“No, darling, no,” she said, “no one shall take you away; nobody shall hurt you.”  Then in answer to Mrs. Travilla’s inquiring look, she explained, speaking in an undertone:  “He had decided to place her in a convent, to complete her education.  I told her of it last night,” she added mournfully, “as he requested, and I very much fear that the fright and terror she suffered on that account have helped to bring on this attack.”

“Poor, dear, precious lamb!” sighed Chloe, who stood at the foot of the bed, gazing sadly at her nursling, and wiping away tear after tear, as they chased each other down her sable cheek.  “I wish Massa Horace could see her now.  I’se sure he nebber say such cruel tings no more.”

“He ought surely to be here!  You have sent for him, Adelaide?” Mrs. Travilla said inquiringly.  “She is very ill, and it is of great importance that her mind should be set at rest, if indeed it can be done at present.”

“I wrote this morning,” Adelaide said, “and I shall write every day until he comes.”

Elsie caught the words, and turning with an eager look to her aunt, she again spoke quite rationally, “Are you writing to papa, Aunt Adelaide?” she asked.  “Oh! beg him to come home soon, very soon; tell him I want to see him once more.  Oh, Aunt Adelaide, he will kiss me when I am dying, won’t he?  Oh, say you think he will.”

“I am sure of it, darling,” replied Adelaide soothingly, as she bent down and kissed the little feverish cheek; “but we are not going to let you die yet.”

“But will you ask papa? will you beg him to come?” pleaded the little voice still more eagerly.

“I will, I have, darling,” replied the aunt; “and I doubt not that he will start for home immediately on receiving my letter.”

Day after day the fever raged in Elsie’s veins, and when at length it was subdued, it left her very weak indeed; but the doctor pronounced her free from disease, and said she only needed good nursing and nutritious diet to restore her to health; and Mrs. Travilla and Chloe, who had watched day and night by her couch with intense anxiety, wept for joy and thankfulness that their precious one was yet spared to them.

But alas! their hopes faded again, as day after day the little girl lay on her bed, weak and languid, making no progress toward recovery, but rather losing strength.

The doctor shook his head with a disappointed air, and drawing Adelaide aside, said, “I cannot understand it, Miss Dinsmore; has she any mental trouble?  She seems to me like one who has some weight of care or sorrow pressing upon her, and sapping the very springs of life.  She appears to have no desire to recover; she needs something to rouse her, and revive her love of life. Is there anything on her mind?  If so, it must be removed, or she will certainly die.”

“She is very anxious to see her father,” said Adelaide, weeping.  “Oh, how I wish he would come!  I cannot imagine what keeps him.  I have written again and again.”