Besides this, poor Elsie had made still more striking additions to her toilet. Over the muslin robe she wore an ample gown of crimson satin, lined with a lighter tinge of red, which was fastened at the waist with a belt of black morocco, united in front by an antique golden clasp. There was something about this dress, and in the evident satisfaction with which Elsie exhibited herself in it, that touched some hidden memory in the old people. They looked at each other furtively, as if anxious to know what impression it was making; and at last the old lady’s eyes quietly filled with tears, while a flush stole over her husband’s forehead, as if old memories were carrying the blood hotly to his brain. Catharine saw all this, and it added to the perplexity of her thoughts. But no one spoke. After a little, the old man bent his head with a sort of start, as if the thought had just struck him, and asked a blessing on the food, a duty which had never been delayed before for many a long year by any worldly thought. Catharine remarked that his voice was indistinct, and the few words which fell from his lips came singly and at intervals, as with an effort of pain. Elsie had not spoken all the morning. There she sat, in her easy-chair, eying her strange dress with a vague smile, as if wholly absorbed by it. She shook out the satin folds of her robe, tightened the golden clasp at her waist, and smoothed down the yellow and costly lace that fell over her hands, with dim self-complacency, smiling now and then on her parents, but uttering never a word. At length she seemed satisfied with her finery, and turned her eyes upon the window. “Shall I open it?” said the dear old lady, still with tears in her eyes. The daughter did not reply, but a soft smile came to her eyes, which still looked longingly through the sash. An old pear-tree was just in sight, clouded with white blossoms; and a pleasant wind sighed through a thicket of lilac-bushes and snow-balls, that grew nearer to the window, shaking their dew and perfume upon the air. The smile upon Elsie’s lips grew brighter. She stood up, and looked earnestly through the window. A gleam of intelligence shot over her face. “The beehives, the beehives—who has broken up my beehives?” she murmured, in a tone of vague displeasure. “What have they done with my beehives, mother?” The old woman’s eyes glistened through their tears. It was the second time that Elsie had called her mother; and the very heart seemed blossoming afresh in her bosom, as she listened to the holy sound. The beehives—Elsie’s beehives? Alas! they had been taken away from beneath the old pear-tree more than twenty years ago. The bees had been left to plunder the adjoining thickets and clover-fields, year after year, while no one touched the honey; and thus they had hived in neglect, dispersed, and left their cells empty so long that the old people had almost forgotten that they ever existed.