“Yes, if you please,” replied the little girl; and she went on to name every member of the family, from her grandfather down—­servants included—­setting apart some little gift for each; most of them things already in her possession, though some few were to be bought, if her papa was willing.  Even Miss Day was not forgotten, and to her Elsie bequeathed a valuable ring.  To her Aunt Adelaide she gave her papa’s miniature, a lock of her own hair, and a small Testament.

“Are you really willing to part with your papa’s picture, Elsie, dear?” asked Adelaide.  “I thought you valued it very highly.”

“I cannot take it with me, dear Aunt Adelaide,” was the quiet reply, “and he will not want it himself, and I believe you love him better than any one else.  Oh, Aunt Adelaide, comfort my poor papa when I am gone, and he is left all alone!” she exclaimed, the big tears chasing each other down her cheeks.  “It is so sad to be alone, with nobody to love you; my poor, poor papa!  I am all he has.”

“You have given nothing to him, Elsie,” said Adelaide, wiping away her tears, and glancing over what she had just written.

“Yes, there is a little packet in my desk directed to him.  Please give him that, and my dear, precious little Bible.  I can’t part with it yet, but when I am gone.”

She then mentioned that she had pointed out to her nurse the spot where she wished to be buried, and added that she did not want any monument, but just a plain white stone with her name and age, and a text of Scripture.

“That is all, and thank you very much, dear auntie,” she said, when Adelaide had finished writing down her directions; “now, please put the pen in my fingers and hold the paper here, and I think I can sign my name.”

She did so quite legibly, although her hand trembled with weakness; and then, at her request, the paper was folded, sealed, and placed in her desk, to be given after her death to her father, along with the packet.

It was evidently a great relief to Elsie to get these things off her mind, yet talking so long had exhausted all her little strength, and Adelaide, much alarmed at the death-like pallor of her countenance, and the sinking of her voice, now insisted that she should lie quiet and try to sleep.

Elsie made an effort to obey, but her fever was returning, and she was growing very restless again.

“I cannot, Aunt Adelaide,” she said at length, “and I want to tell you a little more to say to papa, for I may not be able again.  I am afraid he will not come until I am gone, and he will be so sorry; my poor, poor papa!  Tell him that I loved him to the very last; that I longed to ask him to forgive me for all the naughty, rebellious feelings I have ever had towards him.  Twice, since he has been displeased with me, I have rebelled in my heart—­once when he refused to give me Miss Allison’s letter, and again when he sent mammy away; it was only for a few moments each time; but it was very wicked, and I am very sorry.”