ELSIE GRAY;
OR, THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER.
BY CLARA MORETON.
___
Very young was sweet Elsie Gray, when Philip Stewart parted from her in the oak grove which skirted the village of Southton. And Philip—wild Philip, numbered but « few more years than his com- anion, yet he loved ber with most devoted bro- therly affection, aad tbe geutie Elsie repaid it wish a love no leas deep.
Me. Gray was the minister of Sonthton, Elsie wan his only child, « joyous creatare—a per fect sunbeam, irradiating the large gloomy rooms of the old parsonage, aad causing the father’s heart to thrill with pleasure, and the fond mother’s to tremble with delight.
Directly across the way from the personage, stood tho large and airy mansion of Squire Stewar—ihe Groat man of ths village, living upoa the superfluil ‘which his father and bie father's father had accamu- iated for him. Beneath tbe shade of the fine old elms ‘which waved their long branches in “elasping cool ness” about the latticed windows of the parsonsge, ‘tkad Elsio and Philip frolicked for hours, and over the clover meadows, end through the dark pine groves, had they rembied day after day, never dresar fog that a future was to come in which their paths should separate.
Ab! beautifal childbood! loving, trusting chitd- hood! Most blissful period of life, which no after. yearnings can ever restore. Wherefore do we pass eo hastily the pure fountains and vine-olad temples of youth, trampling apon the perfumed blossoms, as ‘we prosa eagerly forward over the greenwood of life, to gather its thisdles and its thorns?
Philip was an only sow, Mr. Stewart was ambi- ‘nous, and in this lay the history of their separation, ‘but the beast of the youth beat strongly and bravely ‘within him, and beneath the shade of the old oak be strove to re-nseure the weeping Elsie.
“Oh, it does not take so long to go through college, isia—four years will soon glide away, and then you will be v0 proud of me, and I shall be 80 proud of my litle wife, ‘00, for that you are bound to be, are you not, Elsie?” But bis companion only blusbed, acd awkerardly twisted the ribbon of her sash, for she ‘was ot quite sure that it wos right for two 80 young to teik about such a serious subject.
“Now don't lose that paper,” coutinved Philip, “for on it is the exaot direction which all your little otes must bear, if you want me to receive them.”
“No danger of my losing it, Philip,” she replied; “but much more danger of your forgetting me when You get to thet beautiful city, and you will fearn to he ashamed of me, perhaps, and to eall our love fool- inh, I am afraid,” and she sighed heavily.
Long and earnestly they talked in the thick shade of the glowy loaves of the old oak, which was yath: ered in massive drapery, fold after fold, above them,
The sound of the fretting, moaning steamboat which wound through the glen, was boras to theit care like the complaiaings of e woubled spirit, while afer off within the mepie grove, beyond the achool- house, came ringing sounds of iaughter from the merry children frolicking beneath tbe shade, and Bisie felt bow lonely and desolate would theee familiar sounds find her on the morrow. Twilight, with ite gray banners and shrouded forms, stole over the lage and its scatiered foreste, and Philip and Elsio retraced their eps, the one with e heart bening high with hope and ambition, the other with pulses lieless and faint, for from out the future misty visions wese looming upon har path, and her young hear! throbbed grievously with thoughts of that evening's
The next morning, ns Philip was whirled from hig father’s door, he caught tho glance of a tearful face through the parted vines, and the wave of a smowy and. It was his last glimpse of the child Elsie.
‘One morning, a few weeks after the departure of Philip, Mr. Stewart croseed the road to the parsonage. In the lie porch Mrs. Gray was sitting slone, busy with her needle, and through the opea window came the sweet round of Elsie Gray's voice, as she recited har morning Jeasons to her faibe
“Good morning, Mex Gray; thia ia very fing ‘weather wo are having now,” he said, 2s he leaned ‘over the little gate at the end of the graveled walk.
“Very,” she enewered, gathering her work {rom Off the seat into hor tap; ‘will you not sit down, sqzire, I will call Mr. Gray directly.”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” he said, as ha drow nearer, ‘I only came over to speak to you a-about the children—Philly and Elly, you know. They’ve always bean #0 brother and sister-like, he a-coming over here #0 much to recite his Latin and Greek, we can’t wonder that they tbink 2 deal of each other; Dut Tm moat efeaid that this writin of lowers ba ards and forrards, won't be just the thing for Philip's studies, and they're 60 youcg, I thought mebbe we'd Lotter put a stop to it.”
“Weil, it’s just as yoo my, squire-~if you think it will take Philip's mind from his studiespot cours they'd better stop, by all means.”
“Yes, yes, that’s my opinion, and I’m glad to Gnd you think as I do,” answered the squire, eagerly, “DIL just write a Word to Phil—ho always wana goud doy to mind, although he was @ lectle wild, and you can tell Elly what we think about it.”
‘When Squire Stewart left, Mra. Gray commu nicated to Bleie bis wiehes. A quick, duttoring sigh escaped from her bosom as she answered, “very
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