Sorely the children missed their precious half hour with mamma that night, and every night and morning of their papa’s illness; she could leave him only long enough each time to give them a few loving words and a kiss all round, and they scarcely saw her through the day—­were not admitted to their father’s room at all.

But they were very good; lessons went on nearly as usual, little Elsie keeping order in the school-room, even wilful Eddie quietly submitting to her gentle sway, and grandpa kindly attending to the recitations.  He rode out with them too, and he, Aunt Rosie or their mammies, took them for a pleasant walk every fine day.

Friends and neighbors were very kind and attentive, none more so than the Lelands.  Archie told his father how, and by whom, poor Eddie had been teased, provoked and dared into firing the pistol; Mr. Leland told Mr. Dinsmore the story, and he repeated it to his father and sisters.

The old gentleman was sufficiently incensed against the two culprits to administer a severe castigation to each, while Elsie was thankful to learn that her son had not yielded readily to the temptation to disobedience.  She pitied him deeply, as she noted how weary to him were these days of waiting, how his gay spirits had forsaken him, how anxious he was for his father’s recovery; how he longed for the time when he should be permitted to go to him with his confession and petition for pardon.

At length that time came.  Mr. Travilla was so much better that Dr. Burton said it would do him no harm to see his children, and to hear all the details of his accident.

The others were brought in first and allowed to spend a few minutes in giving and receiving caresses, their little tongues running very fast in their exuberant joy over their restored father.

“Elsie, Vi, Harold, baby—­but where is Eddie?” he asked, looking a little anxiously at his wife; “not sick, I hope?”

“No, my dear, he will be in presently,” she answered, the tears starting to her eyes, “no one of them all has found it harder to be kept away from you than he.  But there is something he has begged me to tell you before he comes.”

“Ah!” he said with a troubled look in his eyes, a suspicion of the truth dawning upon him.  “Well, darlings, you may go now, and mamma will let you come in again before your bedtime.”

They withdrew and Elsie told her story, dwelling more particularly upon the strength of the temptation and the child’s agony of grief and remorse.

“Bring him here, wife,” Mr. Travilla said, his eyes full, his voice husky with emotion.

There was a sound of sobs in the hall without as she opened the door.  “Come, son,” she said, taking his hand in hers, “papa knows it all now.”

Half eagerly, half tremblingly he suffered her to lead him in.

“Papa,” he burst out sobbingly, scarcely daring to lift his eyes from the floor, “I’ve been a very wicked, bad boy; I disobeyed you and—­and—­”