“Why, what you talkin’ ’bout, Miss Elsie?  My chile musn’t say such tings!” exclaimed Chloe in great alarm.  “Your ole mammy ’spects to die long ’nough ’fore you do.  You’s berry young, an? ’tain’t worth while to begin talkin’ ‘bout dyin’ yet.”

Elsie smiled sadly.

“But you know, mammy,” she said, “that death often comes to the youngest.  Mamma died young, and so may I. I am afraid it isn’t right, but sometimes I am so sad and weary that I cannot help longing very much to die, and go to be with her and with Jesus; for they would always love me, and I should never be lonely any more.  Oh! mammy, mammy, must we part?—­shall I ever see you again?” she cried, throwing herself into her nurse’s arms.

“God bless an’ keep you, darlin’!” Chloe said, folding her to her heart; “de good Lord take care ob my precious lamb, an’ bring her back to her ole mammy again, ’fore long.”

Elsie shut herself into her own room on her return to Roselands, and was not seen again that day by any one but her maid, until just at dusk Adelaide rapped softly at her door.

Elsie’s voice, in a low, tremulous tone, answered, “Come in,” and Adelaide entered.

The little girl was just in the act of closing her writing-desk, and her aunt thought she had been weeping, but the light was so uncertain that she might have been mistaken.

“My poor darling!” she said in low, pitiful accents, as, passing her arm around the child’s waist, she drew her down to a seat beside herself upon the sofa.

Elsie did not speak, but dropping her head upon Adelaide’s shoulder, burst into tears.

“My poor child! don’t cry so; better days will come,” said her aunt soothingly, running her fingers through Elsie’s soft curls.

“I know what has been the trial of to-day,” she continued, still using the same gentle, caressing tone, “for I, too, had a letter from your papa, in which he told me what he had said to you.  You have been to see your new home.  I have seen it several times and think it very lovely, and some day I hope and expect you and your papa will be very happy there.”

Elsie shook her head sorrowfully.

“Not now, I know,” said Adelaide, “for I have no need to ask what your decision has been; but I am hoping and praying that God may work the same change in your father’s views and feelings which has been lately wrought in mine; and then he will love you all the better for your steadfast determination to obey God rather than man.”

“Oh, Aunt Adelaide! will it ever be?” sighed the poor child; “the time seems so very long!  It is so dreadful to live without my papa’s love!”

“He does love you, Elsie, and I really think he suffers nearly as much as you do; but he thinks he is right in what he requires of you, and he is so very determined, and so anxious to make a gay, fashionable woman of you—­cure you of those absurd, puritanical notions, as he expresses it—­that I fear he will never relent until his heart is changed; but God is able to do that.”