“I wish we could!” Elsie said with a sigh.  “I think I can fully sympathize with the poor things, for I have not forgotten how in my early childhood I used to long and weep for the dear mamma who had gone to heaven, and my dear papa away in Europe.”

“A very poor sort of father he was then, very culpably neglectful of his little motherless child,” Mr. Dinsmore said in a remorseful tone, and regarding her with a tenderly affectionate look.

“But afterward and to this day the very best of fathers,” she responded, smiling up at him.  “Dear papa, what a debt of gratitude do I not owe to you for all the love, care, and kindness shown by you to me and my children!”

“I feel fully repaid by the love and obedience I receive in return,” he said, seating himself on the sofa by Vi’s side and softly stroking her hair.

“Children and grandchildren all rise up and call you blessed, dear papa,” Elsie said, laying down the embroidery with which she had been busy, and coming to his other side to put her arm about his neck and gaze lovingly into his eyes.

A silent caress as he passed his arm around her waist and drew her closer to him was his only response.

“Grandpa and mamma,” said Vi, “don’t you think Capt.  Raymond is to be pitied?  Just think! he has neither father nor mother, brother nor sister! no near and dear one except his children; and from them he is separated almost all the time.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dinsmore, “I do indeed! but am not sorry enough for him to give you up to him yet.  I would not allow your mamma to marry till she was several years older than you are now.”

“No, sir,” said Elsie, smiling, “I well remember that you utterly forbade me to listen to any declarations of love from man or boy, or to think of such things if I could possibly help it.”

“Well, you lost nothing by waiting.”

“Lost! oh, no, no papa!” she cried, dropping her head upon his shoulder, while a scalding tear fell to the memory of the husband so highly honored, so dearly loved.

“My dear child! my poor dear child!” her father said very low and tenderly, pressing her closer to his side; “the separation is only for the little while of time, the reunion will be for the endless ages of eternity.”

“A most sweet and comforting thought, dear father,” she said, lifting her head and smiling through her tears; “and with that glad prospect and so many dear ones left me, I am a very happy woman still.”

At that moment there was an interruption that for a long time put to flight all thought of effort on behalf of Capt.  Raymond’s children:  Herbert and Harold came hurrying in with the news that a summons to Roselands had come for their grandpa, grandma, and mother.  Mrs. Conly had had another stroke, was senseless, speechless, and apparently dying; also the shock of her seizure had prostrated her father, and Arthur considered him dangerously ill.