Mr. Dinsmore could bear no more, but starting up he would have approached the bed, but a warning gesture from the physician prevented him, and he hurried from the room.

He met Travilla in the hall.

Neither spoke, but Edward wrung his friend’s hand convulsively, then hastily turned away to hide his emotion, while Mr. Dinsmore hurried to his room, and locked himself in.

He did not come down to dinner, and Adelaide, hearing from the anxious John how long he had been without food, began to feel seriously alarmed on his account, and carried up a biscuit and a cup of coffee with her own hands.

He opened the door at her earnest solicitation, but only shook his head mournfully, saying that he had no desire for food.  She urged him, even with tears in her eyes, but all in vain; he replied that “he could not eat; it was impossible.”

Adelaide had at first felt inclined to reproach him bitterly for his long delay in returning home, but he looked so very wretched, so utterly crushed by the weight of this great sorrow, that she had not the heart to say one reproachful word, but on the contrary longed to comfort him.

He begged her to sit down and give him a few moments’ conversation.  He told her why he had been so long in answering her summons, and how he had travelled night and day since receiving it; and then he questioned her closely about the whole course of Elsie’s sickness—­every change in her condition, from first to last—­all that had been done for her—­and all that she had said and done.

Adelaide told him everything; dwelling particularly on the child’s restless longing for him, her earnest desire to receive his forgiveness and caress before she died, and her entreaties to her to comfort her “dear papa” when she was gone.  She told him, too, of her last will and testament, and of the little package which was, after her death, to be given to him, along with her dearly loved Bible.

He was deeply moved during this recital, sometimes sitting with his head bowed down, hiding his face in his hands; at others, rising and pacing the floor, his breast heaving with emotion, and a groan of anguish ever and anon bursting from his overburdened heart, in spite of the mighty effort he was evidently making to control himself.

But at last she was done; she had told him all that there was to tell, and for a few moments both sat silent, Adelaide weeping quietly, and he striving in vain to be calm.

At length he said, in a husky tone, “Sister Adelaide, I can never thank you as you deserve for your kindness to her—­my precious child.”

“Oh, brother!” replied Adelaide, sobbing, “I owe her a debt of gratitude I can never pay.  She has been all my comfort in my great sorrow; she has taught me the way to heaven, and now she is going before.”  Then, with a burst of uncontrollable grief, she exclaimed:  “Oh, Elsie!  Elsie! darling child! how can I give you up?”