Mildred and Elsie. Finley Martha

      Mildred and Elsie

      "Through suffering and sorrow thou hast pass'd,

      To show us what a woman true may be." —

J. R. Lowell.

      "A lovely being scarcely form'd or moulded,

      A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." —

Byron.

      CHAPTER I

      "'Tis beautiful when first the dewy light

      Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air

      Is breathing the cool freshness of the night,

      And the bright clouds a tint of crimson bear."

Elizabeth M. Chandler.

      "A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love."

Byron.

      Morning was breaking over the landscape; a cool, refreshing breeze, laden with woodland sweets and wild birds' songs, softly kissed Mildred's cheek and awoke her.

      She started up with a low exclamation of delight, sprang to the open window, and kneeling there with her elbow on the sill and her cheek in her hand, feasted her eyes upon the beauty of the scene – a grand panorama of wooded hills, falling waters, wild glens and forests and craggy mountains, above whose lofty summits the east was glowing with crimson and gold.

      Another moment and the sun burst through the golden gate and began anew his daily round, "rejoicing as a strong man to run a race."

      The brightness of his face was too dazzling for Mildred's eyes, and her gaze fell lower down, where wreaths of gray mist hung over the valleys or crept slowly up the mountain sides. Presently it rested on one of the nearer hill-tops, and a sudden, vivid blush suffused her cheek, while a sweet and tender smile shone in her eyes and hovered about her lips.

      But a sigh quickly followed, smile and blush faded away, and she dropped her face into her hands with a low-breathed exclamation, "Oh what shall I do? What ought I to do?"

      There was a question of grave importance awaiting her decision – a decision which would in all probability affect the happiness of her whole future life on earth; yea, who should say its influence would not reach even into eternity?

      She longed to take counsel of her mother, but that mother was far distant, and the question one the girl shrank from putting upon paper and trusting to the mails.

      But a dearer, wiser, even more loving friend was close at hand, and to Him and His Word she turned for guidance.

      Subdued sounds of life came to Mildred's ear ere she closed the Book; servants were astir setting the house to rights and preparing breakfast for the numerous guests, most of whom still lingered in the land of dreams.

      Mildred made a rapid but neat toilet, then stole softly from the room, promising herself a stroll through the grounds while yet the quiet and dewy freshness of early morning lingered there.

      In one of the wide cool porches of the hotel a young man paced to and fro with hasty, agitated step, glancing up again and again with longing impatience at the windows of a certain room on the second floor. Pausing in his walk, he drew out his watch.

      "Only a brief half-hour!" he sighed. "Am I not to see her at all?"

      But at that instant there stepped from the open doorway a slight, graceful, girlish figure in a dainty white muslin, a bunch of wildflowers in her belt, a broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand; and with a low exclamation, "Ah, at last!" he hurried to meet her.

      She started slightly at sight of him and sent a hurried glance this way and that, as if meditating flight.

      "O Mildred, don't run away! why should you avoid me?" he said entreatingly, holding out his hand.

      There was a scarcely perceptible hesitation in her manner as she gave him hers.

      "Good-morning," she said softly. "Is anything wrong? I think you look troubled."

      "Yes, I am called away suddenly; must leave within the hour; a dear, only sister lies at the point of death."

      His tones grew husky and her eyes filled with tears.

      "Oh what sad news! I am so sorry for you!" she murmured.

      He drew her hand within his arm and led her down a shaded alley.

      "It is in your power to give me unspeakable comfort," he said, bending over her. "You wear my flowers; O dearest! is not that a whisper of hope to me? You have decided in my favor? is it not so?"

      "O Charlie, don't ask me! I – I have not been able yet to see that – that I may – that I ought – "

      "To follow the dictates of your heart? Is that what you would say?" he asked, as she broke off abruptly, leaving the sentence unfinished. "O Mildred! you cannot have the heart to refuse me this one crumb of comfort? We must part in a few moments – when to meet again neither of us knows. You have refused to pledge yourself to me, and I will not ask it now – though I solemnly promise you – "

      "No, don't," she interrupted, struggling with her tears; "I would have you free – free as air; since I – I can promise nothing."

      "I will never marry any one but you," he said with vehemence. "If I cannot win you, I will live single all my days. But you do care for me? You do love me? O Mildred! one word, only a word or a look, that I may not go away on my sorrowful errand in utter despair. Only assure me that I have won your heart, and I shall never abandon hope that this barrier may some day be removed."

      She could not refuse him: she had not power to hide either her love or her grief that they must part; both had their way for a short space.

      He had led her into an arbor whose sheltering vines would screen them from prying eyes; and there clasped in each other's arms, heart beating against heart, his bearded lip softly touching again and again her cheek, her brow, her quivering lips, they passed the few precious moments that yet remained to them.

      He was gone; and as the last echo of his departing footsteps died away upon her ear there came over Mildred such a sense of utter desolation as she had never known before. Sinking down upon a rustic bench she hid her face in her hands, and for a few moments allowed her full heart to ease itself in a burst of weeping.

      But this would not do; the breakfast hour drew near, and though it had been of late her aunt's custom to take that meal in bed, her uncle would expect to see her in her usual place at the table, and his keen eye would be quick to detect the traces of tears. The cousins, too, would notice them and not scruple to inquire the cause.

      She hastily dried her eyes, rose, and leaving the arbor, strolled about the grounds, resolutely striving to recover her wonted cheerfulness.

      She had made the circuit once, and again neared the arbor, when she heard her name called in sweet, childish treble, "Cousin Milly, Cousin Milly!" and as she turned in the direction of the sound, little Elsie, closely followed by her faithful mammy, came bounding toward her with a letter in her hand.

      "Grandpa said I might bring it to you. Ain't you so glad, cousin?" she asked; and the missive was put into Mildred's hand, the sweet baby face held up for a kiss.

      Mildred bestowed it very heartily, taking the little one in her arms and repeating the caress again and again, "Very glad, darling," she said, "and very much obliged to my pet for bringing it. Is it time to go in to breakfast, Aunt Chloe?"

      "Massa Dinsmore say you will hab time to read de lettah first, Miss Milly," replied the nurse, dropping a courtesy.

      "Then I will do so," Mildred said, re-entering the arbor.

      "May mammy and Elsie stay wis you?" asked the baby girl coaxingly.

      "Yes indeed, darling," Mildred said, making room for the child to sit by her side.

      "Dere now, honey, keep quiet and don't 'sturb yo' cousin while she reads de lettah," cautioned Aunt Chloe, lifting her nursling and settling her comfortably on the bench.

      Mildred