“Yes, Miss Rose, very near, and very precious; else how could I have borne it at all? for oh, Miss Rose, I thought sometimes my heart would break!”

“It was a bitter trial, dearest, I know; and certain I am that you must have had much more than your own strength to enable you to be so firm,” said Rose, tenderly.

“Ah, there is Sophy!” she added quickly, as a mass of flaxen curls, accompanied by a pair of dancing blue eyes, appeared for an instant at the door, and then as suddenly vanished.  “Sophy!  Sophy, come here!” she called, and again the door opened and the owner of the blue eyes and flaxen ringlets—­a little girl about Elsie’s age, came in, and moved slowly towards them, looking at the stranger in her sister’s lap with a mingled expression of fun, curiosity, and bashfulness.

“Come, Sophy, this is Elsie Dinsmore, whom you have so often wished to see,” said Rose.  “Elsie, this is my little sister Sophy.  I want you to be friends, and learn to love one another dearly.  There, Sophy, take her into your room, and show her all your toys and books, while I am changing my dress; that will be the way for you to get acquainted.”

Sophy did as she was desired, and, as Rose had foreseen, the first feeling of bashfulness soon wore off, and in a few moments they were talking and laughing together as though they had been acquainted as many months.  Sophy had brought out a number of dolls, and they were discussing their several claims to beauty in a very animated way when Rose called to them to come with her.

“I am going to carry you off to the nursery, Elsie, to see the little ones,” she said, taking her young visitor’s hand; “should you like to see them?”

“Oh, so much!” Elsie exclaimed eagerly; “if Sophy may go, too.”

“Oh, yes, Sophy will come along, of course,” Miss Rose said, leading the way as she spoke.

Elsie found the nursery, a beautiful, large room, fitted up with every comfort and convenience, and abounding in a variety of toys for the amusement of the children, of whom there were three—­the baby crowing in its nurse’s arms, little May, a merry, romping child of four, with flaxen curls and blue eyes like Sophy’s, and Freddie, a boy of seven.

Harold, who was thirteen, sat by one of the windows busily engaged covering a ball for Fred, who with May stood intently watching the movements of his needle.

Elsie was introduced to them all, one after another.

Harold gave her a cordial shake of the hand, and a pleasant “Welcome to
Elmgrove,” and the little ones put up their faces to be kissed.

Elsie thought Harold a kind, pleasant-looking boy, not at all like Arthur, Fred and May, dear little things, and the baby perfectly charming, as she afterwards confided to her father.

“May I take the baby, Miss Rose?” she asked coaxingly.

Miss Rose said “Yes,” and the nurse put it in her arms for a moment.