“Oh! papa, papa! my own papa!” she sobbed, “will you never love me again? never kiss me, or call me pet names?  Oh, how can I bear it! how can I ever live without your love?”

Her nerves, already weakened by months of mental suffering, could hardly bear the strain; and when Fanny came into the room, an hour or two later, she was quite frightened to find her young charge lying on the bed, holding her head with both hands and groaning, and speechless with pain.

“What’s de matter darlin’?” she asked; but Elsie only answered with a moan; and Fanny, in great alarm, hastened to Mr. Dinsmore’s room, and startled him with the exclamation:  “Oh, Massa Horace, make haste for come to de chile! she gwine die for sartain, if you don’t do sumfin mighty quick!”

“Why, what ails her, Fanny?” he asked, following the servant with all speed.

“Dunno, Massa; but I’se sure she’s berry ill,” was Fanny’s reply, as she opened the door of Elsie’s room, and stepped back to allow her master to pass in first.

One glance at Elsie’s face was enough to convince him that there was some ground for her attendant’s alarm.  It was ghastly with its deadly pallor and the dark circles round the eyes, and wore an expression of intense pain.

He proceeded at once to apply remedies, and remained beside her until they had so far taken effect that she was able to speak, and looked quite like herself again.

“Elsie!” he said in a grave, firm tone, as he placed her more comfortably on her pillow, “this attack has been brought on by violent crying; you must not indulge yourself in that way again.”

“I could not help it, papa,” she replied, lifting her pleading eyes to his face.

“You must help it in future, Elsie,” he said sternly.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she struggled to keep them back.

He turned to leave her, but she caught his hand, and looked so beseechingly in his face, that he stopped and asked in a softened tone, “What is it, my daughter?”

“Oh, papa!” she murmured in low, tremulous accents, “love me a little.”

“I do love you, Elsie,” he replied gravely, and almost sadly, as he bent over her and laid his hand upon her forehead.  “I love you only too well, else I should have sent my stubborn little daughter away from me long ere this.”

“Then, papa, kiss me; just once, dear papa!” she pleaded, raising her tearful eyes to his face.

“No, Elsie, not once until you are entirely submissive.  This state of things is as painful to me as it into you, my daughter; but I cannot yield my authority, and I hope you will soon see that it is best for you to give up your self-will.”

So saying, he turned away and left her alone; alone with that weary home-sickness of the heart, and the tears dropping silently down upon her pillow.

Horace Dinsmore went back to his own room, where he spent the next half hour in pacing rapidly to and fro, with folded arms and contracted brow.