Elsie caught it up and kissed it, thinking of the touch of those dear dead
fingers, that seemed to linger over it yet.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
"She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere, the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way
Have a companion's portrait,"
--WILLIS' POEMS.
Elsie had fallen asleep thinking of the dear mother whose wealth she
inherited, and whose place she was now filling; thinking of her as
supremely blest, in that glorious, happy land, where sin and sorrow are
unknown. Thinking, too, of Him, through whose shed blood she had found
admittance there.
The same sweet thoughts were still in the loving daughter's mind, as she
woke to find the morning sun shining brightly, a fire blazing cheerily on
the hearth, and Aunt Chloe coming in with a silver waiter filled with
oranges prepared for eating in the manner usual in the tropics.
She had gathered them the night before, taken off the peel, leaving the
thick white skin underneath except on the top of each, where she cut it
away from a spot about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar. She then
placed them on a waiter, with the cut part uppermost, and set them where
the dew would fall on them all night.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78