At the conclusion of his conference with Edward, Mr. Dinsmore sought his daughter in her own apartments.  He found her busied much as Zoe was, looking over clothing and selecting what ought to be packed in the trunks a man-servant was bringing in.

She had thrown aside the widow’s weeds in which she was wont to array herself when about to leave the seclusion of her own rooms, and donned a simple white morning dress that was very becoming, her father thought.

“Excuse my wrapper, papa,” she said, turning toward him a bright, sweet face, as he entered; “I found my black dress oppressive this warm morning.”

“Yes,” he said; “it is a most unwholesome dress, I think; and for that reason and several others I should be extremely glad if you would give it up entirely.”

“Would you, my dear father?” she returned, tears springing to her eyes.

“I should indeed, if it would not involve too great a sacrifice of feeling on your part.  I have always thought white the most suitable and becoming dress for you in the summer season, and so did your husband.”

“Yes, papa, I remember that he did; but—­I—­I should be very loath to give the least occasion for any one to say or think he was forgotten by her he loved so dearly, or that she had ceased to mourn his loss.”

“Loss, daughter dear?” he said, taking her in his arms to wipe away the tears that were freely coursing down her cheeks, and caress her with exceeding tenderness.

“No, papa, not lost, but only gone before,” she answered, a lovely smile suddenly irradiating her features; “nor does he seem far away.  I often feel that he is very near me still, though I can neither see nor speak to him nor hear his loved voice,” she went on, in a dreamy tone, a far-away look in the soft brown eyes as she stood, with her head on her father’s shoulder, his arm encircling her waist.

Both were silent for some moments; then Elsie, lifting her eyes to her father’s face, asked, “Were you serious in what you said about my laying aside mourning, papa?”

“Never more so,” he answered.  “It is a gloomy, unwholesome dress, and I have grown very weary of seeing you wear it.  It would be very gratifying to me to see you exchange it for more cheerful attire.”

“But black is considered the most suitable dress for old and elderly ladies, papa; and I am a grandmother, you know.”

“What of that?” he said, a trifle impatiently; “you do not look old, and are, in fact, just in the prime of life.  And it is not like you to be concerned about what people may think or say.  Usually your only inquiry is, ‘Is it right?’ ‘Is it what I ought to do?’”

“I fear that is a deserved reproof, papa,” she said, with unaffected humility; “and I shall be governed by your wishes in this matter, for they have been law to me almost all my life (a law I have loved to obey, dear father), and I know that if my husband were here he would approve of my decision.”