holidaysatroselandschapter6

CHAPTER VI.

"The storm of grief bears hard upon her youth,
And bends her, like a drooping flower, to earth."

ROWE'S FAIR PENITENT.

"You are not looking quite well yet, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked a lady
visitor, who called one day to see the family; "and your little daughter,
I think, looks as if she, too, had been ill; she is very thin, and seems
to have entirely lost her bright color."

Elsie had just left the room a moment before the remark was made.

Mr. Dinsmore started slightly.

"I believe she _is_ a little pale," he replied in a tone of annoyance;
"but as she makes no complaint, I do not think there can be anything
seriously amiss."

"Perhaps not," said the lady indifferently; "but if she were _my_ child I
should be afraid she was going into a decline."

"Really, Mrs. Grey, I don't know what should put such a notion into your
head!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore, "for I assure you Elsie has always been
a perfectly healthy child since I have known her."

"Ah! well; it was but the thought of a moment," replied Mrs. Grey, rising
to take leave, "and I am glad to hear there is no ground for fear, for
Elsie is certainly a very sweet little girl."

Mr. Dinsmore handed Mrs. Grey to her carriage, and re-entering the house
went into the little back parlor where Elsie, the only other occupant of
the room, sat reading, in the corner of the sofa.

He did not speak to her, but began pacing back and forth across the
floor. Mrs. Grey's words had alarmed him; he could not forget them, and
whenever in his walk his face was turned towards his child, he bent his
eyes upon her with a keen, searching gaze; and he was surprised that he
had not before noticed how thin, and pale, and careworn that little face
had grown.

"Elsie," he said suddenly, pausing in his walk.

The child started and colored, as she raised her eyes from the book to
his face, asking, in a half tremulous tone, "What, papa?"

"Put down your book and come to me," he replied, seating himself.

His tone lacked its usual harshness, yet the little girl came to him
trembling so that she could scarcely stand.

It displeased him.

"Elsie," he said, as he took her hand and drew her in between his knees,
"why do you always start and change color when I speak to you? and why
are you trembling now as if you were venturing into the lion's jaws?--are
you afraid of me?--speak!"

"Yes, papa," she replied, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "you always
speak so sternly to me now, that I cannot help feeling frightened."

"Well, I didn't intend to be stern this time," he said more gently than
he had spoken to her for a long while; "but tell me, my daughter, are you
quite well?--you are growing very pale and thin, and I want to know if
anything ails you."

"Nothing, papa, but--" the rest of her sentence was lost in a burst of
tears.

"But what?" he asked almost kindly.

"Oh, papa! you know! I want your love. _How can I live without it_?"

"You need not, Elsie," he answered very gravely, "you have only to bow
that stubborn will of yours, to have all the love and all the caresses
you can ask for."

Wiping her eyes, she looked up beseechingly into his face, asking, in
pleading tones, "_Dear_ papa, won't you give me one kiss--just _one_?
Think how long I have been without one."

"Elsie, say 'I am sorry, papa, that I refused to obey you on that
Sabbath-day; will you please to forgive me? and I will always be obedient
in future,' That is all I require. Say it, and you will be at once
entirely restored to favor."

"I am _very sorry_, dear papa, for _all_ the naughty things I have ever
done, and I will always try to obey you, if you do not bid me break God's
commandments," she answered in a low, tremulous tone.

"That will not do, Elsie; it is not what I bid you say. I will have no
_if_ in the matter; nothing but _implicit, unconditional_ obedience," he
said in a tone of severity.

He paused for a reply, but receiving none, continued: "I see you are
still stubborn, and I shall be compelled to take severe measures to
subdue you. I do not yet know what they will be, but one thing is
certain--I will not keep a rebellious child in my sight; there are
boarding-schools where children can be sent who are unworthy to enjoy
the privileges and comforts of home."

"Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa, don't send me away from you! I should die!"
she cried in accents of terror and despair, throwing her arms around his
neck and clinging to him with a convulsive grasp. "Punish me in any other
way you choose; but oh! _don't_ send me where I cannot see you."

He gently disengaged her arms, and without returning her caress, said
gravely, and almost sadly, "Go now to your room. I have not yet decided
what course to take, but you have only to submit, to escape _all_
punishment."

Elsie retired, weeping bitterly, passing Adelaide as she went out.

"What is the matter now?" asked Adelaide of her brother, who was striding
impatiently up and down the room.

"Nothing but the old story," he replied; "she is the most stubborn child
I ever saw. Strange!" he added musingly, "I once thought her rather _too_
yielding. Adelaide," he said, sitting down by his sister, and leaning his
head upon his hand, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I am _terribly_ perplexed!
This estrangement is killing us both. Have you noticed how thin and pale
she is growing? It distresses me to see it; but what can I do?--give up
to her I cannot; it is not once to be thought of. I am sorry I ever began
the struggle, but since it _is_ begun she _must_ and _shall_ submit; and
it has really become a serious question with me, whether it would not be
the truest kindness just to conquer her thoroughly and at once, by an
appeal to the rod."

"Oh no, Horace, don't! don't think of such a thing, I beg of you!"
exclaimed Adelaide, with tears in her eyes; "such a delicate, sensitive
little creature as she is, I do believe it would quite break her heart to
be subjected to so ignominious a punishment; surely you could adopt some
other measure less revolting to one's feelings, and yet perhaps quite as
effectual. I couldn't _bear_ to have you do it. I would try everything
else first."

"I assure you, Adelaide, it would be _exceedingly_ painful to my
feelings," he said, "and yet so anxious am I to subdue Elsie, and end
this trying state of affairs, that were I certain of gaining my point,
even by great severity, I would not hesitate a moment, but I am very
doubtful whether she could be conquered in that way, and I would not
like to undertake it unless I could carry it through. I hinted at a
boarding-school, which seemed to alarm her very much; but I shall not
try it, at least not yet, for she is my only child, and I still love
her too well to give her up to the tender mercies of strangers. Ah!
you don't know how strongly I was tempted to give her a kiss, just now,
when she begged so hard for it. But what _shall_ I do with her,
Adelaide?--have you no suggestion to make?"

"Indeed, I don't know what to say, Horace; I shouldn't like to give up
to her, if I were you; it does seem as if you ought to conquer her, and
if you don't do it now, I do not believe you ever will."

"Yes, that is just it," he said. "I have sometimes felt sorry for having
begun the struggle, and yet perhaps it is just as well, since it must
have come sooner or later. Ten years hence I shall want to take her
occasionally to the theatre or opera, or perhaps now and then to a ball,
and unless I can eradicate these ridiculously strict notions she has got
into her head, she will be sure to rebel then, when she will be rather
too old to punish, at least in the same way in which I might punish her
now."

"A thought has just struck me, Horace," said Adelaide suddenly.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

Adelaide hesitated. She felt some little sympathy for Elsie, and did not
quite like to propose a measure which she knew would give her great pain;
but at length she said, in a half-regretful tone--

"I think, Horace, that Aunt Chloe upholds Elsie in her obstinacy, and
makes her think herself a martyr to principle, for you know she has the
same strange notions, which they both learned from the old housekeeper,
Mrs. Murray, who was an old-fashioned Presbyterian, of the strictest
sort; and now, as Elsie is still so young, it seems to me it might be
_possible_ to change her views, if she were entirely removed from all
such influences. But take notice, Horace, I do not advise it, for I
know it would wellnigh break both their hearts."

For a moment Mr. Dinsmore seemed lost in thought. Then he spoke:

"That is a wise suggestion, Adelaide. I thank you for it, and shall
certainly take it into consideration. Yet it is a measure I feel loth to
adopt, for Chloe has been a most faithful creature. I feel that I owe her
a debt of gratitude for the excellent care she has taken of Elsie, and of
her mother before her, and as you say, I fear it would wellnigh break
both their hearts. But if less severe measures fail, I shall feel
compelled to try it, for I am more anxious than I can tell you to
bring Elsie to unconditional obedience."

"Here is a letter for you, Elsie," said her grandfather, the next
morning, at the breakfast-table. "Here, Pomp"--to the servant--"hand this
to Miss Elsie."

The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she held out her hand
eagerly to take it.

But her father interfered.

"No, Pomp," he said, "bring it to me; and remember, in future, that _I_
am to receive _all_ Miss Elsie's letters."

Elsie relinquished it instantly, without a word of remonstrance, but her
heart was so full that she could not eat another morsel; and in spite of
all her efforts the tears would come into her eyes, as she saw her father
deliberately open and read the letter, and then refold and put it into
his pocket. He looked at her as he did so, and seeing the tears rolling
down her cheeks, sternly bade her leave the room,

She obeyed, feeling more angry and rebellious toward him than she ever
had before. It seemed so cruel and unjust to deprive her of her own
letters; one of Miss Rose's--as she knew it must be, for she had no other
correspondent--which never contained anything but what was good, and
kind, and comforting. They were always a great treat to the little girl,
and she had been longer than usual without one, and had been looking
longingly for it every day for several weeks past; for sad and lonely as
her days now were, she felt very keenly the need of her friend's sympathy
and love; and now to have this letter taken from her just as she laid her
hand upon it, seemed a disappointment almost too great to be endured. She
had a hard struggle with herself before she could put away entirely her
feelings of anger and impatience.

"Oh! this is not honoring papa," she said to herself; "he may have good
reasons for what he has done; and as _I_ belong to him, he certainly has
a sort of right to everything that is mine. I will try to be submissive,
and wait patiently until he sees fit to give me my letter, as perhaps he
will, some time."

All the morning the thought of her letter was scarcely out of her mind,
and as soon as she was released from school duties, and dressed for
dinner, she went down to the drawing-room, hoping that her father might
be there, and that he would give it to her.

But he was not in, and when he came, brought a number of strangers with
him, who remained until after tea; so that all the afternoon passed away
without affording her an opportunity to speak to him. But, to her great
joy, the visitors all left early in the evening, excepting a very mild,
pleasant-looking, elderly gentleman, who had settled himself in the
portico, with Enna on his knees.

Elsie was watching her fathers movements, and was not sorry to see him,
after the departure of his guests, return to the drawing-room, and take
up the evening paper.

No one else was at that end of the room, so now, at last, she might speak
to him without fear of being overheard. She was glad, too, that his back
was towards her, for she had grown very timid about approaching him of
late. She stole softly up to the back of his chair, and stood there for
some moments without speaking; her heart beat so fast with mingled hope
and fear, that it seemed impossible to command her voice.

But at last, coming to his side, she said, in a tone so low and tremulous
as to be almost inaudible, "Papa."

"Well, Elsie, what do you want?" he asked, with his eyes still on the
paper.

"Dear papa, I do so want to see Miss Rose's letter; won't you please give
it to me?"

She waited a moment for a reply; then asked again, "May I not have it,
papa?"

"Yes, Elsie, you may have _that_, and _everything_ else you want, just as
soon as you show yourself a submissive, obedient child."

Tears gathered in Elsie's eyes, but she resolutely forced them back,
and made one more appeal. "_Dear_ papa," she said, in pleading, tearful
tones, "you don't know how I have looked and longed for that letter; and
I _do want_ it so _very_ much; won't you let me see it just for a few
moments?"

"You have your answer, Elsie," he said coldly; "and it is the only one I
have to give you."

Elsie turned and walked away, silently crying as she went.

But ere she had reached the door he called her back, and looking sternly
at her, as she again stood trembling and weeping at his side, "Remember,"
he said, "that from this time forth, I forbid you to write or receive any
letters which do not pass through my hands, and I shall not allow you to
correspond with Miss Allison, or any one else, indeed, until you become a
more dutiful child."

"Oh, papa! what will Miss Allison think if I don't answer her letter?"
exclaimed Elsie, weeping bitterly.

"I shall wait a few weeks," he said, "to see if you are going to be a
better girl, and then, if you remain stubborn, I shall write to her
myself, and tell her that I have stopped the correspondence, and my
reasons for doing so."

"Oh, papa! _dear_ papa! _please_ don't do that!" cried the little girl
in great distress. "I am afraid if you do she will never love me any
more, for she will think me such a very bad child."

"If she does, she will only have a just opinion of you," replied her
father coldly; "and _all_ your friends will soon cease to love you, if
you continue to show such a wilful temper; my patience is almost worn
out, Elsie, and I shall try some very severe measures before long, unless
you see proper to submit. Go now to your own room; I do not wish to see
you again to-night."

"Good-night, papa," sobbed the little girl, as she turned to obey him.

"Elsie, my daughter," he said, suddenly seizing her hand, and drawing her
to his side, "why will you not give up this strange wilfulness, and let
your papa have his own darling again? I love you dearly, my child, and it
pains me more than I can express to see you so unhappy," he added, gently
pushing back the curls from the little tear-stained face upturned to his.

His tone had all the old fondness, and Elsie's heart thrilled at the very
sound; his look, too, was tender and affectionate, and throwing down his
paper he lifted her to his knee, and passed his arm around her waist.

Elsie laid her head against his breast, as was her wont before their
unhappy estrangement, while he passed his hand caressingly over her
curls.

"Speak, my daughter," he said in a low tone, full of tenderness; "speak,
and tell papa that he has his own dutiful little daughter again. His
heart aches to receive her; must he do without her still?"

The temptation to yield was very strong. She loved him, oh, how dearly!
Could she bear to go on making him unhappy? And it was such _rest_--such
_joy_--thus once more to feel herself folded to his heart, and hear his
dear voice speaking to her in loving, tender tones. Can it be wondered at
that for a moment Elsie wavered? On the one hand she saw her father's
fond affection, indulgent kindness, and loving caresses; on the other,
banishment from his love, perhaps from home, cold, stern, harsh words
and looks; and what more might be meant by the very severe measures
threatened, she trembled to think.

For a moment she was silent, for a mighty struggle was going on in her
heart. It was hard, _very_ hard, to give up her father's love. But the
love of Jesus!--ah, that was more precious still!

The struggle was past.

"Papa," she said, raising an earnest, tearful little face to his, and
speaking in tones tremulous with emotion, "dear, _dear_ papa, I do love
you so very, _very_ much, and I do want to be to you a good, obedient
child; but, papa, Jesus says, 'He that loveth father or mother more than
me, is not worthy of me,' and I must love Jesus best, and keep _his_
commandments _always_. But you bid me say that I am sorry I refused to
break them; and that I will yield implicit obedience to you, even though
you should command me to disobey him. Oh, papa, I cannot do _that_, even
though you should never love me again; even though you should put me to
death."

The cold, stern expression had returned to his face before she had half
finished, and putting her off his knee, he said, in his severest tone,
"Go, disobedient, rebellious child! How often have I told you that you
are too young to judge of such matters, and must leave all that to me,
your father and natural guardian, whom the Bible itself commands you to
obey. I will find means to conquer you yet, Elsie. If affection and mild
measures will not do it, severity shall."

He rose and walked hastily up and down the floor, excited and angry,
while poor Elsie went weeping from the room.

"Is that one of your sisters, my dear?" asked the old gentleman of Enna,
as he saw the sobbing Elsie pass through the hall, on her way up-stairs.

"No; that is brother Horace's daughter," replied Enna scornfully; "she is
a real naughty girl, and won't mind her papa at all."

"Ah!" said the old gentleman gravely, "I am sorry to hear it; but I hope
you will always obey your papa."

"Indeed, my papa lets me do _just_ as I please," said Enna, with a little
toss of her head. "_I_ don't have to mind anybody."

"Ah! then I consider you a very unfortunate child," remarked the old
gentleman, still more gravely; "for it is by no means good for a little
one like you to have too much of her own way."

Mr. Grier--for that was the old gentleman's name--had been much
interested in the little Elsie's appearance. He had noticed the look
of sadness on her fair young face, and conjectured, from something
in the manner of the rest of the family toward her, that she was in
disgrace; yet he was sure there was no stubbornness or self-will in the
expression of that meek and gentle countenance. He began to suspect that
some injustice had been done the little girl, and determined to watch and
see if she were indeed the naughty child she was represented to be, and
if he found her as good as he was inclined to believe, to try to gain
her confidence, and see if he could help her out of her troubles.

But Elsie did not come down again that evening, and though he saw her at
the breakfast-table the next morning, she slipped away so immediately
after the conclusion of the meal, that he had no opportunity to speak to
her; and at dinner it was just the same.

But in the afternoon, seeing her walk out alone, he put on his hat and
followed at a little distance. She was going toward the quarter, and he
presently saw her enter a cabin where, he had been told, a poor old
colored woman was lying ill, perhaps on her death-bed.

Very quietly he drew near the door of the hut, and seating himself on a
low bench on the outside, found that he could both see and hear all that
was going on without himself being perceived, as Elsie had her back to
the door, and poor old Dinah was blind.

"I have come to read to you again, Aunt Dinah," said the little girl, in
her sweet, gentle tones.

"Tank you, my young missus; you is bery kind," replied the old woman
feebly.

Elsie had already opened her little Bible, and in the same sweet, gentle
voice in which she had spoken, she now read aloud the third chapter of
St. John's gospel.

When she had finished reading the sixteenth verse--"God so loved the
world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have everlasting life,"--she paused and exclaimed,
"Oh! Aunt Dinah, is not that beautiful? Does it not make you glad? You
see it does not say whosoever is good and holy, or whosoever has not
sinned, but it is whosoever believes in Jesus, the only begotten Son of
God. If it was only the good, Aunt Dinah, you and I could never hope to
be saved, because we are both great sinners."

"Not you, Miss Elsie! not you, darlin'," interrupted the old woman; "ole
Dinah's a great sinner, she knows dat well nuff--but you, darlin', you
never did nuffin bad."

"Yes, Dinah," said the little voice in saddened tones, "I have a very
wicked heart, and have been a sinner all my life; but I know that Jesus
died to save sinners, and that whosoever believes in him shall have
eternal life, and I do believe, and I want you to believe, and then you,
too, will be saved."

"Did de good Lord Jesus die for poor ole Dinah, Miss Elsie?" she asked
eagerly.

"Yes, Aunt Dinah, if you will believe in him; it says for _whosoever
believeth_."

"Ole Dinah dunno how to believe, chile; can't do it nohow."

"You must ask God to teach you, Dinah," replied the little girl
earnestly, "for the Bible says 'faith'--that means believing--'is the
gift of God.'"

"You don't mean _dat_, Miss Elsie! You don't mean dat God will save poor
ole Dinah, an' gib her hebben, an' all for nuffin?" she inquired, raising
herself on her elbow in her eagerness.

"Yes, Dinah; God says without money and without price; can't you believe
him? Suppose I should come and put a hundred dollars in your hand,
saying, 'Here, Aunt Dinah, I _give_ you this; you are old, and sick, and
poor, and I know you can do nothing to earn it, but it is a _free_ gift,
just _take_ it and it is yours;' wouldn't you believe me, and take it?"

"_'Deed_ I would, Miss Elsie, kase you nebber tole nuffin but de truff."

"Well, then, can't you believe God when he says that he will save you?
Can't you believe Jesus when he says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal life'?"

"Yes, yes, Miss Elsie! I do b'lieve; read de blessed words again,
darlin'."

Elsie read the verse again, and then finished the Chapter. Then closing
the book, she asked softly,

"Shall we pray, now, Aunt Dinah?"

Dinah gave an eager assent; and Elsie, kneeling down by the bedside,
prayed in simple, childlike words that Jesus would reveal himself to poor
old Dinah, as _her_ Saviour; that the Holy Spirit would be her sanctifier
and comforter, working faith in her, and thereby uniting her to Christ;
that God would adopt her into his family, and be her God and portion
forever; and that Jesus would be her shepherd, so that she need fear no
evil, even though called to pass through the dark valley of the shadow of
death.

"Amen!" was Dinah's fervent response to each of the petitions.

"De good Lord bless you, darlin'," she said, taking Elsie's little white
hand in hers, and pressing it to her lips; "de good Lord bless an' keep
you, an' nebber let trouble come near you. You knows nuffin 'bout trouble
now, for you's young, an' handsome, an' rich, an' good; an' Massa Horace,
he doats on you; no, _you_ knows nuffin 'bout trouble, but ole Dinah
does, kase she's ole, an' sick, an' full ob aches and pains."

"Yes, Aunt Dinah, and I am very sorry for you; but remember, if you
believe in Jesus, you will soon go to heaven, where you will never be
sick or in pain any more. But, Dinah,"--and the little voice grew very
mournful--"we cannot always know when others are in trouble; and I want
you to pray for me that I may always have strength to do right."

"I will, darlin', 'deed I will," said Dinah earnestly, kissing the little
hand again ere she released it.

As Elsie ceased speaking, Mr. Grier slipped quietly away, and continued
his walk. From what he had just seen and heard, he felt fully convinced
that Elsie was not the wicked, disobedient child Enna had represented
her to be; yet he knew that Enna was not alone in her opinion, since it
was very evident that Elsie was in disgrace with the whole family--her
father especially--and that she was very unhappy. He felt his heart drawn
out in sympathy for the child, and longed to be able to assist her in
regaining her father's favor, yet he knew not how to do it, for how was
he to learn the facts in the case without seeming to pry into the family
secrets of his kind entertainers? But there was one comfort he could do
for her--what she had so earnestly asked of Dinah--and he would. As he
came to this resolution he turned about and began to retrace his steps
toward the house. To his surprise and pleasure, upon turning around a
thicket, he came suddenly upon Elsie herself, seated upon a bench under
a tree, bending over her little Bible, which lay open on her lap, and
upon which her quiet tears were dropping, one by one.

She did not seem aware of his presence, and he stood a moment gazing
compassionately upon her, ere he spoke.

"My dear little girl, what is the matter?" he asked in a gentle tone,
full of sympathy and kindness, seating himself by her side.

Elsie started, and raising her head, hastily brushed away her tears.

"Good evening, sir," she said, blushing painfully, "I did not know you
were here."

"You must excuse my seeming intrusion," replied the old gentleman, taking
her hand in his. "I came upon you unawares, not knowing you were here;
but now that we have met, will you not tell me the cause of your grief?
Perhaps I may be able to assist you."

"No, sir," she said, "you could not do anything for me; but I thank you
very much for your kindness."

"I think," said he, after a moment's pause, "that I know something of
your trouble; you have offended your father; is it not so, my dear?"

Elsie answered only by her tears, and he went on.

Laying his hand upon the Bible, "Submission to parents, my dear child,"
he said, "you know is enjoined in this blessed book; children are here
commanded to honor and obey their father and mother; it is _God's_
command, and if you love his holy word, you will obey its precepts.
Surely your father will forgive, and receive you into favor, if you show
yourself penitent and submissive?"

"I love my papa very, _very_ dearly," replied Elsie, weeping, "and I do
want to obey him; but he does not love Jesus, and sometimes he bids me
break God's commandments, and then I cannot obey him."

"Is that it, my poor child?" said her friend pityingly. "Then you are
right in not obeying; but be _very sure_ that your father's commands
_are_ opposed to those of God, before you refuse obedience; and be very
careful to obey him in all things in which you can conscientiously do
so."

"I do try, sir," replied Elsie meekly.

"Then be comforted, my dear little girl. God has surely sent you this
trial for some wise and kind purpose, and in his own good time he will
remove it. Only be patient and submissive. He can change your father's
heart, and for that you and I will both pray."

Elsie looked her thanks as they rose to return to the house, but her
heart was too full for speech, and she walked silently along beside her
new friend, who continued to speak words of comfort and encouragement
to her, until they reached the door, where he bade her good-by, saying
that he was sorry he was not likely to see her again, as he must leave
Roselands that afternoon, but promising not to forget her in his prayers.

When Elsie reached her room, Chloe told her her father had sent word that
she was to come to him as soon as she returned from her walk, and that
she would find him in his dressing-room.

Chloe had taken off the little girl's hat and smoothed her hair ere
she delivered the message, and with a beating heart Elsie proceeded
immediately to obey it.

In answer to her timid knock, her father himself opened the door.

"Mammy told me that you wanted me, papa," she said in a tremulous voice,
and looking up timidly into his face.

"Yes, I sent for you; come in," he replied; and taking her by the hand
he led her forward to the arm-chair from which he had just risen, where
he again seated himself, making her stand before him very much like a
culprit in the presence of her judge.

There was a moment's pause, in which Elsie stood with her head bent
down and her eyes upon the carpet, trembling with apprehension, and not
knowing what new trial might be in store for her. Then she ventured to
look at her father.

His face was sad and distressed, but very stern.

"Elsie," he began at length, speaking in slow, measured tones, "I told
you last evening that should you still persist in your resistance to my
authority, I should feel compelled to take severe measures with you. I
have now decided what those measures are to be. Henceforth, so long as
you continue rebellious, you are to be banished entirely from the family
circle; your meals must be taken in your own apartment, and though I
shall not reduce your fare to bread and water, it will be very plain--no
sweetmeats--no luxuries of any kind. I shall also deprive you entirely of
pocket-money, and of all books excepting your Bible and school-books, and
forbid you either to pay or receive any visits, telling all who inquire
for you, why you cannot be seen. You are also to understand that I forbid
you to enter any apartment in the house excepting your own and the
school-room--unless by my express permission--and never to go out at all,
even to the garden, excepting to take your daily exercise, accompanied
always and only by a servant. You are to go on with your studies as
usual, but need not expect to be spoken to by any one but your teacher,
as I shall request the others to hold no communication with you. This is
your sentence. It goes into effect this very hour, but becomes null and
void the moment you come to me with acknowledgments of penitence for the
past, and promises of implicit obedience for the future."

Elsie stood like a statue; her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon the
floor. She had grown very pale while her father was speaking, and there
was a slight quivering of the eyelids and of the muscles of the mouth,
but she showed no other sign of emotion.

"Did you hear me, Elsie?" he asked.

"Yes, papa," she murmured, in a tone so low it scarcely reached his ear.

"Well, have you anything to say for yourself before I send you back to
your room?" he asked in a somewhat softened tone.

He felt a little alarmed at the child's unnatural calmness; but it was
all gone in a moment. Sinking upon her knees she burst into a fit of
passionate weeping. "Oh! papa, papa!" she sobbed, raising her streaming
eyes to his face, "will you never, _never_ love me any more?--must I
never come near you, or speak to you again?"

He was much moved.

"I did not say _that_, Elsie," he replied. "I hope most sincerely that
you _will_ come to me before long with the confessions and promises I
require; and then, as I have told you so often, I will take you to my
heart again, as fully as ever. Will you not do it at once, and spare me
the painful necessity of putting my sentence into execution?" he asked,
raising her gently, and drawing her to his side.

"Dear papa, you know I cannot," she sobbed.

"Then return at once to your room; my sentence must be enforced, though
it break both your heart and mine, for I _will_ be obeyed. _Go_!" he
said, sternly putting her from him. And weeping and sobbing, feeling like
a homeless, friendless outcast from society, Elsie went back to her room.

The next two or three weeks were very sad and dreary ones to the poor
little girl. Her father's sentence was rigidly enforced; she scarcely
ever saw him excepting at a distance, and when once or twice he passed
her in going in and out, he neither looked at nor spoke to her. Miss Day
treated her with all her former severity and injustice, and no one else
but the servants ever addressed her.

She went out every day for an hour or two, in obedience to her father's
command, but her walks and rides were sad and lonely; and during the rest
of the day she felt like a prisoner, for she dared not venture even into
the garden, where she had always been in the habit of passing the greater
part of her leisure hours, in the summer season.

But debarred from all other pleasures, Elsie read her Bible more and more
constantly, and with ever increasing delight; it was more than meat and
drink to her; she there found consolation under every affliction, a
solace for every sorrow. Her trial was a heavy one; her little heart
often ached sadly with its intense longing for an earthly father's love
and favor; yet in the midst of it all, she was conscious of a deep,
abiding peace, flowing from a sweet sense of pardoned sin, and a
consciousness of a Saviour's love.

At first Elsie greatly feared that she would not be allowed to attend
church, as usual, on the Sabbath. But Mr. Dinsmore did not care to excite
too much remark, and so, as Elsie had always been very regular in her
attendance, to her great joy she was still permitted to go.

No one spoke to her, however, or seemed to take the least notice of her;
but she sat by her father's side, as usual, both in the carriage and in
the pew, and there was some pleasure even in that, though she scarcely
dared even to lift her eyes to his face. Once during the sermon, on the
third Sabbath after their last interview, she ventured to do so, and was
so overcome by the sight of his pale, haggard looks, that utterly unable
to control her emotion, she burst into tears, and almost sobbed aloud.

"Elsie," he said, bending down, and speaking in a stern whisper, "you
_must control_ yourself."

And with a mighty effort she swallowed down her tears and sobs.

He took no further notice of her until they were again at their own door,
when, lifting her from the carriage, he took her by the hand and led her
to his own room. Shutting the door, he said sternly, "Elsie, what did you
mean by behaving so in church? I was ashamed of you."

"I could not help it, papa; indeed I could not," replied the little girl,
again bursting into tears.

"What were you crying about? tell me at once," he said, sitting down and
taking off her bonnet, while she stood trembling before him.

"Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa!" she cried, suddenly throwing her arms
round his neck, and laying her cheek to his; "I love you so much, that
when I looked at you, and saw how pale and thin you were, I couldn't help
crying."

"I do not understand, nor want such love, Elsie," he said gravely,
putting her from him; "it is not the right kind, or it would lead you
to be docile and obedient. You certainly deserve punishment for your
behavior this morning, and I am much inclined to say that you shall not
go to church again for some time."

"Please, papa, don't say that," she replied tearfully; "I will try never
to do so again."

"Well," he replied, after a moment's reflection, "I shall punish you
to-day by depriving you of your dinner, and if you repeat the offence I
shall whip you."

Elsie's little face flushed crimson.

"I know it is an ignominious punishment, Elsie," said her father, "and
I feel very loth to try it with you, but I greatly fear I shall be
compelled to do so before I can subdue your rebellious spirit; it will
be the _very last_ resort, however. Go now to your room."

This last threat might almost be said to have given Elsie a new dread;
for though his words on several former occasions had seemed to imply
something of the sort, she had always put away the thought as that of
something too dreadful to happen. But now he had spoken plainly, and the
trial to her seemed inevitable, for she could never give the required
promise, and she knew, too, that he prided himself on keeping his word,
to the very letter.

Poor little girl! she felt very much like a martyr in prospect of torture
or the stake. For a time she was in deep distress; but she carried _this_
trouble, like all the rest, to her Saviour, and found relief; many
precious, comforting texts being brought to her mind: "The king's heart
is in the hand of the Lord as the rivers of water: he turneth it
whithersoever he will." "My grace is sufficient for thee." "As thy days,
so shall thy strength be." These, and others of a like import, came to
her remembrance in this hour of fear and dread, and assured her that her
heavenly Father would either save her from that trial, or give her
strength to endure it; and she grew calm and peaceful again.

"The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous runneth into it
and is safe."