ELSIE DINSMORE Complete Series: 28 Books in One Edition. Martha Finley

and a heap of ashes. The gardens were a desert, the lawn was changed to a muddy field by the tramping of many feet, and furrowed with deep ruts where the artillery had passed and repassed; fences, hedge-rows, shrubbery—all had disappeared; and the fields, once cultivated with great care, were overgrown with weeds and nettles.

      "We have lost our way! this cannot be the place!" cried Rose, as they reined in their horses on the precise spot where Arthur and Walter had taken their farewell look at home.

      "Alas, alas, it is no other!" Mr. Travilla replied, in moved tones.

      The hearts of Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were too full for speech, and hot tears were coursing down the cheeks of the latter.

      Mr. Dinsmore pressed forward, and the others followed, slowly picking their way through the ruins, grief swelling in their hearts at every step. Determined to know the worst, they made the circuit of the house and of the whole estate.

      "Can it ever be restored?" Elsie asked at length, amid her tears.

      "The house may be rebuilt in a few months, and fields and gardens cleared of weeds, and made to resume something of the old look," Mr. Dinsmore answered; "but the trees were the growth of years, and this generation will not see their places filled with their like."

      They pursued their way to Ion in almost unbroken silence. Here the fields presented the same appearance of neglect; lawn and gardens were a wild, but scarcely a tree had fallen, and though the house had been pillaged, furniture destroyed, windows broken, and floors torn up, a few rooms were still habitable; and here they found several of the house-servants, who hailed their coming with demonstrations of delight.

      They had lived on the products of the orchard and grapery, and by cultivating a small patch of ground and keeping a few fowls.

      Elsie assumed an air of cheerfulness, for her husband's sake; rejoiced that the trees had been spared, that the family burial-place had escaped desecration, and talked gayly of the pleasure of repairing damages, and making improvements till Ion should not have a rival for beauty the country round.

      Her efforts were appreciated, and met fully half-way, by her loving spouse.

      The four, taking possession of the rustic seat on the top of a little knoll, where the huge branches of a giant oak protected them from the sun, took a lengthened survey of the house and grounds, and held a consultation in regard to ways and means.

      Returning to the Oaks, the gentlemen went to the library, where old Mr. Dinsmore was sitting alone, and reported to him the result of the morning conference. Roselands was to be rebuilt as fast as men and materials could be procured, Elsie furnishing the means—a very large sum of money, of which he was to have the use, free of interest, for a long term of years, or during his natural life.

      Mr. Horace Dinsmore knew his father would never take it as a gift, and indeed, it cost him a hard struggle to bring his pride down to the acceptance of it as offered. But he consented at last, and as the other two retired, begged that Elsie would come to him for a moment.

      She came in so quietly that he was not aware of her presence. He sat in the corner of a sofa, his white head bowed upon his knees, and his aged frame shaking with sobs.

      Kneeling at his side, she put her arms about him, whispering, "Grandpa, my poor, dear grandpa, be comforted; for we all love and honor you."

      "Child! child! I have not deserved this at your hands," he sobbed. "I turned from you when you came to my house, a little, desolate motherless one, claiming my affection."

      "But that was many years ago, dear grandpa, and we will 'let the dead past bury its dead,' You will not deny me the great pleasure of helping to repair the desolations of war in the dear home of my childhood? You will take it as help sent by Him whose steward I am?"

      He clasped her close, and his kisses and tears were warm upon her cheek, as he murmured, in low, broken tones, "God bless you, child! I can refuse you nothing. You shall do as you will."

      At last, Elsie had won her way to her stern grandfather's heart; and henceforth she was dear to him as ever one of his children had been.

      It is a sweet October morning in the year 1867. Ion, restored to more than its pristine loveliness, lies basking in the beams of the newly risen sun; a tender mist, gray in the distance, rose-colored and golden where the rays of light strike it more directly, enveloping the landscape; the trees decked in holiday attire—green, russet, orange, and scarlet.

      The children are romping with each other and their nurses, in the avenue; with the exception of wee Elsie, now a fair, gentle girl of nine, who occupies a rustic seat a little apart from the rest. She has a Bible in her hand, and the sweet young face is bent earnestly, lovingly, over the holy book.

      On the veranda stands the mother, watching her darlings with eyes that grow misty with glad tears, while her heart sends up its joyous thanksgiving to Him who had been the Guide of her youth and the stay and staff of maturer years.

      A step approaches, and her husband's arm encircles her waist, while, as she turns her head, his kindly gray eyes gaze into the depths of her soft hazel ones, with a love stronger than life—or than death.

      "Do you know, little wife, what day this is?"

      She answered with a bright, glad smile; then her head dropped upon his shoulder.

      "Yes, my husband; ten years ago to-day I committed my happiness to your keeping, and never for one moment have I regretted the step."

      "Bless you, darling, for the word! How great are the mercies of God to me! Yonder is our first-born. I see you as you were when first I met and coveted you; and here you stand by my side, the true wife who has been for ten years the joy and light of my heart and home. Wife, I love you better to-day than ever before, and if it be the will of God, may we yet have five times ten years to live together in love and harmony."

      "We shall!" she answered earnestly; "eternity is ours, and death itself can part us but for a little while."

      Elsie's Motherhood

       Table of Contents

      "Sweet is the image of the brooding dove!

       Holy as heaven a mother's tender love!

       The love of many prayers and many tears,

       Which changes not with dim declining years—

       The only love which, on this teeming earth,

       Asks no return for passion's wayward birth."

      MRS. NORTON.

Table of Contents

       Chapter I

       Chapter II

       Chapter III

       Chapter IV

       Chapter V

       Chapter VI

       Chapter VII

       Chapter VIII

       Chapter IX

       Chapter