ELSIE DINSMORE Complete Series: 28 Books in One Edition. Martha Finley
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pale and weak upon the side of his cot, longing to be with his friend, sharing his labors and perils, yet feeling that the springs of life were broken within him, was lifting up a silent prayer for strength to endure to the end.
A familiar step drew near, and Dr. King laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Cheer up, my dear boy," he said, "we are trying to get you leave to go home for thirty days, and the war will be over before the time expires; so that you will not have to come back."
"Home!" and Harold's eye brightened for a moment; "yes, I should like to die at home, with mother and father, brothers and sisters about me."
"But you are not going to die just yet," returned the doctor, with assumed gayety; "and home and mother will do wonders for you."
"Dr. King," and the blue eyes looked up calmly and steadily into the physician's face, "please tell me exactly what you think of my case. Is there any hope of recovery?"
"You may improve very much: I think you will when you get home; and, though there is little hope of the entire recovery of your former health and strength, you may live for years."
"But it is likely I shall not live another year? do not be afraid to say so: I should rather welcome the news. Am I not right?"
"Yes; I—I think you are nearing home, my dear boy; the land where 'the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick.'"
There was genuine feeling in the doctor's tone.
A moment's silence, and Harold said, "Thank you. It is what I have suspected for some time; and it causes me no regret, save for the sake of those who love me and will grieve over my early death."
"But don't forget that there is still a possibility of recuperation; while there's life there's hope."
"True! and I will let them hope on as long as they can."
The doctor passed on to another patient, and Harold was again left to the companionship of his own thoughts. But not for long; they were presently broken in upon by the appearance of May with a very bright face.
"See!" she cried joyously, holding up a package; "letters from home, and Naples too. Rose writes to mamma, and she has enclosed the letter for our benefit."
"Then let us enjoy it together. Sit here and read it to me; will you? My eyes are rather weak, you know, and I see the ink is pale."
"But mamma's note to you?"
"Can wait its turn. I always like to keep the best till the last."
Harold hardly acknowledged to himself that he was very eager to hear news from Elsie; even more than to read the loving words from his mother's pen.
"Very well, then; there seems to be no secret," said May, glancing over the contents; and seating herself by his side she began.
After speaking of some other matters, Rose went on: "But I have kept my greatest piece till now. Our family is growing; we have another grandson who arrived about two weeks ago; Harold Allison Travilla by name.
"Elsie is doing finely; the sleepy little newcomer is greatly admired and loved by old and young; we make as great a to-do over him as though he were the first instead of the fourth grandchild. My husband and I are growing quite patriarchal.
"Elsie is the loveliest and the best of mothers, perfectly devoted to her children; so patient and so tender, so loving and gentle, and yet so firm. Mr. Travilla and she are of one mind in regard to their training, requiring as prompt and cheerful obedience as Horace always has; yet exceedingly indulgent wherever indulgence can do no harm. One does not often see so well-trained and yet so merry and happy a family of little folks.
"Tell our Harold—my poor dear brother—that we hope his name-child will be an honor to him."
"Are you not pleased?" asked May, pausing to look up at him.
"Yes," he answered, with a quiet, rather melancholy smile; "they are very kind to remember me so. I hope they will soon bring the little fellow to see me. Ah, I knew Elsie would make just such a lovely mother."
"Nothing about the time of their return," observed May, as she finished reading; "but they will hardly linger long after the close of the war."
May had left the room, and Harold lay languid and weak upon his cot. A Confederate officer, occupying the next, addressed him, rousing him out of the reverie into which he had fallen.
"Excuse me, sir, but I could not help hearing some parts of the letter read aloud by the lady—your sister, I believe——"
"Yes. Of course you could not help hearing, and there is no harm done," Harold answered with a friendly tone and smile. "So no need for apologies."
"But there is something else. Did you know anything of a Lieutenant Walter Dinsmore, belonging to our side, who fell in the battle of Shiloh?"
"Yes; knew and loved him!" exclaimed Harold, raising himself on his elbow, and turning a keenly interested, questioning gaze upon the stranger.
"Then it is, it must be the same family," said the latter, half to himself, half to Harold.
"Same as what, sir?"
"That letter I could not help hearing was dated Naples, signed Rose Dinsmore, and talked of Elsie, Mr. Travilla, and their children. Now Lieutenant Dinsmore told me he had a brother residing temporarily in Naples, and also a niece, a Mrs. Elsie Travilla; and before going into the fight he intrusted to me a small package directed to her, with the request that, if he fell, I would have it forwarded to her when an opportunity offered. Will you, sir, take charge of it, and see that it reaches the lady's hands?"
"With pleasure. How glad she will be to get it, for she loved Walter dearly."
"They were near of an age?"
"Yes; the uncle a trifle younger than the niece."
"Dinsmore and I were together almost constantly during the last six months of his life, and became very intimate. My haversack, Smith, if you please," addressing a nurse.
It was brought, opened, and a small package taken from it and given to Harold.
He gazed upon it with sad thoughtfulness for a moment; then, bestowing it safely in his breast-pocket, "Thank you very much," he said, "I will deliver it with my own hand, if she returns from Europe as soon as we expect."
Chapter Twenty-Eighth
"She led me first to God;
Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew."
—JOHN PIERPONT.
Elmgrove, the country-seat of the elder Mr. Allison, had never looked lovelier than on a beautiful June morning in the year 1865.
The place had been greatly improved since Elsie's first sight of it, while it was still Rose's girlhood's home where Mr. Dinsmore and his little daughter were so hospitably entertained for many weeks.
There was now a second dwelling-house on the estate, but a few hundred yards distant from the first, owned by Edward Allison, and occupied by himself, wife, and children, of whom there were several.
Our friends from Naples had arrived the night before. The Dinsmores were domiciled at the paternal mansion, the Travillas with Edward and Adelaide.
The sun was not yet an hour high as Elsie stood at the open window of her dressing-room, looking out over the beautiful grounds to the brook beyond, on whose grassy banks, years ago, she and Harold and Sophie had spent so many happy hours. How vividly those scenes of her childhood rose up before her!
"Dear Harold!" she murmured, with a slight sigh, "how kind he always was to me."
She could not think of him without pain, remembering their last interview and his present suffering. She had not