!
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.

The summons was promptly obeyed, and Violet left in the temporary charge
of children, house, and servants at Ion.

Mrs. Conly died that night, but the old gentleman lingered for several
weeks, during which time his son was a constant attendant at his bedside,
either Rose or Elsie almost always sharing the watch and labor of love.

At length all was over: the spirit had returned to God who gave it, the
body had been laid to rest in the family vault. Mr. Dinsmore and his wife
and daughter went home to Ion, and life there fell back into its old quiet
grooves.

They spoke tenderly of the old grandfather, and kept his memory green in
their loving hearts, but he had gone to his grave like a shock of corn
fully ripe, and they did not mourn over his death with the sadness they
might have felt had it been that of a younger member of the family.

Toward spring Capt. Raymond's letters became ur