Elsie's children

She ran to meet him and told him what had happened.

He seemed much concerned. "Solon is here with the carriage," he said. "I was going to ask your company for a drive, but we will have him take Leland to Fairview first. Strange what could have taken him into that tree!"

That broken limb kept Lester Leland on his back for six long weeks.

His aunt nursed him with the utmost kindness, but could not refrain from teasing him about his accident, asking what took him into the tree, and how he came to fall, till at last, in sheer desperation, he told her the whole story of his love, his hopelessness on account of his poverty, his determination not to go back to Ion to be thanked by Elsie and her parents for saving her life, his inability to go or stay far away from her; and finally owned that he had climbed the tree simply that he might be able to watch her, himself unseen.

"Well, I must say you are a sensible young man!" laughed Mrs. Leland; "but it was very unromantic to be so heavy as to break the limb and fall."

"True enough!" he said, half-laughing, half-sighing, while a deep flush suffused his face.

"Well, what are you going to do next?"

"Go off to – Italy, I suppose."

"What for?"

"To try to make fame and money to lay at her feet."

"That is all very well, but I think – "

"Well?"

"It just struck me that I was about to give unasked advice, which is seldom relished by the recipient."

"Please go on. I should like to have it whether I make use of it or not."

"Well, I think the honest, straightforward, and therefore best course, would be to seek an interview with the parents of the young lady, tell them frankly your feelings toward her, your hopes and purposes, and leave it with them to say whether you shall go without speaking to her."

"They will take me for a fortune-hunter, I fear," he said, the color mounting to his very hair.

"I think not; but at all events, I should risk it. I do not pretend to know Elsie's feelings, but if she cares for you at all, it would be treating her very badly indeed, to go away without letting her know yours; unless her parents forbid it.

"There, I've said my say, and will not mention the subject again till you do, but leave you to consider my advice at your leisure."

Lester did so during the next week, which was the last of the six of enforced quietude, and the more he pondered it, the more convinced was he of the soundness of his aunt's advice, and at length he fully resolved to follow it.

Mr. Travilla had called frequently at Fairview, since his accident, always inquiring for him, sometimes coming up to his room, at others merely leaving kind messages from himself, wife and family, or some dainty to tempt the appetite of the invalid. Eddie had been there, too, on similar errands; but there was never a word from her whose lovely image was ever present to his imagination.

Enna was recovering; was now able to sit up and to walk about the room. There was partial restoration of reason also. Elsie's prayer had been granted, and though still feeble in intellect, Enna had sense enough to comprehend the plan of salvation, and seemed to have entered into the kingdom as a little child. She was gentle, patient and submissive; very different, indeed, from the Enna of old. Elsie rejoiced over her with joy akin to that of the angels "over one sinner that repenteth."

Elsie's children were full of content and happiness in having mamma again at leisure to bestow upon them her wonted care and attention; her husband also, in that he was no longer deprived of the large share of her sweet society, which for weeks past had been bestowed upon Enna.

"Let us have a quiet walk together, little wife," he said to her one lovely summer evening, as she joined him in the veranda on coming down from seeing her little ones safe in their nest; "suppose we call on the Lelands. Lester, I hear, is talking of going North soon, and I believe contemplates a trip to Europe."

"And I have never seen him yet to thank him for saving our darling's life; and Enna's too. Yes; let us go."

Lester and his aunt were alone in the drawing-room at Fairview, when their visitors were announced.

There seemed a slight air of embarrassment about the young man at the moment of their entrance; but it was quickly dispelled by the kindly warmth of their greeting.

The four chatted together for some time on indifferent topics; then Mrs. Lester found some excuse for leaving the room, and Mrs. Travilla seized the opportunity to pour out her thanks to Elsie's rescuer from a watery grave.

This made a favorable opening for Lester, and modestly disclaiming any right to credit for what he had done, he frankly told the parents all that was in his heart toward their daughter, why he had refrained from speaking before, and his purpose not to seek to win her until he could bring fame and fortune to lay at her feet.

He began in almost painful confusion, but something in the faces of his listeners reassured him; for they expressed neither surprise nor displeasure, though tears were trembling in the soft brown eyes of the mother.

Lester had concluded, and for a moment there was silence, then Mr. Travilla said – a slight huskiness in his voice, "Young man, I like your straightforward dealing; but do you know the worth of the prize you covet?"

"I know, sir, that her price is above rubies, and that I am not worthy of her."

"Well, Mr. Leland, we will let her be the judge of that," the father answered. "Shall we not, little wife?" turning to Elsie with a look that had in it all the admiring homage of the lover, as well as the tender devotion of the husband.

"Yes," she sighed, seeming already to feel the pang of parting with her child.

"Do you mean that I may speak now?" Lester asked, half-incredulous of his happiness.

"Yes," Mr. Travilla said; "though not willing to spare our child yet, we would not have you part in doubt of each other's feelings. And," he added with a kindly smile, "if you have won her heart, the want of wealth is not much against you. 'Worth makes the man.'"

They walked home together – Elsie and her husband – sauntering along arm in arm, by the silvery moonlight, like a pair of lovers.

There was something very lover-like in the gaze he bent upon the sweet, fair face at his side, almost sad in its quietness.

"What is it, little wife?" he asked.

"Ah, Edward, how can we spare her – our darling, our first-born?"

"Perhaps we shall not be called upon to do so; he may not have won her heart."

She shook her head with a faint smile.

"She has tried to hide it – dear innocent child! but I know the symptoms; I have not forgotten." And she looked up into his face, blushing and happy as in the days when he had wooed and won his bride.

"Yes, dearest; what a little while ago it seems! Ah, those were gladsome days to us; were they not?"

"Gladsome? Ah, yes! their memory is sweet to this hour. Yet I do not sigh for their return; I would not bring them back; a deeper, calmer blessedness is mine. My dear husband,

"'I bless thee for the noble heart,
The tender and the true,
Where mine hath found the happiest rest
That e'er fond woman's knew;
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide,
For my own, my treasur'd share,
In the mournful secrets of thy soul,
In thy sorrow and thy care.'"

"Thank you, my darling," he said, lifting her hand to his lips, his eyes shining. "Yes;

"We have lived and loved together,