"I hope there is nothing serious ailing dear mamma," Violet said rather anxiously to herself, as the carriage rolled swiftly on toward Ion; "there was really nothing in her note to indicate it, but she has never been one to complain of even a pretty serious ailment. She is not old yet; we may hope to keep her with us for many, many years. But then she is so good—so ripe for heaven!" And a silent prayer went up to God that the dear mother might be spared for many years to help others on their pilgrim way, especially her children and grandchildren. "For oh, how we need her!" was the added thought; "what could we ever do without her—the dear, kind, loving mother to whom we carry all our troubles and perplexities, sure of comfort, the best of advice, and all the help in her power to give. Dear, dear mamma! Oh, I have never prized her as I ought!"

It was only the previous evening that Mrs. Travilla herself had learned that she was assailed by more than a trifling ailment. What seemed to her but a slight one, causing discomfort, and at times quite a good deal of pain, she had been conscious of for some weeks or months, but had not thought it necessary to speak of it to anyone.

About the time of her return home, however, there had been a very decided increase in the suffering; which at length led her to confide her trouble to her cousin and family physician, Dr. Arthur Conly, and she had learned from him that it was far more serious than she had supposed; that in fact her only escape from sure and speedy death lay in submission to a difficult and dangerous surgical operation.

Arthur told her as gently and tenderly as he could—assuring her that there was more than a possibility of a successful result—bringing relief from her suffering and prolonging her life for many years.

His first words—showing her ailment as so much more serious than she had ever for a moment supposed it to be—gave her a shock at the thought of the sudden parting from all her dear ones—father, children, and grandchildren; yet before he had finished she was entirely calm and composed.

"And what would death be but going home?" she said; "home to the mansions Jesus my Saviour has prepared for those he died to redeem, and to the dear ones gone before, there to await the coming of those who will be left behind for a little while. Ah, it is nothing to dread or to fear, for 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"

"And yet, Cousin Elsie," Arthur returned, with ill-concealed emotion, "how illy you could be spared by any of those who know and love you. Even I should feel it an almost heartbreaking thing to lose you out of my life, and your father, children——"

"Yes, I know, dear cousin, and shall not hesitate to do or bear all that holds out a hope of prolonging my days here upon earth; for otherwise I should feel that I was rushing into the Master's presence unbidden, and that without finishing the work he has given me to do here.

"Nor would I be willing to so pain the hearts of those who love me. I am ready to submit at once to whatever you deem necessary or expedient. But ah, my dear father! How distressed he will be when he learns all that you have just told me! I wish he might be spared the knowledge till all is over. But it would not do. He must be told at once, and—I must tell him."

"That will be very hard for you, dear cousin; would it not be better——" Arthur began, but paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"It will come best from me, I think," she returned, with a sad sort of smile. "But when?"

"Day after to-morrow, if you will. I think you would prefer to have the trial over as soon as possible?"

"Yes; I think it will save both me and all concerned from some of the suffering of anticipation, if you can make it suit your convenience."

"Perfectly," he answered; "there are few preparations to be made and I do not want long to contemplate doing what must be a trial to so many whom I love."

Their talk had been in her boudoir. He lingered but a few moments longer, then went down to the drawing-room.

"Uncle," he said, in a low aside to Mr. Dinsmore, "I have just left Cousin Elsie in her boudoir and she wishes to see you there."

"She is not well, Arthur?" asked the old gentleman, with a slightly startled look, as he rose from his easy chair and the two passed out into the hall together.

"Not very, uncle," was the sad-toned reply. "She has been consulting me and there is something she wishes to say to you."

Mr. Dinsmore paled to the very lips. "Don't keep me in suspense, Arthur; let me know the worst, at once," he said, with almost a groan. "Why has anything been hidden from me—the father who loves her better than his life?"

"I have been as ignorant as yourself, uncle, till within the last half hour," replied the doctor, in a patient, deeply sympathizing tone. "It is astonishing to me that she has been able to endure so much for weeks or months past without a word of complaint. But do not despair, my dear uncle; the case is by no means hopeless."

"Tell me all, Arthur; hide nothing, nothing from me," Mr. Dinsmore said with mingled sternness and entreaty, hastily leading the way as he spoke to the little reception room opening from the other side of the hall, and closing the door against any chance intruder.

Arthur complied, stating the case as briefly as possible, and laying strong emphasis upon the fact that there was reason to hope for, not spared life alone, but entire and permanent relief.

"God grant it!" was the old gentleman's fervent, half agonized response. "My darling, my darling! would that I could bear all the suffering for you! Arthur, when—when must my child go through the trial which you say is—not to be escaped?"

"We have agreed upon the day after to-morrow, uncle, both she and I wishing to have it over as soon as possible."

A few minutes later, Mr. Dinsmore passed quietly into his daughter's boudoir, where he found her alone, lying on a lounge, her eyes closed, her countenance, though deathly pale, perfectly calm and peaceful.

He bent down and touched his lips to the white forehead; then as the sweet eyes opened and looked up lovingly into his, "Oh, my darling, idol of my heart," he groaned, "would that your father could himself take the suffering that I have just learned is in store for you."

"Ah no, no, my dear, dear father, I could illy bear that," she said, putting an arm about his neck; "suffering and danger to you would be far harder for me than what I am now enduring or expecting in the near future. Arthur has told you all?"

"Yes; kind-hearted and generous fellow that he is, he felt that he must spare you the pain of telling it yourself."

"Yes, it was very, very kind," she said, "Dear papa, sit down in this easy chair, close by my side, and take my hand in yours while we talk together of some matters that need to be settled before—before I am called to go through that which may be the end of earthly life for me."

Then, in response to the anguished look in his face as he bent over her with another silent caress, "My dear father, I do not mean to distress you. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure and years of health and strength to follow; yet surely it is but the part of wisdom to prepare for either event."

"Yes; and I am sure you are fully prepared, at least so far as your eternal welfare is concerned; should you be called away—our grief will be for ourselves alone."

"I am glad the choice is not left with me," she said, in low, sweet tones, after a moment's silence. "For your dear sake, papa, and that of my beloved children, I am more than willing to stay here on earth for many more years, yet the thought of being forever with the Lord—near him and like him—thrills my heart with joy unspeakable, while added to that is a great gladness in the prospect of reunion with the dear husband who has gone before me to that happy land. So I am not to be pitied, my dear father," she added, with a beautiful smile; "and can you not rejoice with me that the choice is not mine but lies with him whose love for us both is far greater than ours for each other?"

"Yes," he replied with emotion; "blessed be his holy name that we may leave it all in his hands, trusting in his infinite wisdom and love; knowing that if called to part for a season, we shall be reunited in heaven, never again to be torn asunder."

"Yes, dear father; we cannot expect to go quite together, but when reunited there in that blessed land, never again to part, the time of separation will seem to have been very short; even as nothing compared to the long, the unending eternity we shall spend together.

"And oh, what an eternity of joy and bliss, forever freed from sin and suffering, near and like our Lord, altogether pleasing in his sight, no doubts, no fears, the battle fought, the victory won. 'And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign for ever and ever!'"

"Yes, my darling; blessed be his holy name for the many great and precious promises of his word, and I have not a doubt of your full preparation for either event; but oh, that it may please him to spare you to me as the light, comfort, joy of my remaining days! Yet should it please him to take you to himself—ah, I cannot, dare not allow myself to contemplate so terrible a bereavement," he added, in low anguished accents, as he bent over her, softly smoothing her hair with tenderly caressing touch.

"Then do not, dear father," she said, lifting to his eyes full of ardent love and sympathy; "try to leave it all with the dear Master, and he will fulfil to you his precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' Has it not ever been the testimony of all his saints concerning his precious promises that not one faileth?"

"Yes," he said, "and so will it ever be. By his grace I will trust and not be afraid for you, my beloved child; nor for myself, his most unworthy servant."

Then with an upward glance, "'Lord increase our faith.' Oh, help us each to trust in thee and not to be afraid, be the way ever so dark and dreary, remembering thy gracious promise, 'I will in no wise fail thee, neither will I in anywise forsake thee.'"

"Sweet, sweet words, papa," she said, low and tremulously, lifting to his eyes full of glad, grateful tears.

"And those others, 'When thou passeth through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.'

"Oh, what more could I ask? what have I to do with doubt or fear, since he is mine and I am his?"

"Only the physical pain," he said, low and tenderly; "and Arthur tells me that with the help of anÆsthetics there will be little or none of that during the operation, but——"

"What may come afterward can be easily borne, dear papa," she said, as he paused, overcome by emotion.

"My dear, brave darling! a more patient, resigned sufferer never lived!" was his moved, though low-breathed, exclamation.

A moment's silence fell between them, he leaning over and caressing her with exceeding tenderness; then, "Papa," she said, with a loving look up into his eyes, "I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure, of speedy and entire recovery; and we may be spared to each other for many years if the will of God be so; but—surely it is my wisest plan to prepare for every possibility.

"I feel very easy about my dear children, most of them having already arrived at years of maturity, and being comfortably settled in life; Edward and my two older daughters, at least; while the others I can leave in the safest of earthly hands, even those of my dear and honored father, whose love for them is only secondary to my own; and for each one I have reason to hope that the good part has been chosen which can never be taken away."

"I do indeed love them very dearly," he responded, "for their own sake, their father's, and most of all because they are the offspring of my own beloved child. Should I outlive her, they shall want for nothing their grandfather can do to make them happy."

"I know it, dear father, and can leave them to your and their heavenly Father's care without a doubt or fear," she said, with a gentle sigh over the thought of the parting with her darlings that might be so near.

She went on to speak of some business matters, then said: "I think that is all, papa. I do not care to make any alteration in my will; and, as you know, you and brother Horace are my executors. To-morrow I must have a little talk with each of my children, and then I shall be ready for Arthur and his assistants.

"I want all my children near at hand in case of an unfavorable result and that I am able to say a few last words, bidding them all farewell."

There was again a moment of silence, her father seeming too much overcome to speak; then she went on: "I think they must not be told to-night, that the two younger ones need know nothing of the danger till the morning of the operation. I would spare them all the suffering of anticipation that I can; and were I but sure, quite sure, of going safely through it all, they should know nothing of it till afterward; but I cannot rob them of a few last words with their mother."

"My darling! always unselfish, always thinking of others first!" Mr. Dinsmore said, in moved tones, bending over her and pressing his lips again and again to her pale cheek and brow.

"Surely almost any mother would think of her children before herself," she returned with a sweet, sad smile.

But just at that instant childish footsteps were heard in the hall without, then a gentle rap on the door, and Walter's voice asking, "Mamma, may I come in?"

"Yes, my son," she answered, in cheerful tones, and in a moment he was at her side, asking, in some alarm and anxiety, "Mamma, dear, are you sick?" bending over her as he spoke, and pressing ardent kisses upon cheek and lip and brow.

"Not very, mother's darling baby boy," she answered, lifting to his eyes full of tender mother love.

"'Baby boy?'" repeated Walter, with a merry laugh, gently smoothing her hair, and patting her cheek lovingly, while he spoke. "Mamma, dear, have you forgotten that I am eleven years old?"

"No, dear; but for all that you are still mother's dear, dear baby boy!" she said, hugging him close.

"Well, I shan't mind your calling me that, you dearest mamma," laughed Walter, repeating his caresses; "but nobody else must do it."

"Not even grandpa?" queried Mr. Dinsmore, with a proudly affectionate smile into the bright young face.

"I don't think you'd want to, grandpa," returned the lad, "because, you know, you're always telling me I must try to be a manly boy. But I came up to remind you and mamma that it's time for prayers. Grandma sent me to do so and to ask if you could both come down now."

"You will not think of going down, Elsie?" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed in surprise, as his daughter made a movement as if to rise from her couch.

"Yes, papa," she returned. "I have been resting here for some hours and feel quite able to join the family now. I am not in pain at this moment, and Arthur said nothing about keeping to my room."

"Then I wouldn't, mamma," said Walter, slipping his hand into hers. "I'm sure Cousin Arthur's always ready enough to order us to keep to our rooms if there's any occasion. I'm glad he doesn't think you sick enough to have to do that."

His mother only smiled in reply, and, taking her father's offered arm, moved on in the direction of the stairway, Walter still clinging to her other hand.

Anxious looks and inquiries greeted her on their entrance into the parlor, where family and servants were already gathered for the evening service; but she parried them all with such cheery words and bright sweet smiles as set their fears at rest for the time.

But those of Edward were presently rearoused as—the younger members of the family and the servants having retired from the room—he noticed a look of keen, almost anguished anxiety, bestowed by his grandfather upon his mother; then that her cheek was unusually pale.

"Mother dear, you are not well!" he exclaimed, hastily rising and going to her.

"No, not quite, my dear boy," she replied, smiling up at him; "but do not look so distressed; none of us can expect always to escape all illness. I am going back to my room now and, though able to do so without assistance, will accept the support of the arm of my eldest son, if it is offered me."

"Gladly, mother dear, unless you will let me carry you; which I am fully able to do."

"Oh, no, Ned," she said laughingly, as she rose and put her hand within his arm; "the day may possibly come when I shall tax your young strength to that extent, but it is not necessary now. Papa, dear," turning to him, "shall I say good-night to you now?"

"No, no," Mr. Dinsmore answered, with some emotion, "I shall step into your rooms for that as it is on my way to my own."

"I, too," said Mrs. Dinsmore; "and perhaps you will let me play the nurse for you if you are not feeling quite well."

"Thank you very much, mamma. In case your kind services are really needed I shall not hesitate to let you know. And I am always glad to see you in my rooms."

"Mother, you are actually panting for breath!" Edward exclaimed when they were half-way up the stairs. "I shall carry you," and taking her in his arms as he spoke, he bore her to her boudoir and laid her tenderly down on its couch. "Oh, mother dear," he said, in quivering tones, "tell me all. Why should your eldest son be shut out from your confidence?"

"My dear boy," she answered, putting her hand into his, "can you not rest content till to-morrow? Why should you think that anything serious ails me?"

"Your pale looks and evident weakness," he said, "grandpa's distressed countenance as he turns his eyes on you, and the unusually sober, serious look of Cousin Arthur as I met him passing out of the house to-night. He had been with you, had he not?"

"Yes, my son, and I meant that you and your sisters should know all to-morrow or the next day. It is only for your own sake I would have had you spared the knowledge till then."

"Dearest mother, tell me all now," he entreated; "for surely no certainty can be worse than this dreadful suspense."

"No, I suppose not," she replied in sorrowful tones, her eyes gazing into his, full of tenderest mother love. Then in a few brief sentences she told him all.

"Oh, mother dear; dearest mother!" he cried, clasping her close, "if I, your eldest son, might but take and bear it all—the pain and the danger—for you, how gladly I would do so!"

"I do not doubt it, my own dear boy," she returned, in moved tones, "but it cannot be; each of us must bear his or her own burden and I rejoice that this is mine rather than that of my dear son. Do not grieve for me; do not be too anxious; remember that he whose love for me is far greater than any earthly love appoints it all, and it shall be for good. 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.' Blessed, comforting assurance! And how sweet are those words of Jesus, 'What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter!'"

"Yes, dearest mother," he said, with emotion, "and for you it will be all joy, the beginning of an eternity of bliss, if it shall please him to take you to himself; but oh, how hard it will be for your children to learn to live without you! But I will hope and pray that the result may be for you restored health and a long and happy life."

For some moments he held her in a close embrace, then, at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall without, laid her gently down upon her pillows.

"Keep it from Zoe for to-night, if possible," she said softly. "Dear little woman! I would not have her robbed of her night's rest."

"I will try, mother dear," he said, pressing his lips again and again to hers. "God grant you sweet and refreshing sleep, but oh, do not for a moment hesitate to summon me if there is anything I can do to relieve you, should you be in pain, or to add in any way to your comfort."

She gave the desired promise and he stole softly from the room; but not to join his wife till some moments of solitude had enabled him so to conquer his emotion that he could appear before her with a calm and untroubled countenance.

Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore passed into the boudoir as he left it. Rose had just learned from her husband of his talk of that evening with Dr. Conly, and what the physician had then told him of his daughter's condition and the trial awaiting her in the near future.

Rose was full of sympathy for Elsie, and so overcome at the thought of the trial she must so soon pass through that she could scarcely speak.

They clung to each other in a long, tender embrace, Rose shedding tears, Elsie calm and quiet.

"You will let me be with you, dear Elsie?" she said at last. "Oh, how willingly I would help you bear it if I could!"

"Dear mamma, how kind you are and have always been to me!" exclaimed the low sweet voice. "Your presence will be a great support while consciousness remains, but after that I would have you spared the trial.

"Don't fear for me; I know that it will all be well. How glad I am that should I be taken you will be left to comfort my dear father and children. Yet I think that I shall be spared. Arthur holds out a strong hope of a favorable termination.

"So, dear father," turning to him and putting her hand in his, "be comforted. Be strong and of a good courage! Do not let anxiety for me rob you of your needed rest and sleep."

"For your dear sake, my darling, I will try to follow your advice," he answered, with emotion, as in his turn he folded her to his heart and bade her good-night.