“But you cannot buy his friendship—­his salvation; it is ’without money and without price.’  What is it to come to him?  Just to take him at his word, give yourself to him and believe his promise that he will not cast you out.”

There was a tap at the door and Rosie came in, put her arms round Molly, kissed her and wept with her.

Then young Horace followed and after that his father.  Both seemed to feel very much for Molly and to be anxious to do everything in their power to help and comfort her.

Mr. Dinsmore was evidently in deep grief and soon withdrew, Elsie going with him.  They stood together for a few minute in the hall.

“My dear father, how I feel for you!” Elsie said, laying her hand on his arm and looking up at him through gathering tears.

“Thank you, my child; your sympathy is always very sweet to me,” he said.  “And you have mine; for I know this trial touches you also though somewhat less nearly than myself.”

“Is grandpa suffering much?” she asked.

“Very much; and at his age—­but I will not anticipate sorrow; we know that the event is in the hands of him who doeth all things well.  Ah, if he were only a Christian!  And Enna! poor Enna!”

Sobs and cries coming from the nursery broke in upon the momentary silence that followed the exclamation.

“Poor little Bob and Betty, I must go to them,” Elsie said, gliding away in the direction of the sounds, while Mr. Dinsmore returned to the room where his father lay groaning with the pain of his wounds.  Mr. Travilla, Calhoun and the doctor were with him, but he was asking for his son.

“Horace,” he said, “can’t you stay with me?”

“Yes, father, night and day while you want me.”

“That’s right!  It’s a good thing to have a good son.  Dr. Barton, where are you going?”

“To your daughter, sir, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Enna! is she much hurt?” asked the old man, starting up, but falling back instantly with almost a scream of pain.

“You must lie still, sir, indeed you must,” said the doctor, coming back to the bed; “your life depends upon your keeping quiet and exciting yourself as little as possible.”

“Yes, yes; but Enna?”

“Has no bones broken.”

“Thank God for that! then she’ll do.  Go, doctor, but don’t leave the house without seeing me again.”

They were glad he was so easily satisfied, but knew he would not be if his mind were quite clear.

Dick had come home in strong excitement, rumors of the accident having met him on the way.  The horses had taken fright at the sudden shriek of a locomotive, and the breaking of a defective bit had deprived the old gentleman of the power to control them.  They ran madly down a steep embankment, wrecking the carriage and throwing both passengers out upon a bed of stones.

Pale and trembling the lad went straight to his mother’s room where he found her lying moaning on the bed, recognizing no one, unconscious of anything that was going on about her.