CHAPTER XII.
"I drinkSo deep of grief, that he must only think,Not dare to speak, that would express my woe:Small rivers murmur, deep gulfs silent flow."
MARSTON'S SOPHONIESA.
It was no want of love for his child that had kept Mr. Dinsmore from atonce obeying Adelaide's summons. He had left the place where she supposedhim to be, and thus it happened that her letters did not reach him nearlyso soon as she had expected.
But when at length they were put into his hands, and he read of Elsie'sentreaty that he would come to her, and saw by the date how long she hadbeen ill, his distress and alarm were most excessive, and within an hourhe had set out on his return, travelling night and day with the greatestpossible despatch.
Strangers wondered at the young, fine-looking man, who seemed in suchdesperate haste to reach the end of his journey--sat half the time withhis watch in his hand, and looked so despairingly wretched whenever thetrain stopped for a moment.
Elsie was indeed, as Adelaide had said, the very idol of his heart;and at times he suffered but little less than she did; but his will wasstronger even than his love, and he had fondly hoped that this separationfrom him would produce the change in her which he so much desired; andhad thus far persuaded himself that he was only using the legitimateauthority of a parent, and therefore acting quite right; and, in fact,with the truest kindness, because, as he reasoned, she would be happierall her life if once relieved from the supposed necessity of conformingto rules so strict and unbending. But suddenly his eyes seemed to havebeen opened to see his conduct in a new light, and he called himself abrute, a monster, a cruel persecutor, and longed to annihilate time andspace, that he might clasp his child in his arms, tell her how dearly heloved her, and assure her that never again would he require her to doaught against her conscience.
Again and again he took out his sister's letters and read and re-readthem, vainly trying to assure himself that there was no danger; that she_could_ not be so very ill. "She is so young," he said to himself, "andhas always been healthy, it _cannot_ be that she will die." He startedand shuddered at the word. "Oh, no! it is impossible!" he mentallyexclaimed. "God is too merciful to send me so terrible an affliction."
He had not received Adelaide's last, and was therefore quite unpreparedto find his child so near the borders of the grave.
It was early on the morning of the day after her fearful relapse, that acarriage drove rapidly up the avenue, and Horace Dinsmore looked from itswindow, half expecting to see again the little graceful figure that hadbeen wont to stand upon the steps of the portico, ready to greet hisarrival with such outgushings of joy and love.
But, "Pshaw!" he exclaimed to himself, "of course she is not yet able toleave her room; but my return will soon set her up again--the darling! Mypoor little pet!" he added, with a sigh, as memory brought her vividlybefore him as he had last seen her, and recalled her sorrowful, pleadinglooks and words; "my poor darling, you shall have all the love andcaresses now that your heart can desire." And he sprang out, glancing upat the windows above, to see if she were not looking down at him; but shewas not to be seen; yet it did not strike him as strange that all theshutters were closed, since it was the east side of the house, and a warmsummer's sun was shining full upon them.
A servant met him at the door, looking grave and sad, but Mr. Dinsmorewaited not to ask any questions, and merely giving the man a nod,sprang up the stairs, and hurried to his daughter's room, all dustyand travel-stained as he was.
He heard her laugh as he reached the door. "Ah! she must be a great dealbetter; she will soon be quite well again, now that I have come," hemurmured to himself, with a smile, as he pushed it open.
But alas! what a sight met his eye. The doctor, Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide,and Chloe, all grouped about the bed, where lay his little daughter,tossing about and raving in the wildest delirium; now shrieking withfear, now laughing an unnatural, hysterical laugh, and so changed thatno one could have recognized her; the little face so thin, the beautifulhair of which he had been so proud all gone, the eyes sunken deep inher head, and their soft light changed to the glare of insanity. Could itbe Elsie, his own beautiful little Elsie? He could scarcely believe it,and a sickening feeling of horror and remorse crept over him.
No one seemed aware of his entrance, for all eyes were fixed upon thelittle sufferer. But as he drew near the bed, with a heart too full forspeech, Elsie's eye fell upon him, and with a wild shriek of mortalterror, she clung to her aunt, crying out, "Oh, save me! save me! he'scoming to take me away to the Inquisition! Go away! go away!" and shelooked at him with a countenance so full of fear and horror, that thedoctor hastily took him by the arm to lead him away.
But Mr. Dinsmore resisted.
"Elsie! my daughter! it is I! your own father, who loves you dearly!" hesaid in tones of the keenest anguish, as he bent over her, and tried totake her hand. But she snatched it away, and clung to her aunt again,hiding her face, and shuddering with fear.
Mr. Dinsmore groaned aloud, and no longer resisted the physician'sefforts to lead him from the room. "It is the delirium of _fever_," Dr.Barton said, in answer to the father's agonized look of inquiry; "shewill recover her reason--if she lives."
The last words were added in a lower, quicker tone.
Mr. Dinsmore covered his face, and uttered a groan of agony.
"Doctor, is there _no_ hope?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Do you wish me to tell you precisely what I think?" asked the physician.
"I do! I do! let me know the worst!" was the quick, passionate rejoinder.
"Then, Mr. Dinsmore, I will be frank with you. Had you returned one weekago, I think she _might_ have been saved; _possibly_, even had you beenhere yesterday morning, while she was still in possession of her reason;but now, I see not one ray of hope. I never knew one so low to recover."
He started, as Mr. Dinsmore raised his face again, so pale, so haggard,so grief-stricken had it become in that one moment.
"Doctor," he said in a hollow, broken voice, "save my child, and you maytake all I am worth. I cannot live without her."
"I will do all I can," replied the physician in a tone of deepcompassion, "but the Great Physician alone can save her. We must lookto him."
"Doctor," said Mr. Dinsmore hoarsely, "if that child dies, I must go tomy grave with the brand of Cain upon me, for I have killed her by mycruelty; and oh! doctor, she is the very light of my eyes--the joy ofmy heart! How _can_ I give her up? Save her, doctor, and you will beentitled to my everlasting gratitude."
"Surely, my dear sir, you are reproaching yourself unjustly," said thephysician soothingly, replying to the first part of Mr. Dinsmore'sremark. "I have heard you spoken of as a very fond father, and haveformed the same opinion from my own observation, and your little girl'sevident affection for you."
"And I _was_, but in _one_ respect. I insisted upon obedience, even whenmy commands came in collision with her conscientious scruples; and shewas firm; she had the spirit of a martyr--and I was very severe in myefforts to subdue what I called wilfulness and obstinacy," said thedistracted father in a voice often, scarcely audible from emotion. "Ithought I was right, but now I see that I was fearfully wrong."
"There is _life_ yet, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked the doctor compassionately;"and though human skill can do no more, he who raised the dead child ofthe ruler of the synagogue, and restored the son of the widow of Nain toher arms, can give back your child to your embrace; let me entreat you togo to _him_, my dear sir. And now I must return to my patient. I fear itwill be necessary for you to keep out of sight until there is somechange, as your presence seems to excite her so much. But do not let thatdistress you," he added kindly, as he noticed an expression of thekeenest anguish sweep over Mr. Dinsmore's features; "it is a common thingin such cases for them to turn away from the very one they love best whenin health."
Mr. Dinsmore replied only by a convulsive grasp of the friendly handheld out to him, and hurrying a
way to his own apartments, shut himselfup there to give way to his bitter grief and remorse where no human eyecould see him.
For hours he paced backward and forward, weeping and groaning in suchmental agony as he had never known before.
His usual fastidious neatness in person and dress was entirely forgotten,and it never once occurred to his recollection that he had beentravelling for several days and nights in succession, through heat anddust, without making any change in his clothing. And he was equallyunconscious that he had passed many hours without tasting any food.
The breakfast-bell rang, but he paid no heed to the summons. Then John,his faithful servant, knocked at his door, but was refused admittance,and went sorrowfully back to the kitchen with the waiter of temptingviands he had so carefully prepared, hoping to induce his master to eat.
But Horace Dinsmore could not stay away from his child while she yetlived; and though he might not watch by her bed of suffering, nor claspher little form in his arms, as he longed to do, he must be where hecould hear the sound of that voice, so soon, alas! to be hushed in death.
He entered the room noiselessly, and took his station in a distantcorner, where she could not possibly see him.
She was moaning, as if in pain, and the sound went to his very heart.Sinking down upon a seat, he bowed his head upon his hands, and struggledto suppress his emotion, increased tenfold by the words which the nextinstant fell upon his ear, spoken in his little daughter's own sweetvoice.
"Yes, mamma; yes," she said, "I am coming! Take me to Jesus."
Then, in a pitiful, wailing tone, "I'm _all alone_! There's nobody tolove me. Oh, papa, kiss me just once! I will be good; but I must loveJesus best, and obey him always."
He rose hastily, as if to go to her, but the doctor shook his head, andhe sank into his seat again with a deep groan.
"Oh, papa!" she shrieked, as if in mortal terror, "don't send me there!they will kill me! Oh, papa, have mercy on your own little daughter!"
It was only by the strongest effort of his will that he could keep hisseat.
But Adelaide was speaking soothingly to her.
"Darling," she said, "your papa loves you; he will not send you away."
And Elsie answered, in her natural tone, "But I'm going to mamma. DearAunt Adelaide, comfort my poor papa when I am gone."
Her father started, and trembled between hope and fear. Surely she wastalking rationally now; but ah! those ominous words! Was she indeed aboutto leave him, and go to her mother?
But she was speaking again in trembling, tearful tones: "He wouldn't kissme! he said he never would till I submit; and oh! he never breaks hisword. Oh! papa, papa, will you _never_ love me any more? I love _you_ so_very_ dearly. You'll kiss me when I'm dying, papa dear, won't you?"
Mr. Dinsmore could bear no more, but starting up he would have approachedthe bed, but a warning gesture from the physician prevented him, and hehurried from the room.
He met Travilla in the hall.
Neither spoke, but Edward wrung his friend's hand convulsively, thenhastily turned away to hide his emotion, while Mr. Dinsmore hurried tohis room, and locked himself in.
He did not come down to dinner, and Adelaide, hearing from the anxiousJohn how long he had been without food, began to feel seriously alarmedon his account, and carried up a biscuit and a cup of coffee with herown hands.
He opened the door at her earnest solicitation, but only shook his headmournfully, saying that he had no desire for food. She urged him, evenwith tears in her eyes, but all in vain; he replied that "he could noteat; it was impossible."
Adelaide had at first felt inclined to reproach him bitterly for hislong delay in returning home, but he looked so very wretched, so utterlycrushed by the weight of this great sorrow, that she had not the heart tosay one reproachful word, but on the contrary longed to comfort him.
He begged her to sit down and give him a few moments' conversation. Hetold her why he had been so long in answering her summons, and how hehad travelled night and day since receiving it; and then he questionedher closely about the whole course of Elsie's sickness--every change inher condition, from first to last--all that had been done for her--andall that she had said and done.
Adelaide told him everything; dwelling particularly on the child'srestless longing for him, her earnest desire to receive his forgivenessand caress before she died, and her entreaties to her to comfort her"dear papa" when she was gone. She told him, too, of her last will andtestament, and of the little package which was, after her death, to begiven to him, along with her dearly loved Bible.
He was deeply moved during this recital, sometimes sitting with his headbowed down, hiding his face in his hands; at others, rising and pacingthe floor, his breast heaving with emotion, and a groan of anguish everand anon bursting from his overburdened heart, in spite of the mightyeffort he was evidently making to control himself.
But at last she was done; she had told him all that there was to tell,and for a few moments both sat silent, Adelaide weeping quietly, and hestriving in vain to be calm.
At length he said, in a husky tone, "Sister Adelaide, I can never thankyou as you deserve for your kindness to her--my precious child."
"Oh, brother!" replied Adelaide, sobbing, "I owe her a debt of gratitudeI can never pay. She has been all my comfort in my great sorrow; she hastaught me the way to heaven, and now she is going before." Then, with aburst of uncontrollable grief, she exclaimed: "Oh, Elsie! Elsie! darlingchild! how _can_ I give you up?"
Mr. Dinsmore hid his face, and his whole frame shook with emotion.
"My punishment is greater than I can bear!" he exclaimed in a voicechoked with grief. "Adelaide, do you not despise and hate me for mycruelty to that angel-child?"
"My poor brother, I am very sorry for you," she replied, laying her handon his arm, while the tears trembled in her eyes.
There was a light tap at the door. It was Doctor Barton. "Mr. Dinsmore,"he said, "she is begging so piteously for her papa that, perhaps, itwould be well for you to show yourself again; it is just possible shemay recognize you"
Mr. Dinsmore waited for no second bidding, but following the physicianwith eager haste, was the next moment at the bedside.
The little girl was moving restlessly about, moaning, "Oh! papa, papa,will you never come?"
"I am here, darling," he replied in tones of the tenderest affection. "I_have_ come back to my little girl"
She turned her head to look at him. "No, no," she said, "I want my papa."
"My darling, do you not know me?" he asked in a voice quivering withemotion.
"No, no, you shall not! I will never do it--_never_. Oh! make him goaway," she shrieked, clinging to Mrs. Travilla, and glaring at him with alook of the wildest affright, "he has come to torture me because I won'tpray to the Virgin."
"It is quite useless," said the doctor, shaking his head sorrowfully;"she evidently does not know you."
And the unhappy father turned away and left the room to shut himself upagain alone with his agony and remorse.
No one saw him again that night, and when the maid came to attend to hisroom in the morning, she was surprised and alarmed to find that the bedhad not been touched.
Mr. Travilla, who was keeping a sorrowful vigil in the room below, had hebeen questioned, could have told that there had been scarcely a cessationin the sound of the footsteps pacing to and fro over his head. It hadbeen a night of anguish and heart-searching, such as Horace Dinsmore hadnever passed through before. For the first time he saw himself to be whathe really was in the sight of God, a guilty, hell-deserving sinner--lost,ruined, and undone. He had never believed it before, and the prayerswhich he had occasionally offered up had been very much in the spirit ofthe Pharisee's, "God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are!"
He had been blessed with a pious mother, who was early taken from him;yet not too early to have had some influence in forming the character ofher son; and the faint but tender recollection of that mother's prayersand teac
hings had proved a safeguard to him in many an hour oftemptation, and had kept him from falling into the open vices of someof his less scrupulous companions. But he had been very proud of hismorality and his upright life, unstained by any dishonorable act. He hadalways thought of himself as quite deserving of the prosperity with whichhe had been blessed in the affairs of this world, and just as likely asany one to be happy in the next.
The news of Elsie's illness had first opened his eyes to the enormityof his conduct in relation to her; and now, as he thought of her purelife, her constant anxiety to do right, her deep humility, her love toJesus, and steadfast adherence to what she believed to be her duty, hermartyr-like spirit in parting with everything she most esteemed andvalued rather than be guilty of what seemed to others but a very slightinfringement of the law of God--as he thought of all this, and contrastedit with his own worldly-mindedness and self-righteousness, his utterneglect of the Saviour, and determined efforts to make his child asworldly as himself, he shrank back appalled at the picture, and wasconstrained to cry out in bitterness of soul: "God be merciful to me, asinner."
It was the first _real_ prayer he had ever offered. He would fain haveasked for the life of his child, but dared not; feeling that he had soutterly abused his trust that he richly deserved to have it taken fromhim. The very thought was agony; but he dared not ask to have itotherwise.
He had given up all hope that she would be spared to him, but pleadedearnestly that one lucid interval might be granted her, in which he couldtell her of his deep sorrow on account of his severity toward her, andask her forgiveness.
He did not go down to breakfast, but Adelaide again brought him somerefreshment, and at length he yielded to her entreaties that he would tryto eat a little.
She set down the salver, and turned away to hide the tears she could notkeep back. Her heart ached for him. She had never seen such a change in afew hours as had passed over him. He seemed to have grown ten years olderin that one night--he was so pale and haggard--his eyes so sunken in hishead, and there were deep, hard lines of suffering on his brow and aroundhis mouth.
His meal was soon concluded.
"Adelaide, how is she?" he asked in a voice which he vainly endeavored tomake calm and steady.
"Much the same; there seems to be very little change," replied hissister, wiping away her tears. Then drawing Elsie's little Bible from herpocket, she put it into his hand, saying, "I thought it might help tocomfort you, my poor brother;" and with a fresh burst of tears shehastily left the room and hurried to her own, to spend a few moments inpleading for him that this heavy affliction might be made the means ofleading him to Christ.
And he--ah! he could not at first trust himself even to look at thelittle volume that had been so constantly in his darling's hands, thatit seemed almost a part of herself.
He held it in a close, loving grasp, while his averted eyes were dim withunshed tears; but at length, passing his hand over them to clear away theblinding mist, he opened the little book and turned over its pages withtrembling fingers, and a heart swelling with emotion.
There were many texts marked with her pencil, and many pages blisteredwith her tears. Oh, what a pang that sight sent to her father's heart! Insome parts these evidences of her frequent and sorrowful perusal weremore numerous than in others. Many of the Psalms, the Lamentations ofJeremiah, and the books of Job and Isaiah, in the Old Testament, and St.John's gospel, and the latter part of Hebrews, in the New.
Hour after hour he sat there reading that little book; at firstinterested in it only because of its association with her--his loved one;but at length beginning to feel the importance of its teachings and theiradaptedness to his needs. As he read, his convictions deepened theinspired declaration that "without holiness no man shall see the Lord,"and the solemn warning, "See that ye refuse not him that speaketh. For ifthey escaped not who refused him that spake on earth, much more shall notwe escape, if we turn away from him that speaketh from heaven," filledhim with fear of the wrath to come; for well he remembered how all hislife he had turned away from the Saviour of sinners, despising that bloodof sprinkling, and rejecting all the offers of mercy; and he trembledlest he should not escape.
Several times during the day and evening he laid the book aside, andstole softly into Elsie's room to learn if there had been any change;but there was none, and at length, quite worn out with fatigue andsorrow--for he had been several nights without any rest--he threw himselfdown on a couch, and fell into a heavy slumber.
About midnight Adelaide came and woke him to say that Elsie had becomecalm, the fever had left her, and she had fallen asleep.
"The doctor," she added, "says this is the crisis, and he begins to havea _little_ hope--very faint, indeed, but still a _hope_--that she mayawake refreshed from this slumber; yet it might be--he is fearful itis--only the precursor of death."
The last word was almost inaudible.
Mr. Dinsmore trembled with excitement.
"I will go to her," he said in an agitated tone. "She will not know ofmy presence, now that she is sleeping, and I may at least have the sadsatisfaction of looking at her dear little face."
But Adelaide shook her head.
"No, no," she replied, "that will never do; for we know not at whatmoment she may awake, and the agitation she would probably feel at thesight of you would be almost certain to prove fatal. Had you not betterremain here? and I will call you the moment she wakes."
Mr. Dinsmore acquiesced with a deep sigh, and she went back to her post.
Hour after hour they sat there--Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide, the doctor, andpoor old Chloe--silent and still as statues, watching that quiet slumber,straining their ears to catch the faint sound of the gentle breathing--asound so low that ever and anon their hearts thrilled with the suddenfear that it had ceased forever; and one or another, rising noiselessly,would bend over the little form in speechless alarm, until again theycaught the low, fitful sound.
The first faint streak of dawn was beginning in the eastern sky whenthe doctor, who had been bending over her for several minutes, suddenlylaid his finger on her pulse for an instant; then turned to hisfellow-watchers with a look that there was no mistaking.
There was weeping and wailing then in that room, where death-likestillness had reigned so long.
"Precious, precious child! dear lamb safely gathered into the Saviour'sfold," said Mrs. Travilla in quivering tones, as she gently laid her handupon the closed eyes, and straightened the limbs as tenderly as though ithad been a living, breathing form.
"Oh, Elsie! Elsie! dear, _dear_ little Elsie!" cried Adelaide, flingingherself upon the bed, and pressing her lips to the cold cheek. "I haveonly just learned to know your value, and now you are taken from me.Oh! Elsie, darling, precious one; oh! that I had sooner learned yourworth! that I had done more to make your short life happy!"
Chloe was sobbing at the foot of the bed, "Oh! my child! my child! Oh!now dis ole heart will break for sure!" while the kind-hearted physicianstood wiping his eyes and sighing deeply.
"Her poor father!" exclaimed Mrs. Travilla at length.
"Yes, yes, I will go to him," said Adelaide quickly. "I promised to callhim the moment she waked, and _now_--oh, _now_, I must tell him she willnever wake again."
"No!" replied Mrs. Travilla, "rather tell him that she has waked inheaven, and is even now singing the song of the redeemed."
Adelaide turned to Elsie's writing-desk, and taking from it the packetwhich the child had directed to be given to her father as soon as she wasgone, she carried it to him.
Her low knock was instantly followed by the opening of the door, for hehad been awaiting her coming in torturing suspense.
She could not look at him, but hastily thrusting the packet into hishand, turned weeping away.
He well understood the meaning of her silence and her tears, and with agroan of anguish that Adelaide never could forget, he shut and lockedhimself in again; while she hurried to her room to indulge her grief insolitude, leaving M
rs. Travilla and Chloe to attend to the last sadoffices of love to the dear remains of the little departed one.
The news had quickly spread through the house, and sobs and bitterweeping were heard in every part of it; for Elsie had been dearly lovedby all.
Chloe was assisting Mrs. Travilla.
Suddenly the lady paused in her work, saying, in an agitated tone,"Quick! quick! Aunt Chloe, throw open that shutter wide. I thought I felta little warmth about the heart, and--yes! yes! I was not mistaken; there_is_ a slight quivering of the eyelid. Go, Chloe! call the doctor! shemay live yet!"
The doctor was only in the room below, and in a moment was at thebedside, doing all that could be done to fan into a flame that littlespark of life.
And they were successful. In a few moments those eyes, which they hadthought closed forever to all the beauties of earth, opened again, anda faint, weak voice asked for water.
The doctor was obliged to banish Chloe from the room, lest the noisymanifestation of her joy should injure her nursling, yet trembling uponthe very verge of the grave; and as he did so, he cautioned her torefrain from yet communicating the glad tidings to any one, lest somesound of their rejoicing might reach the sick-chamber, and disturb thelittle sufferer.
And then he and the motherly old lady took their stations at the bedsideonce more, watching in perfect silence, and administering every fewmoments a little stimulant, for she was weak as a new-born infant, andonly in this way could they keep the flickering flame of life from dyingout again.
It was not until more than an hour had passed in this way, and hope beganto grow stronger in their breasts, until it became almost certainty thatElsie would live, that they thought of her father and aunt, so entirelyhad their attention been engrossed by the critical condition of theirlittle patient.
It was many minutes after Adelaide left him ere Mr. Dinsmore could thinkof anything but the terrible, crushing blow which had fallen upon him,and his agonized feelings found vent in groans of bitter anguish, fit tomelt a heart of stone; but at length he grew somewhat calmer; and as hiseye fell upon the little packet he remembered that it was her dying giftto him, and with a deep sigh he took it up and opened it.
It contained his wife's miniature--the same that Elsie had always wornsuspended from her neck--one of the child's glossy ringlets, severed fromher head by her own little hands the day before she was taken ill--and aletter, directed in her handwriting to himself.
He pressed the lock of hair to his lips, then laid it gently down, andopened the letter.
"Dear, dear papa," it began, "my heart is very sad to-night! There issuch a weary, aching pain there, that will never be gone till I can laymy head against your breast, and feel your arms folding me tight, andyour kisses on my cheek. Ah! papa, how often I wish you could just lookdown into my heart and see how _full_ of love to you it is! I am alwaysthinking of you, and longing to be with you. You bade me go and see thehome you have prepared, and I have obeyed you. You say, if I will only besubmissive we will live there, and be so very happy together, and Icannot tell you how my heart longs for such a life with you in thatlovely, lovely home; nor how happy I could be there, or _anywhere_ withyou, if you would only let me make God's law the rule of my life; but, myown dear father, if I have found your frown so dreadful, so _hard_ tobear, how much more terrible would my Heavenly Father's be! Oh, papa,_that_ would make me wretched indeed! But oh, I cannot _bear_ to think ofbeing sent away from you amongst strangers! Dear, _dear_ papa, will younot spare your little daughter this trial? I will try to be so very goodand obedient in everything that my conscience will allow. I am so sad,papa, so very sad, as if something terrible was coming, and my head feelsstrangely. I fear I am going to be ill, perhaps to die! Oh, papa, will Inever see you again? I want to ask you to forgive me for all the naughtythoughts and feelings I have ever had towards you. I think I have neverdisobeyed you in _deed_, papa--except the few times you have known of,when I forgot, or thought you bade me break God's law--but twice I haverebelled in my heart. Once when you took Miss Rose's letter from me, andagain when mammy told me you had said she must go away. It was only for alittle while each time, papa, but it was very wicked, and I am very,_very_ sorry; will you please forgive me? and I will try never to indulgesuch wicked feelings again."
The paper was blistered with Elsie's tears, and _other_ tears werefalling thick and fast upon it now.
"_She_ to ask forgiveness of me, for a momentary feeling of indignationwhen I so abused my authority," he groaned. "Oh, my darling! I would giveall I am worth to bring you back for one hour, that I might ask _your_forgiveness, on my knees."
But there was more of the letter, and he read on:
"Dear papa," she continued, "should I die, and never see you again inthis world, don't ever feel vexed with yourself, and think that you havebeen too severe with me. I know you have only done what you had a rightto do--for am I not your own? Oh, I _love_ to belong to you, papa! andyou meant it all to make me good; and I needed it, for I was loving you_too_ dearly. I was getting away from my Saviour. But when you put meaway from your arms and separated me from my nurse, I had no one to goto but Jesus, and he drew me closer to him, and I found his love verysweet and precious; it has been all my comfort in my great sorrow. Dearpapa, when I am gone, and you feel sad and lonely, will not _you_ go toJesus, too? I will leave you my dear little Bible, papa. Please readit for Elsie's sake, and God grant it may comfort you as it has yourlittle daughter. And, dear papa, try to forget these sad days of ourestrangement, and remember only the time when your little girl was alwayson your knee, or by your side. Oh! it breaks my heart to think of thosesweet times, and that they will never come again! Oh, for one kiss, onecaress, one word of love from you! for oh, how _I love_ you, my own dear,be loved, precious papa!
"Your little daughter,"ELSIE."
Mr. Dinsmore dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned aloud. It washis turn now to long, with an _unutterable_ longing, for one caress, oneword of love from those sweet lips that should never speak again. A longtime he sat there, living over again in memory every scene in his life inwhich his child had borne a part, and repenting, oh, so bitterly! ofevery harsh word he had ever spoken to her, of every act of unjustseverity; and, alas! how many and how cruel they seemed to him now!Remorse was eating into his very soul, and he would have given worldsto be able to recall the past.
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