Presently he led her back to the boudoir, and showed her the portraits of
her maternal grandparents, and one of her mother, taken at ten or twelve
years of age.

"What a lovely little girl she was," murmured Elsie, gazing lovingly upon
it.

"Very much like what her daughter was at the same age," he answered. "But
come, this, too, will interest you." And lifting the lid of a dainty
work-basket, he pointed to a bit of embroidery, in which the needle was
still sticking, as though it had been laid down by the deft fingers but a
few moments ago.

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.