridge.

The other two boys watched his movements in trembling, breathless silence, while Uncle Joe began looking about for some means of rescue in case of accident.

Herbert picked his way carefully over the half-rotten timbers till he had gained the middle of the bridge, then stopped, looked back at his companions and pulling off his cap, waved it around his head, "Hurrah! here I am: who's afraid? who was right this time?"

Then leaning over the low railing, "Oh!" he cried, "you ought just to see the fish! splendid big fellows. Come on, boys, and look at 'em!"

But at that instant the treacherous railing gave way with a loud crack, and with a wild scream for help, over he went, headforemost, falling with a sudden plunge into the water and disappearing at once beneath the surface.

"Oh he'll drown! he'll drown!" shrieked Harry, wringing his hands, while Eddie echoed the cry for help.

"Run to de house, Marse Ed, an' fotch some ob de boys to git him out," said Uncle Joe, hurrying to the edge of the stream with an old fishing-rod he had found lying among the weeds on its bank.

But a dark object sprang past him, plunged into the stream, and as Herbert rose to the surface, seized him by the coat-collar, and so holding his head above water, swam with him to the shore.

"Good Bruno! brave fellow! good dog!" said a voice near at hand, and turning to look for the speaker, Uncle Joe found Mr. Daly standing by his side.

Leaving his gayer companions, the minister had wandered away, book in hand, to this sequestered spot. Together he and Uncle Joe assisted the dog to drag Herbert up the bank, and laid him on the grass.

The fall had stunned the boy, but now consciousness returned. "I'm not hurt," he said, opening his eyes. "But don't tell mother: she'd be frightened half to death."

"We'll save her as much as we can; and I hope you've learned a lesson, young sir, and will not be so foolhardy another time," said Mr. Daly.

"P'raps he'll tink ole folks not such fools, nex' time," remarked Uncle Joe. "Bless de Lord dat he didn't get drownded!"

The men and boys came running from the house, bringing cloaks and shawls to wrap about the dripping boy. They would have carried him back with them, but he stoutly resisted, declaring himself quite as able to walk as anybody.

"Let him do so, the exercise will help to prevent his taking cold provided he is well wrapped up;" said Mr. Daly, throwing a cloak over the lad's shoulders and folding it carefully about him.

"Ill news flies fast," says the proverb. Mrs. Carrington met them upon the threshold, pale and trembling with affright. She clasped her boy in her arms with a heart too full for utterance.

"Never mind, mother," he said, "I've only had a ducking, that's all."

"But it may not be all: you may get your death of cold," she said, "I've no dry clothes for you here."

By this time the whole party had hurried to the spot.

"Here's a good fire; suppose we hang him up to dry before it," said old Mr. Dinsmore with a grim smile.

"His clothes rather; rolling him up in cloaks and shawls in the meantime," suggested Herbert's grandmother. "Let us ladies go back to the lawn, and leave his uncle to oversee the business."

Herbert had spoiled his holiday so far as the remainder of the visit to this old estate was concerned: he could not join the others at the feast presently spread under the trees on the lawn, or in the sports that followed; but had to pass the time lying idly on a pallet beside the fire, with nothing to entertain him but his own thoughts and watching the servants, until, their work done, they too wandered away in search of amusement.

Most of the afternoon was spent by the gentlemen in fishing in that same stream into which Herbert's folly and self-conceit had plunged him.

Eddie had his own little fishing-rod, and with it in his hand sat on a log beside his father, a little apart from the rest, patiently waiting for the fish to bite. Mr. Travilla had thrown several out upon the grass, but Eddie's bait did not seem to attract a single one.

He began to grow weary of sitting still and silent, and creeping closer to his father whispered, "Papa, I'm tired, and I want to ask you something. Do you think the fish will hear if I speak low?"

"Perhaps not; you may try it if you like," returned Mr. Travilla, looking somewhat amused.

"Thank you, papa. Well, Herbert said nobody but a coward would be afraid to go on that bridge. Do you think he was right, papa?"

"No, my boy; but if you had gone upon it to avoid being laughed at or called a coward, I should say you showed a great lack of true courage. He is a brave man or boy who dares to do right without regard to consequences."

"But, papa, if you'd been there and said I might if I wanted to?"

"Hardly a supposable case, my son."

"Well, if I'd been a man and could do as I chose?"

"Men have no more right to do as they please than boys; they must obey God. If his will is theirs, they may do as they please, just as you may if it is your pleasure to be good and obedient."

"Papa, I don't understand. Does God say we must not go into dangerous places?"

"He says, 'Thou shalt not kill;' we have no right to kill ourselves, or to run the risk of doing so merely for amusement or to be considered brave or dexterous."

"But if somebody needs us to do it to save them from being hurt or killed, papa?"

"Then it becomes quite a different matter: it is brave, generous, and right to risk our own life or limbs to save those of others."

"Then I may do it, papa?"

"Yes, my son; Jesus laid down his life to save others, and in all things he is to be our example."

A hand was laid lightly on the shoulder of each, and a sweet voice said, "May my boy heed his father's instructions in this and in every thing else."

"Wife!" Mr. Travilla said, turning to look up into the fair face bent over them.

"Mamma, dear mamma, I do mean to," said Eddie.

"Is it not time to go home?" she asked. "The little ones are growing weary."

"Yes, the sun is getting low."

In a few moments the whole party had reembarked; in less exuberant spirits than in the morning, yet perhaps not less happy: little disposed to talk, but with hearts filled with a quiet, peaceful content.

Viamede was reached without accident, a bountiful supper awaiting them there partaken of with keen appetites, and the little ones went gladly to bed.

Returning from the nursery to the drawing-room, Elsie found her namesake daughter sitting apart in a bay window, silently gazing out over the beautiful landscape sleeping in the moonlight.

She looked up with a smile as her mother took a seat by her side and passed an arm about her waist.

"Isn't it lovely, mamma? see how the waters of our lakelet shine in the moonbeams like molten silver! and the fields, the groves, the hills! how charming they look in the soft light."

"Yes, darling: and that was what you were thinking of, sitting here alone?"

"Yes, mamma; and of how good God is to us to give us this lovely home and dear, kind father and mother to take care of us. It is always so sweet to come back to my home when I've been away. I was enjoying it all the way coming in the boat to-night; that and thinking of the glad time when we shall all be gathered into the lovelier home Jesus is preparing for us."

"God grant we may!" said the mother, with emotion, "it is my heart's desire and prayer to God for all my dear ones, especially my children. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.'"