Elsie's appetite was poor, and her father spared neither trouble nor expense in procuring her every dainty that could be thought of which was at all suited to her state of health, and he was delighted when he could tempt her to eat with tolerable heartiness. She seemed to enjoy her dinner, and he watched her with intense pleasure.
"Can I see Lora now, papa?" she asked, when Chloe had removed the dishes.
"Yes," he said. "Aunt Chloe, you may tell Miss Lora that we are ready to receive her now."
Lora came in quite gay and full of spirits; but when she caught sight of Elsie, lying so pale and languid in her father's arms, she had hard work to keep from bursting into tears, and could scarcely command her voice to speak.
"Dear Lora, I am so glad to see you," said the little girl, holding out her small, thin hand.
Lora took it and kissed it, saying, in a tremulous tone, "How ill you look!"
Elsie held up her face, and Lora stooped and kissed her lips; then bursting into tears and sobs, she ran out of the room.
"Oh, Adelaide!" she cried, rushing into her sister's room, "how she is changed! I should never have known her! Oh! do you think she can ever get well?"
"If you had seen her two or three weeks ago, you would be quite encouraged by her appearance now," replied her sister. "The doctor considers her out of danger now, though he says she must have careful nursing; and that I assure you she gets from her father. He seems to feel that he can never do enough for her, and won't let me share the labor at all, although I would often be very glad to do it."
"He ought to do all he can for her! he would be a brute if he didn't, for it was all his doing, her being so ill!" exclaimed Lora indignantly. "No, no; I ought not to say that," she added, correcting herself immediately, "for we were all unkind to her; I as well as the rest. Oh, Adelaide! what a bitter thought that was to me when I heard she was dying! I never realized before how lovely, and how very different from all the rest of us she was."
"Yes, poor darling! she has had a hard life amongst us," replied Adelaide, sighing, while the tears rose to her eyes. "You can never know, Lora, what an agonizing thought it was at the moment when I believed that she had left us forever. I would have given worlds to have been able to live the last six years over again. But Horace—oh, Lora! I don't believe there was a more wretched being on the face of the earth than he! I was very angry with him at first, but when I saw how utterly crushed and heartbroken he was, I couldn't say one word."
Adelaide was crying now in good earnest, as well as Lora.
Presently Lora asked for a full account of Elsie's illness, which Adelaide was beginning to give, when a servant came to say that Elsie wanted to see her; so, with a promise to Lora to finish her story another time, she hastened to obey the summons.
She found the little girl still lying languidly in her father's arms.
"Dear Aunt Adelaide," she said, "I wanted to see you; you haven't been in to-day to look at your little patient."
Adelaide smiled, and patted her cheek.
"Yes, my dear," she said, "I have been in twice, but found you sleeping both times, and your father keeping guard over you, like a tiger watching his cub."
"No, no, Aunt Adelaide; papa isn't a bit like a tiger," said Elsie, passing her small, white hand caressingly over his face. "You mustn't say that."
"I don't know," replied Adelaide, laughing and shaking her head; "I think anybody who should be daring enough to disturb your slumbers would find there was considerable of the tiger in him."
Elsie looked up into her father's face as if expecting him to deny the charge.
"Never mind," said he, smiling; "Aunt Adelaide is only trying to tease us a little."
A servant came in and whispered something to Adelaide.
"Mr. and Mrs. Travilla," she said, turning to her brother; "is Elsie able to see them?"
"Oh, yes, papa, please," begged the little girl in a coaxing tone.
"Well, then, for a few moments, I suppose," he answered rather doubtfully; and Adelaide went down and brought them up.
Elsie was very glad to see them; but seeing that she looked weak and weary they did not stay long, but soon took an affectionate leave of her, expressing the hope that it would not be many weeks before she would be able to pay a visit to Ion.
Her father promised to take her to spend a day there as soon as she was well enough, and then they went away.
Elsie's strength returned very slowly, and she had many trying hours of weakness and nervous prostration to endure. She was almost always very patient, but on a few rare occasions, when suffering more than usual, there was a slight peevishness in her tone. Once it was to her father she was speaking, and the instant she had done so, she looked up at him with eyes brimful of tears, expecting a stern rebuke, or, at the very least, a look of great displeasure.
But he did not seem to have heard her, and only busied himself in trying to make her more comfortable; and when she seemed to feel easier again, he kissed her tenderly, saying softly: "My poor little one! papa knows she suffers a great deal, and feels very sorry for her. Are you better now, dearest?"
"Yes, papa, thank you," she answered, the tears coming into her eyes again. "I don't know what makes me so cross; you are very good not to scold me."
"I think my little girl is very patient," he said, caressing her again; "and if she were not, I couldn't have the heart to scold her after all she has suffered. Shall I sing to you now?"
"Yes, papa; please sing 'I want to be like Jesus.' Oh, I do want to be like him! and then I should never even feel impatient."
He did as she requested, singing in a low, soothing tone that soon lulled her to sleep. He was an indefatigable nurse, never weary, never in the least impatient, and nothing that skill and kindness could do for the comfort and recovery of his little daughter was left undone. He carried her in his arms from room to room; and then, as she grew stronger, down into the garden. Then he sent for a garden chair, in which he drew her about the gardens with his own hands; or if he called a servant to do it, he walked by her side, doing all he could to amuse her, and when she was ready to be carried indoors again, no one was allowed to touch her but himself. At last she was able to take short and easy rides in the carriage—not more than a quarter of a mile at first, for he was very much afraid of trying her strength too far—but gradually they were lengthened, as she seemed able to bear it.
One day he was unusually eager to get her into the carriage, and after they had started, instead of calling her attention to the scenery, as he often did, he began relating a story which interested her so much that she did not notice in what direction they were travelling until the carriage stopped, the foot-man threw open the door, and her father, breaking off in the middle of a sentence, sprang out hastily, lifted her in his arms, and carried her into the house.
She did not know where she was until he had laid her on a sofa, and, giving her a rapturous kiss, exclaimed—
"Welcome home, my darling! welcome to your father's house."
Then she looked up and saw that she was indeed in the dear home he had prepared for her months before.
She was too glad to speak a word, or do anything but gaze about her with eyes brimming over with delight; while her father took off her bonnet and shawl, and setting her on her feet, led her across the room to an easy-chair, where he seated her in state.
He then threw open a door, and there was another pleasant surprise; for who but her old friend, Mrs. Murray, should rush in and take her in her arms, kissing her and crying over her.
"Dear, dear bairn," she exclaimed, "you are looking pale and ill, but it does my auld heart gude to see your winsome wee face once more. I hope it will soon grow as round and rosy as ever, now that you've won to your ain home at last. But where, darling, are all your bonny curls?"