er.

Violent coughing seized her. It was the worst, the most prolonged Elsie
had yet had. One spasm followed another, bringing her mother with
remedies.

Harvey moved frantically about; he was the first to suggest the doctor
and ran out to bring one. He did not realize, he could not know what had
really happened.

When he returned Elsie had fallen asleep and the physician advised them
not to waken her, promising to call early in the morning. The faithful
Harvey went with him. He had her answer, "when I get well," she said.

Elsie remained until nearly day-break in a very deep sleep. The fever
left her during this long repose. Her sister, who was watching beside
her, thought she was better because her forehead grew damp and cool.

With the first early light of morning Elsie opened her eyes.

Patience pushed back the pretty tendrils of her dark hair. "It's sister
watching with you, dear," she said.

"Where's mother?" murmured Elsie in a voice so weak that it frightened
Patience.

"Mother! mother! Please come!" she called.

"She's coming," answered Patience as Mrs. Welcome came hurrying to the
bedside.

She understood without a word, lifting Elsie in her arms, the frail
little worn body against her heart. Tears streamed down her face; sobs
shook her body.

Patience hurried weeping to summon Harry.

"Don't cry, Mother," moaned Elsie. "I am so glad I am home with you."

"Yes, Elsie, yes."

"I would have come long ago, but I didn't dare--so many girls never dare
go home. Some of their mothers don't want them, but you--. Mother--"

"Yes my darling, yes!"

"I was afraid, so afraid. I went--and--looked--at the--lake." She seemed
to her mother to wander a bit.

Her breathing became difficult. No more words came. A few quick
fluttering breaths--Elsie was gone.

CHAPTER XXXII

AT MARY RANDALL'S SUMMER HOME

Lake Geneva season was at its close. Most of the lake dwellers had closed
their houses and returned to town. For those who remained late autumn had
her glories. Woods and groves were gay in foliage. Orchards bowed their
heads beneath their loads of ripened fruit. In shorn fields the birds,
preparing for southern migration, sang of a year crowned with plenty.

Vines hung deep about the broad veranda of the villa where Mary Randall
was resting from her labors in the company of her uncle and aunt. She sat
alone in a corner of the veranda one sunn