It was a cheerful, pleasant letter, well suited to interest a child of Elsie’s years; giving an account of home scenes; telling of her little brothers and sisters, their love for each other; the little gifts they had prepared in anticipation of Christmas, etc., etc.

At the close she made some allusion to Elsie’s letters, and expressed her heartfelt sympathy in her little friend’s happiness.

“I am so glad, my darling,” she wrote, “that your father now loves you so dearly, and that you are so happy in his love.  My heart ached for you in the bitter disappointment of your first meeting with him.  It is true you never said that you were disappointed, but there was a tone of deep sadness in your dear little letter, the cause of which I—­who knew so well how you had looked and longed for his return, and how your little heart yearned for his affection—­could not fail to guess.  But, dear child, while you thus rejoice in an earthly father’s love, do not forget that you have a Father in Heaven, who claims the first place in your heart; and who is the giver of every good gift, not even excepting the precious love that now makes your young life so bright and happy.  Keep close to Jesus, dear Elsie:  His is the only truly satisfying love—­the only one we can be certain will never fail us.”

“Is it not a nice letter, papa?” asked the little girl, as he refolded and gave it to her again.

“Very nice, daughter,” he answered, in an absent way.  He looked very grave, and Elsie studied his countenance intently while, for some moments, he sat with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the carpet.  She feared that something in the letter had displeased him.  But presently he looked at her with his usual affectionate smile, and laying his hand caressingly on her head, said, “Miss Allison seems to warn you not to trust too much to the permanence of my affection; but you need not fear that you will ever lose it, unless, indeed, you cease to be deserving of it.  No, nor even then,” he added, drawing her closer to him, “for even should you grow very naughty and troublesome, you would still be my child—­a part of myself and of my lost Elsie, and therefore very dear to me.”

“Ah! papa, how could I ever bear to lose your love?  I think I should die,” she said, dropping her head on his breast, with almost a sob.  “Oh! if I am ever very, very naughty, papa, punish me as severely as you will; but oh, never, never quit loving me.”

“Set your heart at rest, my darling,” he said, tenderly, “there is no danger of such a thing.  I could not do it, if I wished.”

Ah! there came a time when Elsie had sore need of all the comfort the memory of those words could give.

“What are you going to wear to Isabel Carleton’s party, to-night, Elsie?” asked Lucy, at the dinner table.

“Nothing,” replied Elsie, with an arch smile, “I am not going, Lucy,” she added.