Wallace Ormsby was not behind his wife in admiration and liking for Frank Osborne; he enjoyed his sermons, too, and was desirous that Mr. Dinsmore should hear the young preacher, and make his acquaintance; therefore had persuaded him and Mr. Lord to an exchange of pulpits on the morrow, which was Sunday, and invited Frank to be his and Zillah's guest. Wallace was hospitably inclined, and not a little proud of his young wife's housekeeping.

The invitation was accepted, and the visit extended a day or two by urgent request. Of course the time was not all spent on the one side of the street, and Mr. Dinsmore, who was not lacking in observation, soon perceived how matters were tending between Ada and the young clergyman.

He spoke to his cousin about it, saying that "he was pleased with Mr. Osborne, finding him agreeable, well-informed, and an able sermonizer for his years; but surely his lack of means was an objection to the match, or would be if Ada were his daughter."

"Yes," she said, "but 'the blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.' If there is mutual love we will raise no barrier to their union. But I should greatly prefer to keep my dear daughter with me for some years yet."

"Yes; I do not doubt that. I am glad indeed that it must be many years before I am called to part with mine to some other man. But, Marcia, how is it that Mildred is still single? So sweet and attractive as she is in every way, it must certainly be her own fault."

In reply Mrs. Keith told him how it had been between Mildred and Charlie Landreth, and how six long years had now passed with no word from or of the wanderer.

He was deeply touched. "It would be well if she could forget him and bestow her affections upon another," he said, "for surely if still living, he is unworthy of her. I knew and liked him as a boy, but it is long since I have seen or heard of him. He and his uncle made a disastrous failure in business, though I understood that no blame attached to either; then the uncle died, and Charlie disappeared from our neighborhood, where nothing has been heard of him since, so far as I have learned. But I will make inquiries on my return, and may possibly be able to trace him. However, rest assured that I will do nothing to compromise Mildred," he added, noticing a doubtful look on his cousin's face.

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I can trust you, I know, Horace; and I cannot tell you how glad I should be to have my dear, patient child relieved of this torturing suspense."

This visit of their cousins was a grand holiday for all the younger Keiths, Fan and Annis more especially; they were excused from lessons, and had delightful daily walks and drives.

Every morning Elsie would take her Bible into her papa's room and spend a little while there with him, before they were called to breakfast. He sent her to bed regularly at half past eight, so that she was ready to rise betimes.

One evening when she came to bid him good-night, he kissed her several times, saying, "I shall probably not see you in the morning; very likely not until to-morrow evening, as I am going hunting with your uncle, and we expect to start very early."

"Oh, I wish little girls could go too!" Elsie exclaimed, clinging to him. "But mayn't I get up in time to see you before you go, papa?"

"I don't think you will be awake, daughter. We start before sunrise."

"But if I am, papa, mayn't I run into your room and kiss you good-by?"

"Yes; but try not to feel disappointed if you should miss the opportunity. And don't shed any tears over papa's absence," he added half jestingly.

"No, sir; but it will be a long day without you," she sighed, with her arm about his neck, her cheek to his.

"I think you will find the time pass much more rapidly than you expect," he said cheerily; "but whether or no, you must try to be bright and pleasant for the sake of those around you. Don't indulge selfishness, even in little things, darling."

"I will try not to, papa," she answered, giving and receiving a final hug and kiss.

No one was near enough at the moment to observe or overhear what passed between them, and no one knew anything about the few quiet tears Elsie shed as she went up the stairs to her Cousin Mildred's room where she was to sleep that night. Ada, Fan, and Annis had all had their turn—because all wanted the sweet little cousin for a bed-fellow—and now it was Mildred's. But she found her mammy waiting to prepare her for bed, and her little trouble was soon forgotten in sound, sweet sleep.

Mildred came up an hour later, and stepping softly to the bedside, stood for a minute or two gazing tenderly down upon the sweet little sleeping face. Its expression brought to her mind the lines—read she could not remember where—

"Dear little girlie," she whispered, bending over the child, "you wear it if ever mortal did! No wonder you are the very idol of your father's heart!"

Half an hour before sunrise Mildred was again moving quietly about, careful not to disturb her little room-mate while making a neat, though rapid toilet.

Going out, she left the door slightly ajar. Her cousin was just issuing from his, seemingly in full readiness for his expedition. They exchanged a pleasant, low-toned good morning.

"I did not know you were so early a riser," he said.

"I claimed the privilege of pouring out the coffee for you and father," she returned with a smile. Then pointing to the door, "Go in, if you like. I know you want to kiss your baby before you start; she's there asleep."

"Thank you."

He stole softly in and bent over the loved sleeper for a moment, his eyes devouring the sweet, fair face; he stooped lower, and his moustache brushed the round, rosy cheek.

"Papa," she murmured in her sleep; but a second kiss, upon her lips, awoke her.

Instantly her arm was round his neck. "O papa, I'm so glad you came! Please, may I get up and see you start?"

"No; lie still and take another nap, my pet. We'll be off before you could dress. There, good-by, darling. Don't expose yourself to the sun in the heat of the day, or to the evening air. Though I expect to be back in time to see to that last."

"I hope so, indeed, papa; but you know I will obey you just the same if you are not here to see."

"I don't doubt it in the least," he said.

Then the door closed on him, and the little girl, accustomed to implicit obedience, turned over and went to sleep again.

When Mildred came up a little before the usual breakfast hour, she found her dressed and reading her Bible.

"You love that book, Elsie dear?" she said.

"Yes, indeed, cousin. And I do love to have my papa read it with me. This is the first morning he has missed doing so since—since I was so very sick." The voice sounded as if tears were not far off.

"How nice to have such a good, kind father," Mildred remarked in a cheery tone.

"Oh it is so, cousin!" Elsie answered, her whole face lighting up. "I used to be continually longing for papa while he was away in Europe. I'd never seen him, you know, and have no mother or brother or sister—and now I just want to hold fast to him all the time:—my dear, dear papa!"

"And you are missing him now? Well, dear, take comfort in the thought that he is probably enjoying himself, and will soon return to his little pet daughter. I think he never forgets you—he asked what we could do with you to-day in his absence, and I told him my plan for the morning. He approved, and now shall I tell it to you?"

"Oh, yes, cousin! if you please," returned the child with a very interested look.

"Our sewing society meets this afternoon, and as we—mother, my sisters, and I—have some work to finish before we go, we will have to be busy with our needles. One generally reads aloud while the others sew, and we would like to have you join us; taking your turn at both sewing and reading, if you choose."

"Very much, cousin, if—if the book is one that papa approves; he never allows me to read anything without being sure of that."

"Ah, that was why he said 'Tell Elsie I say she may read or listen to anything her Aunt Marcia pronounces suitable for her.' We have some very nice books that may be new to you."

"Oh, then I think it will be ever so nice!"

"Well then," said Mildred, "we will take a short walk soon after breakfast, then spend the rest of the morning as I have proposed. Your papa says you can read aloud very nicely, and use your needle well, too."

"I don't know whether you will think so, cousin," Elsie returned modestly, "but I am willing to try, and shall do my very best."

They carried out their plans with only a short interruption from a caller. After dinner Annis was left to entertain Elsie for a few hours while the others attended the meeting of the society.

It was an almost sultry afternoon, and Annis proposed taking the dolls to a grotto her brothers had made for her and Fan, near the spring that bubbled up at the foot of the high river bank, and was reached by a flight of steps that led down from the garden behind the house.

The grotto was tastefully adorned with moss, pebbles, and shells, and had a comfortable rustic seat, artistically formed of twigs and the smaller branches of trees with the bark still on them.

It was a pleasant place to sit and dream on a summer afternoon, with the clear bright water of the river lapping the pebbly shore almost at your feet, the leafy branches of a grape-vine overhead nearly concealing you from the view of any one on the further bank or in a passing boat. A pleasant place, too, for children to play, and not at all a dangerous one; the little Keith girls went there whenever they chose.

Elsie and Annis were congenial spirits, enjoyed each other's society, and had spent an hour or more very agreeably together in this cool retreat, when the sound of dipping oars near at hand drew their attention, and peering out from behind the leafy screen of the grape-vine, they saw a canoe approaching propelled by the strong young arms of Cyril and Don, now grown to be lads of sixteen and fourteen.

"Hello! we thought we'd find you here, girls," Cyril called to them. "Don't you want to take a row?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed!" cried Annis, jumping up and clapping her hands with delight. "Come, Elsie, there couldn't be anything nicer, I'm sure!"

Elsie rose as if to comply, her face full of eager delight also, but its expression changed suddenly.

"I'm afraid I ought not, Annis," she said; "papa might not be willing, and I can't ask him, you know, because he is away."

The boys had now brought the canoe close up, and Cyril reached out his hand to help her in.

"Come, little coz," he said in his most persuasive tones, "I'm sure your father would not object; there isn't a particle of danger. I'm used to rowing on this river, as well as to fishing and swimming in it—and it's not deep or swift, except in mid-current, and I promise to keep near the shore."

"But papa is very strict and particular," Elsie said, hanging back, though with a longing look in her lovely brown eyes.

"But he likes to have you enjoy yourself, surely?" put in Don.

"Indeed, he does, when it's quite safe and right," Elsie returned with warmth; "he loves me dearly."

"Then he wouldn't like you to miss this pleasure," said Cyril. "The canoe is a borrowed one, and it isn't every day I can get it."

"And if you don't go I can't," remarked Annis.

"Oh, yes, you can," Elsie said; "don't stay for me. I'll go up to the house and amuse myself with a book till you come back."

"No, no, I couldn't think of leaving my company; it wouldn't be at all polite; and I couldn't enjoy it without you; yet I want to go ever so much. O Elsie, do come!"

"I want to, I'm sure; both to oblige you, Annis, and for my own pleasure," Elsie answered. "Oh I wish I were quite sure papa would be willing!"

"Take it for granted," said Cyril, "it's the best you can do, under the circumstances; so he surely can't be much displeased."

Still Elsie hesitated.

"Ah," said Cyril, mischievously, "is Cousin Horace so very severe! Are you afraid he will whip you?"

"No," Elsie said, reddening; "do you think so meanly of me as to suppose I obey my father only from fear of punishment?"

"No; and I beg your pardon. I know you're fond of him, too, and that you want to do right. But I have noticed that he is very polite and considerate of others, and don't you think he wishes you to be the same?"

"I know he does."

"Then surely he would tell you to go with us; because your refusal will spoil all our pleasure."

"Yes, Elsie; it was all for your sake we borrowed the canoe," said Don; "and if you refuse to go it will be a great disappointment. We wouldn't urge you if it would be disobedience; but did your father ever say you mustn't row with us on the river?"

"No, Don; but perhaps that was only because he never thought of your asking me."

"O Elsie, Elsie, do go!" entreated Annis. "I won't go without you, and I can't bear to lose the row."

"Didn't Cousin Horace leave you in mother's care!" asked Cyril.

"Yes."

"Well, then, what need of hesitation? Mother lets Annis go, and of course she would let you."

Elsie stood for a moment, silently weighing the question in her mind. Certainly her papa had great confidence in "Aunt Marcia's" opinion, for had he not said she might read whatever Aunt Marcia recommended? and he had left her in her care; also, he did teach her to be considerate of the wishes of others; he had told her only last night not to be selfish in little things. Surely he would not have her spoil the afternoon's pleasure of these three cousins.

Ah, but he was never willing to have her exposed to unnecessary danger! But Cyril said there was really no danger, and—she did so want to go! it looked so pleasant on the water!

The scales were almost evenly balanced, and finally she allowed inclination to decide her, gave Cyril her hand, and was quickly seated in the canoe with the delighted Annis by her side.