days she will quite eclipse her younger daughters."

"But then," said Rose, "she is almost as near; her own grand-
daughter."

"No, she is not so very near," replied Adelaide, "for Horace is
not mamma's son. He was seven or eight years old when she married
papa, and I think she was never particularly fond of him."

"Ah! yes," thought Rose, "that explains it. Poor little Elsie! No
wonder you pine for your father's love, and grieve over the loss
of the mother you never knew!"

"She is an odd child," said Adelaide; "I don't understand her; she
is so meek and patient she will fairly let you trample upon her.
It provokes papa. He says she is no Dinsmore, or she would know
how to stand up for her own rights; and yet she has a temper, I
know, for once in a great while it shows itself for an instant--
only an instant, though, and at very long intervals--and then she
grieves over it for days, as though she had committed some great
crime; while the rest of us think nothing of getting angry half a
dozen times in a day. And then she is forever poring over that
little Bible of hers; what she sees so attractive in it I'm sure I
cannot tell, for I must say I find it the dullest of dull books."

"Do you," said Rose; "how strange! I had rather give up all other
books than that one. 'Thy testimonies have I taken as a heritage
forever, for they are the rejoicing of my heart,' 'How sweet are
thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth.'"