It was only the next day after the departure of Betty and her husband that a letter was received by Mrs. Cyril Keith, informing her of the death of her aunt Delaford, leaving the bulk of her large fortune to her, and a fat legacy to each of the Conley brothers—Calhoun, Arthur, Walter, and Ralph—and the sisters Virginia and Ella.

Isadore was well satisfied with the provisions of the will, as were the others also, with the exception of Virginia, who frowned and grumbled audibly that she herself might have been made to share equally with Isadore, who had a good home and husband already, therefore really needed less than herself, "lone and lorn, and poor as a church mouse."

"But you have no children, Virgie," said her cousin Elsie, in whose presence the remark was made, "no one to support but yourself; and the interest of this money will be sufficient for your comfortable maintenance."

"Possibly, if I had a home, as Isa has; but not without," returned Virginia in a pettish tone, while her eyes flashed angrily.

Elsie bore patiently with the rebuff, and said no more at that time, but considered the matter earnestly, carefully, and prayerfully, in the privacy of her own room, then had a talk about it with her father, without whose approval she seldom took a step of any great importance.

Finding him alone on the veranda, "Papa," she said, taking a seat by his side, "I want a few minutes' chat with you before we are joined by anyone else. You heard Virginia's complaint of yesterday—that she had no home of her own. I have been thinking it over, also of the fact that Dick and Bob are in the same condition, and it has occurred to me that I might invite them to take possession here while we are absent at our more northern home, giving employment to the servants, keeping the house in repair, and the grounds in order; that is, merely overseeing the work and looking to me for the means necessary to cover the expense, I to retain my present satisfactory overseer, and pay his wages out of the returns from the crops; also those of the laborers."

"You mean that you would simply give a home here to your cousins?" returned Mr. Dinsmore interrogatively.

"Yes, sir; a home without expense—except, perhaps, some small increase of the wages of the servants in consideration of the additional work made for them, and a share of the fruits, vegetables, fowls, and so forth, raised upon the plantation."

"A share? meaning all they might want to use? the 'and so forth' I suppose, meaning milk, cream, butter, and eggs?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should call it a very generous offer, and I have no objection to bring it forward, seeing that you are well able to afford it, if it is your pleasure so to do."

"I am glad my project meets with your approval," she said, with a smile, "for otherwise, as I think you know, papa, it would never be carried out. Ah, how thankful I should be, and I hope I am, that I have been given the financial ability to do such kindness to others!"

"Yes," he said, with an affectionate smile into the soft brown eyes looking into his; "I know of no one who enjoys doing kindness more than my dear eldest daughter.

"What a delightful winter and early spring we have had here," he continued after a pause; "but it is now growing so warm that I think we must soon be moving northward."

"Yes, sir; when the last arrivals have had a week or more of the enjoyment to be found in this lovely region of country."

"Yes; they are enjoying it," he said, with a pleased smile; "the younger ones especially, the children of your brother and sister not less than the others. And by the way, daughter, I think you will be doing no little kindness to your cousins Cyril and Isadore by giving Virginia a home here."

"Yes, I think their home life will be more peaceful," she said in assent. "Poor Virgie seems to be not of—the happiest or most contented disposition."

"No, she never was," said Mr. Dinsmore; "a discontented, fretful, complaining creature she has always been since I have known her, and she was a very little child when our acquaintance began."

In the course of that day Elsie's plans were made known to the Keiths, Virginia, and her cousins Dick Percival and his half-brother Bob Johnson, joyfully accepted by the two gentlemen, and half ungraciously by Virginia, who said complainingly, that "Viamede was a pretty enough place, to be sure, but would be dreadfully lonesome for her when the boys were away."

"Then you can amuse yourself with a book from the library, a ride or drive, as the horses and carriages will be left here for your use and that of Dick and Bob," Elsie answered pleasantly, while Isadore, blushing vividly for her sister, exclaimed, "O Virgie, you could not have a lovelier, sweeter home, and I think Cousin Elsie is wonderfully kind to offer it!"

"Of course, I'm greatly obliged to her," Virginia said, coloring slightly as though a trifle ashamed of her want of appreciation of the kind offer "and I'll not damage anything, so that the house will be none the worse for my occupancy, but possibly a little better."

"Yes, perhaps it may," Elsie said pleasantly, "though the servants usually left in charge are careful about airing it and keeping everything neat and clean. I really think you will have no trouble with your housekeeping, Virgie."

"That seems a pleasant prospect, for I never liked housekeeping," returned Virginia, "and I really am much obliged to you, Cousin Elsie."

"You are very welcome, and I hope will be happy here," was the kindly reply.

Another fortnight of constant intercourse between the three places—Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and the Parsonage—of rides, drives, walks, sailing or rowing about on the lagoon, and every other pleasure and entertainment that could be devised, then the party began to break up, those from the north returning to their homes, most of them by rail, as the speediest and the most convenient mode of travel. However, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Evelyn, Grandma Elsie and her youngest two, Cousin Ronald and the Woodburn family, returned together by sea, making use of the captain's yacht, which he had ordered to be sent to him in season for the trip by the Gulf and ocean.

There was no urgent need of haste, and the captain did not deny that he was conscious of a longing to be, for a time, again in command of a vessel sailing over the briny deep; besides, it would be less fatiguing for the little ones, to say nothing of their elders.

The little girls were full of delight at the prospect of both the voyage and the return to their lovely homes, yet could not leave beautiful Viamede without deep regret.

It was the last evening but one of their stay; all were gathered upon the veranda looking out upon the lagoon sparkling in the moonlight, and the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, with its many grand and beautiful old trees. The little ones had already gone to their nests, but Evelyn, Lulu, and Grace were sitting with the older people, Grace on her father's knee, the other two together close at hand.

There had been some cheerful chat, followed by a silence of several minutes. It was broken by a slight scuffling sound, as of a negro's footstep, in the rear of Elsie's chair, then a voice said in mournful accents, "Scuse de in'truption, missus, but dis chile want to 'spress to you uns dat we uns all a'most heart-broke t'inkin' how you's gwine 'way an' p'r'arps won't be comin' heah no mo' till de ol'est ob us done gone foreber out dis wicked worl'."

Before the sentence was completed every eye had turned in the direction of the sounds; but nothing was to be seen of the speaker.

"Oh, that was you, Cousin Ronald," laughed Rosie, recovering from the momentary start given her by the seemingly mysterious disappearance of the speaker.

"Ah, Rosie, my bonnie lassie, how can you treat your auld kinsman so ill as to suspect him of murdering the king's English in that style?" queried the old gentleman in hurt, indignant tones.

"Because, my poor abused cousin, I am utterly unable to account in any other way for the phenomenon of an invisible speaker so close at hand."

Cousin Ronald made no reply, for at that instant there came a sound of bitter sobbing, apparently from behind a tree a few feet from the veranda's edge, then a wailing cry, "Oh, Miss Elsie, Massa Dinsmore, and de res' ob you dar, doan' go for to leab dis po' chile! She cayn't stan' it nohow 'tall! her ole heart like to break! Doan' go way, massa an' missus; stay hyah wid de niggahs dat lubs you so!"

"Oh, Cousin Ronald, don't!" Elsie said in half tremulous tones. "It seems too real, and almost breaks my heart; for I am greatly attached to many of these poor old men and women."

"Then I think they will not distress you with any more complaints and entreaties to-night, sweet cousin," returned the old gentleman in pleasant, though half regretful tones.