nlys, except Cal, were still at the North; the house seemed
strangely quiet, only now and then a stealthy step or a murmur of voices
and occasionally a half smothered cry from Bob or Betty.

A horseman came dashing furiously up the avenue. It was her uncle, Mr.
Horace Dinsmore. He threw himself from the saddle and hurried into the
house, and the next minute two more followed at the same headlong pace.

These were Cal and Dr. Barton, and they also dismounted in hot haste and
disappeared from her sight beneath the veranda. Certainly something very
dreadful had happened. Oh would nobody come to tell her!

The minutes dragged their slow length along seeming like hours. She lay
back in her chair in an agony of suspense, the perspiration standing in
cold drops on her brow.

But the sound of wheels roused her and looking out she saw the Oaks and
Ion carriages drive up, young Horace and Rosie alight from the one, Mr.
Travilla and Elsie from the other.

"Oh!" thought Molly, "Cousin Elsie will be sure to think of me directly
and I shall not be left much longer in this horrible suspense."

Her confidence was not misplaced. Not many minutes had elapsed when her
door was softly opened, a light step crossed the floor and a sweet fair
face, full of tender compassion, bent over the grief-stricken girl.

Molly tried to speak; her tongue refused its office, but Elsie quickly
answered the mute questioning of the wild, frightened, anguished eyes.

"There is life," she said, taking the cold hands in hers, "life in both;
and 'while there is life there is hope.' Our dear old grandfather has a
broken leg and arm and a few slight cuts and bruises, but is restored to
consciousness now, and able to speak. Your poor mother has fared still
worse, we fear, as the principal injury is to the head, but we will hope
for the best in her case also."

Molly dropped her head on her cousin's shoulder while a burst of weeping
brought partial relief to the overburdened heart.

Elsie clasped her arms about her and strove to soothe and comfort her
with caresses and endearing words.

"If I could only nurse mother now," sobbed the girl, "how glad I'd be to
do it. O cousin, it most breaks my heart now to think how I've vexed and
worried her since--since this dreadful trouble came to me. I'd give
anything never to have said a cross or disrespectful word to her. And now
I can do nothing for her! nothing, nothing!" and she wrung her hands in
grief and despa