“I must not let my dear father see me grieve. To prevent that must be my first care. But if it were not for him I should pray—oh, I should pray for death!” sobbed Erminie. “Can’t see it in that light at all! Long life to all true patriots, both men and women, because, you see, the country needs them all! And now, Minie, you are hardly able to stand. Do let me help you up into your room before that sharp-eyed girl comes back,” said Elfie. Erminie yielded, and Elfie took her upstairs and persuaded her to lie down on her bed. “Now, the governor will not be home until the late train gets in; that will not be until eleven o’clock to-night. I will sit up for him and have his oysters and lager beer ready for him; and I will tell him that you are very tired and have gone to bed.” “Thanks, dear Elfie! And by to-morrow morning I hope to be able to meet my father with some composure,” said Erminie. “And now what else can I do for you?” “Nothing, dear girl, but to leave me alone with God.” Elfrida stooped over her and kissed her, and then softly left the room and closed the door. The six o’clock dinner that was prepared that day went away from the table untasted. There was no one to partake of it. Elfie sent out and got some fresh oysters and lager beer for her kind host, and had a neat little table set in the library ready for him when he should come home. He came in at eleven o’clock. Elfie opened the library door and drew him in there, and helped him off with his wrappings and with his overcoat, and placed the easy-chair near the fire, and brought him his bootjack and slippers, and performed all the affectionate little services that Erminie was accustomed to render her father. “Where is my Minie?” inquired the old man, extending his hands over the warm fire, when he had made himself comfortable. “Gone to bed very tired, leaving me to be your daughter for this once.” “And a nice little daughter you are, my dear. I wish Justin had taken a fancy to you instead of to that Tammany Hall reformer.” “So do I! But he hadn’t the good taste to do so, you see,” said Elfie, saucily. “And my Minie was tired. No wonder, poor dear! She has had a great many cares lately, with so much company staying in the house. I am not alluding to you, my dear, for you are a help and a Godsend! And Eastworth?” “Oh, he has retired too (from the establishment),” added Elfie, in a mental reservation. “Ah, yes, well. I must have some supper now, my dear, since you are my daughter.” Elfie rang, and supper was served; and then the old man and the young girl separated and retired to their respective rooms. And dear, unselfish Elfie, now that her fortitude could be of use to no one under the sun, broke down and wept all night, soaking her pillow with her tears. In the morning, when Dr. Rosenthal came downstairs, the first thing that met him was a letter that Colonel Eastworth had left in charge of Catherine to be delivered to him.