When General Garnet had taken leave of Miss Joe at Huttontown, just as she was about to cross over to her island, he had begged her to apply to him in any emergency, and to call on him for anything her young charge might want. The child of the soldier who had served under him throughout the Revolutionary war, who had once interposed his body to save his life, should never suffer for the necessaries or comforts of existence while that life was spared. And this he had said with that earnest and fervent tone, and with that benign and beautiful smile that never failed to fascinate the love and trust of all who heard and saw him. And Miss Joe felt assured and comfortable. But now, as days slid into weeks, and weeks grew into months, Miss Joe heard no more of General Garnet and his promises, nor did she like to take him at his word and apply to him. He ought to prevent that and save her feelings, she said. As years passed away, however, Miss Joe occasionally wrote to General Garnet in behalf of her little protégée. For the most part, her letters would remain unanswered, but when one did elicit a reply, General Garnet’s epistle would be full of kindness, blessing, encouragement, good advice, and—nothing else. At last, during a bitter winter, their main dependence, their faithful servant, poor old Pontius Pilate, caught the pleurisy and died. In the midst of this trouble Miss Joe wrote again to General Garnet, and once more, and for the last time, invoked his promised assistance. After the lapse of several days she received a letter from the benignant general, full of condolence, sympathy, and exhortation to hope and patience, and—nothing else! The letter concluded with the assurance that she had nothing to fear—that God never made a mouth for which he had not also provided food. To this letter the long-suffering old lady was exasperated to reply—that though it was true God had made both the mouths and the food, yet the mouths had fallen to her lot, and the food to his. The general never replied to this last letter, and here the correspondence ceased. CHAPTER XVI. ELSIE. Oh! the words Laugh on her lips; the motion of her smiles Showers beauty, as the air-caressed spray The dews of morning. _—Milman._ But ever still, As a sweet tone delighteth her, the smile Goes melting into sadness, and the lash Droops gently to her eye, as if she knew Affection was too deep a thing for mirth. _—Willis._