“Painful associations, no doubt.  Poor creature! it was there her husband—­an unruly negro belonging to a neighboring planter—­was sold away from her, and there she lost her children, one by accidental drowning, the others by some epidemic disease.  Your own mother, too, died there, and Chloe I think never loved one of her own children better.”

“No, I’m sure not.  But she never told me of her husband and children, and I thought she had never had any.  And now, papa, that we are done with business for the present, I have a request to make.”

“Well, daughter, what is it?”

“That you will permit me to renew my old intimacy with Lucy Carrington; or at least to call on her.  You remember she was not well enough to be at the wedding; she is here at Ashlands with her baby.  Mr. and Mrs. Carrington called here yesterday while you were out, and both urged me not to be ceremonious with Lucy, as she is hardly well enough to make calls and is longing to see me.”

“And what answer did you give them?” he asked with some curiosity.

“That I should do so if possible; that meant if I could obtain your permission, papa.”

“You have it.  Lucy is in some sort taken into the family now, and you are safely engaged; to say nothing of your mature years,” he added laughingly, as she seated herself on his knee again and thanked him with a hug and kiss.

“You dear good papa!”

“Some girls of your age, heiresses in their own right, would merely have said, ‘I’m going,’ never asking permission.”

“Ah, but I like to be ruled by you.  So please don’t give it up.  Now about Enna?”

“If I had any authority in the matter, I should say, you shall not give her a cent.  She doesn’t deserve it from you or any one.”

“Then I shall wait till you change your mind.”

Mr. Dinsmore shook his head.  “Ah! my little girl, you don’t realize how much some one else’s opinions will soon weigh with you,” he answered, putting an arm about her and looking with fatherly delight into the sweet face.

“Ah, papa!” she cried, laying her cheek to his, “please don’t talk so; it hurts me.”

“Then, dearest, I shall not say it again, though indeed I was not reproaching you; it is right, very right, that husband and wife should be more than all the world beside to each other.”

Elsie’s cheek crimsoned.  “It has not come to that yet, father dear,” she murmured, half averting her blushing face; “and—­I don’t know which of you I love best—­or how I could ever do without either:  the love differs in kind rather than in degree.”

He drew her closer.  “Thank you, my darling; what more could I ask or desire?” A slight tap on the door and Mrs. Dinsmore looked in.  “Any admittance?” she asked playfully.

“Always to my wife,” answered her husband, releasing Elsie and rising to hand Rose a chair.

“Thanks, my dear, but I haven’t time to sit down,” she said.  “Here is a note of invitation for us all to spend the day at Roselands.  Shall we go?”