ELSIE DINSMORE Complete Series: 28 Books in One Edition. Martha Finley

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      "I don't like to do so while Aunt Adie is here, papa," she said, looking up at him with a smile, and trying to seem fresh and bright.

      "Never mind that; you can see her any day now. Come, you must take a rest." And drawing her hand within his arm, he led her to her boudoir and left her there, comfortably established upon a sofa.

      "A hat trimmed in that style would be becoming to Elsie," remarked Adelaide, continuing the conversation with Rose, and turning to look at her niece as she spoke. "Why, she's not here."

      "Papa took her away to make her lie down," said little Horace.

      "Rose, does anything ail the child?" asked Adelaide, in an undertone.

      "She does not seem to be out of health; but you know we are very careful of her; she is so dear and sweet, and has never looked very strong."

      "But there is something wrong with her, is there not? she does not seem to me quite the gay, careless child she was when you went away. Horace," and she turned to him, as he re-entered the room, "may I not know about Elsie? You can hardly love her very much better than I do, I think."

      "If that is so, you must love her very much indeed," he answered with a faint smile. "Yes, I will tell you." And he explained the matter; briefly at first, then more in detail, as she drew him on by questions and remarks.

      Her sympathy for Elsie was deep and sincere; yet she thought her brother's course the only wise and kind one, and her indignation waxed hot against Arthur and Egerton.

      "And Elsie still believes in the scoundrel?" she said inquiringly.

      "Yes, her loving, trustful nature refuses to credit the proofs of his guilt, and only her sweet, conscientious submission to parental authority has saved her from becoming his victim."

      "She is a very good, submissive, obedient child to you, Horace."

      "I could not ask a better, Adelaide. I only wish it were in my power to make obedience always easy and pleasant to her, poor darling."

      "I hope you have something for me there, my dear," Rose remarked to her husband at the breakfast-table the next morning, as he looked over the mail just brought in by his man John.

      "Yes, there is one for you; from your mother, I think; and, Elsie, do you know the handwriting of this?"

      "No, papa, it is quite strange to me," she answered, taking the letter he held out to her, and which bore her name and address on the back, and examining it critically.

      "And the post-mark tells you nothing either?"

      "No, sir; I cannot quite make it out, but it doesn't seem to be any place where I have a correspondent."

      "Well, open it and see from whom it comes. But finish your breakfast first."

      Elsie laid the letter down by her plate, and putting aside, for the present, her curiosity in regard to it, went on with her meal. "From whom can it have come?" she asked herself, while listening half absently to extracts from Mr. Allison's epistle; "not from him surely, the hand is so very unlike that of the one he sent me in Lansdale."

      "You have not looked at that yet," her father said, seeing her take it up as they rose from the table. "You may do so now. I wish to know who the writer is. Don't read it till you have found that out," he added, leading her to a sofa in the next room, and making her sit down there, while he stood by her side.

      She felt that his eye was upon her as she broke open the envelope and, taking the letter from it, glanced down the page, then in a little flutter of surprise and perplexity turned to the signature. Instantly her face flushed crimson, she trembled visibly, and her eyes were lifted pleadingly to his.

      He frowned and held out his hand.

      "Oh, papa, let me read it!" she murmured low and tremulously, her eyes still pleading more eloquently than her tongue.

      "No," he said, and his look and gesture were imperative.

      She silently put the letter into his hand, and turned away with a low sob.

      "It is not worth one tear, or even an emotion of regret, my child," he said, sitting down beside her. "I shall send it back at once; unread, unless you prefer to have me read it first."

      "No, papa."

      "Very well, then I shall not. But, Elsie, do you not see now that he is quite capable of imitating the handwriting of another?"

      "Yes, papa; but that does not prove that he did in the case you refer to."

      "And he has acted quite fairly and honestly in using that talent to elude my vigilance and tempt you to deception and disobedience, eh?"

      "He is not perfect, papa, but I can't believe him as bad as you think."

      "There are none so blind as those that won't see, Elsie; but, remember"—and his tone changed from one of great vexation to another sternly authoritative—"I will be obeyed in this thing."

      "Yes, papa," she said, and rising, hastily left the room.

      "Try to be very patient with her, dear," said Rose, who had been a silent, but deeply interested spectator of the little scene; "she suffers enough, poor child!"

      "Yes, I know it, and my heart bleeds for her; yet she seems so wilfully blind to the strongest proofs of the fellow's abominable rascality that at times I feel as if I could hardly put up with it at all. The very pain of seeing her suffer so makes me out of all patience with her folly."

      "Yes, I understand it, but do not be stern with her; she surely does not deserve it while she is so perfectly submissive to your will."

      "No, she does not, poor darling," he said with a sigh. "But I must make haste to write some letters that ought to go by the next mail."

      He left the room, and Mrs. Dinsmore, longing to comfort Elsie in her trouble, was about to go in search of her, when Mrs. Murray, who was still housekeeper at the Oaks, came to ask advice or direction about some household matters.

      Their consultation lasted for half an hour or more, and in the meanwhile Mr. Dinsmore finished his correspondence and went himself to look for his daughter. She was in the act of opening her writing-desk as he entered the room.

      "What are you doing, daughter?" he asked.

      "I was about to write a letter to Sophy, papa."

      "It would be too late for to-day's mail; so let it wait, and come with me for a little stroll into the grounds. Aunt Chloe, bring a garden hat and sunshade. You would like to go, daughter?"

      "Yes, sir. Papa, you are not vexed with me? You don't think I want to be disobedient or wilful?" There were tears in her voice and traces of them on her cheeks.

      "No, darling!" he said, drawing her to him, "and you did not in the least deserve to be spoken to in the stern tone that I used. But—can you understand it?—my very love for you makes me angry and impatient at your persistent love for that scoundrel."

      "Papa, please don't!" she said in a low, pained tone, and turning away her face.

      "Ah, СКАЧАТЬ