remarked it, in a tone of grief and concern; but he answered with a smile, "I have escaped so much better than many others, that I have more reason for thankfulness than complaint. I am hearty and robust compared to poor Harold."
A look of deep sadness stole over his face as he thus named his younger brother.
Elsie understood it when, an hour later, the elder Mr. Allison entered the parlor, where she and Adelaide were chatting together, with Harold leaning on his arm.
They both shook hands with her, the old gentleman saying, "My dear, I am rejoiced to have you among us again;" Harold silently, but with a sad, wistful, yearning look out of his large bright eyes, that filled hers with tears.
His father and Adelaide helped him to an easy chair, and as he sank back pantingly upon its cushions, Elsie—completely overcome at sight of the feeble, wasted frame, and wan, sunken features—stole quickly from the room.
Adelaide followed, to find her in the sitting-room on the opposite side of the hall, weeping bitterly.
"Oh, Aunt Adie," she sobbed; "he's dying!"
"Yes," Adelaide answered, with the tears coursing down her own cheeks, "we all know it now; all but father and mother, who will not give up hope. Poor May! hers will be but a sad wedding. She would have put it off, but he begged her not, saying he wanted to be present and to greet Duncan as his brother—Duncan, to whom he owed so much. But for him, you know, Harold would have perished at Andersonville; where, indeed, he got his death."
"No, I have heard very little about it."
"Then Harold will tell you the story of their escape. Oh! Rose dear," turning quickly, as Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Carrington entered, "how kind! I was coming to see you directly, but it was so good of you not to wait."
Elsie was saying, "Good-morning, mamma," when her eye fell upon the other figures. Could it be Sophie with that thin, pale face and large, sad eyes? Sophie arrayed in widow's weeds. All the pretty golden curls hidden beneath the widow's cap? It was indeed, and the next instant the two were weeping in each other's arms.
"You poor, poor dear girl! God comfort you!" Elsie whispered.
"He does, He has helped me to live for my children, my poor fatherless little ones," Sophie said, amid her choking sobs.
"We must go back to father and Harold," Adelaide said presently. "They are in the parlor, where we left them very unceremoniously."
"And Harold, I know, is longing for a chat with Elsie," Sophie said.
They found the gentlemen patiently awaiting their return. Elsie seated herself near Harold, who, somewhat recovered from his fatigue, was now able to take part in the conversation.
"You were shocked by my changed appearance?" he said, in an undertone, as their eyes met and hers filled again. "Don't mind it, I was never before so happy as now; my peace is like a river—calm, deep, and ever increasing as it nears the ocean of eternity. I'm going home!" And his smile was both bright and sweet.
"Oh, would you not live—for your mother's sake? and to work for your Master?"
"Gladly, if it were His will; but I hear Him saying to me, 'Come up hither'; and it is a joyful summons."
"Harold, when——" her voice faltered, but with an effort she completed her sentence—"when did this begin?"
"At Andersonville; I was in perfect health when I entered the army," he answered quickly, divining the fear that prompted the question; "but bad air, foul water, wretched and insufficient food, rapidly and completely undermined my constitution. Yet it is sweet to die for one's country! I do not grudge the price I pay to secure her liberties."
Elsie's eyes sparkled through her tears. "True patriotism still lives!" she said. "Harold, I am proud of you and your brothers. Of dear Walter, too; for his heart was right, however mistaken his head may have been."
"Walter? oh, yes, and I——"
But the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of his mother and sisters, May and Daisy, Mr. Dinsmore, and his son and daughter. Fresh greetings, of course, had to be exchanged all round, and were scarcely finished when Mr. Travilla came in with his three children.
Elsie called them to her, and presented them to Harold with all a mother's fond pride in her darlings.
"I have taught them to call you Uncle Harold. Do you object?"
"Object? far from it; I am proud to claim them as my nephew and nieces."
He gazed with tender admiration upon each dear little face; then, drawing the eldest to him and putting an arm about her, said, "She is just what you must have been at her age, Elsie; a little younger than when you first came to Elmgrove. And she bears your name?"
"Yes; her papa and mine would hear of no other for her."
"I like to have mamma's name," said the child, in a pretty, modest way, looking up into his face. "Grandpa and papa call mamma Elsie, and me wee Elsie and little Elsie, and sometimes daughter. Grandpa calls mamma daughter too, but papa calls her wife. Mamma, has Uncle Harold seen baby?"
"My namesake! ah, I should like to see him."
"There is mammy on the porch now, with him in her arms," cried the child.
"Go, and tell her to bring him here, daughter," Elsie said; and the little girl hastened to obey.
It was a very fine babe, and Harold looked at it with interest.
"I am proud of my name-child," he said, turning to the mother with a gratified smile. "You and Mr. Travilla were very kind to remember me."
The latter, who had been engaged in the exchange of salutations with the others, hearing his name, now came up and took the hand of the invalid in his. He was much moved by the sad alteration in the young man, who, when last seen by him, was in high health and spirits—the full flush of early manhood's prime.
Taking a seat by his side, he inquired with kindly interest how he was, who was his physician, and if there had been any improvement in the case of late.
"Thank you, no; rather the reverse," Harold said, in answer to the last inquiry. "I am weaker than when I left the hospital."
"Ah, that is discouraging; still, we will hope the disease may yet take a favorable turn."
"That is what my parents say," he answered, with a grave, sweet smile; "and though I have little hope, I know that nothing is too hard for the Lord, and am more than willing to leave it in His hands."
"Uncle Harold," said Elsie, coming to the side of his chair and looking up into his face with eyes full of tender sympathy, "I'm so, so sorry for you. I'll ask Jesus to please make you well, or else take you soon to the happy land where you'll never have any more pain."
"Thank you, darling," he said, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. "I know the dear Saviour will listen to your prayer."
"You used to play with my mamma when you were a little boy like me; didn't you, uncle Harold?" queried Eddie, coming up close on the other side.
"Not quite so small, my man," Harold answered, laying
