"Now, papa, for our tour of inspection," she cried gayly, rising as she spoke, and ringing for a servant to carry the light. "But first please tell me if I was sufficiently moderate." "You did very well," he answered, smiling. "You take to the role of mistress much more naturally than I expected." "Yet it does seem very odd to me to be giving orders while you sit by a mere looker-on. But, dear papa, please remember I am still your own child, and ready to submit to your authority, whenever you see fit to exert it." "I know it, my darling," he said, passing an arm about her waist, as they stood together in front of the fire, and gazing fondly down into the sweet fair face. Aunt Chloe answered the bell, bringing a lamp in her hand. "That is right, mammy," Elsie said. "Now lead the way over the house." As they passed from room to room, and from one spacious hall or corridor to another, Elsie expressed her entire satisfaction with them and their appointments, and accorded to Aunt Phillis the meed of praise due her careful housekeeping. "And here, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said at length, leading the way through a beautiful boudoir and dressing-room into an equally elegant and attractive bedroom beyond, "they tell me you were born, and your beloved mother passed from earth to heaven." "An' eberyting in de room stands jees' as dey did den, honey," said Aunt Chloe. And approaching the bed, her eyes swimming in tears, and laying her hand upon the pillow, "jes' here my precious young missus lie, wid cheeks 'mos' as white as de linen, an' eyes so big an' bright, an' de lubly curls streamin' all roun', an' she say, weak an' low, 'Mammy, bring me my baby.' Den I put you in her arms, darlin', an' she kiss you all ober your tiny face, an' de tears an' sobs come fast while she say, 'Poor little baby; no fader no mudder to lub her! nobody but you, mammy; take her an' bring her up to lub de dear Lord Jesus.'" Silent tears rolled down Elsie's cheeks as she looked and listened; but her father drew her to his breast and kissed them away, his own eyes brimming, his heart too full for speech. Presently he led her back to the boudoir, and showed her the portraits of her maternal grandparents, and one of her mother, taken at ten or twelve years of age. "What a lovely little girl she was," murmured Elsie, gazing lovingly upon it. "Very much like what her daughter was at the same age," he answered. "But come, this, too, will interest you." And lifting the lid of a dainty work-basket, he pointed to a bit of embroidery, in which the needle was still sticking, as though it had been laid down by the deft fingers but a few moments ago. Elsie caught it up and kissed it, thinking of the touch of those dear dead fingers, that seemed to linger over it yet. CHAPTER SEVENTH.