No one but the servants—­who still loved her dearly—­treated her with kindness; but coldness and neglect were the least she had to bear.  She was constantly reminded, even by Walter and Enna, that she was stubborn and disobedient, and there was so little pleasure in her walks and rides, either when taken alone or in company with them, that she gradually gave them up almost entirely—­until one day, her father’s attention being called to it, by a remark of Mrs. Dinsmore’s, “that it was no wonder the child was growing thin and pale, for she did not take exercise enough to keep her in health,” he called her to him, reprimanded her severely, and laid his commands upon her “to take a walk and ride every day, when the weather would at all permit, but never dare to go alone farther than into the garden.”

Elsie answered with meek submission, promising obedience; and then turned quickly away to hide the emotion that was swelling in her breast.

The change in her father was the bitterest part of her trial; she had so revelled in his affection, and now it seemed to be all withdrawn from her; and from the fond, indulgent parent, Mr. Dinsmore seemed suddenly to have changed to the cold, pitiless tyrant.  He now seldom took any notice of his little daughter, and never addressed her unless it were to utter a rebuke, a threat, a prohibition, or command, in tones of harshness and severity.

Elsie bore it with all the meekness and patience of a martyr, but ere long her health began to suffer; she grew weak and nervous, and would start and tremble, and change color at the very sound of her father’s step or voice—­those sounds which she had once so loved to hear—­and the little face became thin and pale, and an expression of deep and touching sadness settled down upon it.

Love was as necessary to Elsie’s health and happiness as sunshine to the flowers, and even as the keen winds and biting frosts of winter wilt and wither the tender blossoms, so did all this coldness and severity, the gentle, sensitive spirit of the little child.

Mr. Travilla had called several times during the early part of Mr. Dinsmore’s illness, while Elsie had been his nurse, and she sometimes wondered that she had seen nothing of him during all these sorrowful weeks; but the truth was, Mr. Travilla had been absent from home, and knew nothing of all that had been going on at Roselands.  As soon, however, as he returned, and heard how ill his friend had been, he called to express his sympathy, and congratulate him on his recovery.

He found Mr. Dinsmore seated in an easy-chair in the library, still looking weak and ill, and more depressed in spirits than he had ever seen him.

“Ah!  Dinsmore, my dear fellow, I hear you have been very ill; and, indeed, I must say you are looking far from well yet,” Travilla exclaimed in his cheerful, hearty way, shaking his friend’s hand warmly.  “I think my little friend, Elsie, has deserted her post almost too soon; but I suppose you have sent her back to her lessons again,” he remarked, glancing around as if in search of her.