g dark lashes, and rolled silently
down her cheeks.

"He will not come in time," she whispered, as if talking to herself. "Oh,
papa, I want to hear you say you forgive all my naughtiness. I want one
kiss before I go. Oh, take me in your arms, papa, and press me to your
heart, and say you love me yet!"

Adelaide could bear it no longer; the mournful, pleading tones went to
her very heart. "Dear, _dear_ child," she cried, bending over her with
streaming eyes, "he _does_ love you! I _know_ it. _You_ are the very idol
of his heart; and you must not die. Oh, darling, live for his sake, and
for mine. He will soon, be here, and then it will be all right; he will
be so thankful that he has not lost you, that he will never allow you to
be separated from him again."

"No, oh, no! he said he did not love a rebellious child," she sobbed; "he
said he would never kiss me again until I submit; and you know I cannot
do that; and oh, Aunt Adelaide, _he never breaks his word_!"

"Oh, Horace! Horace! will you _never_ come? will you let her die? so
young, so sweet, so fair!" wept Adelaide, wringing her hands.

But Elsie was speaking again, and she controlled herself to listen.

"Aunt Adelaide," she murmured, in low, feeble tones, "I am too weak to
hold a pen; will you write something for me?"

"I will, darling; I will do anything I can for you," she replied.

Then turning to the maid, who had just entered the room: "Fanny," she
said, "bring Miss Elsie's writing-desk here, and set it close to the
bedside. Now you may take that waiter down-stairs, and you need not
come in again until I ring for you."

Elsie had started and turned her head on the opening of the door, as she
invariably did, looking longingly, eagerly toward it--then turned away
again with a sigh of disappointment.

"Poor papa! poor, dear papa!" she murmured to herself; "he will be so
lonely without his little daughter. My heart aches for you, my own papa."

"I am quite ready now, Elsie, dear. What do you wish me to write?" asked
her aunt.

"Aunt Adelaide," said the little girl, looking earnestly at her, "do you
know how much mamma was worth? how much money I would have if I lived
to grow up?"

"No, dear," she replied, much surprised at the question, for even in
health Elsie had never seemed to care for riches; "I cannot say exactly,
but I know it is a great many thousands."

"And it will all be papa's when I am gone, I suppose. I am glad of that.
But I would l