"No, indeed, not I; but I'm afraid I really ought to read you a lecture. I daresay you miss Sophy very much, but still there are young people enough left in the house to keep you from feeling very dull and lonely, I should think; and as you have all your dear ones about you, and expect to go home in a few days—"
"I ought to be cheerful and happy. I know it, papa," she said, as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished, "and I'm afraid I'm very wicked and ungrateful. But please don't be vexed with me, and I will try to banish this feeling of depression."
"I fear you are not well," he said, turning her face to the light and examining it with keen scrutiny; "tell me, are you ill?"
"No, papa, I think not. Don't be troubled about me."
"I shall send for a doctor if this depression lasts," he said decidedly, "for I shall have to conclude that it must arise from some physical cause, since I know of no other; and it is so foreign to the nature of my sunny-tempered little girl."
He saw no more of it, though he watched her carefully.
Great was the rejoicing at the Oaks when at last the family returned. Adelaide was there to welcome them, and Elsie thought she had never seen her look so youthful, pretty, and happy, Chloe remarked upon it while preparing her young mistress for bed, adding that the report in the kitchen was that Miss Adelaide and Mr. Travilla were engaged, and would probably marry very soon.
Elsie made no remark, but her heart seemed to sink like lead in her bosom. "Why am I grieving so? what is there in this news to make me sorry?" she asked herself as she wetted her pillow with her tears. "I'm sure I'm very glad that dear Aunt Adie is so happy, and—and I used often to wish he was my uncle." Yet the tears would not cease their flow till she had wept herself to sleep.
But she seemed bright and gay as usual in the morning, and meeting her parents at the breakfast-table, thought they looked as though something had pleased them greatly.
It was Rose who told her the news, as an hour later they sauntered around the garden together, noting the changes which had taken place there in their absence.
"I have something to tell you, dear," Rose said, and Elsie shivered slightly, knowing what was coming; "something that pleases your father and me very much, and I think will make you glad too. Can you guess what it is?"
"About Aunt Adelaide, mamma?" Elsie stooped over a plant, thus concealing her face from view, and so controlled her voice that it betrayed no emotion. "Yet; I know; she is engaged."
"And you are pleased with the match, of course; I knew you would be. You used so often to wish that he was your uncle, and now he soon will be. Your papa and I are delighted; we think there could not have been a more suitable match for either."
"I am very glad for her—dear Aunt Adie—and for—for him too," Elsie said, her voice growing a little husky at the last.
But Rose was speaking to the gardener, and did not notice it, and Elsie wandered on, presently turned into the path leading to her arbor and seeking its welcome privacy, there relieved her full heart by a flood of tears.
Mr. Travilla called that day, but saw nothing of his "little friend," and in consequence went away very sorrowful, and pondering deeply the question what he could have done to alienate her affections so entirely from him.
The next day he came again, quite resolved to learn in what he had offended, and was overjoyed at hearing that she was alone in her favourite arbor.
He sought her there and found her in tears. She hastily wiped them away on perceiving his approach, but could not remove their traces.
"Good-morning," she said, rising and giving him her hand; but with the reserved manner that had now become habitual, instead of the pleasant ease and familiarity of earlier days; "were you looking for papa? I think he is somewhere on the plantation."
"No, my dear child, it was you I wished to see."
"Me, Mr. Travilla?" and she east down her eyes, while her cheek crimsoned; for he was looking straight into them with his, so wistful and tender, so fall of earnest, questioning, sorrowful entreaty, that she knew not how to meet their gaze.
"Yes, you, my little friend, for I can no longer endure this torturing anxiety. Will you not tell me, dear child, what I have done to hurt or grieve you so?"
"I—I'm not hurt or gri—you have always been most kind," she stammered, "most—But why should you think I—I was—"
The rest of the sentence was lost in a burst of tears, and covering her burning cheeks with her hands, she sank down upon the seat from which she had risen to greet him.
"My dear child, I did not mean to pain you so; do not weep, it breaks my heart to see it. I was far from intending to blame you, or complain of your treatment," he said in an agitated tone, and bending over her in tender concern. "I only wanted to understand my error in order that I might retrieve it, and be no longer deprived of your dear society. Oh, little Elsie, if you only knew how I love you; how I have loved you, and only you, all these years—as child and as woman—how I have waited and longed, hoping even against hope, that some day I might be able to win the priceless treasure of your young heart."
Intense, glad surprise made her drop her hands and look up at him. "But are you not—I—I thought—I understood—Aunt Adelaide—"
"Your Aunt Adelaide!" he cried, scarcely less astonished than herself, "can it be that you do not know—that you have not heard of her engagement to Edward Allison?"
A light broke upon Elsie at that question, and her face grew radiant with happiness; there was one flash of exceeding joy in the soft eyes that met his, and then they sought the ground.
"Oh, my darling, could you? is it—can it be—"
He took her in his arms, folded her close to his heart, calling her by every tender and endearing name, and she made no effort to escape, or to avoid his caresses; did nothing but hide her blushing face on his breast, and weep tears of deep joy and thankfulness.
It might have been half an hour or an hour afterward (they reckoned nothing of the flight of time) that Mr. Dinsmore, coming in search of his daughter, found them seated side by side, Mr. Travilla with his arm about Elsie's waist, and her hand in his. So absorbed were they in each other that they had not heard the approaching footsteps.
It was a state of affairs Mr. Dinsmore was far from expecting, and pausing upon the threshold, he stood spell-bound with astonishment. "Elsie!" he said at length.
Both started and looked up at the sound of his voice, and Mr. Travilla, still holding fast to his new-found treasure, said in tones tremulous with joy, "Will you give her to me, Dinsmore? she is willing now."
"Ah, is it so, Elsie, my darling?" faltered the father, opening his arms to receive her as she flew to him. "Is it so? have I lost the first place in my daughter's heart?" he repeated, straining her to his breast, and pressing his lips again and again to her fair brow.
"Dear papa, I never loved you better," she murmured, clinging more closely to him. "I shall never cease to be your own dear daughter; can never have any father but you—my own dear, dear papa. And you will not be left without a little girl to pet and fondle; darling Rosebud will fill my place."
"She has her own; but neither she nor any one else can ever fill yours, my darling," he answered with a quivering lip. "How can I—how can I give you up? my first-born, my Elsie's child and mine."
"You will give her to me, my friend?" repeated Travilla. "I will cherish her as the apple of my eye; I shall never take her away from you, you may see her every day. You love her tenderly, but she is dearer to me than my own soul."
"If you have won her heart, I cannot refuse you her hand. Say, Elsie, my daughter, is it so?"
"Yes, papa," she whispered, turning her blushing face away from his keen, searching gaze.
"I can hardly bear to do it. My precious one, I don't know how to resign you to another," he said in a voice low and tremulous