Chapter VII: Part 7

He rose and wandered away toward the rear of the mansion, and Mildred drew Elsie to a seat upon her lap, caressing her tenderly.

"Sweet little girlie," she said, "cousin loves you dearly, already, and cannot bear to see tears in those eyes. Tell me about your sweet, pretty mamma."

"Here she is, cousin. Don't you love her too?" prattled the babe, drawing forth the miniature from her bosom, and quickly forgetting her momentary grief in displaying it. "She's gone up to heaven to stay wis Jesus, and some day he'll take Elsie there too."

"Mildred," said Mr. Dinsmore, coming back, "I hear there are fine saddle horses in the stables. If I order two of them brought round, will you ride over the plantation with me?"

"Gladly!" she said, putting the child gently down, and rising with alacrity. "I will go at once and don my riding habit. You shall tell me the rest another time, little pet."

Already enthusiastic admirers of Viamede, they returned from their ride doubly impressed with its beauties.

"It seems an earthly paradise," Mildred wrote to her mother, "and the little owner is the loveliest, most fairy-like little creature you can imagine--so sweet, so gentle, so beautiful! and good as she is pretty. Mrs. Murray tells me she is generosity itself, and she doesn't believe there is a grain of selfishness in her nature. Elsie showed me her mamma's miniature, and it is so sweet and beautiful that I do not wonder Cousin Horace lost his heart at first sight."

But it was not until the next day that this letter was written. Mildred had enough to do that day in looking about her and making acquaintance with Elsie and her attendants.

After tea, Mr. Dinsmore being closeted with the overseer, she made her way to the nursery, coaxed the little one into her lap again--though indeed no great amount of persuasion was needed--and amused her for an hour or two with stories and nursery rhymes.

But the child's bedtime drew near, and with a tender good-night, a lingering, loving caress, Mildred left her and went down to the drawing-room.

Her uncle was not there, and passing out to the veranda, she fell into chat with Mrs. Murray, whom she found seated there enjoying the beautiful scenery and the soft evening air.

Their talk turned naturally upon Viamede and the Grayson family; particularly Horace Dinsmore's wife, the last of the race; Mrs. Murray giving many details that were of great interest to her hearer.

"She was very lovely," she said, "baith in person and in character; a sweet, earnest, child-like Christian; and the bairn is wonderfully like her. She seemed to me a lamb of the fold from her very birth; and nae doot in answer to the mother's prayers. Ye ken, Miss Keith, that she lived scarce a week after her babe was born, and all her anxiety was that it should be trained up in the nurture and admonition o' the Lord, her constant prayer that He would be pleased to mak' it His own.

"The bit bairnie isna perfect, of course, but quite as near it as grown folk. It's very evident that she tries to please the blessed Saviour; that she grieves when she has done wrong, and canna rest till she's been awi' by hersel' to beg His forgiveness.

"I tell her whiles aboot the new heart God gives to his children, and that He will give it to a' such as ask earnestly; and she will look up in my face with those great innocent eyes and answer, 'Yes, Mrs. Murray; and I do ask earnestly every day'."

The old lady brushed away a tear, and her voice was slightly tremulous as she added, "Mr. Cameron used to fret a bit whiles, lest she was too gude to live:--like her mother before her, he wad say. But I canna think early piety any sign that life will be short. Except, indeed, that when the work o' grace is fully done glory follows. She's come o' a God-fearing race, Miss Keith, and the Lord's aye faithful to His promise;--showing mercy to thousands o' generations o' them that love Him and keep His commandments."

Chapter Twenty-third.

"She was like
A dream of poetry, that may not be
Written or told--exceeding beautiful."
--Willis.

As Mildred sat at the open window of her dressing-room the next morning, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, the delicious perfume of myriads of dew-laden shrubs and flowers, the gentle summer breeze and the glad songs of the birds, her ear caught the patter of little feet in the corridor without, then a gentle rap upon her door.

She made haste to open it, and a vision of loveliness met her view:--a tiny, fairy form arrayed in spotless white, of some thin, delicate fabric, trimmed with costly lace, and a broad sash of pale blue, with slippers to match; a shining mass of golden brown curls clustering about the sweet face and rippling over the fair neck and shoulders.

The soft brown eyes looked up lovingly into her face, and the rosebud mouth was held up for a kiss.

"Good morning, cousin," said the bird-like voice; "do Elsie 'sturb you coming so soon?"

"No, darling, indeed you don't!" cried Mildred, giving her a rapturous embrace; "I can't see too much of you, dear little pet! Will you come and sit in my lap while we have another nice talk?"

The child hesitated. "Don't you want to come wis me, cousin, and see my mamma when she was a little girl, and my mamma's things?"

"I should like it greatly," Mildred answered, suffering herself to be led along the corridor and into an open door at its farther end.

Here she found herself in a beautiful boudoir; evidently no expense had been spared in furnishing it in the most luxurious and tasteful manner; even Mildred's inexperienced eye recognized the costly nature of many of its adornments, though there was nothing gaudy about them.

Elsie led her directly to a full-length, life-sized picture of a little girl of ten or twelve, before which Mildred stood transfixed with delight,--face and form were so life-like, and so exquisitely lovely.

She gazed upon it for many minutes with ravished eyes, then glancing at the little one standing by her side, said half aloud, "Beautiful as it is, I do not believe it is flattered; for it is just what she will be six or eight years hence."

"It's my mamma when she was a little girl," Elsie said, "and this," drawing the miniature from her bosom, "is my mamma when she was a lady."

Mildred gazed upon it again long and earnestly, thinking as before, that there was abundant excuse for her cousin Horace's passion and his inconsolable grief over his loss.

There were two other portraits in the room, which Elsie said were "Grandpa and Grandma Grayson."

She pointed out, too, her mother's writing-desk and her work-table, a dainty basket upon this last, with its little gold thimble and a bit of embroidery with the needle still sticking in it, just as it had been laid down by the white hands on the morning of the day on which the little one first saw the light.

It was Aunt Chloe, coming in in search of her nursling, who told Mildred this.

But Elsie drew her on through a beautiful dressing-room into a spacious and elegantly furnished bedroom beyond, and Aunt Chloe following, pointed out, with bitter weeping, the pillow on which the dying head had lain, and described the last hours of her idolized young mistress:--her mournful leave-taking of her little babe, and dying injunction to her to bring her up to love the Lord Jesus.

It was all intensely interesting and deeply affecting to Mildred.

"Don't cry, mammy, you dear ole mammy!" said Elsie, pulling her nurse down into a chair, and with her own tiny white handkerchief wiping away her tears, "don't cry, 'cause dear mamma is very happy wis Jesus, and you and Elsie are goin' dere, too, some day. An' den I'll tell my sweet, pretty mamma you did be good to her baby, and took care of her all the time."

At that Aunt Chloe strained the tiny form convulsively to her breast with a fresh burst of sobs, and looking up at Mildred with the great tears rolling down her sable cheeks, faltered out, "O, Miss Milly, dey ain't gwine take my chile 'way and disseparate ole Chloe from de las' ting she got lef' to lub in dis world?"

"O, mammy, no, no! dey shan't, dey shan't!" cried the child, clinging about her neck in almost wild affright. "Elsie won't go! Elsie will always stay wis her dear ole mammy!"

"No, no, you are not to be parted," Mildred hastened to say; "Elsie, darling, your grandpa told me you were not. So don't cry, pet."

"O, Miss Milly, dat bressed news!" cried Aunt Chloe, smiling through her tears. "I's tank you berry much. Dere, dere, honey darlin', don' cry no mo'! I's ole fool mammy to make you cry like dat."

The breakfast bell rang, and hastily removing the traces of the tears called forth by Aunt Chloe's narrative, Mildred obeyed the summons. Mr. Dinsmore seemed in excellent spirits, chatting in quite a lively strain all through the meal. He was enchanted with the place, he said, and intended, if agreeable to Mildred, to remain some weeks, believing that the change of scene and climate would prove beneficial to them both. Mildred assured him, her eyes sparkling with delight the while, that she was perfectly willing to stay as long as suited his convenience and pleasure.

"There are horses, carriages and servants always at your command," he remarked; "a pleasure boat on the lakelet, too, and oarsmen to row it, so that you can go out on the water, ride or drive whenever you wish."

"O, uncle, how nice!" she cried; "I shall enjoy it all greatly with little Elsie for a companion and you will sometimes go with us when you have leisure, will you not?"

"I shall be most happy," he said, "but fear it will be but seldom that I can."

The family carriage was ordered at once, and the greater part of the morning was spent by Mildred, Elsie and Aunt Chloe in driving from one lovely spot to another.

At little Elsie's request they visited the family burial ground, and Mildred viewed with pensive interest the last resting-place of her Cousin Horace's young wife--"the sweet, pretty mamma," of whom the baby girl so constantly prattled. The spot was beautiful with roses and many sweet-scented shrubs and flowers growing there, and daily Elsie and her mammy came thither with love's offering in the shape of buds and blossoms gathered from the lawn and gardens, which they scattered with lavish hands over each lowly mound, but ever reserving the most and the loveliest for the grave of her whom they loved best.

There was seldom a day when the quarter was not visited also, Aunt Chloe taking her nursling from cabin to cabin to inquire concerning the welfare of the inmates, and give to each the pleasure of the sight of the little fair face that was so dear to them all.

Their devotion to her, and various ways of manifesting it, greatly pleased and interested Mildred; and she was not long in discovering that they were exceedingly anxious in regard to the question whether both she--their idolized little mistress--and they were to be allowed to remain at Viamede.

Some of them even ventured, in their great anxiety, to inquire of the young lady visitor if she could tell them aught about these things.

She evaded the question so far as it referred to Elsie, feeling that she could not endure the sight of their grief when they should learn that they were to lose her; as to the other part she said, truly, that she was ignorant, but hoped there was no real danger.

She ventured at length to sound her uncle on the subject, telling of the fears of the poor creatures; and to her delight was given liberty to assure them that none would be sold unless unruly and disobedient to orders.

She availed herself of this permission on her next visit to the quarter.

The communication was received with joy and gratitude; but there still remained the great fear that Mr. Dinsmore would carry away their darling; and this Mildred was powerless to remove.

She told Mrs. Murray about it, and the good woman confessed with tears, that she, too, was tortured with the fear of separation from "the sweet bairn she had learned to love as her very own;" asking if Mildred knew whether that trial awaited her.

Mildred looked grieved and perplexed. "I only know," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "that uncle intends taking his little granddaughter home with him. Should you feel willing to leave Viamede, Mrs. Murray?"

"The bairn is far dearer to me than the place; though I hae spent mony o' the best years o' my life here," was the reply. "I wad gang ony where sooner than part frae my bonnie bit lassie. I have a mother's heart for her, Miss Keith, and hae often wanted to bid her call me by some dearer name than Mrs. Murray; but knowing the Dinsmores were proud folk, I feared to offend; and I perceive it was well I refrained, since I hae learned frae Aunt Chloe that the grandfather was no pleased that she spoke o' Mr. Cameron as her uncle."

"No, he didn't seem to like it, and told her not to do so again. But might not that be the jealousy of affection?"

Mildred blushed as she spoke, half ashamed--in view of Mr. Dinsmore's evident lack of love for the child--of making the suggestion.

"Affection!" repeated Mrs. Murray, with a faint, incredulous smile; "I dinna see much in his manner toward the bairn that looks like it."

To this remark Mildred had no answer save a deeper blush.

But at this moment Mrs. Murray was summoned to a conference with Mr. Dinsmore in the library. She came back with a face full of joy and thankfulness.

Mr. Dinsmore had received a letter that day from Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper at Roselands, saying that her health was failing, the physician recommended change of climate, and therefore she must resign her situation for a year or more.

Mr. Dinsmore now offered it to Mrs. Murray, and Aunt Phillis, an old servant in the family and every way competent to the task, would be left in charge of the mansion here.

"I am very glad for both you and little Elsie," said Mildred, "and yet I feel sorry for you, and for her, that you must leave this lovely spot. Is it not a trial?"

"I canna deny that it is," the housekeeper answered, with a sigh, "for I hae lived at Viamede many years; years in which I hae seen much o' baith joy and sorrow, and I had hoped to end my days here; but as the saintly Rutherford says,

"'This is the Lord's lower house; and while we are lodged here we have no assurance to lie ever in one chamber, but must be content to remove from one Lord's nether house to another, resting in hope that when we come up to the Lord's upper city, Jerusalem, that is above, we shall remove no more; because then we shall be at home.' Ah, Miss Milly, what a joyous day it will be when we win there!"

Chapter Twenty-fourth.

"Must I leave thee, Paradise? thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunts of Gods?"
--Milton.

Mr. Dinsmore was, in the main, a kind-hearted man, therefore felt a good deal uncomfortable in prospect of the grief likely to be manifested by the four or five hundred negroes belonging to the plantation, and particularly the house-servants, when called upon to part with little Elsie.

Both Mrs. Murray and Mildred had spoken to him of their strong attachment to the child, and his own observation had told him the same thing. He knew that they almost idolized her, and would feel her removal as a heavy blow. Desirous to lighten the stroke, he determined to allow Elsie to make a farewell present to each, and engaged Mildred and Mrs. Murray to assist her in preparing a list of suitable articles to be sent for. The child, knowing nothing of her grandfather's reasons for permitting this unusual outlay, was highly delighted.

It was Mr. Dinsmore's will that his plans with regard to Elsie should be kept secret from her and the servants until near the end of his visit, still some weeks distant.

Those weeks flew fast to Mildred, spent in a round of innocent, restful enjoyments, marred only by the knowledge that they must be so fleeting.

The day set for the departure from Viamede was drawing near when the sight of some of the needful preparations revealed the truth to the house-servants, and from them the sad tidings quickly spread to the field-hands, causing great grief and consternation.

Elsie was perhaps the last to learn the truth. She was running through the lower hall one morning soon after breakfast, when Aunt Phillis suddenly caught her in her arms, and holding her tight, covered the little fair face with kisses and tears.

"Why, Aunt Phillis, what's the matter?" asked the child, winding her small arms, so plump and white, about the woman's neck; "what makes you cry? is you sick?"

"O, honey, darlin'," sobbed the disconsolate creature, "it's heap wus dan dat! Dey's gwine to carry you 'way, bressed darlin' pet 'way off Norf, where Aunt Phillis won't neber see yo' sweet face no mo'. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"No, no!" cried the child, struggling to release herself. "Elsie's not goin' 'way, Aunt Phillis. Where's mammy? I want mammy!"

Aunt Chloe came at the call, and Elsie ran into her arms, crying in a frightened way "Mammy, mammy, is dey going to take me 'way? Mammy, don't let dem!"

"Darlin', your ole mammy neber leave you!" Aunt Chloe said soothingly, evading the question she could not answer as she wished.

"Elsie doesn't want to go 'way!" sobbed the child. "Dis is Elsie's home, dis is Elsie's house. Elsie wants to stay here wis Aunt Phillis and all Elsie's people! O, mammy, mammy, does Elsie have to go?"

"Don't cry, honey, don't, darlin' pet; you won't have to go 'way from mammy; mammy 'll go 'long, too," was all Aunt Chloe could say.

The house-servants were crowding around them, all weeping and wailing, and the little girl seemed quite inconsolable.

Mildred heard and came to the rescue.

"Darling child," she said, kneeling on the carpet by Elsie's side, and softly stroking the beautiful hair, "you are going to your papa's home; and perhaps you will see him there before long; and I think you will come back to Viamede some day."

At that the little head was lifted, and a smile broke like a sunbeam through the rain of tears.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, "will Elsie see her dear papa dere? Den I won't cry any more!" and she wiped away her tears. "Don't cry, Aunt Phillis and Aunt Sally, and de rest of you; my papa will bring me back again."

"Dat be a long time off!" muttered Aunt Phillis, shaking her head as she moved slowly away.

"Roselands, your grandpa's and papa's home, is a very pretty place," Mildred went on, still caressing the shining curls, "and there are little boys and girls there that Elsie can play with."

"Brothers and sisters for me?" asked the little one joyously.

"Your papa's brothers and sisters, nice playfellows for you," Mildred answered. "There is Enna, who is just a baby girl, only two years old."

"I's four, I's big girl," put in the child.

"Yes; and Walter is past three, nearly as old as you; and what nice plays you can have together."

"Yes, I want to take him a present; and one for the baby, and--what's dere names? de other children?"

Mildred went over the list, and the baby girl repeated her wish to take a gift to each.

"We will ask your grandpa about it," Mildred said.

"Has dey dot a mamma?" was the next query; and that being answered in the affirmative, the wish was expressed that she, too, should be remembered with a pretty present, and that Cousin Milly would ask grandpa's permission for all these purchases.

Mildred took an early opportunity to do so.

"Who has put that nonsense into the child's head?" he asked in some vexation.

"No one, uncle; it was entirely her own idea; perhaps suggested by the thought of her proposed gifts to those she leaves behind."

"Very likely; but let her forget it. I do not want to encourage her spending money upon my family."

"But her heart is very full of it, uncle, and I really think it would help to reconcile her to leaving Viamede. I'm afraid, uncle, that is going to be a hard trial for the little creature; for she dearly loves her home, and her people, as she calls the negroes."

"She will soon forget it all, and perhaps like Roselands quite as well. Childish griefs are not lasting."

"But terribly hard while they do last, uncle. I am not so old yet as to have forgotton that."

"No?" he said with a smile, followed by a sigh. "Ah, well, I'm sorry for the little thing, but don't see how it can be helped."

"But you will lessen the trial by humoring her in this and everything else that is reasonable?" persisted Mildred, in her most persuasive tone.

"Well, well, if I must, I must, I suppose! What an excellent advocate you are. But really I feel ashamed to allow it."

"Ah, uncle, it's your turn now," said Mildred, laughing. "I had mine in Philadelphia. But isn't Elsie rich enough to be allowed to spend such an amount on her own gratification?"

"Humph! what amount, pray? Ah, I have you there?" he added, laughing at her perplexed look.

"Not so fast, uncle!" she returned, brightening. "I can be definite. May she spend two hundred dollars for this?"

"No."

"One hundred and fifty, then?"

"H'm! I don't know: we'll see about it when we get to New Orleans."

"Then I may tell her that she is to be allowed to buy presents for them?"

"Yes. Now, don't make me commit myself any further."

After this Mildred talked a great deal to the little girl about the children at Roselands, the games and romps she would have with them, what should be bought for them, and how pleased they would be with her gifts. Also of all she was likely to see on her journey that would be new and interesting: how nice it was that Mrs. Murray and mammy were to go with her; grandpa, too, and Cousin Milly; and that the dear Saviour and "her own sweet, pretty mamma," would be just as near her there in her new home as at Viamede.

It was thus she tried to tide the darling over the trial that awaited her in the sundering of the tender ties that bound her to the home of her early infancy.

Those were April days with the baby girl, from the time of Aunt Phillis's unfortunate revelation of what awaited her until the blow fell.

They were to leave in the morning, though not at a very early hour, and at Elsie's request the field-hands were excused from work for the half day, and directed to come up to the house soon after the family breakfast, to say good-bye to their little mistress.

They gathered in a crowd in the rear of the mansion. The family party--Mr. Dinsmore, Mildred, Elsie and Mrs. Murray--were assembled upon the back veranda, where stood a table piled with the goods to be distributed. The little girl sat beside it on her mammy's lap, Mildred and Mrs. Murray near at hand to give their assistance; the overseer, standing on the topmost step, called the roll, and each, coming forward in answer to his name, received a gift presented by the child herself, and was allowed to kiss the small white hand that bestowed it.

This was esteemed a great privilege, and many held the hand a moment, dropping tears as well as kisses upon it, and heaping blessings on the head of the little fair one; pouring out their lamentations, also, over her approaching departure, till at length her tears fell so fast that her grandfather interfered, forbidding any further allusion to that subject, on pain of having to receive their gifts from some other hand.

No one was neglected, no one had been forgotten, but each, from octogenarian, no longer able or expected to work, down to the babe of a few days, received a gift of substantial worth to him or her; after which came a liberal distribution of pies, cakes, candies and fruits.

The baby girl dried her tears, and even laughed right merrily more than once, as she watched them at their feast. But her grief burst forth afresh, and with redoubled violence, when the time came for the final parting, and the house-servants gathered, weeping, about her.

She embraced them in turn, again and again, clinging about their necks, crying, "Oh, Elsie can't go 'way and leave you! Elsie must stay wis you! Elsie loves you! Elsie loves her own dear home, and can't go 'way!" while they strained the little form to their hearts with bitter wailing and lamentation.

To Mildred the scene was heart-rending, and her tears fell fast; Mrs. Murray was scarcely less moved; Aunt Chloe was sobbing, and tell-tale moisture stood in Mr. Dinsmore's eyes.

"Come, come," he said at length, speaking somewhat gruffly, to hide his emotion, "we have had enough of this! there's no use in fretting over what cannot be helped. Elsie's father will be bringing her back one of these days; so dry your eyes, Aunt Phillis, and all of you. The boat is waiting, the captain wanting to be off. Are you quite ready, ladies?"

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, "Then let us go on board at once," he said, and would have taken his little granddaughter in his arms; but Aunt Phillis begged the privilege of carrying her to the pier. Then with one last, long, clinging embrace, she resigned her to her nurse.

"Dere, honey darlin', dry yo' eyes and don' cry no mo'. Wipe de tears away so you can see your home while we's goin' 'long past de orchard and fields," Aunt Chloe said, standing on the deck and lifting the child high in her arms. "An' look, pet, dere's all de darkies standing 'long de sho' to see de boat move off; and dat's de way dey'll stand and watch it, when you and ole mammy comes back."

Yes, there they were, gathered in a crowd close to the water's edge, weeping and wailing, Aunt Phillis in the foreground wringing her hands, and with the big tears rolling fast down her cheeks.

The child saw and stretched out her arms to her with a cry of mingled love and distress; then, as the boat swept onward, turned and buried her face in her mammy's bosom.

Mildred saw it all through eyes dimmed with tears. "Don't cry, darling!" she whispered to Elsie. "Think about the time when your dear papa will bring you back. Now lift up your head and look again at your beautiful home."

"Will my own papa bring Elsie back and live here wis me?" asked the little one, lifting her head as she was bidden, and smiling through her tears, as she gazed out over the lovely landscape.

"I hope so," Mildred said. "And you mustn't forget what a nice time we're going to have in New Orleans, buying the pretty things for the children at Roselands."

That was a wise suggestion, very helpful in cheering the sorrowful baby heart. In the discussion of the momentous and interesting questions what those gifts should be, and in what sort of places they would be found, she presently grew quite cheerful and animated.

A wonderful new world opened upon the baby eyes as they neared the city. She was filled with eager curiosity and delight, manifested in ways so entertaining and winsome, and by questions showing so much native wit, that her grandfather's heart warmed toward her. Then, wherever they went he found her attracting so much attention, by reason of her beauty, sweetness and intelligence, that he grew proud of her in spite of himself.

Chapter Twenty-fifth.

"Envy is but the smoke of low estate,
Ascending still against the fortunate."
--Lord Brooke.

"Mamma, what's the matter?" asked Adelaide Dinsmore.

They were at the breakfast table; Mrs. Dinsmore was reading a letter from her husband, and Adelaide had been studying her face the while, noting the gathering frown upon the brow, the flushing of the cheek, the compression of the lips that spoke of increasing anger.

"Matter? I was never so provoked in my life!" cried Mrs. Dinsmore, crushing the letter passionately in her hands, then tearing it into bits. "The idea of bringing that child here! and not merely for a visit (which would be bad enough), but to stay permanently. I don't know what your father can be thinking of! It seems it's not enough that I've been tormented with a stepson, but I must have a step--"

"Step what, mamma?" from all three of the little girls, as she broke off abruptly, leaving her sentence unfinished.

"Nonsense! be quiet, will you!" she answered angrily.

They waited a moment for her passion to cool; then Adelaide began again.

"What child, mamma? Is papa coming home, and going to bring a child with him?"

"Yes; your brother Horace's child! You may as well know it first as last, I suppose."

Three pairs of eyes opened wide with amazement, three young voices crying out together, "Brother Horace's child! why, mamma, what can you mean? We didn't know he had any. We never even heard that he was married!"

"Of course you didn't," said Mrs. Dinsmore, pushing away her plate; "and probably you never would if this child hadn't been stubbornly determined to live in spite of losing her mother before she was a week old.

"No; we were never proud of the match, and had kept the thing quiet; but now it will be a nine days' wonder to the neighbourhood, and the whole story will have to come out."

"Then you might as well tell it to us," was Adelaide's sage rejoinder. "Come, mamma, do, I'm dying of curiosity."

"It can be told in a few words," said Mrs. Dinsmore, in a tone of wearied impatience. "Five years ago Horace went on a visit to New Orleans, met an orphan girl of large fortune, fell in love with her, and persuaded her to marry him. The thing was clandestine, of course; for they were mere boy and girl. They lived together for two or three months, then her guardian, who had been away, came home, found it out, and was furious.

"He carried the girl off, nobody knew where; your father sent Horace North to college, and some months afterward we heard that the girl was dead and had left a baby. She's four years old now; the guardian is dead, and your father is bringing her home to live.

"There, I've given you the whole story, and don't intend to be bothered with any more questions."

"But, mamma," burst out the children, who had listened with breathless interest, "you haven't told us her name, or when they are coming?"

"Her name is Elsie, and they will be here in about a week. There, now, not another question. I'm bored to death with the subject."

"Four years old; why, she's just a baby," remarked Adelaide to her sisters. "Let's go tell mammy the news, and that she's going to have another baby to take care of."

"No, she's not," said Mrs. Dinsmore sharply; "the child has a mammy of her own that's coming with her."

"What relation is she to us, Ade?" asked Lora.

"Who? the black woman? None to me, I'm sure," laughed Adelaide.

"You know I didn't mean that!" Lora retorted, in a vexed tone.

"Why, we're aunts!" exclaimed Louise. "Now, isn't that funny? And mamma's a grandmother! that's funnier still!" she added, with a burst of laughter.

Mrs. Dinsmore was in the act of leaving the room, but turned back to say wrathfully, "No such thing! the child is not related to me in the least. So don't let me hear any more of that nonsense."

"Mamma's mad," laughed Louise, "mad enough to shake me, I do believe. She doesn't like to be thought old enough to be a grandmother."

"May be she isn't," said Lora. "Horace was a pretty big boy when papa and mamma were married; wasn't he, Ade?"

"I can't remember before I was born," Adelaide answered teasingly.

"Well, if you don't know about anything but what has happened since you were born, you don't know much," Lora retorted with spirit. "But I'll go and ask mammy. She'll know, for she was here before he was born."

It was a lovely spring day, and from the windows of the breakfast-room they could see Aunt Maria, the old colored woman who had been nurse in the family ever since the birth of Mr. Dinsmore's eldest child, and whom they all called mammy, walking about under the trees in the garden, with Baby Enna in her arms, while Arthur and Walter gambolled together on the grass near by.

"Ki, chillens! what's de mattah?" she exclaimed, pausing in her walk, as the three little girls came bounding toward her in almost breathless excitement.

"O, mammy!" they cried, all speaking at once, "did you know that brother Horace was married and has a baby girl? and that papa's bringing her home to live?"

"Ki chillens, what you talkin' 'bout?" returned the old woman, incredulously. "You's tryin' to fool your ole mammy."

"No, no, indeed, mammy! it's all so: mamma has just been telling us;" and they went on to repeat substantially what they had just learned from their mother.

Aunt Maria was an intensely interested and astonished listener; and they had several others before their story was finished; Arthur and Walter came running up to ask what it was all about, and two or three servants also joined the little group.

"You look pleased, mammy; are you, really?" asked Adelaide.

"To be sure I is, chile," returned the old nurse, with a broad grin of satisfaction. "Marse Horace one ob my chillens, and I'll be mighty glad to see his little chile."

The news spread rapidly among the servants, and formed their principal topic of conversation from that time till the arrival of their master and his young charge.

On leaving the breakfast-room Mrs. Dinsmore bent her steps toward the nursery. She found it untenanted except by a housemaid, who was engaged in putting it in order for the day.

"Go and tell Mrs. Brown that I wish to speak to her immediately," commanded the mistress, dropping into an easy chair.

"Yes, missus," and the girl disappeared, to return shortly, accompanied by the housekeeper.

"You have heard from Mr. Dinsmore?" remarked the lady inquiringly, addressing Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, ma'am. He writes that Mrs. Murray, the housekeeper at Viamede, has consented to take my place for the coming year."

"Yes; I'm afraid she won't suit me as well. It's a great pity you should have got such a notion in your head; I mean as to the necessity or desirability of going away. I don't think you'll find a healthier place anywhere else than Roselands."

"I've no fault to find with the place ma'am; but I need rest, the doctor says, from the care and--"

"Dr. Barton's full of notions!" interrupted Mrs. Dinsmore impatiently. "Well, you'll stay, I suppose, until this Mrs. Murray learns from you about the ways of the house?"

"Yes, ma'am; since you wish it."

Mrs. Dinsmore gave her orders for the day, as usual, then said, "There's another thing, Mrs. Brown. You have probably heard that Mr. Dinsmore is bringing a child with him?"

"Yes, ma'am; he mentioned it in his letter to me, saying that a room must be got ready for her and her nurse."

"That is what I was coming to."

Mrs. Dinsmore arose and opened a door leading into an adjoining apartment.

"This room will answer very well. Have the trunks and boxes carried to the attic, the floor, paint, and window washed, a single bedstead, washstand, bureau, and two or three chairs brought in, and put up a white muslin curtain to the window."

"But, ma'am--Mrs. Dinsmore--" and Mrs. Brown looked almost aghast at her employer.

"Well?" exclaimed the latter, with sharpness.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but isn't--I understood that the little lady was Mr. Dinsmore's granddaughter, and--and quite an heiress."

"Well, and supposing she is all that?"

"I beg pardon, Mrs. Dinsmore, but isn't the room rather small? Only one window, too, and I presume she's been used to--"

"It makes no difference what she's been used to, and you are presuming too far. You will be good enough to see that my orders are carried out at once;" and Mrs. Dinsmore was sweeping from the room in her most dignified style, but turned at the door to add, "A cot bed can be put up here for the nurse, and the door left open between at night:" then sailed majestically down the hall.

"Dear, dear, whatever will Mr. Dinsmore say to having his granddaughter put into such a hole as that!" exclaimed the housekeeper, half to herself, and half to the housemaid. "Well, it can't be helped. I'll just have to do the best I can, and tell him 'twasn't my fault. Sally, do you go down and send up two of the boys to carry away these trunks; and tell Aunt Phoebe to heat a kettle of soft water for the scrubbing."

Mrs. Brown did her best; had the room thoroughly cleaned, neatly papered and carpeted, a set of pretty cottage furniture carried in, put a lace curtain to the window, looped it back with pink ribbon, made up the bed in the daintiest fashion, and on the day the travelers were expected to arrive, decorated the small apartment profusely, with the loveliest and most fragrant flowers that could be found, transforming it into a bower of beauty.

Mrs. Dinsmore paid no attention to her proceedings, but the children watched them with interest, wondering the while that so mean a room had been selected for their little niece.

They were quite amused and gratified with the idea of being aunts and uncles, and if left to themselves would have been disposed to welcome the little stranger warmly; but the slighting, sneering way in which their mother alluded to her and her mother's family, presently impressed them with the idea that she was to be looked upon as an object of contempt, if not as a positive disgrace to the family.

They reasoned among themselves, the older ones at least, that probably Horace thought so too, or he would have told them about her.

But when they saw the carriage which was bringing her, their father, and Mildred from the city, actually rolling up the avenue, all this was forgotten, and they rushed to the door to meet them, filled with curiosity and delight.

There was a tumultuous embracing of their father and cousin; then they turned to look at the child.

What they saw was a small, fairy-like figure in the arms of a pleasant-looking, middle-aged colored woman, a delicate oval face, tinted with the loveliest shades of pink and white, framed in by a mass of golden ringlets, and lighted by a pair of eyes of the softest hazel, which were gazing half shyly, half eagerly at them.

"Oh, you darling, you pretty darling!" cried Adelaide, reaching her with a bound, and giving her a vigorous hug and kiss. "Do you know that I'm your auntie? and don't you think it's funny?"

The embrace was instantly returned, a beautiful smile breaking over the sweet little face, while the baby voice cooed, "Yes, Elsie loves you."

"Don't teaze the child, Adelaide. Children, let her alone," said Mrs. Dinsmore, sharply.

But no one seemed to hear or heed; children and servants had gathered round in quite a little crowd, and were hugging and kissing and making much of her, examining her with as much curiosity as if she were a new specimen of the genus homo, calling her "Brother Horace's little girl," "Massa Horace's baby," remarking upon the beauty of her complexion, her eyes, her hair, the pretty round white shoulders and arms, and the tiny, shapely hands and feet.

"They'll hae the bairn fairly puffed up wi' vanity Miss Mildred!" exclaimed Mrs. Murray in a dismayed aside to our heroine.

"Never mind," whispered Mildred, joyously; "I'm only too glad she should have such a welcome, the darling! and I don't believe it will hurt her in the least."

"There, children, and the rest of you, that will do," said Mr. Dinsmore with authority. "The child is tired with her long journey. Carry her to her room, Aunt Chloe, and let her have something to eat and a nap."

Aunt Chloe obeyed; Mildred hurried after to see the child comfortably established, and then dress herself for dinner; Mrs. Brown invited Mrs. Murray to her new quarters, and Mr. Dinsmore, waiting only to give an order to his body servant, hastened after the little girl and her attendant, following the sound of their voices; for the child was prattling to her mammy and Mildred, and they were answering her innocent questions and remarks.

"Dis my little missus's room?" Mr. Dinsmore heard Aunt Chloe exclaim in a tone of astonishment and contempt, as the little party, guided by Sally, the housemaid, reached the door of the room selected by Mrs. Dinsmore.

He hurried forward. "What, this pigeon-hole?" he exclaimed, turning wrathfully to the girl. "Who bade you bring the young lady, Mr. Horace's daughter, here?"

"Missus tole de housekeeper fix dis room fo' de little lady, massa," replied the girl, trembling with affright.

"Stupid, you must have misunderstood her," he said. "This way, Aunt Chloe."

The room to which he conducted them adjoined that appropriated to Mildred, and was equally large, airy, and cheerful; equally well furnished.

Aunt Chloe surveyed it with a look of relief and satisfaction, and bidding her send Sally for whatever was wanted for the child, Mr. Dinsmore left them and went down to his wife.

She read displeasure in his countenance, and drew out her handkerchief in preparation for her usual mode of defense.

"Pray, madam," he demanded in irate tone, "by whose orders was that cubby-hole prepared for the use of Horace's child?"

"That very nice little room next the nursery was the one selected by myself," she answered with dignity.

"Nice little room, indeed!" he returned with scorn; "ten feet by twelve! that for one born in a palace and reared, thus far, in the very lap of luxury!"

"Plenty good enough and big enough for old Grayson's grandchild!" observed the wife, turning up her aristocratic nose in supreme contempt.

"Madam, she is also my grandchild, and heiress in her own right to over a million."

Mrs. Dinsmore's look expressed, first, astonishment, then jealous rage and envy. "And the very incarnation of beauty!" she muttered between her clenched teeth. "What did you bring her here for--to cast our children into the shade? I hate her! What have you been doing? where have you put her?"

"In the blue room."

"The blue room! one of the very best in the house! the blue satin damask cushions of the chairs and sofas are so handsome and delicate! and to think of the sun being let in to fade them, and a baby rubbing its shoes over them, and scattering greasy crumbs on them; and that exquisite carpet! It's too trying for flesh and blood to stand!" and the handkerchief went up to her eyes.

"It's not worth while to distress yourself," he remarked coolly; "her income is quite sufficient to allow of it's being refurnished at double the cost every six months if necessary."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Dinsmore, throwing up her wealth to me in that style!" sobbed the much-tried and very ill-used woman.

Little Elsie was brought down to the drawing-room after tea, Mildred leading her in, while Aunt Chloe followed, bearing a paste-board box.

Fresh pangs of envy and jealousy assailed Mrs. Dinsmore at sight of the little fair one, now rested and refreshed, beautifully and tastefully attired, and looking even more bewitchingly lovely than on her arrival.

Running to her grandfather, she asked coaxingly, "Please, grandpa, may Elsie dive de fings now?"

"As well now as any time," he said, not unkindly, and she ran back to Mildred, who had taken the box from Aunt Chloe, and now opened and held it so that the child could handle the contents.

"This is the one for Enna's mamma," Mildred whispered, pointing to a jewel case; "I would give it first."

The small white hands seized it, the soft brown eyes glanced about the room till they rested upon the figure of a richly-dressed lady in an easy chair; then the little twinkling feet tripped across, and with a shy look, up in the not too pleasant face, the case was laid in her lap, the baby voice lisping sweetly, "Please, Enna's mamma, Elsie wants to dive you dis."

Mrs. Dinsmore started with surprise, opened the case hastily, and seeing a very handsome gold bracelet lying there, condescended to smile and murmur a few words of thanks.

But the little one had not waited for them; back to Mildred she ran in eager haste to finish the work of presenting her love tokens to these new-found relatives; a handsome gold ring to each of the three little girls (received with kisses, thanks and exclamations of delight), and toys for the others, which seemed to give equal satisfaction.

Chapter Twenty-sixth.

"Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow,
And floats before my eyes;
As meek and pure as doves art thou,
Or beings of the skies."
--Robert Morris.

"Do you like it, aunt?" asked Mildred, approaching Mrs. Dinsmore, as she was in the act of clasping the bracelet on her arm.

"Yes, it's very handsome; but I think there might as well have been a pair of them."

"Ah!" returned Mildred with a smile, directed toward Mr. Dinsmore; "little Elsie would have been glad to make it so, but uncle held the purse-strings, and was inexorably determined that it should be but one."

"Just like him!" said the wife, snappishly.

"My dear, I felt extremely mean in allowing so much as I did to be spent upon my family," he said, with a gravity that was almost stern.

"I don't see why you need," she replied, with irritation, "sacrificing the comfort of your family, as you are, by taking her in."

"I must confess," he returned, "that I see no sacrifice about it. The child will not be the slightest expense to us. But rather the reverse; nor will her presence in the house add in the very least to your cares."

"The children seem well pleased with their gifts," Mildred remarked, giving him a cheery smile, as she moved away toward them, gathered in a little throng about Elsie, amusing themselves by making her talk; asking her questions, and bidding her pronounce their names in turn, with the prefix of aunt or uncle.

"You're the darlingest little thing that ever was!" Adelaide exclaimed, catching her in her arms, and kissing her again and again.

"She's too pretty; nobody will ever look at us when she's by. I heard mamma say so," muttered Louise, discontentedly.

"Pooh! what's the use of talking in that way!" said Lora. "We can hide her up-stairs when we want to be looked at."

"Of course," said Mildred, laughing; "and being such a mere baby, I don't think you need fear that she will prove a serious rival."

"I'm her uncle," remarked Arthur drawing himself up, with dignity; "say Uncle Arthur again, baby girl."

"I isn't a baby," she said, smiling up into his face. "Elsie's a big girl now; Enna's de baby. Pretty baby! Elsie loves you!" she added, lovingly stroking Enna's hair.

"It's high time those children were in bed," said Mrs. Dinsmore, from the other side of the room. "Aunt Maria, take Enna and the boys to the nursery."

Aunt Chloe, not slow to take a hint, picked up her nursling and followed the other woman, Elsie looking back, and kissing her hand to her grandfather, with a pleasant "Good-night, grandpa; good-night, Enna's mamma, and all de folks."

Mildred went with them to enjoy a little talk and play with the child, as had been her custom at Viamede, but did not venture to stay long, lest Mrs. Dinsmore should be displeased at her absenting herself from the drawing-room on this first evening after her return.

On going down again, she found Mr. Landreth there. He spent the evening, and made himself very agreeable. Mildred was quite full of Viamede, and its little heiress, and he seemed much interested in all she had to say about them.

Mr. Landreth was a favorite with Mrs. Dinsmore; she considered him an excellent match in point of wealth and family, possessed also of the added recommendations of good education, polished address and genial disposition.

He had been a frequent visitor to Roselands in the past months, and she had spared no pains to show off to him the attractions of her nieces, and throw him as much as possible into their society; at the same time adroitly keeping Mildred in the background.

But the young man was sufficiently keen-sighted to see through her schemes, and while seemingly falling in with them, in reality reserved all his admiration for Mildred; who on her part was taken up with other interests, and thought of him only as a pleasant acquaintance, whose visits to the house meant nothing to her.

Mrs. Dinsmore had been disappointed by her failure to secure him for one or the other of her nieces; but they were now engaged, and having come to have as warm a liking for our heroine as it was in her selfish nature to entertain for any one not connected with herself by ties of blood, she desired, as the next best thing, to bring about a match between her and Mr. Landreth.

But Mildred did not second her efforts, showing no particular preference for Mr. Landreth's society above that of any one of the half dozen or more other unmarried gentlemen who frequented the house.

She treated them all courteously, but gave encouragement to none, seeming far more interested in little Elsie, and in the studies almost discontinued during her stay at Viamede, but taken up again with renewed zeal directly on her return to Roselands.

But Mr. Landreth was not to be discouraged; he paid court to Elsie, learning soon to love the little creature for her own sweet sake, and managed after a time to associate himself with several of Mildred's pursuits.

The time had now arrived when, according to the original plan, Mildred was to return home, and those who loved her there were looking forward with eager impatience for her coming.

But Mr. Dinsmore wrote to her parents, entreating that he might be allowed to keep her some months longer, and bringing forward several cogent reasons why his request should be granted; Mildred was improving in health, making the best use of opportunities to perfect herself in accomplishments, etc.; was a most pleasant companion to himself and wife, ought not to be permitted to undertake the long journey alone; and at present no suitable escort could be found.

The parents carefully weighed his arguments, and for their child's sake finally gave consent, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

Mildred was both glad and sorry, having a yearning desire for home and its dear occupants, but at the same time feeling that the parting from wee Elsie would be very sad; so tender was the attachment that had sprung up between herself and the motherless babe.

Pity was a large element in Mildred's love for the child, and that increased as the weeks and months rolled on; for both the grandfather and the young uncles and aunts, yielding gradually to Mrs. Dinsmore's baleful influence, treated her with less kindness and consideration; while Mrs. Dinsmore's tyranny was such that not unfrequently Mildred could scarce refrain from expressing violent indignation.

The child was not subjected to blows, but angry looks and harsh words and tones, that to her sensitive spirit were worse than blows would have been to a more obtuse nature, were plentifully dealt out to her; also ridicule, sneers and snubs.

And there was no respect shown to her rights of property; the other children might rob her of her toys, books and pictures, with entire impunity, if she ventured to carry them outside her own room; Mrs. Dinsmore averring that if she showed them, and so excited a desire for them in the breasts of her children, she deserved to lose them.