“That is a wise thought, mammy,” said Elsie.  “Is it not, Edward?”

“Yes, wife; shall we take our little daughter to our own bedroom, and leave Eddie in possession of the nursery?”

“Yes, I will never leave her while she is ill.”

Weeks of anxious solicitude, of tenderest, most careful nursing, followed; for the little one was very ill, and for some time grew worse hour by hour.  For days there was little hope that her life would be spared, and a solemn silence reigned through the house; even the romping, fun-loving Horace and Rosie, awe-struck into stillness, and often shedding tears—­Horace in private, fearing to be considered unmanly, but Rosie openly and without any desire of concealment—­at the thought that the darling of the house was about to pass away from earth.

Rose was filled with grief, the father, and grandfather were almost heart-broken.  But the mother!  That first night she had scarcely closed an eye, but continually her heart was going up in earnest supplications for grace and strength to meet this sore trial with patience, calmness, and submission.

And surely the prayer was heard and answered; day and night she was with her suffering little one, watching beside its crib, or holding it in her arms, soothing it with tender words of mother love, or singing, in low sweet tones, of Jesus and the happy land.

Plenty of excellent nurses were at hand, more than willing to relieve her of her charge; but she would relinquish it to no one; except when compelled to take a little rest that her strength might not utterly fail her.  Even then she refused to leave the room, but lay where the first plaintive cry, “Mamma,” would rouse her and bring her instantly to her darling’s side.

At times the big tears might be seen coursing down her cheek, as she gazed mournfully upon the baby face so changed from what it was; but voice and manner were quiet and composed.

Her husband was almost constantly at her side, sharing the care, the grief and anxiety, and the nursing, so far as she would let him.  Rose, too, and Mr. Dinsmore, were there every hour of the day, and often in the night, scarcely less anxious and grief-stricken than the parents, and Mr. Dinsmore especially, trembling for the life and health of the mother as well as the child.

At length came a day when all knew and felt that wee Elsie was at the very brink of the grave, and the little thread of life might snap asunder at any moment.

She lay on her pillow on her mother’s lap, the limbs shrunken to half their former size, the face, but lately so beautiful with the bloom of health, grown wan and thin, with parched lips and half-closed, dreamy eyes.

Mr. Travilla sat close beside them, with cup and spoon in hand, now and then moistening the dry lips.  Chloe, who had stationed herself a little behind her mistress to be within call, was dropping great tears on the soldier’s stocking in her hand.