grandma, papa told us all to come," said little Rosie.
"I know he did, dear child; and do you know the way?"
"Yes, grandma, Jesus said, 'I am the way.' He died to save sinners, and He will save all who love Him and trust in Him alone, not thinking anything they can do is going to help to save them."
"Save them from what, darling?"
"From their sins, grandma, and from going to live with Satan and his wicked angels, and wicked people that die and go there."
"Yes, that is all so, and oh what love it was that led the dear Saviour to suffer and die upon the cross that we might live! Dear children, it was His death that bought eternal life for your beloved father and has purchased it for us all if we will but take it as His free, unmerited gift."
"But, grandma," sobbed Harold, "why didn't He let our dear papa stay with us a little longer? Oh I don't know how we can ever, ever live without him!"
This called forth a fresh burst of grief from all, even little Walter crying piteously, "I want my papa! I want my own dear papa!"
Rose lifted him to her lap and caressed him tenderly, her tears falling fast.
"Dear children," she said, as the storm of grief subsided a little, "we must not be selfish in our sorrow; we must try to rejoice that your beloved father is far, far happier than he could ever be here. I think the dear Saviour took him home because He loved him so much that He could no longer spare him out of heaven. And He, Jesus, will be your Father now even more than He was before: 'A father of the fatherless and a judge of the widows is God in his holy habitation.'"
"I'm very glad the Bible tells us that," remarked Herbert, checking his sobs. "I have heard and read the words often, but they never seemed half so sweet before."
"No," said Harold, putting an arm about him (the two were very strongly attached and almost inseparable); "and we have grandpa too: papa said he would be a father to us."
"And he will, dear children," said Rose. "I do not think he could love you much more than he does if he were really your own father, as he is your dear mamma's."
"And I am to try to fill papa's place," said Edward, with a strong but vain effort to steady his voice. "I am far from competent, I know, but I shall try to do my very best."
"And God will help you if you ask Him," said Rose; "help you to be a great comfort and assistance to your mother and younger brothers and sisters."
"Ah, if we might only go to mamma!" sighed Violet, when she and Elsie had withdrawn to the privacy of their own apartment. "Do you think we might venture now?"
"Not yet awhile, I think – I hope she is resting; and grandpa will let us know when it will not disturb her to see us."
"O Elsie, can we ever be happy again?" cried Violet, throwing herself into her sister's arms. "Where, where shall we go for comfort?"
"To Jesus and His word, dear Vi. Let us kneel down together and ask Him to bless us all and help us to say with our hearts 'Thy will be done,' all of us children and our dear precious mamma."
"Oh we can't pray for papa any more!" cried Vi, in an agony of grief.
"No, dear Vi, but he no longer needs our prayers. He is so close to the Master, so happy in being forever with Him, that nothing could add to his bliss."
Violet hushed her sobs, and with their arms about each other they knelt, while in low, pleading tones Elsie poured out their grief and their petitions into the ear of the ever compassionate, loving Saviour.
Fortunately for them in this hour of sore affliction, they were no strangers to prayer or to the Scriptures, and knew where to turn to find the many sweet and precious promises suited to their needs.
Some time was given to this, and then Elsie, mindful of the duty and privilege of filling to the best of her ability her mother's place to the little ones, went in search of them.
The tea hour brought them all together again – all the children – but father and mother were missing. Oh this gathering about the table was almost the hardest thing of all! It had been wont to be a time of glad, free, cheerful, often mirthful intercourse between parents and children; no rude and noisy hilarity, but the most enjoyable social converse and interchange of thought and feeling, in which the young people, while showing the most perfect respect and deference to their parents, and unselfish consideration for each other, were yet under no galling constraint, but might ask questions and give free expression to their opinions, if they wished; and were indeed encouraged to do so.
But what a change had a few days brought! There was an empty chair that would never again be filled by him to whom one and all had looked up with the tenderest filial love and reverence. All eyes turned toward it, then were suffused with tears, while one and another vainly strove to suppress the bursting sobs.
They could not sit down to the table. They drew close together in a little weeping group.
The grandparents came in, and Mr. Dinsmore, trying to gather them all in his arms, caressed them in turn, saying in broken, tender tones, "My dear children, my poor dear children! I will be a father to you. I cannot supply his place, but will do so as nearly as I can. You know, my darlings, my sweet Elsie's children, that I have a father's love for you."
"Yes, grandpa, we know it," "Dear grandpa, we're glad we have you left to us," sobbed one and another.
"And mamma, dear, precious mamma! O grandpa, is she sick?"
"Not exactly sick, my darlings," he said, "but very much worn out. We must let her rest."
"Can't we see her? can't we go to her?"
"Not now, not to-night, I think. I left her sleeping, and hope she will not wake for some hours."
At that the little ones seemed nearly heartbroken. "How could they go to their beds without seeing mamma?"
But Elsie comforted them. She would help mammy to put them to bed; and oh it was the best of news that dear mamma was sleeping! because if she did not she would soon be quite ill.
Molly Percival, because of her crippled condition, making locomotion so difficult, seldom joined the family at table, but took her meals in her own room, a servant waiting upon her and her mother, who, in her new devotion to poor Molly, preferred to eat with her.
The appointments of their table were quite as dainty as those of the other, the fare never less luxurious.
A very tempting repast was spread before them to-night, but Molly could not eat for weeping.
Her mother, tasting one dish after another with evident enjoyment, at length thought fit to expostulate with her.
"Molly, why do you cry so? I do wish you would stop it and eat your supper."
"I'm not hungry, mother."
"That's only because you're fretting so; and what's the use? Mr. Travilla's better off; and besides he was nothing to you."
"Nothing to me! O mother! he was so good, so kind to me, to Dick, to everybody about him. He treated me like a daughter, and I loved him as well as if he had been my own father. He did not forget you or me when he was dying, mother."
"No; and it was good of him. Still, crying doesn't do any good; and you'll get weak and sick if
