“Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life;
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o’er thee.”
—THOMAS OTWAY.
“SHE is very weary, poor darling!” Rose said softly.
“Yes,” her husband answered in the same low tones. “She is perfectly healthy I think, but not of a vigorous constitution naturally, and has never fully recovered her strength since—that long and terrible illness.”
His voice was tremulous with emotion as he referred to that time of trial—those long-past days so full of grief, anxiety and remorse that their memory must ever be painful to him.
“I fear I hardly did right in allowing this dissipation,” he went on after a moment’s pause, “but I thought her better able to bear it.”
“Do not be too anxious and troubled, my dear husband,” Rose said in a gentle, affectionate tone, laying her hand lightly on his arm; “I think the dear child will be quite restored by a few hours of sound, refreshing sleep. And I am sure she has enjoyed the evening greatly. I caught sight of her face several times, and it was so bright and happy! So do not reproach yourself because you did not deny her this pleasure.”
“My dear wife! my sweet comforter!” he returned. “How is it with you, my love? are you much fatigued?”
“Oh, no! only enough so to feel that home and bed will be enjoyable when reached. I have had a very pleasant evening, and hope you can say the same.”
“Yes; it is pleasant to meet one’s friends and acquaintances in that way now and then.”
Elsie awoke only partially when the carriage stopped at their own door, and her father carried her to her room in his arms.
“Get her to bed as quickly as you can, Aunt Chloe,” he said; “and in the morning darken the room and keep her asleep as long as possible. Annis, my dear,” turning to her, “I fear you too must be very tired?”
“Oh, no, sir, only a little. I think I must be a great deal stronger than Elsie.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Well, go to bed now, and don’t feel that there is the least occasion to rise from it until you choose.”
“That’s very kind in you, Cousin Horace,” she said, kissing him good-night. “I daresay I shall want a good nap in the morning.”
She withdrew to her room, wide enough awake, and not too weary to prepare herself for bed.
Mr. Dinsmore stayed and assisted Aunt Chloe in her labors. He could not persuade himself to leave his darling child, until he saw her resting comfortably on her couch. Then he bent over her with a tender caress and a murmured blessing.
“‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’”
“Dear papa,” she said, putting her arm about his neck, “that is such a sweet blessing! doubly sweet because my father asks it of God for me. And may he give it to you, too, dear papa.”
She was so tired that she fell asleep again with the last word—“papa”—still trembling on her lips.
Mr. Dinsmore’s first act on leaving his room the next morning was to steal softly to Elsie’s bedside and bend over her.
She was still sleeping, the sound, refreshing sleep of healthful childhood; the rose had returned to her cheek, the slightly parted lips were ruby-red. Evidently she was none the worse for the last night’s fatigue, and he turned away with a sigh of relief.
Two hours longer she slept, then awoke to find her father standing close at her side. The full red lips parted in the sweetest of smiles, and the soft dark eyes lifted to his were luminous with love and joy called forth by the fond affection they read in his.
“Good-morning, papa!” she said in her sweet, silvery tones. “It is morning, isn’t it? though the light is so faint.”
“Yes; I had the room partially darkened that my tired little girl might sleep off her fatigue.”
“Thank you, sir! my dear, kind father! May I get up now?”
“Yes; or will you take your breakfast in bed?”
“I’d rather get up and be dressed first, if you please, papa.”
“You are quite rested?”
“Yes, sir, quite. I feel very well.”
“I am more thankful than words can express,” he sighed, caressing her with hand and lip. “You seemed so completely overcome last night that I have been haunted with the fear that something more than fatigue ailed you.”
“My dear papa!” she said again, stroking his face as he leaned over her, “my dear, kind, loving papa! I was only very tired, that was all, and I didn’t know I was that till just as I was putting on my wraps to come home, I’d had such a nice time, but all at once, when the fun stopped, I felt as if the strength had all gone out of me.”
The murmur of their voices had reached Annis, who was busy with her toilet.
“Good-morning,” she said, opening the door a very little and peering in through the crack.
“Good-morning,” Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie both responded. “Have you slept well? and do you feel rested?”
“Yes, thank you, I never felt better in my life. But I’m ashamed to have slept so late. Do you know what time it is, Elsie?”
“No.”
“Ten o’clock.”
Annis’s tone was full of a sort of dismayed astonishment. Elsie started up in such haste and sprang out of bed so nimbly that her father laughed to see her.
“No need of such haste, darling,” he said, “nor for you to feel troubled, Annis; we older people have only just breakfasted. Aunt Chloe must make haste with your toilet, Elsie, and in the mean while breakfast shall be laid for you and Annis in your boudoir; and when you have satisfied your appetite you may come to me in the study. I will leave you until then.”
It was a very delicious little breakfast the children found awaiting them in the pretty boudoir, and they brought to it appetites keen enough to make it most enjoyable.
Then the one went to her father, the other to her sister to spend the next half hour.
By that time the large, roomy family carriage was at the door, and ladies, gentlemen and children took a delightful drive; for the sun shone brightly and the air was just cold enough to be pleasant and bracing to mind and body.
It was now the last of November, and from this time until the beginning of the Christmas holidays ladies and children were much occupied with preparations for them; principally shopping and making up pretty things as Christmas gifts to relatives and friends.
Elsie and Annis were somewhat disposed to neglect lessons for this more fascinating employment, but Mr. Dinsmore would by no means permit it; he was firm in his determination that every task should be thoroughly well learned each day before the fancy work might be touched, or a shopping expedition undertaken. Nor would he allow any curtailment of the usual daily out-door exercise.
They occasionally ventured a slight complaint that it was very difficult to fix their thoughts on lessons when so greatly interested in other things; but he was inexorable.
“It can and must be done,” he would say, gently but firmly, addressing his own daughter more particularly; “that a thing which ought to be done is difficult, is no reason for excusing ourselves from making the necessary effort to do it. As I have told you before, my child, the determined effort to concentrate your thoughts is excellent mental discipline for you.”
He was not very busy at this time, and spent some hours each day—generally those in which the children were conning their tasks—in reading to his wife and Mildred, while they plied the needle; all three in this way renewing their acquaintance most agreeably with Shakspeare, Wordsworth, Scott, Dickens, and other poets and novelists.
The book in hand was generally laid aside when the little girls joined them, but occasionally Mr. Dinsmore read on when he thought the passage unobjectionable even for minds so immature as theirs. Sometimes, too, the books were discussed in their hearing, arousing their interest and curiosity more than their elders realized.
Mr. Dinsmore had always strictly forbidden novels to Elsie, telling her she should read Scott’s, Dickens’ and others of the better class when he considered her old enough, but not till then.
One evening as they were all gathered in the parlor, Dr. Landreth and Mr. Travilla being of the party also, the talk ran for some time upon the characters and incidents of “Kenilworth” and “Ivanhoe,” then of “Barnaby Rudge,” “Oliver Twist” and “David Copperfield.”
Elsie, seated upon her father’s knee, listened with growing interest. “Papa,” she whispered, with her arm about his neck, her eyes gazing pleadingly into his, as a pause in the conversation gave her an opportunity, “mayn’t I read those books?”
“Some day; several years hence,” he said, softly stroking her hair and smiling into the beseeching eyes.
“Oh, but I mean now, papa! I—”
“No, my child,” he said, with grave decision, “they are not suited to your tender years. And as you have no lack of reading matter that is, and which interests as well as instructs you, I think my prohibition ought not to be felt as a very severe trial.”
Christmas fell on Tuesday that year. Elsie’s guests were invited to come to the Oaks on Monday, the twenty-fourth, to dinner, and to remain until the following Saturday night. It was her own choice not to have them there on Sunday.
“Because, papa,” she said, “you know I should find it very difficult to keep the Sabbath day holy with a company of gay young friends to entertain; indeed I’m afraid I could not do it.”
“Yes, I fear so too,” he returned, “and besides you will be, by that time, in need of rest from the care and trouble of entertaining.”
Then remembering how ill able she was to bear late hours, he, after a moment’s reflection, bade her mention in each note of invitation that the parents need not fear that their children would be injured by loss of necessary sleep, as early hours would be kept except on Christmas eve, and even then their sports should not continue later than ten o’clock.
Her extreme fatigue from the Pinegrove party made him very glad he had taken this precaution. No mother ever watched more tenderly and untiringly over a child’s welfare than he over that of this darling only daughter. And no childish heart was ever more full of grateful filial love than Elsie’s.
Glowing accounts, heard through the servants, of the grand preparations going on at the Oaks soon made Enna regret her haste in rejecting her brother’s invitation, and the regret deepened as time went on, till at length she resolved that she couldn’t and wouldn’t miss the fun and the feasting in store for Elsie’s guests; so she coaxed and wheedled her mother into writing a note to Mrs. Rose Dinsmore saying they might expect Enna; she would come to dinner on Monday, and probably remain through the week.
This note was handed Rose at the breakfast-table on Saturday. She glanced over it, laughed a little, then read it aloud.
Mr. Dinsmore smiled sarcastically. Elsie sighed, and Annis looked provoked. Evidently Enna would not be the most welcome of the expected guests.
But it was entirely the fault of her own ill-temper and selfishness.
“Well, daughter,” Mr. Dinsmore said cheerily, for Elsie’s sigh, though neither loud nor deep, had reached his ear, “don’t let this—shall I say unfortunate?—turn of affairs spoil your pleasure. It may be that Enna will show herself in a new character. At all events we have still two days of grace.”
“Oh, yes, sir!” she responded, her face resuming its accustomed sweet and joyous expression, “and I think we’ll enjoy our shopping to-day. I have my list made out and I hope we’ll be able to get everything; because we could hardly take time to go in again on Monday.”
“No, certainly not, at least not without tiring you too much, as you expect to have a gay and long evening with your young guests.”
“And Monday morning must be devoted to labelling presents and trimming the Christmas tree,” remarked Rose.
“How many are going to the city this morning?” asked Mr. Dinsmore.
“All except babies and servants,” answered his wife.
“Then shall I order the family carriage to be at the door in fifteen minutes after prayers?”
“Yes, if you please; it will be best to start as early as we can; though our shopping to-day is not likely to be very arduous; we have already bought everything the selection of which would require much time and taste.”
Mr. Dinsmore remarked that he had directed two of the servants to go into the woods that morning to get the Christmas tree. Then he proposed that it should be set up in a parlor not in constant use, trimmed that evening, and the room door locked until the proper hour of exhibition on Monday.
“My dear, I believe yours is the better plan,” said Rose. “Do you not think so, Cousin Mildred?”
“Yes, decidedly so, if we do not fatigue ourselves too much in the city to-day.”
“Can we help?” the little girls were asking.
“Oh, no!” returned the older people in chorus, “you are to have the pleasure of the surprise of seeing the finished work on Christmas eve.”
“Yes, there is one thing they can do,” Mr. Dinsmore said; “label the presents they give to others.”
They were well pleased with the suggestion; indeed seemed in a mood to be pleased with everything except the prospect of Enna’s company the following week, and that they resolutely refused to contemplate.
They enjoyed their drive, their shopping, the home-coming after it, and the good dinner that followed; then a restful chat between themselves and with the older people—plans for the entertainment and amusement of the expected guests being the staple of discourse—and a romp with the babies.
A gallop about the grounds on the Shetland ponies and the labelling of their presents filled up the most of their time for the remainder of the day and evening, and they went early to bed to be ready for the full enjoyment of the coming Lord’s day with its sacred duties and pleasures.