The parting was no slight trial to her who went or those who stayed behind, particularly the loving, tender mother. But both she and Mildred bore it bravely, though the heart of the latter almost failed her as she felt the clinging arms of the little ones about her neck, heard their sobs and saw their tears; and again as she found herself clasped to her father's and then to her mother's breast with many a fond caress and lowbreathed word of farewell and affection.

Wallace wrung her hand with a whispered word of passionate entreaty, "O Mildred, darling, don't forget me! I'll remember you to the day of my death."

The weather was fine, the air crisp, cool and bracing, and when the town and a few miles of prairie had been left behind, their way led through woods beautiful with all the rich tints of October's most lavish mood.

Mr. Dinsmore exerted himself to be entertaining and ere long he and Mildred were chatting and laughing right merrily.

They took dinner at a farm house newly built on a little clearing in the forest, finding themselves not daintily served, but supplied with an abundance of good, substantial, well cooked food—bread, butter, coffee, ham and eggs, and two or three kinds of vegetables, with stewed dried apple pie for dessert.

After an hour's rest for themselves and horses, they traveled on again, reaching a little town in time to get their supper and night's lodging at its tavern, where the fare and accommodations were on a par with those of the farm-house.

They had found the roads rough: those they passed over the next day were worse still, mostly corduroy, over the rounded logs of which the wheels passed with constant jolting, and where one had been displaced or rotted away, as was occasionally the case, there would be a sudden descent of, first the fore then the hind wheels, with a violent jerk that nearly, or quite threw them from their seats.

They reached Delphi on the Wabash, where they were to take a steamboat, sore, weary and very glad to make the change.

A night at the Delphi hotel, and the next morning they went aboard the boat which carried them down the Wabash and up the Ohio to Madison; where they landed again and passed part of a day and night. Embarking once more in a larger craft, they continued on their way up the Ohio as far as Portsmouth, whence a stage carried them across the country to Lansdale.

Miss Stanhope had not received the letter which should have informed her of their coming. She was sitting alone by the fire, quietly knitting and thinking, perchance of the dear ones far away in Pleasant Plains, when the loud and prolonged "Toot! toot!" of a horn, followed by the roll and rumble of wheels, aroused her from her reverie.

"The evening stage," she said half-aloud, then rose hastily, dropped her knitting, and hurried to the door; for surely it had stopped at her gate.

Yes, there it was; a gentleman had alighted and was handing out a lady, while the guard was at the boot getting out their trunks. She could see it all plainly by the moonlight, as she threw the door wide open.

"Who can they be?" she asked herself, as she stepped quickly across the porch and down the garden path, to meet and welcome her unexpected guests.

The next moment Mildred's arms were about her neck and both were weeping for joy.

"Dear child, this is a glad surprise!" cried Miss Stanhope, straining the young girl to her breast. "But where are the rest?"

"Here; I'm the only one, Sister Wealthy," said Mr. Dinsmore, lifting his hat with one hand, while the other one was held out to her. "Haven't you a word of welcome for me?"

"Arthur Dinsmore, my brother-in-law!" she cried, taking the hand and offering him her lips. "I was never more surprised or delighted!

"Come in, come in, both of you. You must be cold, tired and hungry. I hope you've come to make a long stay. Simon will carry in the trunks," she went on rapidly as she seized Mildred's hand and led the way to the house, half beside herself with the sudden delight of seeing them.

She had many questions to ask, but the comfort of the weary travelers was the first thing to be attended to. She removed Mildred's wraps with her own hands, rejoicing over her the while as a mother might over a lost child restored, and would have done the same by Mr. Dinsmore if he had waited for her.

She soon had each cosily seated in a comfortable armchair beside the blazing fire, Simon kindling fires in the spare rooms, and Phillis in the kitchen, preparing a tempting meal.

"You couldn't be more welcome than you are, brother, or you Mildred, my dear child," she said, coming back from overseeing all these matters, "but you might have fared rather better, perhaps, if you had sent me word that you were coming."

"I wrote from Pleasant Plains," he answered. "The letter has been either lost or delayed in the mails."

"Ah well, we won't fret about it," she responded cheerily. "I at least am far too happy to fret about anything," she added, feasting her eyes upon Mildred's face.

"Dear child, you are worn and thin!" she exclaimed presently, her eyes filling, "that nursing was far too hard for you. How I wish I could have saved you from some of it! But you have come to stay all winter with me and have a good rest, haven't you?"

"No, no, she belongs to me for the winter," interposed Mr. Dinsmore, before Mildred could open her lips to reply. "If you want her company, Sister Wealthy, you must even make up your mind to be our guest also. What is to hinder you from shutting up your house and going with us to Roselands? I am sure I need not say that we would be delighted to have you do so."

"You are very kind, brother," she said, giving him an affectionate look, "but there are reasons why it would not do for me to leave home for so long a visit. Where is Horace? My dear sister Eva's son. I wish he had come with you. Poor boy!" and she sighed deeply.

A slight frown gathered on Mr. Dinsmore's brow at that. "He is hardly a subject for pity," he remarked, "he has just sailed for Europe with pleasant prospects before him and in apparently excellent spirits."

He looked fixedly at her, then glanced at Mildred, and taking the hint, she dropped the subject for that time.

She was at no loss for topics of conversation, so eager was she to learn all that could be told her in regard to the dear ones Mildred had left behind. Also she felt a lively interest in the family at Roselands, though they were not actually related to her, being the children of the present Mrs. Dinsmore, who was the second wife and successor to Horace's mother.

But finding herself alone with Mr. Dinsmore the next day, Miss Stanhope said, "You tell me Horace has gone to Europe? Will he be long absent?"

"It is quite uncertain," he answered carelessly, "he may prolong his stay to a year or more."

"He has his child with him, I hope."

"His child!"

Mr. Dinsmore seemed much annoyed.

"Certainly not," he said after a moment's disturbed pause; "what could he do with her? But I really hoped you knew nothing about that ridiculous affair. Pray how did you learn it?"

"Horace told Marcia and requested her to write the particulars to me," Aunt Wealthy answered meekly. "And she is still with her guardian—poor little dear?"

"Yes, and will be I trust for years to come. That mad escapade of Horace's—for I can call his hasty, ill-timed, imprudent marriage by no other name—has been to me a source of untold mortification and annoyance."

"It was not a bad match except on account of their extreme youth?" Miss Stanhope said in a tone between assertion and inquiry.

"I consider it so most decidedly," he returned, his eyes kindling with anger. "Elsie Grayson, the daughter of a man who, though wealthy, has made all his money by trade, was no fit match for my son, and I consider it a fortunate thing that she did not live: it would have been, in my estimation, still more fortunate if her child had died with her."

Miss Stanhope was shocked.

"O Arthur, how can you!" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes, "how can you feel so toward your own little granddaughter; a poor motherless baby too! Truly pride must be a great hardener of the heart."

"Old Grayson's grandchild," he muttered, rising to pace the floor in a hasty excited manner. "Please oblige me by not mentioning this subject again," he said: "it is exceedingly unpleasant to me."

Miss Stanhope sighed inwardly.

"Arthur," she said, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall."

She did not broach the subject again during the remainder of his brief stay with her.

"I am going out for a look at your town," he said, taking up his hat. "I hope," turning back at the door, with his hand on the knob, "that Mildred has heard nothing of this affair?" he remarked inquiringly.

"She knows all that I do, I believe," Miss Stanhope answered quietly. "It seemed to be Horace's wish that she should be told."

Mr. Dinsmore went out with a groan, and Mildred coming in at that instant by another door, heard, and inquired somewhat anxiously, of her aunt, what was the matter.

Miss Stanhope thought it best to tell her and advise avoidance of any allusion to Horace's wife or child, when in her uncle's presence; unless he should himself take the initiative.

Mildred promised to be careful, "Though why he should feel so I cannot understand," she added, "I, for my part, feel the greatest interest in that little child, and regret exceedingly that I shall not see her. But Cousin Horace's feelings toward her are more inexplicable still. How can he help loving his own little baby girl, who seems to have no one else to love and cherish her except the servants!"

It was now an hour since they had left the breakfast table: Miss Stanhope's morning duties connected with the care of the household, had been attended to, Phillis and Simon had received their orders for the day, and the good lady might conscientiously indulge herself and Mildred in the lengthened chat both had been longing for ever since the arrival of the latter the previous night.

Of course the first and most absorbingly interesting topic was the home circle at Pleasant Plains. That thoroughly discussed, they passed on to friends and neighbors both there and here, each finding numerous questions to ask the other, and many a bit of news to give.

"What has become of poor Mrs. Osborne and Frank?" Mildred inquired.

"Ah, she has gone home at last, and is forever done with pain and sickness," Miss Stanhope answered. "It was hard for Frank, but a blessed release to her—poor dear woman! It was three weeks ago she went, and a week after Frank came to bid me good-bye. He's going to work his way through college, he told me, and make his mark in the world. And, Milly, my dear," she added with a slightly mischievous smile, "he hinted pretty broadly that when his laurels were won they would be laid at the feet of a certain young girl of my acquaintance; if I thought there might be some faint hope that she would not deem it presumption."

"And what did you answer to that, Aunt Wealthy;" queried Mildred, with heightened color and a look of mingled vexation and amusement. "He is such a mere boy!" she added, "I never thought of him as anything else."

"Of course not; nor did I. But he is a good, true, noble fellow, bright and intelligent above the ordinary, and very modest and unassuming with it all. He will make a fine man."

"Yes; I think so too, and if he happens to fancy one of my younger sisters, I'll consent with all my heart, and do what I can to further his suit."

Aunt Wealthy shook her head and smiled. "It's not what he wants now; but who knows? Time does work wonderful changes now and then."

Mildred's thoughts seemed to have wandered away from the subject; she was silent for a moment; then suddenly asked, "Aunt Wealthy, do you know what sort of person—Dear me, what am I to call her? Mrs. or Aunt Dinsmore? What would you do about it?"

"I should ask her what title she preferred, and act accordingly. No; I have never met her, and know very little about her, except that she is not a pious woman."

"And uncle?"

"Is not a Christian either," Miss Stanhope said sorrowfully, as Mildred paused, leaving her sentence unfinished; "believes nothing more necessary to secure salvation than an honest, upright, moral life. My dear child, you are going into an atmosphere of worldliness, and will need to watch and pray, keeping close to the Master. Ah! what joy that we need never be any farther away from him in one place than another!"

"Yes, that was what mother said," murmured Mildred, tears filling her eyes at the thought of the many miles now lying between her and that loved parent and friend; "she promised to pray daily for me that I might be kept from the evil, and you will do so, too, Aunt Wealthy, will you not?"

"Indeed I will, dear child," was the earnest response.