man!" exclaimed the girl in astonishment.
"Humph! that's a question I don't pretend to decide. But don't, I beg of you, let him persuade you on the way that it is your duty to marry him. If he can only make you believe it's your duty, you'll do it whether you want to or not."
Mildred's cheek flushed hotly. "O Aunt Dinsmore!" she cried, "he could never be so foolish! why, he is old enough to be my father, and so wise and good; and I but a silly young thing, as unfit as possible for the duties and responsibilities of a – "
"Minister's wife," suggested Mrs. Dinsmore, as the young girl broke off in confusion. "Well, I don't know about that; you are pious enough in all conscience. But, Mildred, you positively must reject him; it would be a terribly hard life, and – "
"Aunt, he has not offered, and I believe, I hope, never will. So I am not called upon to consider the question of acceptance or rejection."
"That was very rude, Miss Keith – your interrupting me in that way," Mrs. Dinsmore said, half in displeasure, half in sport. "Well, if you will allow me, I shall finish what I had to say. I've set my heart on seeing you and Charlie Landreth make a match. There! why do you color so, and turn your head away? Charlie likes you – is in fact deeply in love, I feel perfectly certain, and doubtless will follow you before long. You may take my word for it that he would have proposed before we left the springs if it hadn't been for that sudden summons to his dying sister."
Mildred made no reply; she had kept her face studiously averted, and was glad that the entrance, at that moment, of a servant with a letter for Mrs. Dinsmore gave her an opportunity to escape from the room.
CHAPTER III
"And 't shall go hard,
But I will delve one yard, below their mines,
And blow them at the moon."
The sun was just peeping over the tops of the tall city houses as Mildred entered the carriage which was to convey her to the depot. Mr. Dinsmore and little Elsie – the two whom it was a grief of heart to her to leave – were with her; Mrs. Dinsmore and the others had bidden good-by before retiring the previous night, and were still in bed.
"Elsie, darling, won't you sit in cousin's lap?" Mildred said, holding out her arms to receive the child as her grandfather handed her in at the carriage door.
"No, no! she is much too heavy, and there is abundance of room," he said hastily.
"But I want to hold her, uncle," returned Mildred, drawing the little one to her knee. "I love dearly to have her in my arms, and this is my last chance."
"As you will, then; a wilful woman will have her way," he said lightly, as he settled himself on the opposite seat and the door closed upon them with a bang.
The rattling of the wheels over the cobblestones, as they drove rapidly onward, made conversation next to impossible; but Mildred was not sorry: her heart was almost too full for speech. She clasped little Elsie close, the child nestling lovingly in her arms, while they mingled their caresses and tears.
At the depot, too, where there was a half hour of waiting, they clung together as those who knew not how to part. Elsie's low sobs were pitiful to hear, but she stood in too great awe of her grandfather to indulge in any loud lament.
He, however, did not reprove her, but seemed to quite compassionate her grief, and tried to assuage it with promises of gifts and indulgences; for Mildred had succeeded to some extent in softening his heart toward the motherless little one – which she now perceived with joy and thankfulness.
His kindness to herself had been uniform from the first, and continued to the last moment. Not till he had seen her on board the train, and made as comfortable as possible, did he resign her to the care of Mr. Lord; then, with a fatherly kiss and an affectionate message to her mother, he left her.
As the train moved slowly on, she caught a last glimpse of him, and of Aunt Chloe standing by his side with the weeping Elsie in her arms.
Mr. Lord essayed the office of comforter.
"That is a sweet child, Miss Mildred, a very sweet child. And Mr. Dinsmore seems a noble man. These partings are sad – especially so when we are young; but let the thought of the dear ones to whom you are going, and of the better land where partings are unknown, console and cheer you now."
Mildred could hardly have commanded her voice to reply, and was glad the increasing noise of the train relieved her of the necessity for doing so, but she dried her eyes and resolutely forced her tears back to their fountain, calling to mind the lessons on the duty of cheerfulness taught her by her mother, by both precept and example.
And oh, it was joy to know that each mile passed over was bearing her nearer to that loved monitor! What a cheering thought was that! and scarcely less so the prospect of seeing Aunt Wealthy, with whom she and Mr. Lord were to spend a few days; Lansdale being not far out of their route in crossing Ohio.
At that day there was no continuous line of railroad from Philadelphia to Pittsburg. They traveled sometimes by canal, sometimes by stage, passing over the mountains in the latter. This proved the most exciting and perilous part of the journey, the roads being almost all the way very steep, and often lying along the edge of a precipice, to plunge over which would be certain, horrible death.
Much of the scenery was grand and beautiful, but the enjoyment of it greatly interfered with by the sense of danger. Many a time Mildred's heart seemed to leap into her mouth, and she sent up a silent but strong cry to God that he would keep the horses from stumbling, their feet from treading too near the verge.
There was one afternoon so full of terror of this kind, and importunate prayer for preservation, that she felt she could never forget it to the day of her death should she live to the age of Methuselah.
The stage was full: the back seat was occupied by our heroine and a young mother with a babe in her arms and another little one by her side; the remaining seats were filled with gentlemen.
"That fellow is drunk and in a terribly bad humor," remarked one of the latter, as the driver slammed the door to upon them and mounted to his perch.
"In no fit condition to guide those horses over the steep and narrow passes that lie between this and our next halting-place," added another uneasily. "You had an altercation with him, hadn't you, Blake?" addressing the first speaker.
"Yes, Mr. Grey, I had; what business had he to hurry us off in this style? Why, we were scarcely seated at the dinner-table when he blew his horn, and we all had to run to avoid being left."
"Quite true."
"That's so," assented several voices.
"And the same thing is repeated again and again, until it has become quite unbearable," Blake went on, his eyes sparkling with anger; "we pay for our food and have no chance to eat it."
"There seems to be some collusion between the innkeepers and drivers for the purpose of defrauding travelers," remarked Mr. Lord.
"Are we not going very fast?" asked the young mother, turning a pale, anxious face toward the last speaker.
"Yes, dangerously so." And, putting his head out of the window, he called to the driver, mildly requesting him to slacken his speed.
The reply was a volley of oaths and curses, while the whip was applied to the horses in a way that made them rear and plunge frightfully.
They
