itely
wise, and good, and kind, has sent you this great sorrow in love and
compassion?"

Adelaide's only answer was a gentle pressure of the little hand she held,
accompanied by a flood of tears. But after that she seemed to love Elsie
better than, she ever had before, and to want her always by her side,
often asking her to read a chapter in the Bible, a request with which the
little girl always complied most gladly.

Adelaide was very silent, burying her thoughts almost entirely in her
own bosom; but it was evident that the blessed teachings of the holy book
were not altogether lost upon her, for the extreme violence of her grief
gradually abated, and the expression of her countenance, though still
sad, became gentle and patient.

And could Elsie thus minister consolation to another, and yet find no
lessening of her own burden of sorrow? Assuredly not.

She could not repeat to her aunt the many sweet and precious promises of
God's holy word, without having them brought home to her own heart with
renewed power; she could not preach Jesus to another without finding him
still nearer and dearer to her own soul; and though there were yet times
when she was almost overwhelmed with grief, she could truly say that the
"consolations of God were not small with her." There was often a weary,
weary aching at her heart--such an unutterable longing for her father's
love and favor as would send her weeping to her knees to plead long and
earnestly that this trial might be removed; yet she well knew who had
sent it, and was satisfied that it was one of the "_all_ things which
shall work together for good to them that love God," and she was at
length enabled to say in reference to it: "Thy will, not mine, be done,"
and to bear her cross with patient submission.

But ah! there was many a bitter struggle, first! She had many sad and
lonely hours; and there were times when the yearning of the poor little
heart for her father's presence, and her father's love, was almost more
than weak human nature could endure.

Sometimes she would walk her room, wringing her hands and weeping
bitterly.

"Oh, papa! papa!" she would exclaim, again and again, "how can I bear it?
how _can_ I bear it? will you never, never come back? will you never,
never love me again?"

And then would come up the memory of his words on that sad, sad day, when
he left her--"Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I have
so vainly endeavored to induce her