"Joy! the lost one is restored!!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board."
MRS. HEMANS.
"O remembrance!
Why dost thou open all my wounds again?"
LEE'S THEODOSIUS.
"I am a fool,
To weep at what I am glad of."
SHAKS. TEMPEST.
"But these are tears of joy! to see you thus, has filled
My eyes with more delight than they can hold."
CONGREVE.
Mr. Dinsmore was roused from the painful reverie into which he had fallen by a light rap on his dressing-room door; and, supposing it to be some one sent to consult him concerning the necessary arrangements for the funeral, he rose and opened it at once, showing to the doctor, who stood there, such a grief-stricken countenance as caused him to hesitate whether to communicate his glad tidings without some previous preparation, lest the sudden reaction from such despairing grief to joy so intense should be too great for the father to bear.
"You wish to speak to me about the—"
Mr. Dinsmore's voice was husky and low, and he paused, unable to finish his sentence.
"Come in, doctor," he said, "it is very kind in you, and—"
"Mr. Dinsmore," said the doctor, interrupting him, "are you prepared for good news? can you bear it, my dear sir?"
Mr. Dinsmore caught at the furniture for support, and gasped for breath.
"What is it?" he asked hoarsely.
"Good news, I said," Dr. Barton hastened to say, as he sprang to his side to prevent him from falling. "Your child yet lives, and though her life still hangs by a thread, the crisis is past, and I have some hope that she may recover."
"Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed the father, sinking into a seat; and burying his face in his hands, he sobbed aloud.
The doctor went out and closed the door softly; and Horace Dinsmore, falling upon his knees, poured out his thanksgivings, and then and there consecrated himself, with all his talents and possessions, to the service of that God who had so mercifully spared to him his heart's best treasure.
Adelaide's joy and thankfulness were scarcely less than his, when to her, also, the glad and wondrous tidings were communicated. And Mr. Travilla and his mother shared their happiness, as they had shared their sorrow. Yet they all rejoiced with trembling, for that little life was still for many days trembling in the balance; and to the father's anxiety was also added the heavy trial of being excluded from her room.
The physician had early informed him that it would be risking her life for him to enter her presence until she should herself inquire for him, as they could not tell how great might be the agitation it would cause her. And so he waited, day after day, hoping for the summons, but constantly doomed to disappointment; for even after she had become strong enough to look about her, and ask questions, and to notice her friends with a gentle smile, and a word of thanks to each, several days passed away, and she had neither inquired for him nor even once so much as mentioned his name.
It seemed passing strange, and the thought that perhaps his cruelty had so estranged her from him that she no longer cared for his presence or his love, caused him many a bitter pang, and at times rendered him so desperate that, but for the doctor's repeated warnings, he would have ended this torturing suspense by going to her, and begging to hear from her own lips whether she had indeed ceased to love him.
Adelaide tried to comfort and encourage him to wait patiently, but she, too, thought it very strange, and began to have vague fears that something was wrong with her little niece.
She wondered that Dr. Barton treated the matter so lightly.
"But, then," thought she, "he has no idea how strongly the child was attached to her father, and therefore her strange silence on the subject does not strike him as it does us. I will ask if I may not venture to mention Horace to her."
But when she put the question, the doctor shook his head.
"No," he said; "better let her broach the subject herself; it will be much the safer plan."
Adelaide reluctantly acquiesced in his decision, for she was growing almost as impatient as her brother. But fortunately she was not kept much longer in suspense.
The next day Elsie, who had been lying for some time wide awake, but without speaking, suddenly asked: "Aunt Adelaide, have you heard from Miss Allison since she went away?"
"Yes, dear, a number of times," replied her aunt, much surprised at the question; "once since you were taken sick, and she was very sorry to hear of your illness."
"Dear Miss Rose, how I want to see her," murmured the little girl musingly. "Aunt Adelaide," she asked quickly, "has there been any letter from papa since I have been sick?"
"Yes, dear," said Adelaide, beginning to tremble a little; "one, but it was written before he heard of your illness."
"Did he say when he would sail for America, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked eagerly.
"No, dear," replied her aunt, becoming still more alarmed, for she feared the child was losing her reason.
"Oh, Aunt Adelaide, do you think he will ever come home? Shall I ever see him? And do you think he will love me?" moaned the little girl.
"I am sure he does love you, darling, for indeed he mentions you very affectionately in his letters," Adelaide said, bending down to kiss the little pale cheek. "Now go to sleep, dear child," she added, "I am afraid you have been talking quite too much, for you are very weak yet."
Elsie was, in fact, quite exhausted, and closing her eyes, fell asleep directly.
Then resigning her place to Chloe, Adelaide stole softly from the room, and seeking her brother, repeated to him all that had just passed between Elsie and herself. She simply told her story, keeping her doubts and fears confined to her own breast; but she watched him closely to see if he shared them.
He listened at first eagerly; then sat with folded arms and head bent down, so that she could not see his face; then rising up hastily, he paced the floor to and fro with rapid strides, sighing heavily to himself.
"Oh, Adelaide! Adelaide!" he exclaimed, suddenly pausing before her, "are my sins thus to be visited on my innocent child? better death a thousand times!" And sinking shuddering into a seat, he covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.
"Don't be so distressed, dear brother, I am sure it cannot be so bad as you think," whispered Adelaide, passing her arm around his neck and kissing him softly. "She looks bright enough, and seems to perfectly understand all that is said to her."
"Dr. Barton!" announced Pompey, throwing open the door of the parlor where they were sitting.
Mr. Dinsmore rose hastily to greet him.
"What is the matter? is anything wrong with my patient?" he asked hurriedly, looking from one to the other, and noticing the signs of unusual emotion in each face.
"Tell him, Adelaide," entreated her brother, turning away his head to hide his feelings.
Adelaide repeated her story, not without showing considerable emotion, though she did not mention the nature of their fears.
"Don't be alarmed," said the physician, cheerfully; "she is not losing her mind, as I see you both fear; it is simply a failure of memory for the time being; she has been fearfully ill, and the mind at present partakes of the weakness of the body, but I hope ere long to see them both grow strong together.
"Let me see—Miss Allison left, when? a year ago last April, I think you said,