CHAPTER 18 Never morning war to evening, but some heart did break, Tennyson. They brought the housekeeper and the family physician. The latter pronounced the patient very ill, and with good reason, for she passed out of one soon, only to fall into another, till they thought that her end was surely near at hand. However, after some hours the immediate danger seemed over, and the doctor left, promising to return before night. Mrs. Dinsmore had been odd and frightened, into something slightly akin to terror and remorse, on account of her excessive harshness, but now shook it off. Really, she takes her dismissal very hard! She remarked to Mildred as the latter was leaving the dinner-table. I had no idea she was so much attached to Rosalinds. I do not think it could be that alone, Aunt! Mildred returned in surprise and disgust. What then? Her relatives disgrace, the poverty and distress to herself and a mother and sister dependent on her, consequent from being thrown out of employment. Then with a sudden recollection of that paper with its marked paragraph, Mildred hastened from the room and went in search of it. The patient had fallen asleep, Rachel, watching at her side. A glance showed Mildred the paper folded and laid upon the table. She opened it cautiously, found the article she sought, and read it. A case of lynching occurred in one of the southern counties of Texas about two weeks ago. A man named Joseph White, said to be from one of the northern states suspected of horse-stealing, was taken by a posse of some forty armed men, carried into the woods and hung. He was given ten minutes to prepare for death, died bravely, protesting his innocence to the last, but of course nobody believed him, as the proof against him was strong. Big and feigned with horror, Mildred laid down the paper and dropped, shuddering into a chair. Oh, this was worse than all! If he was that poor woman's husband and she loved him, no wonder news so dreadful, and coming at such a time as this, she had bring her down to the very gates of death. The girlish heart was filled with a great compassion for the poor, stricken creature, a great longing to comfort her in her grief and desolation. She will not live. She cannot, she whispered to herself, I should not wish to were I in her place, for oh, it is so horrible, so horrible! How can men be such savages as to take human life to atone for the loss of an animal, and that perhaps the life of an innocent man? I should be loath to assume your responsibility in this matter, remarked Mr. Dinsmar to his wife as Mildred left them lingering over their dessert. Why, she demanded bridling, did I cause the ruin of her brother or the poverty of the family? You seem to have added to that last burden, thus supplying the one drop that makes a cup overflow. I only did my duty to my children, she retorted angrily. I cannot see it, he said. The children have improved very much in the two years that she has been with us. And of course all the credit that that belongs to her, there is none at all due to me. Often wonder, Mr. Dinsmar, how you came to marry a woman, for whom you entertained so little admiration or respect, that is hardly a fair inference from what I have said. He rejoined in a tone of weariness and disgust, for she had tried his patience not a little that day, with her whims and follies. He rose with the last word and withdrew to the library. He was sitting before the fire in his easy chair, seemingly lost in thought. When the door opened softly, Mildred glided across the room and stood at his side.  What is it? he asked in a startled tone. She's not gone, I hope. Mildred shook her head and with the burst of tears in a whispered, I could almost wish she was, if I was quite sure she was prepared, pointed significantly to the marked paragraph in the paper which she held before him. He read it, and then looked up at her with an inquiring. Well? Upon which Mildred told her reasons for connecting that item of news with Miss Worth's sudden seizure, repeating the words gasped out by the pale, trembling lips of the governess on her partial restoration to consciousness. I thought then that her mind wandered, concluded Mildred, but since reading this, I fear her words were only too true. Poor thing, he sighed. I'm afraid she knows by sad experience all she's rescued Juliet from. Well, Millie, we will do the best we can for her. When child, don't distress yourself unnecessarily. It will do her no good, you know. You were always kind and thoughtful for me, uncle. She responded gratefully. But this seems no time to be considering myself. Do you know what the doctor thinks of her?  What she has had to exhaust her, I don't know. Her duties were light enough, I suppose, but the shock I took to have been the arrest of her brother, it would seem, however, from this, that a far more terrible one was super-added. Yes, Mildred said, shuddering, oh, my heart bleeds for her. But how strange that she is married! Why should she have kept it so profound a secret, going back to her maiden name? That I cannot tell, Mr. Dinsme answered, but probably it was a clandestine and unfortunate affair, and she wished to avoid unpleasant explanations. We will say nothing about it to your aunt, as it would only increase her displeasure against the unhappy woman. Ah, uncle, Mildred said musingly, how little idea I have had hitherto of the dreadful distress that comes into some lives. I begin to think myself a very fortunate mortal. It is well to learn to appreciate our blessings, he returned with a smile that had little of mirth in it, for he was thinking with concern of the condition and prospects of the stranger within his gates. I must ask Dr. Barton whether she is likely to be long ill. He said, thinking aloud rather than addressing Mildred, that we may make arrangements accordingly. And I think we should show him this, indicating the fatal news item. It is her secret, Mildred suggested doubtfully. True, my dear, but physicians have often to be entrusted with the secrets of their patients, and Dr. Barton is a safe depository for such things. Mrs. Dinsme was impatient for Dr. Barton's opinion, very impatient over the unfortunate circumstances of the serious seizure of the governess underneath her roof, for she entertained an utter detestation of sickness and death, and was always ready to fly from them at a moment's warning, whatever might be the character of the illness. She insisted there was danger of contagion, and saw it to be clearly her duty to take care of herself by running away. She spent the afternoon in overseeing the packing of trunks that she might be prepared for any emergency, then anxiously awaited the doctor's report. It was her husband who brought it to her at last, late in the evening. Then clotheted for a quarter of an hour with the physician, and now came into his wife's boudoir with the countenance full of grave concern. Well, what is it? What does Dr. Barton say? She queried fretfully. I thought you would never come back to tell me. He fears there is little hope of recovery. Her husband answered gravely, pacing slowly to and fro with the air of one who is seriously disturbed.  It may be for some weeks. He cannot tell certainly. Can she be moved? Moved? What occasion for that? The room she occupies now is comfortable, is it not?  I want to know if she can't be sent to the village, to a hotel or boarding-house. It isn't at all pleasant to think of her dying here. I don't want any haunted rooms in my house. He paused in his walk, and stood looking at her in amazement that presently gave place to an expression of extreme chagrin and disgust. Isabella! He exclaimed. Are you utterly heartless? Utterly destitute of womanly compassion for the helpless and suffering? Of course I'm not, she said, resorting to tears, as was her want when at loss for better weapons of defense. I'm sure she could be made very comfortable there, and I spared the necessity of being turned out of my own home in the depth of winter. But you can think of everybody's comfort and happiness except your wife's. It isn't the least consequence, and never will be. Really, he said, I do not know what you were talking about. I certainly have not proposed your leaving home, and cannot see the slightest necessity for your doing so. No, you would be quite as well-believed, so may you stay here and get sick and die, and give your chance to find a younger and prettier wife. He disdained a reply to that, and presently she went on. I shall take the children and go to Kentucky to visit my sister. It's fortunate that Mr. Morrison comes tomorrow and is going to return immediately. I could not have a better escort. As you please. I've become somewhat used to being left out of my wife's plans. He said coldly, turning on his heel to leave the room. Go if you like, he added, turning toward her again. But don't talk of necessity, for there's not the remotest danger of misworse sickness proving contagious. She is dying of a broken heart. Ridiculous!  The idea of a governess coming to such a romantic end, that's far more likely to turn out scarlet fever or smallpox. By morning she had worked herself up to the belief that such was really the case. The next step was to bring her nieces to a light conviction, in which she succeeded so well that they were greatly alarmed, Juliet nearly forgetting the disappointment and disgrace of her late attempted elopement, in the fear that smallpox might rob her of her beauty. She had not much to lose, to be sure, but of that fact she was comfortably ignorant, and as what she had was but skin deep, smallpox would have made sad havoc with it. Mr. Marsden arrived in the evening, and early the following morning, the whole party, consisting of himself and his two daughters, Mrs. Dinsmen, her six children, with their nurses, set out for his home in Kentucky. They departed without seeing Mildred, who had been so much in the sick room that they were afraid of her, but left good-bye for her with Mr. Dinsmen. He made no effort to detain his family, but simply remarked to his wife on taking leave of her, that when she felt it safe to return, he would be happy to see her and their children. The house seemed strangely quiet and deserted, as he turned back into it after seeing them off. He went up to the sick room. Mildred was there, moving softly about, supplementing the work that the house made, with a few skillful touches here and there, that seemed to brighten up the place wonderfully. He had said to her at the first, Mildred, you are not to bear any part of this burden. Mrs. Brown and Aunt Delia are both excellent nurses, and will not neglect anything that can be done for her relief or restoration, and I cannot have you wearing yourself out. He said substantially the same thing now, speaking in an undertone that could not disturb the patient, who was sleeping under the influence of medicine. I shall not wear myself out, uncle, never fear. She answered in the same low key, smiling up affectionately into his face. But I cannot be content to stay away all the time, for she seems to cling to me. Yes, said Mrs. Brown, coming in, and Ms. Mildred has a wonderfully soothing way with her, that quiets her in her fits of restlessness and distress, when nothing else can. And I think, Mr. Dinsmore, she added in a still lower tone, that it won't be long the poor creature will be troubling any of us. I see death in her pale, sunken face now. Mildred stole out into the hall, and her uncle, following her, found her wiping away the fast-falling tears. Oh, uncle, she sobbed, what do you think I have discovered, that she's been wearing herself out, sitting up half the night for months past, writing articles and stories for newspapers and magazines, in order to earn a little more for the support of that mother and sister? Indeed, he said, looking much concerned. I am very sorry. I would rather have added a hundred dollars to her salary, if I had known it. Unfortunately, it is too late now. I can't help feeling angry at them, cried Mildred. Why didn't they bear their own burdens, according to the Bible command? And then that brother and husband, oh, it is too bad. Have you learned any more of her story? He asked. No, sir. She hardly speaks at all, except that I have heard her murmur to herself in, oh, such a heartbroken way.  And two or three times she's whispered to me, tell me about him, that friend. That friend? Whom does she mean? The Lord Jesus. I told her of him once, when I found her sad and troubled, and it seemed to do her good.   He said in a moved tone, as he turned and went away. Going downstairs, he ordered his carriage and drove over to Ion. On the return, Mrs. Travo was with him. It was a glad surprise to Mildred, a greater comfort than anything else but the arrival for own mother could have been, for here was one with a heart ever tenderly alive to human will and far more capable than herself of pointing the sufferer to the only true source of help and compassion.  She said little, made no complaint, but lay their growing weaker, and often lifting her eyes to their faces with a look of hopeless anguish in them that wrung their hearts. Then Mrs. Travo would lean over her in a low, tender tone to let the love and sympathy of Jesus, repeating now one, now another, of the many exceeding great and precious promises of his word, as one whom his mother comforted. So will I comfort you, and ye shall be comforted. Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. I've loved them with an everlasting love, who will never leave thee nor forsake thee. Ah, if he loves me, why does he send such fearful trials? She asked one day, my dear, said Mrs. Travo. He told his disciples, in the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world. We must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God. But our light of fiction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Trust him, and he will do for you, just what is best. We'll give you strength to bear all that he sends, and take you at last to himself, to be unspeakably happy for ever and ever.  I thank God that you were sent here to tell me of this heavenly friend, for his love is all that sustains me in this dread hour. She closed her eyes, and for some moments they thought she slept but opening them again. I am dying, she whispered, but I'm not afraid, for he is with me. Ah, how much easier than his death? My darlings, she added with a shudder, only ten minutes to prepare, and I fear he had never found this friend. The canest look of anguish they had ever seen came into her eyes with those words, and for some minutes she was too much overcome to proceed. When at last she did, it was in tone so low and tremulous that they straightened their ears to catch the sounds. Six years ago we married, secretly, against my parents' wishes. They were right, he was wild, loved wine, cards, fast horses, but me too, and oh, how I loved him. He was Harry's ruin, both had to fly, and I've never taken his name openly. No one knew what he was to me but my own family, and I thought no one need no. Perhaps it was wrong, but how could I bear my heart to a stranger? You were not called upon to do so, Mrs. Travel aside with emotion, for the sad story had deeply touched her heart.  She passed away that night very calmly and peacefully, trusting in her redeemer, and his milder gaze upon the solemn scene, she thanked God that she had been permitted to lead one soul to him, to smooth one dying pillow, and that heaven would make amends to the sorely tried one, for all she had been called upon to endure on earth. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Amy Chapter 19 of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finley. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Amy. Chapter 19. A lovely being scarcely formed or molded. A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. Byrum. On the veranda of a lordly mansion, overlooking a velvety lawn of elm-road green, spangled with flowers and dotted here and there with giant oaks, magnolias, and orange trees, between which might be caught the silvery gleam of the bright waters of a lay-clip beyond. A young child, a lovely little girl of four, was sporting with her nurse, tossing to and fro a many-colored ball, with many a sweet baby laugh and shout. Presently, it flew over the railing and rolled away among the flowers in the grass. "'Let's go get it, Mammy,' said the little one, hurrying down the steps. "'Let's toss it on the lawn.' "'Wait, honey,' returned the nurse, following her.  "'Let's stop, Mammy, if Uncle coming on it.' "'Dunno, darling, expect he is,' Aunt Chloe answered, moving on, across the lawn in the direction of the little pier, where the boat was already rounding to. "'Kai, yes, darling, I'm standing on the deck.' The child clapped her pretty hands with a cry of delight. "'I see him, I see him. Please go on, Mammy. Now let me down. I want to run to meet him.'  At sight of the very little figure bounding toward him, he sat down a valise he carried, stooped and held out his arms, the stern lips relaxing into a smile, the gray eyes twinkling. In an instant she was clinging about his neck, the rosebud mouth, pressing sweet kisses on his lips.  A pleasant-faced matron and a neat muslin dress and cap met them on the veranda. "'Welcome home, Sir Mr Cameron,' she said, shaking hands with him. "'Your rooms are ready and tea will be on the table in ten minutes. "'Elsey, my Bonnie pet, will you not stay with me while uncle changes his linen?' "'Yes, Mrs. Mary, with you and Mammy,' the child answered with cheerful acquiescence. "'Uncle won't go away tomorrow or the next day, because he said so.' The child's meals were usually taken alone in the nursery, earlier hours than those preferred by the older people, better suiting her tender years. But tonight she took tea with her guardian, Mrs. Mary, Mrs. Mary sitting opposite him and presiding over the tea-earn. Elsey between them at his right hand, while Aunt Chloe stood at the back of her chair, ready to give instant attention to every want and wish. "'The evenings were cool enough to make an open wood fire very agreeable, and a fine one blazed and crackled on the hearth in the library, wither Mr Cameron bent his steps and leaving the table. He had scarcely taken possession of an easy chair beside it, when Elsey crept to his side and claimed a seat on his knee.  Some folk are, as a good book says, without natural affection. "'Why, Uncle? I've thought of Papa, hasn't I?' she asked, catching in an understanding way, only the first half of his remark. "'Mrs.  I was in heaven where Jesus is.' She prattled on my sweet, pretty mama, and pulling at a gold chain about her neck, she drew out from the bosom of her gown a miniature, setting gold and diamonds a likeness of a very beautiful young girl. "'Dear mama, sweet, pretty mama,' she repeated, fondly kissing the pictured face. "'Let me look at it, Elsey,' he said, as she was about to return it to its hiding place. The bonniest face I ever saw, he made his half-aloud, gazing intently upon it. "'Woe's me that the swords of the valley should have covered it from sight say soon. "'Was I wrong? Eh, how could I know that she cared so much for that wild youth? I thought it was a gold he was after, and I think so still.' But he heaved a profound remorseful sigh as he relinquished the miniature to its rightful owner. As he did so, he cut sight of Aunt Chloe standing near. Her dark eyes fixed on him with an expression of keenest sorrow, mingled with a reproach. "'She blames me,' he thought uneasily. "'Well, well, I meant it all for the best.' "'Aunt Chloe,' he said, speaking the loud, "'bring me a parcel you'll find on my dressing table.' She left the room and presently returned, bringing what he had sent her for. "'Something for you, Elsey,' he said, laying it in her lap. It was loosely wrapped in brown paper, which she quickly unfolded with her small white fingers, bringing to light a large, beautiful, and handsomely dressed all. "'Oh, oh, see, Mammy, see,' she cried into light. "'Such a big dolly, biggest of all I've stopped!' Then she thanked the giver with kisses and smiles and sweet words of baby gratitude, for she was a child of most grateful and loving disposition. Mrs. Murray must be caught in to see and admire the new treasure. Then, with it, hugged closely in her arms the delighted darling babe goodnight, and suffered her Mammy to lead her away to bed. "'What a bonny land it is!' One cannot think well of the father that neglects it,' remarked Mr. Cameron, as the tiny, fairy-like figure disappeared through the doorway. "'It's unaccountable, and whilst it makes me a grave doubt of the reality of his love for the mother,' said the housekeeper, but if once he got sides with the Baron it would surely be different. Who could see that it wins some thing, and not love her dearly? Can you no manage to get in here by hook or by crook, Mr. Cameron?' "'Cannot say that I'm over-anxious,' he answered dryly. He's too fiery and hot-headed a youth to deal comfortably with. Besides, he's away in Europe. Ah! When will he return?' "'Indeed, Mrs. Murray, I got no hint of that, except that his stay was likely to be lengthy.' She had brought in her accounts of household expenditures for the past month, and some time was spending going over them and conversing of various business matters. "'Mr. Cameron,' she said, as the interview was about to close, "'life and health are both uncertain with us all. In case only things should happen to you, sir, what—' "'I will give you the address of my solicitor, and of the Baron's grandfather,' he said without waiting for the conclusion of her sentence. And turning to his writing desk, he wrote both on a card, which he handed to her, saying, "'It would be advisable for you, or the overseer, to send them both word immediately, if ought occur to deprive me of the ability to attend to the affairs of the estate and the welfare of the Bitlassie.' Scarce a week had elapsed when Mrs. Murray found reason to be thankful for this act of prudent foresight. Mr. Cameron was taken suddenly and violently ill. Soon became delirious, and after a few days of suffering breathed his last, without an interval in which he could have attended to business, however important. As soon as it was known that the illness was likely to terminate fatally, letters were dispatched to the addresses given. The lawyer, living no further away than nearer lands, was able to reach via meeting time for the funeral. But it would take weeks for the letter to Mr. Dinsmore to wend its way to Rosalinds. Little else he saw nothing of her guardian after he was taken sick. She was not shown the corpse, and during the funeral her nurse had her way in a distant part of the girls. "'She's too young to be saddened with thoughts of death and the grave,' said Mrs. Murray. "'We'll just tell her when she asks for her uncle that he's gone to the beautiful heaven where the Saviour is, and a sweet, pretty Mama, too, and she'll have only pleasant thoughts about it,' the darling pet. The good woman had a very strong, motherly affection for the lovely little one, and was more concerned in regard to the possible, not to say probable, separation from her, consequent upon Mr. Cameron's death than with any other question touching her own earthly future. She did not know what disposal would be made of the child, but was resolved not to endure separation if it could be avoided, even by a considerable pecuniary sacrifice. The lawyer could tell her nothing, except that the child's father would now assume entire control of both her person and property. "'Then,' she said, with the tears stealing down her cheeks, "'I fear we may have to part, but I will ever comfort myself with the thought that God reigns, and the mom's heart is in his hand as the rivers of water, so that he can turn it with her soever he will.' "'You seem strongly adjudged to her,' remarked the lawyer. "'Well, she's a pretty little creature, and a great heiress. The estate was large at the time of the grandfather's death, and has flourished under my friend Cameron's care. His investments were always judicious. In fact, he couldn't have handled the funds more wisely and carefully if it had been his own. "'Mr. Dinsmer has been sent for, you say?' "'The grandfather's there. The father's away in Europe.' "'Ah, rather unfortunate, I fear.' "'Well, Mrs. Murray, I've finished the business that brought me here, and she'll leave by the next boat, which passes, I understand, half an hour from this,' he concluded, consulting his watch. "'Yes,' she said. "'But you will first step into the dining room and take some refreshment, will you not, sir? It is quite ready.' He accepted the invitation, and while sipping his tea, he said, "'I shall see Mr. Dinsmer near our lands. He would doubtless call upon me there before coming on to via mead. And you may depend, Mrs. Murray, that if I have any influence, it will be exerted in favor of the plan of leaving the little girl in your care.' "'I thank you, sir,' she said. "'I love the sweet Baroness, I love my own, now all gone before to the heaven they rest. And perhaps if they had never seemed to care to trouble with her, they may be willing to continue her in my charge.' Mrs. Murray was by no means the only one at via mead who dreaded the changes that might come as an indirect consequence of the death of Elsie's guardian. There were many anxious hearts among the older and more intelligent of the servants, but the little mistress whom they fairly idolized be carried away from them. Would there be a change of overseers? Would any of them be sold away from home in Kindred? Work had been suspended on account of the funeral. It was over, and returning to their accustomed haunts, about the mansion in the quarter, they collected in little groups here and there, looking sadly into each other's faces, talking in subdued tones, with many adubious shake of the head, and not a few tears dropped to the memory of the very young creature, who had left them four years ago, to lie down beside her parents in the family burial ground, on a grassy slope not far away. Ah, could they but have kept her, so sweet, so gentle, so kind! Presently Aunt Chloe and her young charge, taking the quarter on their way to the mansion, appeared among them, a baby girl looking wondrously like, to her, whom they mourned, the same fair oval face, large, lustrous brown eyes, golden brown hair, and sunny smile.  She, scattering gracious, win some words and smiles, like a little queen among her loyal subjects. It was truly the homage of the heart, for scarce one of them would have hesitated to risk life and limb in her service. She dispensed her favors with great impartiality, and was born to the house and the shoulders of several of these ardent admirers, each taking his turn and carrying her part of the way, that all might share in the privilege, since the loving little heart would not favor one to the rejection of the others. It was just as Mr. Coonley, the solicitor, was about taking his departure, that the baby girl was thus born in triumph to the veranda, and sat down there, all flushed and rosy and crowing with delight.  —Mammy, we'll get you some cakes. —She's a beautiful child, exclaimed the solicitor, and in aside to Mrs. Murray. —Yes, sir, and a dear Baron, sweet and good, as she is fair.  —Yes, she said, holding up her rose-bud now. —But I don't know you. —Did you come to see my uncle? Where is he? —he gave her a puzzled look, then saying, —I have a time to tell you now, my little girl, hurried away. —She looked after him for a moment, then turning to Mrs. Murray, repeated her question. —Come away, darling, was the answer.  CHAPTER XXXIV. Not mine yet, dear to me, fair, fragrant blossom of a fair tree, Crushed to the earth in life's first glorious summer, Thou art dear to me, child of the lost, the buried in the sainted, Mrs. Wiley. The housekeeper's room, to which she now led the little Elsie, Was a cheery, pleasant place.  The little one closed her eyes, folded her baby hands, And bent reverently over her plate, while Mrs. Murray asked, In a few simple words, a blessing on their food. Aunt Chloe waited on them while they ate, devoting herself particularly To her infant charge, as another servant was in attendance, Then withdrew to the servant's hall, to eat her own supper. And now Mrs. Murray, seating herself in a low rocking chair, Took the child on her lap.  I didn't doubt it, my sweet bit, Lassie, and I love you too, dearly dearly. Lassie, good woman, returned, accompanying the words with tender motherly caresses, And the dear Lord Jesus loves you better still, darling. Never forget that, never doubt that you are his own precious lambkin, And that he is always near to hear you when you pray. Yes, I know, answered the child.  Yes, dear, she is there in that happy land. And uncle's gone to be with her now. The child started, lifted up her head, and gazing earnestly, Questioningly, into the housekeeper's eyes, asked, Uncle gone too? No, dear Baron, they never want to come back from that blessed land. They're so happy there with the dear savior. Carried the child bursting into tears, I— Jesus didn't send for you this time, sweet pet. The housekeeper answered with emotion, and folded in the little form closer to her heart. He would have you and me right here yet a bit, But someday he will call us home too. He's getting a very lovely home ready for us there. For my papa too? I trust so, darling. Where is my papa? Why doesn't he come to Elsie? I don't know, my bonny Baron. I think he will come someday. And take Elsie on his knee? And kiss her and love her? Surely, surely, darling. And you have a grandpa who will be here before many days, I trust. Grandpa that's gone to heaven? No, that is grandpa Grayson, your sweet mama's father. This is grandpa Dinsmore, your papa's father. The child looked thoughtful for a moment, then with a joyous smile exclaimed, Elsie, so glad. I wish he'd come now. Elsie will love him ever so much. May the Lord open his heart to love you in return, sweet Baronie. Said the good woman, But not to take you from me. She added mentally. The child pleaded for— Stories about mama, Elsie's mama, when she was little girly, and played with her little brothers and sisters. Mrs. Murray, having been housekeeper at Via Mead for nearly twenty years, had a plentiful store of these laid up in her memory. Each one had been repeated for the little girl's entertainment. A score of times or more, but repetition seemed to have no power to lessen their interest for her. Why doesn't Elsie have brothers and sisters? She asked her in a pause on the narration. Elsie, do you want some so bad? Our father didn't see fit to give you any, dear Baron, and so you must try to be content without. Mrs. Murray answered with a tender cruss, We cannot have all we would like in this world, but when we get home where the dear Lord Jesus is, we'll have nothing left to wish for, our couple joy will be full to overflowing. Now bid me good night, my wee Baronie, Baronie Darling, for here's mammy come to take you to bed. The child complied with alacrity. She and her mammy were devotedly attached to each other, and had seldom been apart for an hour since the little girl first saw the light. And the nurse, though wholly uneducated, was as simple-hearted and earnest a Christian as Mrs. Murray herself, and faithfully carried out the dying injunction of the young mother, to try to teach her little one from her earliest years to love and fear the Lord. She talked and sang to her of Jesus before she was a year old, and as soon as she began to speak, taught her to kneel night and morning with folded hands and listen to her little prayer. And she too told her sweet stories of the mother she had never known, of the beautiful home with her she had gone, of the loving savior who was with her there, and also on earth watching over her darling. Every night she rocked her to sleep in her arms, soothing her to rest with these ever-new stories, and the sweet, wild melodies common among her race. Aunt Chloe had known sorrow as many and bitter, not the least of them the untimely death of Elsie's mother, and with none left to her in whose veins her own blood flowed, clung to this nursing with the love that would have hesitated at no sacrifice for the good of its object, a passionate yearning tenderness that would have led her to choose death for herself rather than separation. The big tears chased each other down her stable cheeks at the bare thought of such a possibility, as she held her sleeping treasure in her arms that night. She knew little of the child's father, nothing whatever the grandfather or any other of the parental relatives, and her heart misgave her, less there might be trouble in store for herself and her beloved charge. Someone came in softly through the open door, and Chloe looked up with the tears still in her cheeks to find the housekeeper close at her side. What is it, Aunt Chloe? She asked in a tone of alarm. The dear Baron is not ill? Chloe only shook her head, while her bosom heaved with half-suppressed sobs. Ah, I know what it is, said Mrs. Mary. Your heart trembles with the various same fear that oppresses mine, let the darling or dear love be torn for her arms. But we win a great sorrow that may never come. We win a doubt his love and power who doeth all things well. Let us never forget he loves her far better than we do. Said the saintly Rutherford, I shall charge my soul to believe and to wait for him, and shall follow his providence and not go before it nor stay behind it. Let us make the same resolve on Chloe and be happy while we may, be happy always, for his loving kindness shall never fail. Didn't he mind his word? I am the Lord who exercised loving kindness, judgment and righteousness in the earth, for in these things I delight saith the Lord. If they take my breasted lamb away, diso heartbreak for sure. Sobbed Chloe, clasping the child closer. I've done gone lost everything else. No, no, Aunt Chloe, not the Lord. No, Mrs. Not the Lord, that true. Hope he forgave a disinful word. And not the hope of heaven. No, no, Mrs. Not Daddy either, breast his holy name. It is a world of trial, Aunt Chloe, but he never sends one that is not a needful force, and when his people cannot have a providence of silk and roses, they must be content with such an one as he carveeth out for them. How soon would grace freeze without a cross? That true, Mrs., and we must take it across first, we can't have to crown it to last. She assented with a heavy sigh. Mrs., do you know what's going to be done now? Will they sell the plantation? Oh no, it belongs to the Baron. Deservants? I don't think there's any danger of that either, for they too are hers. Aunt Chloe breathed more freely. Will Master Dinsmore come and live here? Hisself? She asked. That I cannot tell, Mrs. Mary said, shaking her head in silence slightly. But Aunt Chloe, I didn't think you need fear being parted from the Baron. They may take her from me, but they'll no be likely to separate her from her mammy. Wherever she goes, you will, in all probability go also. Chloe asked if Elsie was to be taken away from via mead, to which the housekeeper answered that she did not know. Indeed, nothing could be known till Mr. Dinsmore came. But, she added, whether the sweet brand's home be here or elsewhere, an attendant will be needed, and I see no reason why the old mammy, who loves her so dearly, should be exchanged for another. I would be blive to think myself as secure of being kept near her. But they're no so likely to want a housekeeper as a nurse, should they decide to change her abode. Thank the Lord for that, ejaculated Aunt Chloe, half under her breath, as she rose and gently laid the sleeping child in her bed. I think my breasted lamb never be happy without her old mammy to love her, and I hope still let you stay too, Mrs. I afraid Mousa Dinsmore not care much about his little child, because if he do, why he never come forward to see her? The words sounded to Mrs. Murray like the echo of her own thoughts. I didn't understand it.  I cannot comprehend it, but the sweet wind has had a happy life thus far. And please God, Aunt Chloe, shall never want for love while he leaves her in our care. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Amy. Chapter 21 of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finley. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Amy. Chapter 21. A sweet, heartlifting cheerfulness, like springtime of the year, seemed ever on her steps to wait. Mrs. Hale. I should like to have a little chat with you, Milly, my dear, Mr. Dinsmore said pleasantly, looking across the table at her, where she sat behind the tea-earn, her accustomed place now in Mrs. Dinsmore's absence. Can you give me an hour or two of your company in the library this evening? Just as much of it as you may happen to want, uncle, she answered brightly. Thank you, he said. I rejoice every day in having you here. It would be extremely dull without you. But I wonder sometimes how you keep up your spirits. Nearly six weeks since Mrs. Dinsmore went away, and nobody in the house, the greater part of the time, but yourself, the housekeeper and servants. It is a little lonely sometimes, she acknowledged. But I have you at meals and in the evenings generally, now and then a call from one of the neighbors. And almost every day I ride over to Ion, and spend an hour or two with dear Mrs. Traveller. So with the assistance of books, music, and drawing, and writing letters to Mother and the rest, I find the days pass quite rapidly. Ah, there's a great deal in being disposed to be contented, he said, smiling.  We have not yet succeeded in finding a suitable person to fill Miss Worst's place, and that is one reason your aunt gives for lingering so long at her sisters. The place affords excellent educational advantages. There was a little more desultory chat, and then, having finished their meal, they repaired to the library, meldered not a little curious to learn what her uncle had to say. For she felt quite certain, from his manner, that it was something of unusual importance. He drew an easy chair to the fire, seated her comfortably therein, then, turning away, paced the floor for some moments in silence, and with an abstracted air and clouded brow. She watched him furtively, wondering more and more at his evident disturbance. At last, heaving a profound sigh, he seated himself near her. You were already acquainted, Mildred, so you're not wealthy, informed me. He began, in a tone of one who approaches a very distasteful subject. With a certain chapter in my son Horace's history, which I would be exceedingly glad to bury in forgetfulness, but that circumstances have rendered impossible, since the child of that most imprudent, ill-advised marriage has seen fit to live, and, of course, her existence cannot be entirely ignored. Mildred was growing indignant. Her color hijined, and her eyes sparkled, though unperceived by him, as his face was half averted. Is there anything wrong with her, uncle? She ventured as he came to a pause. Wrong with her, he echoed. Heaven forbid, it is bad enough as it is. But, indeed, I have never taken the trouble to ask. In fact, I believe I half unconsciously hoped she might never cross my path. But, and again, he said, that is passed. A letter received this morning from Louisiana brings news of the death of her guardian. That is, you understand, the man who's left guardian to her mother in the property. Which, by the way, is very large. Mildred began to listen with eager interest. She had wished very much to see Horace's child. Could it be that that wish was to be gratified? The child is heir to it all, Mr. Dinsmer went on. The mother married and died under age, and by the conditions of the will, the property remained in Mr. Cameron's care. The child also, Horace, not caring to remove her. Now, however, the responsibility all falls upon me. In his absence, I must look after both estate and heiress. It involves an immediate journey to Louisiana, probably a stay of some weeks to get matters settled.  And, in fact, I know of no other home for her. For being a mere babe, she cannot be sent to boarding school. I anticipate some complaint from Mrs. Dinsmer. She will not like it, I know. But I really cannot be helped, and you not add to her cares in the least.  It is a pity about her, he said, strange that she was destined to survive her mother. It would really have been so much more comfortable for all parties if she had not. It does seem as though it might have been a happy thing for her, Mildred answered dryly. But he did not notice a tone, turning to her with a smile. How would you like to go with me? To Louisiana, he asked. Her face grew radiant with delight at the bare suggestion. Oh, Uncle, how delightful! But it would be a very expensive journey, wouldn't it? And her countenance fell. That would be my concern since I invite you, he said, laughing and playfully tapping her cheek. Where did you learn to be so careful and economical? Don't trouble yourself of that expense. I shall consider the pleasure of your company cheaply purchased at the cost of settling all the bills. Now, will you go? Yes, indeed, and thank you a thousand times. If what, Father and Mother give consent? There's no time to ask it as I leave day after tomorrow. But I'm sure it would not be withheld. So we'll do as we please first and ask permission afterward. Yes, Mildred responded, after moments amusing. I feel convinced that they would be very glad to have me accept your kind, generous offer, for it is such an opportunity, as I'm not likely to meet with again. The remainder of the evening was devoted to the writing of a long, bright and cheery letter to her mother, telling of the pleasant prospect before her, and promising that the home circle should share in the enjoyments of her trip so far, as descriptions of scenery and adventures, written in her best style, could enable them to do. Mildred's letters had come to be considered a very great treat in that little community, their reception looked forward to with eager anticipation. Their enjoyment would be doubled when they told of scenes new and fascinating, and of Cousin Horace's little girl, in whom they already felt so deep an interest. Mildred had enjoyed her visit to Rosalinds, but since the death of Miss Worth, the atmosphere of the house had seemed somewhat lonely and depressing. So she was very glad of her uncle's invitation, which promised a change in every way delightful. The journey was tedious and weary some in those days, compared to what it would be now, staging across the country to the nearest point on the Mississippi, thence by steamboat to New Orleans, where they remained several weeks. Mr. Dinsmer being engaged in making necessary arrangements in regard to that portion of Little Elsie's inheritance, which lay in the crescent city, then on to the amide, it pleased Mildred that this part of their trip was to be all the way by water. And after they entered Teshubayu, it seemed to hurt like a passage through fairyland, so bright were the sky, so balmy the breezes, so rich and varied was the scenery, swamps, forest, plain, gliding by in rapid succession, the eye roving over the richest vegetation, rusted now upon some cool, shady, dull, gaily carpeted with flowers, now on a lawn covered with velvet-like grass of Elmworld green, and nobly shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias. Now catching sight of a lordly villa, peeping through its groves of orange trees, and a none of a tall white sugar-house, or long-rove cabins, the homes of the labourers. It was a new region of country to Mr. Dinsmer, as well as herself, and he remarked that he considered the sight of it a sufficient recompense of itself for the trouble and expense of the journey. But beside that, he added, I've had the satisfaction of learning that the estate is even much larger than I suppose. That Scotchman was faithful to his trust, very sure too, in making investments, and his death gives Horace control during the child's minority of a princely income. Then you do not regret his marriage so much as you did? Mildred said inquiringly. I do not say that, was the cold, almost stern reply, and she said no more. End of Chapter 21. Recording by Aimee. Chapter 22 of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finley. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Aimee. Chapter 22. I would that thou mightst ever be, as beautiful as now. That time might ever leave is free, thy yet unwritten brow. Willis. And become, little Elsie asked again and again, and finding that no one could tell her, she set herself to watch the passing boats, often coaxing her mammy out upon the lawn, or down to the very water's edge, in her eagerness for a sight of him, her first look into the face of a relative. She was fond of Mrs. Murray, as she had been of Mr. Cameron, and clung with ardent affection to her mammy. Yet the baby heart yearned for parental love, and naturally she expected it from her grandfather. Had she heard that her father was coming, she would have been wild with joy. The arrival for her grandfather seemed the next best thing that could happen.  She's a fortunate little miss, he remarked of her, as they came inside of a sugar and orange plantation, exceeding in size and fertility almost any they had passed, and the captain of the boat, pointing it out, said, that's Viamid, the old grace in place. They were sweeping by a large sugar house, then came an immense orange orchard, and then a long and wide stretch of lawn, with the loveliest carpet of velvety green and most magnificent shade trees that they had ever beheld, half concealing with their great arms in abundant foliage, a lordly mansion set far back among them. So surpassingly lovely was the whole scene, that for a moment Mildred could have echoed her uncle's words, and almost found it in her heart to envy the young heiress of it all, but the next she said to herself, no, no, not for all this would I be so lonely and loveless as she, poor little forlorn burly. The boat rounded to at the little pier, close by in the shade of a great oak, stood an elderly colored woman with a child in her arms, a little girl of fairy-like form, and face perfect in outline and feature, a complexion of dazzling brilliance, a countenance radiant with delight, as she watched the travellers step being ashore. This is she, I presume, Mr. Dinsmore said, coolly halting in front of the tomb. What's your name, child? Elsie Dinsmore, she answered, her lip quivering, the large soft eyes filling with tears. I thought it was my grandpa coming. And so it is, he said, slightly touched by her evident disappointment. Have you a kiss for me? For answer, she threw both arms about his neck as he bent toward her and pressed her red lips to his. He disengaged himself rather hastily, stepping back to give place to Mildred, who, gazing with delight upon the beautiful little creature, was eagerly awaiting her turn. You darling, she cried, clasping the child in a warm embrace. Mrs. Cousin Millie, and she's going to love you dearly, dearly. Thank you, Miss, said Aunt Chloe, with tears in her eyes, and welcome to be in me and Miss, welcome, Massa, dropping a curtsy to each. Mrs. Murray and several servants now came hurrying toward them. There were more cursed seas and welcomes, the baggage received, and quickly transported to the house. The travellers, Mrs. Murray and Aunt Chloe with her little charge, following it leisurely. Mildred was filled with delight at the beauty surrounding her, yet more attracted by the child than by all else. She turned toward her with an affectionate smile, and the little one, now walking by her nurse's side, returning it with one of rare sweetness, ran to her and slipped a tiny, soft, white hand into hers. Isn't she beautiful, Uncle? Mildred asked with enthusiasm at the first opportunity for doing so without being overheard. She's no dens more, he said coldly. Not a trace of horrors looks about her. Must be all grace, and I presume. Oh, how can he, thought Mildred? How can he harden his heart so against anything so gentle and beautiful? They were standing on the veranda for a moment, admiring the view and watching the departure of the boat that had brought them, while Mrs. Murray was busy in giving directions in regard to the disposal of their luggage. A suite of delightful apartments had been appropriated to Mildred's use during her stay. Conducted there by Aunt Chloe and her nursing, she took possession with great content, and with the assistance of a skilled waiting-maid, also placed at her service, soon arrayed her neat figure in a becoming dinner dress, while little Elsie and her mammy looked on admiringly the while. Isn't my cousin so pretty, mammy? whispered the little one. Mildred heard, and turning with a pleased smile, held out her hand to the child.  I can tell you about your dear papa, for I know him. The child's face grew radiant, and she hastened to accept the invitation. Oh, she said, please do. Will he come here soon? I want to see my papa. I want to kiss him and love him. The soft eyes filled with tears, and the red lips quivered. Mildred clasped the little form close in her arms, and kissed the sweet fair face over and over, exclaiming in tremulous tones. Your dear precious baby, if he could only see you, I'm sure he couldn't help loving you with all his heart. The travelers were summoned to the dinner table, and little Elsie perched with them, conducting herself with the utmost propriety. She seems a well-behaved child, her grandfather remarked graciously. How old are you, my dear? Can you tell? I's four, piped the bird-like voice. I's a big girl now, Grandpa, too big to be naughty, but sometimes I's not very good. Ah, that's honest, he said with an amused smile. Well, what do they do to you when you're naughty? When I was a little girl, Mammy put me into corners sometimes. But what now, you were so large. She'd just say, Jesus not pleased with my darling child when she's naughty. But you don't mind that, do you? He asked curiously. She looked at him with innocent wondering eyes. Elsie loves Jesus. Elsie wants Jesus to love her and make her his little lamb. She asks him to do it every day. Stuff, he muttered, in a tone of annoyance, but tears of joy and thankfulness welled up in Mildred's eyes. Blessed baby, she thought, you will not have a lonely, loveless life if you have so soon begun to seek the dear Savior. Ah, how my mother's heart will rejoice to hear this. I'm coming to the table, the little one, had folded her tiny hands and bending with closed eyes over her plate, murmured a short grace. But Mr. Dinsmore, busying himself in carving a fowl, did not seem to notice it. Yet it had not escaped him. He was watching the child furtively and with far more interest than he would have liked to own. I'm afraid they're making a canting hypocrite of her, he said to Mildred when they had retired to the dryroom. Oh, uncle, do not say that, explained Mildred. It is just the way of my dear mother, whom you admire so much, trains and teaches her children. Ah, he said, I shall have to retract. What pretty manner she has, uncle, but without the table and elsewhere, remarked Mildred. She handles knife, fork, and spoon as deftly as possible and is so gentle and refined in all she does and says. Yes, he said with some pride, a trusted uncouth, ill mannered Dinsmore might be considered an anomaly indeed. Then you acknowledge that she is a Dinsmore? Mildred said playfully. Have I ever denied that she was Horace's child? He answered with a smile. I wish you could see her at this moment. I'm sure he could not help feeling that he had good reason to be proud of her, Mildred said, approaching the window that looked out upon the lawn where the little one was wandering about gathering flowers. See, uncle, it's not every movement full of grace. You seem to be quite bewitched with her. He returned good humoredly following the direction of her glance. Children's movements are not apt to be ungraceful, I think. This is a final mention he went on and seems to be well furnished throughout. Have you been in the library? No? Then come, we will visit it now. Your heart will rejoice at the sight of the well-filled bookshelves. Ah, I knew it, watching the expression of keen satisfaction with which she regarded them when he had taken her there. They consisted largely of very valuable works in every branch of literature and Mildred's sole regret was that she would have so little time to examine and enjoy them. There were also some few fine paintings and beautiful pieces of statuary in the room and indeed scattered through all the principal rooms of the house, the drawing room being especially rich in them. They lingered for some time over these works of art. They went out upon the veranda, presently wandering on from that to the lawn where they strolled about a little and finally seated themselves under beautiful magnolia. Ah, see what a pretty picture they make, Mildred exclaimed, glancing in the direction of another at some little distance in whose shade Aunt Chloe was seated upon the grass with Elsie in her lap, both busy with the flowers they had been gathering. Yes, said Mr. Dinsmore, what a striking contrast. The child so young and delicately fair, the nurse so black and elderly, she seems much attached to her charge. Yes, indeed. You do not think of separating them, uncle? Certainly not, why should I? Mildred answered only with a pleased look. For that moment, little Elsie left her manny and came running with a lovely bouquet in each hand. One for you, Grandpa, and one for Cousin Milly. She said, dropping a graceful little curtsy as she presented them. Thank you, dear, how pretty they are, Mildred said, kissing her. Hmph, what shall I do with it? Mr. Dinsmore asked, accepting his. Put it in your buttonhole, said the child. That's the way uncle does. Uncle? Who is he? It's none that you ever saw, so far as I know. Massa Cameron saw, explained Aunt Chloe. Coming up, he always told my child, call him dad. Well, she didn't do so anymore. I don't like it. Do you hear? To Elsie. Don't call that man uncle again. He was no relation whatever to you.  They're there, he said more gently.  You knew no better. He rose and wandered away toward the rear of the mansion, and Meldred drew Elsie to a seat upon her lap, caressing her tenderly. Sweet little girly, she said. Cousin loves you dearly already, and cannot bear to see tears in those eyes. Tell me about your sweet pretty mama. Here she is, cousin. Don't you love her too? Prattled the babe, drawing forth the miniature from her bosom, and quickly forgetting her momentary grief in displaying it. She's gone up to heaven to stay with Jesus, and someday he'll take Elsie there too. Meldred, said Mr. Dinsmerk coming back, I hear there are fine saddle horses in the stables. If I order two of them brought round, will you ride over the plantation with me? Gladly, she said, putting the child gently down and rising with alacrity. I will go at once and down my riding habit.  Already enthusiastic admirers of via mead, they returned from their ride doubly impressed with its beauties.  So sweet, so gentle, so beautiful, and good as she is pretty. Mrs. Murray tells me she's generosity itself, and she doesn't believe there's a grain of selfishness in her nature. Elsie showed me her mama's miniature, and it's so sweet and beautiful that I do not wonder cousin Horace lost his heart at first sight. But it was not until the next day that this letter was written. Meldred had enough to do that day in looking about her and making acquaintance with Elsie and her attendants. After tea, Mr. Dinsmer being closeted with the overseer, she made her way to the nursery, coaxed the little one into her lap again, though indeed no great amount of persuasion was needed, and amused her for an hour or two with stories and nursery rhymes. But the child's bedtime drew near, and with a tender good night, a lingering, loving caress, Meldred left her and went down to the drawing room. Her uncle was not there, and passing out to the veranda, she fell into chat with Mrs. Murray, whom she found seated there, enjoying the beautiful scenery and the soft evening air. There talked her naturally upon V.M.E.d and the Grayson family, particularly Horace Dinsmer's wife, the last of the race. Mrs. Murray giving many details that were of great interest to her hearer. She was very lovely, she said, both in person and in character, a sweet earnest, childlike Christian, and the bareness wonderfully like her. She seemed to me a lamb of the fold from her very birth, and they do it in answer to the mother's prayers. You can, Miskie, that she lived scarce a week after her babe was born, and all her anxiety was that it should be trained up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, her constant prayer that he would be pleased to make at his own. The bit, Bernie, isn't a perfect, of course, but quite as near as grown folk. It's very evident that she tries to please the blessed savior, that she grieves when she's done wrong, and can't arrest till she's been away by herself to beg his forgiveness. I tell her wiles about the new heart God gives to his children, and that he will give it to us such as us, earnestly, and she will look up in my face with those great innocent eyes and answer, yes, Mrs. Murray, and I do ask earnestly every day, the old lady brushed away a tear, and her voice was slightly tremulous, as she added. Mr. Cameron used to fret a bit wiles that she was too good to live like her mother before her, he would say, but I cannot think early piety any sign that life will be short, except indeed that when the work of grace is fully done, glory follows. She's come o'er o' God fear and race, Ms. Keith, and the Lord's eye faithful to his promise, showing mercy to thousands of generations of them that love him and keep his commandments. End of chapter 22, recording by Amy. Chapter 23 of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finley. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Amy. Chapter 23. She was like a dream of poetry that may not be written or told, exceedingly beautiful. Willis. As Mildred sat at the open window of her dressing room the next morning, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, the delicious perfume of myriads of dew-laden shrubs and flowers, the gentle summer breeze and the glad songs of the birds, her ear caught the patter of little feet in the corridor without, then a gentle wrap upon her door. She made haste to open it, and a vision of loveliness met her view. A tiny, fairy form arrayed in spotless white of some thin, delicate fabric, trimmed with costly lace and a broad sash of pale blue with slippers to match, a shining mass of golden-brown curls clustering about the sweet face and rippling over the fair neck and shoulders.  Good morning, cousin, said the little bird-like voice.  No, darling, indeed you don't, cried Mildred, giving her a rapturous embrace.  Will you come and sit in my lap while we have another nice talk? The child hesitated. Don't you want to come with me, cousin, and see my mama when she was a little girl and my mama's things? I should like it greatly, Mildred answered, suffering herself to be led along the corridor and into an open door at its farther end. Here she found herself in a beautiful boudoir, evidently no expense had been spared in furnishing it, in the most luxurious and tasteful manner. Even Mildred's inexperienced eye recognized the costly nature of many of its adornments, though there was nothing gaudy about them. Elsie led her directly to a full-length, life-sized picture of a little girl of 10 or 12, before which Mildred stood transfixed with delight, face and form were so lifelike and so exquisitely lovely. She gazed upon it for many minutes with ravished eyes, then glancing at the little one standing by her side, said half aloud, beautiful as it is, I do not believe it is flattered, for it is just what she will be six or eight years hence. It's my mama when she was a little girl, Elsie said, and this, drawing the miniature from her bosom, it's my mama when she was a lady. Mildred gazed upon it again long and earnestly, thinking as before that there was abundant excuse for her cousin Horace's passion and his inconsolable grief over his loss. There were two other portraits in the room, which Elsie said were grandpa and grandma greason. She pointed out to her mother's writing desk and her work table. A dainty basket upon this last, with its little gold thimble and a bit of embroidery with the needle still sticking in it, just as it had been laid down by the white hands on the morning of the day on which the little one first saw the light. It was Aunt Chloe coming in in search of her nursing who told Mildred this. But Elsie drew her arm through a beautiful dressing room into a spacious and elegantly furnished bedroom beyond. And Aunt Chloe, following, pointed out with bitter weeping, the pillow on which the dine head had lain and described the last hours of her idolized young mistress, her mournful leave taken of her little babe and dine injunction to her to bring her up to love the Lord Jesus. It was all intensely interesting and deeply affecting to Mildred.  Don't cry, because dear Mama is very happy with Jesus and even Elsie are going there too someday. And then I'll tell my sweet pretty Mama you did be good to her baby and took care of her all the time. At that Aunt Chloe strained the tiny form convulsively to her breast with a fresh burst of sobs and looking up at Mildred with the great tears rolling down her sable cheeks, faltered out. Oh, Miss Milly, didn't Gwine take away my child and de-separate old Chloe from the last thing she got left to love in this world? Oh, Mammy, no, no, they shun, they shun! Cried the child, clinging about her neck and almost wild afright. Elsie won't go, Elsie will always stay with her dear old Mammy. No, no, you are not to be parted, Mildred hastened to say.  So don't cry, Pet. Oh, Miss Milly, that breasted news! cried Aunt Chloe, smiling through her tears. I thank you very much. Dear, dear, honey-dun, don't cry no more.  The breakfast bell rang and hastily removing the traces of the tears called forth about Chloe's narrative, Mildred obeyed the summons. Mr. Dinsmer seemed in excellent spirits, chatting in quite a lively strain all through the meal. He was enchanted with the place, he said, and intended, if agreeable to Mildred, to remain some weeks, believing that the change of scene and climate would prove beneficial to them both. Mildred assured him, her eyes sparkling with delight the while, that she was perfectly willing to stay as long as suited his convenience and pleasure. There are horses, carriages, and servants always at your command, he remarked. A pleasure boat on Malaclet, too, and oarsmen to row it, so that you can go out in the water, ride or drive whenever you wish. Oh, Uncle, how nice! she cried. I shall enjoy it all greatly with little Elsie for a companion, and you will sometimes go with us when you have leisure, will you not? I shall be most happy, he said, but fear it will be but seldom that I can. The family carriage was ordered at once, and the greater part of the morning was spent by Mildred, Elsie, and Aunt Chloe, in driving from one lovely spot to another. At little Elsie's request, they visited the family burial ground, and Mildred viewed with pensive interest the last resting place of her cousin Horace's young wife, the sweet, pretty mama of whom the baby girl so constantly prattled. The spot was beautiful with roses and many sweet-scented shrubs and flowers growing there, and daily Elsie and her mammy came dither with love's offering in the shape of buds and blossoms, gathered from the lawn and gardens, which they scattered with lavish hands over each lowly mound, but ever reserving the most and the loveliest for the grave of her whom they loved best. There was seldom a day when the quarter was not visited also. Aunt Chloe, taking her nursing from cabin to cabin, to inquire concerning the welfare of the inmates, and to give to each the pleasure of the sight of the little fair face that was so dear to them all. Their devotion to her and various ways of manifesting it greatly pleased and interested Mildred, and she was not long in discovering that they were exceedingly anxious in regard to the question whether both she, their idolized little mistress, and they were to be allowed to remain at Bermude. Some of them even ventured in their great anxiety to inquire of the young lady visitor if she could tell them odd about these things. She evaded the question so far as I referred to Elsie, feeling that she could not endure the sight of their grief when they should learn that they were to lose her. As to the other part, she said, truly, that she was ignorant, but hoped there was no real danger. She ventured at length to sound her uncle out on the subject, telling of the fears of the poor creatures. And to her delight was given liberty to assure them that none would be sold unless unruly and disobedient orders. She availed herself of this permission on her next visit to the quarter. The communication was received with joy and gratitude, but there still remained the greater fear that Mr. Dinsmer would carry away their darling, and this Mildred was powerless to remove. She told Mrs. Murray about it, and the good woman confessed with tears that she too was tortured with the fear of separation from the sweet bairn she had learned to love as a very own, asking if Mildred knew whether that trial awaited her. Mildred looked grieved and perplexed. I only know, she said after a moment's hesitation, that uncle intends taking his little granddaughter home with him. Should you feel willing to leave via me and Mrs. Murray? The bairn is far dearer to me than the place, though I have spent many of the best years of my life here, was the reply. I would gang anywhere sooner than part for my bony bit lassie. I have a mother's heart for her, Ms. Keith, and I often wanted to bid her call me by some dear name, the Mrs. Murray. But knowing the Dinsmer's her proud folk, I feared to offend, and I perceived it was well overframed, since I had learned from Aunt Chloe that the grandfather was no pleased that she spoke of Mr. Cameron as her uncle. No, he didn't seem to like it, and told her not to do it again. But might not that be the jealousy of affection? Mildred blushed as she spoke. Half ashamed, in view of Mr. Dinsmer's evident lack of love for the child of making the suggestion. Affection? Repeated Mrs. Murray with a faint, incredulous smile. I didn't see much in his manner toward the Baron that looks like it. To this remark Mildred had no answer to save a deeper blush. But at this moment Mrs. Murray was summoned to a conference with Mr. Dinsmer in the library.  Mr. Dinsmer received a letter that day for Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper at Roseland's, saying that her health was failing, the physician recommended change of climate and therefore she must resign her situation for a year or more. Mr. Dinsmer now offered it to Mrs. Murray and Aunt Phyllis, an old servant in the family and every way competent to the task, would be left in charge of the mansion here. I am very glad for both you and little Elsie, said Mildred, and yet I feel sorry for you and for her that you must leave this lovely spot. Is it not a trial? I cannot deny that it is, the housekeeper answered with a sigh, for I have lived at Vimead many years, years in which I have seen much of both joy and sorrow and I hope to end my days here, but as the saint named Rutherford says, this is the Lord's lower house and while we are launched here, we have no assurance to lie ever in one chamber, but must be content to remove from one Lord's another house to another, resting in hope that when we come to the Lord's upper city, Jerusalem that is above, we shall remove no more because then we shall be at home. Ah, Miss Millie, what a joyous day it will be when we win there. End of chapter 23, recording by Amy. Chapter 24 of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finlay. This LibriFox recording is in the public domain, recording by Amy. Chapter 24, must I leave thee paradise, thus leave thee native soil, these happy walks and shades, fit haunts of God, Milton. Mr. Dinsmer was, in the main, a kindhearted man, therefore felt a good deal uncomfortable in prospect of the grief likely to be manifested by the four or 500 negroes belonging to the plantation and particularly the house servants when called upon to part with little Elsie. Both Mrs. Murray and Mildred had spoken to him of their strong attachment to the child and his own observation had told him the same thing. He knew that they almost idolized her and would feel her removal as a heavy blow. Desirous to lighten the stroke, he determined to allow Elsie to make a farewell present to each and engaged Mildred and Mrs. Murray to assist her in preparing the list of suitable articles to be sent for. The child, knowing nothing of her grandfather's reasons for permitting this unusual outlay, was highly delighted. It was Mr. Dinsmer's will that his plans with regard to Elsie should be kept secret from her and the servants until near the end of his visit, still some weeks distant. Those weeks flew fast to Mildred, spending a round of innocent, restful enjoyments, marred only by the knowledge that they must be so fleeting. The day set for the departure from Viamid was dry near and the sight of some of the needful preparations revealed the truth of the house servants and from them the sad tidings quickly spread to the fieldhands, causing great grief and consternation. Elsie was perhaps the last to learn the truth. She was running through the lower hall one morning soon after breakfast. When Aunt Phyllis suddenly caught her in her arms and holding her tight, covered the little fair face with kisses and tears. Why Aunt Phyllis, what's the matter? As the child, winding her small arms so plump and white about the woman's neck. What makes you cry, is you sick? Oh, honey darlin', sobbed the disconsolate creature. It's heaped worse than that. It's going to carry you away, breasted darlin' pet, way off north where Aunt Phyllis will never see your sweet face no more. Oh dear, oh dear, no, no! Cried the child, struggling to release yourself. Elsie's not going away Aunt Phyllis, where's Mammy? Aunt Chloe came at the call and Elsie ran into her arms, crying in a frightened way. Mammy, Mammy! Darlin', you're Mammy, never leave you. Aunt Chloe said soothingly, evading the question she could not answer, she wished. Elsie doesn't want to go away, sobbed the child. This is Elsie's home, this is Elsie's house. Elsie wants to stay here with Aunt Phyllis and all of those people. Oh Mammy, Mammy, does Elsie have to go? Don't cry, honey, don't, darlin' pet. You won't have to go away from Mammy. Mammy'll go along too, was all Aunt Chloe could say. The house servants were crowding around them, all weeping and wailing and the little girls seemed quite inconsolable. Mildred heard and came to the rescue. Darlin' child, she said kneeling on the carpet by Elsie's side and softly stroking the beautiful hair. You were going to your papa's home and perhaps you will see him there before long and I think you will come back to via me someday. At that, the little head was lifted and a smile broke like a sunbeam through the rain of tears. Papa? she exclaimed. Will Elsie see her dear Papa there?  And she wiped away her tears. Don't cry, Aunt Phyllis, not Sally and the rest of you. My papa will bring me back again. Dad, be a long time off. Mother, Aunt Phyllis, shaking her head as she moved slowly away. Rosalinds, your grandpa's and papa's home is a very pretty place. Mildred went on still crushing the shining curls and there are little boys and girls there that Elsie can play with. Brothers and sisters for me? asked the little one joyously.  There is Anna, who is just a baby girl, only two years old. Four, I speak, girl, put in the child. Yes, and Walter's past three, nearly as old as you and what nice place you can have together. Yes, I want to take him a present and one for the baby and what their names, the other children. Mildred went over the list and the baby girl repeated her wish to take a gift to each. We will ask your grandpa about it, Mildred said. Has he done a mama? What's the next query? And that being answered in the affirmative, the wish was expressed that she too should be remembered with a pretty present and that cousin Millie would ask grandpa's permission for all these purchases. Mildred took an early opportunity to do so. Who has put that nonsense into the child's head? He asked in some vexation. No one, uncle, it was entirely her own idea, perhaps suggested by the thought of her proposed gifts to those she leaves behind. Very likely, but let her forget it. I do not want to encourage her spending money upon my family. But her heart is very full of it, uncle, and I really think you would help to reconcile her to leaving via mead. I'm afraid, uncle, that it's going to be a hard trial for the little creature, for she dearly loves her home and her people, as she calls the negroes. She will soon forget it all and perhaps like Rosens quite as well. Childish groups are not lasting. But terribly hard while they do last, uncle. I'm not so old yet as to have forgotten that. No, he said with a smile followed by a sigh. Oh, well, I'm sorry for the little thing, but don't see how it can be helped. But you will lessen the trial by humoring her in this and everything else that is reasonable, persisted Mildred in her most persuasive tone? Well, well, if I must, I must, I suppose. What an excellent advocate you are, but really I feel ashamed to allow it. Ah, uncle, it's your turn now, said Mildred, laughing. I had mine in Philadelphia.  Huh, what amount, pray? I have you there, he added, laughing at her perplexed look. Not so fast, uncle, she returned, brightening. I can be definite. May she spend two hundred dollars for this? No. One hundred and fifty, then? I don't know. We'll see about it when we get to New Orleans. Then I may tell her that she is to be allowed to buy presents for them? Yes, now don't make me commit myself any further. After this, Mildred talked a great deal to the little girl about the children at Rosens. The games and raps she would have with them, what should be bought for them, and how pleased they would be with her gifts. Also, of all she was likely to see on her journey, that would be new and interesting. How nice it was that Mrs. Murray and Mammy were to go with her. Grandpa too, and cousin Millie. And that the dear savior, and her own sweet pretty mama, would be just as near her there in her new home as at BME'd. It was thus she tried to tide the darling over the trial, that awaited her in the sundering of the tender ties, that bound her to the home of her early infancy. Those were April days with the baby girl, from the time of Aunt Phyllis's unfortunate revelation of what awaited her, until the blow fell. They were to leave in the morning, though not at a very early hour, and at Elsie's request, the fieldhands were excused from work for the half day, and directed to come up to the house soon after the family breakfast, to say goodbye to their little mistress. They gathered in a crowd in the rear of the mansion, the family party, Mr. Dinsmore, Mildred, Elsie, and Mrs. Murray were assembled upon the back veranda, where stood a table, piled with the goods to be distributed. The little girl sat beside it on her mammy's lap, Mildred and Mrs. Murray near at hand to give their assistance. The overseer, standing on the topmost step, called the roll on each, coming forward in answer to his name, received a gift presented by the child herself, and was allowed to kiss a small white hand that bestowed it. This was esteemed a great privilege, and many held the hand a moment, dropping tears as well as kisses upon it, and heaving blessings on the head of the little fair one, pouring out their lamentations also over her approaching departure. To a length, her tears fell so fast that her grandfather interfered, forbidding any further allusion to that subject, on pain of having to receive their gift from some other hand. No one was neglected, no one had been forgotten, but each, from Octogenarian, no longer able or expected to work, down to the babe of a few days, received a gift of substantial worth to him or her, after which came a liberal distribution of pies, cakes, candies, and fruits. The baby girl dried her tears and even laughed right merrily more than once, as she watched them at their feast. But her grief burst forth afresh, and with the redoubled violence when the time came for the final parting, and the house servants gathered, weeping about her.  While they strained the little form to their hearts with bitter wailing and lamentation. To Mildred the scene was heart-rending, and her tears fell fast. Mrs. Merrier was scarcely last moved, Aunt Chloe was sobbing, and Telltale Moisture stood in Mr. Dinsma's eyes. Come, come, he said at length, speaking somewhat gruffly to hide his emotion. We have had enough of this, there's no use in fretting over what cannot be helped. Elsie's father will be bringing her back one of these days, so dry your eyes. Aunt Phyllis and all of you, the boat is waiting, the captain wanted to be off. Are you quite ready, ladies? Receiving an answer in the affirmative. Then let us go on board at once, he said, and would have taken his little granddaughter in his arms, but Aunt Phyllis begged the privilege of carrying her to the pier. Then with one last long, clingy embrace she resigned her to her nurse. Dare, honey darling, dry your eyes and don't cry no more. Wipe the tears away so you can see your home, while we'd go on long past the orchard and fields. Aunt Chloe said, standing on the deck and lifting the child high in her arms. And look, Pitt, there's all the darkies standing long to show it to see that boat move off, and that's the way they'll stand and watch it when you and old Mammy comes back. Yes, there they were, gathered in a crowd close to the water's edge, weeping and wailing, Aunt Phyllis in the foreground, wringing her hands and with the big tears rolling faster in her cheeks. The child saw and stretched out her arms to her with a cry of mingled love and distress.  Mildred saw it all through the eyes, dimmed with tears. Don't cry, darling, she whispered to Elsie.   Will my own Papa bring Elsie back and live here with me? Asked the little one, lifting her head as she was bitten and smiling through her tears as she gazed out over the lovely landscape. I hope so, Mildred said, and you mustn't forget what a nice time we're going to have in New Orleans, buying the pretty things for the children at Rosemes. That was a wise suggestion, very helpful in cheering the sorrowful baby heart. In the discussion of the momentous and interesting questions, what those gifts should be and in what sort of places they would be found, she presently grew quite cheerful and animated. A wonderful new world opened upon the baby eyes as they neared the city. She was filled with eager curiosity and delight, manifested in ways so entertaining and winsome, and by questions showing so much native wit, that her grandfather's heart warmed toward her. Then, wherever they went, he found her attracting so much attention, by reason of her beauty, sweetness, and intelligence, that he grew proud of her in spite of himself. End of Chapter 24 Recording by Amy Chapter 25 of Mildred at Rosemes by Martha Finley This Libberfox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Amy Chapter 25 Envy is but the smoke of low estate, ascending still against the fortunate. Lord Brooke Mama, what's the matter? asked Adelaide Dinsmore. They read the breakfast table. Mrs. Dinsmore was reading a letter from her husband, and Adelaide had been studying her face a while, noting the gathering frown upon the brow, the fushion of the cheek, the compression of the lips that spoke of increase in anger. Matter? I was never so provoked in my life, cried Mrs. Dinsmore, crushing the letter passionately in her hands, and then tearing it into bits. The idea of bringing that child here, not merely for a visit, which would be bad enough, but to stay permanently. I don't know what your father can be thinking of. It seems it's not enough that I've been tormented with a stepson, but I must have a step. Step what, Mama? From all three of the little girls, as she broke off abruptly, leaving her sentence unfinished. Nonsense! Be quiet, will you? she answered angrily. They waited a moment for her passion to cool, and Adelaide began again. What child, Mama? Is Papa coming home and going to bring a child with him? Yes, your brother Horace's child. You may as well know at first his last, I suppose. Three pairs of eyes opened wide with amazement. Three young voices crying out together. Brother Horace's child, my Mama, what can you mean? We didn't know he had any. We never even heard that he was married. Of course you didn't, said Mrs. Dinsmore, pushing away her plate. And probably you never would if this child had been stubbornly determined to live, in spite of losing her mother before she was a week old. No, we were never proud of the match, and you kept the thing quiet. But now it will be a nine days one through the neighborhood, and the whole story will have to come out. And you might as well tell it to us, was Adelaide's sage rejoinder. Tell Mama, do, I'm dying of curiosity. I can be told in a few words, said Mrs. Dinsmore, in a tone of wearied impatience. Five years ago Horace went on a visit to New Orleans, met an orphan girl of large fortune, fell in love with her, and persuaded her to marry him. The thing was clandestine, of course, for they were mere boy and girl. They lived together for two or three months, and her guardian, who had been away, came home, found it out, and was furious. He carried the girl off nobody knew where, your father sent Horace north to college. And some months afterward, we heard that the girl was dead, and had left a baby. She's four years old now, the guardian is dead, and your father's bringing her home to live. There, I've given you the whole story, and don't intend to be bothered with any more questions. But Mama burst out the children who had listened with breathless interest. You haven't told us her name or when they are coming. Her name is Elsie, and they will be here in about a week. They're not another question. I'm bored to death with the subject. Four years old, why she's just a baby, remarked Adelaide to her sisters. Let's go tell Mammy the news, that she's going to have another baby to take care of. No, she's not, some assistance from Sharply. The child is a Mammy of her own that's coming with her. What relation is she to us, Addy? Asked Laura. Who, the black woman? None to me, I'm sure. Left Adelaide. You know I didn't mean that, Laura retorted in a vex tone. Why, we're on, exclaimed Louise. Now isn't that funny? And Mama's a grandmother. That's funnier still, she added with a burst of laughter. Mrs. Dinsmore was in the act of leaving the room, but turned back to say wrathfully. No such thing. The child is not related to me in the least, so don't let me hear any more of that nonsense. Mama's mad, laughed Louise. Mad enough to shake me, I do believe. She doesn't like to be thought old enough to be a grandmother. Maybe she isn't, said Laura. Horace was a pretty big boy when Papa and Mama were married. Wasn't he, Addy? I can't remember before I was born, and Adelaide answered teasingly. Well, if you don't know about anything, but what has happened since you were born, you don't know much. Laura retorted with spirit. But I'll go and ask Mammy. She'll know, for she was here before he was born. It was a lovely spring day, and from the windows of the breakfast room, they could see out Maria, the old colored woman, who had been nursing the family ever since the birth of Mr. Dinsmore's eldest child, and whom they all called Mammy, walking about under the trees in the garden, with baby Anna in her arms. While Arthur and Walter gambled together on the grass nearby. Kye Chellens, what's the matter? She exclaimed, passing in her walk, as the three little girls came bounding toward her and almost breathless excitement. Oh, Mammy! They cried all speaking at once. Did you know that brother Horace was married, and had a baby girl, and that Papa's bringing her home to live? Kye Chellens, what's you talking about? Returned the old woman incredulously. He was trying to fool you, old Mammy. No, no indeed, Mammy. It's also, Mom has just been telling us, and they went on to repeat substantially what they had just learned from their mother. Aunt Maria was an intensely interested and astonished listener, and they had several others before their story was finished. Arthur and Walter came running up to ask what it was all about, and two or three servants also joined the little group. You looked pleased, Mammy. Are you really? asked Adelaide. To be sure I is, child, returned the old nurse, with a broad grin of satisfaction. Marce Horace, a born of my children, and I'll be mighty glad to see his little child. The news spread rapidly among the servants, and from their principal topic of conversation, from that time till the arrival of their master and his young charge. I'll leave in the breakfast room Mrs. Dinsmar bent her steps toward the nursery. She found it untenanted, except by a housemaid, who was engaged in putting it in order for the day. Go and tell Mrs. Brawler I wish to speak to him immediately, commanded the mistress, dropping into an easy chair. Yes, Mrs. And the girl disappeared to return shortly, accompanied by the housekeeper. You've heard from Mr. Dinsmar? remarked the lady inquiringly, addressing Mrs. Brawler. Yes, ma'am. He writes that Mrs. Murray, the housekeeper at Via Mead, has consented to take my place for the coming year. Yes, I'm afraid she won't suit me as well.  I mean as to the necessity or desirability of going away. I don't think you'll find a healthier place anywhere else in Rosens. I have no fault to find with the place, ma'am, but I need rest, the doctor says, from the care and Dr. Barton's full of notions, interrupted Mrs. Dinsmar impatiently. Well, you'll stay, I suppose, until this Mrs. Murray learns from you about the ways of the house. Yes, ma'am, since you wish it. Mrs. Dinsmar gave her orders for the day as usual, then said, It's another thing, Mrs. Brawler. You've probably heard that Mr. Dinsmar is bringing a child with him. Yes, ma'am. He mentioned it in his letter to me, saying that a room must be got ready for her and her nurse. That is what I was coming to. Mrs. Dinsmar arose and opened a door leading into an adjoining apartment. This room will answer very well. Have the trunks and boxes carried to the attic, the floor, paint, and window washed, a single bedstead, wash stand, bureau, and two or three chairs brought in, and put up a white muslin curtain to the window. But, ma'am, Mrs. Dinsmar and Mrs. Brawler looked almost aghast at her employer. Well, exclaimed the latter with sharpness. Excuse me, ma'am, but isn't… I understood that the little lady was Mr. Dinsmar's granddaughter, and quite an heiress. Well, and supposing she is all that? I beg pardon, Mrs. Dinsmar, but isn't the room rather small? Only one window, too, and I presume she's been used to. It makes no difference what she's been used to, and you are presuming too far. You'll be good enough to see that my orders are carried out at once. And Mrs. Dinsmar was sweeping from the room in her most dignified style, but turned the door to add, a cot bed can be put up here for the nurse, and the door left open between at night, then sailed majestically down the hall. Dear, dear, whatever will Mr. Dinsmar say to having his granddaughter put into such a hole as that? Exclaimed the housekeeper, half to herself and half to the housemaid. Well, it can't be helped. I'll just have to do the best I can and tell him it wasn't my fault. Sally, do you go down and send up two of the boys to carry away these trunks, and tell Aunt Phoebe to heat up a kettle of soft water for the scrubbing? Mrs. Brown did her best, had the room thoroughly cleaned, neatly papered and carpeted, a set of pretty cottage furniture carried in, put a lace curtain to the window, looped it back with pink ribbon, made up the bed in the daintiest fashion, and on the day the travelers were expected to arrive, decorated the small apartment profusely, with the loveliest, most fragrant flowers that could be found, transforming it into a bower of beauty. Mrs. Dinsmar paid no attention to her proceedings, but the children watched them with interest, wondering well that so mean a room had been selected for their little niece. They were quite amused and gratified with the idea of being aunts and uncles, and if left to themselves, would have been disposed to welcome the little stranger warmly, but the flighting, sneering way in which their mother alluded to her and her mother's family, presently impressed them with the idea that she was to be looked upon as an object of contempt, if not as a positive disgrace to the family. They reasoned among themselves, the older ones at least, that probably Horace thought so too, or he would have told them about her. But when they saw the carriage which was bringing her, their father and Mildred from the city, actually rolling up the avenue, all this was forgotten, and they rushed to the door to meet them, filled with curiosity and delight. There was a tumultuous embracing of their father and cousin, and they turned to look at the child. What they saw was a small, fairy-like figure in the arms of a pleasant-looking, middle-aged colored woman, a delicate oval face, tinted with the loveliest shades of pink and white, framed in by a mass of golden ringlets, and lighted by a pair of eyes of the softest hazel, which were gazing half shyly, half eagerly at them. Oh, you darling, you pretty darling, cried Adelaide, reaching her with a bound and giving her a vigorous hug and kiss. Do you know that I'm your auntie, and don't you think it's funny? The embrace was instantly returned, a beautiful smile breaking over the sweet little face, while the baby voice cooed, Yes, Elsie loves you. Don't tease the child, Adelaide. Children, let her alone, said Mrs. Dinsmore sharply. But no one seemed to hear or heed.  The hava-burn fairly puffed up with vanity, Mrs. Mildred, exclaimed Mrs. Murray, and it is made aside to our heroine. Never mind, whispered Mildred joyously, I'm only too glad she should have such a welcome, but darling, and I don't believe it will hurt her in the least. There are children, and the rest of you, that will do, so Mr. Dinsmore with authority. The child is tired with her long journey. Carry her to her room, Aunt Chloe, and let her have something to eat and a nap. Aunt Chloe obeyed. Mildred hurried after to see the child comfortably established, and then dress herself for dinner. Mrs. Brown invited Mrs. Murray to her new quarters, and Mr. Dinsmore, waiting only to give an order to his body servant, hastened after the little girl and her attendant, following the sound of their voices, for the child was prattling to her mammy and Mildred, and they were answering her innocent questions in remarks. Dis my little Mrs. Room? Mr. Dinsmore heard Aunt Chloe exclaim, in a tone of astonishment and contempt, as a little party, guided by Sally, the housemaid, reached the door of the room selected by Mrs. Dinsmore. He hurried forward. What? This pigeonhole? He exclaimed, turning wrathfully to the girl. Who bade you bring the young lady? Mr. Horace's daughter here. Mrs. told the housekeeper, fix this room for the little lady, NASA, replied the girl trembling with a fright. Stupid! You must have misunderstood her. He said, This way, Aunt Chloe. The room to which he conducted them adjourned that, appropriated to Mildred, and was equally large, airy and cheerful, equally well furnished. Aunt Chloe surveyed it with a look of relief and satisfaction, and bidding her send Sally for whatever else was wanted for the child, Mr. Dinsmore left them and went down to his wife. She read displeasure in his countenance and drew out her handkerchief in preparation for her usual mode of defense. Praying, Madam, he demanded in irate tone by whose orders was that cubby-hole prepared for the use of Horace's child. That very nice little room next to the nursery was the one selected by myself. She answered with dignity. Nice little room indeed, he returned to scorn. Ten feet by twelve, left for one born in a palace and reared thus far in the very lap of luxury. Plenty good enough and big enough for old Grayson's grandchild, observed the wife turning up her aristocratic nose in supreme content. Madam, she is also my grandchild and heiress in her own right to over a million. Mrs. Dinsmore's look expressed first astonishment and jealous rage and envy. And the very inclination of beauty she muttered between her clenched teeth. What did you bring her here for? To cast our children into the shade.  What have you been doing? Where have you put her? In the blue room. The blue room, one of the very best in the house. The blue satin-demast cushions of the chairs and sofas are so handsome and delicate. And to think of the sun being let in to fade them and a baby rubbing its shoes over them and scattering greasy crumbs on them and that exquisite carpet. It's too trying for flesh and blood to stand. And the handkerchief went up to her eyes. It's not worthwhile to distrust yourself, he remarked coolly. Her income is quite sufficient to allow of its being refurnished at double the cost every six months, if necessary.  Sob the much-tried and very ill-used woman. Little Elsie was brought down to the drawing room after tea. Mildred leading her in while Aunt Clearly followed, bearing a pasteboard box. Fresh pangs of envy and jealousy assailed Mrs. Dinsmore at sight of the little fair one. Now rested and refreshed, beautifully and tastefully attired, and looking even more bewitchingly lovely than on her arrival. Returning to her grandfather, she asked coaxingly, Please, Grandpa, may Elsie gift of things now? It was well known at any time, he said, not unkindly. And she ran back to Mildred, who had taken the box from Aunt Chloe, and now opened and held it so that the child could handle the contents. This is the one for Anna's mama, Mildred whispered, pointing to a jewel case. I would give it first. The small white hand seized it. The soft brown eyes glanced about the room, till they rested upon the figure of a richly dressed lady in an easy chair. Then the little twinkling feet tripped across, and with a shy look, up into the not too pleasant face, the case was laid in her lap, the baby boy's listing sweetly. Please, Anna's mama, Elsie wants to gift you this. Mrs. Dinsmer started with surprise, opened the case hastily, and seen a very handsome gold bracelet lying there. Count descended to smile and murmur a few words of thanks, but the little one had not waited for them. Back to Mildred she ran an eager haste to finish the work of presenting her love tokens to these newfound relatives. A handsome gold ring to each of the three little girls received with kisses, thanks, and exclamations of delight, and toys for the others, which seemed to give equal satisfaction. End of Chapter 25, Recording by Amy Chapter 26 of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finlay This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Amy Chapter 26 Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow and floats before my eyes, as meek and pure as Dove's art, thou, or beings of disguise. Robert Morris Do you like it, Aunt? asked Mildred, approaching Mrs. Dinsmore, as she was in the act of clasping the bracelet on her arm. Yes, it's very handsome, but I think there might as well have been a pair of them. Ah, return Mildred with a smile directed toward Mr. Dinsmore. Little Elsie would have been glad to make it so, but Uncle held the prey's strings and was inexorably determined that it should be but one. Just like him, said the wife snappishly. My dear, I felt extremely mean in allowing so much, as I did, to be spent upon my family. He said with a gravity that was almost stern. I don't see why you need, she replied with irritation, sacrificing the comfort of your family, as you are, by taking her in. I must confess, he returned, that I see no sacrifice about it. The child will not be the slightest expense to us, but rather the reverse, nor will her presence in the house add in the very least to your cares. The children seemed well pleased with their gifts. Mildred remarked, giving him a cheery smile, as she moved away toward them, gathered in the little throng about Elsie, amusing themselves by making her talk, asking her questions, and bidding her pronounce their names in turn, with the prefects of Aunt or Uncle. Here the darlingest little thing that ever was, Adelaide exclaimed, catching her in arms and kissing her again and again. She's too pretty. Nobody will ever look at us when she's by. I heard Mama say so. Mother Louise discontentedly. Poo, what's the use of talking in that way, said Laura? We can hide her upstairs when we want to be looked at. Of course, said Mildred laughing, and being such a mere baby, I don't think you need fear that she will prove a serious rival. I'm her uncle, remarked Arthur, drawing himself up with dignity. Say, Uncle Arthur again, baby girl. I haven't a baby girl, she said, smiling up into his face. Elsie's a big girl now, and is the baby. Pretty baby, Elsie, love you. She added, lovingly stroking Anna's hair. It's high time those children weren't bet, said Mrs. Dinsmer from the other side of the room. Aunt Maria take Anna and the boys to the nursery. Aunt Chloe, not slow to take a hint, picked up her nursing and followed the other woman. Elsie looking back and kissing her hand to her grandfather, with a pleasant, Good night, Grandpa. Good night, Anna's mama and all the folks. Mildred went with them to enjoy a little talk and play with the child, as had been her custom at Via Mead, but did not venture to stay long, lest Mrs. Dinsmer should be displeased at her absenting herself from the drying room, on this first evening after her return. On going down again, she found Mr. Landroth there. He spent the evening and made himself very agreeable. Mildred was quite full of Via Mead and his little heiress, and he seemed much interested in all she had to say about them. Mr. Landroth was a favorite with Mrs. Dinsmer, she considered him an excellent match in point of wealth and family, possessed also the added recommendations of good education, polished address, and genial disposition. He had been a frequent visitor to Rosens in the past months, and she had spared no pains to show off to him the attractions of her nieces, and throw him as much as possible into their society, at the same time adorately keeping Mildred in the background. But the young man was sufficiently keen-sighted to see through her schemes, and while seemingly falling in with them, in reality reserved all his admiration for Mildred, who on her part was taken up with other interests, and thought of him only as a pleasant acquaintance, whose visits to the house meant nothing to her. Mrs. Dinsmer had been disappointed by her failure to secure him for one or the other for nieces, and having come to his warm alliking for our heroine, as it was in her selfish nature, to entertain for anyone not connected with herself by ties of blood, she desired as a next-best thing to bring about a match between her and Mr. Landred. But Mildred did not second her efforts, showing no particular preference for Mr. Landred's society, above that of any one of the half-dozen or more other unmarried gentleman who frequented the house. She treated them all courteously, but gave encouragement to none, seeming far more interested in little Elsie, and in the studies almost discontinued during her stay at Vimead, but taken up again with renewed zeal directly in her return to Rosens. But Mr. Landred was not to be discouraged. He paid court to Elsie, learning seemed to love the little creature for her own sweet sake, and managed after a time to associate himself with several Mildred's pursuits. The time had now arrived when, according to the original plan, Mildred was to return home, and those who loved her there were looking forward with eager impatience for her coming. But Mr. Dinsmer wrote to her parents, in treating that he might be allowed to keep her some months longer, and bringing forward several cogent reasons why his request should be granted. Mildred was improving in health, making the best use of opportunities to perfect herself in accomplishments, etc., was the most pleasant companion to himself and wife, ought not to be permitted to undertake the long journey alone, and at present no suitable escort could be found. The parents carefully weighed his arguments, and for their child's sake finally gave consent, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Mildred, with both glad and sorry, had any yearning desire for home in its dear occupants, but at the same time feeling that the parting from Mui Elsie would be very sad, so tender was the attachment that had sprung up between herself and the motherless babe. Pity was a large element in Mildred's love for the child, and that increased as the weeks and months roll on, for both the grandfather and the young uncles and aunts, yielding gradually to Mrs. Dinsmer's baleful influence, treated her with less kindness and consideration. While Mrs. Dinsmer's tyranny was such that not unfrequently, Mildred could scare for frame from expressing violent indignation. The child was not subjected to blows, but angry looks and harsh words and tones, that to her sensitive spirit were worse than blows would have been to a more obtuse nature, where plentifully dealt out to her, also ridicules, sneers, and snubs, and there was no respect shown to her rights of property. The other children might rob her of her toys, books, and pictures, with entire impunity if she ventured to carry them outside her own room. Mrs. Dinsmer learned that if she showed them the so excited a desire for them in the breasts of her children, she deserved to lose them. She is quite able to afford to present them with anything they want, she would add, and I am not going to have them torment her with the sight of pretty things that are to be refused them. Elsie was so unselfish and generous, that as a usual thing, she could be easily induced to give even what she highly valued, but to have her possessions laid violent hands upon, and forced from her, outraged her sense of justice, and though she seldom offered much resistance, it often cost her many bitter tears. She was a careful little body who never destroyed anything, and her loving nature made her cling even to material things, in some instances, which she had owned and amused herself with for years. An old dolly that she had loved and nursed from what was to her, time immemorial, was so dear and precious, that no new one, however beautiful and fine, could possibly replace it. And a living pet took such a place in her heart from the first, a tamed squirrel that she had brought with her, and a white dove given her by Mr. Landrath soon after her arrival. But all these were taken from her, the doll had to be resigned to Anna, the dove to Walter, and the squirrel to Arthur. There was a short struggle each time, and she gave it up, and sobbed out her sorrow in her mommy's arms, or in Mildred's sympathizing bosom. Oh, Elsie wants to go back to her own dear home, she would cry. Can't Elsie go back? Must Elsie stay here, where they take her things away? Mildred at first hoped her uncle would interfere, but no, he did not enjoy contention with his wife, and like many another man, could not understand how things of value so trifling in his sight, could be worth so much to the child. He was willing to replace them, and bought it on the ill-tempered stubbornness when she refused to be comforted in that manner. It was a sore trial to the three hearts in that house that loved her so dearly, but all they could do was to soothe her with caresses and assurances of their love, and of the love of Jesus, and that if she bore her trials with meekness and patience, returning good for evil to those who used her so ill, it would be pleasing to him. Mildred would talk to her of her papa too, and the happy time she would have when he came home, how he would love and pet and fondle her. For surely, she reasoned with herself, he cannot possibly do otherwise when he sees how sweet and lovely she is. The prospect seemed to give the little one intense pleasure, and she would often ask to be told, about the time when Elsie's dear papa will come. She would watch her grandfather too, as he pet it and fondled his little ones, with a wistful longing in the sweet brown eyes that brought tears to those in Mildred and made her heart ache. Wuing thee, I found thee of more value than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags, and tis the very riches of thyself that now I aim at, Shakespeare. Early in June, the Dinsmore's repaired to the seashore, taking Mildred with them, also little Elsie and her mammy. The whole summer was spent at watering places, and Mr. Landreth was generally one of their party. Mildred enjoyed it, the time spent at the seashore especially, very much in a quiet way, taking no part in the gayities of the fashionables, but delighting in walks and drives along the beach, and in boating and bathing. Elsie was fond of a morning stroll on the beach with cousin Millie, Aunt Chloe being always at hand to carry her pet when the little feet grew tired, and Mildred was never averse to the companionship of the sweet child, never in too great haste to accommodate her pace to that of the little one, or to stop to examine and explain whatever excited her curiosity, or to let her pick up seaweed, shells, and pebbles. Sometimes the other children joined them, occasionally Mr. Landreth also. Later in the day, he was almost sure to be Mildred's companion, unless she contrived to elude him. This she attempted quite frequently toward the latter part of the summer, declining his attention whenever she could, without positive rudeness. At first he would not believe it was by design, but at length he could no longer shut his eyes to the fact, and, much disturbed and mortified, he determined to seek an explanation. He must know what was her motive, whether aversion to his society, or fear that he was trifling with her. And if the latter, it should be speedily removed, he would tell her what was a sober truth, that he esteemed and admired her above all the rest of her sex, and would be supremely happy if she would consent to be his wife. They and their party had left the seashore for a fashionable resort among the mountains, where they had now been for a fortnight or more, and where they had found the elder Mr. Landred and his wife, established for the season. Mildred set out for a walk one morning, directly after breakfast, taking Elsie and her nurse with her. They found a cool, shady spot beside a little brook at the foot of a hill, where the grass was green and a rustic seat under a spreading tree invited to rest. They sat down, and Elsie amused herself with throwing pebbles and bits of bark into the water. On Chloe, Mildred said presently, I want to climb this hill for the sake of the view, so we'll leave you and Elsie here. I don't intend to be gone long, but if she gets tired waiting, you can take her back to the house, and I will follow. So sane, she tripped away back to the road, made her scent, seated herself upon a log at a spot which commanded a fine view of the mountain, hill, and vale, and taking out her drawing materials was about to sketch the scene when a voice addressed her. Good morning, Miss Keith. I am happy to have come upon you just now, and alone. I'm quite out of breath with climbing the hill, the voice went on, as Mildred, turning her head, recognized Mrs. Landreth, responded to her greeting, and made room for her on the log. Thank you.  I'm at your service, Mrs. Landreth, Mildred said, closing her sketchbook, recalling as she did so, her companions formally expressed opinion that such employment was a sinful waste of time, and anticipating an lecture on that subject. However, the good women's thoughts were, at that moment, too full of a more important theme, to allow her to so much as notice with what the young girl had busied herself. My dear, she began, I have a strong liking and high respect for you, because you seem to me sincerely desire us to do right, and live in a Christian way according to your light.  But we don't all see a like, and I should be rejoiced to receive you and to the family, if that might be without the danger to you, spiritually, which it involves.  When I have shown my desire to enter your family, Mrs. Landreth, it will be time enough to— Ah, my dear, my dear, you quite misunderstand me, interrupted the older lady. Except for your own sake, and your duty as a Christian to marry only in the Lord, I should be delighted, and have never felt at all sure that Charlie could get you. But I see plainly that he wants you, and it seemed my duty to warn you not to take him. Mildred was very angry, drawing herself up to her full height and speaking with hot hair. Excuse me, madam, she said, if I venture to remind you that unhappened advice is seldom acceptable, and if I add that it is especially unpalatable when it involves the meddling with manners too delicate, for even the most intimate friend to allude to uninvited—what a temper! I begin to think you are none too good from after all, grimly comment to Mrs. Landreth, rising in return. Good morning, miss.  It was a mixture of emotions that brought the tears in those plentiful showers. Anger burned still in her breast, yet at the same time she was bitterly remorseful in account of it. Sorry and ashamed that she had so disgraced her Christian profession. Bringing reproach upon the master's cousin, ah, what meant the pain that meddling woman's words had caused. Could it be the fear that duty called her to resign that which had become very dear to her heart? Alas, yes, you cried out with a yearning, passionate cry for this love that she must reject, if indeed it was offered her. Did he indeed love her? Oh, what joy! What bliss! But oh, the bitter anguish if she must put that cup of joy aside untasted. How could she? Yet how dare she do otherwise? The Bible did speak of marrying only in the Lord. It did say, Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers. Someone knelt on the grass at her side, gently lifted up her head, and took her hands in his. Don't, darling. I can't bear to see tears in those dear eyes. I know all. I met her, and she told me. How dared she so wound your delicacy. But it is true that I love you. Yes, a thousand times better than she can imagine, and that I am utterly unworthy of you. But, milder, dearest, sweetest, best of women, give me a little hope, and I will try to become all you can ask. She could not speak. She tried to hide her blushing face, and to withdraw her hands. But he held them fast, and continued to pour out earnest pleadings, and passionate expressions of love and devotion. I cannot. Oh, I cannot. She stammered at last. I'm afraid she is right. Not, oh, not that I am any better than you, but we are traveling different roads, and how can two walk together except they be agreed? I would never interfere with your religion, he said. I know it is different from that which makes my poor uncle's home the most desolate place on earth. Oh, Mildred, think that you may be the saving of me. I am willing to walk in your road if you will show me the way, even to join the church at once, if that will satisfy you. She looked up westfully into his face. Ah, Charlie, Mr. Landroth, is that your idea of what it is to be a Christian? Ah, it is more, much more. With the heart man believeth unto righteousness, against the righteousness of Christ put upon him, imputed to him, while holy living proves the reality of the change, the saving nature of his faith. And with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. Do you not see that conversion must come before joining the church? I don't understand these things, he said, but I'm willing to learn. Oh, Mildred, be my wife, and you may lead me wither you will. She shook her head sorrowfully, tears stealing down her cheeks. I am too weak, too ready to stray from the path myself, too easily led by those I love. He whispered eagerly and bending over her, as she paused in confusion. Oh, Mildred darling, say the sweet word. You do love me, you do. I see it in your dear eyes, and I will never despair. But speak the word, dearest, once, just once. Oh, Charlie, she grumped covering her face. I should learn to love you too well, to bear the thought that we were not to spend eternity together. End of Chapter 27, Recording by Amy End of Mildred at Rosens by Martha Finley