LITMIR.BIZ

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yes, I know, I know! He has been very good to me; but I must weep for the dear ones gone——"

      "And He will not chide you—He who wept with Martha and Mary over their dead brother."

      The children were awed into silence and stillness by the scene; but as Adelaide withdrew herself from her brother's arms, while he and her husband grasped each other by the hand in a cordial greeting, little Elsie drew near her, and taking gently hold of her hand, dropped upon it a kiss and a sympathizing tear.

      "Darling!" said Adelaide, stooping to fold the child in her arms; then looking up at her niece, "What a wonderful likeness, Elsie! I can hardly believe it is not yourself, restored to us as you were at her age."

      The morning greetings were soon exchanged, and Adelaide led the way to her pleasant sitting-room.

      "What is the latest news from home, Adelaide?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, with evident anxiety. "I have not heard a word for months past."

      "I had a long letter from Lora yesterday;" she answered; "the first since the close of the war. Her eldest son, Ned, and Enna's second husband, were killed in the battle of Bentonville, last March. Lora's husband has lost an arm, one of his brothers a leg; the others are all killed, and the family utterly ruined.

      "The Carringtons—father and sons—have all fallen, Sophie is here, with her orphan children; her mother-in-law, with her own daughter, Lucy Ross. Philip has escaped unhurt. They will all be here next week to attend May's wedding.

      "Papa, Louise—you know that she too has lost her husband—and Enna are all at the Oaks; for Roselands is a ruin, Ion not very much better, Lora says."

      "And the Oaks has escaped?"

      "Yes, almost entirely; not being visible from the road. Papa sends a message to you. He is too heart-broken to write. He knows he is welcome in your house; he is longing to see you, now his only son——" Adelaide's voice faltered, and it was a moment ere she could go on—"but he would have you stay away till September, not risking a return during the hottest season; and, if you wish, he will attend to the plantation, hiring blacks to work it."

      "My poor, poor old father!" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed, with emotion. "Welcome in my house? If I had but a dollar, I would share it with him."

      "He shall never want a home, while any of us live!" sprang simultaneously from the lips of Mr. Allison and Mr. Travilla.

      Adelaide and Elsie were too much moved to speak, but each gave her husband a look of grateful affection.

      "Thank you both," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Adelaide, I shall write my father to-day. Does Lora say that he is well?"

      Mrs. Allison could hardly speak for tears, as she answered, "He is not ill, but sadly aged by grief and care. But you shall read the letter for yourself. Stay to breakfast with us (there's the bell), and I'll give it to you afterwards."

      "Thanks; but I fear they may wait breakfast for me at the other house."

      "No; I will send them word at once that we have kept you."

      There was an effort after cheerfulness as they gathered about the plentiful board; but too many sad thoughts and memories had been called up in the hearts of the elders of the party: and only the children were really gay.

      Edward Allison was pale and thin, his health having suffered from the hardships incident to his army life.

      Elsie 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

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