"I should like to have a little chat with you, Milly, my dear," Mr. Dinsmore said pleasantly, looking across the table at her, where she sat behind the tea urn; her accustomed place now in Mrs. Dinsmore's absence; "can you give me an hour or two of your company, in the library, this evening?"

"Just as much of it as you may happen to want, uncle," she answered brightly.

"Thank you," he said. "I rejoice every day in having you here; it would be extremely dull without you. But I wonder sometimes how you keep up your spirits. Nearly six weeks since Mrs. Dinsmore went away, and nobody in the house, the greater part of the time, but yourself, the housekeeper and servants."

"It is a little lonely sometimes," she acknowledged, "but I have you at meals and in the evenings, generally, now and then a call from one of the neighbors, and almost every day I ride over to Ion and spend an hour or two with dear Mrs. Travilla. So with the assistance of books, music and drawing, and writing letters to mother and the rest, I find the days pass quite rapidly."

"Ah! there is a great deal in being disposed to be contented!" he said, smiling. "You are like your mother in that, too.

"We have not yet succeeded in finding a suitable person to fill Miss Worth's place, and that is one reason your aunt gives for lingering so long at her sister's. The place affords excellent educational advantages."

There was a little more desultory chat, and then, having finished their meal, they repaired to the library, Mildred not a little curious to learn what her uncle had to say; for she felt quite certain from his manner that it was something of unusual importance.

He drew an easy chair to the fire, seated her comfortably therein, then turning away, paced the floor for some moments in silence, and with an abstracted air and clouded brow.

She watched him furtively, wondering more and more at his evident disturbance.

At last, heaving a profound sigh, he seated himself near her,

"You are already acquainted, Mildred, so your Aunt Wealthy informed me," he began, in the tone of one who approaches a very distasteful subject, "with a certain chapter in my son Horace's history, which I would be exceedingly glad to bury in forgetfulness; but that circumstances have rendered impossible—since the child of that most imprudent, ill-advised marriage has seen fit to live, and of course her existence cannot be entirely ignored."

Mildred was growing indignant. Her color heightened and her eyes sparkled; though unperceived by him, as his face was half averted.

"Is there anything wrong with her, uncle?" she ventured as he came to a pause.

"Wrong with her?" he echoed. "Heaven forbid! It is bad enough as it is. But, indeed, I have never taken the trouble to ask. In fact, I believe I half unconsciously hoped she might never cross my path. But," and again he sighed, "that is past. A letter received this morning from Louisiana, brings news of the death of her guardian—that is, you understand, the man who was left guardian to her mother and the property; which, by the way, is very large."

Mildred began to listen with eager interest. She had wished very much to see Horace's child; could it be that that wish was to be gratified?

"The child heirs it all," Mr. Dinsmore went on. "The mother married and died under age, and by the conditions of the will the property remained in Mr. Cameron's care; the child also, Horace not caring to remove her. Now, however, the responsibility all falls upon me, in his absence. I must look after both estate and heiress. It involves an immediate journey to Louisiana, probably a stay of some weeks, to get matters settled.

"And I must bring the child home with me, as of course leaving her there with servants only is not to be thought of, and, in fact, I know of no other home for her; for being a mere babe she cannot be sent to boarding-school.

"I anticipate some complaint from Mrs. Dinsmore; she will not like it, I know, but it really cannot be helped, and need not add to her cares in the least."

"Poor little motherless thing!" sighed Mildred softly, and as Mr. Dinsmore gave her a hasty glance he saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"It is a pity about her," he said. "Strange that she was destined to survive her mother; it would really have been so much more comfortable for all parties if she had not."

"It does seem as though it might have been a happy thing for her," Mildred answered drily.

But he did not notice the tone. Turning to her with a smile, "How would you like to go with me to Louisiana?" he asked.

Her face grew radiant with delight at the bare suggestion. "O, uncle! how delightful! But it would be a very expensive journey, wouldn't it?" and her countenance fell.

"That would be my concern, since I invite you," he said, laughing and playfully tapping her cheek. "Where did you learn to be so careful and economical? Don't trouble yourself about expense. I shall consider the pleasure of your company cheaply purchased at the cost of settling all the bills. Now will you go?"

"Yes, indeed, and thank you a thousand times! if—"

"If what? father and mother give consent? There's no time to ask it, as I leave day after to-morrow; but I am sure it would not be withheld. So we'll do as we please first and ask permission afterward."

"Yes," Mildred responded, after a moment's musing, "I feel convinced that they would be very glad to have me accept your kind, generous offer; for it is such an opportunity as I am not likely to meet with again."

The remainder of the evening was devoted to the writing of a long, bright and cheery letter to her mother, telling of the pleasant prospect before her, and promising that the home circle should share in the enjoyments of her trip so far as descriptions of scenery and adventures, written in her best style, could enable them to do.

Mildred's letters had come to be considered a very great treat in that little community, their reception looked forward to with eager anticipation. The enjoyment would be doubled when they told of scenes new and fascinating, and of Cousin Horace's little girl, in whom they already felt so deep an interest.

Mildred had enjoyed her visit to Roselands but since the death of Miss Worth the atmosphere of the house had seemed somewhat lonely and depressing. So she was very glad of her uncle's invitation; which promised a change in every way delightful.

The journey was tedious and wearisome in those days, compared to what it would be now—staging across the country to the nearest point on the Mississippi, thence by steamboat to New Orleans, where they remained several weeks, Mr. Dinsmore being engaged in making necessary arrangements in regard to that portion of little Elsie's inheritance which lay in the Crescent City; then on to Viamede.

It pleased Mildred that this part of their trip was to be all the way by water, and after they entered Teche Bayou it seemed to her like a passage through fairy land, so bright were the skies, so balmy the breezes, so rich and varied was the scenery; swamps, forest, plain, gliding by in rapid succession, the eye roving over the richest vegetation; resting now upon some cool, shady dell gayly carpeted with flowers, now on a lawn covered with velvet-like grass of emerald green, and nobly shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, now catching sight of a lordly villa peeping through its groves of orange trees, and anon of a tall white sugar house, or a long row of cabins, the homes of the laborers.

It was a new region of country to Mr. Dinsmore as well as herself, and he remarked that he considered the sight of it a sufficient recompense of itself for the trouble and expense of the journey.

"But beside that," he added, "I have had the satisfaction of learning that the estate is even much larger than I supposed. That Scotchman was faithful to his trust; very shrewd, too, in making investments, and his death gives Horace control, during the child's minority, of a princely income."

"Then you do not regret his marriage so much as you did?" Mildred said inquiringly.

"I do not say that," was the cold, almost stern reply; and she said no more.