only answer was a burst of grief. "Oh poor, poor Cousin Elsie! her heart must be quite broken, for she idolized her husband. And the girls and all of them; how they did love their father!"
The servant came in with a plate of hot cakes, and a slender girlish figure presently stole softly after, without knocking, for the door stood open, and to the side of Molly's chair. It was Violet, looking, oh so sad and sweet, so fair and spiritual in her deep mourning dress.
In an instant she and Molly were locked in each other's arms, mingling their sobs and tears together.
"I'm afraid we have seemed to neglect you, Molly dear," Violet said when she could speak, "but – "
"No, no, you have never done that!" cried Molly, weeping afresh. "And how could I expect you to think of me at such a time! O Vi, Vi!"
"Mamma cannot come up, for she is not – not able to leave her room, and – and O Molly, I'm afraid she's going to be sick!"
Molly tried to comfort and reassure her. "Aunt Rose was in for a while this afternoon," she said, "and she thinks it is not really sickness, only that she needs rest and – and comfort. And, Vi, the Lord will comfort her. Don't you remember those sweet words in Isaiah? – 'As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted.'"
Violet had come up to see Molly, lest the poor afflicted cousin should feel neglected, while Elsie was engaged with the little ones – taking mamma's place in seeing them to bed with a little loving talk on some profitable theme.
To-night it was the glory and bliss of heaven; leaving in their young minds, instead of gloomy and dreadful thoughts of death and the cold, dark grave, bright visions of angelic choirs, of white robes and palms of victory, of golden crowns and harps, of the river of the water of life, and the beautiful trees on its banks bearing twelve manner of fruits; of papa with sweet Lily by his side, both casting their crowns at Jesus' feet and singing with glad voices, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain."
Leaving them at length to their slumbers, she joined Violet and Molly for a few moments; then Edward came to say that their mother was awake and grandpa had given permission for them to go to her and just bid her good-night, if they could be quite composed.
They thought they could; they would try very earnestly.
She was in her dressing-room, reclining in an easy chair, looking, oh so wan and sorrowful.
She embraced each in turn, holding them to her heart with a whispered word or two of tender mother love. "God bless you, my dear, dear children! He will be a father to the fatherless and never leave nor forsake you."
Violet dared not trust herself to speak. Elsie only murmured, "Dear, dearest mamma!" and Edward, "Darling, precious mother, don't grieve too sorely."
"The consolations of God are not small! my dear son," was all she said in reply, and they withdrew softly and silently as they had come.
The next morning and each following day they were all allowed a few moments with her, until four days had passed.
On the fifth, as we have said, she came down to the breakfast room leaning on her father's arm.
As they neared the door she paused, trembling like a leaf, and turning to him a white, anguished face.
He knew what it meant. She had not been in that room, had not taken her place at that table, since the morning of the day on which her husband was taken ill. He was with her then, in apparently perfect health; now – the places which had known him on earth would know him no more forever.
Her head dropped on her father's shoulder, a low moan escaping her pale lips.
"Dear child," he said, drawing her closer to him, and tenderly kissing her brow, "think how perfectly happy, how blest he is. You would not call him back?"
"Oh no, no!" came from the quivering lips. "'The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!'"
"Lean on your strong Saviour," he said, "and His grace will be sufficient for you."
She sent up a silent petition, then lifting her head, "I can bear it now – He will help me," she said, and suffered him to lead her in.
Her children gathered about her with a joy that was as a cordial to her fainting spirit; their love was very sweet.
But how her heart yearned over them because they were fatherless; all the more so that she found her father's love so precious and sustaining in this time of sorrow and bereavement.
He led her to her accustomed seat, bent over her with a whispered word of love and encouragement, then took the one opposite – once her husband's, now his no more.
Perhaps it was not quite so hard as to have seen it empty, but it cost a heroic effort to restrain a burst of anguish.
CHAPTER VI
"Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall He shall not blind his soul with clay."
Life at Ion moved on in its accustomed quiet course, Mr. Travilla's removal seeming, to outsiders, to have made very little change except that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore now took up their abode there for the greater part of the time, leaving the younger Horace and his wife in charge at the Oaks.
An arrangement for which Elsie was very thankful, for her father's presence and his love were as balm to her wounded spirit.
Her strongest support in this, as in every trial of her life, was in her almighty Saviour; on Him she leaned every hour with a simple childlike faith and confidence in His unerring wisdom and infinite love; but it was very sweet to lean somewhat upon the strength and wisdom of the earthly father also, and to feel that the shield of his care and protection was interposed between her and the cold world.
Both his and Rose's companionship had ever been delightful to her, and were now a great solace and pleasure.
She gave no indulgence to a spirit of repining because her chief earthly treasure had been taken from her for the remainder of her life in this world, but was filled with gratitude for those blessings that were left, ever deeming God's goodness to her far beyond her deserts.
And her own sorrow was often half forgotten in tender compassion for her fatherless children. For their sakes, as well as because such was her Christian duty, she strove after a constant abiding cheerfulness; and not without success.
But it was not sought in forgetfulness of the dear one gone. They talked freely and tenderly of him, his looks, his words, his ways; his present happiness and the joy of the coming reunion with him. He was not dead to them, but living in the blessed land where death could never enter, a land that grew more real and attractive because he was there.
Elsie found great comfort in her children – dear as her own offspring, and dearer still because they were his also. They were very good and obedient, loving her so devotedly that the very thought of grieving her was pain.
Her unselfish love seemed to call forth its counterpart in them: they vied with each other in earnest efforts to make up to her the loss of their father's love and ever watchful tender care.
They
