“Now where have you been, facing the wind, and plunging through the snowdrifts?” “I have been on the mountain,” said Elsie, untying her bonnet, and giving it to one child, and throwing her shawl upon the arms of another. “I have been on the mountain to see those poor Millers. Their little girl, almost barefooted, came over here this afternoon for me to go to her mother, who is confined. I knew they were suffering, and so I filled the basket and went home with the little one.” “But your cloak, dear! What in the world have you done with your cloak?” “Oh! I laid it over Susan Miller and her babe, until I could come home, and send them a blanket. Oh, now don’t look so shocked! I am warmly clothed without the cloak; besides, the distance was short, and I ran along fast. Nonsense, now! How is it that children are half their time out running and romping in the cold, without being wrapped up, and only grow more robust by the exposure?” said Elsie, laughing, as she arose, pushed her curls back from her blooming face, and went and lifted her crowing babe from the cradle. Then she sat down and nursed it, while Mrs. Garnet, assisted by the eldest child, a little girl of nine years old, began to arrange the supper upon the table. As Elsie sat and nursed the child, her blooming, joyous face softened into sadness, tears gathered in her eyes, and she sighed deeply, bowing her head over the babe. Magnus was watching her. He was accustomed to her occasional moods of sorrowful tenderness, which, he said, compared with her usual bright, cheerful temper as a general, steaming thaw contrasts with a fine, clear, frosty morning. He stooped over the back of her chair, and, bending his head close to hers, asked: “Of what are you thinking so sadly, Elsie?” A slight flush warmed her cheek, and she replied, meekly, without raising her head: “An unworthy thought, dearest; at least, ungrateful and presumptuous. I was thinking of that poor family, of the little good that I was able to do them, and the great pleasure it gave me to do even that. I will confess to you all the egotism of my thought—then I thought how generous I really was by nature, and how I should delight in doing a great deal of good, if I had the means; and then an emotion of discontent, and a disposition to murmur, came upon me, and I thought what a pity it was that I, so really liberal by nature, should be compelled to repress so many generous impulses—that I should not have a fortune to spend—and I sighed from self-pity. I am ashamed that such ungrateful emotions should have disturbed my heart, and I speak of them now with shame, for now I feel how presumptuous they really were; for why, indeed, should I have a fortune, or anything else that we have not gained by our own toil? I, who am already so happy in the wealth of family affections, Magnus.”