“Not going! well, now, that is too bad,” cried Lucy, indignantly.  “I think it’s really mean of your papa; he never lets you go anywhere.”

“Oh, Lucy! he let me go to town with Carry the other day; he has let me stay up late two or three nights since you came; he is going to let me ride with the rest of you this afternoon, and he said that I might do just as I pleased about going to-night,” Elsie summed up rather triumphantly, adding, in a very pleasant tone, “It is entirely my own choice to stay at home; so you see, Lucy, you must not blame my papa before you know.”

Lucy looked a little ashamed, while Mary Leslie exclaimed: 

“Your own choice, Elsie? why, how strange! don’t you like parties?”

“Not nearly so well as a quiet evening with papa,” replied Elsie, smiling.

“Well, you are a queer girl!” was Mary’s comment, while Caroline expressed her disappointment and vainly endeavored to change Elsie’s determination.  The little girl was firm, because she felt sure she was doing right, and soon managed to change the subject of conversation to the pleasure nearest at hand—­the ride they were to take immediately after dinner.

They were a merry party, and really enjoyed themselves about as much as they had expected; but they returned earlier than usual, as the gentlemen decided that the little ladies needed some time to rest before the evening entertainment.

Elsie assisted her young friends to dress for the party—­generously offering to lend them any of her ornaments that they might fancy—­saw them come down, one after another, full of mirth and eager expectation, and looking so pretty and graceful in their beautiful evening-dresses, heard their expressions of commiseration toward herself, and watched the last carriage roll away without a sigh or regret that she was left behind.  And in another moment a graceful little figure glided quietly across the library, and sitting down on a stool at Mr. Dinsmore’s feet, looked lovingly into his face with a pair of soft, dark eyes.

His pen was moving rapidly over the paper, but ere long there was a pause, and laying his hand caressingly on the curly head, he said, “How quiet my little girl is; but where is your book, daughter?”

“If you please, papa, I would rather answer Miss Rose’s letter.”

“You may,” he said, “and if you want to stay with me, you may ring the bell and tell the servant to bring your writing desk here.”

She joyfully availed herself of the permission, and soon her pen was vainly trying to keep pace with her father’s.  But presently his was thrown aside, and rising, he stood behind her chair, giving her directions how to sit, how to hold the pen, how to form this or that letter more correctly, guiding her hand, and commending her efforts to improve.

“There, you have spelled a word wrong, and I see you have one or two capitals where there should be a small letter; and that last sentence is not perfectly grammatical,” he said.  “You must let me correct it when you are done, and then you must copy it off more carefully.”