MARTHA FINLEY

Author of “Elsie Dinsmore,” “Elsie’s Vacation,” etc.

Special Authorized Edition

[Illustration]

M. A. Donohue & Co
Chicago New York
Copyright, 1887.
by
Dodd, Mead and Company
All rights reserved. 
Made in U.S.A.

ELSIE AT HOME.

CHAPTER I.

The shades of evening were closing in upon a stormy March day; rain and sleet falling fast while a blustering northeast wind sent them sweeping across the desolate-looking fields and gardens, and over the wet road where a hack was lumbering along, drawn by two weary-looking steeds; its solitary passenger sighing and groaning with impatience over its slow progress and her own fatigue.

“Driver,” she called, “are we ever going to arrive at Fairview?”

“One o’ these days, I reckon, ma’am,” drawled the man in reply.  “It’s been a dreadful tedious ride for you, but a trifle worse for me, seein’ I get a lot more o’ the wet out here than you do in thar.”

“Yes,” she returned in a tone of exasperation, “but I am a weak, ailing woman and you a big, strong man, used to exertion and exposure.”  The sentence ended in a distressing fit of coughing that seemed to shake her whole frame.

“I’m right sorry fur ye, ma’am,” he said, turning a pitying glance upon her, “but just hold on a bit longer and we’ll be there.  We’re e’n a’most in sight o’ the place now.  Kin o’ yourn and expecting ye, I s’pose?”

“It is the home of my daughter—­my only child,” she returned, bridling, “and it will be strange indeed if she is not glad to see the mother whom she has not seen for years.”

“Surely, ma’am; and yonder’s the house.  We’ll be there in five minutes—­more or less.”

His passenger looked eagerly in the direction indicated.

“A large house, isn’t it?” she queried.  “One can’t see much out of this little pane of glass and through the rain and mist.”

“It’s a fine place, ma’am, and a good, big house,” he returned.  “I wouldn’t mind ownin’ such a place myself.  It’s grand in the summer time, and not so bad to look at even now through all this storm o’ mist, hail, and rain.”

“Yes; I dare say,” she said, shivering; “and if it was little better than a hovel I’d be glad to reach it and get out of this chilling wind.  It penetrates to one’s very bones.”

She drew her cloak closer about her as she spoke, and as the hack turned in at the avenue gates took up her satchel and umbrella in evident haste to alight.

In the home-like parlour of the mansion they were approaching sat a lovely-looking lady of mature years, a little group of children gathered about her listening intently and with great interest to a story she was telling them, while a sweet-faced young girl, sitting near with a bit of tatting in her hands, seemed an equally interested hearer, ready to join in the outburst of merriment that now and again greeted something in the narrative.