This was said in the determined tone that always silenced Elsie at once, and she submitted to his decision without another word, feeling very thankful that he kept her so constantly at his side through the day.  She proved herself the best and most attentive of nurses, seeming to understand his wishes intuitively, and moving about so gently and quietly—­never hurried, never impatient, never weary of attending to his wants.  His eyes followed with fond delight her little figure as it flitted noiselessly about the room, now here, now there, arranging everything for his comfort; and often, as she returned to her station at his side, he would draw her down to him, and stroke her hair, or pat her cheek, or kiss the rosy lips, calling her by every fond, endearing name—­rose-bud—­his pet—­his bird—­his darling.

It was she who bathed his head with her cool, soft hands, in his paroxysms of fever, smoothed his hair, shook up his pillows, gave him his medicines, fanned him, and read or sang to him, in her clear sweet tones.

He was scarcely considered in danger, but his sickness was tedious, and would have seemed far more so without the companionship of his little daughter.  Every day seemed to draw the ties of affection more closely between them; yet, fond as he was of her, he ever made her feel that his will was always to be law to her; and while he required nothing contrary to her conscience, she submitted without a murmur, both because she loved him so well that it was a pleasure to obey him, and also because she knew it was her duty to do so.

But, alas! duty was not always to be so easy and pleasant.

It was Sabbath morning.  All the family had gone to church, excepting Elsie, who, as usual, sat by her papa’s bedside.  She had her Bible in her hand, and was reading aloud.

“There, Elsie, that will do now,” he said, as she finished her chapter.  “Go and get the book you were reading to me yesterday.  I wish to hear the rest of it this morning.”

Poor little Elsie! she rose to her feet, but stood irresolute.  Her heart beat fast, her color came and went by turns, and her eyes filled with tears.

The book her father bade her read to him was simply a fictitious moral tale, without a particle of religious truth in it, and, Elsie’s conscience told her, entirely unfit for Sabbath reading.

“Elsie!” exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled reproof and surprise, “did you hear me?”

“Yes, papa,” she murmured, in a low tone.

“Then go at once and get the book, as I bid you; it lies yonder on the dressing-table.”

Elsie moved slowly across the room, her father looking after her somewhat impatiently.

“Come, Elsie, make haste,” he said, as she laid her hand upon the book.  “I think I never saw you move so slowly,”

Without replying she took it up and returned to the bedside.  Then, as he caught sight of her face, and saw that her cheeks were pale and wet with tears, he exclaimed, “What, crying, Elsie! what ails you, my daughter?  Are you ill, darling?”