“Oh, Aunt Adelaide! that is not what I want,” murmured the child, in low, broken accents.

But Adelaide went on without noticing the interruption—­

“He is worse, and growing worse all the time, Elsie; his fever has been very high ever since yesterday afternoon—­and we all know that it is nothing but your misconduct that has caused this relapse.”

Elsie could bear no more, but rushing away to her own room, and locking herself in, she gave way without restraint to her feelings of distress and anguish.

Knowing that she was not expected in the school-room—­as she had paid no attention to study since the beginning of her father’s illness—­she did not leave her room again until dinner-time.

She was on her way to the dining-room, when her Aunt Adelaide, passing her in the hall, caught hold of her, saying, “Elsie, your papa is so ill that the doctor trembles for his life; he says he is certain that he has something on his mind that is distressing him and causing this alarming change, and unless it is removed he fears he will never be any better.  Elsie, you know what that something is.”

Elsie stood as if turned to stone, while Adelaide, letting go her arm, moved quickly away, leaving her alone, stunned, bewildered, terrified by the suddenness of the dreadful announcement.

She could not think or reason; she could only press her hands to her temples, in the vain endeavor to still their wild throbbing; then, turning back to her own room again, she threw herself upon her knees, and, resting her head against the bed, gave vent to her over-wrought feelings in such groans of anguish as seldom come from the heart of one so young.  At first she could neither weep nor pray; but at length tears came to her relief, and she poured out agonizing supplications “that her dear, dear papa might be spared, at least, until he had learned to love Jesus, and was fit to go to heaven.”

She felt as though her heart would break at the very thought of being separated from him forever in this world, but even that was as nothing compared to the more terrible fear of not meeting him in another.

That was a long, sad afternoon to the poor child; the longest and saddest she had ever known.  Chloe now and then brought her word how her father was, but no one else came near her to speak a word of comfort or hope.  Towards evening they had given up almost all hope; he had ceased to recognize any one, and one after another, parents, brother, sisters, and servants, had been permitted to take a last look—­all but little Elsie, his own and only child—­the one nearest and dearest to him, and to whom he was all the world—­she alone was forbidden to come.  She had begged and plead, in tones that might have melted a heart of stone, to be permitted to see his face once more in life; but Mrs. Dinsmore, who had taken the direction of everything, said, “No, her father has forbidden it, and she shall not come unless she expresses her willingness to comply with his conditions.”