“Edward is unusually late to-day,” she murmured half aloud.  “But there he is at last,” she added, as her son appeared, riding slowly up the avenue.  He dismounted and entered the house, and in another moment had thrown himself down upon the sofa, by her side.  She looked at him uneasily; for with the quick ear of affection she had noticed that his step lacked its accustomed elasticity, and his voice its cheerful, hearty tones.  His orders to the servant who came to take his horse had been given in a lower and more subdued key than usual, and his greeting to herself, though perfectly kind and respectful, was grave and absent in manner; and now his thoughts seemed far away, and the expression of his countenance was sad and troubled.

“What ails you, Edward—­is anything wrong, my son?” she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking into his face with her loving, motherly eyes.

“Nothing with me mother,” he answered affectionately; “but,” he added, with a deep-drawn sigh, “I am sorely troubled about my little friend.  I called at Roselands this afternoon, and learned that Horace Dinsmore has gone North—­to be absent nobody knows how long—­leaving her at home.  He has been gone nearly a week, and the child is—­heart-broken.”

“Poor darling! is she really so much distressed about it, Edward?” his mother asked, taking off her spectacles to wipe them, for they had suddenly grown dim.  “You saw her, I suppose?”

“Yes, for a moment,” he said, struggling to control his feelings.  “Mother, you would hardly know her for the child she was six months ago! she is so changed, so thin and pale—­but that is not the worst; she seems to have lost all her life and animation.  I felt as though it would be a relief even to see her cry.  When I spoke to her she smiled, it is true; but ah! such a sad, hopeless, dreary sort of smile—­it was far more touching than tears, and then she turned away, as if she had scarcely heard or understood what I said.  Mother, you must go to her; she needs just the sort of comfort you understand so well how to give, but which I know nothing about.  You will go, mother, will you not?”

“Gladly, Edward!  I would go this moment, if I thought I would be permitted to see her, and could do her any good.”

“I hardly think,” said her son, “that even Mrs. Dinsmore would refuse you the privilege of a private interview with the child should you request it, mother; but, no doubt, it would be much pleasanter for all parties if we could go when Elsie is at home alone; and fortunately such will be the case to-morrow, for, as I accidentally learned, the whole family, with the exception of Elsie and the servants, are expecting to spend the day abroad.  So if it suits you, mother, we will drive over in the morning.”

Mrs. Travilla expressed her readiness to do so; and about the middle of the forenoon of the next day their carriage might have been seen turning into the avenue at Roselands.