“I will try to be very quiet,” replied the little girl; “but, oh!  I hope he will come soon, and that the doctor will let me see him.”

“I shall read to you now, dear,” remarked Adelaide, taking up Elsie’s little Bible, which had been returned to her some days before; for she had asked for it almost as soon as she was able to speak.

Adelaide opened to one of her favorite passages in Isaiah, and read in a low, quiet tone that soon soothed the little one to sleep.

“Has my papa come?” was her first question on awaking.

“Do you think you are strong enough to see him?” asked Adelaide, smiling.

“Oh, yes, Aunt Adelaide; is he here?” she inquired, beginning to tremble with agitation.

“I am afraid you are not strong enough yet,” said Adelaide doubtfully; “you are trembling very much.”

“Dear Aunt Adelaide, I will try to be very calm; do let me see him,” she urged beseechingly; “it won’t hurt me half so much as to be kept waiting.”

“Yes, Adelaide, she is right.  My precious, precious child! they shall keep us apart no longer.”  And Elsie was gently raised in her father’s arms, and folded to his beating heart.

She looked up eagerly into his face.

It was full of the tenderest love and pity.

“Papa, papa, my own papa,” she murmured, dropping her head upon his breast.

He held her for some moments, caressing her silently; then laid her gently down upon her pillow, and sat by her side with one little hand held fast in his.

She raised her large, soft eyes, all dim with tears, to his face.

“Do you love me, my own papa?” she asked in a voice so low and weak he could scarcely catch the words.

“Better than life,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion; and he leaned over her, passing his hand caressingly over her face.

“Does my little daughter love me?” he asked.

“Oh, so very, very much,” she said, and closing her eyes wearily, she fell asleep again.

And now Mr. Dinsmore was constantly with his little girl.  She could scarcely bear to have him out of her sight, but clung to him with the fondest affection, which he fully returned; and he never willingly left her for an hour.  She seemed to have entirely forgotten their first meeting, and everything which had occurred since, up to the beginning of her illness, and always talked to her father as though they had but just begun their acquaintance; and it was with feelings half pleasurable, half painful, that he listened to her.

It was certainly a relief to have her so unconscious of their estrangement, and yet such an utter failure of memory distressed him with fears of permanent and serious injury to her intellect; and thus it was, with mingled hope and dread, that he looked forward to the fulfilment of the doctor’s prophecy that her memory would return.

She was growing stronger, so that she was able to be moved from her bed to a couch during the day; and when she was very weary of lying, her father would take her in his arms and carry her back and forth, or, seating himself in a large rocking-chair, soothe her to sleep on his breast, holding her there for hours, never caring for the aching of his arms, but really enjoying the consciousness that he was adding to her comfort by suffering a little himself.