As Mildred sat at the open window of her dressing-room the next morning, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, the delicious perfume of myriads of dew-laden shrubs and flowers, the gentle summer breeze and the glad songs of the birds, her ear caught the patter of little feet in the corridor without, then a gentle rap upon her door.

She made haste to open it, and a vision of loveliness met her view:—a tiny, fairy form arrayed in spotless white, of some thin, delicate fabric, trimmed with costly lace, and a broad sash of pale blue, with slippers to match; a shining mass of golden brown curls clustering about the sweet face and rippling over the fair neck and shoulders.

The soft brown eyes looked up lovingly into her face, and the rosebud mouth was held up for a kiss.

"Good morning, cousin," said the bird-like voice; "do Elsie 'sturb you coming so soon?"

"No, darling, indeed you don't!" cried Mildred, giving her a rapturous embrace; "I can't see too much of you, dear little pet! Will you come and sit in my lap while we have another nice talk?"

The child hesitated. "Don't you want to come wis me, cousin, and see my mamma when she was a little girl, and my mamma's things?"

"I should like it greatly," Mildred answered, suffering herself to be led along the corridor and into an open door at its farther end.

Here she found herself in a beautiful boudoir; evidently no expense had been spared in furnishing it in the most luxurious and tasteful manner; even Mildred's inexperienced eye recognized the costly nature of many of its adornments, though there was nothing gaudy about them.

Elsie led her directly to a full-length, life-sized picture of a little girl of ten or twelve, before which Mildred stood transfixed with delight,—face and form were so life-like, and so exquisitely lovely.

She gazed upon it for many minutes with ravished eyes, then glancing at the little one standing by her side, said half aloud, "Beautiful as it is, I do not believe it is flattered; for it is just what she will be six or eight years hence."

"It's my mamma when she was a little girl," Elsie said, "and this," drawing the miniature from her bosom, "is my mamma when she was a lady."

Mildred gazed upon it again long and earnestly, thinking as before, that there was abundant excuse for her cousin Horace's passion and his inconsolable grief over his loss.

There were two other portraits in the room, which Elsie said were "Grandpa and Grandma Grayson."

She pointed out, too, her mother's writing-desk and her work-table, a dainty basket upon this last, with its little gold thimble and a bit of embroidery with the needle still sticking in it, just as it had been laid down by the white hands on the morning of the day on which the little one first saw the light.

It was Aunt Chloe, coming in in search of her nursling, who told Mildred this.

But Elsie drew her on through a beautiful dressing-room into a spacious and elegantly furnished bedroom beyond, and Aunt Chloe following, pointed out, with bitter weeping, the pillow on which the dying head had lain, and described the last hours of her idolized young mistress:—her mournful leave-taking of her little babe, and dying injunction to her to bring her up to love the Lord Jesus.

It was all intensely interesting and deeply affecting to Mildred.

"Don't cry, mammy, you dear ole mammy!" said Elsie, pulling her nurse down into a chair, and with her own tiny white handkerchief wiping away her tears, "don't cry, 'cause dear mamma is very happy wis Jesus, and you and Elsie are goin' dere, too, some day. An' den I'll tell my sweet, pretty mamma you did be good to her baby, and took care of her all the time."

At that Aunt Chloe strained the tiny form convulsively to her breast with a fresh burst of sobs, and looking up at Mildred with the great tears rolling down her sable cheeks, faltered out, "O, Miss Milly, dey ain't gwine take my chile 'way and disseparate ole Chloe from de las' ting she got lef' to lub in dis world?"

"O, mammy, no, no! dey shan't, dey shan't!" cried the child, clinging about her neck in almost wild affright. "Elsie won't go! Elsie will always stay wis her dear ole mammy!"

"No, no, you are not to be parted," Mildred hastened to say; "Elsie, darling, your grandpa told me you were not. So don't cry, pet."

"O, Miss Milly, dat bressed news!" cried Aunt Chloe, smiling through her tears. "I's tank you berry much. Dere, dere, honey darlin', don' cry no mo'! I's ole fool mammy to make you cry like dat."

The breakfast bell rang, and hastily removing the traces of the tears called forth by Aunt Chloe's narrative, Mildred obeyed the summons. Mr. Dinsmore seemed in excellent spirits, chatting in quite a lively strain all through the meal. He was enchanted with the place, he said, and intended, if agreeable to Mildred, to remain some weeks, believing that the change of scene and climate would prove beneficial to them both. Mildred assured him, her eyes sparkling with delight the while, that she was perfectly willing to stay as long as suited his convenience and pleasure.

"There are horses, carriages and servants always at your command," he remarked; "a pleasure boat on the lakelet, too, and oarsmen to row it, so that you can go out on the water, ride or drive whenever you wish."

"O, uncle, how nice!" she cried; "I shall enjoy it all greatly with little Elsie for a companion and you will sometimes go with us when you have leisure, will you not?"

"I shall be most happy," he said, "but fear it will be but seldom that I can."

The family carriage was ordered at once, and the greater part of the morning was spent by Mildred, Elsie and Aunt Chloe in driving from one lovely spot to another.

At little Elsie's request they visited the family burial ground, and Mildred viewed with pensive interest the last resting-place of her Cousin Horace's young wife—"the sweet, pretty mamma," of whom the baby girl so constantly prattled. The spot was beautiful with roses and many sweet-scented shrubs and flowers growing there, and daily Elsie and her mammy came thither with love's offering in the shape of buds and blossoms gathered from the lawn and gardens, which they scattered with lavish hands over each lowly mound, but ever reserving the most and the loveliest for the grave of her whom they loved best.

There was seldom a day when the quarter was not visited also, Aunt Chloe taking her nursling from cabin to cabin to inquire concerning the welfare of the inmates, and give to each the pleasure of the sight of the little fair face that was so dear to them all.

Their devotion to her, and various ways of manifesting it, greatly pleased and interested Mildred; and she was not long in discovering that they were exceedingly anxious in regard to the question whether both she—their idolized little mistress—and they were to be allowed to remain at Viamede.

Some of them even ventured, in their great anxiety, to inquire of the young lady visitor if she could tell them aught about these things.

She evaded the question so far as it referred to Elsie, feeling that she could not endure the sight of their grief when they should learn that they were to lose her; as to the other part she said, truly, that she was ignorant, but hoped there was no real danger.

She ventured at length to sound her uncle on the subject, telling of the fears of the poor creatures; and to her delight was given liberty to assure them that none would be sold unless unruly and disobedient to orders.

She availed herself of this permission on her next visit to the quarter.

The communication was received with joy and gratitude; but there still remained the great fear that Mr. Dinsmore would carry away their darling; and this Mildred was powerless to remove.

She told Mrs. Murray about it, and the good woman confessed with tears, that she, too, was tortured with the fear of separation from "the sweet bairn she had learned to love as her very own;" asking if Mildred knew whether that trial awaited her.

Mildred looked grieved and perplexed. "I only know," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "that uncle intends taking his little granddaughter home with him. Should you feel willing to leave Viamede, Mrs. Murray?"

"The bairn is far dearer to me than the place; though I hae spent mony o' the best years o' my life here," was the reply. "I wad gang ony where sooner than part frae my bonnie bit lassie. I have a mother's heart for her, Miss Keith, and hae often wanted to bid her call me by some dearer name than Mrs. Murray; but knowing the Dinsmores were proud folk, I feared to offend; and I perceive it was well I refrained, since I hae learned frae Aunt Chloe that the grandfather was no pleased that she spoke o' Mr. Cameron as her uncle."

"No, he didn't seem to like it, and told her not to do so again. But might not that be the jealousy of affection?"

Mildred blushed as she spoke, half ashamed—in view of Mr. Dinsmore's evident lack of love for the child—of making the suggestion.

"Affection!" repeated Mrs. Murray, with a faint, incredulous smile; "I dinna see much in his manner toward the bairn that looks like it."

To this remark Mildred had no answer save a deeper blush.

But at this moment Mrs. Murray was summoned to a conference with Mr. Dinsmore in the library. She came back with a face full of joy and thankfulness.

Mr. Dinsmore had received a letter that day from Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper at Roselands, saying that her health was failing, the physician recommended change of climate, and therefore she must resign her situation for a year or more.

Mr. Dinsmore now offered it to Mrs. Murray, and Aunt Phillis, an old servant in the family and every way competent to the task, would be left in charge of the mansion here.

"I am very glad for both you and little Elsie," said Mildred, "and yet I feel sorry for you, and for her, that you must leave this lovely spot. Is it not a trial?"

"I canna deny that it is," the housekeeper answered, with a sigh, "for I hae lived at Viamede many years; years in which I hae seen much o' baith joy and sorrow, and I had hoped to end my days here; but as the saintly Rutherford says,

"'This is the Lord's lower house; and while we are lodged here we have no assurance to lie ever in one chamber, but must be content to remove from one Lord's nether house to another, resting in hope that when we come up to the Lord's upper city, Jerusalem, that is above, we shall remove no more; because then we shall be at home.' Ah, Miss Milly, what a joyous day it will be when we win there!"