“No, I shall trust everything to you, my best of fathers, and go back at once to my sick darlings,” she said, giving him a look of grateful love.

Then passing her arm affectionately about her daughter’s waist, she drew her on toward the house, her father and son accompanying them.

She parted with Elsie at the door of the sick-room, embracing her tenderly and bidding her “‘Be strong and of a good courage,’ my darling, for ’the eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.’”

“Dearest mamma, what sweet words!” said the weeping girl.  “Oh, how glad I am that God reigns! and that I know he will send to each of his children just what is best.”

She turned away as the door closed upon her mother, and found Violet close at her side.

There was a silent affectionate embrace, and with their arms about each other they sought Elsie’s dressing-room.

“Grandpa and Edward have told me,” Violet said, “and you will let me help you, my poor dear sister? help in thinking and selecting what you will want to carry with you.”

“Gladly, thankfully, for oh, I seem scarcely able to collect my thoughts!  How can I leave mamma and all of you? and the darling little brother and sister so ill! and yet how can I stay away from Lester when he is sick and alone in a strange land, with not a friend to speak a cheering word, smooth his pillow, give his medicine, or see that he has proper food?  O Vi, can I help going to him, even at the sacrifice of leaving all other near and dear ones?”

“I think our mother would have done it for papa,” Violet answered, kissing Elsie’s cheek.

Mr. Dinsmore having first seen Ben, and found him more than willing to go with the children of the master he had loved as his own soul, went to the library, looked over the papers, and had just found the information he sought, when the sound of horses’ hoofs on the avenue drew his attention, and glancing from the window he saw the Roselands carriage drive up with his sister, Mrs. Conly, inside.

He hastened out to assist her to alight.

“Good-morning, Horace,” she said.  “Is my son Arthur here?”

“Yes, Louise, he has spent the last hour or more in attendance upon our sick little ones.  Ah, here he is to speak for himself!” as the young doctor stepped from the open doorway.  “But won’t you come in?”

She demurred.  “Is there any danger, Arthur?”

“Danger of what, mother?”

“You certainly understood me,” she said half angrily; “danger of contagion, of course.”

“None for you, surely, mother, and none you could carry home unless you came in personal contact with the sick children.”

“I shall sit here for a moment, then,” she said, stepping from the carriage and taking a chair upon the veranda.  “How are they to-day?”

“The sick little ones?  The disease has not yet reached its crisis.”