Lora turned and went out feeling very happy, and as she closed the door, Elsie's papa took her in his arms, saying in loving, tender tones, "My poor little daughter! my own darling child! I have been cruelly unjust to you, have I not?"
"Dear papa, you thought I deserved it," she said, with a burst of tears and sobs, throwing her arms around his neck, and laying her head on his breast.
"Do you love me, Elsie, dearest?" he asked, folding her closer to his heart.
"Ah! so very, very much! better than all the world beside. O papa! if you would only love me." The last word was almost a sob.
"I do, my darling, my own precious child," he said, caressing her again and again. "I do love my little girl, although I may at times seem cold and stern; and I am more thankful than words can express that I have been saved from punishing her unjustly. I could never forgive myself if I had done it. I would rather have lost half I am worth; ah! I fear it would have turned all her love for me into hatred; and justly, too."
"No, papa, oh! no, no; nothing could ever do that!" and the little arms were clasped closer and closer about his neck, and the tears again fell like rain, as she timidly pressed her quivering lips to his cheek.
"There, there daughter! don't cry any more; we will try to forget all about it, and talk of something else," he said soothingly. "Elsie, dear, your Aunt Adelaide thinks perhaps you were not so very much to blame the other day; and now I want you to tell me all the circumstances; for though I should be very sorry to encourage you to find fault with your teacher, I am by no means willing to have you abused."
"Please, papa, don't ask me," she begged. "Aunt Lora was there, and she will tell you about it."
"No, Elsie," he said, very decidedly; "I want the story from you; and remember, I want every word that passed between you and Miss Day, as far as you can possibly recall it."
Seeing that he was determined, Elsie obeyed him, though with evident reluctance, and striving to put Miss Day's conduct in as favorable a light as consistent with truth, while she by no means extenuated her own; yet her father listened with feelings of strong indignation.
"Elsie," he said when she had done, "if I had known all this at the time, I should not have punished you at all. Why did you not tell me, my daughter, how you have been ill treated and provoked?"
"O papa! I could not; you know you did not ask me."
"I did ask you if it was true that you contradicted her, did I not?"
"Yes, papa, and it was true."
"You ought to have told me the whole story though; but I see how it was—I frightened you by my sternness. Well, daughter," he added, kissing her tenderly, "I shall endeavor to be less stern in future, and you must try to be less timid and more at your ease with me."
"I will, papa," she replied meekly; "but indeed I cannot help feeling frightened when you are angry with me."
Mr. Dinsmore sat there a long time with his little daughter on his knee, caressing her more tenderly than ever before; and Elsie was very happy, and talked more freely to him than she had ever done, telling him of her joys and her sorrows; how dearly she had loved Miss Allison—what happy hours they had spent together in studying the Bible and in prayer—how grieved she was when her friend went away—and how intensely she enjoyed the little letter now and then received from her; and he listened to it all, apparently both pleased and interested, encouraging her to go on by an occasional question or a word of assent or approval.
"What is this, Elsie?" he asked, taking hold of the chain she always wore around her neck, and drawing the miniature from her bosom.
But as he touched the spring the case flew open, revealing the sweet, girlish face, it needed not Elsie's low murmured "Mamma" to tell him who that lovely lady was.
He gazed upon it with emotion, carried back in memory to the time when for a few short months she had been his own most cherished treasure. Then, looking from it to his child, he murmured, "Yes, she is very like—the same features, the same expression, complexion, hair and all—will be the very counterpart of her if she lives."
"Dear papa, am I like mamma?" asked Elsie, who had caught a part of his words.
"Yes, darling, very much indeed, and I hope you will grow more so."
"You loved mamma?" she said inquiringly.
"Dearly, very dearly."
"O papa! tell me about her! do, dear papa," she pleaded eagerly.
"I have not much to tell," he said, sighing. "I knew her only for a few short months ere we were torn asunder, never to meet again on earth."
"But we may hope to meet her in heaven, dear papa," said Elsie softly, "for she loved Jesus, and if we love Him we shall go there too when we die. Do you love Jesus, papa?" she timidly inquired, for she had seen him do a number of things which she knew to be wrong—such as riding out for pleasure on the Sabbath, reading secular newspapers, and engaging in worldly conversation—and she greatly feared he did not.
But instead of answering her question, he asked, "Do you, Elsie?"
"Oh! yes, sir; very very much; even better than I love you, my own dear papa."
"How do you know?" he asked, looking keenly into her face.
"Just as I know that I love you, papa, or any one else," she replied, lifting her eyes to his face in evident surprise at the strangeness of the question.
"Ah, papa," she added in her own sweet, simple way, "I do so love to talk of Jesus; to tell Him all my troubles, and ask Him to forgive my sins and make me holy; and then it is so sweet to know that He loves me, and will always love me, even if no one else does."
He kissed her very gravely, and set her down, saying, "Go now, my daughter, and prepare for dinner; it is almost time for the bell."
"You are not displeased, papa?" she inquired, looking up anxiously into his face.
"No, darling, not at all," he replied, stroking her hair. "Shall I ride with my little girl this afternoon?"
"Oh papa! do you really mean it? I shall be so glad!" she exclaimed joyfully.
"Very well, then," he said, "it is settled. But go now; there is the bell. No, stay!" he added quickly, as she turned to obey; "think a moment and tell me where you put the key of your desk yesterday, for it must have been then the mischief was done. Had you it with you when you rode out?"
Suddenly Elsie's face flushed, and she exclaimed Eagerly, "Ah! I remember now! I left it on the mantelpiece, papa, and—"
But here she paused, as if sorry she had said so much.
"And what?" he asked.
"I think I had better not say it, papa! I'm afraid I ought not, for I don't really know anything, and it seems so wrong to suspect people."
"You need not express any suspicions," said her father; "I do not wish you to do so; but I must insist upon having all the facts you can furnish me with. Was Aunt Chloe in your room all the time you were away?"
"No, sir; she told me she went down to the kitchen directly after I left, and did not come up again until after I returned."
"Very well; do you know whether any one else entered the room during your absence?"
"I do not know, papa, but I think Arthur must have been in, because when I came home I found him reading a book which I had left lying on the mantel-piece," she answered in a low, reluctant tone.
"Ah, ha! that is just it! I see it all now," he exclaimed, with a satisfied nod. "There, that will do, Elsie; go now and make haste down to your dinner."
But Elsie lingered, and, in answer to a look of kind inquiry from her father, said