“I think not, dear; there are only Aunt Wealthy, who has not lost any near friend lately, and—­Why there she is now! the dear old soul!” she broke off joyously, for at that instant a carriage, which she had been watching coming up the drive, drew up before the door, and a young gentleman and a little old lady alighted.

Aunt Chloe took the babe, and Elsie hastened down to meet her aunt, her little daughter following.

To the child’s great relief it was an altogether joyous greeting this time; both Miss Stanhope, and her escort, Harry Duncan, were looking very happy, which caused her to regard them with much satisfaction, and the kisses asked of her were given very readily.

“Were you expecting us to-day, Mrs. Allison?” Harry asked, turning to Adelaide.

“Yes; I received your telegram.”

“Business hurried us off two days sooner than we expected,” said Miss Stanhope.  “I would have written, but was so very busy with papers and painterers doing the house all up new; and putting down new curtains, and tacking up new carpets, till, Elsie, the old place would hardly know you.”

The old lady’s heart was evidently full to overflowing, with happiness at the prospect of seeing May installed as future mistress in the pretty cottage at Lansdale.

Yet there was no lack of sympathy in the sorrows or joys of others; she wept with them all over their losses past and prospective; for she, too, saw that Harold must soon pass away from earth, and while rejoicing with him, when she learned how gladly he would obey the summons, her heart yet bled for those to whom he was so dear.

Richard and his bride arrived in due season.  The latter had lost no near relative by the war, and—­to wee Elsie’s delight—­the meeting between “Aunt Lottie and mamma,” seemed one of unalloyed pleasure.

Unlike those of her older sisters, May’s was a private wedding—­none but the family and a few near relatives and connections being present.  Though deeply attached to Harry, and trusting him fully, much of sadness was unavoidably mingled with her happiness as she prepared for her bridal.  It could not be otherwise, as she thought of Fred in his soldier grave, Harold soon to follow, and Sophie—­whose had been the last wedding in the paternal home, and so gay and joyous a one—­now in her widow’s weeds and well-nigh broken-hearted.

“Mine will not be a gay bridal,” May had said, in arranging her plans; “and I will just wear my traveling suit.”

But Harold objected.  “No, no, May; I want to see you dressed as Rose and Sophie were—­in white, with veil and orange blossoms.  Why shouldn’t your beauty be set off to the best advantage as well as theirs, even though only the eyes of those who love you will look upon it?”

And so it was; for Harold’s wishes were sacred now.

They were married in the morning; and after a sumptuous breakfast the bridal attire was exchanged for the traveling suit, and the new-made husband and wife set out upon their wedding trip.  It was very sad for poor May to leave, not only childhood’s home, parents, and brothers and sisters whose lease of life seemed as likely to be long as her own, but to part from the dying one to whom she was most tenderly attached.