The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Ormsby started on their bridal trip—a visit to his relatives, to Aunt Wealthy and the old Ohio home.

Their departure left the house strangely empty and desolate, to the consciousness of mother and sisters especially, and Frank Osborne's advent seemed quite a boon. An old friend who could tell them much of others left behind in Ohio, a thorough gentleman, well educated, refined and polished in manner, and an earnest, devoted Christian, he proved a most agreeable companion.

All these years he had fancied himself in love with Mildred, and it was that, more than anything else, which had drawn him thither; yet the first sight of Ada had wholly changed the direction of his inclination.

He had thought Mildred charming in younger days, and could not see that she had lost in attractiveness—the years seemed rather to have added to her loveliness; her form was more finely developed, her countenance sweeter and more intellectual, while she had lost none of the freshness and bloom of youth: yet he found a superior fascination about Ada, and being of an ardent temperament, open and frank in disposition, his manner toward her soon made this apparent to the older members of the family.

Mildred was perhaps the first to perceive it, and that without the slightest feeling of envy or jealousy: she would be glad if Frank proved to be one who could fill Ada's heart; and if an objection to the possibility that presented itself arose in any one's mind, it was merely on the score of unwillingness to part with another member of the newly broken family circle.

They had urged Frank to make a lengthened visit, and he had promised to remain for some days or a week or two.

He had been but recently licensed to preach, and was yet without charge. The first Sunday after his arrival he filled Mr. Lord's pulpit, by invitation, greatly to the delight and edification of his hearers. The next week he preached for a vacant church a few miles distant from Pleasant Plains, and shortly after consented to take charge of it for the next six months.

A worldly-minded man, seeking wealth and fame, would have deemed it a most uninviting field of labor; but Frank Osborne was one of those who are willing to bear hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ, and whose aspiration is to win souls rather than earthly riches or fame. Yet the thought of being near enough to his old friends for frequent intercourse may have had its influence also.

The return of the bride and groom after an absence of some six weeks was a joyful occasion. They were received in their own cottage home, which loving hands had set in perfect order, and rendered beautiful and delightful with the bloom and perfume of flowers. When the tender, loving greetings had been exchanged they made the tour of the house attended by every member of the family, each one anxious to witness and have a share in their pleasure.

The workers had anticipated, as the reward of their labors, great demonstrations of delight from Zillah, and were not disappointed; she seemed to lack words to properly express her admiration of the effects produced or her appreciation of this evidence of their kindness and love.

Nor was Wallace far behind in bestowing a like meed of praise and thanks.

The welcoming feast had been prepared and was partaken of in the house of the parents. After that Zillah began her housekeeping, enjoying it exceedingly; for she was no novice at the business, was defthanded and quick in her motions, had her mother and older sister near enough to be consulted at any time; and utensils, furniture, and the snug cottage itself were all so new, so fresh and clean.

Then Wallace was pleased with everything she did, and the work of a family of two seemed scarce more than play to one used to the numerous household on the other side of the street.

There was a great deal of running back and forth, a constant interchange of good offices. During the hours that business kept Wallace at the office, Zillah and Ada were almost sure to be together in one home or the other.

It was not long before the former discovered that Frank Osborne was a frequent visitor at her father's, and began to suspect what was the particular attraction that drew him thither.

"I was not at all displeased at the time, as things turned out, that Mr. Lord went fishing on my wedding day and forgot to marry me, but now I begin to feel quite grateful to him," she said teasingly to Ada one day as they sat alone together, with their sewing, in her own pretty parlor.

"Why so?" Ada asked, blushing consciously in spite of herself.

"Because in after years it will seem very fitting that my brother-in-law had the tying of the knot between Wallace and me."

"That strikes me as very much like counting your chickens before they are hatched," returned Ada demurely. "If you are hinting at me, please understand that I've always meant to be the old-maid daughter to stay at home and take care of the dear father and mother."

"Oh, yes, but folks often miss their vocation. However, I trust you will not; and I think you were cut out for a minister's wife. And O Ada dear," she went on, dropping her work to put her arms about her sister, "I want you to know the bliss of wedded love. I never was so happy in my life as now. And I do believe Frank is almost as nice as Wallace, or at least nicer than anybody else except Wallace," she corrected herself hastily, and with a merry laugh; "so don't reject him, there's a dear."

"Not until he asks," Ada said a trifle disdainfully. "My promises can go no further than that at present. I have an idea that he was formerly one of Mildred's admirers. So let him try for her; she is far better fitted than I for the duties and responsibilities of the position."

"Now don't be naughty and proud," Zillah said gayly; "you may as well take Mildred's leavings as I, and I can assure you they may be very nice indeed. What may have been in the past," she added more gravely, "I do not know, but very sure I am that now there is no fancy on either side."

"A letter for you, Ada!" cried Fan, coming running in at the open door.

Ada took it quietly and broke the seal.

"Now here's an offer worth having," she remarked with biting sarcasm, as she turned the page and glanced at the signature, then held it so that Zillah could see what it was. "The bald eagle is still in search of a mate."

"I told you so," was Zillah's laughing rejoinder.

"Lend me an envelope, will you?" Ada said, rising with the letter in her hand, a look of quiet, half-scornful determination in her face; "and he shall not be kept long waiting for his answer."

"What shall you say?" Zillah asked as she brought the envelope, pen, and ink.

"Nothing. Silence cannot be construed to mean consent in this instance. There, Fan, please return it to the office," as she sealed the envelope and handed it to the child; the letter inside, Nicholas Ransquattle's address on the outside.

The needles were plied in silence for a few moments; then Zillah said, with a little amused laugh, "You made short work with him."

"It seems to be the way of the family," returned Ada, joining in the laugh.

"Well, only treat Frank as differently as possible—that is, with the greatest favor—and I'll forgive you for this."

Frank was too wise to speak hastily, therefore the more likely to win at the last.

One day in the ensuing autumn Mrs. Keith received a letter from her cousin Horace Dinsmore, saying that he was travelling with his little daughter in the region of the Great Lakes, and could not persuade himself to pass so near Pleasant Plains without paying her a visit: they might be expected in a day or two after the receipt of this communication.

This news was received with great delight by the entire family. Mildred's heart bounded at the thought of again clasping little Elsie in her arms; for through all these years of separation the little fair one had been cherished in her very heart of hearts.

Every preparation was at once set on foot for entertaining the coming guests in the most hospitable manner.

There had been an occasional interchange of letters which had kept each of the two families informed of any event of unusual importance occurring in the other. Horace had written his cousin Marcia on his return from Europe two years and a half before this, again upon his recovery from serious illness a year later, and several times since. In one of his late letters he had spoken very feelingly of his child's recovery from an illness that had nearly cost her life, expressing his gratitude to God for her restoration to health, and that the trial had been blessed to himself in leading him to Christ.

Mrs. Keith had loved him from his early childhood with a sisterly affection, and now there was a new tie between them; for they were disciples of the same Master, servants of the same Lord. And it was in answer to long continued, fervent supplication on her part that this priceless blessing had come to him. What wonder that her heart bounded at the thought of soon seeing him and little Elsie, whom she was ready to love almost as she loved her own offspring, because she was Horace's child, and because of all that Mildred had said of her loveliness of character and person.

The letter telling of his conversion had brought a double delight to both Mildred and her mother, in the joy a Christian must ever feel in the salvation of a soul, the consecration of another heart and life to the service of Christ, and in the assurance that the darling Elsie was no longer left to an unsatisfied hunger for parental love; this the tone of his letter made very evident; his heart seemed overflowing with the tenderest fatherly affection; and indeed he said plainly that her death would have been worse to him than the loss of everything else he possessed.

But he did not go into particulars in regard to the nature or exciting cause of her illness.

On the deck of a steamer rapidly ploughing her way down Lake Michigan, sat a gentleman with a little girl on his knee. His arm encircled her waist, hers was about his neck. He was a very handsome man, apparently considerably under thirty years of age; hardly old enough, a stranger would judge, to be the father of the bewitchingly beautiful child he held, though there seemed a world of fatherly affection in the clasp of his arm and the tenderness of his gaze into the sweet face now resting on his shoulder, while the soft brown eyes looked out dreamily over the water, now lifted to his with an expression of confiding filial love and reverence.

"Papa, I am having a delightful time," she said, softly stroking his face and beard with her small white hand.

"I am very glad, my darling, that you enjoy it so much, and I trust it is doing you good," he answered.

"Yes, papa, but I don't need it; I'm as well as can be now."

"Free from disease, but not yet quite so strong as papa would like to see you," he said, with a smile and a tender caress.

"Shall we be long on this boat, papa?"

"Until some time to-morrow morning, when, if all goes well, we expect to land at Michigan City, where we will take the stage for Pleasant Plains, the home of our cousins the Keiths. Do you remember your Cousin Mildred?"

"A very little, papa; I don't remember her looks, except that they were pleasant to me when she used to take me on her lap and hug and kiss me."

"Your grandpa wrote me that she was very kind to you. She is the only one of the family you have ever met."

"Please tell me about the rest, papa. Are Cousin Milly's father and mother my uncle and aunt?"

"You may say Uncle Stuart and Aunt Marcia to them, though they are really your cousins. Well, what is it?" seeing a doubtful, troubled look in the eyes lifted to his.

"Please papa, don't be vexed with me," she murmured, dropping her eyes and blushing deeply, "but would it—be quite—quite true and right to call them so when they are not really?"

He drew her closer and softly kissing the glowing cheek, "I should prefer to have you call them aunt and uncle," he said, "and I cannot see anything wrong or untrue in doing so; but if it is a question of conscience with you, my darling, I shall not insist."

"Thank you, dear papa," she said, looking up gratefully and drawing a long sigh of relief; "but I want to do as you wish; please tell me why you do not think it wrong."

"They may adopt you as their niece, you them as your uncle and aunt," he answered, smiling down at the grave, earnest little face.

"What a nice idea, papa!" she exclaimed with a low, musical laugh, her face growing bright and glad; "that makes it all right, I think. I knew about adopted children and adopted parents, but I didn't think of any other adopted relations."

"But do you not see that that must follow as a matter of course?"

A middle-aged colored woman had drawn near carrying a light shawl. "De air gettin' little bit cool, I tink, massa," she remarked, in a respectful tone. "I'se 'fraid my chile cotch cold."

"Quite right, Aunt Chloe," he returned, taking the shawl from her and wrapping it carefully about the little girl.

But he had scarcely done so when a sudden storm of wind came sweeping down upon the lake, from the northwest, and drove them into the cabin.

There were other passengers, but the saloon was not crowded, and for a time proved a pleasant enough retreat. Supper was served presently and partaken of in tolerable comfort, though the lake was growing rough, and the vessel rolling and pitching in a way that made it a little difficult to keep the dishes on the table and eat and drink without accident. But, as they were not supposed to be in danger, the little mishaps merely gave occasion for mirth and pleasantry.

But ere long the storm increased in violence, the wind blowing a gale, accompanied with thunder, lightning, and torrents of rain. The faces of men and women grew pale and anxious, conversation had almost ceased, and scarce a sound was heard but the war of the elements mingled with the heavy tread of the sailors and the hoarse commands of the captain and mate.

The little girl, seated on a sofa by her father's side, crept closer to him, with a whispered, "Papa, is there any danger?"

"I'm afraid there is, my darling," he said, putting his arm about her and drawing her closer still; "but we will trust in Him who holds the winds and the waters in the hollow of his hand. I do not need to remind my little Elsie that no real evil can befall us if we are his children."

"No, papa; and oh, how sweet it is to know that."

"It is your bedtime," he said, glancing at his watch.

"But you will not send me away from you to-night, dear papa?" and she looked pleadingly into his face.

"No, my precious child! no, indeed! not for all I am worth would I let you out of my sight in this storm, but I will go with you to your state-room."

He half led, half carried her, for the vessel was now plunging so madly through the water, with such rolls and lurches, that it was no easy matter for a landsman to keep his feet.

They found Aunt Chloe in the state-room waiting to disrobe her nursling and prepare her for her night's rest; but Mr. Dinsmore dismissed her, saying Elsie should not be undressed, as there was no knowing what might occur before morning.

"Don't you undress, either, Aunt Chloe," he added, as she kissed the child good-night and turned to go. "Lie down in your berth and sleep if you can; but so that you will be ready to leave it the instant you are called. Give John the same direction from me, and tell him to keep near the door of my state-room."

Left alone with his little girl, he knelt with her by his side, his arm supporting her while he commended both her and himself, as well as the others on the vessel, and dear ones far away, to the protecting care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps. Then lifting the child in his arms he held her to his heart for a moment, caressing her with exceeding tenderness.

"My darling, you shall lie in your father's arms to-night," he said, as he laid her in the lower berth and stretched himself by her side.

"That will be so nice," she said, creeping close and laying her cheek to his; "it would make me glad of the storm, if I were quite, quite sure that the boat will get safe into port. But O papa! if it shouldn't I am so glad that you are not here without me."

"Why, my pet?"

"Because if you—if anything happens to you, I want to be with you and share it. Papa, papa, don't try to save me if you cannot be saved too, for I couldn't bear to live without you!" she concluded with a low cry of mingled grief, terror, and entreaty, as she clung about his neck, dropping tears on his face.

"God grant we may not be parted," he returned, holding her close. "We will cling together through whatever comes. But now dearest, try to go to sleep, fearing nothing, for you are not only in the arms of your earthly father, but the Everlasting Arms are underneath and around both you and me. We have asked our heavenly Father to take care of us, and we know that he is the hearer and answerer of prayer."

"And I'm sure Miss Rose prays for us too, papa," she whispered, "she loves us so dearly; and I do believe God will spare us to her. But if he does not see best to do that, he will take us to himself, and O dear, dear papa! I think it would be very sweet for you and me to go to heaven together!"

"Very sweet indeed, my precious one! very bitter for either to be left here bereft of the other. But let us not anticipate evil. Still," he added after a moment's thought, "it is right and wise to be prepared for any event; so, dear one, should I be lost and you saved, tell Mr. Travilla I gave you to him; that I want him to adopt you as his own. I know he will esteem it the greatest kindness I could possibly have done him, and will be to you a father tender, loving, and true; a better one than I have been." His tones grew husky and tremulous.

"Papa, papa, don't!" she cried, bursting into sobs and tears, and clinging to him with an almost deathlike grasp. "I can't bear it! I don't want to live without you! I won't! I will drown too, if you do!"

"Hush, hush, darling! do not talk so; that would not be right; we must never throw away our lives unless in trying to save others," he said, soothing her with the tenderest caresses. "But there, I didn't mean to distress you so; and something seems to tell me we shall both be saved. Let me wipe away your tears. There, do not cry any more; give papa another kiss, then lay your head down upon his breast and go to sleep."

She obeyed; he clasped her close with one arm, while the other hand was passed caressingly again and again over her hair and cheek. Presently her quietude and regular breathing told him that she slept.

He lay very still that her slumbers might not be disturbed, but thought was busy in his brain, thought of the past, the present, the future; of the fair young girl away in a distant city, expecting soon to become his bride; of the beloved child sleeping on his breast; of the father who regarded him with such pride and affection as his first-born, "his might and the beginning of his strength;" how would his death affect them in case he were lost this night? Ah, Rose might console herself with another lover; his father had other sons; but Elsie? ah, he was sure his place in her heart could never be filled; Travilla would be kind and tender, but—as she herself had once said—he was not her own father and could never be, even if he gave her to him. What a precious, loving child she was! how deep and strong her filial affection! she seemed to have no memory for past severity on his part (ah, what would he not give to be able to blot it from his own remembrance, or rather that it had never been!), but to dwell with delight upon every act, word, and look of love he had ever bestowed upon her. Ah, the bitterness of death, should it come, would be the parting from her; the leaving her behind to meet life's dangers and trials bereft of his protecting love and care.

But insensibly waking thought merged into dreams; then his senses were wrapped in profounder slumber, and at length he awoke to find that the storm had passed, the sun arisen, and the vessel was nearing port.