* * * * *

“Roselands, too, looks very natural, and very homelike,” remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as they rode up its avenue.

“Yes, papa; and yet, do you know, it seems to me it has grown smaller and less grand since I lived here as a child.”

“Ah! did you think it very grand then, daughter?” he asked, turning to her with a smile.

“I believe so, papa; but it is beautiful yet, even after all the fine places we have seen in our own country and Europe.”

Adelaide met them at the door.  “Just in time,” she said, “for there is the dressing-bell.  Your own old room, Elsie dear:  you know the way and will find Aunt Chloe in waiting.  Horace, you will make yourself at home of course.”

It was strictly a family party, sociable and informal.  Elsie had not met Arthur since their return, and at the first moment scarcely recognized him in the moustached and bewhiskered young man who rose and came forward, with a slight limp, to meet her as she entered the drawing-room.

“How do you do?” he said, holding out his right hand, while steadying himself with a cane held in the left.  “I hope you’re glad to get back to America?”

“Arthur, is it?  Yes; thank you:  and I’m very glad your injuries have proved less serious than was at first feared,” she said, kindly meeting his advances half-way.

“Oh yes,” he replied, with attempted nonchalance, “I shall be all right by and by.”

Then retreating to the seat from which he had just risen, the corner of a sofa by the side of his sister Adelaide, his eye following Elsie as she crossed the room to pay her respects to her grandfather and others.  “What on earth you call that girl little for, I can’t imagine,” he remarked in an undertone; “why she’s quite above the average height; graceful as a young fawn, too; splendid figure, and actually the most beautiful face I ever saw.  I don’t wonder she turned the heads of lords and dukes on the other side of the water.  But what do you call her little for?”

“I hardly know, Art; with me it’s a term of endearment more than anything else, I believe,” replied his sister; “but there is something in the expression of her face—­something that has always been there, a sweet simplicity and innocence—­that moves one to a sort of protecting love as to a little one who has not yet attained sufficient worldly wisdom to take care of herself.”

Old Mr. Dinsmore greeted his lovely granddaughter almost affectionately, holding her hand in his for a moment, and looking from her to her father.  “Really, she’s a girl to be proud of, Horace,” he said with a paternal smile.  “But I’ve no need to tell you that.”

“No, she is not bad looking,” observed his wife with a slight sneer; “few girls would be in such elegant attire; but it surprises me to see that, with all her advantages and opportunities for improvement, she has not yet lost that baby expression she always had.  She’ll never be half the woman Enna is.”