Elsie's Widowhood. Finley Martha
that I have a father's love for you."
"Yes, grandpa, we know it," "Dear grandpa, we're glad we have you left to us," sobbed one and another.
"And mamma, dear, precious mamma! O grandpa, is she sick?"
"Not exactly sick, my darlings," he said, "but very much worn out. We must let her rest."
"Can't we see her? can't we go to her?"
"Not now, not to-night, I think. I left her sleeping, and hope she will not wake for some hours."
At that the little ones seemed nearly heartbroken. "How could they go to their beds without seeing mamma?"
But Elsie comforted them. She would help mammy to put them to bed; and oh it was the best of news that dear mamma was sleeping! because if she did not she would soon be quite ill.
Molly Percival, because of her crippled condition, making locomotion so difficult, seldom joined the family at table, but took her meals in her own room, a servant waiting upon her and her mother, who, in her new devotion to poor Molly, preferred to eat with her.
The appointments of their table were quite as dainty as those of the other, the fare never less luxurious.
A very tempting repast was spread before them to-night, but Molly could not eat for weeping.
Her mother, tasting one dish after another with evident enjoyment, at length thought fit to expostulate with her.
"Molly, why do you cry so? I do wish you would stop it and eat your supper."
"I'm not hungry, mother."
"That's only because you're fretting so; and what's the use? Mr. Travilla's better off; and besides he was nothing to you."
"Nothing to me! O mother! he was so good, so kind to me, to Dick, to everybody about him. He treated me like a daughter, and I loved him as well as if he had been my own father. He did not forget you or me when he was dying, mother."
"No; and it was good of him. Still, crying doesn't do any good; and you'll get weak and sick if you don't eat."
Molly's only answer was a burst of grief. "Oh poor, poor Cousin Elsie! her heart must be quite broken, for she idolized her husband. And the girls and all of them; how they did love their father!"
The servant came in with a plate of hot cakes, and a slender girlish figure presently stole softly after, without knocking, for the door stood open, and to the side of Molly's chair. It was Violet, looking, oh so sad and sweet, so fair and spiritual in her deep mourning dress.
In an instant she and Molly were locked in each other's arms, mingling their sobs and tears together.
"I'm afraid we have seemed to neglect you, Molly dear," Violet said when she could speak, "but – "
"No, no, you have never done that!" cried Molly, weeping afresh. "And how could I expect you to think of me at such a time! O Vi, Vi!"
"Mamma cannot come up, for she is not – not able to leave her room, and – and O Molly, I'm afraid she's going to be sick!"
Molly tried to comfort and reassure her. "Aunt Rose was in for a while this afternoon," she said, "and she thinks it is not really sickness, only that she needs rest and – and comfort. And, Vi, the Lord will comfort her. Don't you remember those sweet words in Isaiah? – 'As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted.'"
Violet had come up to see Molly, lest the poor afflicted cousin should feel neglected, while Elsie was engaged with the little ones – taking mamma's place in seeing them to bed with a little loving talk on some profitable theme.
To-night it was the glory and bliss of heaven; leaving in their young minds, instead of gloomy and dreadful thoughts of death and the cold, dark grave, bright visions of angelic choirs, of white robes and palms of victory, of golden crowns and harps, of the river of the water of life, and the beautiful trees on its banks bearing twelve manner of fruits; of papa with sweet Lily by his side, both casting their crowns at Jesus' feet and singing with glad voices, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain."
Leaving them at length to their slumbers, she joined Violet and Molly for a few moments; then Edward came to say that their mother was awake and grandpa had given permission for them to go to her and just bid her good-night, if they could be quite composed.
They thought they could; they would try very earnestly.
She was in her dressing-room, reclining in an easy chair, looking, oh so wan and sorrowful.
She embraced each in turn, holding them to her heart with a whispered word or two of tender mother love. "God bless you, my dear, dear children! He will be a father to the fatherless and never leave nor forsake you."
Violet dared not trust herself to speak. Elsie only murmured, "Dear, dearest mamma!" and Edward, "Darling, precious mother, don't grieve too sorely."
"The consolations of God are not small! my dear son," was all she said in reply, and they withdrew softly and silently as they had come.
The next morning and each following day they were all allowed a few moments with her, until four days had passed.
On the fifth, as we have said, she came down to the breakfast room leaning on her father's arm.
As they neared the door she paused, trembling like a leaf, and turning to him a white, anguished face.
He knew what it meant. She had not been in that room, had not taken her place at that table, since the morning of the day on which her husband was taken ill. He was with her then, in apparently perfect health; now – the places which had known him on earth would know him no more forever.
Her head dropped on her father's shoulder, a low moan escaping her pale lips.
"Dear child," he said, drawing her closer to him, and tenderly kissing her brow, "think how perfectly happy, how blest he is. You would not call him back?"
"Oh no, no!" came from the quivering lips. "'The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!'"
"Lean on your strong Saviour," he said, "and His grace will be sufficient for you."
She sent up a silent petition, then lifting her head, "I can bear it now – He will help me," she said, and suffered him to lead her in.
Her children gathered about her with a joy that was as a cordial to her fainting spirit; their love was very sweet.
But how her heart yearned over them because they were fatherless; all the more so that she found her father's love so precious and sustaining in this time of sorrow and bereavement.
He led her to her accustomed seat, bent over her with a whispered word of love and encouragement, then took the one opposite – once her husband's, now his no more.
Perhaps it was not quite so hard as to have seen it empty, but it cost a heroic effort to restrain a burst of anguish.
CHAPTER VI
"Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall He shall not blind his soul with clay."
Life at Ion moved on in its accustomed quiet course, Mr. Travilla's removal seeming, to outsiders, to have made very little change except that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore now took up their abode there for the greater part of the time, leaving the younger Horace and his wife in charge at the Oaks.
An arrangement for which Elsie was very thankful, for her father's presence and his love were as balm to her wounded spirit.
Her strongest support in this, as in every trial of her life, was in her almighty Saviour; on Him she leaned every hour with a simple childlike faith and confidence in His unerring wisdom and infinite love; but it was very sweet to lean somewhat upon the strength and wisdom of the earthly father also, and to feel that the shield of his care and protection was interposed between her and the cold world.
Both