"
"You mustn't ask mamma to carry you," Mr. Dinsmore said to the child,
caressing her tenderly as he spoke; "poor mamma is not strong, and you
will make her sick."
They had seated themselves side by side upon a sofa. The little one turned
a piteous look upon her mother, and with a quivering lip and fast-filling
eyes, said, "Mamma sick? Elsie tiss her, make her well?"
"No, my precious pet, mother isn't sick; so don't cry," Elsie answered,
receiving the offered kiss, as the babe left her grandfather's knee and
crept to her; then the soft little hands patted her on the cheeks and the
chubby arms clung about her neck.
But catching sight, through the open window, of her father coming up the
garden walk, wee Elsie hastily let go her hold, slid to the floor and ran
to meet him.
Mr. Dinsmore seemed again lost in gloomy thought.
"Papa, dear, what is it? What troubles you so?" asked Elsie, moving closer
to him, and leaning affectionately on his shoulder, while the soft eyes
sought his with a wistful, anxious expression.
He put his arm about her, and just touching her cheek with his lips,
heaved a deep sigh. "The papers bring us bad news. Lincoln is elected."
"Ah well, let us not borrow trouble, papa; perhaps he may prove a pretty
good president after all.
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