Then holding her off and scrutinizing the sweet, fair face with keen, searching eye, “You are looking better and brighter than I dared to hope, my darling,” he said.  “Did you get some sleep?”

“Yes, papa, thank you, several hours.  And you? did you rest well?”

“Yes, daughter.  How are the children?”

“No worse, Arthur says; perhaps a trifle better.  He, Elsie and Mammy are with them now, and ‘Mamma’ can be spared for a short ride with her father,” she said, smiling lovingly into the eyes that were gazing with the tenderest fatherly affection upon her.

“That is right; you need the air and exercise sorely; a few more days of such close confinement and assiduous nursing would, I very much fear, tell seriously upon your health.”

He led her to the side of her steed and assisted her into the saddle as he spoke, then vaulted into his own with the agility of youth.

“But where are Vi and her brothers?” Elsie asked, sending an inquiring glance from side to side.

“I sent them on in advance.  I wanted you quite to myself this once,” he answered, as they turned and rode at a brisk canter down the avenue.

“And I shall enjoy having my dear father all to myself for once,” she rejoined, with a touch of old-time gayety in look and tone.  “Ah! papa, never a day passes, I think I might almost say never an hour, in which I do not thank God for sparing you to me; you who have loved and cherished me so long and so tenderly.”

“My own dear child!” he said in reply, “you and your love are among the greatest blessings of my life.”

As they rode on side by side they talked of the youngest two of her children—­Rose and Walter—­both quite ill with measles; of her sister’s family, where also there was sickness among the little ones, and whither Mrs. Dinsmore had gone to assist in the nursing of her grandchildren; of the recent death of Enna at Magnolia Hall, the home of her daughter Molly; and of the anxiety of the younger Elsie because of a much longer silence than usual on the part of her absent betrothed.

She greatly feared that some evil had befallen him, and had not been able to hide her distress from these two—­the mother and grandfather who loved her so—­though making most earnest, unselfish efforts to conceal it from all, especially her mother, whose tender heart was ever ready to bleed for another’s woe, and who had already griefs and anxieties enough of her own.

They spoke of her with tenderest compassion, and affectionate pride in her loveliness of person and character, and her brave endurance of her trial.

Enna’s death could hardly be felt as a personal loss by either, but they sympathized deeply in the grief of her old father, with whom her faults seemed to be buried in her grave, while he cherished a lively remembrance of all that had ever given him pleasure in her looks, words, or ways.

He was growing old and feeble, and felt this, the death of his youngest child, a very heavy blow.