“Ah, that is my blessed privilege,” he whispered, drawing her closer to him.  “My wife, my own precious little wife!  God keep me from ever being less tender, loving, sympathizing to you than your father has been.”

“I do not fear it, my husband.  Oh, was ever woman so blessed with love as I!  Daughter, and wife! they are the sweetest of all names when addressed to me by papa’s lips and yours.”

“I ought not to find fault with his training, seeing what credit you do it.  However, you seemed to me as near perfection as possible before he began.  Ah, my little friend, for how many years I loved you with scarcely a hope it would ever be returned in the way I wished.  Indeed I can hardly yet believe fully in my own happiness,” he concluded with a joyous laugh.  The next day Elsie had the pleasure of showing her husband over the house first, and then the estate.  Their life at Viamede, for the few weeks of their stay, seemed much like a repetition of her visit there the year before with her father.  They took the same rides, walks and drives; glided over the clear waters of the bayou in the same boat; sought out each spot of beauty or interest he had shown her; were, if possible, even more constantly together, reading, writing, or engaged with music in library or drawing-room, seated side by side on veranda or lawn enjoying conversation, book or periodical; or, it might be, silently musing, hand in hand, by the soft moonlight that lent such a witchery to the lovely landscape.  A pleasanter honeymoon could hardly have been devised.

In one thing, however, they were disappointed:  they had hoped to be left entirely to each other; but it was impossible to conceal their presence at Viamede from the hospitable neighbors, and calls and invitations had to be received and returned.  But, both being eminently fitted to shine in society, and each proud to display the other, this state of things did not, after all, so greatly interfere with their enjoyment.

In fact, so delightful did they find their life in that lovely country that they lingered week after week till nearly six had slipped away, and letters from home began to be urgent for their return.  Mr. Dinsmore was wearying for his daughter, Mrs. Travilla for her son, and scarcely less for the daughter so long vainly hoped for.

Every day a servant was despatched to the nearest post-office with their mail, generally returning as full handed as he went.  Mr. Dinsmore’s letters were, as he had promised, daily, and never left unanswered.  The old love was not, could not be forgotten in the new.  Elsie was no less a daughter because she had become a wife; but Edward was always a sharer in her enjoyment, and she in his.

They were sitting on the veranda one morning when Uncle Ben rode up and handed the mail-box to his master.  Mr. Travilla hastened to open it, gave Elsie her letters and began the perusal of his own.

A softly breathed sigh called his attention to her.