



Produced by Mark C. Orton, Júlio Reis, Linda McKeown and
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The Wide, Wide World




                        _The_ Wide, Wide World

                          _By_ SUSAN WARNER

                            [Illustration]

                          GROSSET AND DUNLAP

                      PUBLISHERS  :  :  NEW YORK




Contents


       CHAP.                                                      PAGE

          I. BREAKING THE NEWS                                       9

         II. GIVES SORROW TO THE WINDS                              15

        III. THE WORTH OF A FINGER-RING                             26

         IV. THE BITTER-SWEET OF LIFE                               37

          V. A PEEP INTO THE WIDE WORLD                             43

         VI. NIGHT AND MORNING                                      56

        VII. "STRANGERS WALK AS FRIENDS"                            66

       VIII. LEAVES US IN THE STREET                                77

         IX. THE LITTLE QUEEN IN THE ARM-CHAIR                      90

          X. MUD--AND WHAT CAME OF IT                              103

         XI. RUNNING AWAY WITH THE BROOK                           115

        XII. SPLITTERS                                             125

       XIII. HOPE DEFERRED                                         132

        XIV. WORK _not_ DEFERRED                                   139

         XV. MOTHER EARTH RATHER THAN AUNT FORTUNE                 147

        XVI. COUNSEL, CAKES, AND CAPTAIN PARRY                     158

       XVII. DIFFICULTY OF DOING RIGHT                             172

      XVIII. LOSES CARE ON THE CAT'S BACK                          183

        XIX. SHOWING THAT IN SOME CIRCUMSTANCES WHITE IS BLACK     196

         XX. HEADSICK AND HEARTSICK                                204

        XXI. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS                                   218

       XXII. SHOWS HOW MR. VAN BRUNT COULD BE SHARP UPON SOME
                 THINGS                                            230

      XXIII. HOW MISS FORTUNE WENT OUT AND PLEASURE CAME IN        239

       XXIV. SWEEPING AND DUSTING                                  246

        XXV. SHOWING WHAT A NOISE A BEE CAN MAKE WHEN IT GETS
                 INTO THE HOUSE                                    255

       XXVI. SUNDRY THINGS ROUND A POT OF CHOCOLATE                267

      XXVII. THE JINGLING OF SLEIGH-BELLS                          281

     XXVIII. SCRAPS--OF MOROCCO AND TALK                           290

       XXIX. STOCKINGS, TO WHICH THE "BAS BLEU" WAS NOTHING        300

        XXX. SUNDAY AT VENTNOR                                     308

       XXXI. FLOWERS AND THORNS                                    317

      XXXII. THE BANKNOTE AND GEORGE WASHINGTON                    329

     XXXIII. A GATHERING CLOUD IN THE SPRING WEATHER               337

      XXXIV. THE CLOUD OVERHEAD                                    345

       XXXV. THIS "WORKING-DAY WORLD"                              357

      XXXVI. THE BROWNIE                                           374

     XXXVII. TIMOTHY AND HIS MASTER                                383

    XXXVIII. WHEREIN THE BLACK PRINCE ARRIVES OPPORTUNELY          395

      XXXIX. HALCYON DAYS                                          406

         XL. "PRODIGIOUS!"                                         419

        XLI. "THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN"                    428

       XLII. ONE LESS IN THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD                      438

      XLIII. THOSE THAT WERE LEFT                                  448

       XLIV. THE LITTLE SPIRIT THAT HAUNTED THE BIG HOUSE          458

        XLV. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL                                    473

       XLVI. "SOMETHING TURNS UP"                                  487

      XLVII. THE WIDE WORLD GROWN WIDER                            502

     XLVIII. HOW OLD FRIENDS WERE INVESTED WITH THE REGALIA        515

       XLIX. THOUGHT IS FREE                                       531

          L. TRIALS WITHOUT                                        542

         LI. TRIALS WITHIN                                         552

        LII. "THOU!"                                               561




THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD




CHAPTER I

          Enjoy the spring of love and youth,
            To some good angel leave the rest,
          For time will teach thee soon the truth,
            "There are no birds in last year's nest."

                                                  --LONGFELLOW.


"Mamma, what was that I heard papa saying to you this morning about his
lawsuit?"

"I cannot tell you just now. Ellen, pick up that shawl and spread it
over me."

"Mamma!--are you cold in this warm room?"

"A little,--there, that will do. Now, my daughter, let me be quiet
awhile--don't disturb me."

There was no one else in the room. Driven thus to her own resources,
Ellen betook herself to the window and sought amusement there. The
prospect without gave little promise of it. Rain was falling, and made
the street and everything in it look dull and gloomy. The
foot-passengers plashed through the water, and the horses and carriages
plashed through the mud; gaiety had forsaken the side-walks, and
equipages were few, and the people that were out were plainly there only
because they could not help it. But yet Ellen, having seriously set
herself to study everything that passed, presently became engaged in her
occupation; and her thoughts travelling dreamily from one thing to
another, she sat for a long time with her little face pressed against
the window-frame, perfectly regardless of all but the moving world
without.

Daylight gradually faded away, and the street wore a more and more
gloomy aspect. The rain poured, and now only an occasional carriage or
footstep disturbed the sound of its steady pattering. Yet still Ellen
sat with her face glued to the window as if spell-bound, gazing out at
every dusky form that passed, as though it had some strange interest
for her. At length, in the distance, light after light began to appear;
presently Ellen could see the dim figure of the lamplighter crossing the
street, from side to side, with his ladder;--then he drew near enough
for her to watch him as he hooked his ladder on the lamp-irons, ran up
and lit the lamp, then shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the
light glancing on his wet oil-skin hat, rough greatcoat and lantern, and
on the pavement and iron railings. The veriest moth could not have
followed the light with more perseverance than did Ellen's eyes--till
the lamplighter gradually disappeared from view, and the last lamp she
could see was lit; and not till then did it occur to her that there was
such a place as indoors. She took her face from the window. The room was
dark and cheerless; and Ellen felt stiff and chilly. However, she made
her way to the fire, and having found the poker, she applied it gently
to the Liverpool coal with such good effect that a bright ruddy blaze
sprang up and lighted the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her
experiment. "That is something like," said she to herself; "who says I
can't poke the fire? Now, let us see if I can't do something else. Do
but see how those chairs are standing--one would think we had had a
sewing circle here--there, go back to your places,--that looks a little
better; now these curtains must come down, and I may as well shut the
shutters too--and now this tablecloth must be content to hang straight,
and mamma's box and the books must lie in their places and not all
helter-skelter. Now, I wish mamma would wake up; I should think she
might. I don't believe she is asleep, she don't look as if she was."

Ellen was right in this; her mother's face did not wear the look of
sleep, nor indeed of repose at all; the lips were compressed, and the
brow not calm. To try, however, whether she was asleep or no, and with
the half-acknowledged intent to rouse her at all events, Ellen knelt
down by her side and laid her face close to her mother's on the pillow.
But this failed to draw either word or sign. After a minute or two Ellen
tried stroking her mother's cheek very gently;--and this succeeded, for
Mrs. Montgomery arrested the little hand as it passed her lips, and
kissed it fondly two or three times.

"I haven't disturbed you, mamma, have I?" said Ellen.

Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself to a sitting posture,
and, lifting both hands to her face, pushed back the hair from her
forehead and temples, with a gesture which Ellen knew meant that she was
making up her mind to some disagreeable or painful effort. Then taking
both Ellen's hands, as she still knelt before her, she gazed in her face
with a look even more fond than usual, Ellen thought, but much sadder
too; though Mrs. Montgomery's cheerfulness had always been of a serious
kind.

"What question was that you were asking me awhile ago, my daughter?"

"I thought, mamma, I heard papa telling you this morning, or yesterday,
that he had lost that lawsuit."

"You heard right, Ellen--he has lost it," said Mrs. Montgomery sadly.

"Are you sorry, mamma?--does it trouble you?"

"You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself overmuch about
the gain or the loss of money. I believe my Heavenly Father will give me
what is good for me."

"Then, mamma, why are you troubled?"

"Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle in other matters,
and leave quietly my _all_ in His hands."

"What is the matter, dear mother? What makes you look so?"

"This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble than ever I
thought a lawsuit could--the loss of it, I mean."

"How, mamma?"

"It has caused an entire change of all our plans. Your father says he is
too poor now to stay here any longer; and he has agreed to go soon on
some government or military business to Europe."

"Well, mamma, that is bad; but he has been away a great deal before, and
I am sure we were always very happy?"

"But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, that it is very
important for my health that I should go with him."

"Does he, mamma? And do you mean to go?"

"I am afraid I must, my dear child."

"Not, and leave _me_, mother?"

The imploring look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow with
which Ellen uttered these words took from her mother all power of
replying. It was not necessary, her little daughter understood only too
well the silent answer of her eye. With a wild cry she flung her arms
round her mother, and hiding her face in her lap gave way to a violent
burst of grief that seemed for a few moments as if it would rend soul
and body in twain. For her passions were by nature very strong, and by
education very imperfectly controlled; and time, "that rider that breaks
youth," had not as yet tried his hand upon her. And Mrs. Montgomery, in
spite of the fortitude and calmness to which she had steeled herself,
bent down over her, and folding her arms about her, yielded to sorrow
deeper still, and for a little while scarcely less violent in its
expression than Ellen's own.

Alas! she had too good reason. She knew that the chance of her ever
returning to shield the little creature who was nearest her heart from
the future evils and snares of life was very, very small. She had at
first absolutely refused to leave Ellen when her husband proposed it,
declaring that she would rather stay with her and die than take the
chance of recovery at such a cost. But her physician assured her she
could not live long without a change of climate; Captain Montgomery
urged that it was better to submit to a temporary separation than to
cling obstinately to her child for a few months and then leave her for
ever; said he must himself go speedily to France, and that now was her
best opportunity; assuring her, however, that his circumstances would
not permit him to take Ellen along, but that she would be secure of a
happy home with his sister during her mother's absence; and to the
pressure of argument Captain Montgomery added the weight of
authority--insisting on her compliance. Conscience also asked Mrs.
Montgomery whether she had a _right_ to neglect any chance of life that
was offered her; and at last she yielded to the combined influence of
motives no one of which would have had power sufficient to move her, and
though with a secret consciousness it would be in vain, she consented to
do as her friends wished. And it was for Ellen's sake she did it after
all.

Nothing but necessity had given her the courage to open the matter to
her little daughter. She had foreseen and endeavoured to prepare herself
for Ellen's anguish; but nature was too strong for her, and they clasped
each other in a convulsive embrace while tears fell like rain.

It was some minutes before Mrs. Montgomery recollected herself, and then
though she struggled hard she could not immediately regain her
composure. But Ellen's deep sobs at length fairly alarmed her; she saw
the necessity, for both their sakes, of putting a stop to this state of
violent excitement; self-command was restored at once.

"Ellen! Ellen! listen to me," she said; "my child, this is not right.
Remember, my darling, who it is that brings this sorrow upon us--though
we _must_ sorrow, we must not rebel."

Ellen sobbed more gently; but that and the mute pressure of her arms was
her only answer.

"You will hurt both yourself and me, my daughter, if you cannot command
yourself. Remember, dear Ellen, God sends no trouble upon His children
but in love; and though we cannot see how, He will no doubt make all
this work for our good."

"I know it, dear mother," sobbed Ellen; "but it's just as hard!"

Mrs. Montgomery's own heart answered so readily to the truth of Ellen's
words that for the moment she could not speak.

"Try, my daughter," she said after a pause; "try to compose yourself. I
am afraid you will make me worse, Ellen, if you cannot--I am indeed."

Ellen had plenty of faults, but amidst them all love to her mother was
the strongest feeling her heart knew. It had power enough now to move
her as nothing else could have done; and exerting all her self-command,
of which she had sometimes a good deal, she _did_ calm herself, ceased
sobbing, wiped her eyes, arose from her crouching posture, and seating
herself on the sofa by her mother and laying her head on her bosom, she
listened quietly to all the soothing words and cheering considerations
with which Mrs. Montgomery endeavoured to lead her to take a more
hopeful view of the subject. All she could urge, however, had but very
partial success, though the conversation was prolonged far into the
evening. Ellen said little, and did not weep any more; but in secret her
heart refused consolation.

Long before this the servant had brought in the tea-things. Nobody
regarded it at the time, but the little kettle hissing away on the fire
now by chance attracted Ellen's attention, and she suddenly recollected
her mother had had no tea. To make her mother's tea was Ellen's regular
business. She treated it as a very grave affair, and loved it as one of
the pleasantest in the course of the day. She used in the first place to
make sure that the kettle had really boiled; then she carefully poured
some water into the teapot and rinsed it, both to make it clean and to
make it hot; then she knew exactly how much tea to put into the tiny
little teapot, which was just big enough to hold two cups of tea, and
having poured a very little boiling water to it, she used to set it by
the side of the fire while she made half a slice of toast. How careful
Ellen was about that toast! The bread must not be cut too thick nor too
thin; the fire must, if possible, burn clear and bright, and she herself
held the bread on a fork, just at the right distance from the coals to
get nicely browned without burning. When this was done to her
satisfaction (and if the first piece failed she would take another), she
filled up the little teapot from the boiling kettle, and proceeded to
make a cup of tea. She knew, and was very careful to put in, just the
quantity of milk and sugar that her mother liked; and then she used to
carry the tea and toast on a little tray to her mother's side, and very
often held it there for her while she ate. All this Ellen did with the
zeal that love gives, and though the same thing was to be gone over
every night of the year, she was never wearied. It was a real pleasure;
she had the greatest satisfaction in seeing that the little her mother
could eat was prepared for her in the nicest possible manner; she knew
her hands made it taste better; her mother often said so.

But this evening other thoughts had driven this important business quite
out of poor Ellen's mind. Now, however, when her eyes fell upon the
little kettle, she recollected her mother had not had her tea, and must
want it very much; and silently slipping off the sofa she set about
getting it as usual. There was no doubt this time whether the kettle
boiled or no; it had been hissing for an hour and more, calling as loud
as it could to somebody to come and make the tea. So Ellen made it, and
then began the toast. But she began to think too, as she watched it, how
few more times she would be able to do so--how soon her pleasant
tea-makings would be over--and the desolate feeling of separation began
to come upon her before the time. These thoughts were too much for poor
Ellen; the thick tears gathered so fast she could not see what she was
doing; and she had no more than just turned the slice of bread on the
fork when the sickness of heart quite overcame her; she could not go on.
Toast and fork and all dropped from her hand into the ashes; and rushing
to her mother's side, who was now lying down again, and throwing herself
upon her, she burst into another fit of sorrow; not so violent as the
former, but with a touch of hopelessness in it which went yet more to
her mother's heart. Passion in the first said, "I cannot;" despair now
seemed to say, "I must."

But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted to either share or soothe Ellen's
agitation. She lay in suffering silence; till after some time she said
faintly, "Ellen, my love, I cannot bear this much longer."

Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. She arose,
sorry and ashamed that she should have given occasion for them; and
tenderly kissing her mother, assured her most sincerely and resolutely
that she would not do so again. In a few minutes she was calm enough to
finish making the tea, and having toasted another piece of bread, she
brought it to her mother. Mrs. Montgomery swallowed a cup of tea, but no
toast could be eaten that night.

Both remained silent and quiet awhile after this, till the clock struck
ten. "You had better go to bed, my daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery.

"I will, mamma."

"Do you think you can read me a little before you go?"

"Yes, indeed, mamma;" and Ellen brought the book: "where shall I read?"

"The twenty-third psalm."

Ellen began it, and went through it steadily and slowly, though her
voice quavered a little.

"'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

"'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the
still waters.

"'He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for
His name's sake.

"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.

"'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou
anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

"'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and
I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'"

Long before she had finished Ellen's eyes were full, and her heart too.
"If I only could feel these words as mamma does!" she said to herself.
She did not dare look up till the traces of tears had passed away; then
she saw that her mother was asleep. Those first sweet words had fallen
like balm upon the sore heart; and mind and body had instantly found
rest together.

Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead, and stole
quietly out of the room to her own little bed.




CHAPTER II

          Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter
              Speak earthly things--
          There mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter
              Of angels' wings.

                                                  --AMY LATHROP.


Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she slept late on
the following morning. The great dressing-bell waked her. She started up
with a confused notion that something was the matter; there was a weight
on her heart that was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring
it all back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding
helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control the
evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still, and she was
careful to allow no sound to escape her that could reach the ears of her
mother, who slept in the next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her
no more with useless expressions of sorrow; to keep it to herself as
much as possible. But this very thought that she must keep it to herself
gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the convulsive clasp of her
little arms round the pillow plainly showed that it needed none.

The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she must not
be too late downstairs, or her mother might inquire and find out the
reason. "I will _not_ trouble mother--I will not--I will not," she
resolved to herself as she got out of bed, though the tears fell faster
as she said so. Dressing was sad work to Ellen to-day; it went on very
heavily. Tears dropped into the water as she stooped her head to the
basin; and she hid her face in the towel to cry, instead of making the
ordinary use of it. But the usual duties were dragged through at last,
and she went to the window. "I'll not go down till papa is gone," she
thought; "he'll ask me what is the matter with my eyes."

Ellen opened the window. The rain was over; the lovely light of a fair
September morning was beautifying everything it shone upon. Ellen had
been accustomed to amuse herself a good deal at this window, though
nothing was to be seen from it but an ugly city prospect of back walls
of houses, with the yards belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street.
But she had watched the people that showed themselves at the windows,
and the children that played in the yards, and the women that went to
the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with the
neighbourhood; and though they were for the most part dingy, dirty, and
disagreeable--women, children, houses, and all--she certainly had taken
a good deal of interest in their proceedings. It was all gone now. She
could not bear to look at them; she felt as if it made her sick; and
turning away her eyes she lifted them to the bright sky above her head,
and gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot that there
was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white clouds were
chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that was blowing away
Ellen's hair from her face, and cooling her hot cheeks. That wind could
not have been long in coming from the place of woods and flowers, it was
so sweet still. Ellen looked till, she didn't know why, she felt calmed
and soothed,--as if somebody was saying to her softly, "Cheer up, my
child, cheer up;--things are not as bad as they might be:--things will
be better." Her attention was attracted at length by voices below; she
looked down, and saw there, in one of the yards, a poor deformed child,
whom she had often noticed before, and always with sorrowful interest.
Besides his bodily infirmity, he had a further claim on her sympathy, in
having lost his mother within a few months. Ellen's heart was easily
touched this morning; she felt for him very much. "Poor, poor little
fellow!" she thought; "he's a great deal worse off than I am. _His_
mother is dead; mine is only going away for a few months--not for
ever--oh, what a difference! and then the joy of coming back
again!"--poor Ellen was weeping already at the thought--"and I'll do,
oh, how much! while she is gone--I'll do more than she can possibly
expect from me--I'll astonish her--I'll delight her--I'll work harder
than ever I did in my life before; I'll mend all my faults, and give her
so much pleasure! But oh! if she only needn't go away! Oh, mamma!" Tears
of mingled sweet and bitter were poured out fast, but the bitter had the
largest share.

The breakfast-table was still standing, and her father gone, when Ellen
went downstairs. Mrs. Montgomery welcomed her with her usual quiet
smile, and held out her hand. Ellen tried to smile in answer, but she
was glad to hide her face in her mother's bosom; and the long close
embrace was too close and too long,--it told of sorrow as well as love;
and tears fell from the eyes of each that the other did not see.

"Need I go to school to-day, mamma?" whispered Ellen.

"No; I spoke to your father about that. You shall not go any more. We
will be together now while we can."

Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make up her
mind to it.

"Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast."

"Have you done, mamma?"

"No; I waited for you."

"Thank you, dear mamma," with another embrace; "how good you are! but I
don't think I want any."

They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither had much
heart to eat; although Mrs. Montgomery with her own hand laid on Ellen's
plate half of the little bird that had been boiled for her own
breakfast. The half was too much for each of them.

"What made you so late this morning, daughter?"

"I got up late in the first place, mamma; and then I was a long time at
the window."

"At the window! Were you examining into your neighbours' affairs as
usual?" said Mrs. Montgomery, surprised that it should have been
so.--"Oh no, mamma, I didn't look at them at all--except poor little
Billy. I was looking at the sky."

"And what did you see there that pleased you so much?"

"I don't know, mamma; it looked so lovely and peaceful--that pure blue
spread over my head, and the little white clouds flying across it. I
loved to look at it; it seemed to do me good."

"Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made it?"

"No, mamma," said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now speaking with
difficulty; "I did think of Him; perhaps that was the reason."

"And what did you think of Him, daughter?"

"I hoped, mamma--I felt--I thought--He would take care of me," said
Ellen, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round her mother.

"He will, my dear daughter, He will, if you will only put your trust in
Him, Ellen."

Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few minutes
succeeded.

"Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my 'putting my trust'
in Him?"

"Don't you trust me, Ellen?"

"Certainly, mamma."

"How do you trust me?--in what?"

"Why, mamma;--in the first place I trust every word you say--entirely--I
know nothing could be truer. If you were to tell me black is white,
mamma, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. Then everything you
tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, perfectly. And I always
feel safe when you are near me, because I know you'll take care of me.
And I am glad to think I belong to you, and you have the management of
me entirely, and I needn't manage myself, because I know I can't; and if
I could, I'd rather you would, mamma."

"My daughter, it is just so; it is _just_ so that I wish you to trust in
God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder, by far than I am, even if I
could always be with you; and what will you do when I am away from
you?--and what would you do, my child, if I were to be parted from you
for ever?"

"Oh, mamma!" said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her arms
round her mother again--"Oh, dear mamma, don't talk about it!"

Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears fell on
Ellen's head as she did so, but that was all, and she said no more.
Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety of the
preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the sofa and lay
quite still. Ellen placed herself on a little bench at her side, with
her back to the head of the sofa, that her mother might not see her
face; and possessing herself of one of her hands, sat with her little
head resting upon her mother, as quiet as she. They remained thus for
two or three hours, without speaking; and Mrs. Montgomery was part of
the time slumbering; but now and then a tear ran down the side of the
sofa and dropped on the carpet where Ellen sat; and now and then her
lips were softly pressed to the hand she held, as if they would grow
there. The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Doctor Green found
his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect; and his
sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times between the
mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He made no remark upon it,
however, but continued for some moments a pleasant chatty conversation
which he had begun with Mrs. Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him; he
had rather taken a fancy to her.

"Well, Miss Ellen," he said, rubbing one of her hands in his, "what do
you think of this fine scheme of mine?"

"What scheme, sir?"

"Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to get well.
What do you think of it, eh?"

"_Will_ it make her quite well, do you think, sir?" asked Ellen
earnestly.

"'Will it make her well?' To be sure it will; do you think I don't know
better than to send people all the way across the ocean for nothing? Who
do you think would want Dr. Green if he sent people on wildgoose chases
in that fashion?"

"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, sir?" asked
Ellen.

"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances--perhaps
longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of
business to say to you. You know you agreed to be my little nurse. Mrs.
Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite
as well as she ought to be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken
proper care of her; she looks to me as if she had been too much excited.
I've a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or
reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort--you
understand? Now mind, Mrs. Nurse," said the doctor, changing his tone,
"she _must not_ be excited--you must take care that she is not--it isn't
good for her. You mustn't let her talk much, or laugh much, or cry at
all, on any account; she mustn't be worried in the least--will you
remember? Now you know what I shall expect of you; you must be very
careful--if that piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned,
one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences.
Good-bye," said he, shaking Ellen's hand, "you needn't look sober about
it; all you have to do is to let your mamma be as much like an oyster as
possible--you understand? Good-bye." And Dr. Green took his leave.

"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself as he went down stairs (he was
a humane man). "I wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side!
That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child! poor child!"

Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the
doctor's advice, and determined to follow it. By common consent, as it
seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of sorrow to
the other's mind, though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It
was not spoken of--indeed, little of any kind was spoken of, but that
never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless employed during this interval in
preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring to resign
herself and her child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to
withdraw her affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving
she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to
strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not distress
her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far as she
could. She let her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet
ones; though she drooped her head like a withered flower, and went about
the house with an air of submissive sadness that tried her mother
sorely. But when she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had
its way; and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would
almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution had she known them.

This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant
and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great,
to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover,
she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to
alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable
thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some
days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length _would_ come back to
her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the
roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light,
in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had passed through her head that
first morning as she had stood at her window, now came back again.
Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's
absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be
crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home,"
when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to
the mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their
long-desired reward; they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim,
and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was
rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been
given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known
exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly
relieved her.

"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she one morning.

Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or three
times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still
smiling, and answered, "Oh, mamma, I was thinking of different
things--things that I mean to do while you are gone."

"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.

"Oh, mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand. I want to surprise
you with them when you come back."

A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not
see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced another
subject.

"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"

"I do not know. I have never seen her."

"How has that happened, mamma?"

"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been
very much confined to two or three cities, and your father's long and
repeated absences made travelling impossible to me."

Ellen thought, but she did not say it, that it was very odd her father
should not sometimes, when he _was_ in the country, have gone to see his
relations and taken her mother with him.

"What is my aunt's name, mamma?"

"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen--Fortune Emerson."

"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister?"

"So she is."

"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"

"She is only his half-sister--the daughter of his mother, not the
daughter of his father."

"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen gravely.

"Why, my daughter?"

"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."

"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you will
depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don't forget that. If
you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do your duty, she
cannot help liking you, be she what she may; and on the other hand, if
she have all the will in the world to love you, she cannot do it unless
you will let her. It all depends on your behaviour."

"Oh, mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and I was
going to her."

Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's mind. But
she kept down her rising heart, and went on calmly--

"You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as I am, or
as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It would be unreasonable to
look for it, and you must not think hardly of your aunt when you find
she is not your mother; but then it will be your own fault if she does
not love you, in time, truly and tenderly. See that you render her all
the respect and obedience you could render me. That is your bounden
duty. She will stand in my place while she has the care of you--remember
that, Ellen. And remember, too, that she will deserve more gratitude at
your hands for showing you kindness than I do, because she cannot have
the same feeling of love to make trouble easy."

"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so. It's that very feeling of
love that I am grateful for. I don't care a fig for anything people do
for me without that."

"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."

"Well, I'll try, mamma."

"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in first
appearances, but never mind that. Have patience, and let your motto
be--if there's any occasion--Overcome evil with good. Will you put that
among the things you mean to do while I am gone?" said Mrs. Montgomery
with a smile.

"I'll try, dear mamma."

"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear, if you apply yourself in
your trying to the only unfailing source of wisdom and strength, to Him
without whom you can do nothing."

There was silence for a little.

"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.

"Your father says it is a very pleasant place. He says the country is
beautiful and very healthy, and full of charming walks and rides. You
have never lived in the country. I think you will enjoy it very much."

"Then it is not in a town?" said Ellen.

"No; it is not a great way from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt
lives in the open country. Your father says she is a capital
housekeeper, and that you will learn more, and be in all respects a
great deal happier and better off than you would be in a boarding-school
here or anywhere."

Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion very
much.

"Is there any school near?" she asked.

"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when he was
there."

"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall have while
you are gone will be writing to you. I have been thinking of it a good
deal. I mean to tell you everything--absolutely everything, mamma. You
know there will be nobody for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's
words came out with difficulty), "and when I feel badly I shall just
shut myself up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.

"I count upon it, my dear daughter. It will make quite as much the
pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."

"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from her eyes,
"it will be so long before my letters can get to you! The things I want
you to know right away, you won't know perhaps in a month."

"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when they do get
to me. Never think of that; write every day, and all manner of things
that concern you,--just as particularly as if you were speaking to me."

"And you'll write to me, too, mamma?"

"Indeed I will--when I can. But Ellen, you say that when I am away and
cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply my place. Perhaps it
will be so indeed; but then, my daughter, let it make you seek that
friend who is never far away, nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God, and
He will draw nigh to you. You know He has said of His children: 'Before
they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will
hear.'"

"But, mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you know He is
not my friend in the same way that He is yours." And hiding her face
again, she added, "Oh, I wish He was!"

"You know the way to make Him so, Ellen, _He_ is willing; it only rests
with you. Oh, my child, my child! if losing your mother might be the
means of finding you that Better Friend, I should be quite willing--and
glad to go--for ever."

There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice
had trembled, and her face was now covered with her hands; but she was
not weeping; she was seeking a better relief where it had long been her
habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the
employments which had been broken off, but neither chose to renew the
conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company prevented their having
another opportunity during the rest of the day.

But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain
Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of the time;
friends had taken their departure; the curtains were down, the lamp lit,
the little room looked cosy and comfortable; the servant had brought the
tea-things, and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily
alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered, and fast
drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very precious. She now
lay on her couch, with her face partially shaded, and her eyes fixed
upon her little daughter, who was now preparing the tea. She watched
her, with thoughts and feelings not to be spoken, as the little figure
went back and forward between the table and the fire, and the light
shining full upon her busy face, showed that Ellen's whole soul was in
her beloved duty. Tears would fall as she looked, and were not wiped
away; but when Ellen, having finished her work, brought with a satisfied
face the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer
any sign of them left. Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile,
to show her gratitude by honouring as far as possible what Ellen had
provided.

"You have more appetite to-night, mamma."

"I am very glad, daughter," replied her mother, "to see that you have
made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that has come upon us. I
am glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine; and I am glad too because
we have a great deal to do, and no time to lose in doing it."

"What have we so much to do, mamma?" said Ellen.

"Oh, many things," said her mother; "you will see. But now, Ellen, if
there is anything you wish to talk to me about, any question you want to
ask, anything you would like particularly to have, or to have done for
you, I want you to tell it me as soon as possible, now while we can
attend to it, for by-and-by perhaps we shall be hurried."

"Mamma," said Ellen with brightening eyes, "there is one thing I have
thought of that I should like to have; shall I tell it you now?"

"Yes."

"Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal; wouldn't it be
a good thing for me to have a little box with some pens in it, and an
inkstand, and some paper and wafers? Because, mamma, you know I shall be
among strangers at first, and I shan't feel like asking them for these
things as often as I shall want them, and maybe they wouldn't want to
let me have them if I did."

"I have thought of that already, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery with a
smile and a sigh. "I will certainly take care that you are well provided
in that respect before you go."

"How am I to go, mamma?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone, mamma."

"No, my daughter, I'll not send you alone. But your father says it is
impossible for _him_ to take that journey at present, and it is yet more
impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but we must
entrust you to the care of some friend going that way; but He that holds
the winds and waters in the hollow of His hand can take care of you
without any of our help, and it is to His keeping above all that I shall
commit you."

Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and troubled than
her mother had expected. In truth, the greater evil swallowed up the
less. Parting from her mother, and for so long a time, it seemed to her
comparatively a matter of little importance with whom she went, or how,
or where. Except for this, the taking a long journey under a stranger's
care would have been a dreadful thing to her.

"Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with, mamma?"

"Not yet; but it will be necessary to take the first good opportunity,
for I cannot go till I have seen you off; and it is thought very
desirable that I should get to sea before the severe weather comes."

It was with a pang that these words were spoken and heard, but neither
showed it to the other.

"It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have shown
yourself so submissive and patient under this affliction. I should
scarcely have been able to endure it if you had not exerted
self-control. You have behaved beautifully."

This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her utmost stretch
of self-control to keep within any bounds of composure; and for some
moments her flushed cheek, quivering lip, and heaving bosom told what a
tumult her mother's last words had raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had
gone too far, and willing to give both Ellen and herself time to
recover, she laid her head on the pillow again and closed her eyes. Many
thoughts coming thick upon one another presently filled her mind, and
half-an-hour had passed before she again recollected what she had meant
to say. She opened her eyes; Ellen was sitting at a little distance,
staring into the fire, evidently as deep in meditation as her mother had
been.

"Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "did you ever fancy what kind of a Bible
you would like to have?"

"A Bible! mamma," said Ellen with sparkling eyes, "do you mean to give
me a Bible?"

Mrs. Montgomery smiled.

"But, mamma," said Ellen gently, "I thought you couldn't afford it?"

"I have said so, and truly," answered her mother; "and hitherto you have
been able to use mine, but I will not leave you now without one. I will
find ways and means," said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling again.

"Oh, mamma, thank you!" said Ellen, delighted; "how glad I shall be!"
And after a pause of consideration she added, "Mamma, I never thought
much about what sort of a one I should like; couldn't I tell better if I
were to see the different kinds in the store?"

"Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine enough and I
am well enough, I will go out with you and we will see about it."

"I am afraid Dr. Green won't let you, mamma."

"I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible, and some other things
that I will not leave you without, and nobody can do it but myself. I
shall go, if I possibly can."

"What other things, mamma?" asked Ellen, very much interested in the
subject.

"I don't think it will do to tell you to-night," said Mrs. Montgomery,
smiling. "I foresee that you and I should be kept awake quite too late
if we were to enter upon it just now. We will leave it till to-morrow.
Now read to me, love, and then to bed."

Ellen obeyed; and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing before her
eyes than had been the case for some time.




CHAPTER III

          Sweetheart, we shall be rich ere we depart,
          If fairings come thus plentifully in.

                                                  --SHAKESPEARE.


Ellen had to wait some time for the desired fine day. The equinoctial
storms would have their way as usual, and Ellen thought they were longer
than ever this year. But after many stormy days had tried her patience,
there was at length a sudden change, both without and within doors. The
clouds had done their work for that time, and fled away before a strong
northerly wind, leaving the sky bright and fair. And Mrs. Montgomery's
deceitful disease took a turn, and for a little space raised the hopes
of her friends. All were rejoicing but two persons: Mrs. Montgomery was
not deceived, neither was the doctor. The shopping project was kept a
profound secret from him and from everybody except Ellen.

Ellen watched now for a favourable day. Every morning as soon as she
rose she went to the window to see what was the look of the weather; and
about a week after the change above noticed, she was greatly pleased one
morning, on opening her window as usual, to find the air and sky
promising all that could be desired. It was one of those beautiful days
in the end of September that sometimes herald October before it
arrives--cloudless, brilliant, and breathing balm. "This will do," said
Ellen to herself, in great satisfaction. "I think this will do; I hope
mamma will think so."

Hastily dressing herself, and a good deal excited already, she ran
downstairs; and after the morning salutations, examined her mother's
looks with as much anxiety as she had just done those of the weather.
All was satisfactory there also; and Ellen ate her breakfast with an
excellent appetite; but she said not a word of the intended expedition
till her father should be gone. She contented herself with strengthening
her hopes by making constant fresh inspections of the weather and her
mother's countenance alternately; and her eyes returning from the window
on one of these excursions and meeting her mother's face, saw a smile
there which said all she wanted. Breakfast went on more vigorously than
ever. But after breakfast it seemed to Ellen that her father never would
go away. He took the newspaper, an uncommon thing for him, and pored
over it most perseveringly, while Ellen was in a perfect fidget of
impatience. Her mother, seeing the state she was in, and taking pity on
her, sent her upstairs to do some little matters of business in her own
room. These Ellen despatched with all possible zeal and speed; and
coming down again found her father gone and her mother alone. She flew
to kiss her in the first place, and then made the inquiry, "Don't you
think to-day will do, mamma?"

"As fine as possible, daughter; we could not have a better. But I must
wait till the doctor has been here."

"Mamma," said Ellen after a pause, making a great effort of self-denial,
"I am afraid you oughtn't to go out to get these things for me. Pray
don't, mamma, if you think it will do you harm. I would rather go
without them; indeed I would."

"Never mind that, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery, kissing her; "I am
bent upon it; it would be quite as much of a disappointment to me as to
you not to go. We have a lovely day for it, and we will take our time
and walk slowly, and we haven't far to go either. But I must let Dr.
Green make his visit first."

To fill up the time till he came Mrs. Montgomery employed Ellen in
reading to her as usual. And this morning's reading Ellen long after
remembered. Her mother directed her to several passages in different
parts of the Bible that speak of heaven and its enjoyments; and though,
when she began, her own little heart was full of excitement, in view of
the day's plans, and beating with hope and pleasure, the sublime beauty
of the words and thoughts, as she went on, awed her into quiet, and her
mother's manner at length turned her attention entirely from herself.
Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa, and for the most part listened in
silence, with her eyes closed; but sometimes saying a word or two that
made Ellen feel how deep was the interest her mother had in the things
she read of, and how pure and strong the pleasure she was even now
taking in them; and sometimes there was a smile on her face that Ellen
scarce liked to see; it gave her an indistinct feeling that her mother
would not be long away from that heaven to which she seemed already to
belong. Ellen had a sad consciousness too that she had no part with her
mother in this matter. She could hardly go on. She came to that
beautiful passage in the seventh of Revelation--

"And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these which
are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they? And I said unto him,
Sir, thou knowest. And he said unto me, These are they which came out of
great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and
serve Him day and night in His temple: and He that sitteth on the throne
shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any
more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb
which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them
unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes."

With difficulty and a husky voice Ellen got through it. Lifting then her
eyes to her mother's face, she saw again the same singularly sweet
smile. Ellen felt that she could not read another word; to her great
relief the door opened, and Dr. Green came in. His appearance changed
the whole course of her thoughts. All that was grave or painful fled
quickly away; Ellen's head was immediately full again of what had filled
it before she began to read.

As soon as the doctor had retired and was fairly out of hearing, "Now,
mamma, shall we go?" said Ellen. "You needn't stir, mamma; I'll bring
all your things to you, and put them on; may I, mamma? then you won't be
a bit tired before you set out."

Her mother assented; and with a great deal of tenderness and a great
deal of eagerness, Ellen put on her stockings and shoes, arranged her
hair, and did all that she could toward changing her dress, and putting
on her bonnet and shawl; and greatly delighted she was when the business
was accomplished.

"Now, mamma, you look like yourself; I haven't seen you look so well
this great while. I'm so glad you're going out again," said Ellen,
putting her arms round her; "I do believe it will do you good. Now,
mamma, I'll go and get ready; I'll be very quick about it; you shan't
have to wait long for me."

In a few minutes the two set forth from the house. The day was as fine
as could be; there was no wind, there was no dust; the sun was not
oppressive; and Mrs. Montgomery did feel refreshed and strengthened
during the few steps they had to take to their first stopping-place.

It was a jeweller's store. Ellen had never been in one before in her
life, and her first feeling on entering was of dazzled wonderment at the
glittering splendours around; this was presently forgotten in curiosity
to know what her mother could possibly want there. She soon discovered
that she had come to sell and not to buy. Mrs. Montgomery drew a ring
from her finger, and after a little chaffering parted with it to the
owner of the store for eighty dollars, being about three-quarters of its
real value. The money was counted out, and she left the store.

"Mamma," said Ellen in a low voice, "wasn't that grandmamma's ring,
which I thought you loved so much?"

"Yes, I did love it, Ellen, but I love you better."

"Oh, mamma, I am very sorry!" said Ellen.

"You need not be sorry, daughter. Jewels in themselves are the merest
nothings to me; and as for the rest, it doesn't matter; I can remember
my mother without any help from a trinket."

There were tears, however, in Mrs. Montgomery's eyes, that showed the
sacrifice had cost her something; and there were tears in Ellen's that
told it was not thrown away upon her.

"I am sorry you should know of this," continued Mrs. Montgomery; "you
should not if I could have helped it. But set your heart quite at rest,
Ellen; I assure you this use of my ring gives me more pleasure on the
whole than any other I could have made of it."

A grateful squeeze of her hand and glance into her face was Ellen's
answer.

Mrs. Montgomery had applied to her husband for the funds necessary to
fit Ellen comfortably for the time they should be absent; and in answer
he had given her a sum barely sufficient for her mere clothing. Mrs.
Montgomery knew him better than to ask for a further supply, but she
resolved to have recourse to other means to do what she had determined
upon. Now that she was about to leave her little daughter, and it might
be for ever, she had set her heart upon providing her with certain
things which she thought important to her comfort and improvement, and
which Ellen would go very long without if _she_ did not give them to
her, and _now_. Ellen had had very few presents in her life, and those
always of the simplest and cheapest kind; her mother resolved that in
the midst of the bitterness of this time she would give her one pleasure
if she could; it might be the last.

They stopped next at a book-store. "Oh, what a delicious smell of new
books!" said Ellen, as they entered. "Mamma, if it wasn't for one thing,
I should say I never was so happy in my life."

Children's books, lying in tempting confusion near the door, immediately
fastened Ellen's eyes and attention. She opened one, and was already
deep in the interest of it, when the word "_Bibles_" struck her ear.
Mrs. Montgomery was desiring the shopman to show her various kinds and
sizes that she might choose from among them. Down went Ellen's book, and
she flew to the place where a dozen different Bibles were presently
displayed. Ellen's wits were ready to forsake her. Such beautiful Bibles
she had never seen; she pored in ecstasy over their varieties of type
and binding, and was very evidently in love with them all.

"Now, Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "look and choose; take your time,
and see which you like best."

It was not likely that "Ellen's time" would be a short one. Her mother
seeing this, took a chair at a little distance to await patiently her
decision; and while Ellen's eyes were riveted on the Bibles, her own
very naturally were fixed upon her. In the excitement and eagerness of
the moment, Ellen had thrown off her light bonnet, and with flushed
cheek and sparkling eye, and a brow grave with unusual care, as though a
nation's fate were deciding, she was weighing the comparative advantages
of large, small, and middle sized--black, blue, purple, and red--gilt
and not gilt--clasp and no clasp. Everything but the Bibles before her
Ellen had forgotten utterly; she was deep in what was to her the most
important of business. She did not see the bystanders smile; she did not
know there were any. To her mother's eye it was a most fair sight. Mrs.
Montgomery gazed with rising emotions of pleasure and pain that
struggled for the mastery, but pain at last got the better and rose very
high. "How can I give thee up!" was the one thought of her heart. Unable
to command herself, she rose and went to a distant part of the counter,
where she seemed to be examining books; but tears, some of the bitterest
she had ever shed, were falling thick upon the dusty floor, and she felt
her heart like to break. Her little daughter at one end of the counter
had forgotten there ever was such a thing as sorrow in the world; and
she at the other was bowed beneath a weight of it that was nigh to crush
her. But in her extremity she betook herself to that refuge she had
never known to fail: it did not fail her now. She remembered the words
Ellen had been reading to her that very morning, and they came like the
breath of heaven upon the fever of her soul. "Not my will, but Thine be
done." She strove and prayed to say it, and not in vain; and after a
little while she was able to return to her seat. She felt that she had
been shaken by a tempest, but she was calmer now than before.

Ellen was just as she had left her, and apparently just as far from
coming to any conclusion. Mrs. Montgomery was resolved to let her take
her way. Presently Ellen came over from the counter with a large royal
octavo Bible, heavy enough to be a good lift for her. "Mamma," said she,
laying it on her mother's lap and opening it, "what do you think of
that? isn't that splendid?"

"A most beautiful page indeed; is this your choice, Ellen?"

"Well, mamma, I don't know; what do you think?"

"I think it is rather inconveniently large and heavy for everyday use.
It is quite a weight upon my lap. I shouldn't like to carry it in my
hands long. You would want a little table on purpose to hold it."

"Well, that wouldn't do at all," said Ellen, laughing; "I believe you
are right, mamma; I wonder I didn't think of it. I might have known that
myself."

She took it back, and there followed another careful examination of the
whole stock; and then Ellen came to her mother with a beautiful
miniature edition in two volumes, gilt and clasped, and very perfect in
all respects, but of exceedingly small print.

"I think I'll have this, mamma," said she. "Isn't it a beauty? I could
put it in my pocket, you know, and carry it anywhere with the greatest
ease."

"It would have one great objection to me," said Mrs. Montgomery,
"inasmuch as I cannot possibly see to read it."

"Cannot you, mamma? But I can read it perfectly."

"Well, my dear, take it; that is, if you will make up your mind to put
on spectacles before your time."

"Spectacles, mamma! I hope I shall never have to wear spectacles."

"What do you propose to do when your sight fails, if you shall live so
long?"

"Well, mamma--if it comes to that--but you don't advise me then to take
this little beauty?"

"Judge for yourself; I think you are old enough."

"I know what you think though, mamma, and I dare say you are right too;
I won't take it, though it's a pity. Well, I must look again."

Mrs. Montgomery came to her help, for it was plain Ellen had lost the
power of judging amidst so many tempting objects. But she presently
simplified the matter by putting aside all that were decidedly too
large, or too small, or too fine print. There remained three, of
moderate size and sufficiently large type, but different binding.
"Either of these, I think, will answer your purpose nicely," said Mrs.
Montgomery.

"Then, mamma, if you please, I will have the red one. I like that best,
because it will put me in mind of yours."

Mrs. Montgomery could find no fault with this reason. She paid for the
red Bible, and directed it to be sent home. "Shan't I carry it, mamma?"
said Ellen.

"No, you would find it in the way; we have several things to do yet."

"Have we, mamma? I thought we only came to get a Bible."

"That is enough for one day, I confess. I am a little afraid your head
will be turned; but I must run the risk of it. I dare not lose the
opportunity of this fine weather; I may not have such another. I wish to
have the comfort of thinking when I am away, that I have left you with
everything necessary to the keeping up of good habits--everything that
will make them pleasant and easy. I wish you to be always neat, and
tidy, and industrious; depending upon others as little as possible; and
careful to improve yourself by every means, and especially by writing to
me. I will leave you no excuse, Ellen, for failing in any of these
duties. I trust you will not disappoint me in a single particular."

Ellen's heart was too full to speak; she again looked up tearfully and
pressed her mother's hand.

"I do not expect to be disappointed, love," returned Mrs. Montgomery.

They now entered a large fancy store. "What are we to get here, mamma?"
said Ellen.

"A box to put your pens and paper in," said her mother, smiling.

"Oh, to be sure," said Ellen; "I had almost forgotten that." She quite
forgot it a minute after. It was the first time she had ever seen the
inside of such a store; and the articles displayed on every side
completely bewitched her. From one thing to another she went, admiring
and wondering; in her wildest dreams she had never imagined such
beautiful things. The store was fairyland.

Mrs. Montgomery meanwhile attended to business. Having chosen a neat
little japanned dressing-box, perfectly plain, but well supplied with
everything a child could want in that line, she called Ellen from the
delightful journey of discovery she was making round the store, and
asked her what she thought of it.

"I think it's a little beauty," said Ellen; "but I never saw such a
place for beautiful things."

"You think it will do then?" said her mother.

"For me, mamma! You don't mean to give it to me? Oh, mother, how good
you are! But I know what is the best way to thank you, and I'll do it.
What a perfect little beauty! Mamma, I'm too happy."

"I hope not," said her mother, "for you know I haven't got you the box
for your pens and paper yet."

"Well, mamma, I'll try and bear it," said Ellen, laughing. "But do get
me the plainest little thing in the world, for you're giving me too
much."

Mrs. Montgomery asked to look at writing-desks, and was shown to another
part of the store for the purpose. "Mamma," said Ellen, in a low tone,
as they went, "you're not going to get me a writing-desk?"

"Why, that is the best kind of box for holding writing materials," said
her mother, smiling; "don't you think so?"

"I don't know what to say!" exclaimed Ellen. "I can't thank you,
mamma--I haven't any words to do it. I think I shall go crazy."

She was truly overcome with the weight of happiness. Words failed her,
and tears came instead.

From among a great many desks of all descriptions, Mrs. Montgomery with
some difficulty succeeded in choosing one to her mind. It was of
mahogany, not very large, but thoroughly well made and finished, and
very convenient and perfect in its internal arrangements. Ellen was
speechless; occasional looks at her mother, and deep sighs, were all she
had now to offer. The desk was quite empty. "Ellen," said her mother,
"do you remember the furniture of Miss Allen's desk that you were so
pleased with a while ago?"

"Perfectly, mamma; I know all that was in it."

"Well, then, you must prompt me if I forget anything. Your desk will be
furnished with everything really useful. Merely showy matters we can
dispense with. Now let us see. Here is a great empty place that I think
wants some paper to fill it. Show me some of different sizes, if you
please."

The shopman obeyed, and Mrs. Montgomery stocked the desk well with
letter paper, large and small. Ellen looked on in great satisfaction.
"That will do nicely," she said. "That large paper will be beautiful
whenever I am writing to you, mamma, you know, and the other will do for
other times, when I haven't so much to say; though I am sure I don't
know who there is in the world I should ever send letters to except
you."

"If there is nobody now, perhaps there will be at some future time,"
replied her mother. "I hope I shall not always be your only
correspondent. Now what next?"

"Envelopes, mamma."

"To be sure; I had forgotten them. Envelopes of both sizes to match."

"Because, mamma, you know I might, and I certainly shall, want to write
upon the fourth page of my letter, and I couldn't do it unless I had
envelopes." A sufficient stock of envelopes was laid in.

"Mamma," said Ellen, "what do you think of a little note-paper?"

"Who are the notes to be written to, Ellen?" said Mrs. Montgomery,
smiling.

"You needn't smile, mamma; you know, as you said, if I don't now know,
perhaps I shall by-and-by. Miss Allen's desk had note-paper; that made
me think of it."

"So shall yours, daughter; while we are about it we will do the thing
well. And your note-paper will keep quite safely in this nice little
place provided for it, even if you should not want to use a sheet of it
in half-a-dozen years."

"How nice that is!" said Ellen admiringly.

"I suppose the note-paper must have envelopes too?" said Mrs.
Montgomery.

"To be sure, mamma; I suppose so," said Ellen, smiling; "Miss Allen's
had."

"Well, now we have got all the paper we want, I think," said Mrs.
Montgomery; "the next thing is ink--or an inkstand, rather."

Different kinds were presented for her choice.

"Oh, mamma, that one won't do," said Ellen anxiously; "you know the desk
will be knocking about in a trunk, and the ink would run out and spoil
everything. It should be one of those that shut tight. I don't see the
right kind here." The shopman brought one.

"There, mamma, do you see?" said Ellen; "it shuts with a spring, and
nothing can possibly come out; do you see, mamma? You can turn it
topsy-turvy."

"I see you are quite right, daughter; it seems I should get on very ill
without you to advise me. Fill the inkstand, if you please."

"Mamma, what shall I do when my ink is gone? that inkstand will hold but
a little, you know."

"Your aunt will supply you, of course, my dear, when you are out."

"I'd rather take some of my own by half," said Ellen.

"You could not carry a bottle of ink in your desk without great danger
to everything else in it. It would not do to venture."

"We have excellent ink-powder," said the shopman, "in small packages,
which can be very conveniently carried about. You see, ma'am, there is a
compartment in the desk for such things; and the ink is very easily made
at any time."

"Oh, that will do nicely," said Ellen, "that is just the thing."

"Now what is to go in this other square place opposite the inkstand?"
said Mrs. Montgomery.

"That is the place for the box of lights, mamma."

"What sort of lights?"

"For sealing letters, mamma, you know. They are not like your wax taper
at all; they are little wax matches, that burn just long enough to seal
one or two letters; Miss Allen showed me how she used them. Hers were in
a nice little box just like the inkstand on the outside; and there was a
place to light the matches, and a place to set them in while they are
burning. There, mamma, that's it," said Ellen, as the shopman brought
forth the article which she was describing, "that's it exactly; and that
will just fit. Now, mamma, for the wax."

"You want to seal your letter before you have written it," said Mrs.
Montgomery; "we have not got the pens yet."

"That's true, mamma; let us have the pens. And some quills too, mamma?"

"Do you know how to make a pen, Ellen?"

"No, mamma, not yet; but I want to learn very much. Miss Pichegru says
that every lady ought to know how to make her own pens."

"Miss Pichegru is very right; but I think you are rather too young to
learn. However, we will try. Now here are steel points enough to last
you a great while, and as many quills as it is needful you should cut up
for one year at least; we haven't a pen handle yet."

"Here, mamma," said Ellen, holding out a plain ivory one, "don't you
like this? I think that it is prettier than these that are all cut and
fussed, or those other gay ones either."

"I think so too, Ellen; the plainer the prettier. Now what comes next?"

"The knife, mamma, to make the pens," said Ellen, smiling.

"True, the knife. Let us see some of your best pen-knives. Now, Ellen,
choose. That one won't do, my dear; it should have two blades--a large
as well as a small one. You know you want to mend a pencil sometimes."

"So I do, mamma, to be sure, you're very right; here's a nice one. Now,
mamma, the wax."

"There is a box full; choose your own colours." Seeing it was likely to
be a work of time, Mrs. Montgomery walked away to another part of the
store. When she returned Ellen had made up an assortment of the oddest
colours she could find.

"I won't have any red, mamma, it is so common," she said.

"I think it is the prettiest of all," said Mrs. Montgomery.

"Do you, mamma? then I will have a stick of red on purpose to seal to
you with."

"And who do you intend shall have the benefit of the other colours?"
inquired her mother.

"I declare, mamma," said Ellen, laughing, "I never thought of that; I am
afraid they will have to go to you. You must not mind, mamma, if you get
green and blue and yellow seals once in a while."

"I dare say I shall submit myself to it with a good grace," said Mrs.
Montgomery. "But come, my dear, have we got all we want? This desk has
been very long in furnishing."

"You haven't given me a seal yet, mamma."

"Seals! There are a variety before you; see if you can find one that you
like. By the way, you cannot seal a letter, can you?"

"Not yet, mamma," said Ellen, smiling again; "that is another of the
things I have got to learn."

"Then I think you had better have some wafers in the meantime."

While Ellen was picking out her seal, which took not a little time, Mrs.
Montgomery laid in a good supply of wafers of all sorts; and then went
on further to furnish the desk with an ivory leaf-cutter, a
paper-folder, a pounce-box, a ruler, and a neat little silver pencil;
also some drawing-pencils, indiarubber, and sheets of drawing paper. She
took a sad pleasure in adding everything she could think of that might
be for Ellen's future use or advantage; but as with her own hands she
placed in the desk one thing after another, the thought crossed her mind
how Ellen would make drawings with those very pencils, on those very
sheets of paper, which her eyes would never see! She turned away with a
sigh, and receiving Ellen's seal from her hand, put that also in its
place. Ellen had chosen one with her own name.

"Will you send these things _at once_?" said Mrs. Montgomery; "I
particularly wish to have them at home as early in the day as possible."

The man promised. Mrs. Montgomery paid the bill, and she and Ellen left
the store.

They walked a little way in silence.

"I cannot thank you, mamma," said Ellen.

"It is not necessary, my dear child," said Mrs. Montgomery, returning
the pressure of her hand; "I know all that you would say."

There was as much sorrow as joy at that moment in the heart of the joy
fullest of the two.

"Where are we going now, mamma?" said Ellen again, after a while.

"I wished and intended to have gone to St. Clair & Fleury's, to get you
some merino and other things; but we have been detained so long already
that I think I had better go home. I feel somewhat tired."

"I am very sorry, dear mamma," said Ellen; "I am afraid I kept you too
long about that desk."

"You did not keep me, daughter, any longer than I chose to be kept. But
I think I will go home now, and take the chance of another fine day for
the merino."




CHAPTER IV

          How can I live without thee--how forego
          Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined?

                                                  --MILTON.


When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother and daughter
were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was late in the
afternoon and already somewhat dark, for clouds had gathered over the
beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind rising now and then made its
voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa: as usual, seemingly
at ease; and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very
much at _her_ ease indeed, without any seeming about it. She smiled as
she met her mother's eyes.

"You have made me very happy to-day, mamma."

"I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the whole
affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you."

There was a pause.

"Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new treasures."

"I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly I should
not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been to leave you
without them. So you see you have not established a character for
carefulness in vain."

"And, mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain either. I will
try to use them in the way that I know you wish me to; that will be the
best way I can thank you."

"Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I wish you
to do and to be; and when I am away I shall please myself with thinking
that my little daughter _is_ following her mother's wishes; I shall
believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be disappointed?"

"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, who was now in her mother's arms.

"Well, my child," said Mrs. Montgomery in a lighter tone, "my gifts will
serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted to forget my lessons.
If you fail to send me letters, or if those you send are not what they
ought to be, I think the desk will cry shame upon you. And if you ever
go an hour with a hole in your stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a
string off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your work-box will make
you blush."

"Work-box, mamma?"

"Yes. Oh, I forgot; you've not seen that."

"No, mamma; what do you mean?"

"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but I thought
it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so while you were on an
exploring expedition round the store I chose and furnished one for you."

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands; "what
shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say anything. Mamma, it's
too much."

So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently
reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the
energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till gently drawn by the same
hand she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And
in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades
of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the
light of the fire was all that was left to them.

Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep;
her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she
was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing
through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new
possessions and bright projects--more of her mother. She was thinking
how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her
cheek lay; she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than
anything else in life could be; she thought she had rather even die so,
on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world; she
felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she
broke the silence.

"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than
Me, is not worthy of Me'?"

"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than
Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of His children."

"But then, mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how _can_ I be one of
His children? I do love you a great deal better; how can I help it,
mamma?"

"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery with a sigh,
"except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of His
people--to take away the heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh."

"But is mine a heart of stone then, mamma, because I cannot help loving
you best?"

"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the
little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I
know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than
I am, and if your heart were not hardened by sin you would see Him so;
it is only because you do not know Him that you love me better. Pray,
pray, my dear child, that He would take away the power of sin, and show
you Himself; that is all that is wanting."

"I will, mamma," said Ellen tearfully. "Oh, mamma, what shall I do
without you?"

Alas, Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question; she had no answer.

"Mamma," said Ellen after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him
at all unless I love Him _best_?"

"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother seriously.

"Mamma," said Ellen after a little, again raising her head and looking
her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to
this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do
_you_ love Him _better than you do me_?"

She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely
possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she
ventured a bold question to prove whether her mother's practice would
not contradict her theory.

But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and with a
gush of tears Ellen sunk her head again upon her bosom. She had no more
to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the _right_ of the matter,
though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular
case.

"I do indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not
make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."

"Oh, mamma, mamma," said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach
me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do,
mamma?"

With a voice that strove to be calm Mrs. Montgomery answered, "'I love
them that love Me, and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'" And
after a minute or two she added, "He who says this has promised too that
He will 'gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.'"

The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the
voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She
checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still on
her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery
did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead
that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's
eyes and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three-quarters of
an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother
and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the
knocker could gain attention.

"What is that, mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.

"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."

Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full
of sundry packages.

"Oh, mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they
are!"

The man placed his burden on the table, and withdrew.

"Oh, mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now if I only had a light--this
is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my
dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling--yes, it is, here's the
handle on top; and this is my dear work-box--not so big as the desk, nor
so little as the dressing-box. Oh, mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"

There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the
wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for _tea_. Ellen was capering
about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight
of the tea-things, and looked very grave. "Well, mamma, I'll tell you
what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the
tea the first thing before I untie a single knot; won't that be best,
mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop.
Don't you think that is wise, mamma?"

But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the tea
quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at
length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She
struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point
very gracefully, and went to bed.

She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's
disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out was not to be
thought of, and it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen
joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her
new possessions; and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear
she set about it. She first went through the desk and everything in it,
making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of
all it contained; then the dressing-box received a share, but a much
smaller share, of attention; and lastly, with fingers trembling with
eagerness she untied the packthread that was wound round the work-box,
and slowly took off cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last
was removed. The box was of satin-wood, beautifully finished, and lined
with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care it should
want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order.

"Oh, mamma, how beautiful! Oh, mamma, how good you are! Mamma, I promise
you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a
great while--every number, I do think; and needles, oh, the needles!
what a parcel of them! and, mamma! what a lovely scissors! Did you
choose it, mamma, or did it belong to the box?"

"I chose it."

"I might have guessed it, mamma, it's just like you. And here's a
thimble--fits me exactly; and an emery-bag! how pretty!--and a bodkin!
This is a great deal nicer than yours, mamma--yours is decidedly the
worse for wear;--and what's this?--oh, to make eyelet holes with, I
know. And oh, mamma, here is almost everything, I think--here are tapes,
and buttons, and hooks and eyes, and darning cotton, and silk-winders,
and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for, mamma?"

"That's a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that piece of
paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works."

"Oh, I see!" said Ellen, "how very nice that is. Well, I shall take
great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely."

One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For some time
she pleased herself with going over and over the contents of the box,
finding each time something new to like. At length she closed it, and
keeping it still in her lap, sat awhile looking thoughtfully into the
fire; till turning towards her mother she met her gaze, fixed
mournfully, almost tearfully, on herself. The box was instantly shoved
aside, and getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her. "Oh,
dear mother," she said, "I wish they were all back in the store, if I
could only keep you!"

Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart.

"Is there no help for it, mamma?"

"There is none. We know that all things shall work together for good to
them that love God."

"Then it will all be good for you, mamma, but what will it be for me?"
And Ellen sobbed bitterly.

"It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not doubt it,
Ellen. Do _you_ not doubt it either, love; but from the hand that
wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that He _may_ heal. He does not
afflict willingly. Perhaps He sees, Ellen, that you never would seek Him
while you had me to cling to."

Ellen clung to her at that moment; yet not more than her mother clung to
her.

"How happy we were, mamma, only a year ago--even a month."

"We have no continuing city here," answered her mother with a sigh. "But
there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come; and they that are
once gathered there are parted no more for ever; and all tears are wiped
from their eyes. I believe I am going fast to that home; and now my
greatest concern is that my little Ellen--my precious baby--may follow
me and come there too."

No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doctor's
steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an appearance of
composure as speedily as possible. But they could not succeed perfectly
enough to blind him. He did not seem very well satisfied, and told Ellen
he believed he should have to get another nurse,--he was afraid she
didn't obey orders.

While the doctor was there Ellen's Bible was brought in; and no sooner
was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examination as the boxes
had received. Ellen went over every part of it with the same great care
and satisfaction; but mixed with a different feeling. The words that
caught her eye as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her
mother had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a
little she rose and brought it to the sofa.

"Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?"

"Oh yes, mamma; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and inside. Now,
mamma, will you please to write my name in this precious book--my name,
and anything else you please, mother. I'll bring you my new pen to write
it with, and I've got ink here--shall I?"

She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name, and the date of
the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and then she wrote
below the date--

"'I love them that love Me; and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'"

This was for Ellen; but the next words were not for her; what made her
write them?--

"'I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.'"

They were written almost unconsciously, and as if bowed by an unseen
force Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page, and her whole soul
went up with her petition--

"Let these words be my memorial, that I have trusted in Thee. And oh,
when these miserable lips are silent for ever, remember the word unto
Thy servant, upon which Thou hast caused me to hope; and be unto my
little one all Thou hast been to me. Unto Thee lift I up mine eyes, O
Thou? that dwellest in the heavens."

She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently to
Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of the cause;
she supposed that one of her mother's frequent feelings of weakness or
sickness had made her lean her head upon the Bible, and she thought no
more about it. However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes
that day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa, with
her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in
her face that it had not worn for several days.




CHAPTER V

          My child is yet a stranger in the world.
          She hath not seen the change of fourteen years.

                                                  --SHAKESPEARE.


The next day would not do for the intended shopping; nor the next. The
third day was fine, though cool and windy.

"Do you think you can venture out to-day, mamma?" said Ellen.

"I am afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it; and the wind is a
great deal too high for me, besides."

"Well," said Ellen, in a tone of one who is making up her mind to
something, "we shall have a fine day by-and-by, I suppose, if we wait
long enough; we had to wait a great while for our first shopping day. I
wish such another would come round."

"But the misfortune is," said her mother, "that we cannot afford to
wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be suddenly
wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestir ourselves. And Miss
Rice is coming in a few days; I ought to have the merino ready for her."

"What will you do, mamma?"

"I do not know, indeed, Ellen; I am greatly at a loss."

"Couldn't papa get the stuffs for you, mamma?"

"No, he's too busy; and besides, he knows nothing at all about shopping
for me; he would be sure to bring me exactly what I do not want. I tried
that once."

"Well, what will you do, mamma? Is there nobody else you could ask to
get the things for you? Mrs. Foster would do it, mamma."

"I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, but she
is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it but to be
patient and let things take their course, though if a favourable
opportunity should offer you would have to go, clothes or no clothes; it
would not do to lose the chance of a good escort."

And Mrs. Montgomery's face showed that this possibility, of Ellen's
going unprovided, gave her some uneasiness. Ellen observed it.

"Never mind me, dearest mother; don't be in the least worried about my
clothes. You don't know how little I think of them or care for them.
It's no matter at all whether I have them or not."

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, and passed her hand fondly over her little
daughter's head, but presently resumed her anxious look out of the
window.

"Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, "a bright thought has
just come into my head! _I'll_ do it for you, mamma!"

"Do what?"

"I'll get the merino and things for you, mamma. You needn't smile--I
will, indeed, if you will let me?"

"My dear Ellen," said her mother, "I don't doubt you would if goodwill
only were wanting; but a great deal of skill and experience is necessary
for a shopper, and what would you do without either?"

"But see, mamma," pursued Ellen eagerly, "I'll tell you how I'll manage,
and I know I can manage very well. You tell me exactly what 
merino you want, and give me a little piece to show me how fine it
should be, and tell me what price you wish to give, and then I'll go to
the store and ask them to show me different pieces, you know; and if I
see any I think you would like, I'll ask them to give me a little bit of
it to show you; and then I'll bring it home, and if you like it you can
give me the money, and tell me how many yards you want, and I can go
back to the store and get it. Why can't I, mamma?"

"Perhaps you could; but, my dear child, I am afraid you wouldn't like
the business."

"Yes, I should; indeed, mamma, I should like it dearly if I could help
you so. Will you let me try, mamma?"

"I don't like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, among
crowds of people; I should be uneasy about you."

"Dear mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me? I am not a bit
afraid. You know, mamma, I have often taken walks alone--that's nothing
new; and what harm should come to me while I am in the store! You
needn't be the least uneasy about me--may I go?"

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent.

"May I go, mamma?" repeated Ellen. "Let me go at least and try what I
can do. What do you say, mamma?"

"I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty on either
hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It would be a great
relief to me to get this merino by any means."

"Then shall I go right away, mamma?"

"As well now as ever. _You_ are not afraid of the wind?"

"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered upstairs to get
ready. With eager haste she dressed herself; then with great care and
particularity took her mother's instructions as to the article wanted;
and finally set out, sensible that a great trust was reposed in her, and
feeling busy and important accordingly. But at the very bottom of
Ellen's heart there was a little secret doubtfulness respecting her
undertaking. She hardly knew it was there, but then she couldn't tell
what it was that made her fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she
was dressing, and that made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or
than was pleasant, and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other.
However, she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she
kept up till on turning a corner she came in sight of the place she was
going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed her steps
to St. Clair & Fleury's. It was one of the largest and best stores in
the city, and the one she knew where her mother generally made her
purchases; and it did not occur to her that it might not be the best for
her purpose on this occasion. But her steps slackened as soon as she
came in sight of it, and continued to slacken as she drew nearer, and
she went up the broad flight of marble steps in front of the store very
slowly indeed, though they were exceedingly low and easy. Pleasure was
not certainly the uppermost feeling in her mind now; yet she never
thought of turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the
object of her mission her mother would be relieved from some anxiety;
that was enough; she was bent on accomplishing it.

Timidly she entered the large hall of the entrance. It was full of
people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had for
some time past seldom gone a shopping with her mother, and had never
been in this store but once or twice before. She had not the remotest
idea where, or in what apartment of the building, the merino counter was
situated, and she could see no one to speak to. She stood irresolute in
the middle of the floor. Everybody seemed to be busily engaged with
somebody else; and whenever an opening on one side or another appeared
to promise her an opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she
could reach it, and disappointed and abashed she would return to her old
station in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her,
crossing the store in all directions, but they were always bustling
along in a great hurry of business; they did not seem to notice her at
all, and were gone before poor Ellen could speak to them. She knew well
enough now, poor child, what it was that made her cheeks burn as they
did, and her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. She felt
confused, and almost confounded, by the incessant hum of voices, and
moving crowd of strange people all around her, while her little figure
stood alone and unnoticed in the midst of them; and there seemed no
prospect that she would be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single
person. Once she determined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her
from a distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a
hurried bow, and "I beg your pardon, miss!" he brushed past. Ellen
almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of the store,
but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give up her
undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks at the desk
observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair who stood by, "There is a
little girl, sir, who seems to be looking for something, or waiting for
somebody; she has been standing there a good while." Mr. St. Clair upon
this advanced, to poor Ellen's relief.

"What do you wish, miss?" he said.

But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter them and
failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to speak and be
heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to be gone.

"Do you wish anything, miss?" inquired Mr. St. Clair again.

"Mother sent me," stammered Ellen--"I wish, if you please, sir--mamma
wished me to look at merinoes, sir, if you please."

"Is your mamma in the store?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "she is ill and cannot come out, and she sent me
to look at merinoes for her, if you please, sir."

"Here, Saunders," said Mr. St. Clair, "show this young lady the
merinoes."

Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of clerks
with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way of relief from the
tedium of business. "Come this way," he said to Ellen; and sauntering
before her, with a rather dissatisfied air, led the way out of the
entrance hall into another and much larger apartment. There were plenty
of people here too, and just as busy as those they had quitted. Mr.
Saunders having brought Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself
behind it; and leaning over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her,
asked what she wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most
unpleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He was a
tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed down on each
side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most disagreeable pair of
eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. She could not bear to meet
them, and cast down her own. Their look was bold, ill-bred, and
ill-humoured; and Ellen felt, though she couldn't have told why, that
she need not expect either kindness or politeness from him.

"What do you want to see, little one?" inquired this gentleman, as if he
had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen heartily wished
he was rid of it, and she too. "Merinoes, if you please," she answered,
without looking up.

"Well, what kind of merinoes? Here are all sorts and descriptions of
merinoes, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for you to look at.
What kind do you want?"

"I don't know without looking," said Ellen, "won't you please to show me
some?"

He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled them about
before her.

"There," said he, "is that anything like what you want? There's a pink
one, and there's a blue one, and there's a green one. Is that the kind?"

"This is the kind," said Ellen; "but this isn't the colour I want."

"What colour do you want?"

"Something dark, if you please."

"Well, there, that green's dark; won't that do? See, that would make up
very pretty for you."

"No," said Ellen; "mamma don't like green."

"Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What colour
_does_ she like?"

"Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice grey would do," said Ellen, "if it
is fine enough."

"'Dark blue,' or 'dark brown,' or a 'nice grey,' eh! Well, she's pretty
easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already; what's the matter
with that?"

"It isn't dark enough," said Ellen.

"Well," said he discontentedly, pulling down another piece, "how'll that
do? That's dark enough."

It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had
showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her
little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed
perfectly as to fineness.

"What is the price of this?" she asked, with trembling hope that she was
going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise.

"Two dollars a yard."

Her hopes and countenance fell together. "That's too high," she said
with a sigh.

"Then take this other blue; come--it's a great deal prettier than that
dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will like it better."

Ellen's cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she couldn't
bear to give up.

"Would you be so good as to show me some grey?"

He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an excellent piece
of dark grey, which Ellen fell in love with at once; but she was again
disappointed; it was fourteen shillings.

"Well, if you won't take that, take something else," said the man; "you
can't have everything at once; if you will have cheap goods, of course
you can't have the same quality that you like; but now here's this other
blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you have it for ten if you'll
take it."

"No, it is too light and too coarse," said Ellen; "mamma wouldn't like
it."

"Let me see," said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to compare it;
"it's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want."

"Could you," said Ellen timidly, "give me a little bit of this grey to
show mamma?"

"Oh no!" said he impatiently, tossing over the cloths and throwing
Ellen's pattern on the floor, "we can't cut up our goods; if people
don't choose to buy of us they may go somewhere else, and if you cannot
decide upon anything I must go and attend to those that can. I can't
wait here all day."

"What's the matter, Saunders?" said one of his brother clerks passing
him.

"Why, I've been here this half-hour showing cloths to a child that
doesn't know merino from a sheep's back," said he, laughing. And some
other customers coming up at the moment, he was as good as his word, and
left Ellen, to attend to them.

Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, struggling
with her feelings of mortification; she could not endure to let them be
seen. Her face was on fire; her head was dizzy. She could not stir at
first, and, in spite of her utmost efforts, she _could_ not command back
one or two rebel tears that forced their way; she lifted her hand to her
face to remove them as quickly as possible. "What is all this about, my
little girl?" said a strange voice at her side. Ellen started, and
turned her face, with the tears but half wiped away, toward the speaker.
It was an old gentleman, an odd old gentleman too, she thought; one she
certainly would have been rather shy of if she had seen him under other
circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her,
and it was a kind tone of voice in which this question had been put; so
he seemed to her like a friend. "What is all this?" repeated the old
gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was, but the pride which had
forbidden her to weep before strangers gave way at one touch of
sympathy, and she poured out tears much faster than words as she related
her story, so that it was some little time before the old gentleman
could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she
had finished; but then he set himself in good earnest about righting the
wrong. "Hallo! you, sir!" he shouted, in a voice that made everybody
look round; "you merino man! come and show your goods: why aren't you at
your post, sir?"--as Mr. Saunders came up with an altered
countenance--"here's a young lady you've left standing unattended to I
don't know how long; are these your manners?"

"The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, sir," returned Mr.
Saunders softly.

"You know better, you scoundrel," retorted the old gentleman, who was in
a great passion; "I saw the whole matter with my own eyes. You are a
disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be sent out of it, which you
are like enough to be."

"I really thought, sir," said Mr. Saunders smoothly,--for he knew the
old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that must not be
offended,--"I really thought--I was not aware, sir, that the young lady
had any occasion for my services."

"Well, show your wares, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my dear, what
did you want?"

"I wanted a little bit of this grey merino, sir, to show to mamma. I
couldn't buy it, you know, sir, until I found out whether she would like
it."

"Cut a piece, sir, without any words," said the old gentleman. Mr.
Saunders obeyed.

"Did you like this best?" pursued the old gentleman.

"I like this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mamma would; but
it's too high."

"How much is it?" inquired he.

"Fourteen shillings," replied Mr. Saunders.

"He said it was two dollars!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I beg pardon," said the crestfallen Mr. Saunders, "the young lady
mistook me; I was speaking of another piece when I said two dollars."

"He said this was two dollars and the grey fourteen shillings," said
Ellen.

"Is the grey fourteen shillings?" inquired the old gentleman.

"I think not, sir," answered Mr. Saunders; "I believe not, sir--I think
it's only twelve--I'll inquire, if you please, sir."

"No, no," said the old gentleman, "I know it was only twelve--I know
your tricks, sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, are there any
more pieces of which you would like to take patterns to show your
mother?"

"No, sir," said the overjoyed Ellen; "I am sure she will like one of
these."

"Now shall we go, then?"

"If you please, sir," said Ellen, "I should like to have my bit of
merino that I brought from home; mamma wanted me to bring it back
again."

"Where is it?"

"That gentleman threw it on the floor."

"Do you hear, sir?" said the old gentleman; "find it directly."

Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of it till
he was very red in the face; and he was left, wishing heartily that he
had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the conclusion
that none was within his reach, and that he must stomach his dignity in
the best manner he could. But Ellen and her protector went forth most
joyously together from the store.

"Do you live far from here?" asked the old gentleman.

"Oh no, sir," said Ellen, "not very; it's only at Green's Hotel in
Southing Street."

"I'll go with you," said he, "and when your mother has decided which
merino she will have, we'll come right back and get it. I do not want to
trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Ellen, "that is just what I was afraid of.
But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, sir," she added in
another tone.

"No, you won't," said the old gentleman; "I can't be troubled, so you
needn't say anything about that."

They went gaily along--Ellen's heart about five times as light as the
one with which she had travelled that very road a little while before.
Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood too, for he assured Ellen,
laughingly, that it was of no manner of use for her to be in a hurry,
for he could not possibly set off and skip to Green's Hotel, as she
seemed inclined to do. They got there at last. Ellen showed the old
gentleman into the parlour, and ran upstairs in great haste to her
mother. But in a few minutes she came down again, with a very April
face, for smiles were playing in every feature, while the tears were yet
wet upon her cheeks.

"Mamma hopes you'll take the trouble, sir, to come upstairs," she said,
seizing his hand; "she wants to thank you yourself, sir."

"It is not necessary," said the old gentleman, "it is not necessary at
all;" but he followed his little conductor, nevertheless, to the door of
her mother's room, into which she ushered him with great satisfaction.

Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill--he saw that at a glance. She rose
from her sofa, and extending her hand, thanked him with glistening eyes
for his kindness to her child.

"I don't deserve any thanks, ma'am," said the old gentleman; "I suppose
my little friend has told you what made us acquainted?"

"She gave me a very short account of it," said Mrs. Montgomery.

"She was very disagreeably tried," said the old gentleman. "I presume
you do not need to be told, ma'am, that her behaviour was such as would
have become any years. I assure you, ma'am, if I had no kindness in my
composition to feel for the _child_, my honour as a gentleman would have
made me interfere for the _lady_."

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on
Ellen. "I am _very_ glad to hear it," she replied. "I was very far from
thinking, when I permitted her to go on this errand, that I was exposing
her to anything more serious than the annoyance a timid child would
feel at having to transact business with strangers."

"I suppose not," said the old gentleman; "but it isn't a sort of thing
that should be often done. There are all sorts of people in this world,
and a little one alone in a crowd is in danger of being trampled upon."

Mrs. Montgomery's heart answered this with an involuntary pang. He saw
the shade that passed over her face as she said sadly--

"I know it, sir; and it was with strong unwillingness that I allowed
Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed; but in truth I was making
a choice between difficulties. I am very sorry I chose as I did. If you
are a father, sir, you know better than I can tell you how grateful I am
for your kind interference."

"Say nothing about that, ma'am; the less the better. I am an old man,
and not good for much now, except to please young people. I think myself
best off when I have the best chance to do that, so if you will be so
good as to choose that merino, and let Miss Ellen and me go and despatch
our business, you will be conferring and not receiving a favour. And any
other errand that you please to entrust her with I'll undertake to see
her safe through."

His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at his word. A
very short examination of Ellen's patterns ended in favour of the grey
merino; and Ellen was commissioned not only to get and pay for this, but
also to choose a dark dress of the same stuff, and enough of a certain
article for a nankeen coat; Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old
gentleman's care would do more than see her scathless,--that it would
have some regard to the justness and prudence of her purchases.

In great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her hand
was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely, for her heart was
completely opened to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as she was to
talk; and by little and little Ellen told him all her history; the
troubles that had come upon her in consequence of her mother's illness,
and her intended journey and prospects.

That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and Fleury's;
bought the grey merino, and the nankeen, and a dark brown merino for a
dress. "Do you want only one of these?" asked the old gentleman.

"Mamma said only one," said Ellen; "that will last me all the winter."

"Well," said he, "I think two will be better. Let us have another off
the same piece, Mr. Shopman."

"But I am afraid mamma won't like it, sir," said Ellen gently.

"Pho, pho," said he, "your mother has nothing to do with this; this is
my affair." He paid for it accordingly. "Now, Miss Ellen," said he, when
they left the store, "have you got anything in the shape of a good warm
winter bonnet? For it's as cold as the mischief up there in Thirlwall;
your pasteboard things won't do; if you don't take good care of your
ears you will lose them some fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad,
and all sorts of things, to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven't a
hood, eh? Do you think you and I could make out to choose one that your
mother would think wasn't quite a fright? Come this way, and let us see.
If she don't like it she can give it away, you know."

He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner's shop, and after turning
over a great many different articles, chose her a nice warm hood, or
quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well made and pretty. He saw
with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well, and would protect her
ears nicely; and having paid for it and ordered it home, he and Ellen
sallied forth into the street again. But he wouldn't let her thank him.
"It is just the very thing I wanted, sir," said Ellen; "mamma was
speaking about it the other day, and she did not see how I was ever to
get one, because she did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not
get one myself; I know she'll like it very much."

"Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother, Ellen, if
you could choose, and have but one?"

"Oh, for mamma, sir," said Ellen--"a great deal!"

"Come in here," said he; "let us see if we can find anything she would
like."

It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old gentleman
ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be packed up in
papers; and being now very near home he took one parcel and Ellen the
other till they came to the door of Green's Hotel, where he committed
both to her care.

"Won't you come in, sir?" said Ellen.

"No," said he, "I can't this time--I must go home to dinner."

"And shan't I see you any more, sir?" said Ellen, a shade coming over
her face, which a minute before had been quite joyous.

"Well, I don't know," said he kindly; "I hope you will. You shall hear
from me again, at any rate, I promise you. We've spent one pleasant
morning together, haven't we? Good-bye, good-bye."

Ellen's hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in both his,
packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and again bidding her
good-bye, walked away down the street.

The next morning Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly together, and
Ellen had not finished her accustomed reading, when there came a knock
at the door. "My old gentleman?" cried Ellen, as she sprang to open it.
No--there was no old gentleman, but a black man with a brace of
beautiful woodcocks in his hand. He bowed very civilly, and said he had
been ordered to leave the birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in
surprise, took them from him, and likewise a note which he delivered
into her hand. Ellen asked from whom the birds came, but with another
polite bow the man said the note would inform her, and went away. In
great curiosity she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom the
letter was directed. It read thus:--

"Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in his own
way, by showing his regard for her little daughter, and not feel that he
is taking a liberty? The birds are _for Miss Ellen_."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight, "did you ever see
such a dear old gentleman? Now I know what he meant yesterday, when he
asked me if I would rather have something for myself or for you. How
kind he is! to do just the very thing for me that he knows would give me
the most pleasure. Now, mamma, these birds are mine, you know, and I
give them to you. You must pay me a kiss for them, mamma; they are worth
that. Aren't they beauties?"

"They are very fine indeed," said Mrs. Montgomery; "this is just the
season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition."

"Do you like woodcocks, mamma?"

"Yes, very much."

"Oh, how glad I am!" said Ellen. "I'll ask Sam to have them done very
nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much."

The waiter was called, and instructed accordingly, and to him the birds
were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook.

"Now, mamma," said Ellen, "I think these birds have made me happy for
all day."

"Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. You have
ruffles to hem, and the skirts of your dresses to make, we need not wait
for Miss Rice to do that; and when she comes you will have to help her,
for I can do little. You can't be too industrious."

"Well, mamma, I am as willing as can be."

This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen; weeks to which
she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled
away in busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother. The
passions which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasion
were for the present kept effectually in check. She could not forget
that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long
time at least; and this consciousness, always present to her mind,
forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her.
Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power
to overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise, so that in
spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and daughter
enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew that sorrow was
at hand.

All this while there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman's servant
did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time
he came with some fine larks; next was a superb grouse; then woodcock
again. Curiosity strove with astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind.
"Mamma," she said, after she had admired the grouse for five minutes, "I
cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is."

"I am sorry for that," replied Mrs. Montgomery gravely, "for I see no
possible way of your doing it."

"Why, mamma, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name
is? He must know it."

"Certainly not; it would be very dishonourable."

"Would it, mamma?--why?"

"This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name; he wrote his
note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not
to disclose it; don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked
him the first time he came. Now this shows that the old gentleman wishes
to keep it secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very
unworthy return for his kindness."

"Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; but would
it be _dishonourable_, mamma?"

"Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about other
people which does not concern you, and which they wish to keep from you.
Remember that, my dear daughter."

"I will, mamma. I'll never do it, I promise you."

"Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness
to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that
some higher interest does not oblige you to go on. That is true
politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the same; and _not_ to
do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour."

"Well, mamma, I don't care what his name is,--at least I won't try to
find out,--but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew
how much I feel obliged to him."

"Very well; write and tell him so."

"Mamma!" said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide, "can I--would you?"

"Certainly,--if you like. It would be very proper."

"Then I will! I declare that is a good notion. I'll do it the first
thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes to-morrow, as I
suppose he will. Mamma," said she, on opening her desk, "how funny!
don't you remember you wondered who I was going to write notes to? here
is one now, mamma; it is very lucky I have got note-paper."

More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied herself
with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time she began when she
brought the following note for her mother's inspection:--

    "Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gentleman who
    is so kind to her. Mamma enjoys the birds very much, and I think I
    do more; for I have the double pleasure of giving them to mamma, and
    of eating them afterwards; but your kindness is the best of all. I
    can't tell you how much I am obliged to you, sir, but I will always
    love you for all you have done for me.

                                                  "ELLEN MONTGOMERY."



This note Mrs. Montgomery approved; and Ellen having with great care and
great satisfaction enclosed it in an envelope, succeeded in sealing it
according to rule, and very well. Mrs. Montgomery laughed when she saw
the direction, but let it go. Without consulting her, Ellen had written
on the outside, "To the old gentleman." She sent it the next morning by
the hands of the same servant, who this time was the bearer of a plump
partridge "To Miss Montgomery;" and her mind was a great deal easier on
this subject from that time.




CHAPTER VI

          _Mac._ What is the night?

          _Lady Mac._ Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

                                                  --MACBETH.


October was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of the last
Sunday in the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone.
Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and now in the stillness of the
Sabbath evening the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to
be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was
abroad; and he had been so--according to custom--or in bed, the whole
day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves; and most
quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed
together, talked together a great deal, and the evening had been spent
in singing hymns; but Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen
sang alone. _She_ was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn with fresh and
varied pleasure, and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet
words, and the sweet airs--which were all old friends, and brought of
themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of
association--needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice
in which they were sung, which was of all things the sweetest to Mrs.
Montgomery's ear. She listened, till she almost felt as if earth were
left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of
that city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall
be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her
back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely while she heard
it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter--

          God in Israel sows the seeds
            Of affliction, pain, and toil;
          These spring up and choke the weeds
            Which would else o'erspread the soil.

          Trials make the promise sweet--
            Trials give new life to prayer--
          Trials bring me to His feet,
            Lay me low, and keep me there.

"It is so indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, when she had
finished, and holding the little singer to her breast; "I have always
found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank Him
for all the evils He has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt
it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify Him in
the fires, my daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if
we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to Him--He can and
He will in that case make up to us more than all we have lost."

Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of
confidence and hope; to her there was no brightness on the cloud that
hung over them--it was all dark. She could only press her lips in
tearful silence to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks
alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such
embrace! This one, for particular reasons, was often and long
remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek
pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs. Montgomery
remembered that Ellen's bedtime was already past, and dismissed her.

For a while after Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left
her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things in the far past, and the
sad present, and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the
passage of time, and did not notice how the silence deepened as the
night drew on, till scarce a footfall was heard in the street, and the
ticking of the clock sounded with that sad distinctness, which seems to
say, "Time is going on--time is going on--and you are going with it,--do
what you will you can't help that." It was just upon the stroke of ten,
and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp,
brisk footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching; and she
knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, before
she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread
upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a kind of
startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably caused her; the
thought always darted through her head, "perhaps he brings news of
Ellen's going." Something, it would have been impossible to say what, in
his appearance or manner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion.
Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would
say. _He_ seemed very well pleased; sat down before the fire rubbing his
hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and his first
words were, "Well, we have got a fine opportunity for her at last."

How little he was capable of understanding the pang this announcement
gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly
quiet, and he never suspected it.

He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand began to mend
the fire, talking the while.

"I am very glad of it, indeed," said he; "it's quite a load off my mind.
Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is--I'll take passage in
the _England_ the first thing to-morrow. And this is the best possible
chance for Ellen--everything we could have desired. I began to feel very
uneasy about it, it was getting so late, but I am quite relieved now."

"Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak.

"Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his poker by
way of illustration; "you know her, don't you? Captain Dunscombe's wife;
she going right through Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far
as that, and there my sister will meet her with a waggon and take her
straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I'll write to let Fortune
know when to expect her. Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of the first family
and fashion--in the highest degree respectable; she is going on to Fort
Jameson, with her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow
her in a few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately
seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her as
far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me. I'm a
very good friend of his, and he knows it."

"How soon does she go?"

"Why, that's the only part of the business I am afraid you won't like,
but there is no help for it; and after all it is a great deal better so
than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning--better and
easier too in the end."

"How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonised accent.

"Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you--Dunscombe's wife must go, he
told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that she should call in the
carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen."

Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the
sofa.

"I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband, "but I don't
think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is--a great
deal better than if she had a long warning. You would fairly wear
yourself out if you had time enough, and you haven't any strength to
spare."

It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and
firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, though, knowing the
necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained
quite silent and quiet, endeavouring to collect her scattered forces;
then, sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed,
"I must waken Ellen immediately!"

"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband in his turn; "what on earth for?
That's the very last thing to be done."

"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said
Mrs. Montgomery.

"Certainly I would--that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world
should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless
grieving?--unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself
more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no; just let her sleep
quietly, and you go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I
thought you were wiser."

"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"

"Not one bit more than she would be to-night, and she won't have so much
time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not
have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way she will do
well enough,--children always do."

Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.

"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you must not
waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking
the fire very energetically; "it would not do at all,--I cannot allow
it."

Mrs. Montgomery silently rose and lit a lamp.

"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.

"I must--I must put her things together."

"But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that required a
promise.

"Not if I can help it."

Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the door of Ellen's
room, for her heart failed her. But she _must_ go on, and the necessary
preparations for the morrow _must_ be made;--she knew it; and repeating
this to herself, she gently turned the handle of the door and pushed it
open, and guarding the light with her hand from Ellen's eyes, she set it
where it would not shine upon her. Having done this, she set herself,
without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all things in order
for her early departure on the following morning. But it was a bitter
piece of work for her. She first laid out all that Ellen would need to
wear, the dark merino, the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean
frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and
all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness of love;
but it went through and through her heart that it was the very last time
a mother's fingers would ever be busy in arranging or preparing Ellen's
attire; the very last time she would ever see or touch even the little
inanimate things that belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she
was loth to have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering
unwillingness to quit her hold of them that one thing after another was
stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She felt it was love's
last act; words might indeed a few times yet come over the ocean on a
sheet of paper;--but sight, and hearing, and touch must all have done
henceforth for ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on
busily with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely
packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop
and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her
task, she went to the bedside; she had not looked that way before.

Ellen was lying in the deep sweet sleep of childhood; the easy
position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the cheek
showed that all causes of sorrow were for the present far removed. Yet
not so far either; for once when Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her,
light as the touch of that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to
awaken a train of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind.
A shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the word
"Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment,--and the shade
passed away, and the expression of peace settled again upon her brow;
but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she
stood looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last; then
she knelt by the bedside and hid her face in the coverings,--but no
tears came; the struggle in her mind and her anxious fear for the
morning's trial made weeping impossible. Her husband at length came to
seek her, and it was well he did; she would have remained there on her
knees all night. He feared something of the kind, and came to prevent
it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered herself to be led away without making any
opposition, and went to bed as usual, but sleep was far from her. The
fear of Ellen's distress when she would be awakened and suddenly told
the truth kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness she tossed and
turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn, and dreading
unspeakably to see it. The captain, in happy unconsciousness of his
wife's distress and utter inability to sympathise with it, was soon in a
sound sleep, and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble;
it kept repeating, what indeed she knew already, that the only one in
the world who ought to have shared and soothed her grief was not capable
of doing either. Wearied with watching and tossing to and fro, she at
length lost herself a moment in uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly
started in terror, and seizing her husband's arm to arouse him,
exclaimed, "It is time to wake Ellen!" but she had to repeat her efforts
two or three times before she succeeded in making herself heard.

"What is the matter?" said he heavily, and not over well pleased at the
interruption.

"It is time to wake Ellen."

"No, it isn't," said he, relapsing; "it isn't time yet this great
while."

"Oh, yes it is," said Mrs. Montgomery; "I am sure it is. I see the
beginning of dawn in the east."

"Nonsense; it's no such thing--it's the glimmer of the lamplight. What
is the use of your exciting yourself so for nothing; it won't be dawn
these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, and I'll convince you."
He found and struck it. "There! I told you so--only one quarter after
four; it would be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to
me; I'll take care it is done in proper time."

Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to watch the
eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direction, for she
could see nothing. But more quietly now she lay gazing into the darkness
which it was in vain to try to penetrate, and thoughts succeeding
thoughts in a more regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep,
much as she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for nearly an hour,
and when she awoke the dawn had really begun to break in the eastern
sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it
might be as well to get up; but it was with unutterable impatience that
she saw him lighting a lamp and moving about as leisurely as if he had
nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock.

"Oh, do speak to Ellen!" she said, unable to control herself. "Never
mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have no time for
anything. Oh, do not wait any longer! What are you thinking of?"

"What are _you_ thinking of?" said the captain; "there's plenty of time.
Do quiet yourself; you're getting as nervous as possible. I'm going
immediately."

Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience and an agonising dread of
what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen; but her husband coolly went
on with his preparations, which indeed were not long in finishing, and
then taking the lamp, he at last went. He had in truth delayed on
purpose, wishing the final leave-taking to be as brief as possible, and
the grey streaks of light in the east were plainly showing themselves
when he opened the door of his little daughter's room. He found her
lying very much as her mother had left her--in the same quiet sleep and
with the same expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole
face and person. It touched even him, and he was not readily touched by
anything; it made him loth to say the word that would drive all that
sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be said,
however; the increasing light warned him he must not tarry, but it was
with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that he said "Ellen!"

She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face again.

"Ellen! Ellen!"

She started up, broad awake now, and both the shadow and the peaceful
expression were gone from her face. It was a look of blank astonishment
at first with which she regarded her father, but very soon indeed that
changed into one of blank despair. He saw that she understood perfectly
what he was there for, and that there was no need at all for him to
trouble himself with making painful explanations.

"Come, Ellen," he said; "that's a good child, make haste and dress.
There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be at the door;
and your mother wants to see you, you know."

Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings and shoes.

"That's right; now you'll be ready directly. You are going with Mrs.
Dunscombe; I have engaged her to take charge of you all the way quite to
Thirlwall. She's the wife of Captain Dunscombe, whom you saw here the
other day, you know; and her daughter is going with her, so you will
have charming company. I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much,
and your aunt will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste; I expect the
carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I
overslept myself. Don't be long."

And nodding encouragement, her father left her.

"How did she bear it?" asked Mrs. Montgomery when he returned.

"Like a little hero; she didn't say a word or shed a tear. I expected
nothing but that she would made a great fuss; but she has all the old
spirit that you need to have--and have yet, for anything I know. She
behaved admirably."

Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than her
husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret much more truly
than he the signs of them; the conclusions she drew from Ellen's silent
and tearless reception of the news differed widely from his. She now
waited anxiously and almost fearfully for her appearance, which did not
come as soon as she expected it.

It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking and
left her to herself, for she felt she could not dress herself so quick
with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire that she
should be speedy in what she had to do could not be greater than her
own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could, with every joint
trembling. But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's
heart, she could not cry and she could not pray, though true to her
constant habit she fell on her knees by her bedside as she always did.
It was in vain; all was in a whirl in her heart and head, and after a
minute she rose again, clasping her little hands together with an
expression of sorrow that it was well her mother could not see. She was
dressed very soon, but she shrank from going to her mother's room while
her father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and everything
but her bonnet and gloves, and then stood leaning against the bed-post,
for she could not sit down, watching with most intense anxiety to hear
her father's step come out of the room and go downstairs. Every minute
seemed too long to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could
not contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard the
roll of carriage-wheels which came to the door and then stopped, and
immediately her father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any
longer Ellen opened her own, and brushed past him into the room he had
quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her husband had
insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to
receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable expression
Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them. But then neither of
them spoke or wept. What could words say? Heart met heart in that agony,
for each knew all that was in the other. No,--not quite all. Ellen did
not know that the whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was
tasting then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her pain
after this parting should be over. His afterwork--the parting between
soul and body--would be welcome rather; yes, very welcome. Mrs.
Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was the last embrace between
them. She knew it was the very last time that dear little form would
ever lie on her bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed
to her that soul and body must part company too when they should be rent
asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this;--_she_ did not think it was
the last time;--but she was a child of very high spirit and violent
passions, untamed at all by sorrow's discipline; and in proportion
violent was the tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too,
her sorrow was sharpened by a sense of wrong and a feeling of
indignation at her father's cruelty in not waking her earlier.

Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word had yet
been spoken, no sound uttered, except Ellen's first inarticulate cry of
mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery's step was again
heard slowly ascending the stairs. "He is coming to take me away!"
thought Ellen; and in terror lest she should go without a word from her
mother she burst forth with "Mamma! speak!"

A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. But she
could now; and as clearly and calmly the words were uttered as if
nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell a little towards the
last--"God bless my darling child; and make her His own,--and bring her
to that home where parting cannot be."

Ellen's eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the sweet sound
of her mother's voice, it opened all the fountains of tenderness within
her. She burst into uncontrollable weeping; it seemed as if she would
pour out her very heart in tears; and she clung to her mother with a
force that made it a difficult task for her father to remove her. He
could not do it at first; and Ellen seemed not to hear anything that was
said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness; and after a little,
though she had paid no attention to his entreaties or commands, yet
sensible of the necessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold
and suffered him to draw her away from her mother's arms. He carried her
downstairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs.
Dunscombe's maid,--but Ellen could never recollect how she got there,
and she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him when
he bid her good-bye; and she did not know that he put a large paper of
candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew nothing but that she had
lost her mother.

"It will not be so long," said the captain, in a kind of apologising
way; "she will soon get over it, and you will not have any trouble with
her."

"I hope so," returned the lady, rather shortly; and then, as the captain
was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased tone of voice,
"Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to travel without a
bonnet?"

"Bless me! no," said the captain. "How is this? Hasn't she a bonnet? I
beg a thousand pardons, ma'am,--I'll bring it on the instant."

After a little delay the bonnet was found, but the captain overlooked
the gloves in his hurry.

"I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma'am," said he.

"I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet," replied the lady; "drive
on as fast as you can."

A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery--a very slight one from the
lady--and off they drove.

"Proud enough," thought the captain, as he went upstairs again. "I
reckon she don't thank me for her travelling companion. But Ellen's
off--that's one good thing; and now I'll go and engage berths in the
_England_."




CHAPTER VII

          So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

                                                  --MACBETH.


The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to Ellen's
recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her
companions on her account. She did not know that her white bonnet was
such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscombe and the maid, that they
could hardly contain themselves. She did not find out that Miss
Margaret's fingers were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good
string and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well
that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It mattered
nothing; she wept on in her loneliness, and knew nothing that happened,
till the carriage stopped on the wharf; even then she did not raise her
head. Mrs. Dunscombe got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the
same; then, after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to
Ellen.

"Will you get out, Miss Montgomery? or would you prefer to remain in the
carriage? We must go on board directly."

There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that struck
Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears stopped instantly,
and wiping away quick the traces of them as well as she could, she got
out of the carriage without a word, aided by Mrs. Dunscombe's hand. The
party was presently joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised
as Captain Dunscombe.

"Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you, and then come back to
me; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go along and look after
them."

Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret Dunscombe
and the maid Timmins went straight to the cabin. Not feeling at all
drawn towards their company, as indeed they had given her no reason,
Ellen planted herself by the guards of the boat, not far from the
gangway, to watch the busy scene that at another time would have had a
great deal of interest and amusement for her. And interest it had now;
but it was with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the
bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but
she felt this was not the time or the place to let it be seen; so for
the present she occupied herself with what was passing before her,
though it did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow.

At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his wife on
board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was
withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great loops of ropes that held
the boat to enormous wooden posts on the wharf, and they were off!

At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon it were
sailing away from them backwards; but she presently forgot to think of
them at all. She was gone!--she felt the bitterness of the whole truth;
the blue water already lay between her and the shore, where she so much
longed to be. In that confused mass of buildings at which she was
gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing distance, was the
only spot she cared for in the world; her heart was there. She could not
see the place, to be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all
that wide-spread city; but it was there somewhere, and every minute was
making it farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing that sailing away
from all one loves; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning both
her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, and blinding
her so that she could not see the place toward which her straining eyes
were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve,--it was Timmins.

"Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come into the
cabin, miss."

Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed Timmins
into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, and
nurses,--bustling and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might have stayed
outside; she wanted to be by herself; but as the next best thing, she
mounted upon the bench which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on
the cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of her
bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a bit of her
face, while she could look out near by as well as from the deck.
Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the voice of Mrs. Dunscombe,
saying in rather an undertone, but laughing too, "What a figure she does
cut in that outlandish bonnet!"

Ellen had no particular reason to think _she_ was meant, and yet she did
think so. She remained quite still, but with raised colour and quickened
breathing waited to hear what would come next. Nothing came at first,
and she was beginning to think she had perhaps been mistaken, when she
plainly heard Margaret Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper, "Mamma, I wish
you could contrive some way to keep her in the cabin--can't you? she
looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet kind of a thing, that anybody
would think she had come out of the woods, and no gloves too; I
shouldn't like to have the Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to
us;--can't you, mamma?"

If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would hardly have
been greater. The lightning of passion shot through every vein. And it
was not passion only; there was hurt feeling and wounded pride, and the
sorrow of which her heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh.
The child was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the
most pressing thought,--to be where tears could burst and her heart
could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd
to the red curtain that cut off the far end of the saloon; and from
there down to the cabin below,--people were everywhere. At last she
spied a nook where she could be completely hidden. It was in the
far-back end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she had come
down. Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that
ran round that end of the cabin and sloped up to the little cabin
window; and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the
lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened
and out of sight of every human creature. It was time indeed; her heart
had been almost bursting with passion and pain, and now the pent-up
tempest broke forth with a fury that racked her little frame from head
to foot; and the more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as
much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any
softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more bitter by
mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and wrong. And
through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor child was reaching
forth longing arms towards her far-off mother, and calling in secret on
her beloved name. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" was repeated numberless times,
with the unspeakable bitterness of knowing that she would have been a
sure refuge and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she
could neither reach nor hear her. Alas! how soon and how sadly missed.

Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a moment, it
was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad to sit still and
rest herself.

Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid upstairs, at a distance
at first, and coming nearer and nearer. "Breakfast ready,
ladies--Ladies, breakfast ready!" and then came all the people in a
rush, pouring down the stairs over Ellen's head. She kept quite still
and close, for she did not want to see anybody, and could not bear that
anybody should see her. Nobody did see her; they all went off into the
next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her
hiding-place, and to feel restless in her confinement; she thought this
would be a good time to get away; so she crept from her station under
the stairs, and mounted them as quickly and as quietly as she could.
She found almost nobody left in the saloon, and, breathing more freely,
she possessed herself of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her
head in the first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at
the door, went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck; she felt
as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe.

The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning sun; and
nobody was there except a few gentlemen. Ellen sat down on one of the
settees that were ranged along the middle of it, and much pleased at
having found herself such a nice place of retreat, she once more took up
her interrupted amusement of watching the banks of the river.

It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the
loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not fairly
enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart to put a veil
over all nature's brightness. The thought did pass through her mind when
she first went up, how very fair everything was;--but she soon forgot to
think about it all. They were now in a wide part of the river; and the
shore towards which she was looking was low and distant, and offered
nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and presently lost
all sense of everything around and before her, for her thoughts went
home. She remembered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her
mother's arms, after she had stopped singing: could it be only last
night? it seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again in
imagination her shocked waking up that very morning,--how cruel that
was!--her hurried dressing,--the miserable parting,--and those last
words of her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet. "That home
where parting cannot be." "Oh," thought Ellen, "how shall I ever get
there? who is there to teach me now? Oh, what shall I do without you?
Oh, mamma! how much I want you already!"

While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little
face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was
perfectly calm; her violent excitement had all left her; her lip
quivered a very little sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears
rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the
dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on
anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless
sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart
was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by
several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to
speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman who had
been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he
passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that
time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending
down his face towards hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my
little friend?"

Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not
seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far
away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was
no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the
gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her
confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once
opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was
held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and
burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the
news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first
sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a
retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other
people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by
many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit
of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted,
this in some little measure relieved her.

"What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind
shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and
perhaps we can find some help for it."

"Oh no, you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly.

"Well, let us see," said he, "perhaps I can. What is it that has
troubled you so much?"

"I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen.

"Your mother! Lost her!--how?"

"She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to
get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping
again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I
do?"

"Have you left your mother in the city?"

"Oh yes, sir! I left her this morning."

"What is your name?"

"Ellen Montgomery."

"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"

"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said
she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."

"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"

"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to
me as if it was for ever."

"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"

"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."

"Do you know _why_ He sends it? He is the God of love,--He does not
trouble us willingly,--He has said so;--why does He ever make us suffer?
do you know?"

"No, sir."

"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love
some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will
not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it
away,--perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter,--or else He
hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give
their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may
bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.

"How do you know that you are not?"

"Because I do not love the Saviour."

"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"

"I am afraid not, sir."

"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"

"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and
oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."

"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"

"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared
or thought about Him?"

Ellen was silent.

"Is it so?--would you, do you think?"

"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help
it?"

"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this
trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and
He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you
away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to
you, 'My daughter, give _Me_ thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"

Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words,
clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited
till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone--

"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"

"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."

"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you
could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of
Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."

"You pray to Him, don't you?"

"Yes, sir; but not so."

"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;--we
are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens
our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for
those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus
asked him what He should do for him?--he answered, 'Lord, that I may
receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and
the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind
man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"

A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her
face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.

"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought
to make you love Him with all your heart?"

"Oh yes, sir! if you please."

"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, sir;--everything, I think."

"I suppose the great thing is that she loves _you_ so much?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.

"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"

Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she
must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.

"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing,
she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could
be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was
careless about them?"

"No indeed, sir."

"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or
pain where your good was concerned;--she would sacrifice her own
pleasure at any time for yours!"

Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said
nothing.

"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready
and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could?
And in all the times you have seen her tired, no fatigue ever wore out
her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she
could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of
bearing with you when you forgot your duty,--more ready always to
receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and
love--many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right
way--all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world,
and in the next?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my
mother, sir?"

"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many
things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you.
Have I described her right?"

"Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen, "exactly."

"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love
and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have, sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her words.

"You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother--to give
her all possible duty and affection; she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all
these very things I have been mentioning Jesus Christ has shown that He
deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a
child to your mother--if you had never made her the least return of love
or regard--that she would have continued to love you as she does?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "I do not think she would."

"Have you ever made any fit return to God for His goodness to you?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, in a low tone.

"And yet there has been no change in _His_ kindness. Just look at it,
and see what He has done and is doing for you. In the first place, it is
not your mother, but He, who has given you every good and pleasant thing
you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is
so careful to provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials
to work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which He
supplied you. And who gave you such a mother?--there are many mothers
not like her;--who put into her heart the truth and love that have been
blessing you ever since you were born? It is all--all God's doing, from
first to last; but His child has forgotten Him in the very gifts of His
mercy."

Ellen was silent, but looked very grave.

"Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was
concerned. Did Christ mind His? You know what He did to save sinners,
don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I know; mamma often told me."

"'Though He was rich, yet for our sake He became poor, that we through
His poverty might be rich.' He took our burden of sin upon Himself, and
suffered that terrible punishment--all to save you and such as you. And
now He asks His children to leave off sinning and come back to Him who
has bought them with His own blood. He did this because He _loved_ you;
does He not deserve to be loved in return?"

Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and further.

"And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and
more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved
or obeyed Him; and yet He loves you, and is ready to be your friend. Is
He not even to-day taking away your dear mother for the very purpose
that He may draw you gently to Himself and fold you in His arms, as He
has promised to do with His lambs? He knows you can never be happy
anywhere else."

The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind
was full.

"Has not Christ shown that He loves you better even than your mother
does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these?--

"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for
of such is the kingdom of heaven.'

"'I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth His life for the
sheep.'

"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with
loving-kindness have I drawn thee.'"

He waited a minute, and then added gently, "Will you come to Him,
Ellen?"

Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears there too,
and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and
sobbed out in broken words, "Oh, if I could--but I don't know how."

"Do you wish to be His child, Ellen?"

"Oh yes, sir--if I could."

"I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the
Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to Him. He is
looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any
earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little
heart of yours to Him, that He may make it holy and fill it with
blessing. He says, you know, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Do
not grieve Him away, Ellen."

Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone.
Her heart was completely melted.

"If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you
doubt her love to do it? would you have any difficulty in asking her?"

"Oh no!"

"Then do not doubt His love who loves you better still. Come to Jesus.
Do not fancy He is away up in heaven out of reach of hearing--He is
here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think
you are in His presence and at His feet,--even now,--and say to Him in
your heart, 'Lord, look upon me--I am not fit to come to Thee, but Thou
hast bid me come--take me and make me Thine own--take this hard heart
that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with Thy
love--I give it and myself into Thy hands, O dear Saviour!'"

These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her
bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no
more for some time; waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and
appearance, and then said--

"Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?"

"I did, sir,--I couldn't help it, all but the last."

"All but the last?"

"Yes, sir."

"But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole
heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too,--do you believe
that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard and
answered?"

"Yes, sir."

And he thought he saw that she was in earnest.

"Perhaps the answer may not come at once,--it does not always; but it
will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 'Then shall
we know, if we _follow on_ to know the Lord.' But then you must be in
earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do
besides _praying_?"

Ellen looked at him without making any answer.

"When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?"

"By doing everything he possibly can to get what he wants."

"Quite right," said her friend, smiling; "and has God bidden us to do
nothing besides pray for a new heart?"

"Oh yes, sir; He has told us to do a great many things."

"And will He be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if He sees that you
do not care about displeasing Him in those 'great many things'?--will He
judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented
with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant
of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help
will come; and from this good day you will seek to know and to do the
will of God, trusting in His dear Son to perfect that which concerneth
you. My little child," said the gentleman, softly and kindly, "are you
ready to say you will do this?"

As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning
over the leaves said, "I am going to leave you for a little while--I
have a few moments' business downstairs to attend to; and I want you to
look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will
you?--and resolve what you will do."

Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, and
silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears
ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind as her eyes
went over and over the words to which he had pointed:--

         "Behold the Saviour at the door,
          He gently knocks,--has knocked before,--
          Has waited long,--is waiting still,--
          You treat no other friend so ill.

          Oh lovely attitude!--He stands
          With open heart and outstretched hands.
          Oh matchless kindness!--and He shows
          This matchless kindness to His foes.

          Admit Him--for the human breast
          Ne'er entertained so kind a guest.
          Admit Him--for the hour's at hand
          When at _His_ door, denied you'll stand.

          Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
          Slay every foe, and conquer sin.
          Here now to Thee I all resign,--
          My body, soul, and all are Thine."

The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding
were the very speech of her heart.

Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back
again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor.

"Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?"
Ellen looked up.

"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?"

"Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again.

"And how have you decided, my child?"

"I will try to do as you said, sir."

"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please Him, from this day
forward?"

"I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the
look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently.

"God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his
hand over her head; "but do not cry any more--you have shed too many
tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now."

And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her: and
then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different
parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only
qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely
by.




CHAPTER VIII

          Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

                                                  --SHAKESPEARE.


The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend
took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make
interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into
the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost
forgotten.

"What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the
whole; "would you like to go to your friends?"

"I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling
heart.

"Haven't any friends on board! What do you mean? Are you alone?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "not exactly alone; my father put me in the care
of a lady that is going to Thirlwall; but they are strangers and not
friends."

"Are they _un_friends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers
cannot be friends too?"

"No indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was
fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting
it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir."

"Well then," he said, smiling, "will you come with me?"

"Oh yes, sir! if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you,
sir."

"Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place
to sit down, where no one will trouble us."

Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though
the gentleman had done no more than merely to permit her to remain there
by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to
her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way
could be thought of.

When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness
and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been
violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of
quietude, then her thoughts grew misty, and the end of it was, she
dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He
smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the
expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head
to a better resting-place than it had chosen.

And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to
look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave
protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared
herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of
her.

After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again,
and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air
and the quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the
mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and
entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and
went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns
more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book
out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he
passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very
pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the
stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side.

"How do you like my little book?" said he.

"Oh, very much indeed, sir."

"Then you love hymns, do you?"

"Yes, I do, sir, dearly."

"Do you sometimes learn them by heart?"

"Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have
been sitting here."

"Have you?" said he. "Which are they?"

"One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir."

"And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?"

Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a
low tone, "Just what it was then, sir."

"Have you been thinking of it since?"

"I have thought of it the whole time, sir."

"And you are resolved you will obey Christ henceforth?"

"I am resolved to try, sir."

"My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. He never
yet failed any that sincerely sought Him. Have you a Bible?"

"Oh yes, sir! a beautiful one. Mamma gave it to me the other day."

He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the leaves, marked
several places in pencil.

"I am going to give you this," he said, "that it may serve to remind you
of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolution."

Ellen flushed high with pleasure.

"I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few
places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is
something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other
marks here too, but they are mine. _These_ are for you."

"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."

He knew from her face what she meant--not the _marks_.

The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with
great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were
resting from a long walk up and down the deck.

"What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he,
smiling.

"Oh, candies," said Ellen. "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask
you to take some. Will you have some, sir?"

"Thank you. What are they?"

"Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best."

He took one.

"Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen. "I don't care for them in the
least."

"Then I am more of a child than you--in this, at any rate--for I do care
for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with
sweets."

"Then take some for to-morrow, sir. Please do!" said Ellen, dealing them
out very freely.

"Stop, stop!" said he, "not a bit more. This won't do. I must put some
of these back again. You'll want them to-morrow, too."

"I don't think I shall," said Ellen. "I haven't wanted to touch them
to-day."

"Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't
you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and
you've been bonnetless all day. What's the reason?"

Ellen looked down, and  a good deal.

"What's the matter?" said he, laughing. "Has any mischief befallen your
bonnet?"

"No, sir," said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and
higher. "It was laughed at this morning."

"Laughed at! Who laughed at it?"

"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter and her maid."

"Did they? I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they
think was the matter with it?"

"I don't know, sir. They said it was outlandish, and what a figure I
looked in it."

"Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me see."

Ellen obeyed.

"I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets, it is true," said he, "but
I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and
suitable--nothing in the world! So that is what has kept you bare-headed
all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what _she_
approved, because some people that haven't probably half her sense
choose to make merry with it?--is that right?" he said gently, "Is that
honouring her as she deserves?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, looking up into his face, "but I never thought of
that before. I am sorry."

"Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is
right, that's enough for you; let them laugh!"

"I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more," said Ellen, tying it on,
"but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry too."

"I am sorry for that," said her friend gravely. "Have you quite got over
it, Ellen?"

"Oh yes, sir, long ago."

"Are you sure?"

"I am not angry now, sir."

"Is there no unkindness left towards the people who laughed at you?"

"I don't like them much," said Ellen. "How can I?"

"You cannot of course _like_ the company of ill-behaved people, and I do
not wish that you should; but you can and ought to feel just as kindly
disposed towards them as if they had never offended you--just as willing
and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer
Miss--what's her name?--some of your candies with as hearty goodwill as
you could before she laughed at you?"

"No, sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them
again."

"Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do, if you were in earnest
in the resolve you made this morning. 'If ye forgive unto men their
trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you forgive
not men their trespasses, neither will my Father forgive your
trespasses!'"

He was silent, and so was Ellen for some time. His words had raised a
struggle in her mind, and she kept her face turned towards the shore, so
that her bonnet shielded it from view; but she did not in the least know
what she was looking at. The sun had been some time descending through a
sky of cloudless splendour, and now was just kissing the mountain tops
of the western horizon. Slowly and with great majesty he sank behind the
distant blue line, till only a glittering edge appeared, and then that
was gone. There were no clouds hanging over his setting, to be gilded
and purpled by the parting rays, but a region of glory long remained, to
show where his path had been.

The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only one was
thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had disappeared
Ellen turned her face, bright again, towards her companion. He was
intently gazing towards the hills that had so drawn Ellen's attention a
while ago, and thinking still more intently, it was plain; so though
her mouth had been open to speak, she turned her face away again as
suddenly as it had just sought his. He saw the motion, however.

"What is it, Ellen?" he said.

Ellen looked again with a smile.

"I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me."

"Well?" said he, smiling in answer.

"I can't _like_ Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe as well as if they hadn't done
so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing had been the matter,
and be as kind and polite to them as if they had been kind and polite to
me."

"And how about the sugar-plums?"

"The sugar-plums! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "Miss Margaret may have
them all if she likes--I'm quite willing. Not but I had rather give them
to you, sir."

"You give me something a great deal better when I see you try to
overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn't rest till you get rid of every bit
of ill-will that you feel for this and any other unkindness you may
suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know who can help you. I hope
you have asked him, Ellen?"

"I have, sir, indeed."

"Keep asking Him, and He will do everything for you."

A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the
fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side,
leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew
light from the south, so that they did not feel it at all.

The light gradually faded away till only a silver glow in the west
showed where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight was gently
stealing over all the bright colours of sky, and river, and hill; now
and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores.

"You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her--"I see you are. A
little more patience, my child; we shall be at our journey's end before
a very great while."

"I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I _am_ tired. We don't go in
the steamboat to-morrow, do we, sir?"

"No, in the stage."

"Shall _you_ be in the stage, sir?"

"No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together."

"Oh, sir," said Ellen, "I don't know what I should have done if it
hadn't been for you."

There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little
charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly spoke
again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away.

"I wish I knew where mamma is now!"

"I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me that it is well with
her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember
her."

"She must want me so much," said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible
voice.

"She has not lost her best friend, my child."

"I know it, sir," said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the
mastery; "but oh, it's just near the time when I used to make the tea
for her--who'll make it now? she'll want me--oh, what shall I do?" and
overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her
friend's arms and sobbed aloud.

There was no reasoning against this; he did not attempt it; but with the
utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as soon as he might, to
soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last; with a sort of despairing
submission, Ellen ceased her tears, and arose to her former position.
But he did not rest from his kind endeavours till her mind was really
eased and comforted; which, however, was not long before the lights of a
city began to appear in the distance. And with them appeared a dusky
figure ascending the stairs, which, upon nearer approach, proved by the
voice to be Timmins.

"Is this Miss Montgomery?" said she; "I can't see, I am sure, it's so
dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?"

"Yes," said Ellen, "it is I; do you want me?"

"If you please, miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come right down; we're
almost in, she says, miss."

"I'll come directly, Miss Timmins," said Ellen. "Don't wait for me--I
won't be a minute--I'll come directly."

Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the grave
personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained.

"I must go," said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand "Good-bye,
sir."

She could hardly say it. He drew her towards him and kissed her cheek
once or twice; it was well he did, for it sent a thrill of pleasure to
Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next
day.

"God bless you, my child," he said gravely, but cheerfully; "and
good-night!--you will feel better, I trust, when you have had some rest
and refreshment."

He took care of her down the stairs, and saw her safe to the very door
of the saloon, and within it; and there again took her hand and kindly
bade her good-night.

Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart would
break. She saw and heard nothing till Mrs. Dunscombe's voice bade her
make haste and be ready, for they were going ashore in five minutes.

And in less than five minutes ashore they went.

"Which hotel, ma'am?" asked the servant who carried her baggage--"the
Eagle, or Foster's?"

"The Eagle," said Mrs. Dunscombe.

"Come this way, then, ma'am," said another man, the driver of the Eagle
carriage. "Now, ma'am, step in, if you please."

Mrs. Dunscombe put her daughter in.

"But it's full!" said she to the driver; "there isn't room for another
one."

"Oh yes, ma'am, there is," said the driver, holding the door open;
"there's plenty of room for you, ma'am--just get in, ma'am, if you
please,--we'll be there in less than two minutes."

"Timmins, you'll have to walk," said Mrs. Dunscombe. "Miss Montgomery,
would you rather ride, or walk with Timmins?"

"How far is it, ma'am?" said Ellen.

"Oh, bless me! how can I tell how far it is? I don't know, I am
sure,--not far; say quick,--would you rather walk or ride?"

"I would rather walk, ma'am, if you please," said Ellen.

"Very well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, getting in;--"Timmins, you know the
way."

And off went the coach with its load; but tired as she was, Ellen did
not wish herself along.

Picking a passage-way out of the crowd, she and Timmins now began to
make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets.

It was a strange place--that she felt. She had lived long enough in the
place she had left to feel at home there; but here she came to no street
or crossing that she had ever seen before; nothing looked familiar; all
reminded her that she was a traveller. Only one pleasant thing Ellen saw
on her walk, and that was the sky; and that looked just as it did at
home; and very often Ellen's gaze was fixed upon it, much to the
astonishment of Miss Timmins, who had to be not a little watchful for
the safety of Ellen's feet while her eyes were thus employed. She had
taken a great fancy to Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased,
keeping all her wonderment to herself.

"Take care, Miss Ellen!" cried Timmins, giving her arm a great pull. "I
declare I just saved you out of that gutter! poor child! you are
dreadfully tired, ain't you?"

"Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmins," said Ellen; "have we much further
to go?"

"Not a great deal, dear; cheer up! we are almost there. I hope Mrs.
Dunscombe will want to ride one of these days herself, and can't."

"Oh, don't say so, Miss Timmins," said Ellen, "I don't wish so, indeed."

"Well, I should think you would," said Timmins. "I should think you'd be
fit to poison her;--_I_ should, I know, if I was in your place."

"Oh no," said Ellen, "that wouldn't be right; that would be very wrong."

"Wrong!" said Timmins,--"why would it be wrong? she hasn't behaved good
to you."

"Yes," said Ellen, "but don't you know the Bible says if we do not
forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven ourselves?"

"Well, I declare!" said Miss Timmins, "you beat all! But here's the
Eagle at last, and I am glad for your sake, dear."

Ellen was shown into the ladies' parlour. She was longing for a place to
rest, but she saw directly it was not to be there. The room was large,
and barely furnished; and round it were scattered part of the
carriage-load of people that had arrived a quarter of an hour before
her. They were waiting till their rooms should be ready. Ellen silently
found herself a chair and sat down to wait with the rest, as patiently
as she might. Few of them had as much cause for impatience; but she was
the only perfectly mute and uncomplaining one there. Her two companions,
however, between them, fully made up her share of fretting. At length a
servant brought the welcome news that their room was ready, and the
three marched upstairs. It made Ellen's very heart glad when they got
there, to find a good-sized, cheerful-looking bed-room, comfortably
furnished, with a bright fire burning, large curtains let down to the
floor, and a nice warm carpet upon it. Taking off her bonnet, and only
that, she sat down on a low cushion by the corner of the fire-place, and
leaning her head against the jamb, fell fast asleep almost immediately.
Mrs. Dunscombe set about arranging herself for the tea-table.

"Well!" she said, "one day of this precious journey is over!"

"Does Ellen go with us to-morrow, mamma?"

"Oh yes!--quite to Thirlwall."

"Well, you haven't had much plague with her to-day, mamma."

"No--I am sure I am much obliged to whoever has kept her out of my way."

"Where is she going to sleep to-night?" asked Miss Margaret.

"I don't know, I am sure. I suppose I shall have to have a cot brought
in here for her."

"What a plague!" said Miss Margaret. "It will lumber up the room so!
There's no place to put it. Couldn't she sleep with Timmins?"

"Oh, she _could_, of course--just as well as not, only people would make
such a fuss about it!--it wouldn't do;--we must bear it for once. I'll
try and not be caught in such a scrape again."

"How provoking!" said Miss Margaret. "How came father to do so without
asking you about it?"

"Oh, he was bewitched, I suppose--men always are. Look here, Margaret, I
can't go down to tea with a train of children at my heels. I shall leave
you and Ellen up here, and I'll send up your tea to you."

"Oh no, mamma!" said Margaret eagerly; "I want to go down with you. Look
here, mamma! she's asleep, and you needn't wake her up--that's excuse
enough. You can leave her to have tea up here, and let me go down with
you."

"Well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, "I don't care; but make haste to get ready,
for I expect every minute the tea-bell will ring."

"Timmins! Timmins!" cried Margaret, "come here and fix me--quick! and
step softly, will you? or you'll wake that young one up, and then, you
see, I shall have to stay upstairs."

This did not happen, however; Ellen's sleep was much too deep to be
easily disturbed. The tea-bell itself, loud and shrill as it was, did
not even make her eyelids tremble. After Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe were
gone down, Timmins employed herself a little while in putting all things
about the room to rights, and then sat down to take _her_ rest, dividing
her attention between the fire and Ellen, towards whom she seemed to
feel more and more kindness, as she saw that she was likely to receive
it from no one else. Presently came a knock at the door--"The tea for
the young lady," on a waiter. Miss Timmins silently took the tray from
the man and shut the door. "Well!" said she to herself, "if that ain't a
pretty supper to send up to a child that has gone two hundred miles
to-day and had no breakfast--a cup of tea, cold enough I'll warrant,
bread and butter enough for a bird, and two little slices of ham as
thick as a wafer! Well, I just wish Mrs. Dunscombe had to eat it
herself, and nothing else! I'm not going to wake her up for that, I
know, till I see whether something better ain't to be had for love or
money. So just you sleep on, darling, till I see what I can do for you."

In great indignation downstairs went Miss Timmins, and at the foot of
the stairs she met a rosy-cheeked, pleasant-faced girl coming up.

"Are you the chambermaid?" said Timmins.

"I'm _one_ of the chambermaids," said the girl, smiling; "there's three
of us in this house, dear."

"Well, I am a stranger here," said Timmins; "but I want you to help me,
and I am sure you will. I've got a dear little girl upstairs that I want
some supper for; she's a sweet child, and she's under the care of some
proud folks here in the tea-room that think it too much trouble to look
at her, and they've sent her up about supper enough for a mouse--and
she's half-starving; she lost her breakfast this morning by their
ugliness. Now ask one of the waiters to give me something nice for her,
will you?--there's a good girl."

"James!" said the girl in a loud whisper to one of the waiters who was
crossing the hall. He instantly stopped and came towards them, tray in
hand, and making several extra polite bows as he drew near.

"What's on the supper-table, James?" said the smiling damsel.

"Everything that ought to be there, Miss Johns," said the man, with
another flourish.

"Come, stop your nonsense," said the girl, "and tell me quick; I'm in a
hurry."

"It's a pleasure to perform your commands, Miss Johns. I'll give you the
whole bill of fare. There's a very fine beefsteak, fricasseed chickens,
stewed oysters, sliced ham, cheese, preserved quinces--with the usual
complement of bread and toast and muffins, and doughnuts, and new-year
cake, and plenty of butter, likewise salt and pepper, likewise tea and
coffee and sugar, likewise----"

"Hush!" said the girl. "Do stop, will you?" and then laughing and
turning to Miss Timmins, she added, "What will you have?"

"I guess I'll have some of the chickens and oysters," said Timmins;
"that will be the nicest for her, and a muffin or two."

"Now, James, do you hear?" said the chambermaid; "I want you to get me
now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and oysters and a
muffin--it's for a lady upstairs. Be as quick as you can."

"I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss Johns;
but Mrs. Custers is at the table herself."

"Very well--that's nothing; she'll think it's for somebody upstairs--and
so it is."

"Ay, but the upstairs people is Tim's business--I should be hauled over
the coals directly."

"Then ask Tim, will you? How slow you are! Now, James, if you don't I
won't speak to you again."

"Till to-morrow? I couldn't stand that. It shall be done, Miss Johns,
instantum."

Bowing and smiling, away went James, leaving the girls giggling on the
staircase and highly gratified.

"He always does what I want him to," said the good-humoured chambermaid;
"but he generally makes a fuss about it first. He'll be back directly
with what you want."

Till he came, Miss Timmins filled up the time with telling her new
friend as much as she knew about Ellen and Ellen's hardships, with which
Miss Johns was so much interested that she declared she must go up and
see her; and when James in a few minutes returned with a tray of nice
things, the two women proceeded together to Mrs. Dunscombe's room. Ellen
had moved so far as to put herself on the floor with her head on the
cushion for a pillow, but she was as sound asleep as ever.

"Just see now!" said Timmins; "there she lies on the floor--enough to
give her her death of cold. Poor child, she's tired to death, and Mrs.
Dunscombe made her walk up from the steamboat to-night rather than do it
herself; I declare I wished the coach would break down, only for the
other folks. I am glad I have got a good supper for her though--thank
_you_, Miss Johns."

"And I'll tell you what, I'll go and get you some nice hot tea," said
the chambermaid, who was quite touched by the sight of Ellen's little
pale face.

"Thank you," said Timmins, "you're a darling. This is as cold as a
stone."

While the chambermaid went forth on her kind errand, Timmins stooped
down by the little sleeper's side. "Miss Ellen!" she said; "Miss Ellen!
wake up, dear--wake up and get some supper--come! you'll feel a great
deal better for it; you shall sleep as much as you like afterwards."

Slowly Ellen raised herself and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she
asked, looking bewildered.

"Here, dear," said Timmins; "wake up and eat something--it will do you
good."

With a sigh, poor Ellen arose and came to the fire. "You're tired to
death, ain't you?" said Timmins.

"Not quite," said Ellen. "I shouldn't mind that if my legs would not
ache so--and my head too."

"Now I'm sorry!" said Timmins; "but your head will be better for eating,
I know. See here, I've got you some nice chicken and oysters, and I'll
make this muffin hot for you by the fire; and here comes your tea. Miss
Johns, I'm your servant, and I'll be your bridesmaid with the greatest
pleasure in life. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, just you put yourself on that
low chair, and I'll fix you off."

Ellen thanked her, and did as she was told. Timmins brought another
chair to her side, and placed the tray with her supper upon it, and
prepared her muffin and tea; and having fairly seen Ellen begin to eat,
she next took off her shoes, and seating herself on the carpet before
her, she made her lap the resting-place for Ellen's feet, chafing them
in her hands and heating them at the fire, saying there was nothing like
rubbing and roasting to get rid of the leg-ache. By the help of the
supper, the fire, and Timmins, Ellen mended rapidly. With tears in her
eyes, she thanked the latter for her kindness.

"Now just don't say one word about that," said Timmins; "I never was
famous for kindness, as I know; but people must be kind sometimes in
their lives, unless they happen to be made of stone, which I believe
some people are. You feel better, don't you?"

"A great deal," said Ellen. "Oh, if I only could go to bed now!"

"And you shall," said Timmins. "I know about your bed, and I'll go right
away and have it brought in." And away she went.

While she was gone, Ellen drew from her pocket her little hymn-book, to
refresh herself with looking at it. How quickly and freshly it brought
back to her mind the friend who had given it, and his conversations with
her, and the resolve she had made; and again Ellen's whole heart offered
the prayer she had repeated many times that day--

         "Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
          Slay every foe, and conquer sin."

Her head was still bent upon her little book when Timmins entered.
Timmins was not alone; Miss Johns and a little cot bedstead came in with
her. The latter was put at the foot of Mrs. Dunscombe's bed, and
speedily made up by the chambermaid, while Timmins undressed Ellen; and
very soon all the sorrows and vexations of the day were forgotten in a
sound, refreshing sleep. But not till she had removed her little
hymn-book from the pocket of her frock to a safe station under her
pillow; it was with her hand upon it that Ellen went to sleep; and it
was in her hand still when she was waked the next morning.

The next day was spent in a wearisome stage-coach, over a rough jolting
road. Ellen's companions did nothing to make her way pleasant, but she
sweetened theirs with her sugar-plums. Somewhat mollified, perhaps,
after that, Miss Margaret condescended to enter into conversation with
her, and Ellen underwent a thorough cross-examination as to all her own
and her parents' affairs, past, present, and future, and likewise as to
all that could be known of her yesterday's friend, till she was heartily
worried and out of patience.

It was just five o'clock when they reached her stopping-place. Ellen
knew of no particular house to go to; so Mrs. Dunscombe set her down at
the door of the principal inn of the town, called the "Star" of
Thirlwall.

The driver smacked his whip, and away went the stage again, and she was
left standing alone beside her trunk before the piazza of the inn,
watching Timmins, who was looking back at her out of the stage window,
nodding and waving good-bye.




CHAPTER IX

    _Gadsby._ Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

    _2nd Car._ Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.

                                                  --KING HENRY IV.


Ellen had been whirled along over the roads for so many hours,--the
rattle of the stage-coach had filled her ears for so long,--that now,
suddenly still and quiet, she felt half stunned. She stood with a kind
of dreamy feeling, looking after the departing stage-coach. In it there
were three people whose faces she knew, and she could not count a fourth
within many a mile. One of those was a friend, too, as the fluttering
handkerchief of poor Miss Timmins gave token still. Yet Ellen did not
wish herself back in the coach, although she continued to stand and gaze
after it as it rattled off at a great rate down the little street, its
huge body lumbering up and down every now and then, reminding her of
sundry uncomfortable jolts; till the horses making a sudden turn to the
right, it disappeared round a corner. Still for a minute Ellen watched
the whirling cloud of dust it had left behind; but then the feeling of
strangeness and loneliness came over her, and her heart sank. She cast a
look up and down the street. The afternoon was lovely; the slant beams
of the setting sun came back from gilded windows, and the houses and
chimney-tops of the little town were in a glow; but she saw nothing
bright anywhere--in all the glory of the setting sun the little town
looked strange and miserable. There was no sign of her having been
expected; nobody was waiting to meet her. What was to be done next?
Ellen had not the slightest idea.

Her heart growing fainter and fainter, she turned again to the inn. A
tall, awkward young countryman, with a cap set on one side of his head,
was busying himself with sweeping the floor of the piazza, but in a very
leisurely manner; and between every two strokes of his broom he was
casting long looks at Ellen, evidently wondering who she was and what
she could want there. Ellen saw it, and hoped he would ask her in words,
for she could not answer his _looks_ of curiosity, but she was
disappointed. As he reached the end of the piazza, and gave his broom
two or three knocks against the edge of the boards to clear it of dust,
he indulged himself with one good long finishing look at Ellen, and then
she saw he was going to take himself and his broom into the house. So in
despair she ran up the two or three low steps of the piazza and
presented herself before him. He stopped short.

"Will you please to tell me, sir," said poor Ellen, "if Miss Emerson is
here?"

"Miss Emerson?" said he; "what Miss Emerson?"

"I don't know, sir; Miss Emerson that lives not far from Thirlwall."
Eyeing Ellen from head to foot, the man then trailed his broom into the
house. Ellen followed him.

"Mr. Forbes!" said he, "Mr. Forbes! do you know anything of Miss
Emerson?"

"What Miss Emerson?" said another man, with a big red face and a big
round body, showing himself in a doorway which he nearly filled.

"Miss Emerson that lives a little way out of town."

"Miss Fortune Emerson? yes, I know her. What of her?"

"Has she been here to-day?"

"Here? what, in town? No, not as I've seen or heard. Why, who wants
her?"

"This little girl."

And the man with the broom stepping back, disclosed Ellen to the view of
the red-faced landlord. He advanced a step or two towards her.

"What do you want with Miss Fortune, little one?" said he.

"I expected she would meet me here, sir," said Ellen.

"Where have you come from?"

"From New York."

"The stage set her down just now," put in the other man.

"And you thought Miss Fortune would meet you, did you?"

"Yes, sir; she was to meet me and take me home."

"Take you home? Are you going to Miss Fortune's home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, you don't belong to her any way, do you?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "but she's my aunt."

"She's your what?"

"My aunt, sir; my father's sister."

"Your father's sister! You ben't the daughter of Morgan Montgomery, be
you?"

"Yes, I am," said Ellen, half-smiling.

"And you are come to make a visit to Miss Fortune, eh?"

"Yes," said Ellen, smiling no longer.

"And Miss Fortune ha'n't come up to meet you; that's real shabby of her;
and how to get you down there to-night, I am sure it is more than I can
tell." And he shouted, "Wife!"

"What's the matter, Mr. Forbes?" said a fat landlady, appearing in the
doorway, which she filled near as well as her husband would have done.

"Look here," said Mr. Forbes, "here's Morgan Montgomery's daughter come
to pay a visit to her aunt, Fortune Emerson. Don't you think she'll be
glad to see her?"

Mr. Forbes put this question with rather a curious look at his wife. She
didn't answer him. She only looked at Ellen, looked grave, and gave a
queer little nod of her head, which meant, Ellen could not make out
what.

"Now, what's to be done?" continued Mr. Forbes. "Miss Fortune was to
have come up to meet her, but she ain't here, and I don't know how in
the world I can take the child down there to-night. The horses are both
out to plough, you know; and besides, the tire is come off that waggon
wheel. I couldn't possibly use it. And then it's a great question in my
mind what Miss Fortune would say to me. I should get paid, I s'pose?"

"Yes, you'd get paid," said his wife, with another little shake of her
head; "but whether it would be the kind of pay you'd like, _I_ don't
know."

"Well, what's to be done, wife? Keep the child over night, and send word
down yonder?"

"No," said Mrs. Forbes, "I'll tell you. I think I saw Van Brunt go by
two or three hours ago with the ox-cart, and I guess he's somewhere up
town yet; I ha'n't seen him go back. He can take the child home with
him. Sam!" shouted Mrs. Forbes; "Sam! here!--Sam, run up street
directly, and see if you see Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart standing
anywhere--I dare say he's at Mr. Miller's, or may be at Mr. Hammersley's
the blacksmith--and ask him to stop here before he goes home. Now hurry!
and don't run over him and then come back and tell me he ain't in
town."

Mrs. Forbes herself followed Sam to the door, and cast an exploring look
in every direction.

"I don't see no signs of him--up nor down," said she, returning to
Ellen; "but I'm pretty sure he ain't gone home. Come in here; come in
here, dear, and make yourself comfortable; it'll be a while yet maybe
afore Mr. Van Brunt comes, but he'll be along by-and-by;--come in here
and rest yourself."

She opened a door, and Ellen followed her into a large kitchen, where a
fire was burning that showed wood must be plenty in those regions. Mrs.
Forbes placed a low chair for her on the hearth, but herself remained
standing by the side of the fire, looking earnestly and with a good deal
of interest upon the little stranger. Ellen drew her white bonnet from
her head, and sitting down with a wearied air, gazed sadly into the
flames that were shedding their light upon her.

"Are you going to stop a good while with Miss Fortune?" said Mrs.
Forbes.

"I don't know, ma'am,--yes, I believe so," said Ellen faintly.

"Ha'n't you got no mother?" asked Mrs. Forbes suddenly, after a pause.

"Oh yes!" said Ellen, looking up. But the question had touched the sore
spot. Her head sank on her hands, and "Oh, mamma!" was uttered with a
bitterness that even Mrs. Forbes could feel.

"Now what made me ask you that!" said she. "Don't cry!--don't, love;
poor little dear; you're as pale as a sheet; you're tired, I know--ain't
you; now cheer up, do,--I can't bear to see you cry. You've come a great
ways to-day, ha'n't you?"

Ellen nodded her head, but could give no answer.

"I know what will do you good," said Mrs. Forbes presently, getting up
from the crouching posture she had taken to comfort Ellen; "you want
something to eat,--that's the matter. I'll warrant you're half starved;
no wonder you feel bad. Poor little thing! you shall have something good
directly."

And away she bustled to get it. Left alone, Ellen's tears flowed a few
minutes very fast. She felt forlorn; and she was besides, as Mrs. Forbes
opined, both tired and faint. But she did not wish to be found weeping,
she checked her tears, and was sitting again quietly before the fire
when the landlady returned.

Mrs. Forbes had a great bowl of milk in one hand, and a plate of bread
in the other, which she placed on the kitchen table, and setting a
chair, called Ellen to come and partake of it.

"Come, dear,--here is something that will do you good. I thought there
was a piece of pie in the buttery, and so there was, but Mr. Forbes
must have got hold of it, for it ain't there now; and there ain't a bit
of cake in the house for you; but I thought maybe you would like this as
well as anything. Come!"

Ellen thanked her, but said she did not want anything.

"Oh yes, you do," said Mrs. Forbes; "I know better. You're as pale as I
don't know what. Come! this'll put roses in your cheek. Don't you like
bread and milk?"

"Yes, very much indeed, ma'am," said Ellen, "but I'm not hungry." She
rose, however, and came to the table.

"Oh, well, try to eat a bit just to please me. It's real good country
milk--not a bit of cream off. You don't get such milk as that in the
city, I guess. That's right! I see the roses coming back to your cheeks
already. Is your pa in New York now?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You expect your pa and ma up to Thirlwall by-and-by, don't you?"

"No, ma'am."

Mrs. Forbes was surprised, and longed to ask why not, and what Ellen had
come for; but the shade that had passed over her face as she answered
the last question warned the landlady she was getting upon dangerous
ground.

"Does your aunt expect you to-night?"

"I believe so, ma'am,--I don't know,--she was to have met me; papa said
he would write."

"Oh, well! maybe something hindered her from coming. It's no matter;
you'll get home just as well. Mr. Van Brunt will be here soon, I guess;
it's most time for him to be along."

She went to the front door to look out for him, but returned without any
news. A few minutes passed in silence, for though full of curiosity, the
good landlady dared not ask what she wanted to know, for fear of again
exciting the sorrow of her little companion. She contented herself with
looking at Ellen, who on her part, much rested and refreshed, had turned
from the table, and was again, though somewhat less sadly, gazing into
the fire.

Presently the great wooden clock struck half-past five, with a whirling
rickety voice, for all the world like a horse grasshopper. Ellen at
first wondered where it came from, and was looking at the clumsy machine
that reached nearly from the floor of the kitchen to the ceiling, when a
door at the other end of the room opened, and "Good day, Mrs. Forbes,"
in a rough but not unpleasant voice, brought her head quickly round in
that direction. There stood a large, strong-built man, with an ox-whip
in his hand. He was well-made and rather handsome, but there was
something of heaviness in the air of both face and person mixed with
his certainly good-humoured expression. His dress was as rough as his
voice--a grey frock-coat, green velveteen pantaloons, and a fur cap that
had seen its best days some time ago.

"Good day, Mrs. Forbes," said this personage; "Sam said you wanted me to
stop as I went along."

"Ah, how d'ye do, Mr. Van Brunt?" said the landlady, rising; "you've got
the ox-cart with you, ha'n't you?"

"Yes, I've got the ox-cart," said the person addressed. "I came in town
for a barrel of flour, and then the near ox had lost both his fore shoes
off, and I had to go over there, and Hammersley has kept me a precious
long time. What's wanting, Mrs. Forbes? I can't stop."

"You've no load in the cart, have you?" said the landlady.

"No; I should have had though, but Miller had no shorts nor fresh flour,
nor won't till next week. What's to go down, Mrs. Forbes?"

"The nicest load ever you carried, Mr. Van Brunt. Here's a little lady
come to stay with Miss Fortune. She's a daughter of Captain Montgomery,
Miss Fortune's brother, you know. She came by the stage a little while
ago, and the thing is how to get her down to-night. She can go in the
cart, can't she?"

Mr. Van Brunt looked a little doubtful, and pulling off his cap with one
hand, while he scratched his head with the other, he examined Ellen from
head to foot; much as if she had been some great bale of goods, and he
were considering whether his cart would hold her or not.

"Well," said he at length, "I don't know but she can; but there ain't
nothing on 'arth for her to sit down upon?"

"Oh, never mind; I'll fix that," said Mrs. Forbes. "Is there any straw
in the bottom of the cart?"

"Not a bit."

"Well, I'll fix it," said Mrs. Forbes. "You get her trunk into the cart,
will you, Mr. Van Brunt? and I'll see to the rest."

Mr. Van Brunt moved off without another word to do what was desired of
him,--apparently quite confounded at having a passenger instead of his
more wonted load of bags and barrels. And his face still continued to
wear the singular, doubtful expression it had put on at first hearing
the news. Ellen's trunk was quickly hoisted in, however; and Mrs. Forbes
presently appeared with a little armchair, which Mr. Van Brunt with an
approving look bestowed in the cart, planting it with its back against
the trunk to keep it steady. Mrs. Forbes then, raising herself on tiptoe
by the side of the cart, took a view of the arrangements.

"That won't do yet," said she; "her feet will be cold on that bare
floor, and 'tain't over clean, neither. Here, Sally! run up and fetch
me that piece of carpet you'll find lying at the top of the back-stairs.
Now, hurry! Now, Mr. Van Brunt, I depend upon you to get my things back
again; will you see and bring 'em the first time you come in town?"

"I'll see about it. But what if I can't get hold of them?" answered the
person addressed, with a half smile.

"Oh," said Mrs. Forbes, with another, "I leave that to you; you have
your ways and means. Now, just spread this carpet down nicely under her
chair, and then she'll be fixed. Now, my darling, you'll ride like a
queen. But how are you going to get in? Will you let Mr. Van Brunt lift
you up?"

Ellen's "Oh no, ma'am, if you please!" was accompanied with such an
evident shrinking from the proposal, that Mrs. Forbes did not press it.
A chair was brought from the kitchen, and by making a long step from it
to the top of the wheel, and then to the edge of the cart, Ellen was at
length safely stowed in her place. Kind Mrs. Forbes then stretched
herself up over the side of the cart to shake hands with her and bid her
good-bye, telling her again she would ride like a queen. Ellen answered
only "Good-bye, ma'am;" but it was said with a look of so much
sweetness, and eyes swimming half in sadness and half in gratefulness,
that the good landlady could not forget it.

"I do think," said she, when she went back to her husband, "that is the
dearest little thing, about, I ever did see."

"Humph!" said her husband, "I reckon Miss Fortune will think so too."

The doubtful look came back to Mrs. Forbes' face, and with another
little grave shake of her head she went into the kitchen.

"How kind she is! how good everybody is to me!" thought little Ellen, as
she moved off in state in her chariot drawn by oxen. Quite a contrast
this new way of travelling was to the noisy stage and swift steamer.
Ellen did not know at first whether to like or dislike it; but she came
to the conclusion that it was very funny, and a remarkably amusing way
of getting along. There was one disadvantage about it certainly,--their
rate of travel was very slow. Ellen wondered her charioteer did not make
his animals go faster; but she soon forgot their lazy progress in the
interest of novel sights and new scenes.

Slowly, very slowly, the good oxen drew the cart and the little queen in
the arm-chair out of the town, and they entered upon the open country.
The sun had already gone down when they left the inn, and the glow of
his setting had faded a good deal by the time they got quite out of the
town; but light enough was left still to delight Ellen with the pleasant
look of the country. It was a lovely evening, and quiet as summer; not
a breath stirring. The leaves were all off the trees; the hills were
brown; but the soft warm light that still lingered upon them forbade any
look of harshness or dreariness. These hills lay towards the west, and
at Thirlwall were not more than two miles distant, but sloping off more
to the west as the range extended in a southerly direction. Between, the
ground was beautifully broken. Rich fields and meadows lay on all sides,
sometimes level, and sometimes with a soft, wavy surface, where Ellen
thought it must be charming to run up and down. Every now and then these
were varied by a little rising ground capped with a piece of woodland;
and beautiful trees, many of them, were seen standing alone, especially
by the roadside. All had a cheerful, pleasant look. The houses were very
scattered; in the whole way they passed but few. Ellen's heart regularly
began to beat when they came in sight of one, and "I wonder if that is
Aunt Fortune's house!"--"Perhaps it is!"--or "I hope it is not!" were
the thoughts that rose in her mind. But slowly the oxen brought her
abreast of the houses, one after another, and slowly they passed on
beyond, and there was no sign of getting home yet. Their way was through
pleasant lanes towards the south, but constantly approaching the hills.
About half a mile from Thirlwall they crossed a little river, not more
than thirty yards broad, and after that the twilight deepened fast. The
shades gathered on field and hill; everything grew brown, and then
dusky; and then Ellen was obliged to content herself with what was very
near, for further than that she could only see the outlines. She began
again to think of their slow travelling, and to wonder that Mr. Van
Brunt could be content with it. She wondered too what made him walk,
when he might just as well have sat in the cart; the truth was he had
chosen that for the purpose that he might have a good look at the little
queen in the arm-chair. Apparently, however, he too now thought it might
be as well to make a little haste, for he thundered out some orders to
his oxen, accompanied with two or three strokes of his heavy lash,
which, though not cruel by any means, went to Ellen's heart.

"Them lazy critters won't go fast anyhow," said he to Ellen, "they will
take their own time; it ain't no use to cut them."

"Oh no! pray don't, if you please!" said Ellen in a voice of earnest
entreaty.

"'Tain't fair, neither," continued Mr. Van Brunt, lashing his great whip
from side to side without touching anything. "I have seen critters that
would take any quantity of whipping to make them go, but them 'ere ain't
of that kind; they'll work as long as they can stand, poor fellows!"

There was a little silence, during which Ellen eyed her rough
charioteer, not knowing exactly what to make of him.

"I guess this is the first time you ever rid in an ox-cart, ain't it?"

"Yes," said Ellen; "I never saw one before."

"Ha'n't you never seen an ox-cart! Well, how do you like it?"

"I like it very much indeed. Have we much further to go before we get to
Aunt Fortune's house?"

"'Aunt Fortune's house!' a pretty good bit yet. You see that mountain
over there?" pointing with his whip to a hill directly west of them, and
about a mile distant.

"Yes," said Ellen.

"That's the Nose. Then you see that other?" pointing to one that lay
some two miles further south; "Miss Fortune's house is just this side of
that; it's all of two miles from here."

And urged by this recollection, he again scolded and cheered the patient
oxen, who for the most part kept on their steady way without any
reminder. But perhaps it was for Ellen's sake that he scarcely touched
them with the whip.

"That don't hurt them, not a bit," he remarked to Ellen, "it only lets
them know that I'm here, and they must mind their business. So you're
Miss Fortune's niece, eh?"

"Yes," said Ellen.

"Well," said Mr. Van Brunt, with a desperate attempt at being
complimentary, "I shouldn't care if you was mine too."

Ellen was somewhat astounded, and so utterly unable to echo the wish,
that she said nothing. She did not know it, but Mr. Van Brunt had made,
for him, most extraordinary efforts at sociability. Having quite
exhausted himself, he now mounted into the cart and sat silent, only now
and then uttering energetic "Gee's!" and "Haw's!" which greatly excited
Ellen's wonderment. She discovered they were meant for the ears of the
oxen, but more than that she could not make out.

They plodded along very slowly, and the evening fell fast. As they left
behind the hill which Mr. Van Brunt had called "the Nose," they could
see, through an opening in the mountains, a bit of the western horizon,
and some brightness still lingering there; but it was soon hid from
view, and darkness veiled the whole country. Ellen could amuse herself
no longer with looking about; she could see nothing very clearly but the
outline of Mr. Van Brunt's broad back, just before her. But the stars
had come out; and, brilliant and clear, they were looking down upon her
with their thousand eyes. Ellen's heart jumped when she saw them with a
mixed feeling of pleasure and sadness. They carried her right back to
the last evening, when she was walking up the hill with Timmins; she
remembered her anger against Mrs. Dunscombe, and her kind friend's
warning not to indulge it, and all his teaching that day; and tears came
with the thought, how glad she should be to hear him speak to her again.
Still looking up at the beautiful quiet stars, she thought of her dear
far-off mother, how long it was already since she had seen her; faster
and faster the tears dropped; and then she thought of that glorious One
who had made the stars, and was above them all, and who could and did
see her mother and her, though ever so far apart, and could hear and
bless them both. The little face was no longer upturned--it was buried
in her hands and bowed to her lap, and tears streamed as she prayed that
God would bless her dear mother and take care of her. Not once nor
twice; the fulness of Ellen's heart could not be poured out in one
asking. Greatly comforted at last at having, as it were, laid over the
care of her mother upon One who was able, she thought of herself and her
late resolution to serve Him. She was in the same mind still. She could
not call herself a Christian yet, but she was resolved to be one; and
she earnestly asked the Saviour she sought to make her and keep her His
child. And then Ellen felt happy.

Quiet, and weariness, and even drowsiness succeeded. It was well the
night was still, for it had grown quite cool, and a breeze would have
gone through and through Ellen's nankeen coat. As it was she began to be
chilly, when Mr. Van Brunt, who, since he had got into the cart, had
made no remarks except to his oxen, turned round a little and spoke to
her again.

"It's only a little bit of way we've got to go now," said he; "we're
turning the corner."

The words seemed to shoot through Ellen's heart. She was wide awake
instantly, and quite warm; and, leaning forward in her little chair, she
strove to pierce the darkness on either hand of her, to see whereabouts
the house stood, and how things looked. She could discern nothing but
misty shadows and outlines of she could not tell what, the starlight was
too dim to reveal anything to a stranger.

"There's the house," said Mr. Van Brunt after a few minutes more; "do
you see it yonder?"

Ellen strained her eyes, but could make out nothing, not even a glimpse
of white. She sat back in her chair, her heart beating violently.
Presently Mr. Van Brunt jumped down and opened a gate at the side of the
road; and with a great deal of "gee"-ing, the oxen turned to the right,
and drew the cart a little way uphill, then stopped on what seemed level
ground.

"Here we are!" cried Mr. Van Brunt, as he threw his whip on the ground,
"and late enough! You must be tired of that little arm-chair by this
time. Come to the side of the cart and I'll lift you down."

Poor Ellen! There was no help for it. She came to the side of the cart,
and taking her in his arms her rough charioteer set her very gently and
carefully on the ground.

"There!" said he, "now you can run right in; do you see that little
gate?"

"No," said Ellen, "I can't see anything."

"Well, come here," said he, "and I'll show you. Here--you're running
agin the fence; this way."

And he opened a little wicket, which Ellen managed to stumble through.

"Now," said he, "go straight up to that door yonder, and open it, and
you'll see where to go. Don't knock, but just pull the latch and go in."

And he went off to his oxen. Ellen at first saw no door, and did not
even know where to look for it; by degrees, as her head became clearer,
the large dark shadow of the house stood before her, and a little
glimmering light of a path seemed to lead onward from where she stood.
With unsteady steps Ellen pursued it till her foot struck against the
stone before the door. Her trembling fingers found the latch, lifted it,
and she entered. All was dark; but at the right a window showed light
glimmering within. Ellen made toward it, and groping, came to another
door-latch. This was big and clumsy; however, she managed it, and
pushing open the heavy door, went in.

It was a good-sized cheerful-looking kitchen. A fine fire was burning in
the enormous fireplace; the white walls and ceiling were yellow in the
light of the flame. No candles were needed, and none were there. The
supper table was set, and with its snow-white tablecloth and shining
furniture, looked very comfortable indeed. But the only person there was
an old woman, sitting by the side of the fire, with her back towards
Ellen. She seemed to be knitting, but did not move nor look round. Ellen
had come a step or two into the room, and there she stood, unable to
speak or to go any further. "Can that be Aunt Fortune?" she thought;
"she can't be as old as that!"

In another minute a door opened at her right, just behind the old
woman's back, and a second figure appeared at the top of a flight of
stairs which led down from the kitchen. She came in, shutting the door
behind her with her foot; and indeed, both hands were full, one holding
a lamp and a knife, and the other a plate of butter. The sight of Ellen
stopped her short.

"What is this? and what do you leave the door open for, child?" she
said.

She advanced towards it, plate and lamp in hand, and setting her back
against the door, shut it vigorously.

"Who are you? and what's wanting?"

"I am Ellen Montgomery, ma'am," said Ellen timidly.

"_What?_" said the lady, with some emphasis.

"Didn't you expect me, ma'am?" said Ellen; "papa said he would write."

"Why, is this Ellen Montgomery?" said Miss Fortune, apparently forced to
the conclusion that it must be.

"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen.

Miss Fortune went to the table and put the butter and the lamp in their
places. "Did you say your father wrote to tell me of your coming?"

"He said he would, ma'am," said Ellen.

"He didn't! Never sent me a line. Just like him! I never yet knew Morgan
Montgomery do a thing when he promised he would."

Ellen's face flushed, and her heart swelled. She stood motionless.

"How did you get down here to-night?"

"I came in Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart," said Ellen.

"Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart! Then he's got home, has he?" And hearing at
that instant a noise outside, Miss Fortune swept to the door, saying as
she opened it, "Sit down, child, and take off your things."

The first command at least Ellen obeyed gladly; she did not feel enough
at home to comply with the second. She only took off her bonnet.

"Well, Mr. Van Brunt," said Miss Fortune at the door, "have you brought
me a barrel of flour?"

"No, Miss Fortune," said the voice of Ellen's charioteer, "I've brought
you something better than that."

"Where did you find her?" said Miss Fortune, something shortly.

"Up at Forbes's."

"What have you got there?"

"A trunk. Where is it to go?"

"A trunk! Bless me! it must go upstairs; but how it is ever to get
there, I am sure I don't know."

"I'll find a way to get it there, I'll engage, if you'll be so good as
to open the door for me, ma'am."

"Indeed you won't! That'll never do! With your shoes!" said Miss
Fortune, in a tone of indignant housewifery.

"Well, without my shoes then," said Mr. Van Brunt, with a half giggle,
as Ellen heard the shoes kicked off. "Now, ma'am, out of my way; give me
a road."

Miss Fortune seized the lamp, and opening another door, ushered Mr. Van
Brunt and the trunk out of the kitchen and up, Ellen saw not whither. In
a minute or two they returned, and he of the ox-cart went out.

"Supper's just ready, Mr. Van Brunt," said the mistress of the house.

"Can't stay, ma'am, it's so late; must hurry home." And he closed the
door behind him.

"What made you so late?" asked Miss Fortune of Ellen.

"I don't know, ma'am--I believe Mr. Van Brunt said the blacksmith had
kept him."

Miss Fortune bustled about a few minutes in silence, setting some things
on the table and filling the teapot.

"Come," she said to Ellen, "take off your coat and come to the table.
You must be hungry by this time. It's a good while since you had your
dinner, ain't it? Come, mother."

The old lady rose, and Miss Fortune taking her chair, set it by the side
of the table next the fire. Ellen was opposite to her, and now, for the
first time, the old lady seemed to know that she was in the room. She
looked at her very attentively, but with an expressionless gaze which
Ellen did not like to meet, though otherwise her face was calm and
pleasant.

"Who is that?" inquired the old lady presently of Miss Fortune, in a
half whisper.

"That's Morgan's daughter," was the answer.

"Morgan's daughter! Has Morgan a daughter?"

"Why, yes, mother; don't you remember I told you a month ago he was
going to send her here?"

The old lady turned again with a half shake of her head towards Ellen.
"Morgan's daughter," she repeated to herself softly; "she's a pretty
little girl--very pretty. Will you come round here and give me a kiss,
dear?"

Ellen submitted. The old lady folded her in her arms and kissed her
affectionately. "That's your grandmother, Ellen," said Miss Fortune, as
Ellen went back to her seat.

Ellen had no words to answer. Her aunt saw her weary, down look, and
soon after supper proposed to take her upstairs. Ellen gladly followed
her. Miss Fortune showed her to her room, and first asking if she wanted
anything, left her to herself. It was a relief. Ellen's heart had been
brimful and ready to run over for some time, but the tears could not
come then. They did not now, till she had undressed and laid her weary
little body on the bed; then they broke forth in an agony. "She did not
kiss me! she didn't say she was glad to see me!" thought poor Ellen. But
weariness this time was too much for sorrow and disappointment. It was
but a few minutes, and Ellen's brow was calm again, and her eyelids
still, and with the tears wet upon her cheeks, she was fast asleep.




CHAPTER X

          Nimble mischance, that com'st so swift of foot!

                                                  --SHAKESPEARE.


The morning sun was shining full and strong in Ellen's eyes when she
awoke. Bewildered at the strangeness of everything around her, she
raised herself on her elbow, and took a long look at her new home. It
could not help but seem cheerful. The bright beams of sunlight streaming
in through the windows lighted on the wall and the old wainscoting, and
paintless and rough as they were, Nature's own gilding more than made
amends for their want of comeliness. Still Ellen was not much pleased
with the result of her survey. The room was good-sized, and perfectly
neat and clean. It had two large windows opening to the east, through
which, morning by morning, the sun looked in; that was another blessing.
But the floor was without the sign of a carpet, and the bare boards
looked to Ellen very comfortless. The hard-finished walls were not very
smooth nor particularly white. The doors and wood-work, though very
neat, and even carved with some attempt at ornament, had never known the
touch of paint, and had grown in the course of years to be of a light
brown colour. The room was very bare of furniture, too. A
dressing-table, pier-table, or what-not, stood between the windows, but
it was only a half-circular top of pine board set upon three very long,
bare-looking legs--altogether of a most awkward and unhappy appearance,
Ellen thought, and quite too high for her to use with any comfort. No
glass hung over it, nor anywhere else. On the north side of the room was
a fireplace; against the opposite wall stood Ellen's trunk and two
chairs. That was all, except the cot bed she was lying on, and which had
its place opposite the windows. The coverlid of that came in for a share
of her displeasure, being of home-made white and blue worsted mixed with
cotton, exceedingly thick and heavy.

"I wonder what sort of a blanket is under it," said Ellen, "if I can
ever get it off to see! Pretty good, but the sheets are cotton, and so
is the pillow-case."

She was still leaning on her elbow, looking around her with a rather
discontented face, when some door being opened downstairs, a great
noise of hissing and spluttering came to her ears, and presently after
there stole to her nostrils a steaming odour of something very savoury
from the kitchen. It said as plainly as any dressing-bell that she had
better get up. So up she jumped, and set about the business of dressing
with great alacrity. Where was the distress of last night? Gone--with
the darkness. She had slept well; the bracing atmosphere had restored
strength and spirits; and the bright morning light made it impossible to
be dull or down-hearted, in spite of the new cause she thought she had
found. She went on quick with the business of the toilet; but when it
came to the washing, she suddenly discovered that there were no
conveniences for it in her room--no sign of pitcher or basin, or stand
to hold them. Ellen was slightly dismayed, but presently recollected her
arrival had not been looked for so soon, and probably the preparations
for it had not been completed. So she finished dressing, and then set
out to find her way to the kitchen. On opening the door, there was a
little landing-place from which the stairs descended just in front of
her, and at the left hand another door, which she supposed must lead to
her aunt's room. At the foot of the stairs Ellen found herself in a
large square room or hall, for one of its doors, on the east, opened to
the outer air, and was in fact the front door of the house. Another
Ellen tried on the south side; it would not open. A third, under the
stairs, admitted her to the kitchen.

The noise of hissing and spluttering now became quite violent, and the
smell of the cooking, to Ellen's fancy, rather too strong to be
pleasant. Before a good fire stood Miss Fortune holding the end of a
very long iron handle, by which she was kept in communication with a
flat vessel sitting on the fire, in which Ellen soon discovered all this
noisy and odorous cooking was going on. A tall tin coffee-pot stood on
some coals in the corner of the fireplace, and another little iron
vessel in front also claimed a share of Miss Fortune's attention, for
she every now and then leaned forward to give a stir to whatever was in
it, making each time quite a spasmodic effort to do so without quitting
her hold of the long handle. Ellen drew near and looked on with great
curiosity, and not a little appetite, but Miss Fortune was far too busy
to give her more than a passing glance. At length the hissing pan was
brought to the hearth for some new arrangement of its contents, and
Ellen seized the moment of peace and quiet to say, "Good morning, Aunt
Fortune."

Miss Fortune was crouching by the pan turning her slices of pork. "How
do you do this morning?" she answered without looking up.

Ellen replied that she felt a great deal better.

"Slept warm, did you?" said Miss Fortune, as she set the pan back on the
fire. And Ellen could hardly answer, "Quite warm, ma'am," when the
hissing and spluttering began again as loud as ever.

"I must wait," thought Ellen, "till this is over before I say what I
want to. I can't scream out to ask for a basin and towel."

In a few minutes the pan was removed from the fire, and Miss Fortune
went on to take out the brown slices of nicely fried pork and arrange
them in a deep dish, leaving a small quantity of clear fat in the pan.
Ellen, who was greatly interested, and observing every step most
attentively, settled in her own mind that certainly this would be thrown
away, being fit for nothing but the pigs. But Miss Fortune didn't think
so, for she darted into some pantry close by, and returning with a cup
of cream in her hand, emptied it all into the pork fat. Then she ran
into the pantry again for a little round tin box, with a cover full of
holes, and shaking this gently over the pan, a fine white shower of
flour fell upon the cream. The pan was then replaced on the fire and
stirred, and to Ellen's astonishment the whole changed, as if by magic,
to a thick, stiff, white froth. It was not till Miss Fortune was
carefully pouring this over the fried slices in the dish that Ellen
suddenly recollected that breakfast was ready, and she was not.

"Aunt Fortune," she said timidly, "I haven't washed yet; there's no
basin in my room."

Miss Fortune made no answer nor gave any sign of hearing; she went on
dishing up breakfast. Ellen waited a few minutes.

"Will you please, ma'am, to show me where I can wash myself."

"Yes," said Miss Fortune, suddenly standing erect, "you'll have to go
down to the spout."

"The spout, ma'am," said Ellen; "what's that?"

"You'll know it when you see it, I guess," answered her aunt, again
stooping over her preparations. But in another moment she arose and
said, "Just open that door there behind you, and go down the stairs and
out at the door, and you'll see where it is, and what it is too."

Ellen still lingered. "Would you be as good as to give me a towel,
ma'am," she said timidly.

Miss Fortune dashed past her and out of another door, whence she
presently returned with a clean towel which she threw over Ellen's arm,
and then went back to her work.

Opening the door by which she had first seen her aunt enter the night
before, Ellen went down a steep flight of steps, and found herself in a
lower kitchen, intended for common purposes. It seemed not to be used at
all, at least there was no fire there, and a cellar-like feeling and
smell instead. That was no wonder, for beyond the fireplace on the left
hand was the opening to the cellar, which, running under the other part
of the house, was on a level with this kitchen. It had no furniture but
a table and two chairs. The thick heavy door stood open. Passing out,
Ellen looked around her for water; in what shape or form it was to
present itself she had no very clear idea. She soon spied, a few yards
distant, a little stream of water pouring from the end of a pipe or
trough raised about a foot and a half from the ground, and a well-worn
path leading to it, left no doubt of its being "the spout." But when she
had reached it Ellen was in no small puzzle as to how she should manage.
The water was clear and bright, and poured very fast into a shallow
wooden trough underneath, whence it ran off into the meadow and
disappeared.

"But what shall I do without a basin," thought Ellen, "I can't catch any
water in my hands, it runs too fast. If I only could get my face under
there--that would be fine!"

Very carefully and cautiously she tried it, but the continual spattering
of the water had made the board on which she stood so slippery that
before her face could reach the stream she came very near tumbling
headlong, and so taking more of a cold bath than she wished for. So she
contented herself with the drops her hands could bring to her face--a
scanty supply; but those drops were deliciously cold and fresh. And
afterwards she pleased herself with holding her hands in the running
water, till they were red with the cold. On the whole Ellen enjoyed her
washing very much. The morning air came playing about her; its cool
breath was on her cheek with health in its touch. The early sun was
shining on tree, and meadow, and hill; the long shadows stretched over
the grass, and the very brown out-houses looked bright. She thought it
was the loveliest place she ever had seen. And that sparkling trickling
water was certainly the purest and sweetest she had ever tasted. Where
could it come from? It poured from a small trough made of the split
trunk of a tree with a little groove or channel two inches wide hollowed
out in it. But at the end of one of these troughs, another lapped on,
and another at the end of that, and how many there were Ellen could not
see, nor where the beginning of them was. Ellen stood gassing and
wondering, drinking in the fresh air, hope and spirits rising every
minute, when she suddenly recollected breakfast! She hurried in. As she
expected, her aunt was at the table; but to her surprise, and not at all
to her gratification, there was Mr. Van Brunt at the other end of it,
eating away, very much at home indeed. In silent dismay Ellen drew her
chair to the side of the table.

"Did you find the spout?" asked Miss Fortune.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, how do you like it?"

"Oh, I like it very much indeed," said Ellen. "I think it is beautiful."

Miss Fortune's face rather softened at this, and she gave Ellen an
abundant supply of all that was on the table. Her journey, the bracing
air, and her cool morning wash, all together, had made Ellen very sharp,
and she did justice to the breakfast. She thought never was coffee so
good as this country coffee; nor anything so excellent as the brown
bread and butter, both as sweet as bread and butter could be; neither
was any cookery so entirely satisfactory as Miss Fortune's fried pork
and potatoes. Yet her teaspoon was not silver; her knife could not boast
of being either sharp or bright; and her fork was certainly made for
anything else in the world but comfort and convenience, being of only
two prongs, and those so far apart that Ellen had no small difficulty to
carry the potato safely from her plate to her mouth. It mattered
nothing; she was now looking on the bright side of things, and all this
only made her breakfast taste the sweeter.

Ellen rose from the table when she had finished, and stood a few minutes
thoughtfully by the fire.

"Aunt Fortune," she said at length timidly, "if you've no objection, I
should like to go and take a good look all about."

"Oh yes," said Miss Fortune, "go where you like; I'll give you a week to
do what you please with yourself."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen, as she ran off for her bonnet; "a week's
a long time. I suppose," thought she, "I shall go to school at the end
of that."

Returning quickly with her white bonnet, Ellen opened the heavy kitchen
door by which she had entered last night, and went out. She found
herself in a kind of long shed. It had very rough walls and floor, and
overhead showed the brown beams and rafters; two little windows and a
door were on the side. All manner of rubbish lay there, especially at
the farther end. There were scattered about and piled up various boxes,
boards, farming and garden tools, old pieces of rope and sheepskin, old
iron, a cheese-press, and what not. Ellen did not stay long to look, but
went out to find something pleasanter. A few yards from the shed door
was the little gate through which she had stumbled in the dark, and
outside of that Ellen stood still awhile. It was a fair, pleasant day,
and the country scene she looked upon was very pretty. Ellen thought so.
Before her, at a little distance, rose the great gable end of the barn,
and a long row of outhouses stretched away from it towards the left. The
ground was strewn thick with chips; and the reason was not hard to find,
for a little way off, under an old stunted apple-tree, lay a huge log,
well chipped on the upper surface, with the axe resting against it; and
close by were some sticks of wood both chopped and unchopped. To the
right the ground descended gently to a beautiful plane meadow, skirted
on the hither side by a row of fine apple-trees. The smooth green flat
tempted Ellen to a run, but first she looked to the left. There was the
garden, she guessed, for there was a paling fence which enclosed a
pretty large piece of ground; and between the garden and the house a
green <DW72> ran down to the spout. That reminded her that she intended
making a journey of discovery up the course of the long trough. No time
could be better than now, and she ran down the <DW72>.

The trough was supported at some height from the ground by little heaps
of stones placed here and there along its whole course. Not far from the
spout it crossed a fence. Ellen must cross it too to gain her object,
and how that could be done was a great question; she resolved to try,
however. But first she played awhile with the water, which had great
charms for her. She dammed up the little channel with her fingers,
forcing the water to flow over the side of the trough; there was
something very pleasant in stopping the supply of the spout, and seeing
the water trickling over where it had no business to go; and she did not
heed that some of the drops took her frock in their way. She stooped her
lips to the trough and drank of its sweet current,--only for fun's sake,
for she was not thirsty. Finally, she set out to follow the stream up to
its head. But poor Ellen had not gone more than half way towards the
fence, when she all at once plunged into the mire. The green grass
growing there had looked fair enough, but there was running water and
black mud under the green grass, she found to her sorrow. Her shoes, her
stockings, were full. What was to be done now? The journey of discovery
must be given up. She forgot to think about where the water came from,
in the more pressing question, "What will Aunt Fortune say?"--and the
quick wish came that she had her mother to go to. However, she got out
of the slough, and wiping her shoes as well as she could on the grass,
she hastened back to the house.

The kitchen was all put in order, the hearth swept, the irons at the
fire, and Miss Fortune just pinning her ironing blanket on the table.
"Well, what's the matter?" she said, when she saw Ellen's face; but as
her glance reached the floor, her brow darkened. "Mercy on me!" she
exclaimed, with slow emphasis, "what on earth have you been about? where
have you been?"

Ellen explained.

"Well, you _have_ made a figure of yourself! Sit down!" said her aunt
shortly, as she thrust a chair down on the hearth before the fire; "I
should have thought you'd have wit enough at your age to keep out of the
ditch."

"I didn't see any ditch," said Ellen.

"No, I suppose not," said Miss Fortune, who was energetically twitching
off Ellen's shoes and stockings with her forefinger and thumb. "I
suppose not! you were staring up at the moon or stars, I suppose."

"It all looked green and smooth," said poor Ellen; "one part just like
another; and the first thing I knew I was up to my ankles."

"What were you there at all for?" said Miss Fortune, shortly enough.

"I couldn't see where the water came from, and I wanted to find out."

"Well, you've found out enough for one day, I hope. Just look at those
stockings! Ha'n't you got never a pair of  stockings, that you
must go poking into the mud with white ones?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do you mean to say you never wore any but white ones at home?"

"Yes, ma'am; I never had any others."

Miss Fortune's thoughts seemed too much for speech, from the way in
which she jumped up and went off without saying anything more. She
presently came back with an old pair of grey socks, which she bade Ellen
put on as soon as her feet were dry.

"How many of those white stockings have you?" she said.

"Mamma bought me half-a-dozen pair of new ones just before I came away,
and I had as many as that of old ones besides."

"Well, now, go up to your trunk and bring'm all down to me--every pair
of white stockings you have got. There's a pair of old slippers you can
put on till your shoes are dry," she said, flinging them to her; "they
aren't much too big for you."

"They're not much too big for the _socks_, they're a great deal too big
for me," thought Ellen; but she said nothing. She gathered all her
stockings together and brought them downstairs, as her aunt had bidden
her.

"Now you may run out to the barn to Mr. Van Brunt; you'll find him
there, and tell him I want him to bring me some white maple bark when he
comes home to dinner--white maple bark, do you hear?"

Away went Ellen, but in a few minutes came back. "I can't get in," she
said.

"What's the matter?"

"Those great doors are shut, and I can't open them. I knocked, but
nobody came."

"Knock at a barn door!" said Miss Fortune. "You must go in at the little
cow-house door, at the left, and go round. He's in the lower
barn-floor."

The barn stood lower than the level of the chip-yard, from which a
little bridge led to the great doorway of the second floor. Passing down
the range of outhouses, Ellen came to the little door her aunt had
spoken of. "But what in the world should I do if there be cows inside
there?" said she to herself. She peeped in; the cow-house was perfectly
empty; and cautiously, and with many a fearful glance to the right and
left, lest some terrible horned animal should present itself, Ellen made
her way across the cow-house, and through the barn-yard, littered thick
with straw, wet and dry, to the lower barn-floor. The door of this stood
wide open. Ellen looked with wonder and pleasure when she got in. It was
an immense room--the sides showed nothing but hay up to the ceiling,
except here and there an enormous upright post; the floor was perfectly
clean, only a few locks of hay and grains of wheat scattered upon it;
and a pleasant sweet smell was there, Ellen could not tell of what. But
no Mr. Van Brunt. She looked about for him, she dragged her disagreeable
slippers back and forth over the floor in vain.

"Hilloa! what's wanting?" at length cried a rough voice she remembered
very well. But where was the speaker? On every side, to every corner,
her eyes turned without finding him. She looked up at last. There was
the round face of Mr. Van Brunt peering down at her through a large
opening or trap-door in the upper floor.

"Well," said he, "have you come out here to help me thrash wheat?"

Ellen told him what she had come for.

"White maple bark; well," said he in his slow way, "I'll bring it. I
wonder what's in the wind now."

So Ellen wondered, as she slowly went back to the house; and yet more,
when her aunt set her to tacking her stockings together by two and two.

"What are you going to do with them, Aunt Fortune?" she at last ventured
to say.

"You'll see when the time comes."

"Mayn't I keep out one pair?" said Ellen, who had a vague notion that by
some mysterious means her stockings were to be prevented from ever
looking white any more.

"No; just do as I tell you."

Mr. Van Brunt came at dinner-time with the white maple bark. It was
thrown forthwith into a brass kettle of water, which Miss Fortune had
already hung over the fire. Ellen felt sure this had something to do
with her stockings, but she could ask no questions; and as soon as
dinner was over she went up to her room. It didn't look pleasant now.
The brown wood-work and rough dingy walls had lost their gilding. The
sunshine was out of it; and what was more, the sunshine was out of
Ellen's heart too. She went to the window and opened it, but there was
nothing to keep it open; it slid down again as soon as she let it go.
Baffled and sad, she stood leaning her elbows on the window-sill,
looking out on the grass-plat that lay before the door, and the little
gate that opened on the lake, and the smooth meadow and rich broken
country beyond. It was a very fair and pleasant scene in the soft
sunlight of the last of October; but the charm of it was gone for Ellen;
it was dreary. She looked without caring to look, or knowing what she
was looking at; she felt the tears rising to her eyes, and, sick of the
window, turned away. Her eye fell on her trunk; her next thought was of
her desk inside of it, and suddenly her heart sprang. "I will write to
mamma!" No sooner said than done. The trunk was quickly open, and hasty
hands pulled out one thing after another till the desk was reached.

"But what shall I do?" thought she; "there isn't a sign of a table. Oh,
what a place! I'll shut my trunk and put it on that. But here are all
these things to put back first."

They were eagerly stowed away; and then kneeling by the side of the
trunk, with loving hands, Ellen opened her desk. A sheet of paper was
drawn from her store, and properly placed before her; the pen dipped in
the ink, and at first with a hurried, then with a trembling hand she
wrote, "My dear Mamma." But Ellen's heart had been swelling and
swelling, with every letter of those three words, and scarcely was the
last "a" finished, when the pen was dashed down, and flinging away from
the desk, she threw herself on the floor in a passion of grief. It
seemed as if she had her mother again in her arms, and was clinging with
a death-grasp not to be parted from her. And then the feeling that she
was parted! As much bitter sorrow as a little heart can know was in poor
Ellen's now. In her childish despair she wished she could die, and
almost thought she should. After a time, however, though not a short
time, she rose from the floor and went to her writing again; her heart a
little eased by weeping, yet the tears kept coming all the time, and she
could not quite keep her paper from being blotted. The first sheet was
spoiled before she was aware; she took another.

    "MY DEAREST MAMMA,--It makes me so glad and so sorry to write to
    you, that I don't know what to do. I want to see you so much, mamma,
    that it seems to me sometimes as if my heart would break. Oh, mamma,
    if I could just kiss you once more, I would give anything in the
    whole world. I can't be happy as long as you are away, and I'm
    afraid I can't be good either; but I will try. Oh, I will try,
    mamma. I have so much to say to you that I don't know where to
    begin. I am sure my paper will never hold it all. You will want to
    know about my journey. The first day was on the steamboat, you know.
    I should have had a dreadful time that day, mamma, but for something
    I'll tell you about. I was sitting up on the upper deck, thinking
    about you, and feeling very badly indeed, when a gentleman came and
    spoke to me, and asked me what was the matter. Mamma, I can't tell
    you how kind he was to me. He kept me with him the whole day. He
    took me all over the boat, and showed me all about a great many
    things, and he talked to me a great deal. Oh, mamma, how he talked
    to me. He read in the Bible to me, and explained it, and he tried to
    make me a Christian. And oh, mamma, when he was talking to me, how I
    wanted to do as he said, and I resolved I would. I did, mamma, and
    I've not forgotten it. I will try indeed, but I am afraid it will be
    very hard without you or him, or anybody else to help me. You
    couldn't have been kinder yourself, mamma; he kissed me at night
    when I bid him good-bye, and I was very sorry indeed. I wish I could
    see him again. Mamma, I will always love that gentleman, if I never
    see him again in the world. I wish there was somebody here that I
    could love, but there is not. You will want to know what sort of a
    person my Aunt Fortune is. I think she is very good-looking, or she
    would be if her nose was not quite so sharp; but, mamma, I can't
    tell you what sort of a feeling I have about her; it seems to me as
    if she was sharp all over. I am sure her eyes are as sharp as two
    needles. And she don't walk like other people; at least sometimes.
    She makes queer little jerks and starts and jumps, and flies about
    like I don't know what. I am afraid it is not right for me to write
    so about her; but may I not tell you, mamma? There's nobody else for
    me to talk to. I can't like Aunt Fortune much yet, and I am sure she
    don't like me; but I will try to make her. I have not forgotten what
    you said to me about that. Oh, dear mamma, I will try to mind
    everything you ever said to me in your life. I am afraid you won't
    like what I have written about Aunt Fortune; but indeed I have done
    nothing to displease her, and I will try not to. If you were only
    here, mamma, I should say it was the loveliest place I ever saw in
    my life. Perhaps, after all, I shall feel better, and be quite happy
    by-and-by; but oh, mamma, how glad I shall be when I get a letter
    from you. I shall begin to look for it soon, and I think I shall go
    out of my wits with joy when it comes. I had the funniest ride down
    here from Thirlwall that you can think; how do you guess I came? In
    a cart drawn by oxen. They went so slow we were an age getting here;
    but I liked it very much. There was a good-natured man driving the
    oxen, and he was kind to me; but, mamma, what do you think? he eats
    at the table. I know what you would tell me; you would say I must
    not mind trifles. Well, I will try not, mamma. Oh, darling mother, I
    can't think much of anything but you. I think of you the whole time.
    Who makes tea for you now? Are you better? Are you going to leave
    New York soon? It seems dreadfully long since I saw you. I am tired,
    dear mamma, and cold; and it is getting dark. I must stop. I have a
    good big room to myself; that is a good thing. I should not like to
    sleep with Aunt Fortune. Good-night, dear mamma. I wish I could
    sleep with you once more. Oh, when will that be again, mamma?
    Good-night. Good-night.

                                        "Your affectionate ELLEN."

The letter finished was carefully folded, enclosed, and directed; and
then with an odd mixture of pleasure and sadness, Ellen lit one of her
little wax matches, as she called them, and sealed it very nicely. She
looked at it fondly a minute when all was done, thinking of the dear
fingers that would hold and open it; her next movement was to sink her
face in her hands, and pray most earnestly for a blessing upon her
mother and help for herself--poor Ellen felt she needed it. She was
afraid of lingering lest tea should be ready; so, locking up her letter,
she went downstairs.

The tea was ready. Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt were at the table, and
so was the old lady, whom Ellen had not seen before that day. She
quietly drew up her chair to its place.

"Well," said Miss Fortune, "I hope you feel better for your long stay
upstairs."

"I do, ma'am," said Ellen; "a great deal better."

"What have you been about?"

"I have been writing, ma'am."

"Writing what?"

"I have been writing to mamma."

Perhaps Miss Fortune heard the trembling of Ellen's voice, or her sharp
glance saw the lip quiver and eyelid droop. Something softened her. She
spoke in a different tone; asked Ellen if her tea was good; took care
she had plenty of the bread and butter, and excellent cheese, which was
on the table; and lastly cut her a large piece of the pumpkin pie. Mr.
Van Brunt too looked once or twice at Ellen's face as if he thought all
was not right there. He was not so sharp as Miss Fortune, but the
swollen eyes and tear stains were not quite lost upon him.

After tea, when Mr. Van Brunt was gone, and the tea things cleared away,
Ellen had the pleasure of finding out the mystery of the brass kettle
and the white maple bark. The kettle now stood in the chimney corner.
Miss Fortune, seating herself before it, threw in all Ellen's stockings
except one pair, which she flung over to her, saying, "There, I don't
care if you keep that one." Then, tucking up her sleeves to the elbows,
she fished up pair after pair out of the kettle, and wringing them out
hung them on chairs to dry. But, as Ellen had opined, they were no
longer white, but of a fine slate colour. She looked on in silence, too
much vexed to ask questions.

"Well, how do you like that?" said Miss Fortune at length, when she had
got two or three chairs round the fire pretty well hung with a display
of slate- cotton legs.

"I don't like it at all," said Ellen.

"Well, _I_ do. How many pair of white stockings would you like to drive
into the mud and let me wash out every week?"

"_You_ wash!" said Ellen in surprise; "I didn't think of _your_ doing
it."

"Who did you think _was_ going to do it? There's nothing in this house
but goes through my hand, I can tell you, and so must you. I suppose
you've lived all your life among people that thought a great deal of
wetting their little finger; but I am not one of 'em, I guess you'll
find."

Ellen was convinced of that already.

"Well, what are you thinking of?" said Miss Fortune presently.

"I'm thinking of my nice white darning cotton," said Ellen. "I might
just as well not have had it."

"Is it wound or in the skein?"

"In the skein."

"Then just go right up and get it. I'll warrant I'll fix it so that
you'll have a use for it."

Ellen obeyed, but musing rather uncomfortably what else there was of
hers that Miss Fortune could lay hands on. She seemed in imagination to
see all her white things turning brown. She resolved she would keep her
trunk well locked up; but what if her keys should be called for?

She was dismissed to her room soon after the dyeing business was
completed. It was rather a disagreeable surprise to find her bed still
unmade; and she did not at all like the notion that the making of it in
future must depend entirely upon herself; Ellen had no fancy for such
handiwork. She went to sleep in somewhat the same dissatisfied mood with
which the day had been begun; displeasure at her coarse heavy coverlid
and cotton sheets again taking its place among weightier matters; and
dreamed of tying them together into a rope by which to let herself down
out of the window; but when she had got so far, Ellen's sleep became
sound, and the end of the dream was never known.




CHAPTER XI

          Downward, and ever farther.
            And ever the brook beside;
          And ever fresher murmured,
            And ever clearer, the tide.

                              --LONGFELLOW. _From the German._


Clouds and rain and cold winds kept Ellen within doors for several days.
This did not better the state of matters between herself and her aunt.
Shut up with her in the kitchen from morning till night, with the only
variety of the old lady's company part of the time, Ellen thought
neither of them improved upon acquaintance. Perhaps they thought the
same of her; she was certainly not in her best mood. With nothing to do,
the time hanging very heavy on her hands, disappointed, unhappy,
frequently irritated, Ellen became at length very ready to take offence,
and nowise disposed to pass it over or smooth it away. She seldom showed
this in words, it is true, but it rankled in her mind. Listless and
brooding, she sat day after day, comparing the present with the past,
wishing vain wishes, indulging bootless regrets, and looking upon her
aunt and grandmother with an eye of more settled aversion. The only
other person she saw was Mr. Van Brunt, who came in regularly to meals;
but he never said anything unless in answer to Miss Fortune's questions
and remarks about the farm concerns. These did not interest her, and she
was greatly wearied with the sameness of her life. She longed to go out
again; but Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday passed, and
the weather still kept her close prisoner. Monday brought a change, but
though a cool drying wind blew all day, the ground was too wet to
venture out.

On the evening of that day, as Miss Fortune was setting the table for
tea, and Ellen sitting before the fire, feeling weary of everything, the
kitchen door opened, and a girl somewhat larger and older than herself
came in. She had a pitcher in her hand, and marching straight up to the
tea-table, she said--

"Will you let granny have a little milk to-night, Miss Fortune? I can't
find the cow. I'll bring it back to-morrow."

"You ha'n't lost her, Nancy?"

"Have, though," said the other; "she's been away these two days."

"Why didn't you go somewhere nearer for milk?"

"Oh, I don't know; I guess your'n is the sweetest," said the girl, with
a look Ellen did not understand.

Miss Fortune took the pitcher and went into the pantry. While she was
gone the two children improved the time in looking very hard at each
other. Ellen's gaze was modest enough, though it showed a great deal of
interest in the new object; but the broad, searching stare of the other
seemed intended to take in all there was of Ellen from her head to her
feet, and keep it, and find out what sort of a creature she was at once.
Ellen almost shrank from the bold black eyes, but they never wavered,
till Miss Fortune's voice broke the spell.

"How's your grandmother, Nancy?"

"She's tolerable, ma'am, thank you."

"Now, if you don't bring it back to-morrow, you won't get any more in a
hurry," said Miss Fortune, as she handed the pitcher back to the girl.

"I'll mind it," said the latter, with a little nod of her head, which
seemed to say there was no danger of her forgetting.

"Who is that, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen, when she was gone.

"She is a girl that lives up on the mountain yonder."

"But what's her name?"

"I had just as lief you wouldn't know her name. She ain't a good girl.
Don't you never have anything to do with her."

Ellen was in no mind to give credit to all her aunt's opinions, and she
set this down as in part at least coming from ill-humour.

The next morning was calm and fine, and Ellen spent nearly the whole of
it out of doors. She did not venture near the ditch, but in every other
direction she explored the ground, and examined what stood or grew upon
it as thoroughly as she dared. Towards noon she was standing by the
little gate at the back of the house, unwilling to go in, but not
knowing what more to do, when Mr. Van Brunt came from the lane with a
load of wood. Ellen watched the oxen toiling up the ascent, and thought
it looked like very hard work; she was sorry for them.

"Isn't that a very heavy load?" she asked of their driver, as he was
throwing it down under the apple-tree.

"Heavy? Not a bit of it. It ain't nothing at all to 'em. They'd take
twice as much any day with pleasure."

"I shouldn't think so," said Ellen; "they don't look as if there was
much pleasure about it. What makes them lean over so against each other
when they are coming up hill?"

"Oh, that's just a way they've got. They're so fond of each other, I
suppose. Perhaps they've something particular to say, and want to put
their heads together for the purpose."

"No," said Ellen, half laughing, "it can't be that; they wouldn't take
the very hardest time for that; they would wait till they got to the top
of the hill; but there they stand just as if they were asleep, only
their eyes are open, poor things."

"They're not very poor anyhow," said Mr. Van Brunt; "there ain't a finer
yoke of oxen to be seen than them are, nor in better condition."

He went on throwing the wood out of the cart, and Ellen stood looking at
him.

"What'll you give me if I'll make you a scup one of these days?" said
Mr. Van Brunt.

"A scup?" said Ellen.

"Yes--a scup! How would you like it?"

"I don't know what it is," said Ellen.

"A scup!--maybe you don't know it by that name; some folks call it a
swing."

"A swing! Oh yes," said Ellen; "now I know. Oh, I like it very much."

"Would you like to have one?"

"Yes, indeed I should, very much."

"Well, what'll you give me if I'll fix you out?"

"I don't know," said Ellen; "I have nothing to give. I'll be very much
obliged to you indeed."

"Well now, come, I'll make a bargain with you; I'll engage to fix up a
scup for you if you'll give me a kiss."

Poor Ellen was struck dumb. The good-natured Dutchman had taken a fancy
to the little pale-faced, sad-looking stranger, and really felt very
kindly disposed towards her; but she neither knew nor at that moment
cared about that. She stood motionless, utterly astounded at this
unheard-of proposal, and not a little indignant; but when, with a
good-natured smile upon his round face, he came near to claim the kiss
he no doubt thought himself sure of, Ellen shot from him like an arrow
from a bow. She rushed to the house, and bursting open the door, stood
with flushed face and sparkling eyes in the presence of her astonished
aunt.

"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed that lady.

"He wanted to kiss me!" said Ellen, scarce knowing whom she was talking
to, and crimsoning more and more.

"Who wanted to kiss you?"

"That man out there."

"What man?"

"That man that drives the oxen."

"What, Mr. Van Brunt?" And Ellen never forgot the loud ha! ha! which
burst from Miss Fortune's wide-opened mouth.

"Well, why didn't you let him kiss you?"

The laugh, the look, the tone, stung Ellen to the very quick. In a fury
of passion she dashed away out of the kitchen and up to her own room.
And there, for a while, the storm of anger drove over her with such
violence that conscience had hardly time to whisper. Sorrow came in
again as passion faded, and gentler but very bitter weeping took the
place of convulsive sobs of rage and mortification, and then the
whispers of conscience began to be heard a little. "Oh, mamma! mamma!"
cried poor Ellen in her heart; "how miserable I am without you! I never
can like Aunt Fortune; it's of no use--I never can like her. I hope I
sha'n't get to hate her!--and that isn't right. I am forgetting all that
is good, and there's nobody to put me in mind. Oh, mamma! if I could lay
my head in your lap for a minute!" Then came thoughts of her Bible and
hymn-book, and the friend who had given it--sorrowful thoughts they
were; and at last, humbled and sad, poor Ellen sought that great Friend
she knew she had displeased, and prayed earnestly to be made a good
child. She felt and owned she was not one now.

It was long after mid-day when Ellen rose from her knees. Her passion
was all gone; she felt more gentle and pleasant than she had done for
days; but at the bottom of her heart resentment was not all gone. She
still thought she had cause to be angry, and she could not think of her
aunt's look and tone without a thrill of painful feeling. In a very
different mood, however, from that in which she had flown upstairs two
or three hours before, she now came softly down and went out by the
front door to avoid meeting her aunt. She had visited that morning a
little brook which ran through the meadow on the other side of the road.
It had great charms for her; and now crossing the lane and creeping
under the fence, she made her way again to its banks. At a particular
spot, where the brook made one of its sudden turns, Ellen sat down upon
the grass and watched the dark water--whirling, brawling over the
stones, hurrying past her with ever the same soft, pleasant sound, and
she was never tired of it. She did not hear footsteps drawing near, and
it was not till some one was close beside her, and a voice spoke almost
in her ears, that she raised her startled eyes and saw the little girl
who had come the evening before for a pitcher of milk.

"What are you doing?" said the latter.

"I'm watching for fish," said Ellen.

"Watching for fish!" said the other, rather disdainfully.

"Yes," said Ellen; "there, in that little quiet place they come
sometimes. I've seen two."

"You can look for fish another time. Come now and take a walk with me."

"Where?" said Ellen.

"Oh, you shall see. Come! I'll take you all about and show you where
people live. You ha'n't been anywhere yet, have you?"

"No," said Ellen, "and I should like dearly to go, but----"

She hesitated. Her aunt's words came to mind, that this was not a good
girl, and that she must have nothing to do with her; but she had not
more than half believed them, and she could not possibly bring herself
now to go in and ask Miss Fortune's leave to take this walk. "I am
sure," thought Ellen, "she would refuse me if there was no reason in the
world." And then the delight of rambling through the beautiful country
and being for awhile in other company than that of her Aunt Fortune and
the old grandmother! The temptation was too great to be withstood.

"Well, what are you thinking about?" said the girl. "What's the matter?
Won't you come?"

"Yes," said Ellen, "I'm ready. Which way shall we go?"

With the assurance from the other that she would show her plenty of
ways, they set off down the lane; Ellen with a secret fear of being seen
and called back, till they had gone some distance, and the house was hid
from view. Then her pleasure became great. The afternoon was fair and
mild, the footing pleasant, and Ellen felt like a bird out of a cage.
She was ready to be delighted with every trifle; her companion could not
by any means understand or enter into her bursts of pleasure at many a
little thing which she of the black eyes thought not worthy of notice.
She tried to bring Ellen back to higher subjects of conversation.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Oh, a good while," said Ellen; "I don't know exactly; it's a week, I
believe."

"Why, do you call that a good while?" said the other.

"Well, it seems a good while to me," said Ellen, sighing; "it seems as
long as four, I am sure."

"Then you don't like to live here much, do you?"

"I had rather be at home, of course."

"How do you like your Aunt Fortune?"

"How do I like her?" said Ellen, hesitating. "I think she's
good-looking, and very smart."

"Yes, you needn't tell me she's smart--everybody knows that; that ain't
what I ask you. How do you _like_ her?"

"How do I like her?" said Ellen again; "how can I tell how I shall like
her? I haven't lived with her but a week yet."

"You might just as well ha' spoke out," said the other somewhat
scornfully. "Do you think I don't know you half hate her already? and
it'll be whole hating in another week more. When I first heard you'd
come, I guessed you'd have a sweet time with her."

"Why?" said Ellen.

"Oh, don't ask me why," said the other impatiently, "when you know as
well as I do. Every soul that speaks of you says, 'poor child,' and 'I'm
glad I ain't her.' You needn't try to come cunning over me. I shall be
too much for you, I tell you."

"I don't know what you mean," said Ellen.

"Oh no, I suppose you don't," said the other in the same tone; "of
course you don't; I suppose you don't know whether your tongue is your
own or somebody's else. You think Miss Fortune is an angel, and so do I;
to be sure she is!"

Not very well pleased with this kind of talk, Ellen walked on for a
while in grave silence. Her companion meantime recollected herself; when
she spoke again it was with an altered tone.

"How do you like Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I don't like him at all," said Ellen, reddening.

"Don't you?" said the other, surprised, "why, everybody likes him. What
don't you like him for?"

"I don't like him," repeated Ellen.

"Ain't Miss Fortune queer to live in the way she does?"

"What way?" said Ellen.

"Why, without any help--doing all her own work, and living all alone,
when she's so rich as she is."

"Is she rich?" asked Ellen.

"Rich! I guess she is! she's one of the very best farms in the country,
and money enough to have a dozen help, if she wanted 'em. Van Brunt
takes care of the farm, you know."

"Does he?" said Ellen.

"Why, yes, of course he does! didn't you know that? what did you think
he was at your house all the time for?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Ellen. "And are those Aunt Fortune's oxen
that he drives?"

"To be sure they are. Well, I do think you _are_ green, to have been
there all this time and not found that out. Mr. Van Brunt does just what
he pleases over the whole farm, though; hires what help he wants,
manages everything; and then he has his share of all that comes off it.
I tell you what--you'd better make friends with Van Brunt, for if
anybody can help you when your aunt gets one of her ugly fits, it's him;
she don't care to meddle with him much."

Leaving the lane, the two girls took a footpath leading across the
fields. The stranger was greatly amused with Ellen's awkwardness in
climbing fences. Where it was a possible thing, she was fain to crawl
under; but once or twice that could not be done, and having with
infinite difficulty mounted to the top rail, poor Ellen sat there in a
most tottering condition, uncertain on which side of the fence she
should tumble over, but seeing no other possible way of getting down.
The more she trembled the more her companion laughed, standing aloof
meanwhile, and insisting she should get down by herself. Necessity
enabled her to do this at last, and each time the task became easier;
but Ellen secretly made up her mind that her new friend was not likely
to prove a very good one.

As they went along, she pointed out to Ellen two or three houses in the
distance, and gave her not a little gossip about the people who lived in
them; but all this Ellen scarcely heard, and cared nothing at all about.
She had paused by the side of a large rock standing alone by the
wayside, and was looking very closely at its surface.

"What is this curious brown stuff," said Ellen, "growing all over the
rock--like shrivelled and dried-up leaves? Isn't it curious? Part of it
stands out like a leaf, and part of it sticks fast; I wonder if it grows
here, or what it is."

"Oh, never mind," said the other; "it always grows on the rocks
everywhere. I don't know what it is, and what's more, I don't care.
'Taint worth looking at. Come!"

Ellen followed her. But presently the path entered an open woodland, and
now her delight broke forth beyond bounds.

"Oh, how pleasant this is! how lovely this is! Isn't it beautiful?" she
exclaimed.

"Isn't _what_ beautiful? I do think you are the queerest girl, Ellen."

"Why, everything," said Ellen, not minding the latter part of the
sentence; "the ground is beautiful, and those tall trees, and that
beautiful blue sky--only look at it."

"The ground is all covered with stones and rocks--is that what you call
beautiful? and the trees are as homely as they can be, with their great
brown stems and no leaves. Come! what _are_ you staring at?"

Ellen's eyes were fixed on a string of dark spots which were rapidly
passing overhead.

"Hark," said she; "do you hear that noise? What is that? What is that?"

"Isn't it only a flock of ducks," said the other contemptuously; "come!
do come!"

But Ellen was rooted to the ground, and her eyes followed the airy
travellers till the last one had quitted the piece of blue sky which the
surrounding woods left to be seen. And scarcely were these gone when a
second flight came in view, following exactly in the track of the first.

"Where are they going?" said Ellen.

"I am sure I don't know where they are going; they never told me. I know
where _I_ am going; I should like to know whether you are going along
with me."

Ellen, however, was in no hurry. The ducks had disappeared, but her eye
had caught something else that charmed it.

"What is this?" said Ellen.

"Nothing but moss."

"Is that moss? How beautiful! how green and soft it is! I declare it's
as soft as a carpet."

"As soft as a carpet!" repeated the other: "I should like to see a
carpet as soft as that! _you_ never did, I guess."

"Indeed I have, though," said Ellen, who was gently jumping up and down
on the green moss to try its softness, with a face of great
satisfaction.

"I don't believe it a bit," said the other; "all the carpets I ever saw
were as hard as a board, and harder: as soft as that, indeed!"

"Well," said Ellen, still jumping up and down, with bonnet off, and
glowing cheek, and hair dancing about her face, "you may believe what
you like; but I've seen a carpet as soft as this, and softer, too; only
one, though."

"What was it made of?"

"What other carpets are made of, I suppose. Come, I'll go with you now.
I do think this is the loveliest place I ever did see. Are there any
flowers here in the spring?"

"I don't know--yes, lots of 'em."

"Pretty ones?" said Ellen.

"_You'd_ think so, I suppose; I never look at 'em."

"Oh, how lovely that will be," said Ellen, clasping her hands; "how
pleasant it must be to live in the country!"

"Pleasant, indeed!" said the other; "I think it's hateful. You'd think
so too if you lived where I do. It makes me mad at granny every day
because she won't go to Thirlwall. Wait till we get out of the wood, and
I'll show you where I live. You can't see it from here."

Shocked a little at her companion's language, Ellen again walked on in
sober silence. Gradually the ground became more broken, sinking rapidly
from the side of the path, and rising again in a steep bank on the other
side of a narrow dell; both sides were thickly wooded, but stripped of
green, now, except where here and there a hemlock flung its graceful
branches abroad and stood in lonely beauty among its leafless
companions. Now, the gurgling of waters was heard.

"Where is that?" said Ellen, stopping short.

"'Way down, down, at the bottom, there. It's the brook."

"What brook? Not the same that goes by Aunt Fortune's?"

"Yes, it's the very same. It's the crookedest thing you ever saw. It
runs over there," said the speaker, pointing with her arm, "and then it
takes a turn and goes that way, and then it comes round so, and then it
shoots off in that way again and passes by your house; and after that
the dear knows where it goes, for I don't. But I don't suppose it could
run straight if it was to try to."

"Can't we get down to it?" asked Ellen.

"To be sure we can, unless you're as afraid of steep banks as you are of
fences."

Very steep indeed it was, and strewn with loose stones, but Ellen did
not falter here, and though once or twice in imminent danger of
exchanging her cautious stepping for one long roll to the bottom, she
got there safely on her two feet. When there, everything was forgotten
in delight. It was a wild little place. The high, close sides of the
dell left only a little strip of sky overhead; and at their feet ran the
brook, much more noisy and lively here than where Ellen had before made
its acquaintance; leaping from rock to rock, eddying round large stones,
and boiling over the small ones, and now and then pouring quietly over
some great trunk of a tree that had fallen across its bed, and dammed up
the whole stream. Ellen could scarcely contain herself at the
magnificence of many of the waterfalls, the beauty of the little quiet
pools where the water lay still behind some large stone, and the variety
of graceful, tiny cascades.

"Look here, Nancy!" cried Ellen, "that's the Falls of Niagara--do you
see?--that large one; oh, that is splendid! and this will do for Trenton
Falls--what a fine foam it makes--isn't it a beauty?--and what shall we
call this? I don't know what to call it; I wish we could name them all,
but there's no end to them. Oh, just look at that one! that's too
pretty not to have a name. What shall it be?"

"Black Falls," suggested the other.

"Black," said Ellen dubiously, "why--I don't like that."

"Why, the water's all dark and black, don't you see?"

"Well," said Ellen, "let it be Black, then; but I don't like it. Now
remember,--this is Niagara--that is Black--and this is Trenton. And what
is this?"

"If you are a-going to name them all," said Nancy, "we sha'n't get home
to-night; you might as well name all the trees; there's a hundred of 'em
and more. I say, Ellen! suppos'n we follow the brook instead of climbing
up yonder again; it will take us out to the open fields by-and-by."

"Oh, do let's!" said Ellen; "that will be lovely."

It proved a rough way; but Ellen still thought and called it "lovely."
Often by the side of the stream there was no footing at all, and the
girls picked their way over the stones, large and small, wet and dry,
which strewed its bed, against which the water foamed and fumed and
fretted, as if in great impatience. It was ticklish work getting along
over these stones; now tottering on an unsteady one, now slipping on a
wet one, and every now and then making huge leaps from rock to rock,
which there was no other method of reaching, at the imminent hazard of
falling in. But they laughed at the danger; sprang on in great glee,
delighted with the exercise and the fun; didn't stay long enough
anywhere to lose their balance, and enjoyed themselves amazingly. There
was many a hairbreadth escape, many an _almost_ sousing; but that made
it all the more lively. The brook formed, as Nancy had said, a constant
succession of little waterfalls, its course being quite steep and very
rocky; and in some places there were pools quite deep enough to have
given them a thorough wetting, to say no more, if they had missed their
footing and tumbled in. But this did not happen. In due time, though
with no little difficulty, they reached the spot where the brook came
forth from the wood into the open day, and thence making a sharp turn to
the right, skirted along by the edge of the trees, as if unwilling to
part company with them.

"I guess we'd better get back into the lane now," said Miss Nancy,
"we're a pretty good long way from home."




CHAPTER XII

          Behind the door stand bags o' meal,
            And in the ark is plenty.
          And good hard cakes his mither makes,
            And mony a sweeter dainty.
          A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,
            Are standing in the byre;
          While winking puss, wi' mealy mou',
            Is playing round the fire.

                                        --SCOTCH SONG.


They left the wood and the brook behind them, and crossed a large
stubble field; then got over a fence into another. They were in the
midst of this when Nancy stopped Ellen, and bade her look up towards the
west, where towered a high mountain, no longer hid from their view by
the trees.

"I told you I'd show you where I live," said she. "Look up now, clear to
the top of the mountain, almost, and a little to the right; do you see
that little mite of a house there? Look sharp,--it's a'most as brown as
the rock,--do you see it?--it's close by that big pine-tree, but it
don't look big from here--it's just by that little dark spot near the
top."

"I see it," said Ellen, "I see it now; do you live 'way up there?"

"That's just what I do; and that's just what I wish I didn't. But granny
likes it; she will live there. I'm blessed if I know what for, if it
ain't to plague me. Do you think you'd like to live up on the top of a
mountain like that?"

"No, I don't think I should," said Ellen. "Isn't it very cold up there?"

"Cold! you don't know anything about it. The wind comes there, I tell
you--enough to cut you in two; I have to take and hold on to the trees
sometimes to keep from being blowed away. And then granny sends me out
every morning before it's light, no matter how deep the snow is, to look
for the cow; and it's so bitter cold I expect nothing else but I'll be
froze to death some time."

"Oh," said Ellen, with a look of horror, "how can she do so?"

"Oh, she don't care," said the other; "she sees my nose freeze off every
winter, and it don't make no difference."

"Freeze your nose off!" said Ellen.

"To be sure," said the other, nodding gravely, "every winter; it grows
out again when the warm weather comes."

"And is that the reason why it is so little?" said Ellen innocently, and
with great curiosity.

"Little!" said the other, crimsoning in a fury; "what do you mean by
that? It's as big as yours any day, I can tell you."

Ellen involuntarily put her hand to her face to see if Nancy spoke true.
Somewhat reassured to find a very decided ridge where her companion's
nose was wanting in the line of beauty, she answered in her turn--

"It's no such thing, Nancy! you oughtn't to say so; you know better."

"I _don't_ know better! I _ought_ to say so!" replied the other
furiously. "If I had your nose I'd be glad to have it freeze off; I'd a
sight rather have none. I'd pull it every day, if I was you, to make it
grow."

"I shall believe what Aunt Fortune said of you was true," said Ellen.
She had  very high, but she added no more, and walked on in
dignified silence. Nancy stalked before her in silence that was meant to
be dignified too, though it had not exactly that air. By degrees each
cooled down, and Nancy was trying to find out what Miss Fortune had said
of her, when on the edge of the next field they met the brook again.
After running a long way to the right it had swept round, and here was
flowing gently in the opposite direction. But how were they ever to
cross it? The brook ran in a smooth current between them and a rising
bank on the other side so high as to prevent their seeing what lay
beyond. There were no stepping-stones now. The only thing that looked
like a bridge was an old log that had fallen across the brook, or
perhaps had at some time or other been put there on purpose, and that
lay more than half in the water; what remained of its surface was green
with moss and slippery with slime. Ellen was sadly afraid to trust
herself on it; but what to do--Nancy soon settled the question as far as
she was concerned. Pulling off her thick shoes, she ran fearlessly upon
the rude bridge; her clinging bare feet carried her safely over, and
Ellen soon saw her re-shoeing herself in triumph on the opposite side;
but thus left behind and alone, her own difficulty increased.

"Pull off your shoes and do as I did," said Nancy.

"I can't," said Ellen; "I'm afraid of wetting my feet; I know mamma
wouldn't let me."

"Afraid of wetting your feet!" said the other; "what a chickaninny you
are! Well, if you try to come over with your shoes on you'll fall in, I
tell you; and then you'll wet more than your feet. But come along
somehow, for I won't stand here waiting much longer."

Thus urged, Ellen set out upon her perilous journey over the bridge.
Slowly and fearfully, and with as much care as possible, she set step by
step upon the slippery log. Already half of the danger was passed, when,
reaching forward to grasp Nancy's outstretched hand, she missed
it--_perhaps_ that was Nancy's fault--poor Ellen lost her balance, and
went in head foremost. The water was deep enough to cover her completely
as she lay, though not enough to prevent her getting up again. She was
greatly frightened, but managed to struggle up first to a sitting
posture, and then to her feet, and then to wade out to the shore;
though, dizzy and sick, she came nearly falling back again more than
once. The water was very cold; and, thoroughly sobered, poor Ellen felt
chill enough in body and mind too; all her fine spirits were gone; and
not the less because Nancy had risen to a great pitch of delight at her
misfortune. The air rang with her laughter; she likened Ellen to every
ridiculous thing she could think of. Too miserable to be angry, Ellen
could not laugh, and would not cry, but she exclaimed in distress--

"Oh, what shall I do! I am so cold!"

"Come along," said Nancy; "give me your hand; we'll run right over to
Mrs. Van Brunt's--'tain't far--it's just over here. There," said she, as
they got to the top of the bank, and came within sight of a house
standing only a few fields off--"there it is! Run, Ellen, and we'll be
there directly."

"Who is Mrs. Van Brunt?" Ellen contrived to say as Nancy hurried her
along.

"Who is she?--run, Ellen!--why, she's just Mrs. Van Brunt--your Mr. Van
Brunt's mother, you know--make haste, Ellen--we had rain enough the
other day; I'm afraid it wouldn't be good for the grass if you stayed
too long in one place; hurry! I'm afraid you'll catch cold--you got your
feet wet after all, I'm sure."

Run they did; and a few minutes brought them to Mrs. Van Brunt's door.
The little brick walk leading to it from the courtyard gate was as neat
as a pin; so was everything else the eye could rest on; and when Nancy
went in poor Ellen stayed _her_ foot at the door, unwilling to carry her
wet shoes and dripping garments any further. She could hear, however,
what was going on.

"Hillo! Mrs. Van Brunt," shouted Nancy; "where are you?--oh! Mrs. Van
Brunt, are you out of water? 'cos if you are I've brought you a plenty;
the person that has it don't want it; she's just at the door; she
wouldn't bring it in till she knew you wanted it. Oh, Mrs. Van Brunt,
don't look so or you'll kill me with laughing. Come and see! come and
see!"

The steps within drew near the door, and first Nancy showed herself, and
then a little old woman, not very old either, of very kind, pleasant
countenance.

"What is all this?" said she in great surprise. "Bless me! poor little
dear! what is this?"

"Nothing in the world but a drowned rat, Mrs. Van Brunt, don't you see?"
said Nancy.

"Go home, Nancy Vawse! go home," said the old lady; "you're a regular
bad girl. I do believe this is some mischief o' yourn, go right off
home; it's time you were after your cow a great while ago."

As she spoke, she drew Ellen in, and shut the door.

"Poor little dear!" said the old lady kindly, "what has happened to you?
Come to the fire, love, you're trembling with the cold. Oh dear! dear!
you're soaking wet; this is all along of Nancy somehow, I know; how was
it, love? Ain't you Miss Fortune's little girl? Never mind, don't talk,
darling; there ain't one bit of colour in your face, not one bit."

Good Mrs. Van Brunt had drawn Ellen to the fire, and all this while she
was pulling off as fast as possible her wet clothes. Then sending a girl
who was in waiting, for clean towels, she rubbed Ellen dry from head to
foot, and wrapping her in a blanket, left her in a chair before the
fire, while she went to seek something for her to put on. Ellen had
managed to tell who she was, and how her mischance had come about, but
little else, though the kind old lady had kept on pouring out words of
sorrow and pity during the whole time. She came trotting back directly
with one of her own short gowns, the only thing that she could lay hands
on that was anywhere near Ellen's length. Enormously big it was for her,
but Mrs. Van Brunt wrapped it round and round, and the blanket over it
again, and then she bustled about till she had prepared a tumbler of hot
drink which she said was to keep Ellen from catching cold. It was
anything but agreeable, being made from some bitter herb, and sweetened
with molasses; but Ellen swallowed it, as she would anything else at
such kind hands, and the old lady carried her herself into a little room
opening out of the kitchen, and laid her in a bed that had been warmed
for her. Excessively tired and weak as she was, Ellen scarcely needed
the help of the hot herb tea to fall into a very deep sleep; perhaps it
might not have lasted so very long as it did, but for that. Afternoon
changed for evening, evening grew quite dark, still Ellen did not stir;
and after every little journey into the bedroom to see how she was
doing, Mrs. Van Brunt came back saying how glad she was to see her
sleeping so finely. Other eyes looked on for a minute--kind and gentle
eyes; though Mrs. Van Brunt's were kind and gentle too; once a soft kiss
touched her forehead, there was no danger of waking her.

It was perfectly dark in the little bedroom, and had been so a good
while, when Ellen was aroused by some noise, and then a rough voice she
knew very well. Feeling faint and weak, and not more than half awake
yet, she lay still and listened. She heard the outer door open and shut,
and then the voice said--

"So, mother, you've got my stray sheep here, have you?"

"Ay, ay," said the voice of Mrs. Van Brunt. "Have you been looking for
her? How did you know she was here?"

"Looking for her! ay, looking for her ever since sundown. She has been
missing at the house since some time this forenoon. I believe her aunt
got a bit scared about her; anyhow I did. She's a queer little chip as
ever I see."

"She's a dear little soul, _I_ know," said his mother; "you needn't say
nothin' agin her, I ain't a-going to believe it."

"No more am I--I'm the best friend she's got, if she only knowed it; but
don't you think," said Mr. Van Brunt, laughing, "I asked her to give me
a kiss this forenoon, and if I'd been an owl she couldn't ha' been more
scared; she went off like a streak, and Miss Fortune said she was as mad
as she could be, and that's the last of her."

"How did you find her out?"

"I met that mischievous Vawse girl, and I made her tell me; she had no
mind to at first. It'll be the worse for Ellen if she takes to that
wicked thing."

"She won't. Nancy has been taking her for a walk, and worked it so as to
get her into the brook, and then she brought her here, just as dripping
wet as she could be. I gave her something hot and put her to bed, and
she'll do, I reckon; but I tell you it gave me queer feelings to see the
poor little thing just as white as ashes, and all of a tremble, and
looking so sorrowful too. She's sleeping finely now; but it ain't right
to see a child's face look so; it ain't right," repeated Mrs. Van Brunt
thoughtfully. "You ha'n't had supper, have you?"

"No, mother, and I must take that young one back. Ain't she awake yet?"

"I'll see directly; but she ain't going home, nor you neither, 'Brahm,
till you've got your supper; it would be a sin to let her. She shall
have a taste of my splitters this very night; I've been making them o'
purpose for her. So you may just take off your hat and sit down."

"You mean to let her know where to come when she wants good things,
mother. Well, I won't say splitters ain't worth waiting for."

Ellen heard him sit down, and then she guessed from the words that
passed that Mrs. Van Brunt and her little maid were busied in making the
cakes. She lay quiet.

"You're a good friend, 'Brahm," began the old lady again, "nobody knows
that better than me; but I hope that poor little thing has got another
one to-day that'll do more for her than you can."

"What, yourself, mother? I don't know about that."

"No, no; do you think I mean myself? There, turn it quick, Sally! Miss
Alice has been here."

"How; this evening?"

"Just a little before dark, on her grey pony. She came in for a minute,
and I took her--that'll burn, Sally!--I took her in to see the child
while she was asleep, and I told her all you told me about her. She
didn't say much, but she looked at her very sweet, as she always does,
and I guess--there--now I'll see after my little sleeper."

And presently Mrs. Van Brunt came to the bedside with a light, and her
arms full of Ellen's dry clothes. Ellen felt as if she could have put
her arms round her kind old friend and hugged her with all her heart;
but it was not her way to show her feelings before strangers. She
suffered Mrs. Van Brunt to dress her in silence, only saying with a
sigh, "How kind you are to me, ma'am;" to which the old lady replied
with a kiss, and telling her she mustn't say a word about that.

The kitchen was bright with firelight and candlelight; the tea-table
looked beautiful with its piles of white splitters, besides plenty of
other and more substantial things; and at the corner of the hearth sat
Mr. Van Brunt.

"So," said he, smiling, as Ellen came in and took her stand at the
opposite corner, "so I drove you away this morning? You ain't mad with
me yet, I hope."

Ellen crossed directly over to him, and putting her little hand in his
great rough one, said, "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt,
for taking so much trouble to come and look after me."

She said it with a look of gratitude and trust that pleased him very
much.

"Trouble, indeed!" said he good-humouredly, "I'll take twice as much any
day for what you wouldn't give me this forenoon. But never fear, Miss
Ellen, I ain't a-goin' to ask you that again."

He shook the little hand, and from that time Ellen and her rough
charioteer were firm friends.

Mrs. Van Brunt now summoned them to table, and Ellen was well feasted
with the splitters, which were a kind of rich short-cake baked in irons,
very thin and crisp, and then split in two and buttered, whence their
name. A pleasant meal was that. Whatever an epicure might have thought
of the tea, to Ellen, in her famished state, it was delicious; and no
epicure could have found fault with the cold ham and the butter and the
cakes; but far better than all was the spirit of kindness that was
there. Ellen feasted on that more than on anything else. If her host and
hostess were not very polished, they could not have been outdone in
their kind care of her and kind attention to her wants. And when the
supper was at length over, Mrs. Van Brunt declared a little colour had
come back to the pale cheeks. The colour came back in good earnest a few
minutes after, when a great tortoise-shell cat walked into the room.
Ellen jumped down from her chair, and presently was bestowing the
tenderest caresses upon pussy, who stretched out her head and purred as
if she liked them very well.

"What a nice cat," said Ellen.

"She has five kittens," said Mrs. Van Brunt.

"Five kittens!" said Ellen. "Oh, may I come some time and see them?"

"You shall see 'em right away, dear, and come as often as you like too.
Sally, just take a basket, and go fetch them kittens here."

Upon this Mr. Van Brunt began to talk about its being time to go, if
they were going. But his mother insisted that Ellen should stay where
she was; she said she was not fit to go home that night, that she
oughtn't to walk a step, and that 'Brahm should go and tell Miss Fortune
the child was safe and well, and would be with her early in the morning.
Mr. Van Brunt shook his head two or three times, but finally agreed, to
Ellen's great joy. When he came back she was sitting on the floor before
the fire, with all the five kittens in her lap, and the old mother cat
walking around and over her and them. But she looked up with a happier
face than he had ever seen her wear, and told him she was "_so_ much
obliged to him for taking such a long walk for her;" and Mr. Van Brunt
felt that, like his oxen, he could have done a great deal more with
pleasure.




CHAPTER XIII

          It's hardly in a body's pow'r
          To keep at times frae being sour.

                                        --BURNS.


Before the sun was up the next morning, Mrs. Van Brunt came into Ellen's
room and aroused her.

"It's a real shame to wake you up," she said, "when you were sleeping so
finely; but 'Brahm wants to be off to his work, and won't stay for
breakfast. Slept sound, did you?"

"Oh yes, indeed; as sound as a top," said Ellen, rubbing her eyes; "I am
hardly awake yet."

"I declare it's too bad," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "but there's no help for
it. You don't feel no headache, do you, nor pain in your bones?"

"No, ma'am, not a bit of it; I feel nicely."

"Ah! well," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "then your tumble into the brook didn't
do you any mischief; I thought it wouldn't. Poor little soul!"

"I am very glad I did fall in," said Ellen, "for if I hadn't I shouldn't
have come here, Mrs. Van Brunt."

The old lady instantly kissed her.

"Oh! mayn't I just take one look at the kitties?" said Ellen, when she
was ready to go.

"Indeed you shall," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "if 'Brahm's hurry was ever so
much; and it ain't besides. Come here, dear."

She took Ellen back to a waste lumber-room, where in a corner, on some
old pieces of carpet, lay pussy and her family. How fondly Ellen's hand
was passed over each little soft back! How hard it was for her to leave
them!

"Wouldn't you like to take one home with you, dear?" said Mrs. Van Brunt
at length.

"Oh! may I?" said Ellen, looking up in delight; "are you in earnest? Oh,
thank you, dear Mrs. Van Brunt! Oh, I shall be so glad!"

"Well, choose one, then, dear; choose the one you like best, and 'Brahm
shall carry it for you."

The choice was made, and Mrs. Van Brunt and Ellen returned to the
kitchen, where Mr. Van Brunt had already been waiting some time. He
shook his head when he saw what was in the basket his mother handed to
him.

"That won't do," said he; "I can't do that, mother. I'll undertake to
see Miss Ellen safe home, but the cat 'ud be more than I could manage. I
think I'd hardly get off with a whole skin 'tween the one and t'other."

"Well, now!" said Mrs. Van Brunt.

Ellen gave a longing look at her black-and-white favourite, which was
uneasily endeavouring to find out the height of the basket, and mewing
at the same time with a most ungratified expression. However, though
sadly disappointed, she submitted with a very good grace to what could
not be helped. First setting down the little cat out of the basket it
seemed to like so ill, and giving it one farewell pat and squeeze, she
turned to the kind old lady who stood watching her, and throwing her
arms around her neck, silently spoke her gratitude in a hearty hug and
kiss.

"Good-bye, ma'am," said she; "I may come and see them some time again,
and see you, mayn't I?"

"Indeed you shall, my darling," said the old woman, "just as often as
you like;--just as often as you can get away. I'll make 'Brahm bring you
home sometimes. 'Brahm, you'll bring her, won't you?"

"There's two words to that bargain, mother, I can tell you; but if I
don't, I'll know the reason on't."

And away they went. Ellen drew two or three sighs at first, but she
could not help brightening up soon. It was early--not sunrise; the cool
freshness of the air was enough to give one new life and spirit; the sky
was fair and bright; and Mr. Van Brunt marched along at a quick pace.
Enlivened by the exercise, Ellen speedily forgot everything
disagreeable; and her little head was filled with pleasant things. She
watched where the silver light in the east foretold the sun's coming.
She watched the silver changed to gold, till a rich yellow tint was
flung over the whole landscape; and then broke the first rays of light
upon the tops of the western hills--the sun was up. It was a new sight
to Ellen.

"How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," said Mr. Van Brunt, in his slow way, "it'll be a fine day for the
field. I guess I'll go with the oxen over to that 'ere big meadow."

"Just look," said Ellen, "how the light comes creeping down the side of
the mountain--now it has got to the wood--Oh, do look at the tops of the
trees! Oh! I wish mamma was here."

Mr. Van Brunt didn't know what to say to this. He rather wished so too
for her sake.

"There," said Ellen, "now the sunshine is on the fence, and the road,
and everything. I wonder what is the reason that the sun shines first
upon the top of the mountain, and then comes so slowly down the side;
why don't it shine on the whole at once?"

Mr. Van Brunt shook his head in ignorance. "He guessed it always did
so," he said.

"Yes," said Ellen, "I suppose it does, but that's the very thing--I want
to know the reason why. And I noticed just now, it shone in my face
before it touched my hands. Isn't it queer?"

"Humph!--there's a great many queer things, if you come to that," said
Mr. Van Brunt philosophically.

But Ellen's head ran on from one thing to another, and her next question
was not so wide of the subject as her companion might have thought.

"Mr. Van Brunt, are there any schools about here?"

"Schools?" said the person addressed. "Yes, there's plenty of schools."

"Good ones?" said Ellen.

"Well, I don't exactly know about that. There's Captain Conklin's. That
had ought to be a good 'un. He's a regular smart man, they say."

"Whereabouts is that?" said Ellen.

"His school? It's a mile or so the other side of my house."

"And how far is it from your house to Aunt Fortune's?"

"A good deal better than two mile, but we'll be there before long. You
ain't tired, be you?"

"No," said Ellen. But this reminder gave a new turn to her thoughts, and
her spirits were suddenly checked. Her former brisk and springing step
changed to so slow and lagging a one that Mr. Van Brunt more than once
repeated his remark that he saw she was tired.

If it was that, Ellen grew tired very fast. She lagged more and more as
they neared the house, and at last quite fell behind, and allowed Mr.
Van Brunt to go in first.

Miss Fortune was busy about the breakfast, and as Mr. Van Brunt
afterwards described it, "looking as if she could have bitten off a
tenpenny nail," and indeed as if the operation would have been rather
gratifying than otherwise. She gave them no notice at first, bustling to
and fro with great energy, but all of a sudden she brought up directly
in front of Ellen, and said--

"Why didn't you come home last night?"

The words were jerked out rather than spoken.

"I got wet in the brook," said Ellen, "and Mrs. Van Brunt was so kind as
to keep me."

"Which way did you go out of the house yesterday?"

"Through the front door."

"The front door was locked."

"I unlocked it."

"What did you go out that way for?"

"I didn't want to come this way."

"Why not?" Ellen hesitated.

"Why not?" demanded Miss Fortune, still more emphatically than before.

"I didn't want to see you, ma'am," said Ellen, flushing.

"If ever you do so again!" said Miss Fortune in a kind of cold fury.
"I've a great mind to whip you for this, as ever I had to eat."

The flush faded on Ellen's cheek, and a shiver visibly passed over
her--not from fear. She stood with downcast eyes and compressed lips, a
certain instinct of childish dignity warning her to be silent. Mr. Van
Brunt put himself in between.

"Come, come!" said he, "this is getting to be too much of a good thing.
Beat your cream, ma'am, as much as you like, or if you want to try your
hand on something else you'll have to take me first, I promise you."

"Now don't _you_ meddle, Van Brunt," said the lady sharply, "with what
ain't no business o' yourn."

"I don't know about that," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Maybe it is my business;
but meddle or no meddle, Miss Fortune, it is time for me to be in the
field, and if you ha'n't no better breakfast for Miss Ellen and me than
all this here, we'll just go right away hum again; but there's something
in your kettle there that smells uncommonly nice, and I wish you'd just
let us have it and no more words."

No more words did Miss Fortune waste on any one that morning. She went
on with her work and dished up the breakfast in silence, and with a face
that Ellen did not quite understand, only she thought she had never in
her life seen one so disagreeable. The meal was a very solemn and
uncomfortable one. Ellen could scarcely swallow, and her aunt was near
in the same condition. Mr. Van Brunt and the old lady alone despatched
their breakfast as usual, with no other attempts at conversation than
the common mumbling on the part of the latter, which nobody minded, and
one or two strange grunts from the former, the meaning of which, if they
had any, nobody tried to find out.

There was a breach now between Ellen and her aunt that neither could
make any effort to mend. Miss Fortune did not renew the disagreeable
conversation that Mr. Van Brunt had broken off. She left Ellen entirely
to herself, scarcely speaking to her, or seeming to know when she went
out or came in. And this lasted day after day. Wearily they passed.
After one or two, Mr. Van Brunt seemed to stand just where he did before
in Miss Fortune's good graces, but not Ellen. To her, when others were
not by, her face wore constantly something of the same cold, hard,
disagreeable expression it had put on after Mr. Van Brunt's
interference--a look that Ellen came to regard with absolute abhorrence.
She kept away by herself as much as she could; but she did not know what
to do with her time, and for want of something better often spent it in
tears. She went to bed cheerless night after night, and arose spiritless
morning after morning, and this lasted till Mr. Van Brunt more than once
told his mother that "that poor little thing was going wandering about
like a ghost, and growing thinner and paler every day, and he didn't
know what she would come to if she went on so."

Ellen longed now for a letter with unspeakable longing, but none came.
Day after day brought new disappointment, each day more hard to bear. Of
her only friend, Mr. Van Brunt, she saw little. He was much away in the
fields during the fine weather, and when it rained Ellen herself was
prisoner at home, whither he never came but at meal times. The old
grandmother was very much disposed to make much of her; but Ellen
shrank, she hardly knew why, from her fond caresses, and never found
herself alone with her if she could help it, for then she was regularly
called to the old lady's side and obliged to go through a course of
kissing, fondling, and praising she would gladly have escaped. In her
aunt's presence this was seldom attempted, and never permitted to go on.
Miss Fortune was sure to pull Ellen away and bid her mother "stop that
palavering," avowing that "it made her sick." Ellen had one faint hope
that her aunt would think of sending her to school, as she employed her
in nothing at home, and certainly took small delight in her company; but
no hint of the kind dropped from Miss Fortune's lips, and Ellen's
longing look for this as well as for a word from her mother was daily
doomed to be ungratified and to grow more keen by delay.

One pleasure only remained to Ellen in the course of the day, and that
one she enjoyed with the carefulness of a miser. It was seeing the cows
milked, morning and evening. For this she got up very early, and watched
till the men came for the pails; and then away she bounded out of the
house and to the barn-yard. There were the milky mothers, five in
number, standing about, each in her own corner of the yard or
cow-house, waiting to be relieved of their burden of milk. They were
fine gentle animals, in excellent condition, and looking every way happy
and comfortable; nothing living under Mr. Van Brunt's care was ever
suffered to look otherwise. He was always in the barn or barn-yard at
milking time, and under his protection Ellen felt safe and looked on at
her ease. It was a very pretty scene--at least she thought so. The
gentle cows standing quietly to be milked as if they enjoyed it, and
munching the cud; and the white stream of milk foaming into the pails;
then there was the interest of seeing whether Sam or Johnny would get
through first; and how near Jane or Dolly would come to rivalling
Streaky's fine pailful; and at last Ellen allowed Mr. Van Brunt to teach
herself how to milk. She began with trembling, but learnt fast enough;
and more than one pailful of milk that Miss Fortune strained had been,
unknown to her, drawn by Ellen's fingers. These minutes in the farm-yard
were the pleasantest in Ellen's day. While they lasted every care was
forgotten, and her little face was as bright as the morning; but the
milking was quickly over, and the cloud gathered on Ellen's brow almost
as soon as the shadow of the house fell upon it.

"Where is the post-office, Mr. Van Brunt?" she asked one morning, as she
stood watching the sharpening of an axe upon the grindstone. The axe was
in that gentleman's hand, and its edge carefully laid to the whirling
stone, which one of the farm boys was turning.

"Where is the post-office? Why, over to Thirlwall, to be sure," replied
Mr. Van Brunt, glancing up at her from his work. "Faster, Johnny."

"And how often do letters come here?" said Ellen.

"Take care, Johnny!--some more water--mind your business, will
you!--Just as often as I go to fetch 'em, Miss Ellen, and no oftener."

"And how often do you go, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Only when I've some other errand, Miss Ellen; my grain would never be
in the barn if I was running to post-office every other thing, and for
what ain't there too. I don't get a letter but two or three times a
year, I s'pose, though I call, I guess, half-a-dozen times."

"Ah, but there's one there now, or soon will be, I know, for me," said
Ellen. "When do you think you'll go again, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Now if I'd ha' knowed that I'd ha' gone to Thirlwall yesterday--I was
within a mile of it. I don't see as I can go this week anyhow in the
world; but I'll make some errand there the first day I can, Miss Ellen,
that you may depend on. You shan't wait for your letter a bit longer
than I can help."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Van Brunt, you are very kind. Then the letters never
come except when you go after them?"

"No--yes, they do come once in a while by old Mr. Swaim, but he ha'n't
been here this great while."

"And who's he?" said Ellen.

"Oh, he's a queer old chip that goes round the country on all sorts of
errands; he comes along once in a while. That'll do, Johnny. I believe
this here tool is as sharp as I have any occasion for."

"What's the use of pouring water upon the grindstone?" said Ellen; "why
wouldn't it do as well dry?"

"I can't tell, I am sure," replied Mr. Van Brunt, who was slowly drawing
his thumb over the edge of the axe; "your questions are a good deal too
sharp for me, Miss Ellen; I only know it would spoil the axe, or the
grindstone, or both most likely."

"It's very odd," said Ellen thoughtfully; "I wish I knew everything.
But, oh dear! I am not likely to know anything," said she, her
countenance suddenly changing from its pleased inquisitive look to a
cloud of disappointment and sorrow. Mr. Van Brunt noticed the change.

"Ain't your aunt going to send you to school, then?" said he.

"I don't know," said Ellen, sighing; "she never speaks about it, nor
about anything else. But I declare I'll make her!" she exclaimed,
changing again. "I'll go right in and ask her, and then she'll have to
tell me. I will! I am tired of living so. I'll know what she means to
do, and then I can tell you what _I_ must do."

Mr. Van Brunt, seemingly dubious about the success of this line of
conduct, stroked his chin and his axe alternately two or three times in
silence, and finally walked off. Ellen, without waiting for her courage
to cool, went directly into the house.

Miss Fortune, however, was not in the kitchen; to follow her into her
secret haunts, the dairy, cellar, or lower kitchen, was not to be
thought of. Ellen waited awhile, but her aunt did not come, and the
excitement of the moment cooled down. She was not quite so ready to
enter upon the business as she had felt at first; she had even some
qualms about it.

"But I'll do it," said Ellen to herself; "it will be hard, but I'll do
it!"




CHAPTER XIV

          For my part, he keeps me here rustically
          At home, or, to speak more properly, stays
          Me here at home unkept.

                                                  --AS YOU LIKE IT.


The next morning after breakfast Ellen found the chance she rather
dreaded than wished for. Mr. Van Brunt had gone out; the old lady had
not left her room, and Miss Fortune was quietly seated by the fire,
busied with some mysteries of cooking. Like a true coward, Ellen could
not make up her mind to bolt at once into the thick of the matter, but
thought to come to it gradually--always a bad way.

"What is that, Aunt Fortune?" said she, after she had watched her with a
beating heart for about five minutes.

"What is what?"

"I mean, what is that you are straining through the colander into that
jar?"

"Hop-water."

"What is it for?"

"I'm scalding this meal with it to make turnpikes."

"Turnpikes!" said Ellen; "I thought turnpikes were high, smooth roads
with toll-gates every now and then--that's what mamma told me they
were."

"That's all the kind of turnpikes your mamma knew anything about, I
reckon," said Miss Fortune, in a tone that conveyed the notion that Mrs.
Montgomery's education had been very incomplete. "And indeed," she added
immediately after, "if she had made more turnpikes and paid fewer tolls,
it would have been just as well, I'm thinking."

Ellen felt the tone, if she did not thoroughly understand the words. She
was silent a moment; then remembering her purpose, she began again.
"What are these, then, Aunt Fortune?"

"Cakes, child, cakes! turnpike cakes--what I raise the bread with."

"What, those little brown cakes I have seen you melt in water and mix in
the flour when you make bread?"

"Mercy on us! yes! you've seen hundreds of 'em since you've been here,
if you never saw one before."

"I never did," said Ellen. "But what are they called turnpikes for?"

"The land knows! I don't. For mercy's sake stop asking me questions,
Ellen; I don't know what's got into you; you'll drive me crazy."

"But there's one more question I want to ask very much," said Ellen,
with her heart beating.

"Well, ask it then quick, and have done, and take yourself off. I have
other fish to fry than to answer all your questions."

Miss Fortune, however, was still quietly seated by the fire stirring her
meal and hop-water, and Ellen could not be quick; the words stuck in her
throat--came out at last.

"Aunt Fortune, I wanted to ask you if I may go to school?"

"Yes."

Ellen's heart sprang with a feeling of joy, a little qualified by the
peculiar dry tone in which the word was uttered.

"When may I go?"

"As soon as you like."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am. To which school shall I go, Aunt Fortune?"

"To whichever you like."

"But I don't know anything about them," said Ellen; "how can I tell
which is best?"

Miss Fortune was silent.

"What schools are there near here?" said Ellen.

"There's Captain Conklin's down at the Cross, and Miss Emerson's at
Thirlwall."

Ellen hesitated. The name was against her, but nevertheless she
concluded on the whole that the lady's school would be the pleasantest.

"Is Miss Emerson any relation of yours?" she asked.

"No."

"I think I should like to go to her school the best. I will go there if
you will let me--may I?"

"Yes."

"And I will begin next Monday--may I?"

"Yes."

Ellen wished exceedingly that her aunt would speak in some other tone of
voice; it was a continual damper to her rising hopes.

"I'll get my books ready," said she; "and look 'em over a little too, I
guess. But what will be the best way for me to go, Aunt Fortune?"

"I don't know."

"I couldn't walk so far, could I?"

"You know best."

"I couldn't, I am sure," said Ellen; "it's four miles to Thirlwall, Mr.
Van Brunt said; that would be too much for me to walk twice a day; and I
should be afraid besides."

A dead silence.

"But, Aunt Fortune, do please tell me what I am to do. How can I know
unless you tell me? What way is there that I can go to school?"

"It is unfortunate that I don't keep a carriage," said Miss Fortune;
"but Mr. Van Brunt can go for you morning and evening in the ox-cart, if
that will answer."

"The ox-cart! But, dear me! it would take him all day, Aunt Fortune. It
takes hours and hours to go and come with the oxen; Mr. Van Brunt
wouldn't have time to do anything but carry me to school and bring me
home."

"Of course; but that's of no consequence," said Miss Fortune, in the
same dry tone.

"Then I can't go--there's no help for it," said Ellen despondingly. "Why
didn't you say so before. When you said yes I thought you meant yes."

She covered her face. Miss Fortune rose with a half smile and carried
her jar of scalded meal into the pantry. She then came back and
commenced the operation of washing-up the breakfast things.

"Ah, if I only had a little pony," said Ellen, "that would carry me
there and back, and go trotting about with me everywhere--how nice that
would be!"

"Yes, that would be very nice! And who do you think would go trotting
about after the pony? I suppose you would leave that to Mr. Van Brunt;
and I should have to go trotting about after you, to pick you up in case
you broke your neck in some ditch or gully; it would be a very nice
affair altogether, I think."

Ellen was silent. Her hopes had fallen to the ground, and her
disappointment was unsoothed by one word of kindness or sympathy. With
all her old grievances fresh in her mind, she sat thinking her aunt was
the very most disagreeable person she ever had the misfortune to meet
with. No amiable feelings were working within her; and the cloud on her
brow was of displeasure and disgust, as well as sadness and sorrow. Her
aunt saw it.

"What are you thinking of?" said she rather sharply.

"I am thinking," said Ellen, "I am very sorry I cannot go to school."

"Why, what do you want to learn so much? You know how to read and write
and cipher, don't you?"

"Read and write and cipher?" said Ellen: "to be sure I do; but that's
nothing--that's only the beginning."

"Well, what do you want to learn besides?"

"Oh, a great many things."

"Well, what?"

"Oh, a great many things," said Ellen; "French, and Italian, and Latin,
and music, and arithmetic, and chemistry, and all about animals and
plants and insects--I forget what it's called--and--oh, I can't
recollect; a great many things. Every now and then I think of something
I want to learn; I can't remember them now. But I'm doing nothing," said
Ellen sadly; "learning nothing--I am not studying and improving myself
as I meant to; mamma will be disappointed when she comes back, and I
meant to please her so much!" The tears were fast coming; she put her
hand upon her eyes to force them back.

"If you are so tired of being idle," said Miss Fortune, "I'll warrant
I'll give you something to do; and something to learn too, that you want
enough more than all those crinkumcrankums; I wonder what good they'd
ever do you! That's the way your mother was brought up, I suppose. If
she had been trained to use her hands and do something useful instead of
thinking herself above it, maybe she wouldn't have had to go to sea for
her health just now; it doesn't do for women to be bookworms."

"Mamma isn't a bookworm!" said Ellen indignantly; "I don't know what you
mean; and she never thinks herself above being useful; it's very strange
you should say so when you don't know anything about her."

"I know she ha'n't brought you up to know manners, anyhow," said Miss
Fortune. "Look here, I'll give you something to do--just you put those
plates and dishes together ready for washing, while I am downstairs."

Ellen obeyed, unwillingly enough. She had neither knowledge of the
business nor any liking for it; so it is no wonder Miss Fortune at her
return was not well pleased.

"But I never did such a thing before," said Ellen.

"There it is now!" said Miss Fortune. "I wonder where your eyes have
been every single time that I have done it since you have been here. I
should think your own sense might have told you! But you're too busy
learning of Mr. Van Brunt to know what's going on in the house. Is that
what you call made ready for washing? Now just have the goodness to
scrape every plate clean off and put them nicely in a pile here; and
turn out the slops out of the tea-cups and saucers and set them by
themselves. Well! what makes you handle them so? Are you afraid they'll
burn you?"

"I don't like to take hold of things people have drunk out of," said
Ellen, who was indeed touching the cups and saucers very delicately with
the tips of her fingers.

"Look here," said Miss Fortune, "don't you let me hear no more of that,
or I vow I'll give you something to do you won't like. Now put the
spoons here, and the knives and forks together here; and carry the
salt-cellar and the pepper-box and the butter and the sugar into the
buttery."

"I don't know where to put them," said Ellen.

"Come along, then, and I'll show you; it's time you did. I reckon you'll
feel better when you've something to do, and you shall have plenty.
There--put them in that cupboard, and set the butter up here, and put
the bread in this box, do you see? now don't let me have to show you
twice over."

This was Ellen's first introduction to the buttery; she had never dared
to go in there before. It was a long, light closet or pantry, lined on
the left side, and at the further end, with wide shelves up to the
ceiling. On these shelves stood many capacious pans and basins of tin
and earthenware, filled with milk, and most of them coated with superb
yellow cream. Midway was the window, before which Miss Fortune was
accustomed to skim her milk, and at the side of it was the mouth of a
wooden pipe, or covered trough, which conveyed the refuse milk down to
an enormous hogshead standing at the lower kitchen door, whence it was
drawn as wanted for the use of the pigs. Beyond the window in the
buttery, and on the higher shelves, were rows of yellow cheeses; forty
or fifty were there at least. On the right hand of the door was the
cupboard, and a short range of shelves, which held in ordinary all sorts
of matters for the table, both dishes and eatables. Floor and shelves
were well painted with thick yellow paint, hard and shining, and clean
as could be; and there was a faint pleasant smell of dairy things.

Ellen did not find out all this at once, but in the course of a day or
two, during which her visits to the buttery were many. Miss Fortune kept
her word, and found her plenty to do; Ellen's life soon became a pretty
busy one. She did not like this at all; it was a kind of work she had no
love for; yet no doubt it was a good exchange for the miserable moping
life she had lately led. Anything was better than that. One concern,
however, lay upon poor Ellen's mind with pressing weight--her neglected
studies and wasted time; for no better than wasted she counted it. "What
shall I do?" she said to herself after several of these busy days had
passed; "I am doing nothing--I am learning nothing--I shall forget all I
have learnt, directly. At this rate I shall not know any more than all
these people around me; and what _will_ mamma say?--Well, if I can't go
to school I know what I will do," she said, taking a sudden resolve,
"I'll study by myself! I'll see what I can do; it will be better than
nothing, any way. I'll begin this very day!"

With new life Ellen sprang upstairs to her room, and forthwith began
pulling all the things out of her trunk to get at her books. They were
at the very bottom; and by the time she had reached them half the floor
was strewn with the various articles of her wardrobe; without minding
them in her first eagerness, Ellen pounced at the books.

"Here you are, my dear Numa Pompilius," said she, drawing out a little
French book she had just begun to read, "and here _you_ are, old grammar
and dictionary; and here is my history--very glad to see you, Mr.
Goldsmith! And what in the world's this?--wrapped up as if it was
something great--oh, my expositor! I am not glad to see _you_, I am
sure; never want to look at your face or your back again. My
copy-book!--I wonder who'll set copies for me now! My arithmetic--that's
you! Geography and atlas--all right! And my slate!--but dear me! I don't
believe I've such a thing as a slate-pencil in the world. Where shall I
get one, I wonder? Well, I'll manage. And that's all--that's all, I
believe."

With all her heart Ellen would have begun her studying at once, but
there were all her things on the floor silently saying, "Put us up
first."

"I declare," said she to herself, "it's too bad to have nothing in the
shape of a bureau to keep one's clothes in. I wonder if I am to live in
a trunk, as mamma says, all the time I am here, and have to go down to
the bottom of it every time I want a pocket-handkerchief or a pair of
stockings. How I do despise those grey stockings! But what can I do?
It's too bad to squeeze my nice things up so. I wonder what is behind
those doors! I'll find out, I know, before long."

On the north side of Ellen's room were three doors. She had never opened
them, but now took it into her head to see what was there, thinking she
might possibly find what would help her out of her difficulty. She had
some little fear of meddling with anything in her aunt's domain, so she
fastened her own door to guard against interruption while she was busied
in making discoveries.

At the foot of her bed, in the corner, was one large door fastened by a
button, as indeed they were all. This opened, she found, upon a flight
of stairs, leading as she supposed to the garret; but Ellen did not care
to go up and see. They were lighted by half of a large window, across
the middle of which the stairs went up. She quickly shut that door and
opened the next, a little one. Here she found a tiny closet under the
stairs, lighted by the other half of the window. There was nothing in it
but a broad low shelf or step under the stairs, where Ellen presently
decided she could stow away her books very nicely. "It only wants a
little brushing out," said Ellen, "and it will do very well." The other
door, in the other corner, admitted her to a large light closet,
perfectly empty. "Now if there were only some hooks or pegs here,"
thought Ellen, "to hang up dresses on--but why shouldn't I drive some
nails? I will! I will! Oh, that'll be fine!"

Unfastening her door in a hurry she ran downstairs, and her heart
beating between pleasure and the excitement of daring so far without
her aunt's knowledge, she ran out and crossed the chip-yard to the
barn, where she had some hope of finding Mr. Van Brunt. By the time
she got to the little cow-house door a great noise of knocking or
pounding in the barn made her sure he was there, and she went on to
the lower barn-floor. There he was, he and the two farm boys (who,
by-the-bye, were grown men), all three threshing wheat. Ellen stopped
at the door, and for a minute forgot what she had come for in the
pleasure of looking at them. The clean floor was strewn with grain,
upon which the heavy flails came down one after another with quick
regular beat--one--two--three--one--two--three,--keeping perfect time.
The pleasant sound could be heard afar off, though, indeed, where
Ellen stood it was rather too loud to be pleasant. Her little voice
had no chance of being heard; she stood still and waited. Presently
Johnny, who was opposite, caught a sight of her, and without stopping
his work said to his leader, "Somebody there for you, Mr. Van Brunt."
That gentleman's flail ceased its motion, then he threw it down and
went to the door to help Ellen up the high step.

"Well," said he, "have you come out to see what's going on?"

"No," said Ellen, "I've been looking--but Mr. Van Brunt, could you be so
good as to let me have a hammer and half-a-dozen nails?"

"A hammer and half-a-dozen nails? Come this way," said he.

They went out of the barn-yard and across the chip-yard to an out-house
below the garden and not far from the spout, called the poultry-house,
though it was quite as much the property of the hogs, who had a regular
sleeping apartment there, where corn was always fed out to the fatting
ones. Opening a kind of granary storeroom, where the corn for this
purpose was stored, Mr. Van Brunt took down from a shelf a large hammer
and a box of nails, and asked Ellen what size she wanted.

"Pretty large."

"So?"

"No; a good deal bigger yet I should like."

"'A good deal bigger yet'--who wants 'em?"

"I do," said Ellen, smiling.

"You do! Do you think your little arms can manage the big hammer?"

"I don't know. I guess so; I'll try."

"Where do you want 'em driv?"

"Up in a closet in my room," said Ellen, speaking as softly as if she
had feared her aunt was at the corner; "I want 'em to hang up dresses
and things."

Mr. Van Brunt half smiled, and put up the hammer and nails on the shelf
again.

"Now, I'll tell you what we'll do," said he; "you can't manage them big
things. I'll put 'em up for you to-night when I come in to supper."

"But I'm afraid she won't let you," said Ellen doubtfully.

"Never you mind about that," said he; "I'll fix it. Maybe we won't ask
her."

"Oh, thank you," said Ellen joyfully, her face recovering its full
sunshine in answer to his smile; and, clapping her hands, she ran back
to the house, while more slowly Mr. Van Brunt returned to the threshers.
Ellen seized dust-pan and brush and ran up to her room, and setting
about the business with right good will, she soon had her closets in
beautiful order. The books, writing-desk, and work-box were then
bestowed very carefully in the one; in the other her coats and dresses,
neatly folded up in a pile on the floor, waiting till the nails should
be driven. Then the remainder of her things were gathered up from the
floor, and neatly arranged in the trunk again. Having done all this,
Ellen's satisfaction was unbounded. By this time dinner was ready. As
soon after dinner as she could escape from Miss Fortune's calls upon
her, Ellen stole up to her room and her books, and began work in
earnest. The whole afternoon was spent over sums, and verbs, and maps,
and pages of history. A little before tea, as Ellen was setting the
table, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen with a bag on his back.

"What have you got there, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Miss Fortune.

"A bag of seed corn."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Put it up in the garret for safe keeping."

"Set it down in the corner, and I'll take it up to-morrow."

"Thank you, ma'am,--rather go myself, if it's all the same to you. You
needn't be scared, I've left my shoes at the door. Miss Ellen, I believe
I've got to go through your room."

Ellen was glad to run before to hide her laughter. When they reached her
room, Mr. Van Brunt produced a hammer out of the bag, and taking a
handful of nails from his pocket, put up a fine row of them along her
closet wall; then, while she hung up her dresses, he went on to the
garret, and Ellen heard him hammering there too. Presently he came down,
and they returned to the kitchen.

"What's all that knocking?" said Miss Fortune.

"I've been driving some nails," said Mr. Van Brunt coolly.

"Up in the garret!"

"Yes, and in Miss Ellen's closet; she said she wanted some."

"You should ha' spoke to _me_ about it," said Miss Fortune to Ellen.
There was displeasure enough in her face; but she said no more, and the
matter blew over much better than Ellen had feared.

Ellen steadily pursued her plan of studying, in spite of some
discouragements.

A letter written about ten days after gave her mother an account of her
endeavours and of her success. It was a despairing account. Ellen
complained that she wanted help to understand, and lacked time to study;
that her aunt kept her busy, and, she believed, took pleasure in
breaking her off from her books; and she bitterly said her mother must
expect to find an ignorant little daughter when she came home. It ended
with, "Oh, if I could just see you, and kiss you, and put my arms round
you, mamma, I'd be willing to die."

This letter was despatched the next morning by Mr. Van Brunt; and Ellen
waited and watched with great anxiety for his return from Thirlwall in
the afternoon.




CHAPTER XV

    An ant dropped into the water; a wood pigeon took pity of her and
    threw her a little bough.--L'ESTRANGE.


The afternoon was already half spent when Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart was
seen returning. Ellen was standing by the little gate that opened on the
chip-yard; and with her heart beating anxiously she watched the
slow-coming oxen; how slowly they came! At last they turned out of the
lane and drew the cart up the ascent; and stopping beneath the
apple-tree Mr. Van Brunt leisurely got down, and flinging back his whip,
came to the gate. But the little face that met him there, quivering with
hope and fear, made his own quite sober. "I'm really _very_ sorry, Miss
Ellen----" he began.

That was enough. Ellen waited to hear no more, but turned away, the cold
chill of disappointment coming over her heart. She had borne the former
delays pretty well, but this was one too many, and she felt sick. She
went round to the front stoop, where scarcely ever anybody came, and
sitting down on the steps wept sadly and despairingly.

It might have been half-an-hour or more after, that the kitchen door
slowly opened and Ellen came in. Wishing her aunt should not see her
swollen eyes, she was going quietly through to her own room when Miss
Fortune called her. Ellen stopped. Miss Fortune was sitting before the
fire with an open letter lying in her lap and another in her hand. The
latter she held out to Ellen, saying, "Here, child, come and take this."

"What is it?" said Ellen, slowly coming towards her.

"Don't you see what it is?" said Miss Fortune, still holding it out.

"But who is it from?" said Ellen.

"Your mother."

"A letter from mamma, and not to me?" said Ellen with changing colour.
She took it quick from her aunt's hand. But her colour changed more as
her eye fell upon the first words, "My dear Ellen," and turning the
paper she saw upon the back, "Miss Ellen Montgomery." Her next look was
to her aunt's face, with her eye fired and her cheek paled with anger,
and when she spoke her voice was not the same.

"This is _my_ letter," she said, trembling; "who opened it?"

Miss Fortune's conscience must have troubled her a little, for her eye
wavered uneasily. Only for a second, though.

"Who opened it?" she answered; "_I_ opened it. I should like to know who
has a better right. And I shall open every one that comes, to serve you
for looking so; that you may depend upon."

The look and the words and the injury together, fairly put Ellen beside
herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and livid and trembling
with various feelings--rage was not the only one--she ran from her
aunt's presence. She did not shed any tears now; she could not: they
were absolutely burnt up by passion. She walked her room with trembling
steps, clasping and wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking
what _could_ she do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and
unable to see anything but misery before her. She walked, for she could
not sit down; but presently she felt that she could not breathe the air
of the house; and taking her bonnet she went down, passed through the
kitchen and went out. Miss Fortune asked where she was going, and bade
her stay within doors, but Ellen paid no attention to her.

She stood still a moment outside the little gate. She might have stood
long to look. The mellow light of an Indian summer afternoon lay upon
the meadow, and the old barn and chip-yard; there was beauty in them all
under its smile. Not a breath was stirring. The rays of the sun
struggled through the blue haze, which hung upon the hills and softened
every distant object; and the silence of nature all around was absolute,
made more noticeable by the far-off voice of somebody, it might be Mr.
Van Brunt, calling to his oxen, very far off, and not to be seen: the
sound came softly to her ear through the stillness. "Peace" was the
whisper of nature to her troubled child; but Ellen's heart was in a
whirl; she could not hear the whisper. It was a relief, however, to be
out of the house and in the sweet open air. Ellen breathed more freely,
and pausing a moment there, and clasping her hands together once more in
sorrow, she went down the road and out at the gate, and exchanging her
quick, broken step for a slow measured one, she took the way towards
Thirlwall. Little regarding the loveliness which that day was upon every
<DW72> and roadside, Ellen presently quitted the Thirlwall road, and half
unconsciously turned into a path on the left which she had never taken
before--perhaps for that reason. It was not much travelled evidently;
the grass grew green on both sides, and even in the middle of the way,
though here and there the track of wheels could be seen. Ellen did not
care about where she was going; she only found it pleasant to walk on
and get farther from home. The road or lane led towards a mountain
somewhat to the northwest of Miss Fortune's; the same which Mr. Van
Brunt had once named to Ellen as "the Nose." After three-quarters of an
hour the road began gently to ascend the mountain, rising towards the
north. About one-third of the way from the bottom Ellen came to a little
footpath on the left, which allured her by its promise of prettiness,
and she forsook the lane for it. The promise was abundantly fulfilled;
it was a most lovely, wild, wood-way path; but withal not a little steep
and rocky. Ellen began to grow weary. The lane went on towards the
north; the path rather led off towards the southern edge of the
mountain, rising all the while; but before she reached that Ellen came
to what she thought a good resting-place, where the path opened upon a
small level platform or ledge of the hill. The mountain rose steep
behind her, and sank very steep immediately before her, leaving a very
superb view of the open country from the north-east to the south-east.
Carpeted with moss, and furnished with fallen stones and pieces of rock,
this was a fine resting-place for the wayfarer, or loitering-place for
the lover of nature. Ellen seated herself on one of the stones, and
looked sadly and wearily towards the east, at first very careless of
the exceeding beauty of what she beheld there.

For miles and miles, on every side but the west, lay stretched before
her a beautifully broken country. The November haze hung over it now
like a thin veil, giving great sweetness and softness to the scene. Far
in the distance a range of low hills showed like a misty cloud; near by,
at the mountain's foot, the fields and farm-houses and roads lay a
pictured map. About a mile and a half to the south rose the mountain
where Nancy Vawse lived, craggy and bare; but the leafless trees and
stern, jagged rocks were wrapped in the haze; and through this the sun,
now near the setting, threw his mellowing rays, touching every <DW72> and
ridge with a rich, warm glow.

Poor Ellen did not heed the picturesque effect of all this, yet the
sweet influences of nature reached her, and softened while they
increased her sorrow. She felt her own heart sadly out of tune with the
peace and loveliness of all she saw. Her eye sought those distant
hills--how very far off they were? and yet all that wide tract of
country was but a little piece of what lay between her and her mother.
Her eye sought those hills--but her mind overpassed them and went far
beyond, over many such a tract, till it reached the loved one at last.
But oh! how much between! "I cannot reach her!--she cannot reach me!"
thought poor Ellen. Her eyes had been filling and dropping tears for
some time, but now came the rush of the pent-up storm, and the floods of
grief were kept back no longer.

When once fairly excited Ellen's passions were always extreme. During
the former peaceful and happy part of her life the occasions of such
excitement had been very rare. Of late, unhappily, they had occurred
much oftener. Many were the bitter fits of tears she had known within a
few weeks. But now it seemed as if all the scattered causes of sorrow
that had wrought those tears were gathered together and pressing upon
her at once; and that the burden would crush her to the earth. To the
earth it brought her literally. She slid from her seat at first, and
embracing the stone on which she had sat, she leaned her head there; but
presently in her agony quitting her hold of that, she cast herself down
upon the moss, lying at full length upon the cold ground, which seemed
to her childish fancy the best friend she had left. But Ellen was
wrought up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears brought no
relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In the extremity of her
distress and despair, and in that lonely place, out of hearing of every
one, she sobbed aloud, and even screamed, for almost the first time in
her life; and these fits of violence were succeeded by exhaustion,
during which she ceased to shed tears and lay quite still, drawing only
long, sobbing sighs now and then.

How long Ellen had lain there, or how long this would have gone on
before her strength had been quite worn out, no one can tell. In one of
these fits of forced quiet, when she lay as still as the rocks around
her, she heard a voice close by say, "What is the matter, my child?"

The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the tempest in
Ellen's mind. She got up hastily, and brushing away the tears from her
dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady standing there, and a face, whose
sweetness well matched the voice, looking upon her with grave concern.
She stood motionless and silent.

"What is the matter, my dear?"

The tone found Ellen's heart, and brought the water to her eyes again,
though with a difference. She covered her face with her hands. But
gentle hands were placed upon hers and drew them away; and the lady,
sitting down on Ellen's stone, took her in her arms; and Ellen hid her
face in the bosom of a better friend than the cold earth had been like
to prove her. But the change overcame her; and the soft whisper, "Don't
cry any more," made it impossible to stop crying. Nothing further was
said for some time; the lady waited till Ellen grew calmer. When she saw
her able to answer, she said gently--

"What does all this mean, my child? What troubles you? Tell me, and I
think we can find a way to mend matters."

Ellen answered the tone of voice with a faint smile, but the words with
another gush of tears.

"You are Ellen Montgomery, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I thought so. This isn't the first time I have seen you; I have seen
you once before."

Ellen looked up surprised.

"Have you, ma'am. I am sure I have never seen you."

"No, I know that. I saw you when you didn't see me. Where, do you
think?"

"I can't tell, I am sure," said Ellen; "I can't guess; I haven't seen
you at Aunt Fortune's, and I haven't been anywhere else."

"You have forgotten," said the lady. "Did you never hear of a little
girl who went to take a walk once upon a time, and had an unlucky fall
into a brook? and then went to a kind old lady's house where she was
dried and put to bed and went to sleep?"

"Oh yes," said Ellen. "Did you see me there, ma'am, and when I was
asleep?"

"I saw you there when you were asleep; and Mrs. Van Brunt told me who
you were and where you lived; and when I came here a little while ago I
knew you again very soon. And I knew what the matter was too, pretty
well; but, nevertheless, tell me all about it, Ellen; perhaps I can help
you."

Ellen shook her head dejectedly. "Nobody in this world can help me," she
said.

"Then there's one in heaven that can," said the lady steadily. "Nothing
is too bad for Him to mend. Have you asked _His_ help, Ellen?"

Ellen began to weep again. "Oh, if I could I would tell you all about
it, ma'am," she said; "but there are so many things, I don't know where
to begin; I don't know when I should ever get through."

"So many things that trouble you, Ellen?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I am sorry for that indeed. But never mind, dear, tell me what they
are. Begin with the worst, and if I haven't time to hear them all now,
I'll find time another day. Begin with the worst."

But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed herself at
Ellen's distress, which was extreme.

"Don't cry so, my child, don't cry so," she said, pressing her in her
arms. "What is the matter? Hardly anything in this world is so bad it
can't be mended. I think I know what troubles you so--it is that your
dear mother is away from you, isn't it?"

"Oh no, ma'am," Ellen could scarcely articulate. But struggling with
herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again, and more clearly.

"The worst is--oh! the worst is--that I meant--I meant--to be a good
child, and I have been worse than ever I was in my life before."

Her tears gushed forth.

"But how, Ellen?" said her surprised friend after a pause. "I don't
quite understand you. When did you 'mean to be a good child?' Didn't you
always mean so? and what have you been doing?"

Ellen made a great effort and ceased crying, straightened herself,
dashed away her tears, as if determined to shed no more, and presently
spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then threatened to
interrupt her.

"I will tell you, ma'am. The first day I left mamma, when I was on board
the steamboat and feeling as badly as I could feel, a kind, kind
gentleman, I don't know who he was, came to me and spoke to me, and took
care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him again! He talked to me
a great deal; he wanted me to be a Christian; he wanted me to make up
my mind to begin that day to be one; and, ma'am, I did. I did resolve
with my whole heart, and I thought I should be different from that time
from what I had ever been before. But I think I have never been so bad
in my life as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right I have
felt wrong all the time, almost, and I can't help it. I have been
passionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming, and I know it's
wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh, ma'am, I haven't changed
my mind a bit; I think just the same as I did that day; I want to be a
Christian more than anything else in the world, but I am not; and what
shall I do?"

Her face sank into her hands again.

"And this is your great trouble?" said her friend.

"Yes."

"Do you remember who said, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest'?"

Ellen looked up inquiringly.

"You are grieved to find yourself so unlike what you would be. You wish
to be a child of the dear Saviour, and to have your heart filled with
His love, and to do what will please Him. Do you? Have you gone to Him
day by day, and night by night, and told Him so? have you begged Him to
give you strength to get the better of your wrong feelings, and asked
Him to change you, and make you His child?"

"At first I did, ma'am," said Ellen in a low voice.

"Not lately?"

"No, ma'am," in a low tone still, and looking down.

"Then you have neglected your Bible and prayer for some time past?"

Ellen hardly uttered, "Yes."

"Why, my child?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen, weeping, "that is one of the things
that made me think myself so very wicked. I couldn't like to read my
Bible or pray either, though I always used to before. My Bible lay down
quite at the bottom of my trunk, and I even didn't like to raise my
things enough to see the cover of it. I was so full of bad feelings I
didn't feel fit to pray or read either."

"Ah! that is the way with the wisest of us," said her companion; "how
apt we are to shrink most from our Physician just when we are in most
need of Him! But, Ellen, dear, that isn't right. No hand but His can
touch that sickness you are complaining of. Seek it, love, seek it. He
will hear and help you, no doubt of it, in every trouble you carry
simply and humbly to His feet; He has _promised_, you know."

Ellen was weeping very much, but less bitterly than before; the clouds
were breaking and light beginning to shine through.

"Shall we pray together now?" said her companion after a few minutes'
pause.

"Oh, if you please, ma'am, do!" Ellen answered through her tears.

And they knelt together there on the moss beside the stone, where
Ellen's head rested and her friend's folded hands were laid. It might
have been two children speaking to their father, for the simplicity of
that prayer; difference of age seemed to be forgotten, and what suited
one suited the other. It was not without difficulty that the speaker
carried it calmly through, for Ellen's sobs went nigh to check her more
than once. When they rose Ellen silently sought her friend's arms again,
and laying her face on her shoulder and putting both arms round her
neck, she wept still,--but what different tears! It was like the gentle
rain falling through sunshine, after the dark cloud and the thunder and
the hurricane have passed by. And they kissed each other before either
of them spoke.

"You will not forget your Bible and prayer again, Ellen?"

"Oh no, ma'am."

"Then I am sure you will find your causes of trouble grow less. I will
not hear the rest of them now. In a day or two I hope you will be able
to give me a very different account from what you would have done an
hour ago; but besides that it is getting late, and it will not do for us
to stay too long up here; you have a good way to go to reach home. Will
you come and see me to-morrow afternoon?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, indeed I will!--if I can; and if you will tell me
where."

"Instead of turning up this little rocky path you must keep straight on
in the road, that's all; and it's the first house you come to. It isn't
very far from here. Where were you going on the mountain?"

"Nowhere, ma'am."

"Have you been any higher than this?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then before we go away I want to show you something. I'll take you over
the Bridge of the Nose; it isn't but a step or two more; a little rough
to be sure, but you mustn't mind that."

"What is the 'Bridge of the Nose,' ma'am?" said Ellen, as they left her
resting-place, and began to toil up the path which grew more steep and
rocky than ever.

"You know this mountain is called the Nose. Just here it runs out to a
very thin sharp edge. We shall come to a place presently where you turn
a very sharp corner to get from one side of the hill to the other; and
my brother named it jokingly the Bridge of the Nose."

"Why do they give the mountain such a queer name?" said Ellen.

"I don't know, I'm sure. The people say that from one point of view this
side of it looks very like a man's nose; but I never could find it out,
and have some doubt about the fact. But now here we are! Just come round
this great rock,--mind how you step, Ellen,--now look there!"

The rock they had just turned was at their backs, and they looked
towards the west. Both exclaimed at the beauty before them. The view was
not so extended as the one they had left. On the north and south sides
the broken wavy outline of mountains closed in the horizon; but far to
the west stretched an opening between the hills through which the
setting sun sent his long beams, even to their feet. In the distance all
was a golden haze; nearer, on the right and left, the hills were lit up
singularly, and there was a most beautiful mingling of deep hazy shadow
and bright glowing mountain sides and ridges. A glory was upon the
valley. Far down below at their feet lay a large lake gleaming in the
sunlight; and at the upper end of it a village of some size showed like
a cluster of white dots.

"How beautiful!" said the lady again. "Ellen, dear, He whose hand raised
up those mountains, and has painted them so gloriously, is the very same
One who has said to you and to me, 'Ask, and it shall be given you.'"

Ellen looked up; their eyes met; her answer was in that grateful glance.

The lady sat down and drew Ellen close to her. "Do you see that little
white village yonder, down at the far end of the lake? That is the
village of Carra-carra, and that is Carra-carra lake. That is where I go
to church; you cannot see the little church from here. My father
preaches there every Sunday morning."

"You must have a long way to go," said Ellen.

"Yes--a pretty long way, but it's very pleasant though. I mount my
little grey pony, and he carries me there in quick time, when I will let
him. I never wish the way shorter. I go in all sorts of weathers too,
Ellen; Sharp and I don't mind frost and snow."

"Who is Sharp?" said Ellen.

"My pony. An odd name, isn't it. It wasn't of my choosing, Ellen, but he
deserves it if ever pony did. He's a very cunning little fellow. Where
do you go, Ellen? To Thirlwall?"

"To church, ma'am? I don't go anywhere."

"Doesn't your aunt go to church?"

"She hasn't since I have been here."

"What do you do with yourself on Sunday?"

"Nothing, ma'am; I don't know what to do with myself all the day long. I
get tired of being in the house, and I go out of doors, and then I get
tired of being out of doors and come in again. I wanted a kitten
dreadfully, but Mr. Van Brunt said Aunt Fortune would not let me keep
one."

"Did you want a kitten to help you keep Sunday, Ellen," said her friend,
smiling.

"Yes, I did, ma'am," said Ellen, smiling again; "I thought it would be a
great deal of company for me. I got very tired of reading all day long,
and I had nothing to read but the Bible; and you know, ma'am, I told you
I have been all wrong ever since I came here, and I didn't like to read
that much."

"My poor child," said the lady, "you have been hardly bestead, I think.
What if you were to come and spend next Sunday with me? Don't you think
I should do instead of a kitten?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, I am sure of it," said Ellen, clinging to her. "Oh, I'll
come gladly if you will let me, and if Aunt Fortune will let me; and I
hope she will, for she said last Sunday I was the plague of her life."

"What did you do to make her say so?" said her friend gravely.

"Only asked her for some books, ma'am."

"Well, my dear, I see I am getting upon another of your troubles, and we
haven't time for that now. By your own account you have been much in
fault yourself; and I trust you will find all things mend with your own
mending. But now there goes the sun!--and you and I must follow his
example."

The lake ceased to gleam, and the houses of the village were less
plainly to be seen; still the mountain heads were as bright as ever.
Gradually the shadows crept up their sides, while the grey of evening
settled deeper and deeper upon the valley.

"There," said Ellen, "that's just what I was wondering at the other
morning; only then the light shone upon the top of the mountains first
and walked down, and now it leaves the bottom first and walks up. I
asked Mr. Van Brunt about it, and he could not tell me. That's another
of my troubles,--there's nobody that can tell me anything."

"Put me in mind of it to-morrow, and I'll try to make you understand
it," said the lady, "but we must not tarry now. I see you are likely to
find me work enough, Ellen."

"I'll not ask you a question, ma'am, if you don't like it," said Ellen
earnestly.

"I do like, I do like," said the other. "I spoke laughingly, for I see
you will be apt to ask me a good many. As many as you please, my dear."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen, as they ran down the hill, "they keep
coming into my head all the while."

It was easier going down than coming up. They soon arrived at the place
where Ellen had left the road to take the wood-path.

"Here we part," said the lady. "Good-night."

"Good-night, ma'am."

There was a kiss and a squeeze of the hand, but when Ellen would have
turned away the lady still held her fast.

"You are an odd little girl," said she. "I gave you liberty to ask me
questions."

"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen doubtfully.

"There is a question you have not asked me that I have been expecting.
Do you know who I am?"

"No, ma'am."

"Don't you want to know?"

"Yes, ma'am, very much," said Ellen, laughing at her friend's look; "but
mamma told me never to try to find out anything about other people that
they didn't wish me to know, or that wasn't my business."

"Well, I think this is your business decidedly. Who are you going to ask
for when you come to see me to-morrow? Will you ask for 'the young lady
that lives in this house?' or will you give a description of my nose,
and eyes, and inches?"

Ellen laughed.

"My dear Ellen," said the lady, changing her tone, "do you know you
please me very much? For one person that shows herself well-bred in this
matter there are a thousand, I think, that ask impertinent questions. I
am very glad you are an exception to the common rule. But, dear Ellen, I
am quite willing you should know my name--it is Alice Humphreys. Now,
kiss me again and run home; it is quite, quite time; I have kept you too
late. Good-night, my dear. Tell your aunt I beg she will allow you to
take tea with me to-morrow."

They parted, and Ellen hastened homewards, urged by the rapidly-growing
dusk of the evening. She trod the green turf with a step lighter and
quicker than it had been a few hours before, and she regained her home
in much less time than it had taken her to come from thence to the
mountain. Lights were in the kitchen, and the table set; but though
weary and faint she was willing to forego her supper rather than meet
her aunt just then; so she stole quietly up to her room. She did not
forget her friend's advice. She had no light; she could not read; but
Ellen did pray. She did carry all her heart-sickness, her wants, and her
woes, to that Friend whose ear is always open to hear the cry of those
who call upon Him in truth; and then, relieved, refreshed, almost
healed, she went to bed and slept sweetly.




CHAPTER XVI

         "After long storms and tempests overblowne,
          The sunne at length his joyous face doth cleare;
          So when as fortune all her spight hath showne,
          Some blissfull houres at last must needs appeare;
          Else should afflicted wights oft-times despeire."

                                                  --FA["E]RIE QUEENE.


Early next morning Ellen awoke with a sense that something pleasant had
happened. Then the joyful reality darted into her mind, and jumping out
of bed she set about her morning work with a better heart than she had
been able to bring to it for many a long day. When she had finished she
went to the window. She had found out how to keep it open now, by means
of a big nail stuck in a hole under the sash. It was very early, and in
the perfect stillness the soft gurgle of the little brook came
distinctly to her ear. Ellen leaned her arms on the window-sill, and
tasted the morning air; almost wondering at its sweetness and at the
loveliness of field and sky and the bright eastern horizon. For days and
days all had looked dark and sad.

There were two reasons for the change. In the first place Ellen had made
up her mind to go straight on in the path of duty; in the second place
she had found a friend. Her little heart bounded with delight and
swelled with thankfulness at the thought of Alice Humphreys. She was
once more at peace with herself, and had even some notion of being
by-and-by at peace with her aunt; though a sad twinge came over her
whenever she thought of her mother's letter.

"But there is only one way for me," she thought; "I'll do as that dear
Miss Humphreys told me--it's good and early, and I shall have a fine
time before breakfast yet to myself. And I'll get up so every morning
and have it!--that'll be the very best plan I can hit upon."

As she thought this she drew forth her Bible from its place at the
bottom of her trunk; and opening it at hazard she began to read the 18th
chapter of Matthew. Some of it she did not quite understand; but she
paused with pleasure at the 14th verse. "That means me," she thought.
The 21st and 22nd verses struck her a good deal, but when she came to
the last she was almost startled.

"There it is again!" she said. "That is exactly what that gentleman said
to me. I thought I was forgiven, but how can I be, for I feel I have not
forgiven Aunt Fortune."

Laying aside her book, Ellen kneeled down; but this one thought so
pressed upon her mind that she could think of scarce anything else; and
her prayer this morning was an urgent and repeated petition that she
might be enabled "from her heart" to forgive her Aunt Fortune "all her
trespasses." Poor Ellen! she felt it was very hard work. At the very
minute she was striving to feel at peace with her aunt, one grievance
after another would start up to remembrance, and she knew the feelings
that met them were far enough from the spirit of forgiveness. In the
midst of this she was called down. She rose with tears in her eyes, and
"What shall I do?" in her heart. Bowing her head once more she earnestly
prayed that if she could not yet _feel_ right towards her aunt, she
might be kept at least from acting or speaking wrong. Poor Ellen! In the
heart is the spring of action; and she found it so this morning.

Her aunt and Mr. Van Brunt were already at the table. Ellen took her
place in silence, for one look at her aunt's face told her that no
"good-morning" would be accepted. Miss Fortune was in a particularly bad
humour, owing among other things to Mr. Van Brunt's having refused to
eat his breakfast unless Ellen were called. An unlucky piece of
kindness. She neither spoke to Ellen nor looked at her; Mr. Van Brunt
did what in him lay to make amends. He helped her very carefully to the
cold pork and potatoes, and handed her the well-piled platter of
griddle-cakes.

"Here's the first buckwheats of the season," said he, "and I told Miss
Fortune I warn't agoing to eat one on 'em if you didn't come down to
enjoy 'em along with us. Take two--take two!--you want 'em to keep each
other hot."

Ellen's look and smile thanked him, as following his advice she covered
one generous "buckwheat" with another as ample.

"That's the thing! Now here's some prime maple. You like 'em, I guess,
don't you?"

"I don't know yet--I have never seen any," said Ellen.

"Never seen buckwheats! why, they're 'most as good as my mother's
splitters. Buckwheat cakes and maple molasses,--that's food fit for a
king, _I_ think--- when they're good; and Miss Fortune's always
first-rate."

Miss Fortune did not relent at all at this compliment.

"What makes you so white this morning?" Mr. Van Brunt presently went on;
"you ain't well; be you?"

"Yes," said Ellen doubtfully. "I'm well----"

"She's as well as I am, Mr. Van Brunt, if you don't go and put her up to
any notions!" Miss Fortune said in a kind of choked voice.

Mr. Van Brunt hemmed, and said no more to the end of breakfast-time.

Ellen rather dreaded what was to come next, for her aunt's look was
ominous. In dead silence the things were put away, and put up, and in
course of washing and drying, when Miss Fortune suddenly broke forth.

"What did you do with yourself yesterday afternoon?"

"I was up on the mountain," said Ellen.

"What mountain?"

"I believe they call it 'the Nose.'"

"What business had you up there?"

"I hadn't any business there."

"What did you go there for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! you expect me to believe that? you call yourself a
truth-teller, I suppose?"

"Mamma used to say I was," said poor Ellen, striving to swallow her
feelings.

"Your mother! I dare say--mothers always are blind. I dare say she took
every thing you said for gospel."

Ellen was silent, from sheer want of words that were pointed enough to
suit her.

"I wish Morgan could have had the gumption to marry in his own country;
but he must go running after a Scotch woman! A Yankee would have brought
up his child to be worth something. Give me Yankees!"

Ellen set down the cup she was wiping.

"You don't know anything about my mother," she said. "You oughtn't to
speak so--it's not right."

"Why ain't it right, I should like to know?" said Miss Fortune; "this is
a free country, I guess. Our tongues ain't tied--we're all free here."

"I wish we were," muttered Ellen; "I know what I'd do."

"What would you do?" said Miss Fortune.

Ellen was silent. Her aunt repeated the question in a sharper tone.

"I oughtn't to say what I was going to," said Ellen; "I'd rather not."

"I don't care," said Miss Fortune; "you began, and you shall finish it.
I will hear what it was."

"I was going to say, if we were all free I would run away."

"Well, that _is_ a beautiful, well-behaved speech! I am glad to have
heard it. I admire it very much. Now what were you doing yesterday up on
the Nose? Please to go on wiping. There's a pile ready for you. What
were you doing yesterday afternoon?"

Ellen hesitated.

"Were you alone or with somebody?"

"I was alone part of the time."

"And who were you with the rest of the time?"

"Miss Humphreys."

"Miss Humphreys! what were you doing with her?"

"Talking."

"Did you ever see her before?"

"No, ma'am."

"Where did you find her?"

"She found me, up on the hill."

"What were you talking about?"

Ellen was silent.

"What were you talking about?" repeated Miss Fortune.

"I had rather not tell."

"And I had rather you _should_ tell--so out with it."

"I was alone with Miss Humphreys," said Ellen; "and it is no matter what
we were talking about--it doesn't concern anybody but her and me."

"Yes, it does, it concerns me," said her aunt, "and I choose to know.
What were you talking about?"

Ellen was silent.

"Will you tell me?"

"No," said Ellen, low but resolutely.

"I vow you're enough to try the patience of Job! Look here," said Miss
Fortune, setting down what she had in her hands, "I _will_ know! I don't
care what it was, but you shall tell me or I'll find a way to make you.
I'll give you such a----"

"Stop! stop!" said Ellen wildly, "you must not speak to me so! Mamma
never did, and you have no _right_ to! If mamma or papa were here you
would not _dare_ talk to me so."

The answer to this was a sharp box on the ear from Miss Fortune's wet
hand. Half stunned, less by the blow than the tumult of feeling it
roused, Ellen stood a moment, and then throwing down her towel she ran
out of the room, shivering with passion, and brushing off the soapy
water left on her face as if it had been her aunt's very hand. Violent
tears burst forth as soon as she reached her own room, tears at first of
anger and mortification only; but conscience presently began to
whisper, "You are wrong! you are wrong!" and tears of sorrow mingled
with the others.

"Oh," said Ellen, "why couldn't I keep still? when I had resolved so
this morning, why couldn't I be quiet? But she ought not to have
provoked me so dreadfully, I couldn't help it." "You are wrong," said
conscience again, and her tears flowed faster. And then came back her
morning trouble--the duty and the difficulty of forgiving. Forgive her
Aunt Fortune! with her whole heart in a passion of displeasure against
her! Alas! Ellen began to feel and acknowledge that indeed all was
wrong. But what to do? There was just one comfort, the visit to Miss
Humphreys in the afternoon. "She will tell me," thought Ellen; "she will
help me. But in the meanwhile?"

Ellen had not much time to think; her aunt called her down and set her
to work. She was very busy till dinner-time, and very unhappy; but
twenty times in the course of the morning did Ellen pause for a moment,
and covering her face with her hands pray that a heart to forgive might
be given her.

As soon as possible after dinner she made her escape to her room that
she might prepare for her walk. Conscience was not quite easy that she
was going without the knowledge of her aunt. She had debated the
question with herself and could not make up her mind to hazard losing
her visit.

So she dressed herself very carefully. One of her dark merinos was
affectionately put on; her single pair of white stockings; shoes,
ruffle, cape--Ellen saw that all was faultlessly neat, just as her
mother used to have it; and the nice blue hood lay upon the bed ready to
be put on the last thing, when she heard her aunt's voice calling.

"Ellen! come down and do your ironing--right away, now! the irons are
hot."

For one moment Ellen stood still in dismay; then slowly undressed,
dressed again and went downstairs.

"Come! you've been an age," said Miss Fortune; "now make haste; there
ain't but a handful; and I want to mop up."

Ellen took courage again; ironed away with right good will; and as there
was really but a handful of things she had soon done, even to taking off
the ironing blanket and putting up the irons. In the meantime she had
changed her mind as to stealing off without leave--conscience was too
strong for her; and though with a beating heart, she told of Miss
Humphreys' desire and her half engagement.

"You may go where you like--I am sure I do not care what you do with
yourself," was Miss Fortune's reply.

Full of delight at this ungracious permission, Ellen fled upstairs, and
dressing much quicker than before, was soon on her way.

But at first she went rather sadly. In spite of all her good resolves
and wishes, everything that day had gone wrong; and Ellen felt that the
root of the evil was in her own heart. Some tears fell as she walked.
Farther from her aunt's house, however, her spirits began to rise; her
foot fell lighter on the green sward. Hope and expectation quickened her
steps; and when at length she passed the little wood-path it was almost
on a run. Not very far beyond that her glad eyes saw the house she was
in quest of.

It was a large white house; not very white either, for its last dress of
paint had grown old long ago. It stood close by the road, and the trees
of the wood seemed to throng it round on every side. Ellen mounted the
few steps that led to the front door, and knocked; but as she could only
just reach the high knocker, she was not likely to alarm anybody with
the noise she made. After a great many little faint raps, which, if
anybody heard them, might easily have been mistaken for the attacks of
some rat's teeth upon the wainscot, Ellen grew weary of her fruitless
toil of standing on tiptoe, and resolved, though doubtfully, to go round
the house and see if there was any other way of getting in. Turning the
far corner, she saw a long, low outbuilding or shed jutting out from the
side of the house. On the farther side of this Ellen found an elderly
woman standing in front of the shed, which was there open and paved, and
wringing some clothes out of a tub of water. She was a pleasant woman to
look at, very trim and tidy, and a good-humoured eye and smile when she
saw Ellen. Ellen made up to her and asked for Miss Humphreys.

"Why, where in the world did you come from?" said the woman; "I don't
receive company at the back of the house."

"I knocked at the front door till I was tired," said Ellen, smiling in
return.

"Miss Alice must ha' been asleep. Now, honey, you have come so far round
to find me, will you go a little farther and find Miss Alice? Just go
round this corner and keep straight along till you come to the glass
door--there you'll find her. Stop!--maybe she's asleep; I may as well go
along with you myself."

She wrung the water from her hands and led the way.

A little space of green grass stretched in front of the shed, and Ellen
found it extended all along that side of the house like a very narrow
lawn; at the edge of it shot up the high forest trees; nothing between
them and the house but the smooth grass and a narrow worn footpath. The
woods were now all brown stems, except here and there a superb hemlock
and some scattered silvery birches. But the grass was still green, and
the last day of the Indian summer hung its soft veil over all; the
foliage of the forest was hardly missed. They passed another hall door,
opposite the one where Ellen had tried her strength and patience upon
the knocker; a little farther on they paused at the glass door. One step
led to it. Ellen's conductress looked in first through one of the panes,
and then opening the door motioned her to enter.

"Here you are, my new acquaintance," said Alice, smiling and kissing
her. "I began to think something was the matter, you tarried so late. We
don't keep fashionable hours in the country, you know. But I'm very glad
to see you. Take off your things and lay them on that settee by the
door. You see I've a settee for summer and a sofa for winter; for here I
am, in this room, at all times of the year; and a very pleasant room I
think it, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed I do, ma'am," said Ellen, pulling off her last glove.

"Ah, but wait till you have taken tea with me half-a-dozen times, and
then see if you don't say it is pleasant. Nothing can be so pleasant
that is quite new. But now come here and look out of this window, or
door, whichever you choose to call it. Do you see what a beautiful view
I have here? The wood was just as thick all along as it is on the right
and left; I felt half smothered to be so shut in, so I got my brother
and Thomas to take axes and go to work there; and many a large tree they
cut down for me, till you see they opened a way through the woods for
the view of that beautiful stretch of country. I should grow melancholy
if I had that wall of trees pressing on my vision all the time; it
always comforts me to look off, far away, to those distant blue hills."

"Aren't those the hills I was looking at yesterday?" said Ellen.

"From up on the mountain?--the very same; this is part of the very same
view, and a noble view it is. Every morning, Ellen, the sun rising
behind those hills shines in through this door and lights up my room;
and in winter he looks in at that south window, so I have him all the
time. To be sure, if I want to see him set I must take a walk for it,
but that isn't unpleasant; and you know we cannot have everything at
once."

It was a very beautiful extent of woodland, meadow, and hill, that was
seen picture-fashion through the gap cut in the forest; the wall of
trees on each side serving as a frame to shut it in, and the descent of
the mountain from almost the edge of the lawn, being very rapid. The
opening had been skilfully cut; the effect was remarkable and very fine;
the light on the picture being often quite different from that on the
frame or on the hither side of the frame.

"Now, Ellen," said Alice, turning from the window, "take a good look at
my room. I want you to know it and feel at home in it; for whenever you
can run away from your aunt's, this is your home--do you understand?"

A smile was on each face. Ellen felt that she was understanding it very
fast.

"Here, next the door, you see, is my summer settee; and in summer it
very often walks out of doors to accommodate people on the grass plat. I
have a great fancy for taking tea out of doors, Ellen, in warm weather;
and if you do not mind a mosquito or two I shall be always happy to have
your company. That door opens into the hall; look out and see, for I
want you to get the geography of the house. That odd-looking, lumbering,
painted concern is my cabinet of curiosities. I tried my best to make
the carpenter man at Thirlwall understand what sort of a thing I wanted,
and did all but show him how to make it; but as the southerners say,'he
hasn't made it right no how!' There I keep my dried flowers, my
minerals, and a very odd collection of curious things of all sorts that
I am constantly picking up. I'll show you them some day, Ellen. Have you
a fancy for curiosities?"

"Yes, ma'am, I believe so."

"Believe so!--not more sure than that? Are you a lover of dead moths,
and empty beetle-skins, and butterflies' wings, and dry tufts of moss,
and curious stones, and pieces of ribbon-grass, and strange birds'
nests! These are some of the things I used to delight in when I was
about as old as you."

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen. "I never was where I could get them."

"Weren't you! Poor child! Then you have been shut up to brick walls and
paving-stones all your life?"

"Yes, ma'am, all my life."

"But now you have seen a little of the country, don't you think you
shall like it better?"

"Oh, a great deal better!"

"Ah, that's right. I am sure you will. On that other side, you see, is
my winter sofa. It's a very comfortable resting-place I can tell you,
Ellen, as I have proved by many a sweet nap; and its old chintz covers
are very pleasant to me, for I remember them as far back as I remember
anything."

There was a sigh here; but Alice passed on and opened a door near the
end of the sofa.

"Look in here, Ellen; this is my bedroom."

"Oh, how lovely!" Ellen exclaimed.

The carpet covered only the middle of the floor, the rest was painted
white. The furniture was common, but neat as wax. Ample curtains of
white dimity clothed the three windows and lightly draped the bed. The
toilet-table was covered with snow-white muslin, and by the toilet
cushion stood, late as it was, a glass of flowers. Ellen thought it must
be a pleasure to sleep there.

"This," said Alice, when they came out, "between my door and the
fireplace is a cupboard. Here be cups and saucers, and so forth. In that
other corner beyond the fireplace you see my flower-stand. Do you love
flowers, Ellen?"

"I love them dearly, Miss Alice."

"I have some pretty ones out yet, and shall have one or two in the
winter; but I can't keep a great many here, I haven't room for them, I
have hard work to save these from frost. There's a beautiful daphne that
will be out by-and-by, and make the whole house sweet. But here, Ellen,
on this side between the windows, is my greatest treasure--my precious
books. All these are mine. Now, my dear, it is time to introduce you to
my most excellent of easy chairs--the best things in the room, aren't
they? Put yourself in that--now, do you feel at home?"

"Very much indeed, ma'am," said Ellen, laughing, as Alice placed her in
the deep easy chair.

There were two things in the room that Alice had not mentioned, and
while she mended the fire Ellen looked at them. One was the portrait of
a gentleman, grave and good-looking; this had very little of her
attention. The other was the counter portrait of a lady; a fine
dignified countenance that had a charm for Ellen. It hung over the
fireplace in an excellent light, and the mild eye and somewhat of a
peculiar expression about the mouth bore such likeness to Alice, though
older, that Ellen had no doubt whose it was.

Alice presently drew a chair close to Ellen's side, and kissed her.

"I trust, my child," she said, "that you feel better to-day than you did
yesterday."

"Oh, I do, ma'am--a great deal better," Ellen answered.

"Then I hope the reason is that you have returned to your duty, and are
resolved, not to be a Christian by-and-by, but to lead a Christian's
life now."

"I have resolved so, ma'am, I did resolve so last night and this
morning; but yet I have been doing nothing but wrong all to-day."

Alice was silent. Ellen's lips quivered for a moment, and then she went
on--

"Oh, ma'am, how I have wanted to see you to-day to tell me what I
_should_ do! I resolved and resolved this morning, and then as soon as I
got downstairs I began to have bad feelings towards Aunt Fortune, and I
have been full of bad feelings all day; and I couldn't help it."

"It will not do to say that we cannot help what is wrong, Ellen. What is
the reason that you have bad feelings towards your aunt?"

"She don't like me, ma'am."

"But how happens that, Ellen? I am afraid you don't like her."

"No, ma'am, I don't, to be sure; how can I?"

"Why cannot you, Ellen?"

"Oh, I can't, ma'am! I wish I could. But, oh, ma'am, I should have liked
her--I might have liked her if she had been kind, but she never has.
Even that first night I came she never kissed me, nor said she was glad
to see me."

"That was failing in kindness certainly, but is she _un_kind to you,
Ellen?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, indeed she is. She talks to me, and talks to me, in a
way that almost drives me out of my wits; and to-day she even struck me!
She has no right to do it," said Ellen, firing with passion, "she has no
_right_ to!--and she has no right to talk as she does about mamma. She
did it to-day, and she has done it before. I can't bear it! and I can't
bear _her_! I can't _bear_ her!"

"Hush, hush," said Alice, drawing the excited child to her arms, for
Ellen had risen from her seat, "you must not talk so, Ellen; you are not
feeling right now."

"No, ma'am, I am not," said Ellen coldly and sadly. She sat a moment,
and then turning to her companion put both arms round her neck, and hid
her face on her shoulder again; and without raising it she gave her the
history of the morning.

"What has brought about this dreadful state of things?" said Alice after
a few minutes. "Whose fault is it, Ellen?"

"I think it is Aunt Fortune's fault," said Ellen, raising her head; "I
don't think it is mine. If she had behaved well to me I should have
behaved well to her. I meant to, I am sure."

"Do you mean to say that you do not think you have been in fault at all
in the matter?"

"No, ma'am, I do not mean to say that. I have been very much in
fault--very often--I know that. I get very angry and vexed, and
sometimes I say nothing, but sometimes I get out of all patience and say
things I ought not. I did so to-day; but it is so very hard to keep
still when I am in such a passion, and now I have got to feel so towards
Aunt Fortune that I don't like the sight of her; I hate the very look of
her bonnet hanging up on the wall. I know it isn't right; and it makes
me miserable; and I can't help it, for I grow worse and worse every day;
and what shall I do?"

Ellen's tears came faster than her words.

"Ellen, my child," said Alice after a while, "there is but one way. You
know what I said to you yesterday?"

"I know it, but, dear Miss Alice, in my reading this morning I came to
that verse that speaks about not being forgiven if we do not forgive
others; and oh! how it troubles me; for I can't feel that I forgive Aunt
Fortune; I feel vexed whenever the thought of her comes into my head;
and how can I behave right to her while I feel so?"

"You are right there, my dear; you cannot indeed; the heart must be set
right before the life can be."

"But what shall I do to set it right?"

"Pray."

"Dear Miss Alice, I have been praying all this morning that I might
forgive Aunt Fortune; and yet I cannot do it."

"Pray still, my dear," said Alice, pressing her closer in her arms,
"pray still; if you are in earnest the answer will come. But there is
something else you can do, and must do, Ellen, besides praying, or
praying may be in vain."

"What do you mean, Miss Alice?"

"You acknowledge yourself in fault--have you made all the amends you
can? Have you, as soon as you have seen yourself in the wrong, gone to
your Aunt Fortune and acknowledged it, and humbly asked her pardon?"

Ellen answered "no" in a low voice.

"Then, my child, your duty is plain before you. The next thing after
doing wrong is to make all the amends in your power; confess your fault,
and ask forgiveness, both of God and man. Pride struggles against it--I
see yours does--but, my child, 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth
grace unto the humble.'" Ellen burst into tears and cried heartily.

"Mind your own wrong doings, my child, and you will not be half so
disposed to quarrel with those of other people. But, Ellen dear, if you
will not humble yourself to this you must not count upon an answer to
your prayer. 'If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there
rememberest that thy brother had aught against thee,'--what
then?--'Leave there thy gift before the altar? go first and be
reconciled to thy brother, and then come.'"

"But it is so hard to forgive," sobbed Ellen.

"Hard! yes, it is hard when our hearts are so. But there is little love
to Christ and no just sense of His love to us in the heart that finds it
hard. Pride and selfishness make it hard; the heart full of love to the
dear Saviour _cannot_ lay up offences against itself."

"I have said quite enough," said Alice after a pause; "you know what you
want, my dear Ellen, and what you ought to do. I shall leave you for a
little while to change my dress, for I have been walking and riding all
the morning. Make a good use of the time while I am gone."

Ellen did make good use of the time. When Alice returned she met her
with another face than she had worn all that day, humbler and quieter;
and flinging her arms around her, she said--

"I will ask Aunt Fortune's forgiveness; I feel I can do it now."

"And how about _forgiving_, Ellen?"

"I think God will help me to forgive her," said Ellen; "I have asked
Him. At any rate I will ask her to forgive me. But oh, Miss Alice! what
would have become of me without you?"

"Don't lean upon me, dear Ellen; remember you have a better Friend than
I always near you; trust in Him; if I have done you any good, don't
forget it was He brought me to you yesterday afternoon."

"There's just one thing that troubles me now," said Ellen, "mamma's
letter. I am thinking of it all the time; I feel as if I should fly to
get it!"

"We'll see about that. Cannot you ask your aunt for it?"

"I don't like to."

"Take care, Ellen; there is some pride there yet."

"Well, I will try," said Ellen; "but sometimes, I know, she would not
give it to me if I were to ask her. But I'll try, if I can."

"Well, now, to change the subject--at what o'clock did you dine to-day?"

"I don't know, ma'am--at the same time we always do, I believe."

"And that is twelve o'clock, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am; but I was so full of coming here and other things that I
couldn't eat."

"Then I suppose you would have no objection to an early tea?"

"No, ma'am--whenever you please," said Ellen, laughing.

"I shall please it pretty soon. I have had no dinner at all to-day,
Ellen; I have been out and about all the morning, and had just taken a
little nap when you came in. Come this way and let me show you some of
my housekeeping."

She led the way across the hall to the room on the opposite side--a
large, well-appointed, and spotlessly-neat kitchen. Ellen could not help
exclaiming at its pleasantness.

"Why, yes--I think it is. I have been in many a parlour that I do not
like as well. Beyond this is a lower kitchen where Margery does all her
rough work; nothing comes up the steps that lead from that to this but
the very nicest and daintiest of kitchen matters. Margery, is my father
gone to Thirlwall?"

"No, Miss Alice, he's at Carra-carra; Thomas heard him say he wouldn't
be back early."

"Well, I shall not wait for him. Margery, if you will put the kettle on
and see to the fire, I'll make some of my cakes for tea."

"I'll do it, Miss Alice; it's not good for you to go so long without
eating."

Alice now rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and tying a large
white apron before her, set about gathering the different things she
wanted for her work, to Ellen's great amusement. A white moulding-board
was placed upon a table as white; and round it soon grouped the pail of
flour, the plate of nice yellow butter, the bowl of cream, the sieve,
tray, and sundry etceteras. And then, first sifting some flour into the
tray, Alice began to throw in the other things one after another, and
toss the whole about with a carelessness that looked as if all would go
wrong, but with a confidence that seemed to say all was going right.
Ellen gazed in comical wonderment.

"Did you think cakes were made without hands?" said Alice, laughing at
her look. "You saw me wash mine before I began."

"Oh, I'm not thinking of that," said Ellen; "I am not afraid of your
hands."

"Did you never see your mother do this?" said Alice, who was now turning
and rolling about the dough upon the board in a way that seemed to Ellen
curious beyond expression.

"No, never," she said. "Mamma never kept house, and I never saw anybody
do it."

"Then your aunt does not let you into the mysteries of bread and butter
making?"

"Butter-making! Oh," said Ellen with a sigh, "I have enough of that."

Alice now applied a smooth wooden roller to the cake with such quickness
and skill that the lump forthwith lay spread upon the board in a thin
even layer, and she next cut it into little round cakes with the edge of
a tumbler. Half the board was covered with the nice little white things,
which Ellen declared looked good enough to eat already, and she had
quite forgotten all possible causes of vexation--past, present, or
future--when suddenly a large grey cat jumped upon the table, and,
coolly walking upon the moulding-board, planted his paw directly in the
middle of one of his mistress's cakes.

"Take him off--oh, Ellen!" cried Alice; "take him off! I can't touch
him." But Ellen was a little afraid.

Alice then gently tried to shove puss off with her elbow, but he seemed
to think that was very good fun, purred, whisked his great tail over
Alice's bare arm, and rubbed his head against it, having evidently no
notion that he was not just where he ought to be. Alice and Ellen were
too much amused to try any violent method of relief; but Margery,
happily coming in, seized puss in both hands and set him on the floor.

"Just look at the print of his paw in that cake," said Ellen.

"He has set his mark on it, certainly. I think it is his now, by the
right of possession if not the right of discovery."

"I think he discovered the cakes too," said Ellen, laughing.

"Why, yes. He shall have that one baked for his supper."

"Does he like cakes?"

"Indeed he does. He is very particular and delicate about his eating, is
Captain Parry."

"Captain Parry!" said Ellen. "Is that his name?"

"Yes," said Alice, laughing; "I don't wonder you look astonished, Ellen.
I have had that cat five years, and when he was first given me, my
brother Jack, who was younger then than he is now, and had been reading
Captain Parry's Voyages, gave him that name, and would have him called
so. Oh, Jack!" said Alice, half laughing and half crying.

Ellen wondered why; but she went to wash her hands, and when her face
was again turned to Ellen it was as unruffled as ever.

"Margery, my cakes are ready," said she, "and Ellen and I are ready
too."

"Very well, Miss Alice, the kettle is just going to boil; you shall have
tea in a trice. I'll do some eggs for you."

"Something--anything," said Alice; "I feel one cannot live without
eating. Come, Ellen, you and I will go and set the tea-table."

Ellen was very happy arranging the cups and saucers and other things
that Alice handed her from the cupboard; and when a few minutes after
the tea and the cakes came in, and she and Alice were cosily seated,
poor Ellen hardly knew herself in such a pleasant state of things.




CHAPTER XVII

          The very sooth of it is, that an ill-habit has the force of an
          ill-fate.

                                                  --L'ESTRANGE.


"Ellen, dear," said Alice, as she poured out Ellen's second cup of tea,
"have we run through the list of your troubles?"

"Oh no, Miss Alice, indeed we haven't; but we have got through the
worst."

"Is the next one so bad it would spoil our supper?"

"No," said Ellen; "it couldn't do that, but it's bad enough though; it's
about my not going to school. Miss Alice, I promised myself I would
learn so much while mamma was away, and surprise her when she came back,
and instead of that, I am not learning anything. I don't mean not
learning _anything_," said Ellen, correcting herself; "but I can't do
much. When I found Aunt Fortune wasn't going to send me to school, I
determined I would try to study by myself; and I have tried, but I can't
get along."

"Well, now, don't lay down your knife and fork and look so doleful,"
said Alice, smiling, "this is a matter I can help you in. What are you
studying?"

"Some things I can manage well enough," said Ellen, "the easy things;
but I cannot understand my arithmetic without some one to explain it to
me; and French I can do nothing at all with, and that is what I wanted
to learn most of all; and often I want to ask questions about my
history."

"Suppose," said Alice, "you go on studying by yourself as much and as
well as you can, and bring your books up to me two or three times a
week; I will hear and explain and answer questions to your heart's
content, unless you should be too hard for me. What do you say to that?"

Ellen said nothing to it, but the colour that rushed to her cheeks, the
surprised look of delight, were answer enough.

"It will do, then," said Alice, "and I have no doubt we shall untie the
knot of those arithmetical problems very soon. But, Ellen, my dear, I
cannot help you in French, for I do not know it myself. What will you do
about that?"

"I don't know, ma'am; I am sorry."

"So am I, for your sake. I can help you in Latin, if that would be any
comfort to you."

"It wouldn't be much comfort to me," said Ellen, laughing; "mamma wanted
me to learn Latin, but I wanted to learn French a great deal more. I
don't care about Latin, except to please her."

"Permit me to ask if you know English?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, I hope so; I knew that a great while ago."

"Did you? I am very happy to make your acquaintance then, for the number
of young ladies who _do_ know English is, in my opinion, remarkably
small. Are you sure of the fact, Ellen?"

"Why yes, Miss Alice."

"Will you undertake to write me a note of two pages that shall not have
one fault of grammar, nor one word spelt wrong, nor anything in it that
is not good English? You may take for a subject the history of this
afternoon."

"Yes, ma'am, if you wish it. I hope I can write a note that long without
making mistakes."

Alice smiled.

"I will not stop to inquire," she said, "whether _that long_ is Latin or
French; but, Ellen, my dear, it is not English."

Ellen blushed a little, though she laughed too.

"I believe I have got into the way of saying that by hearing Aunt
Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt say it; I don't think I ever did before I came
here."

"What are you so anxious to learn French for?"

"Mamma knows it, and I have often heard her talk French with a great
many people; and papa and I always wanted to be able to talk it too; and
mamma wanted me to learn it; she said there were a great many French
books I ought to read."

"That last is true, no doubt. Ellen, I will make a bargain with you,--if
you will study English with me, I will study French with you."

"Dear Miss Alice," said Ellen, caressing her, "I'll do it without that;
I'll study anything you please."

"Dear Ellen, I believe you would. But I should like to know it for my
own sake; we'll study it together; we shall get along nicely, I have no
doubt; we can learn to read it, at least, and that is the main point."

"But how shall we know what to call the words?" said Ellen doubtfully.

"That is a grave question," said Alice, smiling. "I am afraid we should
hit upon a style of pronunciation that a Frenchman would make nothing
of. I have it!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands--"where there's a will
there's a way--it always happens so. Ellen, I have an old friend upon
the mountain who will give us exactly what we want, unless I am greatly
mistaken. We'll go and see her; that is the very thing!--my old friend
Mrs. Vawse."

"Mrs. Vawse!" repeated Ellen; "not the grandmother of that Nancy Vawse?"

"The very same. Her name is not Vawse; the country people call it so,
and I being one of the country people have fallen into the way of it;
but her real name is Vosier. She was born a Swiss, and brought up in a
wealthy French family, as the personal attendant of a young lady to whom
she became exceedingly attached. This lady finally married an American
gentleman; and so great was Mrs. Vawse's love to her, that she left
country and family to follow her here. In a few years her mistress died;
she married; and since that time she has been tossed from trouble to
trouble; a perfect sea of troubles;--till now she is left like a wreck
upon this mountain top. A fine wreck she is! I go to see her very often,
and next time I will call for you, and we will propose our French plan;
nothing will please her better, I know. By the way, Ellen, are you as
well versed in the other common branches of education as you are in your
mother tongue?"

"What do you mean, Miss Alice?"

"Geography, for instance; do you know it well?"

"Yes, ma'am, I believe so; I am sure I have studied it till I am sick of
it."

"Can you give me the boundaries of Great Thibet or Peru?"

Ellen hesitated.

"I had rather not try," she said; "I am not sure. I can't remember those
queer countries in Asia and South America half so well as Europe and
North America."

"Do you know anything about the surface of the country in Italy or
France; the character and condition of the people; what kind of climate
they have, and what grows there most freely?"

"Why no, ma'am," said Ellen; "nobody ever taught me that."

"Would you like to go over the atlas again, talking about all these
matters, as well as the mere outlines of the countries you have studied
before?"

"Oh yes, dearly!" exclaimed Ellen.

"Well, I think we may let Margery have the tea-things. But here is
Captain's cake."

"Oh, may I give him his supper?" said Ellen.

"Certainly. You must carve it for him; you know I told you he is very
particular. Give him some of the egg, too--he likes that. Now, where is
the Captain?" Not far off; for scarcely had Alice opened the door and
called him once or twice, when with a queer little note of answer, he
came hurriedly trotting in.

"He generally has his supper in the outer kitchen," said Alice, "but I
grant him leave to have it here to-night as a particular honour to him
and you."

"How handsome he is! and how large!" said Ellen.

"Yes, he is very handsome, and more than that he is very sensible for a
cat. Do you see how prettily his paws are marked? Jack used to say he
had white gloves on."

"And white boots too," said Ellen. "No, only one leg is white; pussy's
boots aren't mates. Is he good-natured?"

"Very--if you don't meddle with him."

"I don't call that being good-natured," said Ellen, laughing.

"Nor I; but truth obliges me to say the Captain does not permit anybody
to take liberties with him. He is a character, Captain Parry. Come out
on the lawn, Ellen, and we will let Margery clear away."

"What a pleasant face Margery has," said Ellen, as the door closed
behind them; "and what a pleasant way she has of speaking. I like to
hear her--the words come out so clear, and I don't know how, but not
like other people."

"You have a quick ear, Ellen; you are very right. Margery had lived too
long in England before she came here to lose her trick of speech
afterwards. But Thomas speaks as thick as a Yankee, and always did."

"Then Margery is English?" said Ellen.

"To be sure. She came over with us twelve years ago for the pure love of
my father and mother, and I believe now she looks upon John and me as
her own children. I think she could scarcely love us more if we were so
in truth. Thomas--you haven't seen Thomas yet, have you?"

"No."

"He is an excellent good man in his way, and as faithful as the day is
long; but he isn't equal to his wife. Perhaps I am partial. Margery came
to America for the love of us, and Thomas came for the love of Margery;
there's a difference."

"But, Miss Alice!----"

"What, Miss Ellen?"

"You said Margery came over _with you_?"

"Yes, is that what makes you look so astonished?"

"But then you are English, too?"

"Well, what of that? You won't love me the less, will you?"

"Oh no," said Ellen; "my own mother came from Scotland, Aunt Fortune
says."

"I am English born, Ellen, but you may count me half American if you
like, for I have spent rather more than half my life here. Come this
way, Ellen, and I'll show you my garden. It is some distance off, but as
near as a spot could be found fit for it."

They quitted the house by a little steep path leading down the mountain,
which in two or three minutes brought them to a clear bit of ground. It
was not large, but lying very prettily among the trees, with an open
view to the east and south-east. On the extreme edge and at the lower
end of it was fixed a rude bench, well sheltered by the towering forest
trees. Here Alice and Ellen sat down.

It was near sunset, the air cool and sweet, the evening light upon field
and sky.

"How fair it is!" said Alice musingly. "How fair and lovely! Look at
those long shadows of the mountains, Ellen, and how bright the light is
on the far hills. It won't be so long. A little while more, and our
Indian summer will be over; and then the clouds, the frost, and the
wind, and the snow. Well, let them come."

"I wish they wouldn't, I am sure," said Ellen. "I am sorry enough they
are coming."

"Why? All seasons have their pleasures. I am not sorry at all. I like
the cold very much."

"I guess you wouldn't, Miss Alice, if you had to wash every morning
where I do."

"Why, where is that?"

"Down at the spout."

"At the _spout_! What is that, pray?"

"The spout of water, ma'am, just down a little way from the kitchen
door. The water comes in a little long, very long trough from a spring
at the back of the pig-field, and at the end of the trough, where it
pours out, is the spout."

"Have you no conveniences for washing in your room?"

"Not a sign of such a thing, ma'am. I have washed at the spout ever
since I have been here," said Ellen, laughing in spite of her vexation.

"And do the pigs share the water with you?"

"The pigs? Oh no, ma'am. The trough is raised up from the ground on
little heaps of stones. They can't get at the water, unless they drink
at the spring, and I don't think they do that, so many big stones stand
around it."

"Well, Ellen, I must say that it is rather uncomfortable, even without
any danger of four-footed society."

"It isn't so bad just now," said Ellen, "in this warm weather, but in
that cold time we had a week or two back, do you remember, Miss
Alice?--just before the Indian summer began?--oh, how disagreeable it
was! Early in the morning, you know, the sun scarcely up, and the cold
wind blowing my hair and my clothes all about, and then that board
before the spout, that I have to stand on, is always kept wet by the
spattering of the water, and it's muddy besides and very
slippery--there's a kind of green stuff comes upon it, and I can't stoop
down for fear of muddying myself. I have to tuck my clothes round me and
bend over as well as I can, and fetch up a little water to my face in
the hollow of my hand, and of course I have to do that a great many
times before I get enough. I can't help laughing," said Ellen, "but it
isn't a laughing matter for all that."

"So you wash your face in your hands, and have no pitcher but a long
wooden trough? Poor child! I am sorry for you. I think you must have
some other way of managing before the snow comes."

"The water is bitterly cold already," said Ellen. "It's the coldest
water I ever saw. Mamma gave me a nice dressing-box before I came away,
but I found very soon this was a queer place for a dressing-box to come
to. Why, Miss Alice, if I take out my brush or comb I haven't any table
to lay them on but one that's too high, and my poor dressing-box has to
stay on the floor. And I haven't a sign of a bureau; all my things are
tumbling about in my trunk."

"I think if I were in your place I would not permit _that_, at any
rate," said Alice. "If my things were confined to my trunk I would have
them keep good order there, at least."

"Well, so they do," said Ellen; "pretty good order. I didn't mean
'tumbling about' exactly."

"Always try to say what you mean _exactly_. But now, Ellen love, do you
know I must send you away? Do you see the sunlight has quitted those
distant hills? And it will be quite gone soon. You must hasten home."

Ellen made no answer. Alice had taken her on her lap again, and she was
nestling there with her friend's arms wrapped around her. Both were
quite still for a minute.

"Next week, if nothing happens, we will begin to be busy with our books.
You shall come to me on Tuesday and Friday; and all the other days you
must study as hard as you can at home, for I am very particular, I
forewarn you."

"But suppose Aunt Fortune should not let me come?" said Ellen, without
stirring.

"Oh, she will. You need not speak about it; I'll come down and ask her
myself, and nobody ever refuses me anything."

"I shouldn't think they would," said Ellen.

"Then don't you set the first example," said Alice laughingly. "I ask
you to be cheerful and happy, and grow wiser and better every day."

"Dear Miss Alice! How can I promise that?"

"Dear Ellen, it is very easy. There is One who has promised to hear and
answer you when you cry to Him; He will make you in His own likeness
again; and to know and love Him and not be happy is impossible. That
blessed Saviour!" said Alice; "oh, what should you and I do without Him,
Ellen? 'As rivers of waters in a dry place; as the shadow of a great
rock in a weary land.' How beautiful! how true! how often I think of
that."

Ellen was silent, though entering into the feeling of the words.

"Remember Him, dear Ellen; remember your best friend. Learn more of
Christ, our dear Saviour, and you can't help but be happy. Never fancy
you are helpless and friendless while you have Him to go to. Whenever
you feel wearied and sorry, flee to the shadow of that great rock; will
you? and do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am--yes, ma'am," said Ellen, as she lifted her lips to kiss her
friend. Alice heartily returned the kiss, and pressing Ellen in her
arms, said--

"Now, Ellen, dear, you _must_ go; I dare not keep you any longer. It
will be too late now, I fear, before you reach home."

Quick they mounted the little path again, and soon were at the house;
and Ellen was putting on her things.

"Next Tuesday, remember--but before that! Sunday--you are to spend
Sunday with me; come bright and early."

"How early?"

"Oh, as early as you please--before breakfast--and our Sunday morning
breakfasts aren't late, Ellen; we have to set off betimes to go to
church."

Kisses and good-byes; and then Ellen was running down the road at a
great rate, for twilight was beginning to gather, and she had a good way
to go.

She ran till out of breath; then walked a while to gather breath; then
ran again. Running down hill is a pretty quick way of travelling; so
before very long she saw her aunt's house at a distance. She walked now.
She had come all the way in good spirits, though with a sense upon her
mind of something disagreeable to come; when she saw the house this
disagreeable something swallowed up all her thoughts, and she walked
leisurely on, pondering what she had to do, and what she was like to
meet in the doing of it.

"If Aunt Fortune should be in a bad humour--and say something to vex
me--but I'll not be vexed. But it will be very hard to help it; but I
_will not_ be vexed; I have done wrong, and I'll tell her so, and ask
her to forgive me; it will be hard--but I'll do it--I'll say what I
ought to say, and then, however she takes it, I shall have the comfort
of knowing I have done right." "But," said conscience, "you must not say
it stiffly and proudly; you must say it humbly, and as if you really
felt and meant it." "I will," said Ellen.

She paused in the shed and looked through the window to see what was the
promise of things within. Not good; her aunt's step sounded heavy and
ominous; Ellen guessed she was not in a pleasant state of mind. She
opened the door--no doubt of it--the whole air of Miss Fortune's figure,
to the very handkerchief that was tied round her head, spoke
displeasure.

"She isn't in a good mood," said Ellen, as she went upstairs to leave
her bonnet and cape there; "I never knew her to be good-humoured when
she had that handkerchief on."

She returned to the kitchen immediately. Her aunt was busied in washing
and wiping the dishes.

"I have come home rather late," said Ellen pleasantly; "shall I help
you, Aunt Fortune?"

Her aunt cast a look at her.

"Yes, you may help me. Go and put on a pair of white gloves and a silk
apron, and then you'll be ready."

Ellen looked down at herself. "Oh, my merino! I forgot about that. I'll
go and change it."

Miss Fortune said nothing, and Ellen went.

When she came back the things were all wiped, and as she was about to
put some of them away, her aunt took them out of her hands, bidding her
"go and sit down!"

Ellen obeyed and was mute; while Miss Fortune dashed round with a
display of energy there seemed to be no particular call for, and
speedily had everything in its place and all straight and square about
the kitchen. When she was, as a last thing, brushing the crumbs, from
the floor into the fire, she broke the silence again. The old
grandmother sat in the chimney-corner, but she seldom was very talkative
in the presence of her stern daughter.

"What did you come home for to-night? Why didn't you stay at Mr.
Humphreys'?"

"Miss Alice didn't ask me."

"That means, I suppose, that you would if she had?"

"I don't know, ma'am; Miss Alice wouldn't have asked me to do anything
that wasn't right."

"Oh no! of course not;--Miss Alice is a piece of perfection; everybody
says so; and I suppose you'd sing the same song, who haven't seen her
three times."

"Indeed I would," said Ellen; "I could have told that in one seeing. I'd
do anything in the world for Miss Alice."

"Ay--I dare say, that's the way of it. You can show not one bit of
goodness or pleasantness to the person that does the most for you and
has all the care of you, but the first stranger that comes along you can
be all honey to them, and make yourself out too good for common folks,
and go and tell great tales how you are used at home, I suppose. I am
sick of it!" said Miss Fortune, setting up the andirons and throwing the
tongs and shovel into the corner, in a way that made the iron ring
again. "One might as good be a stepmother at once, and done with it!
Come, mother, it's time for you to go to bed."

The old lady rose with the meekness of habitual submission, and went
upstairs with her daughter. Ellen had time to bethink herself while they
were gone, and resolved to lose no time when her aunt came back in doing
what she had to do. She would fain have persuaded herself to put it off.
"It is late," she said to herself, "it isn't a good time. It will be
better to go to bed now, and ask Aunt Fortune's pardon to-morrow." But
conscience said, "_First_ be reconciled to thy brother."

Miss Fortune came down presently. But before Ellen could get any words
out, her aunt prevented her.

"Come, light your candle and be off; I want you out of the way; I can't
do anything with half-a-dozen people about."

Ellen rose. "I want to say something to you first, Aunt Fortune."

"Say it and be quick; I haven't time to stand talking."

"Aunt Fortune," said Ellen, stumbling over her words--"I want to tell
you that I know I was wrong this morning, and I am sorry, and I hope
you'll forgive me."

A kind of indignant laugh escaped from Miss Fortune's lips.

"It's easy talking; I'd rather have acting. I'd rather see people mend
their ways than stand and make speeches about them. Being sorry don't
help the matter much."

"But I'll try not to do so any more," said Ellen.

"When I see you don't I shall begin to think there is something in it.
Actions speak louder than words. I don't believe in this jumping into
goodness all at once."

"Well, I will try not to, at any rate," said Ellen, sighing.

"I shall be very glad to see it. What has brought you into this sudden
fit of dutifulness and fine talking?"

"Miss Alice told me I ought to ask your pardon for what I had done
wrong," said Ellen, scarce able to keep from crying; "and I know I did
wrong this morning, and I did wrong the other day about the letter; and
I am sorry, whether you believe it or no."

"Miss Alice told you, did she? So all this is to please Miss Alice. I
suppose you were afraid your friend Miss Alice would hear of some of
your goings on, and thought you had better make up with me. Is that it?"

Ellen answered, "No, ma'am," in a low tone, but had no voice to say
more.

"I wish Miss Alice would look after her own affairs, and let other
people's houses alone. That's always the way with your pieces of
perfection; they're eternally finding out something that isn't as it
ought to be among their neighbours. I think people that don't set up for
being quite such great things get along quite as well in the world."

Ellen was strongly tempted to reply, but kept her lips shut.

"I'll tell you what," said Miss Fortune, "if you want me to believe that
all this talk means something, I'll tell you what you shall do. You
shall just tell Mr. Van Brunt to-morrow about it all, and how ugly you
have been these two days, and let him know you were wrong and I was
right. I believe he thinks you cannot do anything wrong, and I should
like him to know it for once."

Ellen struggled hard with herself before she could speak; Miss Fortune's
lips began to wear a scornful smile.

"I'll tell him!" said Ellen at length; "I'll tell him I was wrong, if
you wish me to."

"I _do_ wish it. I like people's eyes to be opened. It'll do him good, I
guess, and you too. Now have you anything more to say?"

Ellen hesitated: the colour came and went; she knew it wasn't a good
time, but how could she wait?

"Aunt Fortune," she said, "you know I told you I behaved very ill about
that letter--won't you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, yes, child; I don't care anything about it."

"Then will you be so good as to let me have my letter again?" said Ellen
timidly.

"Oh, I can't be bothered to look for it now; I'll see about it some
other time; take your candle and go to bed now, if you've nothing more
to say."

Ellen took her candle and went. Some tears were wrung from her by hurt
feeling and disappointment; but she had the smile of conscience, and as
she believed, of Him whose witness conscience is. She remembered that
"great rock in a weary land," and she went to sleep in the shadow of it.

The next day was Saturday. Ellen was up early, and after carefully
performing her toilet duties, she had a nice long hour before it was
time to go downstairs. The use she made of this hour had fitted her to
do cheerfully and well her morning work; and Ellen would have sat down
to breakfast in excellent spirits if it had not been for her promised
disclosure to Mr. Van Brunt. It vexed her a little. "I told Aunt
Fortune--that was all right; but why I should be obliged to tell Mr. Van
Brunt I don't know. But if it convinces Aunt Fortune that I am in
earnest, and meant what I say, then I had better."

Mr. Van Brunt looked uncommonly grave, she thought; her aunt, uncommonly
satisfied. Ellen had more than half a guess at the reason of both; but
make up her mind to speak, she could not, during all breakfast time. She
ate without knowing what she was eating.

Mr. Van Brunt at length, having finished his meal without saying a
syllable, arose and was about to go forth, when Miss Fortune stopped
him. "Wait a minute, Mr. Van Brunt," she said, "Ellen has something to
say to you. Go ahead, Ellen."

Ellen _felt_, rather than saw, the smile with which these words were
spoken. She crimsoned and hesitated.

"Ellen and I had some trouble yesterday," said Miss Fortune, "and she
wants to tell you about it." Mr. Van Brunt stood gravely waiting.

Ellen raised her eyes, which were full, to his face. "Mr. Van Brunt,"
she said, "Aunt Fortune wants me to tell you what I told her last
night--that I knew I behaved as I ought not to her yesterday, and the
day before, and other times."

"And what made you do that?" said Mr. Van Brunt.

"Tell him," said Miss Fortune, colouring, "that you were in the wrong
and I was in the right--then he'll believe it, I suppose."

"I was wrong," said Ellen.

"And I was right," said Miss Fortune.

Ellen was silent. Mr. Van Brunt looked from one to the other.

"Speak," said Miss Fortune; "tell him the whole if you mean what you
say."

"I can't," said Ellen.

"Why, you said you were wrong," said Miss Fortune; "that's only half of
the business; if you were wrong I was right; why don't you say so, and
not make such a shilly-shally piece of work of it?"

"I said I was wrong," said Ellen, "and so I was; but I never said you
were right, Aunt Fortune; and I don't think so."

These words, though moderately spoken, were enough to put Miss Fortune
in a rage.

"What did I do that was wrong?" she said; "come, I should like to know.
What was it, Ellen? Out with it; say everything you can think of; stop
and hear it, Mr. Van Brunt; come, Ellen, let's hear the whole!"

"Thank you, ma'am, I've heerd quite enough," said that gentleman, as he
went out and closed the door.

"And I have said too much," said Ellen. "Pray forgive me, Aunt Fortune.
I shouldn't have said that if you hadn't pressed me so; I forgot myself
a moment. I am sorry I said that."

"Forgot yourself!" said Miss Fortune: "I wish you'd forget yourself out
of my house. Please to forget the place where I am for to-day, anyhow;
I've got enough of you for one while. You had better go to Miss Alice
and get a new lesson, and tell her you are coming on finely."

Gladly would Ellen indeed have gone to Miss Alice, but as the next day
was Sunday she thought it best to wait. She went sorrowfully to her own
room. "Why couldn't I be quiet?" said Ellen. "If I had only held my
tongue that unfortunate minute! What possessed me to say that?"

Strong passion--strong pride--both long unbroken; and Ellen had yet to
learn that many a prayer and many a tear, much watchfulness, much help
from on high, must be hers before she could be thoroughly dispossessed
of these evil spirits. But she knew her sickness; she had applied to the
Physician; she was in a fair way to be well.

One thought in her solitary room that day drew streams of tears down
Ellen's cheeks. "My letter--my letter! what shall I do to get you!" she
said to herself. "It serves me right; I oughtn't to have got in a
passion; oh, I have got a lesson this time."




CHAPTER XVIII

                                       Tranquilitie
          So purely sate there, that waves great nor small
          Did ever rise to any height at all.

                                                  --CHAPMAN.


The Sunday with Alice met all Ellen's hopes. She wrote a very long
letter to her mother, giving the full history of the day. How pleasantly
they had ridden to church on the pretty grey pony, she half the way, and
Alice the other half, talking to each other all the while; for Mr.
Humphreys had ridden on before. How lovely the road was, "winding about
round the mountain, up and down," and with such a wide, fair view, and
"part of the time close along by the edge of the water." This had been
Ellen's first ride on horseback. Then the letter described the little
Carra-carra church, Mr. Humphreys' excellent sermon, "every word of
which she could understand;" Alice's Sunday School, in which she was
sole teacher, and how Ellen had four little ones put under _her_ care;
and told how while Mr. Humphreys went on to hold a second service at a
village some six miles off, his daughter ministered to two infirm old
women at Carra-carra, reading and explaining the Bible to the one, and
to the other, who was blind, repeating the whole substance of her
father's sermon. "Miss Alice told me that nobody could enjoy a sermon
better than that old woman, but she cannot go out, and every Sunday Miss
Alice goes and preaches to her, she says." How Ellen went home in the
boat with Thomas and Margery, and spent the rest of the day and night
also at the parsonage; and how polite and kind Mr. Humphreys had been.
"He's a very grave-looking man indeed," said the letter, "and not a bit
like Miss Alice; he is a great deal older than I expected."

This letter was much the longest Ellen had ever written in her life; but
she had set her heart on having her mother's sympathy in her new
pleasures, though not to be had but after the lapse of many weeks and
beyond a sad interval of land and sea. Still, she must have it; and her
little fingers travelled busily over the paper hour after hour, as she
found time, till the long epistle was finished. She was hard at work at
it on Tuesday afternoon when her aunt called her down; and obeying the
call, to her great surprise and delight she found Alice seated in the
chimney corner and chatting away with her old grandmother, who looked
remarkably pleased. Miss Fortune was bustling round as usual, looking at
nobody, though putting in her word now and then.

"Come, Ellen," said Alice, "get your bonnet; I am going up the mountain
to see Mrs. Vawse, and your aunt has given leave for you to go with me.
Wrap yourself up well, for it is not warm."

Without waiting for a word of answer, Ellen joyfully ran off.

"You have chosen rather an ugly day for your walk, Miss Alice."

"Can't expect pretty days in December, Miss Fortune. I am only too happy
it doesn't storm; it will by to-morrow, I think. But I have learned not
to mind weathers."

"Yes, I know you have," said Miss Fortune. "You'll stop up on the
mountain till supper-time, I guess, won't you?"

"Oh yes; I shall want something to fortify me before coming home after
such a long tramp. You see I have brought a basket along. I thought it
safest to take a loaf of bread with me, for no one can tell what may be
in Mrs. Vawse's cupboard, and to lose our supper is not a thing to be
thought of."

"Well, have you looked out for butter, too? for you'll find none where
you're going. I don't know how the old lady lives up there, but it's
without butter, I reckon."

"I have taken care of that, too, thank you, Miss Fortune. You see I'm a
far-sighted creature."

"Ellen," said her aunt, as Ellen now, cloaked and hooded, came in, "go
into the buttery and fetch out one of them pumpkin pies to put in Miss
Alice's basket."

"Thank you, Miss Fortune," said Alice, smiling, "I shall tell Mrs. Vawse
who it comes from. Now, my dear, let's be off; we have a long walk
before us."

Ellen was quite ready to be off. But no sooner had she opened the outer
shed door than her voice was heard in astonishment.

"A cat! What cat is this? Miss Alice! look here; here's the Captain, I
do believe."

"Here is the Captain, indeed," said Alice. "Oh, pussy, pussy, what have
you come for?"

Pussy walked up to his mistress, and stroking himself and his great tail
against her dress, seemed to say that he had come for her sake, and that
it made no difference to him where she was going.

"He was sitting as gravely as possible," said Ellen, "on the stone just
outside the door, waiting for the door to be opened. How could he have
come there?"

"Why, he has followed me," said Alice; "he often does; but I came quick,
and I thought I had left him at home to-day. This is too long an
expedition for him. Kitty, I wish you had stayed at home."

Kitty did not think so; he was arching his neck and purring in
acknowledgment of Alice's soft touch.

"Can't you send him back?" said Ellen.

"No, my dear, he is the most sensible of cats, no doubt, but he could by
no means understand such an order. No, we must let him trot on after us,
and when he gets tired I will carry him; it won't be the first time by a
good many."

They set off with a quick pace, which the weather forbade them to
slacken. It was somewhat as Miss Fortune had said, an ugly afternoon.
The clouds hung cold and grey, and the air had a raw chill feeling that
betokened a coming snow. The wind blew strong too, and seemed to carry
the chillness through all manner of wrappers. Alice and Ellen, however,
did not much care for it; they walked and ran by turns, only stopping
once in a while when poor Captain's uneasy cry warned them they had left
him too far behind. Still he would not submit to be carried, but jumped
down whenever Alice attempted it, and trotted on most perseveringly. As
they neared the foot of the mountain they were somewhat sheltered from
the wind, and could afford to walk more slowly.

"How is it between you and your Aunt Fortune now?" said Alice.

"Oh, we don't get on well at all, Miss Alice, and I don't know exactly
what to do. You know I said I would ask her pardon. Well, I did, that
same night after I got home, but it was very disagreeable. She didn't
seem to believe I was in earnest, and wanted me to tell Mr. Van Brunt
that I had been wrong. I thought that was rather hard; but at any rate I
said I would; and next morning I did tell him so; and I believe all
would have done well if I could only have been quiet; but Aunt Fortune
said something that vexed me, and almost before I knew it I said
something that vexed her dreadfully. It was nothing very bad, Miss
Alice, though I ought not to have said it; and I was sorry two minutes
after, but I just got provoked; and what shall I do, for it's so hard to
prevent it?"

"The only thing I know," said Alice, with a slight smile, "is to be full
of that charity which among other lovely ways of showing itself has
this--that it is 'not easily provoked.'"

"I am easily provoked," said Ellen.

"Then you know one thing at any rate that is to be watched and prayed
and guarded against; it is no little matter to be acquainted with one's
own weak points."

"I tried so hard to keep quiet that morning," said Ellen, "and if I only
could have let that unlucky speech alone--but somehow I forgot myself,
and I just told her what I thought."

"Which it is very often best not to do."

"I do believe," said Ellen, "Aunt Fortune would like to have Mr. Van
Brunt not like me."

"Well," said Alice--"what then?"

"Nothing, I suppose, ma'am."

"I hope you are not going to lay it up against her?"

"No, ma'am--I hope not."

"Take care, dear Ellen, don't take up the trade of suspecting evil; you
could not take up a worse; and even when it is forced upon you, see as
little of it as you can, and forget as soon as you can what you see.
Your aunt, it may be, is not a very happy person, and no one can tell
but those that are unhappy how hard it is not to be unamiable too.
Return good for evil as fast as you can; and you will soon either have
nothing to complain of or be very well able to bear it."

They now began to go up the mountain, and the path became in places
steep and rugged enough. "There is an easier way on the other side,"
said Alice, "but this is the nearest for us." Captain Parry now showed
signs of being decidedly weary, and permitted Alice to take him up. But
he presently mounted from her arms to her shoulder, and to Ellen's great
amusement kept his place there, passing from one shoulder to the other,
and every now and then sticking his nose up into her bonnet as if to
kiss her.

"What _does_ he do that for?" said Ellen.

"Because he loves me and is pleased," said Alice. "Put your ear close,
Ellen, and hear the quiet way he is purring to himself--do you
hear?--that's his way; he very seldom purrs aloud."

"He's a very funny cat," said Ellen, laughing.

"Cat," said Alice--"there isn't such a cat as this to be seen. He's a
cat to be respected, my old Captain Parry. He is not to be laughed at,
Ellen, I can tell you."

The travellers went on with goodwill; but the path was so steep and the
way so long, that when about half way up the mountain they were fain to
follow the example of their four-footed companion, and rest themselves.
They sat down on the ground. They had warmed themselves with walking,
but the weather was as chill and disagreeable and gusty as ever; every
now and then the wind came sweeping by, catching up the dried leaves at
their feet and whirling and scattering them off to a distance--winter's
warning voice.

"I never was in the country before when the leaves were off the trees,"
said Ellen. "It isn't so pretty, Miss Alice, do you think so?"

"So pretty? No, I suppose not, if we were to have it all the while; but
I like the change very much."

"Do you like to see the leaves off the trees?"

"Yes--in the time of it. There's beauty in the leafless trees that you
cannot see in summer. Just look, Ellen--no, I cannot find you a nice
specimen here, they grow too thick; but where they have room the way the
branches spread and ramify, or branch out again, is most beautiful.
There's first the trunk--then the large branches--then those divide into
smaller ones; and those part and part again into smaller and smaller
twigs, till you are canopied as it were with a network of fine stems.
And when the snow falls gently on them--Oh, Ellen, winter has its own
beauties. I love it all; the cold, and the wind, and the snow, and the
bare forests, and our little river of ice. What pleasant sleigh-rides to
church I have had upon that river. And then the evergreens--look at
them; you don't know in summer how much they are worth; wait till you
see the hemlock branches bending with a weight of snow, and then if you
don't say the winter is beautiful, I'll give you up as a young lady of
bad taste."

"I dare say I shall," said Ellen; "I am sure I shall like what you like.
But, Miss Alice, what makes the leaves fall when the cold weather
comes?"

"A very pretty question, Ellen, and one that can't be answered in a
breath."

"I asked Aunt Fortune the other day," said Ellen, laughing very
heartily--"and she told me to hush up and not be a fool; and I told her
I really wanted to know, and she said she wouldn't make herself a
simpleton if she was in my place; so I thought I might as well be
quiet."

"By the time the cold weather comes, Ellen, the leaves have done their
work and are no more needed. Do you know what work they have to do?--do
you know what is the use of leaves?"

"Why, for prettiness, I suppose," said Ellen, "and to give shade--I
don't know anything else."

"Shade is one of their uses, no doubt, and prettiness too; He who made
the trees made them 'pleasant to the eyes' as well as 'good for food.'
So we have an infinite variety of leaves; one shape would have done the
work just as well for every kind of tree, but then we should have lost a
great deal of pleasure. But, Ellen, the tree could not live without
leaves. In the spring the thin sap which the roots suck up from the
ground is drawn into the leaves; there by the help of the sun and air it
is thickened and prepared in a way you cannot understand, and goes back
to supply the wood with the various matters necessary for its growth and
hardness. After this has gone on some time the little vessels of the
leaves become clogged and stopped up with earthy and other matter; they
cease to do their work any longer; the hot sun dries them up more and
more, and by the time the frost comes they are as good as dead. That
finishes them, and they drop off from the branch that needs them no
more. Do you understand all this?"

"Yes, ma'am, very well," said Ellen; "and it's exactly what I wanted to
know, and very curious. So the trees couldn't live without leaves?"

"No more than you could without a heart and lungs."

"I am very glad to know that," said Ellen. "Then how is it with the
evergreens, Miss Alice? Why don't their leaves die and drop off too?"

"They do; look how the ground is carpeted under that pine tree."

"But they stay green all winter, don't they?"

"Yes; their leaves are fitted to resist frost; I don't know what the
people in cold countries would do else. They have the fate of all other
leaves, however; they live awhile, do their work, and then die; not all
at once, though; there is always a supply left on the tree. Are we
rested enough to begin again?"

"I am," said Ellen; "I don't know about the Captain. Poor fellow! he's
fast asleep. I declare it's too bad to wake you up, pussy. Haven't we
had a pleasant little rest, Miss Alice? I have learnt something while we
have been sitting here."

"_That_ is pleasant, Ellen," said Alice, as they began their upward
march--"I would I might be all the while learning something."

"But you have been teaching, Miss Alice, and that's as good. Mamma used
to say it is more blessed to give than to receive."

"Thank you, Ellen," said Alice, smiling; "that ought to satisfy me
certainly."

They bent themselves against the steep hill again and pressed on. As
they rose higher they felt it grow more cold and bleak; the woods gave
them less shelter, and the wind swept round the mountain head and over
them with great force, making their way quite difficult.

"Courage, Ellen!" said Alice, as they struggled on; "we'll soon be
there."

"I wonder," said the panting Ellen, as making an effort she came up
alongside of Alice--"I wonder why Mrs. Vawse will live in such a
disagreeable place."

"It is not disagreeable to her, Ellen; though I must say I should not
like to have too much of this wind."

"But does she really like to live up here better than down below where
it is warmer?--and all alone too?"

"Yes, she does. Ask her why, Ellen, and see what she will tell you. She
likes it so much better that this little cottage was built on purpose
for her ten years ago, by a good old friend of hers, a connection of the
lady whom she followed to this country."

"Well," said Ellen, "she must have a queer taste--that is all I can
say."

They were now within a few easy steps of the house, which did not look
so uncomfortable when they came close to it. It was small and low, of
only one storey, though it is true the roof ran up very steep to a high
and sharp gable. It was perched so snugly in a niche of the hill that
the little yard was completely sheltered with a high wall of rock. The
house itself stood out more boldly, and caught pretty well near all the
winds that blew; but so, Alice informed Ellen, the inmate likes to have
it.

"And that roof," said Alice, "she begged Mr. Marshman when the cottage
was building that the roof might be high and pointed; she said her eyes
were tired with the low roofs of this country, and if he would have it
made so it would be a great relief to them."

The odd roof Ellen thought was pretty. But they now reached the door,
protected with a deep porch. Alice entered and knocked at the other
door. They were bade to come in. A woman was there stepping briskly back
and forth before a large spinning-wheel. She half turned her head to see
who the comers were, then stopped her wheel instantly, and came to meet
them with open arms.

"Miss Alice! dear Miss Alice, how glad I am to see you."

"And I you, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, kissing her. "Here's another
friend you must welcome for my sake--little Ellen Montgomery."

"I am very glad to see Miss Ellen," said the old woman, kissing her
also; and Ellen did not shrink from the kiss, so pleasant were the lips
that tendered it; so kind and frank the smile, so winning the eye; so
agreeable the whole air of the person. She turned from Ellen again to
Miss Alice.

"It's a long while that I have not seen you, dear--not since you went to
Mrs. Marshman's. And what a day you have chosen to come at last!"

"I can't help that," said Alice, pulling off her bonnet, "I couldn't
wait any longer. I wanted to see you dolefully, Mrs. Vawse."

"Why, my dear? what's the matter? I have wanted to see _you_, but not
dolefully."

"That's the very thing, Mrs. Vawse; I wanted to see you to get a lesson
of quiet contentment."

"I never thought you wanted such a lesson, Miss Alice. What's the
matter?"

"I can't get over John's going away."

Her lip trembled and her eye was swimming as she said so. The old woman
passed her hands over the gentle head and kissed her brow.

"So I thought--so I felt, when my mistress died; and my husband; and my
sons, one after the other. But now I think I can say with Paul, 'I have
learned in whatsoever state I am therewith to be content.' I think so;
maybe that I deceive myself; but they are all gone, and I am certain
that I am content now."

"Then surely I ought to be," said Alice.

"It is not till one looses one's hold of other things and looks to
Jesus alone that one finds how much He can do. 'There is a friend that
sticketh closer than a brother;' but I never knew all that meant till I
had no other friends to lean upon; nay, I should not say _no_ other
friends; but my dearest were taken away. You have _your_ dearest still,
Miss Alice."

"Two of them," said Alice faintly; "and hardly that now."

"I have not one," said the old woman, "I have not one; but my home is in
heaven, and my Saviour is there preparing a place for me. I know it--I
am sure of it--and I can wait a little while, and rejoice all the while
I am waiting. Dearest Miss Alice--'none of them that trust in Him shall
be desolate;' don't you believe that?"

"I do surely, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, wiping away a tear or two, "but I
forget it sometimes; or the pressure of present pain is too much for all
that faith and hope can do."

"It hinders faith and hope from acting--that is the trouble. 'They that
seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.' I know that is true, of my
own experience; so will you, dear."

"I know it, Mrs. Vawse--I know it all; but it does me good to hear you
say it. I thought I should become accustomed to John's absence, but I do
not at all; the autumn winds all the while seem to sing to me that he is
away."

"My dear love," said the old lady, "it sorrows me much to hear you speak
so; I would take away this trial from you if I could; but He knows best.
Seek to live nearer to the Lord, dear Miss Alice, and He will give you
much more than He has taken away."

Alice again brushed away some tears.

"I felt I must come and see you to-day," said she, "and you have
comforted me already. The sound of your voice always does me good. I
catch courage and patience from you, I believe."

"'As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his
friend.' How did you leave Mr. and Mrs. Marshman? and has Mr. George
returned yet?"

Drawing their chairs together, a close conversation began. Ellen had
been painfully interested and surprised by what went before, but the low
tone of voice now seemed to be not meant for her ear, and turning away
her attention, she amused herself with taking a general survey.

It was easy to see that Mrs. Vawse lived in this room, and probably had
no other to live in. Her bed was in one corner; cupboards filled the
deep recesses on each side of the chimney, and in the wide fireplace
the crane and the hooks and trammels hanging upon it showed that the
bedroom and sitting-room was the kitchen too. Most of the floor was
covered with a thick rag carpet; where the boards could be seen they
were beautifully clean and white, and everything else in the room in
this respect matched with the boards. The panes of glass in the little
windows were clean and bright as panes of glass could be made; the
hearth was clean swept up; the cupboard doors were unstained and
unsoiled, though fingers had worn the paint off; dust was nowhere. On a
little stand by the chimney corner lay a large Bible and another book,
close beside stood a cushioned arm-chair. Some other apartment there
probably was where wood and stores were kept; nothing was to be seen
here that did not agree with a very comfortable face of the whole. It
looked as if one might be happy there; it looked as if somebody _was_
happy there; and a glance at the old lady of the house would not alter
the opinion. Many a glance Ellen gave her as she sat talking with Alice;
and with every one she felt more and more drawn towards her. She was
somewhat under the common size, and rather stout; her countenance most
agreeable; there was sense, character, sweetness in it. Some wrinkles no
doubt were there too; lines deep-marked that spoke of sorrows once
known. Those storms had all passed away; the last shadow of a cloud had
departed; her evening sun was shining clear and bright towards the
setting; and her brow was beautifully placid, not as though it never had
been, but as if it never could be ruffled again. Respect no one could
help feeling for her; and more than respect one felt would grow with
acquaintance. Her dress was very odd, Ellen thought. It was not
American, and what it was she did not know, but supposed Mrs. Vawse must
have a lingering fancy for the costume as well as for the roofs of her
fatherland. More than all her eye turned again and again to the face,
which seemed to her in its changing expression winning and pleasant
exceedingly. The mouth had not forgotten to smile, nor the eye to laugh;
and though this was not often seen, the constant play of feature showed
a deep and lively sympathy in all Alice was saying, and held Ellen's
charmed gaze; and when the old lady's looks and words were at length
turned to herself she blushed to think how long she had been looking
steadily at a stranger.

"Little Miss Ellen, how do you like my house on the rock here?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen; "I like it very much, only I don't
think I should like it so well in winter."

"I am not certain that I don't like it then best of all. Why would you
not like it in winter?"

"I shouldn't like the cold, ma'am, and to be alone."

"I like to be alone: but cold? I am in no danger of freezing, Miss
Ellen. I make myself very warm--keep good fires--and my house is too
strong for the wind to blow it away. Don't you want to go out and see my
cow? I have one of the best cows that ever you saw; her name is Snow;
there is not a black hair upon her; she is all white. Come, Miss Alice;
Mr. Marshman sent her to me a month ago; she's a great treasure, and
worth looking at."

They went across the yard to the tiny barn or outhouse, where they found
Snow nicely cared for. She was in a warm stable, a nice bedding of straw
upon the floor, and plenty of hay laid up for her. Snow deserved it, for
she was a beauty, and a very well-behaved cow, letting Alice and Ellen
stroke her and pat her and feel of her thick hide, with the most perfect
placidity. Mrs. Vawse meanwhile went to the door to look out.

"Nancy ought to be home to milk her," she said; "I must give you supper
and send you off. I've no feeling nor smell if snow isn't thick in the
air somewhere; we shall see it here soon."

"I'll milk her," said Alice.

"I'll milk her!" said Ellen; "I'll milk her! Ah, do let me; I know how
to milk; Mr. Van Brunt taught me, and I have done it several times. May
I? I should like it dearly."

"You shall do it surely, my child," said Mrs. Vawse. "Come with me, and
I'll give you the pail and the milking-stool."

When Alice and Ellen came in with the milk they found the kettle on, the
little table set, and Mrs. Vawse very busy at another table.

"What are you doing, Mrs. Vawse, may I ask?" said Alice.

"I'm just stirring up some Indian meal for you; I find I have not but a
crust left."

"Please to put that away, ma'am, for another time. Do you think I didn't
know better than to come up to this mountain-top without bringing along
something to live upon while I am here? Here's a basket, ma'am, and in
it are divers things; I believe Margery and I between us have packed up
enough for two or three suppers, to say nothing of Miss Fortune's pie.
There it is--sure to be good, you know; and here are some of my cakes
that you like so much, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, as she went on pulling
the things out of the basket; "there is a bowl of butter--that's not
wanted, I see--and here is a loaf of bread; and that's all. Ellen, my
dear, this basket will be lighter to carry down than it was to bring
up."

"I am glad of it, I am sure," said Ellen; "my arm hasn't done aching
yet, though I had it so little while."

"Ah, I am glad to hear that kettle singing," said their hostess. "I can
give you good tea, Miss Alice; you'll think so, I know, for it's the
same Mr. John sent me. It is very fine tea; and he sent me a noble
supply, like himself," continued Mrs. Vawse, taking some out of her
little caddy. "I ought not to say I have no friends left; I cannot eat a
meal that I am not reminded of two good ones. Mr. John knew one of my
weak points when he sent me that box of Souchong."

The supper was ready, and the little party gathered round the table. The
tea did credit to the judgment of the giver and the skill of the maker,
but they were no critics that drank it. Alice and Ellen were much too
hungry and too happy to be particular. Miss Fortune's pumpkin pie was
declared to be very fine, and so were Mrs. Vawse's cheese and butter.
Eating and talking went on with great spirit, their old friend seeming
scarce less pleased or less lively than themselves. Alice proposed the
French plan, and Mrs. Vawse entered into it very frankly; it was easy to
see that the style of building and of dress to which she had been
accustomed in early life were not the only things remembered kindly for
old time's sake. It was settled they should meet as frequently as might
be, either here or at the parsonage, and become good Frenchwomen with
all convenient speed.

"Will you wish to walk so far to see me again, little Miss Ellen?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!"

"You won't fear the deep snow, and the wind and cold, and the steep
hill?"

"Oh no, ma'am, I won't mind them a bit; but, ma'am, Miss Alice told me
to ask you why you loved better to live up here than down where it is
warmer. I shouldn't ask if she hadn't said I might."

"Ellen has a great fancy for getting at the reason of everything, Mrs.
Vawse," said Alice, smiling.

"You wonder anybody should choose it, don't you, Miss Ellen?" said the
old lady.

"Yes, ma'am, a little."

"I'll tell you the reason, my child. It is for the love of my old home
and the memory of my young days. Till I was as old as you are, and a
little older, I lived among the mountains and upon them; and after that
for many a year they were just before my eyes every day, stretching away
for more than _one_ hundred miles, and piled up one above another, fifty
times as big as any you ever saw; these are only molehills to them. I
loved them--oh, how I love them still! If I have one unsatisfied wish,"
said the old lady, turning to Alice, "it is to see my Alps again; but
that will never be. Now, Miss Ellen, it is not that I fancy, when I get
to the top of this hill, that I am among my own mountains, but I can
breathe better here than down in the plain. I feel more free; and in the
village I would not live for gold, unless that duty bade me."

"But all alone, so far from everybody?" said Ellen.

"I am never lonely; and, old as I am, I don't mind a long walk or a
rough road any more than your young feet do."

"But isn't it very cold?" said Ellen.

"Yes, it is very cold; what of that? I make a good blazing fire, and
then I like to hear the wind whistle."

"Yes, but you wouldn't like to have it whistling inside as well as out,"
said Alice. "I will come and do the listing and caulking for you in a
day or two. Oh, you have it done without me. I am sorry."

"No need to be sorry, dear; I am glad--you don't look fit for any
troublesome jobs."

"I am fit enough," said Alice. "Don't put up the curtains; I'll come and
do it."

"You must come with a stronger face, then," said her old friend; "have
you wearied yourself with walking all this way?"

"I was a little weary," said Alice, "but your nice tea has made me up
again."

"I wish I could keep you all night," said Mrs. Vawse, looking out, "but
your father would be uneasy. I am afraid the storm will catch you before
you get home; and you aren't fit to breast it. Little Ellen, too, don't
look as if she was made of iron. Can't you stay with me?"

"I must not--it wouldn't do," said Alice, who was hastily putting on her
things; "we'll soon run down the hill. But we are leaving you alone.
Where's Nancy?"

"She'll not come if there's a promise of a storm," said Mrs. Vawse; "she
often stays out all night."

"And leaves you alone!"

"I am never alone," said the old lady quietly; "I have nothing to fear;
but I am uneasy about you, dear. Mind my words; don't try to go back the
way you came; take the other road; it's easier; and stop when you get to
Mrs. Van Brunt's; Mr. Van Brunt will take you the rest of the way in his
little waggon."

"Do you think it is needful?" said Alice doubtfully.

"I am sure it is best. Hasten down. Adieu, mon enfant."

They kissed and embraced her and hurried out.




CHAPTER XIX

          November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough;
          The shortening winter day is near a close.

                                                  --BURNS.


The clouds hung thick and low; the wind was less than it had been. They
took the path Mrs. Vawse had spoken of; it was broader and easier than
the other, winding more gently down the mountain; it was sometimes,
indeed, travelled by horses, though far too steep for any kind of
carriage. Alice and Ellen ran along without giving much heed to anything
but their footing, down, down, running and bounding, hand in hand, till
want of breath obliged them to slacken their pace.

"Do you think it will snow?--soon?" asked Ellen.

"I think it will snow, how soon I cannot tell. Have you had a pleasant
afternoon?"

"Oh, very."

"I always have when I go there. Now, Ellen, there is an example of
contentment for you. If ever a woman loved husband and children and
friends Mrs. Vawse loved hers; I know this from those who knew her long
ago; and now look at her. Of them all she has none left but the orphan
daughter of her youngest son, and you know a little what sort of a child
that is."

"She must be a very bad girl," said Ellen; "you can't think what stories
she told me about her grandmother."

"Poor Nancy," said Alice. "Mrs. Vawse has no money nor property of any
kind, except what is in her house; but there is not a more independent
woman breathing. She does all sorts of things to support herself. Now,
for instance, Ellen, if anybody is sick within ten miles round, the
family are too happy to get Mrs. Vawse for a nurse. She is an admirable
one. Then she goes out tailoring at the farmers' houses; she brings home
wool and returns it spun into yarn; she brings home yarn and knits it up
into stockings and socks; all sorts of odd jobs. I have seen her picking
hops; she isn't above doing anything, and yet she never forgets her own
dignity. I think wherever she goes and whatever she is about she is at
all times one of the most truly ladylike persons I have ever seen. And
everybody respects her; everybody likes to gain her goodwill; she is
known all over the country; and all the country are her friends."

"They pay her for doing these things, don't they?"

"Certainly; not often in money; more commonly in various kinds of
matters that she wants--flour, and sugar, and Indian meal, and pork, and
ham, and vegetables, and wool--anything; it is but a little of each that
she wants. She has friends that would not permit her to earn another
sixpence it they could help it, but she likes better to live as she
does. And she is always as you saw her to-day--cheerful and happy as a
little girl."

Ellen was turning over Alice's last words and thinking that little girls
were not _always_ the cheerfullest and happiest creatures in the world,
when Alice suddenly exclaimed, "It is snowing! Come, Ellen, we must make
haste now!" and set off at a quickened pace. Quick as they might, they
had gone not a hundred yards when the whole air was filled with the
falling flakes, and the wind which had lulled for a little now rose with
greater violence and swept round the mountain furiously. The storm had
come in good earnest, and promised to be no trifling one. Alice and
Ellen ran on, holding each other's hands and strengthening themselves
against the blast, but their journey became every moment more difficult.
The air was dark with the thick-falling snow; the wind seemed to blow in
every direction by turns, but chiefly against them, blinding their eyes
with the snow, and making it necessary to use no small effort to keep on
their way. Ellen hardly knew where she went, but allowed herself to be
pulled along by Alice, or as well pulled _her_ along; it was hard to say
which hurried most. In the midst of this dashing on down the hill Alice
all at once came to a sudden stop.

"Where's the Captain?" said she.

"I don't know," said Ellen. "I haven't thought of him since we left Mrs.
Vawse's."

Alice turned her back to the wind and looked up the road they had
come--there was nothing but wind and snow there; how furiously it blew!
Alice called, "Pussy!"

"Shall we walk up the road a little way, or shall we stand and wait for
him here?" said Ellen, trembling half from exertion and half from a
vague fear of she knew not what.

Alice called again;--no answer, but a wild gust of wind and snow that
drove past.

"I can't go on and leave him," said Alice; "he might perish in the
storm." And she began to walk slowly back, calling at intervals,
"Pussy!--kitty!--pussy!"--and listening for an answer that came not.
Ellen was very unwilling to tarry, and nowise inclined to prolong their
journey by going backwards. She thought the storm grew darker and wilder
every moment.

"Perhaps Captain stayed up at Mrs. Vawse's," she said, "and, didn't
follow us down."

"No," said Alice, "I am sure he did. Hark!--wasn't that he?"

"I don't hear anything," said Ellen, after a pause of anxious listening.

Alice went a few steps further.

"I hear him!" she said; "I hear him! poor kitty!"--and she set off at a
quick pace up the hill. Ellen followed, but presently a burst of wind
and snow brought them both to a stand. Alice faltered a little at this,
in doubt whether to go up or down. But then to their great joy Captain's
far-off cry was heard, and both Alice and Ellen strained their voices to
cheer and direct him. In a few minutes he came in sight, trotting
hurriedly along through the snow, and on reaching his mistress he sat
down immediately on the ground without offering any caress; a sure sign
that he was tired. Alice stooped down and took him up in her arms.

"Poor Kitty!" she said, "you've done your part for to-day, I think; I'll
do the rest. Ellen, dear, it's of no use to tire ourselves out at once;
we will go moderately. Keep hold of my cloak, my child; it takes both of
my arms to hold this big cat. Now, never mind the snow; we can bear
being blown about a little. Are you very tired?"

"No," said Ellen, "not very; I am a little tired; but I don't care for
that if we can only get home safe."

"There's no difficulty about that, I hope. Nay, there may be some
_difficulty_, but we shall get there I think in good safety after a
while. I wish we were there now, for your sake, my child."

"Oh, never mind me," said Ellen gratefully; "I am sorry for _you_, Miss
Alice; you have the hardest time of it with that heavy load to carry; I
wish I could help you."

"Thank you, my dear, but nobody could do that; I doubt if Captain would
lie in any arms but mine."

"Let me carry the basket, then," said Ellen; "do, Miss Alice."

"No, my dear, it hangs very well on my arm. Take it gently; Mrs. Van
Brunt's isn't very far off; we shall feel the wind less when we turn."

But the road seemed long. The storm did not increase in violence, truly
there was no need of that, but the looked-for turning was not soon
found, and the gathering darkness warned them day was drawing towards a
close. As they neared the bottom of the hill Alice made a pause.

"There's a path that turns off from this and makes a shorter cut to Mrs.
Van Brunt's, but it must be above here; I must have missed it, though I
have been on the watch constantly."

She looked up and down. It would have been a sharp eye indeed that had
detected any slight opening in the woods on either side of the path,
which the driving snowstorm blended into one continuous wall of trees.
They could be seen stretching darkly before and behind them; but more
than that--where they stood near together and where scattered apart--was
all confusion, through that fast-falling shower of flakes.

"Shall we go back and look for the path?" said Ellen.

"I am afraid we shouldn't find it if we did," said Alice; "we should
only lose our time, and we have none to lose. I think we had better go
straight forward."

"Is it much further this way than the other path we have missed?"

"A good deal--all of half a mile. I am sorry; but courage, my child! we
shall know better than to go out in snowy weather next time--on long
expeditions at least."

They had to shout to make each other hear, so drove the snow and wind
through the trees and into their very faces and ears. They plodded on.
It was plodding; the snow lay thick enough now to make their footing
uneasy, and grew deeper every moment; their shoes were full; their feet
and ankles were wet, and their steps began to drag heavily over the
ground. Ellen clung as close to Alice's cloak as their hurried
travelling would permit; sometimes one of Alice's hands was loosened for
a moment to be passed round Ellen's shoulders, and a word of courage or
comfort in the clear calm tone cheered her to renewed exertion. The
night fell fast; it was very darkling by the time they reached the
bottom of the hill, and the road did not yet allow them to turn their
faces towards Mrs. Van Brunt's. A wearisome piece of the way this was,
leading them _from_ the place they wished to reach. They could not go
fast either; they were too weary, and the walking too heavy. Captain had
the best of it; snug and quiet he lay wrapped in Alice's cloak and fast
asleep, little wotting how tired his mistress's arms were.

The path at length brought them to the long-desired turning; but it was
by this time so dark that the fences on each side of the road showed but
dimly. They had not spoken for a while; as they turned the corner a sigh
of mingled weariness and satisfaction escaped from Ellen's lips. It
reached Alice's ear.

"What's the matter, love?" said the sweet voice. No trace of weariness
was allowed to come into it.

"I am so glad we have got here at last," said Ellen, looking up with
another sigh, and removing her hand for an instant from its grasp on the
cloak to Alice's arm.

"My poor child! I wish I could carry you too. Can you hold on a little
longer?"

"Oh yes, dear Miss Alice, I can hold on."

But Ellen's voice was not so well guarded. It was like her steps, a
little unsteady. She presently spoke again.

"Miss Alice--are you afraid?"

"I am afraid of your getting sick, my child, and a little afraid of it
for myself;--of nothing else. What is there to be afraid of?"

"It is very dark," said Ellen; "and the storm is so thick--do you think
you can find the way?"

"I know it perfectly; it is nothing but to keep straight on; and the
fences would prevent us from getting out of the road. It is hard
walking, I know, but we shall get there by-and-by; bear up as well as
you can, dear. I am sorry I can give you no help but words. Don't you
think a nice bright fire will look comfortable after all this?"

"Oh dear, yes!" answered Ellen rather sadly.

"Are _you_ afraid, Ellen?"

"No, Miss Alice--not much--I don't like it's being so dark, I can't see
where I am going."

"The darkness makes our way longer and more tedious; it will do us no
other harm, love. I wish I had a hand to give you, but this great cat
must have both of mine. The darkness and the light are both alike to our
Father; we are in His hands; we are safe enough, dear Ellen."

Ellen's hand left the cloak again for an instant to press Alice's arm in
answer; her voice failed at the minute. Then clinging anew as close to
her side as she could get, they toiled patiently on. The wind had
somewhat lessened of its violence, and besides it blew not now in their
faces, but against their backs, helping them on. Still the snow
continued to fall very fast, and already lay thick upon the ground;
every half-hour increased the heaviness and painfulness of their march;
and darkness gathered till the very fences could no longer be seen. It
was pitch dark; to hold the middle of the road was impossible; their
only way was to keep along by one of the fences; and for fear of hurting
themselves against some outstanding post or stone it was necessary to
travel quite gently. They were indeed in no condition to travel
otherwise if light had not been wanting. Slowly and patiently, with
painful care groping their way, they pushed on through the snow and the
thick night. Alice could _feel_ the earnestness of Ellen's grasp upon
her clothes; and her close pressing up to her made their progress still
slower and more difficult than it would otherwise have been.

"Miss Alice," said Ellen.

"What, my child?"

"I wish you would speak to me once in a while."

Alice freed one of her hands and took hold of Ellen's.

"I have been so busy picking my way along, I have neglected you, haven't
I?"

"Oh no, ma'am. But I like to hear the sound of your voice sometimes, it
makes me feel better."

"This is an odd kind of travelling, isn't it?" said Alice cheerfully;
"in the dark, and feeling our way along? This will be quite an adventure
to talk about, won't it?"

"Quite," said Ellen.

"It is easier going this way, don't you find it so? The wind helps us
forward."

"It helps me too much," said Ellen; "I wish it wouldn't be quite so very
kind. Why, Miss Alice, I have enough to do to hold myself together
sometimes. It almost makes me run, though I am so very tired."

"Well, it is better than having it in our faces, at any rate. Tired you
are, I know, and must be. We shall want to rest all day to-morrow,
shan't we?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Ellen, sighing; "I shall be glad when we begin.
How long do you think it will be, Miss Alice, before we get to Mrs. Van
Brunt's?"

"My dear child, I cannot tell you. I have not the least notion
whereabouts we are. I can see no waymarks, and I cannot judge at all of
the rate at which we have come."

"But what if we should have passed it in this darkness?" said Ellen.

"No, I don't think that," said Alice, though a cold doubt struck her
mind at Ellen's words; "I think we shall see the glimmer of Mrs. Van
Brunt's family candle by-and-by."

But more uneasily and more keenly now she strove to see that glimmer
through the darkness; strove till the darkness seemed to press painfully
upon her eyeballs, and she almost doubted her being able to see any
light, if light there were; it was all blank, thick darkness still. She
began to question anxiously with herself which side of the house was
Mrs. Van Brunt's ordinary sitting-room--whether she should see the light
from it before or after passing the house; and now her glance was
directed often behind her, that they might be sure in any case of not
missing their desired haven. In vain she looked forward or back; it was
all one; no cheering glimmer of lamp or candle greeted her straining
eyes. Hurriedly now from time to time the comforting words were spoken
to Ellen, for to pursue the long stretch of way that led onward from
Mr. Van Brunt's to Miss Fortune's would be a very serious matter; Alice
wanted comfort herself.

"Shall we get there soon, do you think, Miss Alice?" said poor Ellen,
whose wearied feet carried her painfully over the deepening snow. The
tone of voice went to Alice's heart.

"I don't know, my darling; I hope so," she answered; but it was spoken
rather patiently than cheerfully. "Fear nothing, dear Ellen; remember
Who has the care of us; darkness and light are both alike to Him!
nothing will do us any real harm."

"How tired you must be, dear Miss Alice, carrying pussy!" Ellen said
with a sigh.

For the first time Alice echoed the sigh; but almost immediately Ellen
exclaimed in a totally different tone, "There's a light! but it isn't a
candle, it is moving about. What is it? What is it, Miss Alice?"

They stopped and looked. A light there certainly was, dimly seen, moving
at some little distance from the fence on the opposite side of the road.
All of a sudden it disappeared.

"What is it?" whispered Ellen fearfully.

"I don't know, my love, yet; wait----"

They waited several minutes.

"What could it be?" said Ellen. "It was certainly a light; I saw it as
plainly as ever I saw anything. What can it have done with itself? There
it is again! going the other way!"

Alice waited no longer, but screamed out, "Who's there?"

But the light paid no attention to her cry; it travelled on.

"Halloo!" called Alice again, as loud as she could.

"Halloo!" answered a rough, deep voice. The light suddenly stopped.

"That's he! that's he!" exclaimed Ellen, in an ecstasy, and almost
dancing. "I know it; it's Mr. Van Brunt! it's Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, Miss
Alice----!"

Struggling between crying and laughing, Ellen could not stand it, but
gave way to a good fit of crying. Alice felt the infection, but
controlled herself, though her eyes watered as her heart sent up its
grateful tribute; as well as she could, she answered the halloo.

The light was seen advancing towards them. Presently it glimmered
faintly behind the fence, showing a bit of the dark rails covered with
snow, and they could dimly see the figure of a man getting over them. He
crossed the road to where they stood. It was Mr. Van Brunt.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Van Brunt," said Alice's sweet voice,
but it trembled a little.

That gentleman, at first dumb with astonishment, lifted his lantern to
survey them, and assure his eyes that his ears had not been mistaken.

"Miss Alice!--My goodness alive!--How in the name of wonder!--And my
poor little lamb!--But what on 'arth, ma'am! you must be half dead. Come
this way; just come back a little bit. Why, where were you going,
ma'am?"

"To your house, Mr. Van Brunt; I have been looking for it with no little
anxiety, I assure you."

"Looking for it! Why, how on 'arth! you wouldn't see the biggest house
ever was built half a yard off such a plaguy night as this."

"I thought I should see the light from the windows, Mr. Van Brunt."

"The light from the windows! Bless my soul! the storm rattled so again
the windows that mother made me pull the great shutters to. I won't have
'em shut again of a stormy night, that's a fact; you'd ha' gone far
enough afore you'd ha' seen the light through them shutters."

"Then we had passed the house already, hadn't we?"

"Indeed had you, ma'am. I guess you saw my light, ha'n't you?"

"Yes, and glad enough we were to see it, too."

"I suppose so. It happened so to-night--now that is a queer thing--I
minded that I hadn't untied my horse. He's a trick of being untied at
night, and won't sleep well if he ain't; and mother wanted me to let him
alone 'cause of the awful storm, but I couldn't go to my bed in peace
till I had seen him to his'n. So that's how my lantern came to be going
to the barn in such an awk'ard night as this."

They had reached the little gate, and Mr. Van Brunt with some difficulty
pulled it open. The snow lay thick upon the neat brick walk which Ellen
had trod the first time with wet feet and dripping garments. A few steps
farther and they came to the same door that had opened then so
hospitably to receive her. As the faint light of the lantern was thrown
upon the old latch and door-posts, Ellen felt at home, and a sense of
comfort sank down into her heart which she had not known for some time.




CHAPTER XX

          True is, that whilome that good poet said,
          The gentle minde by gentle deeds is knowne:
          For a man by nothing is so well bewrayed
          As by his manners, in which plaine is showne
          Of what degree and what race he is growne.

                                                  --FAERIE QUEENE.


Mr. Van Brunt flung open the door, and the two wet and weary travellers
stepped after him into the same cheerful, comfortable-looking kitchen
that had received Ellen once before. Just the same--tidy, clean-swept
up, a good fire, and the same old red-backed chairs standing round on
the hearth in most cosy fashion. It seemed to Ellen a perfect storehouse
of comfort; the very walls had a kind face for her. There were no other
faces, however; the chairs were all empty. Mr. Van Brunt put Alice in
one and Ellen in another, and shouted, "Mother! here!" muttering that
she had taken herself off with the light somewhere. Not very far; for in
half a minute, answering the call, Mrs. Van Brunt and the light came
hurriedly in.

"What's the matter, 'Brahm? who's this? why, 'taint Miss Alice! My
gracious me! and all wet! oh dear, dear! poor lamb! Why, Miss Alice,
dear, where have you been?--and if that ain't my little Ellen! oh dear!
what a fix you are in;--well, darling, I'm glad to see you again, a'most
any way."

She crossed over to kiss Ellen as she said this; but surprise was not
more quickly alive than kindness and hospitality. She fell to work
immediately to remove Alice's wet things, and to do whatever their joint
prudence and experience might suggest to ward off any ill effects from
the fatigue and exposure the wanderers had suffered; and while she was
thus employed, Mr. Van Brunt busied himself with Ellen, who was really
in no condition to help herself. It was curious to see him carefully
taking off Ellen's wet hood (not the blue one), and knocking it gently
to get rid of the snow; evidently thinking that ladies' things must have
delicate handling. He tried the cloak next, but boggled sadly at the
fastening of that, and at last was fain to call in help.

"Here, Nancy! where are you? step here and see if you can undo this here
thing, whatever you call it; I believe my fingers are too big for it."

It was Ellen's former acquaintance who came forward in obedience to
this call. Ellen had not seen before that she was in the room. Nancy
grinned a mischievous smile of recognition as she stooped to Ellen's
throat, and undid the fastening of the cloak, and then shortly enough
bade her "get up, that she might take it off." Ellen obeyed, but was
very glad to sit down again. While Nancy went to the door to shake the
cloak, Mr. Van Brunt was gently pulling off Ellen's wet gloves, and on
Nancy's return, he directed her to take off the shoes, which were filled
with snow. Nancy sat down on the floor before Ellen to obey this order;
and, tired and exhausted as she was, Ellen felt the different manner in
which her hands and feet were waited upon.

"How did you get into this scrape?" said Nancy; "_this_ was none of my
doings, anyhow. It'll never be dry weather, Ellen, where you are. I
won't put on my Sunday go-to-meeting clothes when I go a-walking with
you. You had ought to ha' been a duck or a goose, or something like
that. What's that for, Mr. Van Brunt?"

This last query, pretty sharply spoken, was in answer to a light touch
of that gentleman's hand upon Miss Nancy's ear, which came rather as a
surprise. He deigned no reply.

"You're a fine gentleman!" said Nancy tartly.

"Have you done what I gave you to do?" said Mr. Van Brunt coolly.

"Yes--there!" said Nancy, holding up Ellen's bare feet on one hand,
while the fingers of the other, secretly applied in ticklish fashion to
the soles of them, caused Ellen suddenly to start and scream.

"Get up!" said Mr. Van Brunt; Nancy didn't think best to disobey.
"Mother, ha'n't you got nothing you want Nancy to do?"

"Sally," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "you and Nancy go and fetch here a couple
of pails of hot water, right away."

"Go, and mind what you are about," said Mr. Van Brunt, "and after that
keep out of this room, and don't whisper again till I give you leave.
Now, Miss Ellen, dear, how do you feel?"

Ellen said in words that she felt "nicely." But the eyes and the smile
said a great deal more; Ellen's heart was running over.

"Oh, she'll feel nicely, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Van Brunt; "wait till
she gets her feet soaked, and then----!"

"I do feel nicely now," said Ellen. And Alice smiled in answer to their
inquiries, and said if she only knew her father was easy there would be
nothing wanting to her happiness.

The bathing of their feet was a great refreshment, and their kind
hostess had got ready a plentiful supply of hot herb tea, with which
both Alice and Ellen were well dosed. While they sat sipping this,
toasting their feet before the fire, Mrs. Van Brunt and the girls
meanwhile preparing their room, Mr. Van Brunt suddenly entered. He was
cloaked and hatted, and had a riding whip in his hand.

"Is there any word you'd like to get home, Miss Alice? I'm going to ride
a good piece that way, and I can stop as good as not."

"To-night, Mr. Van Brunt!" exclaimed Alice in astonishment.

Mr. Van Brunt's silence seemed to say that to-night was the time and no
other.

"But the storm is too bad," urged Alice. "Pray don't go till to-morrow."

"Pray don't, Mr. Van Brunt!" said Ellen.

"Can't help it--I've got business; must go. What shall I say, ma'am?"

"I should be _very_ glad," said Alice, "to have my father know where I
am. Are you going very near the Nose?"

"Very near."

"Then I shall be greatly obliged if you will be so kind as to stop and
relieve my father's anxiety. But how can you go in such weather? and so
dark as it is."

"Never fear," said Mr. Van Brunt. "We'll be back in half-an-hour, if
'Brahm and me don't come across a snow-drift a _leetle_ too deep.
Good-night, ma'am." And out he went.

"'Back in half-an-hour,'" said Alice, musing. "Why, he said he had been
to untie his horse for the night! He must be going on our account, I am
sure, Ellen!"

"On _your_ account," said Ellen, smiling. "Oh, I knew that all the time,
Miss Alice. I don't think he'll stop to relieve Aunt Fortune's anxiety."

Alice sprang to call him back, but Mrs. Van Brunt assured her it was too
late, and that she need not be uneasy, for her son "didn't mind the
storm no more than a weather-board." 'Brahm and 'Brahm could go anywhere
in any sort of a time. "He was agoing without speaking to you, but I
told him he had better, for maybe you wanted to send some word
particular. And your room's ready now, dear, and you'd better go to bed
and sleep as long as you can."

They went thankfully. "Isn't this a pleasant room?" said Ellen, who saw
everything in rose-colour; "and a nice bed. But I feel as if I could
sleep on the floor to-night. Isn't it a'most worth while to have such a
time, Miss Alice, for the sake of the pleasure afterwards?"

"I don't know, Ellen," said Alice, smiling; "I won't say that; though it
is worth paying a price for to find how much kindness there is in some
people's hearts. As to sleeping on the floor, I must say I never felt
less inclined to it."

"Well, I am tired enough too," said Ellen, as they laid themselves down.
"Two nights with you in a week! Oh those weeks before I saw you, Miss
Alice!"

One earnest kiss for good night; and Ellen's sigh of pleasure on
touching the pillow was scarcely breathed when sleep deep and sound fell
upon her eyelids.

It was very late next morning when they awoke, having slept rather
heavily than well. They crawled out of bed feeling stiff and sore in
every limb; each confessing to more evil effects from their adventure
than she had been aware of the evening before. All the rubbing and
bathing and drinking that Mrs. Van Brunt had administered had been too
little to undo what wet and cold and fatigue had done. But Mrs. Van
Brunt had set her breakfast-table with everything her house could
furnish that was nice; a bountifully-spread board it was. Mr. Humphreys
was there too; and no bad feelings of two of the party could prevent
that from being a most cheerful and pleasant meal. Even Mr Humphreys and
Mr. Van Brunt, two persons not usually given to many words, came out
wonderfully on this occasion; gratitude and pleasure in the one, and
generous feeling on the part of the other, untied their tongues; and
Ellen looked from one to the other in some amazement to see how
agreeable they could be. Kindness and hospitality always kept Mrs. Van
Brunt in full flow; and Alice, whatever she felt, exerted herself, and
supplied what was wanting everywhere; like the transparent glazing which
painters use to spread over the dead colour of their pictures; unknown,
it was she gave her life and harmony to the whole. And Ellen in her
enjoyment of everything and everybody, forgot or despised aches and
pains, and even whispered to Alice that coffee was making her well
again.

But happily breakfasts must come to an end, and so did this, prolonged
though it was. Immediately after, the party, whom circumstances had
gathered for the first and probably the last time, scattered again; but
the meeting had left pleasant effects on all minds. Mrs. Van Brunt was
in general delight that she had entertained so many people she thought a
great deal of, and particularly glad of the chance of showing her kind
feelings towards two of the number. Mr. Humphreys remarked upon "that
very sensible, good-hearted man, Mr. Van Brunt, towards whom he felt
himself under great obligation." Mr. Van Brunt said, "the minister
warn't such a grum man as people called him;" and moreover said, "it was
a good thing to have an education, and he had a notion to read more." As
for Alice and Ellen, they went away full of kind feeling for every one,
and much love to each other. This was true of them before; but their
late troubles had drawn them closer together and given them fresh
occasion to value their friends.

Mr. Humphreys had brought the little one-horse sleigh for his daughter,
and soon after breakfast Ellen saw it drive off with her. Mr. Van Brunt
then harnessed his own and carried Ellen home. Ill though she felt, the
poor child made an effort and spent part of the morning in finishing the
long letter to her mother which had been on the stocks since Monday. The
effort became painful towards the last; and the aching limbs and
trembling hand of which she complained were the first beginnings of a
serious fit of illness. She went to bed that same afternoon, and did not
leave it again for two weeks. Cold had taken violent hold of her system;
fever set in and ran high; and half the time little Ellen's wits were
roving in delirium. Nothing however could be too much for Miss Fortune's
energies; she was as much at home in a sick room as in a well one. She
flew about with increased agility; was upstairs and downstairs twenty
times in the course of the day, and kept all straight everywhere.
Ellen's room was always the picture of neatness; the fire, the
wood-fire, was taken care of; Miss Fortune seemed to know by instinct
when it wanted a fresh supply, and to be on the spot by magic to give
it. Ellen's medicines were dealt out in proper time; her gruels and
drinks perfectly well made and arranged with appetising nicety on a
little table by the bedside where she could reach them herself; and Miss
Fortune was generally at hand when she was wanted. But in spite of all
this there was something missing in that sick room--there was a great
want; and whenever the delirium was upon her Ellen made no secret of it.
She was never violent; but she moaned, sometimes impatiently and
sometimes plaintively, for her mother. It was a vexation to Miss Fortune
to hear her. The name of her mother was all the time on her lips; if by
chance her aunt's name came in, it was spoken in a way that generally
sent her bouncing out of the room.

"Mamma," poor Ellen would say, "just lay your hand on my forehead, will
you? it's so hot. Oh do, mamma!--where are you? Do put your hand on my
forehead, won't you? Oh, do speak to me, why don't you, mamma? Oh, why
don't she come to me?"

Once when Ellen was uneasily calling in this fashion for her mother's
hand, Miss Fortune softly laid her own upon the child's brow; but the
quick sudden jerk of the head from under it told her how well Ellen knew
the one from the other; and little as she cared for Ellen it was
wormwood to her.

Miss Fortune was not without offers of help during this sick time. Mrs.
Van Brunt, and afterwards Mrs. Vawse, asked leave to come and nurse
Ellen; but Miss Fortune declared it was more plague than profit to her,
and she couldn't be bothered with having strangers about. Mrs. Van Brunt
she suffered much against her will to come for a day or two; at the end
of that Miss Fortune found means to get rid of her civilly. Mrs. Vawse
she would not allow to stay an hour. The old lady got leave however to
go up to the sick-room for a few minutes. Ellen, who was then in a high
fever, informed her that her mother was downstairs, and her Aunt Fortune
would not let her come up; she pleaded with tears that she might come,
and entreated Mrs. Vawse to take her aunt away and send her mother. Mrs.
Vawse tried to soothe her. Miss Fortune grew impatient.

"What on earth's the use," said she, "of talking to a child that's out
of her head? She can't hear reason; that's the way she gets into
whenever the fever's on her. I have the pleasure of hearing that sort of
thing all the time. Come away, Mrs. Vawse, and leave her; she can't be
better any way than alone, and I am in the room every other thing; she's
just as well quiet. Nobody knows," said Miss Fortune, on her way
downstairs, "nobody knows the blessing of taking care of other people's
children that ha'n't tried it. _I've_ tried it, to my heart's content."

Mrs. Vawse sighed, but departed in silence.

It was not when the fever was on her and delirium high that Ellen most
felt the want she then so pitifully made known. There were other times,
when her head was aching, and weary and weak she lay still there, oh,
how she longed then for the dear wonted face; the old quiet smile that
carried so much of comfort and assurance with it; the voice that was
like heaven's music; the touch of that loved hand to which she had clung
for so many years! She could scarcely bear to think of it sometimes. In
the still wakeful hours of night, when the only sound to be heard was
the heavy breathing of her aunt asleep on the floor by her side, and in
the long solitary day, when the only variety to be looked for was Miss
Fortune's flitting in and out, and there came to be a sameness about
that, Ellen mourned her loss bitterly. Many and many were the silent
tears that rolled down and wet her pillow; many a long-drawn sigh came
from the very bottom of Ellen's heart; she was too weak and subdued now
for violent weeping. She wondered sadly why Alice did not come to see
her; it was another great grief added to the former. She never chose,
however, to mention her name to her aunt. She kept her wonder and her
sorrow to herself--all the harder to bear for that. After two weeks
Ellen began to mend, and then she became exceeding weary of being alone
and shut up to her room. It was a pleasure to have her Bible and
hymn-book lying upon the bed, and a great comfort when she was able to
look at a few words; but that was not very often, and she longed to see
somebody and hear something besides her aunt's dry questions and
answers.

One afternoon Ellen was sitting, alone as usual, bolstered up in bed.
Her little hymn-book was clasped in her hand; though not equal to
reading, she felt the touch of it a solace. Half dozing, half waking,
she had been perfectly quiet for some time, when the sudden and not very
gentle opening of the room door caused her to start and open her eyes.
They opened wider than usual, for instead of her Aunt Fortune it was the
figure of Miss Nancy Vawse that presented itself. She came in briskly,
and shutting the door behind her advanced to the bedside.

"Well," said she, "there you are! Why, you look smart enough. I've come
to see you."

"Have you?" said Ellen uneasily.

"Miss Fortune's gone out, and she told me to come and take care of you;
so I'm going to spend the afternoon."

"Are you?" said Ellen again.

"Yes--ain't you glad? I knew you must be lonely, so I thought I'd come."

There was a mischievous twinkle in Nancy's eyes. Ellen for once in her
life wished for her aunt's presence.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," said Ellen.

"Nothing indeed? It's a fine thing to lie there and do nothing. You
won't get well in a hurry, I guess, will you? You look as well as I do
this minute. Oh, I always knew you was a sham."

"You are very much mistaken," said Ellen indignantly; "I have been very
sick, and I am not at all well yet."

"Fiddle-dee-dee! it's very nice to think so; I guess you're lazy. How
soft and good those pillows do look, to be sure. Come, Ellen, try
getting up a little. _I_ believe you hurt yourself with sleeping. It'll
do you good to be out of bed awhile; come, get up."

She pulled Ellen's arm as she spoke.

"Stop, Nancy, let me alone!" cried Ellen, struggling with all her force;
"I mustn't--I can't! I mustn't get up; what do you mean? I'm not able to
sit up at all; let me go!"

She succeeded in freeing herself from Nancy's grasp.

"Well, you're an obstinate piece," said the other; "have your own way.
But mind, I'm left in charge of you; is it time for you to take your
physic?"

"I am not taking any," said Ellen.

"What are you taking?"

"Nothing but gruel and little things."

"'Gruel and little things;' little things means something good, I
s'pose. Well, is it time for you to take some gruel or one of the little
things?"

"No, I don't want any."

"Oh, that's nothing; people never know what's good for them; I'm your
nurse now, and I'm going to give it to you when I think you want it. Let
me feel your pulse--yes, your pulse says gruel is wanting. I shall put
some down to warm right away."

"I shan't take it," said Ellen.

"That's a likely story! You'd better not say so. I rather s'pose you
will if I give it to you. Look here, Ellen, you'd better mind how you
behave; you're going to do just what I tell you. I know how to manage
you; if you make any fuss I shall just tickle you finely," said Nancy,
as she prepared a bed of coals, and set the cup of gruel on it to get
hot; "I'll do it in no time at all, my young lady, so you'd better
mind."

Poor Ellen involuntarily curled up her feet under the bedclothes so as
to get them as far as possible out of harm's way She judged the best
thing was to keep quiet if she could, so she said nothing. Nancy was in
great glee; with something of the same spirit of mischief that a cat
shows when she has a captured mouse at the end of her paws. While the
gruel was heating she spun round the room in quest of amusement; and her
sudden jerks and flings from one place and thing to another had so much
of lawlessness that Ellen was in perpetual terror as to what she might
take it into her head to do next.

"Where does that door lead to?"

"I believe that one leads to the garret," said Ellen.

"You _believe_ so? why don't you say it does, at once?"

"I haven't been up to see."

"You haven't! you expect me to believe that, I s'pose? I am not quite
such a gull as you take me for. What's up there?"

"I don't know, of course."

"Of course! I declare I don't know what you are up to exactly; but if
you won't tell me I'll find out for myself pretty quick, that's one
thing."

She flung open the door and ran up; and Ellen heard her feet trampling
overhead from one end of the house to the other; and sounds too of
pushing and pulling things over the floor; it was plain Nancy was
rummaging.

"Well," said Ellen, as she turned uneasily upon her bed, "it's no
affair of mine; I can't help it, whatever she does. But oh, won't Aunt
Fortune be angry!"

Nancy presently came down with her frock gathered up into a bag before
her.

"What do you think I have got here?" said she. "I s'pose you didn't know
there was a basket of fine hickory nuts up there in the corner? Was it
you or Miss Fortune that hid them away so nicely? I s'pose she thought
nobody would ever think of looking behind the great blue chest and under
the feather bed, but it takes me! Miss Fortune was afraid of your
stealing 'em I guess, Ellen?"

"She needn't have been," said Ellen indignantly.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't take 'em if you saw 'em; you wouldn't eat
'em if they were cracked for you, would you?"

She flung some on Ellen's bed as she spoke. Nancy had seated herself on
the floor, and using for a hammer a piece of old iron she had brought
down with her from the garret, she was cracking the nuts on the clean
white hearth.

"Indeed I wouldn't!" said Ellen, throwing them back; "and you oughtn't
to crack them there, Nancy; you'll make a dreadful muss."

"What do you think I care?" said the other scornfully. She leisurely
cracked and eat as many as she pleased of the nuts, bestowing the rest
in the bosom of her frock. Ellen watched fearfully for her next move. If
she should open the little door and get among her books and boxes!

Nancy's first care, however, was the cup of gruel. It was found too hot
for any mortal lips to bear, so it was set on one side to cool. Then,
taking up her rambling examination of the room, she went from window to
window.

"What fine big windows! one might get in here easy enough. I declare,
Ellen, some night I'll set the ladder up against here, and the first
thing you'll see will be me coming in. You'll have me to sleep with you
before you think."

"I'll fasten my windows," said Ellen.

"No, you won't. You'll do it a night or two, may be, but then you'll
forget it. I shall find them open when I come. Oh, I'll come!"

"But I could call Aunt Fortune," said Ellen.

"No, you couldn't, 'cause if you spoke a word I'd tickle you to death;
that's what I'd do. I know how to fix you off. And if you did call her
I'd just whap out of the window and run off with my ladder, and then
you'd get a fine combing for disturbing the house. What's in this
trunk?"

"Only my clothes and things," said Ellen.

"Oh goody! that's fine; now I'll have a look at 'em. That's just what I
wanted, only I didn't know it. Where's the key? Oh, here it is sticking
in--that's good!"

"Oh, please don't!" said Ellen, raising herself on her elbows, "they're
all in nice order, and you'll get them all in confusion. Oh, do let them
alone!"

"You'd best be quiet or I'll come and see you," said Nancy; "I'm just
going to look at everything in it, and if I find any thing out of sorts,
you'll get it. What's this? ruffles, I declare! ain't you fine! I'll see
how they look on me. What a plague! you haven't a glass in the room.
Never mind--I am used to dressing without a glass."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," said Ellen, who was worried to the last
degree at seeing her nicely done-up ruffles round Nancy's neck; "they're
so nice, and you'll muss them all up."

"Don't cry about it," said Nancy coolly, "I ain't agoing to eat 'm. My
goodness! what a fine hood! ain't that pretty?"

The nice blue hood was turned about in Nancy's fingers, and well looked
at inside and out. Ellen was in distress for fear it would go on Nancy's
head, as well as the ruffles round her neck; but it didn't; she flung it
at length on one side, and went on pulling out one thing after another,
strewing them very carelessly about the floor.

"What's here? a pair of dirty stockings, as I am alive. Ain't you
ashamed to put dirty stockings in your trunk?"

"They are no such thing," said Ellen, who in her vexation was in danger
of forgetting her fear--"I've worn them but once."

"They've no business in here anyhow," said Nancy, rolling them up in a
hard ball and giving them a sudden fling at Ellen. They just missed her
face and struck the wall beyond. Ellen seized them to throw back, but
her weakness warned her she was not able, and a moment reminded her of
the folly of doing anything to rouse Nancy, who for the present was
pretty quiet. Ellen lay upon her pillow and looked on, ready to cry with
vexation. All her nicely-stowed piles of white clothes were ruthlessly
hurled out and tumbled about; her capes tried on; her summer dresses
unfolded, displayed, criticised. Nancy decided one was too short;
another very ugly; a third horribly ill-made; and when she had done with
each it was cast out of her way on one side or the other as the case
might be.

The floor was littered with clothes in various states of disarrangement
and confusion. The bottom of the trunk was reached at last, and then
Nancy suddenly recollected her gruel, and sprang to it. But it had grown
cold again.

"This won't do," said Nancy, as she put it on the coals again, "it must
be just right; it'll warm soon, and then, Miss Ellen, you're agoing to
take it whether or no. I hope you won't give me the pleasure of pouring
it down."

Meanwhile she opened the little door of Ellen's study closet and went in
there, though Ellen begged her not. She pulled the door to, and stayed
some time perfectly quiet. Not able to see or hear what she was doing,
and fretted beyond measure that her workbox and writing-desk should be
at Nancy's mercy, or even feel the touch of her fingers, Ellen at last
could stand it no longer, but threw herself out of the bed, weak as she
was, and went to see what was going on. Nancy was seated quietly on the
floor, examining with much seeming interest the contents of the workbox,
trying on the thimble, cutting bits of thread with the scissors, and
marking the ends of the spools, with whatever like pieces of mischief
her restless spirit could devise; but when Ellen opened the door she put
the box from her and started up.

"My goodness me!" said she, "this'll never do. What are you out here
for? You'll catch your death with those dear little bare feet, and we
shall have the mischief to pay."

As she said this she caught up Ellen in her arms as if she had been a
baby and carried her back to the bed, where she laid her with two or
three little shakes, and then proceeded to spread up the clothes and
tuck her in all round. She then ran for the gruel. Ellen was in great
question whether to give way to tears or vexation; but with some
difficulty determined upon vexation as the best plan. Nancy prepared the
gruel to her liking, and brought it to the bedside; but to get it
swallowed was another matter. Nancy was resolved Ellen should take it.
Ellen had less strength but quite as much obstinacy as her enemy, and
she was equally resolved not to drink a drop. Between laughing on
Nancy's part and very serious anger on Ellen's a struggle ensued. Nancy
tried to force it down, but Ellen's shut teeth were as firm as a vice,
and the end was that two-thirds were bestowed on the sheet. Ellen burst
into tears; Nancy laughed.

"Well, I _do_ think," said she, "you are one of the hardest customers
ever I came across. I shouldn't want to have the managing of you when
you get a little bigger. Oh, the way Miss Fortune will look when she
comes in here will be a caution! Oh, what fun!"

Nancy shouted and clapped her hands. "Come, stop crying!" said she;
"what a baby you are! What are you crying for? Come, stop. I'll make you
laugh if you don't."

Two or three little applications of Nancy's fingers made her words good,
but laughing was mixed with crying, and Ellen writhed in hysterics.
Just then came a little knock at the door. Ellen did not hear it, but it
quieted Nancy. She stood still a moment, and then as the knock was
repeated she called out boldly, "Come in!" Ellen raised her head "to see
who there might be," and great was the surprise of both and the joy of
one as the tall form and broad shoulders of Mr. Van Brunt presented
themselves.

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," sobbed Ellen, "I am so glad to see you! Won't you
please send Nancy away!"

"What are you doing here?" said the astonished Dutchman.

"Look and see, Mr. Van Brunt," said Nancy, with a smile of mischief's
own curling; "you won't be long finding out, I guess."

"Take yourself off, and don't let me hear of your being caught here
again."

"I'll go when I'm ready, thank you," said Nancy; "and as to the rest I
haven't been caught the first time yet; I don't know what you mean."

She sprang as she finished her sentence, for Mr. Van Brunt made a sudden
movement to catch her then and there. He was foiled, and then began a
running chase round the room, in the course of which Nancy dodged,
pushed, and sprang with the power of squeezing by impassables and
overleaping impossibilities, that, to say the least of it, was
remarkable. The room was too small for her, and she was caught at last.

"I vow," said Mr. Van Brunt, as he pinioned her hands, "I should like to
see you play blind-man's-buff for once, if I waren't the blind man."

"How'd you see me if you was?" said Nancy scornfully.

"Now, Miss Ellen," said Mr. Van Brunt, as he brought her to Ellen's
bedside, "here she is safe; what shall I do with her?"

"If you will only send her away and not let her come back, Mr. Van
Brunt," said Ellen, "I'll be so much obliged to you."

"Let me go," said Nancy. "I declare you are a real mean Dutchman, Mr.
Van Brunt."

He took both her hands in one and laid the other lightly over her ears.

"I'll let you go," said he. "Now, don't you be caught here again if you
know what is good for yourself."

He saw Miss Nancy out of the door and then came back to Ellen, who was
crying heartily again from nervous vexation.

"She's gone," said he. "What has that wicked thing been doing, Miss
Ellen? What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, "you can't think how she has worried
me; she has been here this great while. Just look at all my things on
the floor, and that isn't the half."

Mr. Van Brunt gave a long whistle as his eye surveyed the tokens of Miss
Nancy's mischief-making, over and through which both she and himself had
been chasing at full speed, making the state of matters rather worse
than it was before.

"I do say," said he slowly, "that is too bad. I'd fix them up again for
you, Miss Ellen, if I knew how; but my hands are almost as clumsy as my
feet, and I see the marks of them there. It's too bad, I declare. I
didn't know what I was going on."

"Never mind, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen; "I don't mind what you have
done a bit. I'm _so_ glad to see you!"

She put out her little hand to him as she spoke. He took it in his now
silently, but though he said and showed nothing of it, Ellen's look and
tone of affection thrilled his heart with pleasure.

"How do you do?" said he kindly.

"I am a great deal better," said Ellen. "Sit down, won't you, Mr. Van
Brunt? I want to see you a little."

Horses wouldn't have drawn him away after that. He sat down.

"Ain't you going to be up again some of these days?" said he.

"Oh yes, I hope so," said Ellen, sighing; "I am very tired of lying
here."

He looked round the room; got up and mended the fire; then came and sat
down again.

"I was up yesterday for a minute," said Ellen, "but the chair tired me
so, I was glad to get back to bed again."

It was no wonder! harder and straighter-backed chairs never were
invented. Probably Mr. Van Brunt thought so.

"Wouldn't you like to have a rocking-cheer?" said he suddenly, as if a
bright thought had struck him.

"Oh yes, how much I should!" said Ellen, with another long-drawn breath;
"but there isn't such a thing in the house that ever I saw."

"Aye, but there is in other houses, though," said Mr. Van Brunt, with as
near an approach to a smile as his lips commonly made; "we'll see!"

Ellen smiled more broadly. "But don't you give yourself any trouble for
me," said she.

"Trouble, indeed!" said Mr. Van Brunt; "I don't know anything about
that. How came that wicked thing up here to plague you?"

"She said Aunt Fortune left her to take care of me."

"That's one of her lies. Your aunt's gone out, I know; but she's a
trifle wiser than to do such a thing as that. She has plagued you badly,
ha'n't she?"

He might have thought so. The colour which excitement brought into
Ellen's face had faded away, and she had settled herself back against
her pillow with an expression of weakness and weariness that the strong
man saw and felt.

"What is there I can do for you?" said he, with a gentleness that seemed
almost strange from such lips.

"If you would," said Ellen faintly, "if you _could_ be so kind as to
read me a hymn, I should be so glad. I've had nobody to read to me."

Her hand put the little book towards him as she said so.

Mr. Van Brunt would vastly rather any one had asked him to plough an
acre. He was to the full as much confounded as poor Ellen had once been
at a request of his. He hesitated and looked towards Ellen, wishing for
an excuse. But the pale little face that lay there against the pillow,
the drooping eyelids, the meek, helpless look of the little child put
all excuses out of his head; and though he would have chosen to do
almost anything else, he took the book, and asked her "Where?" She said
anywhere; and he took the first he saw.

         "Poor, weak, and worthless though I am,
            I have a rich, almighty friend;
          Jesus the Saviour is His name,
            He freely loves, and without end."

"Oh," said Ellen, with a sigh of pleasure, and folding her hands on her
breast--"how lovely that is!"

He stopped and looked at her a moment, and then went on with increased
gravity.

         "He ransomed me from hell with blood,
            And by His pow'r my foes controlled;
          He found me wand'ring far from God,
            And brought me to His chosen fold."

"Fold!" said Ellen, opening her eyes; "what is that?"

"It's where sheep are penned, ain't it?" said Mr. Van Brunt, after a
pause.

"Oh yes," said Ellen, "that's it; I remember; that's like what he said,
'I am the good shepherd,' and 'the Lord is my shepherd;' I know now. Go
on, please."

He finished the hymn without more interruption. Looking again towards
Ellen, he was surprised to see several large tears finding their way
down her cheeks from under the wet eyelashes. But she quickly wiped them
away.

"What do you read them things for," said he, "if they make you feel
bad?"

"Feel bad!" said Ellen. "Oh, they don't; they make me happy; I love them
dearly. I never read that one before. You can't think how much I am
obliged to you for reading it to me. Will you let me see where it is?"

He gave it her.

"Yes, there's his mark!" said Ellen, with sparkling eyes. "Now, Mr. Van
Brunt, would you be so very good as to read it once more?"

He obeyed. It was easier this time. She listened as before with closed
eyes, but the colour came and went once or twice.

"Thank you very much," she said, when he had done. "Are you going?"

"I must; I have some things to look after."

She held his hand still.

"Mr. Van Brunt, don't _you_ love hymns?"

"I don't know much about 'em, Miss Ellen."

"Mr. Van Brunt, are you one of that fold?"

"What fold?"

"The fold of Christ's people."

"I'm afeard not, Miss Ellen," said he soberly, after a minute's pause.

"Because," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "I wish you were, very
much."

She carried the great brown hand to her lips before she let it go. He
went without saying a word. But when he got out, he stopped and looked
at a little tear she had left on the back of it. And he looked till one
of his own fell there to keep it company.




CHAPTER XXI

          Oh, that _had_, how sad a passage 'tis!

                                                  --SHAKESPEARE.


The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, a light step crossed
the shed, and the great door opening gently, in walked Miss Alice
Humphreys. The room was all "redd up," and Miss Fortune and her mother
sat there at work, one picking over white beans at the table, the other
in her usual seat by the fire, and at her usual employment, which was
knitting. Alice came forward, and asked the old lady how she did.

"Pretty well. Oh, pretty well!" she answered, with the look of bland
good-humour her face almost always wore; "and glad to see you, dear.
Take a chair."

Alice did so, quite aware that the other person in the room was _not_
glad to see her.

"And how goes the world with you, Miss Fortune?"

"Humph! It's a queer kind of world, I think," answered that lady dryly,
sweeping some of the picked beans into her pan. "I get a'most sick of it
sometimes."

"Why, what's the matter?" said Alice pleasantly. "May I ask, has
anything happened to trouble you?"

"Oh no," said the other somewhat impatiently. "Nothing that's any matter
to any one but myself. It's no use speaking about it."

"Ah! Fortune never would take the world easy," said the old woman,
shaking her head from side to side. "Never would; I never could get
her."

"Now, do hush, mother, will you?" said the daughter, turning round upon
her with startling sharpness of look and tone. "Take the world easy! You
always did. I'm glad I ain't like you."

"I don't think it's a bad way, after all," said Alice. "What's the use
of taking it hard, Miss Fortune?"

"The way one goes on!" said that lady, picking away at her beans very
fast, and not answering Alice's question. "I'm tired of it. Toil, toil,
and drive, drive, from morning to night; and what's the end of it all?"

"Not much," said Alice gravely, "if our toiling looks no further than
_this_ world. When we go we shall carry nothing away with us. I should
think it would be very wearisome to toil only for what we cannot keep
nor stay long to enjoy."

"It's a pity you warn't a minister, Miss Alice," said Miss Fortune
dryly.

"Oh no, Miss Fortune," said Alice, smiling. "The family would be
overstocked. My father is one, and my brother will be another. A third
would be too much. You must be so good as to let me preach without
taking orders."

"Well, I wish every minister was as good a one as you'd make," said Miss
Fortune, her hard face giving way a little. "At any rate, nobody'd mind
anything you'd say, Miss Alice."

"That would be unlucky, in one sense," said Alice, "but I believe I know
what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would dream the world went very
hard with you. I don't know anybody, I think, lives in more independent
comfort and plenty, and has things more to her mind. I never come to the
house that I am not struck with the fine look of the farm and all that
belongs to it."

"Yes," said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times, "Mr. Van
Brunt is a good farmer--very good. There's no doubt about that."

"I wonder what _he'd_ do," said Miss Fortune, quickly and sharply as
before, "if there warn't a head to manage for him! Oh, the farm's well
enough, Miss Alice. 'Tain't that. Every one knows where his own shoe
pinches."

"I wish you'd let me into the secret, then, Miss Fortune. I'm a cobbler
by profession."

Miss Fortune's ill-humour was giving way, but something disagreeable
seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow darkened.

"I say it's a poor kind of world, and I'm sick of it! One may slave and
slave one's life out for other people, and what thanks do you get? I'm
sick of it."

"There's a little body upstairs, or I'm much mistaken, who will give you
very sincere thanks for every kindness shown her."

Miss Fortune tossed her head, and brushing the refuse beans into her
lap, she pushed back her chair with a jerk to go to the fire with them.

"Much you know about her, Miss Alice! Thanks, indeed! I haven't seen the
sign of such a thing since she's been here, for all I have worked and
worked and had plague enough with her, I am sure. Deliver me from other
people's children, say I!"

"After all, Miss Fortune," said Alice soberly, "it is not what we _do_
for people that makes them love us; or at least, everything depends on
the way things are done. A look of love, a word of kindness, goes
further towards winning the heart than years of service or benefactions
mountain-high without them."

"Does she say I am unkind to her?" asked Miss Fortune fiercely.

"Pardon me," said Alice. "Words on her part are unnecessary. It is easy
to see from your own that there is no love lost between you, and I am
very sorry it is so."

"Love, indeed!" said Miss Fortune, with great indignation. "There never
was any to lose, I can assure you. She plagues the very life out of me.
Why, she hadn't been here three days before she went off with that girl
Nancy Vawse, that I had told her never to go near, and was gone all
night. That's the time she got in the brook. And if you'd seen her face
when I was scolding her about it! It was like seven thunder-clouds. Much
you know about it! I dare say she's very sweet to you; that's the way
she is to everybody beside me. They all think she's too good to live,
and it just makes me mad!"

"She told me herself," said Alice, "of her behaving ill another time
about her mother's letter."

"Yes, that was another time. I wish you'd seen her."

"I believe she saw and felt her fault in that case. Didn't she ask your
pardon? She said she would."

"Yes," said Miss Fortune dryly, "after a fashion."

"Has she had her letter yet?"

"No."

"How is she to-day?"

"Oh, she's well enough--she's sitting up. You can go up and see her."

"I will directly," said Alice. "But now, Miss Fortune, I am going to ask
a favour of you. Will you do me a great pleasure?"

"Certainly, Miss Alice, if I can."

"If you think Ellen has been sufficiently punished for her
ill-behaviour--if you do not think it right to withhold her letter
still--will you let me have the pleasure of giving it to her? I should
take it as a great favour to myself."

Miss Fortune made no kind of reply to this, but stalked out of the room,
and in a few minutes stalked in again with the letter, which she gave to
Alice, only saying shortly, "It came to me in a letter from her father."

"You are willing she should have it?" said Alice.

"Oh yes; do what you like with it."

Alice now went softly upstairs. She found Ellen's door a little ajar,
and looking in, could see Ellen seated in a rocking-chair between the
door and the fire, in her double gown, and with her hymn-book in her
hand. It happened that Ellen had spent a good part of that afternoon in
crying for her lost letter; and the face that she turned to the door on
hearing some slight noise outside was very white and thin indeed; and
though it was placid too, her eye searched the crack of the door with a
keen wistfulness that went to Alice's heart. But as the door was gently
pushed open, and the eye caught the figure that stood behind it, the
sudden and entire change of expression took away all her powers of
speech. Ellen's face became radiant; she rose from her chair, and as
Alice came silently in and kneeling down to be near her, took her in her
arms, Ellen put both hers round Alice's neck and laid her face there;
one was too happy and the other too touched to say a word.

"My poor child!" was Alice's first expression.

"No, I ain't," said Ellen, tightening the squeeze of her arms round
Alice's neck; "I am not poor at all now."

Alice presently rose, sat down in the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in
her lap; and Ellen rested her head on her bosom, as she had been wont to
do of old time on her mother's.

"I am too happy," she murmured. But she was weeping, and the current of
tears seemed to gather force as it flowed. What was little Ellen
thinking of just then? Oh! those times gone by, when she had sat just
so; her head pillowed on another as gentle a breast; kind arms wrapped
round her, just as now; the same little old double-gown; the same weak,
helpless feeling; the same committing herself to the strength and care
of another; how much the same, and oh! how much not the same! And Ellen
knew both. Blessing as she did the breast on which she leaned and the
arms whose pressure she felt, they yet reminded her sadly of those most
loved and so very far away; and it was an odd mixture of relief and
regret, joy and sorrow, gratified and ungratified affection, that opened
the sluices of her eyes. Tears poured.

"What is the matter, my love?" said Alice softly.

"I don't know," whispered Ellen.

"Are you so glad to see me? or so sorry? or what is it?"

"Oh, glad and sorry both, I think," said Ellen, with a long breath, and
sitting up.

"Have you wanted me so much, my poor child?"

"I cannot tell you how much," said Ellen, her words cut short.

"And didn't you know that I have been sick too? What did you think had
become of me? Why, Mrs. Vawse was with me a whole week, and this is the
very first day I have been able to go out. It is so fine to-day I was
permitted to ride sharp down."

"Was that it?" said Ellen. "I did wonder, Miss Alice; I did wonder very
much why you did not come to see me; but I never liked to ask Aunt
Fortune, because----"

"Because what?"

"I don't know as I ought to say what I was going to. I had a feeling she
would be glad about what I was sorry about."

"Don't know _that_ you ought to say," said Alice. "Remember, you are to
study English with me."

Ellen smiled a glad smile.

"And you have had a weary two weeks of it, haven't you, dear?"

"Oh," said Ellen, with another long-drawn sigh, "how weary! Part of that
time, to be sure, I was out of my head; but I have got _so_ tired lying
here all alone; Aunt Fortune coming in and out was just as good as
nobody."

"Poor child!" said Alice, "you have had a worse time than I."

"I used to lie and watch that crack in the door at the foot of my bed,"
said Ellen, "and I got so tired of it I hated to see it, but when I
opened my eyes I couldn't help looking at it, and watching all the
little ins and outs in the crack till I was as sick of it as could be.
And that button, too, that fastens the door, and the little round mark
the button has made, and thinking how far the button went round. And
then if I looked towards the windows I would go right to counting the
panes, first up and down and then across; and I didn't want to count
them, but I couldn't help it; and watching to see through which pane the
sky looked brightest. Oh, I got so sick of it all! There was only the
fire that I didn't get tired of looking at; I always liked to lie and
look at that, except when it hurt my eyes. And, oh, how I wanted to see
you, Miss Alice! You can't think how sad I felt that you didn't come to
see me. I couldn't think what could be the matter."

"I should have been with you, dear, and not have left you, if I had not
been tied at home myself."

"So I thought; and that made it seem so very strange. But, oh! don't you
think," said Ellen, her face suddenly brightening, "don't you think, Mr.
Van Brunt came up to see me last night? Wasn't it good of him? He even
sat down and read to me; only think of that. And isn't he kind? he asked
if I would like a rocking-chair; and of course I said yes, for these
other chairs are dreadful, they break my back; and there wasn't such a
thing as a rocking-chair in Aunt Fortune's house, she hates 'em, she
says; and this morning, the first thing I knew, in walked Mr. Van Brunt
with this nice rocking-chair. Just get up and see how nice it is; you
see the back is cushioned, and the elbows, as well as the seat; it's
queer looking, ain't it? but it's very comfortable. Wasn't it good of
him?"

"It was very kind, I think. But do you know, Ellen, I am going to have a
quarrel with you?"

"What about?" said Ellen. "I don't believe it's anything very bad, for
you look pretty good-humoured, considering."

"Nothing _very_ bad," said Alice, "but still enough to quarrel about.
You have twice said '_ain't_' since I have been here."

"Oh," said Ellen laughing, "is that all?"

"Yes," said Alice, "and my English ears don't like it at all."

"Then they shan't hear it," said Ellen, kissing her. "I don't know what
makes me say it; I never used to. But I've got more to tell you; I've
had more visitors. Who do you think came to see me?--you'd never
guess--Nancy Vawse!--Mr. Van Brunt came in the very nick of time, when I
was almost worried to death with her. Only think of _her_ coming up
here! unknown to everybody. And she stayed an age, and how she _did_ go
on. She cracked nuts on the hearth; she got every stitch of my clothes
out of my trunk and scattered them over the floor; she tried to make me
drink gruel till between us we spilled a great parcel on the bed; and
she had begun to tickle me when Mr. Van Brunt came. Oh, wasn't I glad to
see him! And when Aunt Fortune came up and saw it all she was as angry
as she could be; and she scolded and scolded, till at last I told her it
was none of my doing--I couldn't help it at all--and she needn't talk so
to me about it; and then she said it was my fault the whole of it! that
if I hadn't scraped acquaintance with Nancy when she had forbidden me,
all this would never have happened."

"There is some truth in that, isn't there, Ellen?"

"Perhaps so; but I think it might all have happened whether or no; and
at any rate it is a little hard to talk so to me about it now when it's
all over and can't be helped. Oh, I have been so tired to-day, Miss
Alice! Aunt Fortune has been in such a bad humour."

"What put her in a bad humour?"

"Why, all this about Nancy, in the first place; and then I know she
didn't like Mr. Van Brunt's bringing the rocking-chair for me; she
couldn't say much, but I could see by her face. And then Mrs. Van
Brunt's coming--I don't think she liked that. Oh, Mrs. Van Brunt came to
see me this morning, and brought me a custard. How many people are kind
to me!--everywhere I go."

"I hope, dear Ellen, you don't forget whose kindness sends them all."

"I don't, Miss Alice; I always think of that now; and it seems you can't
think how pleasant to me sometimes."

"Then I hope you can bear unkindness from one poor woman--who, after
all, isn't as happy as you are--without feeling any ill-will towards her
in return."

"I don't think I feel ill-will towards her," said Ellen; "I always try
as hard as I can not to; but I can't _like_ her, Miss Alice; and I do
get out of patience. It's very easy to put me out of patience, I think;
it takes almost nothing sometimes."

"But remember, 'charity suffereth long and is kind.'"

"And I try all the while, dear Miss Alice, to keep down my bad
feelings," said Ellen, her eyes watering as she spoke; "I try and pray
to get rid of them, and I hope I shall by-and-by; I believe I am very
bad."

Alice drew her closer.

"I have felt very sad part of to-day," said Ellen presently; "Aunt
Fortune, and my being so lonely, and my poor letter, altogether; but
part of the time I felt a great deal better. I was learning that lovely
hymn--do you know it, Miss Alice? 'Poor, weak, and worthless though I
am'?----"

Alice went on:--

        "'I have a rich almighty friend,
          Jesus the Saviour is His name,
          He freely loves and without end.'

"Oh, dear Ellen, whoever can say that has no right to be unhappy. No
matter what happens, we have enough to be glad of."

"And then I was thinking of those words in the Psalms--'Blessed is the
man'--stop, I'll find it; I don't know exactly how it goes;--'Blessed is
he whose transgression is forgiven; whose sin is covered.'"

"Oh yes, indeed!" said Alice. "It is a shame that any trifles should
worry much those whose sins are forgiven them, and who are the children
of the great King. Poor Miss Fortune never knew the sweetness of those
words. We ought to be sorry for her, and pray for her, Ellen; and never,
never, even in thought, return evil for evil. It is not like Christ to
do so."

"I will not, I will not, if I can help it," said Ellen.

"You can help it; but there is only one way. Now, Ellen dear, I have
three pieces of news for you that I think you will like. One concerns
you, another myself, and the third concerns both you and myself. Which
will you have first?"

"Three pieces of good news!" said Ellen, with opening eyes; "I think
I'll have my part first."

Directing Ellen's eyes to her pocket, Alice slowly made the corner of
the letter show itself. Ellen's colour came and went quick as it was
drawn forth; but when it was fairly out, and she knew it again, she
flung herself upon it with a desperate eagerness Alice had not looked
for; she was startled at the half-frantic way in which the child clasped
and kissed it, weeping bitterly at the same time. Her transport was
almost hysterical. She had opened the letter, but she was not able to
read a word; and quitting Alice's arms she threw herself upon the bed,
sobbing in a mixture of joy and sorrow that seemed to take away her
reason. Alice looked on surprised a moment, but only a moment, and
turned away.

When Ellen was able to begin her letter, the reading of it served to
throw her back into fresh fits of tears. Many a word of Mrs.
Montgomery's went so to her little daughter's heart that its very inmost
cords of love and tenderness were wrung. It is true the letter was short
and very simple, but it came from her mother's heart; it was written by
her mother's hand, and the very old-remembered handwriting had mighty
power to move her. She was so wrapped up in her own feelings that
through it all she never noticed that Alice was not near her, that Alice
did not speak to comfort her. When the letter had been read time after
time, and wept over again and again, and Ellen at last was folding it up
for the present, she bethought herself of her friend, and turned to look
after her. Alice was sitting by the window, her face hid in her hands,
and as Ellen drew near she was surprised to see that _her_ tears were
flowing, and her breast heaving. Ellen came quite close, and softly laid
her hand on Alice's shoulder. But it drew no attention.

"Miss Alice," said Ellen, almost fearfully, "_dear_ Miss Alice," and her
own eyes filled fast again, "what is the matter? won't you tell me? Oh,
don't do so! please don't!"

"I will not," said Alice, lifting her head; "I am sorry I have troubled
you, dear; I am sorry I could not help it."

She kissed Ellen, who stood anxious and sorrowful by her side, and
brushed away her tears. But Ellen saw she had been shedding a great
many.

"What is the matter, dear Miss Alice? what has happened to trouble you?
won't you tell me?" Ellen was almost crying herself.

Alice came back to the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her arms again;
but she did not answer her. Leaning her face against Ellen's forehead
she remained silent. Ellen ventured to ask no more questions; but
lifting her hand once or twice caressingly to Alice's face, she was
distressed to find her cheek wet still. Alice spoke at last.

"It isn't fair not to tell you what is the matter, dear Ellen, since I
have let you see me sorrowing. It is nothing new, nor anything I would
have otherwise if I could. It is only that I have had a mother once, and
have lost her; and you brought back the old time so strongly, that I
could not command myself."

Ellen felt a hot tear drop upon her forehead, and again ventured to
speak her sympathy only by silently stroking Alice's cheek.

"It's all past now," said Alice; "it is all well. I would not have her
back again. I shall go to her, I hope, by-and-by."

"Oh no! you must stay with me," said Ellen, clasping both arms round
her.

There was a long silence, during which they remained locked in each
other's arms.

"Ellen dear," said Alice, at length, "we are both motherless, for the
present at least--both of us almost alone; I think God has brought us
together to be a comfort to each other. We will be sisters while He
permits us to be so. Don't call me Miss Alice any more. You shall be my
little sister and I will be your elder sister, and my home shall be your
home as well."

Ellen's arms were drawn very close round her companion at this, but she
said nothing, and her face was laid in Alice's bosom. There was another
very long pause. Then Alice spoke in a livelier tone.

"Come, Ellen! look up; you and I have forgotten ourselves; it isn't good
for sick people to get down in the dumps. Look up and let me see these
pale cheeks. Don't you want something to eat?"

"I don't know," said Ellen faintly.

"What would you say to a cup of chicken broth?"

"Oh, I should like it very much!" said Ellen, with new energy.

"Margery made me some particularly nice, as she always does; and I took
it into my head a little might not come amiss to you; so I resolved to
stand the chance of Sharp's jolting it all over me, and I rode down with
a little pail of it on my arm. Let me rake open these coals and you
shall have some directly."

"And did you come without being spattered?" said Ellen.

"Not a drop. Is this what you use to warm things in? Never mind, it has
had gruel in it; I'll set the tin pail on the fire; it won't hurt it."

"I am so much obliged to you," said Ellen, "for do you know, I have got
quite tired of gruel, and panada I can't bear."

"Then I am very glad I brought it."

While it was warming Alice washed Ellen's gruel cup and spoon, and
presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Ellen eating the broth with
that keen enjoyment none know but those that have been sick and are
getting well. She smiled to see her gaining strength almost in the very
act of swallowing.

"Ellen," said she presently, "I have been considering your
dressing-table. It looks rather doleful. I'll make you a present of some
dimity, and when you come to see me you shall make a cover for it that
will reach down to the floor and hide those long legs."

"That wouldn't do at all," said Ellen; "Aunt Fortune would go off into
all sorts of fits."

"What about?"

"Why, the washing, Miss Alice--to have such a great thing to wash every
now and then. You can't think what a fuss she makes if I have more than
just so many white clothes in the wash every week."

"That's too bad," said Alice. "Suppose you bring it up to me--it
wouldn't be often--and I'll have it washed for you, if you care enough
about it to take the trouble."

"Oh, indeed I do!" said Ellen; "I should like it very much, and I'll get
Mr. Van Brunt to--no, I can't, Aunt Fortune won't let me. I was going to
say I would get him to saw off the legs and make it lower for me, and
then my dressing-box would stand so nicely on the top. Maybe I can yet.
Oh, I never showed you my boxes and things."

Ellen brought them all out and displayed their beauties. In the course
of going over the writing-desk she came to the secret drawer and a
little money in it.

"Oh, that puts me in mind," she said. "Miss Alice, this money is to be
spent for some poor child. Now, I've been thinking that Nancy has
behaved so to me I should like to give her something to show her that I
don't feel unkindly about it; what do you think would be a good thing?"

"I don't know, Ellen; I'll take the matter into consideration."

"Do you think a Bible would do?"

"Perhaps that would do as well as anything; I'll think about it."

"I should like to do it very much," said Ellen, "for she has vexed me
wonderfully."

"Well, Ellen, would you like to hear my other pieces of news? or have
you no curiosity?"

"Oh yes, indeed," said Ellen; "I had forgotten it entirely; what is it,
Miss Alice?"

"You know I told you one concerns only myself, but it is great news to
me. I learnt this morning that my brother will come to spend the
holidays with me. It is many months since I have seen him."

"Does he live far away?" said Ellen.

"Yes; he has gone far away to pursue his studies, and cannot come home
often. The other piece of news is that I intend, if you have no
objection, to ask Miss Fortune's leave to have you spend the holidays
with me too."

"Oh, delightful!" said Ellen, starting up and clapping her hands, and
then throwing them round her adopted sister's neck; "dear Alice, how
good you are!"

"Then I suppose I may reckon upon your consent," said Alice, "and I'll
speak to Miss Fortune without delay."

"Oh, thank you, dear Miss Alice; how glad I am! I shall be happy all the
time from now till then thinking of it. You aren't going?"

"I must."

"Ah, don't go yet! Sit down again; you know you're my sister--don't you
want to read mamma's letter?"

"If you please, Ellen, I should like it very much."

She sat down, and Ellen gave her the letter, and stood by while she read
it, watching her with glistening eyes; and though as she saw Alice's
fill her own overflowed again, she hung over her still to the last;
going over every line this time with a new pleasure.

                          "NEW YORK, _Saturday, Nov. 22, 18--_,

    "MY DEAR ELLEN,--I meant to have written to you before, but have
    been scarcely able to do so. I did make one or two efforts which
    came to nothing; I was obliged to give it up before finishing
    anything that could be called a letter. To-day I feel much stronger
    than I have at any time since your departure.

    "I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour
    in the day, nor a half-hour, that the want of you does not come home
    to my heart; and I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This
    separation is a very hard thing to bear. But the hand that has
    arranged it does nothing amiss; we must trust Him, my daughter, that
    all will be well. I feel it _is_ well, though sometimes the thought
    of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God
    I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to
    Him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing
    committed to His care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh, my
    daughter, never forget to pray; never slight it. It is almost my
    only refuge, now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often--how
    often, through years gone by, when heart-sick and faint, I have
    fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops
    of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love
    prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the
    sorrows of life. And keep this letter, that if ever you are like to
    forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again.

    "My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I
    drink it mechanically and set down my cup, remembering only that the
    dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no
    more. My child! my child! words are poor to express the heart's
    yearnings; my spirit is near you all the time.

    "Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you
    went came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no
    longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me.
    He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear Ellen, had for
    its immediate cause your proper and lady-like behaviour in the
    store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old
    gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that though I
    have seen him so many times I am still perfectly ignorant of his
    name.

    "We set sail Monday in the _England_. Your father has secured a nice
    state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the
    voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on the broad ocean,
    with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and
    probably much too sick to look at those. Never mind that; the
    sickness is good for me.

    "I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first
    conveyance.

    "And now, my dear baby--my precious child--farewell. May the
    blessing of God be with you!--Your affectionate mother,

                                                      "E. MONTGOMERY."

"You ought to be a good child, Ellen," said Alice, as she dashed away
some tears. "Thank you for letting me see this; it has been a great
pleasure to me."

"And now," said Ellen, "you feel as if you knew mamma a little."

"Enough to honour and respect her very much. Now, good-bye, my love; I
must be at home before it is late. I will see you again before Christmas
comes."




CHAPTER XXII

          When icicles hang by the wall,
          And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
          And Tom bears logs into the hall,
          And milk comes frozen home in pail.

                                        --SHAKESPEARE.


To Ellen's sorrow, she was pronounced next morning well enough to come
downstairs; her aunt averring that "it was no use to keep a fire burning
up there for nothing." She must get up and dress in the cold again; and
winter had fairly set in now; the 19th of December rose clear and keen.
Ellen looked sighingly at the heap of ashes and the dead brands in the
fireplace where the bright little fire had blazed so cheerfully the
evening before. But regrets did not help the matter; and shivering she
began to dress as fast as she could. Since her illness, a basin and
pitcher had been brought into her room, so the washing at the spout was
ended for the present; and though the basin had no place but a chair,
and the pitcher must stand on the floor, Ellen thought herself too
happy. But how cold it was! The wind swept past her windows, giving
wintry shakes to the panes of glass, and through many an opening in the
wooden frame-work of the house it came in and saluted Ellen's bare arms
and neck. She hurried to finish her dressing, and wrapping her
double-gown over all, went down to the kitchen. It was another climate
there. A great fire was burning that it quite cheered Ellen's heart to
look at; and the air seemed to be full of coffee and buckwheat cakes;
Ellen almost thought she should get enough breakfast by the sense of
smell.

"Ah! here you are," said Miss Fortune. "What have you got that thing on
for?"

"It was so cold upstairs," said Ellen, drawing up her shoulders. The
warmth had not got inside of her wrapper yet.

"Well, t'ain't cold here; you better pull it off right away. I've no
notion of people's making themselves tender. You'll be warm enough
directly. Breakfast'll warm you."

Ellen felt almost inclined to quarrel with the breakfast that was
offered in exchange for her comfortable wrapper; she pulled it off,
however, and sat down without saying anything. Mr. Van Brunt put some
cakes on her plate.

"If breakfast's agoing to warm you," said he, "make haste and get
something down; or drink a cup of coffee; you're as blue as skim milk."

"Am I?" said Ellen laughingly; "I feel blue; but I can't eat such a pile
of cakes as that, Mr. Van Brunt."

As a general thing the meals at Miss Fortune's were silent solemnities;
an occasional consultation, or a few questions and remarks about farm
affairs, being all that ever passed. The breakfast this morning was a
singular exception to the common rule.

"I am in a regular quandary," said the mistress of the house, when the
meal was about half over.

Mr. Van Brunt looked up for an instant, and asked, "What about?"

"Why, how I am ever going to do to get those apples and sausage-meat
done. If I go to doing 'em myself I shall about get through by spring."

"Why don't you make a bee?" said Mr. Van Brunt.

"Ain't enough of either on 'em to make it worth while. I ain't agoing to
have all the bother of a bee without something to show for't."

"Turn 'em both into one," suggested her counsellor, going on with his
breakfast.

"Both?"

"Yes; let 'em pare apples in one room and cut pork in t'other."

"But I wonder who ever heard of such a thing before," said Miss Fortune,
pausing with her cup of coffee half way to her lips. Presently, however,
it was carried to her mouth, drunk off, and set down with an air of
determination. "I don't care," said she, "if it never was heard of. I'll
do it for once anyhow. I'm not one of them to care what folks say. I'll
have it so. But I won't have them to tea, mind you; I'd rather throw
apples and all into the fire at once. I'll have but one plague of
setting tables, and that I won't have 'em to tea, I'll make it up to 'em
in the supper though."

"I'll take care to publish that," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"Don't you go and do such a thing," said Miss Fortune earnestly. "I
shall have the whole country on my hands. I won't have but just as many
on 'em as'll do what I want done; that'll be as much as I can stand
under. Don't you whisper a word of it to a living creature. I'll go
round and ask 'em myself to come Monday evening."

"Monday evening--then I suppose you'd like to have up the sleigh this
afternoon. Who's acoming?"

"I don't know; I ha'n't asked 'em yet."

"They'll every soul come that's asked, that you may depend; there ain't
one on 'em that would miss of it for a dollar."

Miss Fortune bridled a little at the implied tribute to her
housekeeping.

"If I was some folks I wouldn't let people know I was in such a mighty
hurry to get a good supper," she observed rather scornfully.

"Humph!" said Mr. Van Brunt; "I think a good supper ain't a bad thing;
and I've no objection to folks knowing it."

"Pshaw! I don't mean _you_," said Miss Fortune; "I was thinking of those
Lawsons, and other folks."

"If you're agoing to ask _them_ to your bee you ain't of my mind."

"Well, I am though," replied Miss Fortune; "there's a good many hands of
'em; they can turn off a good lot of work in an evening; and they always
take care to get me to _their_ bees. I may as well get something out of
them in return if I can."

"They'll reckon on getting as much as they can out o' _you_, if they
come, there's no sort of doubt in my mind. It's my belief Mimy Lawson
will kill herself some of these days upon green corn. She was at home to
tea one day last summer, and I declare I thought----"

What Mr. Van Brunt thought he left his hearers to guess.

"Well, let them kill themselves if they like," said Miss Fortune; "I am
sure I am willing; there'll be enough; I ain't agoing to mince matters
when once I begin. Now let me see. There's five of the Lawsons to begin
with--I suppose they'll all come; Bill Huff, and Jany, that's
seven----"

"That Bill Huff is as good natured a fellow as ever broke ground,"
remarked Mr. Van Brunt. "Ain't better people in the town than them Huffs
are."

"They're well enough," said Miss Fortune. "Seven--and the Hitchcocks,
there's three of them, that'll make ten----"

"Dennison's ain't far from there," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Dan Dennison's a
fine hand at a'most anything, in doors or out."

"That's more than you can say for his sister. Cilly Dennison gives
herself so many airs it's altogether too much for plain country folks. I
should like to know what she thinks herself. It's a'most too much for my
stomach to see her flourishing that watch and chain."

"What's the use of troubling yourself about other people's notions?"
said Mr. Van Brunt. "If folks want to take the road let 'em have it.
That's my way. I am satisfied, provided they don't run me over."

"'Taint _my_ way then, I'd have you to know," said Miss Fortune; "I
despise it. And 'tain't your way neither, Van Brunt; what did you give
Tom Larkens a cow-hiding for?"

"'Cause he deserved it, if ever a man did," said Mr. Van Brunt, quite
rousing up; "he was treating that little brother of his'n in a way a boy
shouldn't be treated, and I am glad I did it. I gave him notice to quit
before I laid a finger on him. He warn't doing nothing to _me_."

"And how much good do you suppose it did?" said Miss Fortune rather
scornfully.

"It did just the good I wanted to do. He has seen fit to let little
Billy alone ever since."

"Well, I guess I'll let the Dennisons come," said Miss Fortune; "that
makes twelve, and you and your mother are fourteen. I suppose that man
Marshchalk will come dangling along after the Hitchcocks."

"To be sure he will; and his aunt, Miss Janet, will come with him most
likely."

"Well, there's no help for it," said Miss Fortune. "That makes sixteen."

"Will you ask Miss Alice?"

"Not I! she's another of your proud set. I don't want to see anybody
that thinks she's going to do me a favour by coming."

Ellen's lips opened, but wisdom came in time to stop the words that were
on her tongue. It did not, however, prevent the quick little turn of her
head, which showed what she thought, and the pale cheeks were for a
moment bright enough.

"She is, and I don't care who hears it," repeated Miss Fortune. "I
suppose she'd look as sober as a judge too if she saw cider on the
table; they say she won't touch a drop ever, and thinks it's wicked; and
if that ain't setting oneself up for better than other folks, I don't
know what is."

"I saw her paring apples at the Huffs' though," said Mr. Van Brunt, "and
as pleasant as anybody; but she didn't stay to supper."

"I'd ask Mrs. Vawse if I could get word to her," said Miss Fortune; "but
I can never travel up that mountain. If I get a sight of Nancy I'll tell
her."

"There she is then," said Mr. Van Brunt, looking towards the little
window that opened into the shed. And there indeed was the face of Miss
Nancy pressed flat against the glass, peering into the room. Miss
Fortune beckoned to her.

"That is the most impudent, shameless, outrageous piece of----What are
you doing at the window?" said she, as Nancy came in.

"Looking at you, Miss Fortune," said Nancy coolly. "What have you been
talking about this great while? If there had only been a pane of glass
broken I needn't have asked."

"Hold your tongue," said Miss Fortune, "and listen to me."

"I'll listen, ma'am," said Nancy; "but it's of no use to hold my tongue.
I do try sometimes, but I never could keep it long."

"Have you done?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Nancy, shaking her head; "it's just as it
happens."

"You tell your granny I'm going to have a bee here next Monday evening,
and ask her if she'll come to it."

Nancy nodded. "If it's good weather," she added conditionally.

"Stop, Nancy!" said Miss Fortune--"here!" for Nancy was shutting the
door behind her. "As sure as you come here Monday night without your
grandma you'll go out of the house quicker than you came in; see if you
don't!"

With another gracious nod and smile Nancy departed.

"Well," said Mr. Van Brunt, rising, "I'll despatch this business
downstairs, and then I'll bring up the sleigh. The pickle's ready, I
suppose?"

"No, it ain't," said Miss Fortune. "I couldn't make it yesterday; but
it's all in the kettle, and I told Sam to make a fire downstairs, so you
can put it on when you go down. The kits are all ready, and the salt and
everything else."

Mr. Van Brunt went down the stairs that led to the lower kitchen, and
Miss Fortune, to make up for lost time, set about her morning's work
with even an uncommon measure of activity. Ellen, in consideration of
her being still weak, was not required to do anything. She sat and
looked on, keeping out of the way of her bustling aunt as far as it was
possible; but Miss Fortune's gyrations were of that character that no
one could tell five minutes beforehand what she might consider "in the
way." Ellen wished for her quiet room again. Mr. Van Brunt's voice
sounded downstairs in tones of business; what could he be about? It must
be very uncommon business that kept him in the house. Ellen grew
restless with the desire to go and see, and to change her aunt's company
for his; and no sooner was Miss Fortune fairly shut up in the buttery at
some secret work, than Ellen gently opened the door at the head of the
lower stairs and looked down. Mr. Van Brunt was standing at the bottom,
and he looked up.

"May I come down there, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen softly.

"Come down here? to be sure you may. You may always come straight where
I am without asking any questions."

Ellen went down. But before she reached the bottom stair she stopped
with almost a start, and stood fixed with such a horrified face that
neither Mr. Van Brunt nor Sam Larkens, who was there, could help
laughing.

"What's the matter?" said the former, "they're all dead enough, Miss
Ellen; you needn't be scared."

Three enormous hogs which had been killed the day before greeted Ellen's
eyes. They lay in different parts of the room, with each a cob in his
mouth. A fourth lay stretched upon his back on the kitchen table, which
was drawn out into the middle of the floor. Ellen stood fast on the
stair.

"Have they been killed?" was her first astonished exclamation, to which
Sam responded with another burst.

"Be quiet, Sam Larkens," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Yes, Miss Ellen, they've
been killed, sure enough."

"Are these the same pigs I used to see you feeding with corn, Mr. Van
Brunt?"

"The identical same ones," replied that gentleman, as laying hold of the
head of the one on the table and applying his long sharp knife with the
other hand, he, while he was speaking, severed it neatly and quickly
from the trunk. "And very fine porkers they are; I ain't ashamed of
'em."

"And what's going to be done with them now?" said Ellen.

"I am just going to cut them up and lay them down. Bless my heart! you
never see nothing of the kind before, did you?"

"No," said Ellen. "What do you mean by 'laying them down,' Mr. Van
Brunt?"

"Why, laying 'em down in salt for pork and hams. You want to see the
whole operation, don't you? Well, here's a seat for you. You'd better
fetch that painted coat o' yourn and wrap round you, for it ain't quite
so warm here as upstairs; but it's getting warmer. Sam, just you shut
that door to, and throw on another log."

Sam built up as large a fire as could be made under a very large kettle
that hung in the chimney. When Ellen came down in her wrapper she was
established close in the chimney corner; and then Mr. Van Brunt, not
thinking her quite safe from the keen currents of air that would find
their way into the room, despatched Sam for an old buffalo robe that lay
in the shed. This he himself, with great care, wrapped round her, feet
and chair and all, and secured it in various places with old forks. He
declared then she looked for all the world like an Indian, except her
face, and in high good-humour both, he went to cutting up the pork, and
Ellen, from out of her buffalo robe, watched him.

It was beautifully done. Even Ellen could see that, although she could
not have known if it had been done ill. The knife, guided by strength
and skill, seemed to go with the greatest ease and certainty just where
he wished it; the hams were beautifully trimmed out; the pieces
fashioned clean; no ragged cutting; and his quick-going knife disposed
of carcase after carcase with admirable neatness and celerity. Sam
meanwhile arranged the pieces in different parcels at his direction, and
minded the kettle, in which a great boiling and scumming was going on.
Ellen was too much amused for a while to ask any questions. When the
cutting up was all done, the hams and shoulders were put in a cask by
themselves, and Mr. Van Brunt began to pack down the other pieces in the
kits, strewing them with an abundance of salt.

"What's the use of putting all that salt with the pork, Mr. Van Brunt?"
said Ellen.

"It wouldn't keep good without that; it would spoil very quick."

"Will the salt make it keep?"

"All the year round--as sweet as a nut."

"I wonder what is the reason of that?" said Ellen. "Will salt make
everything keep good?"

"Everything in the world--if it only has enough of it, and is kept dry
and cool."

"Are you going to do the hams in the same way?"

"No; they are to go in that pickle over the fire."

"In this kettle? what is in it?" said Ellen.

"You must ask Miss Fortune about that; sugar and salt and saltpetre and
molasses, and I don't know what all."

"And will this make the hams so different from the rest of the pork?"

"No; they've got to be smoked after they have laid in that for a while."

"Smoked!" said Ellen; "how?"

"Why, ha'n't you been in the smoke-house? The hams has to be taken out
of the pickle and hung up there; and then we make a little fire of oak
chips and keep it burning night and day."

"And how long must they stay in the smoke?"

"Oh, three or four weeks or so."

"And then they are done?"

"Then they are done."

"How very curious!" said Ellen. "Then it's the smoke that gives them
that nice taste? I never knew smoke was good for anything before."

"Ellen!" said the voice of Miss Fortune from the top of the stairs,
"come right up here this minute! you'll catch your death!"

Ellen's countenance fell.

"There's no sort of fear of that, ma'am," said Mr. Van Brunt quietly,
"and Miss Ellen is fastened up so she can't get loose; and I can't let
her out just now."

The upper door was shut again pretty sharply, but that was the only
audible expression of opinion with which Miss Fortune favoured them.

"I guess my leather curtains keep off the wind, don't they?" said Mr.
Van Brunt.

"Yes, indeed they do," said Ellen, "I don't feel a breath; I am as warm
as a toast, too warm almost. How nicely you have fixed me up, Mr. Van
Brunt."

"I thought that 'ere old buffalo had done its work," he said, "but I'll
never say anything is good for nothing again. Have you found out where
the apples are yet?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Ha'n't Miss Fortune showed you? Well, it's time you'd know. Sam, take
that little basket and go fill it at the bin; I guess you know where
they be, for I believe you put 'em there."

Sam went into the cellar, and presently returned with the basket nicely
filled. He handed it to Ellen.

"Are all these for me?" she said in surprise.

"Every one of 'em," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"But I don't like to," said Ellen; "what will Aunt Fortune say?"

"She won't say a word," said Mr. Van Brunt; "and don't you say a word
neither, but whenever you want apples just go to the bin and take 'em.
_I_ give you leave. It's right at the end of the far cellar, at the
left-hand corner; there are the bins and all sorts of apples in 'em.
You've got a pretty variety there, ha'n't you?"

"Oh, all sorts," said Ellen, "and what beauties! and I love apples very
much--red and yellow, and speckled and green. What a great monster!"

"That's a Swar; they ain't as good as most of the others; these are
Seek-no-furthers."

"Seek-no-further!" said Ellen; "what a funny name. It ought to be a
mighty good apple. _I_ shall seek further, at any rate. What is this?"

"That's as good an apple as you've got in the basket; that's a real
Orson pippin, a very fine kind. I'll fetch you some up from home some
day though, that are better than the best of those."

The pork was all packed; the kettle was lifted off the fire; Mr. Van
Brunt was wiping his hands from the salt.

"And now I suppose I must go," said Ellen, with a little sigh.

"Why, _I_ must go," said he, "so I suppose I may as well let you out of
your tent first."

"I have had such a nice time," said Ellen; "I had got _so_ tired of
doing nothing upstairs. I am _very_ much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt.
But," said she, stopping as she had taken up her basket to go--"aren't
you going to put the hams in the pickle?"

"No," said he, laughing, "it must wait to get cold first. But you'll
make a capital farmer's wife, there's no mistake."

Ellen blushed and ran upstairs with her apples. To bestow them safely in
her closet was her first care; the rest of the morning was spent in
increasing weariness and listlessness. She had brought down her little
hymn-book, thinking to amuse herself with learning a hymn, but it would
not do; eyes and head both refused their part of the work; and when at
last Mr. Van Brunt came in to a late dinner, he found Ellen seated flat
on the hearth before the fire, her right arm curled round upon the hard
wooden bottom of one of the chairs, and her head pillowed upon that,
fast asleep.

"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Van Brunt, "what's become of that 'ere
rocking-cheer?"

"It's upstairs, I suppose. You can go fetch it if you've a mind to,"
answered Miss Fortune, dryly enough.

He did so immediately; and Ellen barely waked up to feel herself lifted
from the floor, and placed in the friendly rocking-chair; Mr. Van Brunt
remarking at the same time that "it might be well enough to let well
folks lie on the floor, and sleep on cheers, but cushions warn't a bit
too soft for sick ones."

Among the cushions Ellen went to sleep again with a much better prospect
of rest; and either sleeping or dozing passed away the time for a good
while.




CHAPTER XXIII

          O that I were an Orange tree,
              That busy plant!
          Then should I always laden be,
              And never want
          Some fruit for him that dresseth me.

                                        --G. HERBERT.


She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the house-door
after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone forth on their sleighing
expedition, and Ellen waked to find herself quite alone.

She could not long have doubted that her aunt was away, even if she had
not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the shed-door--the
stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could be with Miss Fortune
anywhere about the premises. The old grandmother must have been abed and
asleep too, for a cricket under the hearth, and a wood-fire in the
chimney had it all to themselves, and made the only sounds that were
heard; the first singing out every now and then in a very contented and
cheerful style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps and sparks
that just served to make one take notice how very quietly and steadily
it was burning.

Miss Fortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of neatness.
Not a speck of dust could be supposed to lie on the shining painted
floor; the back of every chair was in its place against the wall. The
very hearth-stone shone, and the heads of the large iron nails in the
floor were polished to steel. Ellen sat a while listening to the
soothing chirrup of the cricket and the pleasant crackling of the
flames. It was a fine cold winter's day. The two little windows at the
far end of the kitchen looked out upon an expanse of snow; and the large
lilac bush that grew close by the wall, moved lightly by the wind, drew
its icy fingers over the panes of glass. Wintry it was without; but that
made the warmth and comfort within seem all the more. Ellen would have
enjoyed it very much if she had had any one to talk to; as it was she
felt rather lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn; but it had
set her off upon a long train of thought; and with her head resting on
her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the other hand with the
hymn-book lying listlessly in her lap, and eyes staring into the fire,
she was sitting the very picture of meditation when the door opened and
Alice Humphreys came in. Ellen started up.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I'm all alone."

"Left alone, are you?" said Alice, as Ellen's warm lips were pressed
again and again to her cold cheeks.

"Yes, Aunt Fortune's gone out. Come and sit down here in the
rocking-chair. How cold you are. Oh, do you know she is going to have a
great bee here Monday evening. What is a _bee_?"

Alice smiled. "Why," said she, "when people here in the country have so
much of any kind of work to do that their own hands are not enough for
it, they send and call in their neighbours to help them--that's a bee. A
large party in the course of a long evening can do a great deal."

"But why do they call it a _bee_?"

"I don't know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for the time.
'As busy as a bee,' you know."

"Then they ought to call it a hive and not a bee, I should think. Aunt
Fortune is going to ask sixteen people. I wish you were coming."

"How do you know but I am?"

"Oh, I know you aren't. Aunt Fortune isn't going to ask you."

"You are sure of that, are you?"

"Yes, I wish I wasn't. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by something
she said."

"You mustn't get vexed so easily, my child. Don't let every little
untoward thing roughen your temper."

"But I couldn't help it, dear Miss Alice; it was about you. I don't know
whether I ought to tell you; but I don't think you'll mind it, and I
know it isn't true. She said she didn't want you to come because you
were one of the proud set."

"And what did _you_ say?"

"Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, 'It's no such
thing;' but I didn't say it."

"I am glad you were so wise. Dear Ellen, that is nothing to be vexed
about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I trust Miss Fortune
is mistaken. I shall try and find some way to make her change her mind.
I am glad you told me."

"I am _so_ glad you are come, dear Alice!" said Ellen again. "I wish I
could have you always." And the long, very close pressure of her two
arms about her friend said as much. There was a long pause. The cheek of
Alice rested on Ellen's head which nestled against her; both were busily
thinking, but neither spoke; and the cricket chirped and the flames
crackled without being listened to.

"Miss Alice," said Ellen, after a long time, "I wish you would talk over
a hymn with me."

"How do you mean, my dear?" said Alice, rousing herself.

"I mean, read it over and explain it. Mamma used to do it sometimes. I
have been thinking a great deal about her to-day, and I think I'm very
different from what I ought to be. I wish you would talk to me and make
me better, Miss Alice."

Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face that was
uplifted to her, and presently said--

"I am afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother, Ellen. What
hymn shall we take?"

"Any one--this one if you like. Mamma likes it very much. I was looking
it over to-day.

        "'A charge to keep I have--
            A God to glorify;
          A never-dying soul to save,
            And fit it for the sky.'"

Alice read the first line and paused.

"There now," said Ellen, "what is a charge?"

"Don't you know that?"

"I think I do, but I wish you would tell me."

"Try to tell me first."

"Isn't it something that is given one to do?--I don't know exactly."

"It is something given one in trust, to be done or taken care of. I
remember very well once when I was about your age my mother had occasion
to go out for half-an-hour, and she left me in charge of my little baby
sister; she gave me a _charge_ not to let anything disturb her while she
was away, and to keep her asleep if I could. And I remember how I kept
my charge too. I was not to take her out of the cradle, but I sat beside
her the whole time; I would not suffer a fly to light on her little fair
cheek; I scarcely took my eyes from her; I made John keep pussy at a
distance; and whenever one of the little round dimpled arms was thrown
out upon the coverlet, I carefully drew something over it again."

"Is she dead?" said Ellen timidly, her eyes watering in sympathy with
Alice's.

"She is dead, my dear; she died before we left England."

"I understand what a charge is," said Ellen, after a little while, "but
what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have I to keep?"

"The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part of it. 'A
God to glorify.'"

"To glorify!" said Ellen doubtfully.

"Yes--that is to honour--to give Him all the honour that belongs to
Him."

"But can _I_ honour _Him_?"

"Most certainly; either honour or dishonour; you cannot help doing one."

"I!" said Ellen again.

"Must not your behaviour speak either well or ill for the mother who has
brought you up?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Very well; when a child of God lives as he ought to do, people cannot
help having high and noble thoughts of that glorious One whom he serves,
and of that perfect law he obeys. Little as they may love the ways of
religion, in their own secret hearts they _cannot help_ confessing that
there is a God, and that they ought to serve Him. But a worldling, and
still more an unfaithful Christian, just helps people to forget there is
such a Being, and makes them think either that religion is a sham, or
that they may safely go on despising it. I have heard it said, Ellen,
that Christians are the only Bible some people ever read; and it is
true; all they know of religion is what they get from the lives of its
professors; and oh, were the world but full of the right kind of
example, the kingdom of darkness could not stand. 'Arise, shine!' is a
word that every Christian ought to take home."

"But how can I shine?" asked Ellen.

"My dear Ellen!--in the faithful, patient, self-denying performance of
every duty as it comes to hand--'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do
it with thy might.'"

"It is very little that _I_ can do," said Ellen.

"Perhaps more than you think, but never mind that. All are not great
stars in the Church; you may be only a little rushlight. See you burn
well!"

"I remember," said Ellen, musing, "mamma once told me when I was going
somewhere that people would think strangely of _her_ if I didn't behave
well."

"Certainly. Why, Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon after I saw
you."

"Did you?" said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face; "what was it?
Was it good? ah, do tell me!"

"I am not quite sure of the wisdom of that," said Alice, smiling; "you
might take home the praise that is justly her right and not yours."

"Oh no, indeed," said Ellen, "I had rather she should have it than I.
Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice--I know it was good,
at any rate."

"Well, I will tell you," said Alice, "at all risks. I thought your
mother was a lady, from the honourable notions she had given you; and
from your ready obedience to her, which was evidently the obedience of
love, I judged she had been a good mother in the true sense of the term.
I thought she must be a refined and cultivated person, from the manner
of your speech and behaviour; and I was sure she was a Christian,
because she had taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead
you in it."

The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen gave way,
long before Alice had done, to a burst of tears.

"It makes me so glad to hear you say that," she said.

"The praise of it is your mother's, you know, Ellen."

"I know it; but you make me so glad!" And hiding her face in Alice's
lap, she fairly sobbed.

"You understand now, don't you, how Christians may honour or dishonour
their Heavenly Father?"

"Yes, I do; but it makes me afraid to think of it."

"Afraid? It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great honour and
happiness for us to be permitted to honour Him--

         'A never-dying: soul to save,
            And fit it for the sky.'

Yes, that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never forget it, dear
Ellen! And whatever would hinder you, have nothing to do with it. 'What
will it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his own
soul?'--

         'To serve the present age,
            My calling to fulfil--'"

"What is 'the present age'?" said Ellen.

"All the people who are living in the world at this time."

"But, dear Alice, what can I do to the present age?"

"Nothing to the most part of them certainly; and yet, dear Ellen, if
your little rushlight shines well there is just so much the less
darkness in the world, though perhaps you light only a very little
corner. Every Christian is a blessing to the world, another grain of
salt to go towards sweetening and saving the mass."

"That is very pleasant to think of," said Ellen, musing.

"Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant it would
be to do anything for Him! how many ways we should find of honouring Him
by doing good."

"I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it," said
Ellen.

"You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No one is so
poor or so young but he has one talent at least to use for God."

"I wish I knew what mine is," said Ellen.

"Is your daily example as perfect as it can be?"

Ellen was silent and shook her head.

"Christ pleased not Himself, and went about doing good; and He said, 'If
any man serve Me, let him _follow Me_.' Remember that. Perhaps your aunt
is unreasonable and unkind; see with how much patience and perfect
sweetness of temper you can bear and forbear; see if you cannot win her
over by untiring gentleness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no
improvement to be made here?"

"Oh me, yes!" answered Ellen, with a sigh.

"Then your old grandmother. Can you do nothing to cheer her life in her
old age and helplessness? Can't you find some way of giving her
pleasure? some way of amusing a long tedious hour now and then?"

Ellen looked very grave; in her inmost heart she knew this was a duty
she shrank from.

"He 'went about doing good.' Keep that in mind. A kind word spoken--a
little thing done to smooth the way of one, or lighten the load of
another--teaching those who need teaching--entreating those who are
walking in the wrong way. Oh, my child, there is work enough!--

         'To serve the present age,
            My calling to fulfil;
          O may it all my powers engage
            To do my Maker's will.

          Arm me with jealous care,
            As in Thy sight to live;
          And oh! thy servant, Lord, prepare
            A strict account to give.'"

"An account of what?" said Ellen.

"You know what an account is. If I give Thomas a dollar to spend for me
at Carra-carra, I expect he will give me an exact _account_ when he
comes back, what he has done with every shilling of it. So must we give
an account of what we have done with everything our Lord has committed
to our care--our hands, our tongue, our time, our minds, our influence;
how much we have honoured Him, how much good we have done to others, how
fast and how far we have grown holy and fit for heaven."

"It almost frightens me to hear you talk, Miss Alice."

"Not _frighten_, dear Ellen--that is not the word; _sober_ we ought to
be, mindful to do nothing we shall not wish to remember in the great day
of account. Do you recollect how that day is described? Where is your
Bible?"

She opened at the twentieth chapter of the Revelation.

"'And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose
face the earth and the heaven flew away; and there was found no place
for them.

"'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books
were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and
the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the
books, according to their works. And the sea gave up the dead which were
in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them; and
they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell
were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.

"'And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into
the lake of fire.'"

Ellen shivered. "That is dreadful!" she said.

"It will be a dreadful day to all but those whose names are written in
the Lamb's book of life; not dreadful to them, dear Ellen."

"But how shall I be sure, dear Alice, that _my_ name is written there?
and I can't be happy if I am not sure."

"My dear child," said Alice tenderly, as Ellen's anxious face and
glistening eyes were raised to hers, "if you love Jesus Christ you may
know you are His child, and none shall pluck you out of His hand."

"But how can I tell whether I do love him really? sometimes I think I
do, and then again sometimes I am afraid I don't at all."

Alice answered in the words of Christ: "'He that hath My commandments
and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.'"

"Oh, I don't keep His commandments!" said Ellen, the tears running down
her cheeks.

"_Perfectly_, none of us do. But, dear Ellen, _that_ is not the
question. Is it your heart's desire and effort to keep them? Are you
grieved when you fail? There is the point. You cannot love Christ
without loving to please Him."

Ellen rose, and putting both arms round Alice's neck, laid her head
there, as her manner sometimes was, tears flowing fast.

"I sometimes think I do love Him a little," she said, "but I do so many
wrong things. But He will teach me to love Him if I ask Him, won't He,
dear Alice?"

"Indeed He will, dear Ellen," said Alice, folding her arms round her
little adopted sister, "_indeed_ He will. He has promised that. Remember
what He told somebody who was almost in despair: 'Fear not; only
believe.'"

Alice's neck was wet with Ellen's tears; and after they had ceased to
flow, her arms kept their hold and her head its resting-place on Alice's
shoulder for some time. It was necessary at last for Alice to leave her.

Ellen waited till the sound of her horse's footsteps died away on the
road; and then, sinking on her knees beside her rocking-chair, she
poured forth her whole heart in prayers and tears. She confessed many a
fault and shortcoming that none knew but herself, and most earnestly
besought help that "her little rushlight might shine bright." Prayer was
to little Ellen what it is to all that know it--the satisfying of doubt,
the soothing of care, the quieting of trouble. She had knelt down very
uneasy; but she knew that God has promised to be the hearer of prayer,
and she rose up very comforted, her mind fixing on those most sweet
words Alice had brought to her memory: "Fear not; only believe." When
Miss Fortune returned Ellen was quietly asleep again in her
rocking-chair, with her face very pale, but calm as an evening sunbeam.

"Well, I declare if that child ain't sleeping her life away!" said Miss
Fortune. "She's slept this whole blessed forenoon; I suppose she'll want
to be alive and dancing the whole night to pay for it."

"I can tell you what she'll want a sight more," said Mr. Van Brunt, who
had followed her in; it must have been to see about Ellen, for he was
never known to do such a thing before or since; "I'll tell you what
she'll want, and that's a right hot supper. She eat as nigh as possible
nothing at all this noon. There ain't much danger of her dancing a hole
in your floor this some time."




CHAPTER XXIV

      Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept?

                                        --TAMING OF THE SHREW.


Great preparations were making all Saturday and Monday for the expected
gathering. From morning till night Miss Fortune was in a perpetual
bustle. The great oven was heated no less than three several times on
Saturday alone. Ellen could hear the breaking of eggs in the buttery,
and the sound of beating or whisking for a long time together; and then
Miss Fortune would come out with floury hands, and plates of empty egg
shells made their appearance. But Ellen saw no more. Whenever the coals
were swept out of the oven, and Miss Fortune had made sure that the heat
was just right for her purposes, Ellen was sent out of the way, and when
she got back there was nothing to be seen but the fast shut oven door.
It was just the same when the dishes, in all their perfection, were to
come out of the oven again. The utmost Ellen was permitted to see was
the napkin covering some stray cake or pie that by chance had to pass
through the kitchen where she was.

As she could neither help nor look on, the day passed rather wearily.
She tried studying; a very little she found was enough to satisfy both
mind and body in their present state. She longed to go out again and see
how the snow looked, but a fierce wind all the fore part of the day made
it unfit for her. Towards the middle of the afternoon she saw with joy
that it had lulled, and though very cold, was so bright and calm that
she might venture. She had eagerly opened the kitchen door to go up and
get ready, when a long weary yawn from her old grandmother made her look
back. The old lady had laid her knitting in her lap and bent her face
down to her hand, which she was rubbing across her brow, as if to clear
away the tired feeling that had settled there. Ellen's conscience
instantly brought up Alice's words, "Can't you do something to pass away
a tedious hour now and then?" The first feeling was of vexed regret that
they should have come into her head at that moment; then conscience said
that was very selfish. There was a struggle. Ellen stood with the door
in her hand, unable to go out or come in. But not long. As the words
came back upon her memory, "A charge to keep I have," her mind was made
up; after one moment's prayer for help and forgiveness she shut the
door, came back to the fireplace, and spoke in a cheerful tone.

"Grandma, wouldn't you like to have me read something to you?"

"Read!" answered the old lady. "Laws a me! _I_ don't read nothing,
deary."

"But wouldn't you like to have _me_ read to you, grandma?"

The old lady in answer to this laid down her knitting, folded both arms
round Ellen, and kissing her a great many times, declared she should
like anything that came out of that sweet little mouth. As soon as she
was set free Ellen brought her Bible, sat down close beside her, and
read chapter after chapter; rewarded even then by seeing that, though
her grandmother said nothing, she was listening with fixed attention,
bending down over her knitting as if in earnest care to catch every
word. And when at last she stopped, warned by certain noises downstairs
that her aunt would presently be bustling in, the old lady again hugged
her close to her bosom, kissing her forehead and cheeks and lips, and
declaring that she was "a great deal sweeter than any sugar-plums;" and
Ellen was very much surprised to feel her face wet with a tear from her
grandmother's cheek. Hastily kissing her again (for the first time in
her life), she ran out of the room, her own tears starting and her heart
swelling big. "Oh! how much pleasure," she thought, "I might have given
my poor grandma, and how I have let her alone all this while! How wrong
I have been! But it shan't be so in future."

It was not quite sundown, and Ellen thought she might yet have two or
three minutes in the open air; so she wrapped up very warm and went out
to the chip-yard.

Ellen's heart was very light; she had just been fulfilling a duty that
cost her a little self-denial, and the reward had already come. And now
it seemed to her that she had never seen anything so perfectly beautiful
as the scene before her--the brilliant snow that lay in a thick carpet
over all the fields and hills, and the pale streaks of sunlight
stretching across it between the long shadows that reached now from the
barn to the house. One moment the light tinted the snow-capped fences
and whitened barn-roofs: then the lights and the shadows vanished
together, and it was all one cold, dazzling white. Oh, how glorious!
Ellen almost shouted to herself. It was too cold to stand still; she ran
to the barn-yard to see the cows milked. There they were, all her old
friends--Streaky and Dolly and Jane and Sukey and Betty Flynn--sleek and
contented; winter and summer were all the same to them. And Mr. Van
Brunt was very glad to see her there again, and Sam Larkens and Johnny
Low looked as if they were too, and Ellen told them with great truth she
was very glad indeed to be there; and then she went in to supper with
Mr. Van Brunt and an amazing appetite.

That was Saturday. Sunday passed quietly, though Ellen could not help
suspecting it was not entirely a day of rest to her aunt; there was a
savoury smell of cooking in the morning which nothing that came on the
table by any means accounted for, and Miss Fortune was scarcely to be
seen the whole day.

With Monday morning began a grand bustle, and Ellen was well enough now
to come in for her share. The kitchen, parlour, hall, shed, and lower
kitchen must all be thoroughly swept and dusted; this was given to her,
and a morning's work pretty near she found it. Then she had to rub
bright all the brass handles of the doors, and the big brass andirons in
the parlour, and the brass candlesticks on the parlour mantelpiece. When
at last she got through and came to the fire to warm herself, she found
her grandmother lamenting that her snuff-box was empty, and asking her
daughter to fill it for her.

"Oh! I can't be bothered to be running upstairs to fill snuffboxes,"
answered that lady; "you'll have to wait."

"I'll get it, grandma," said Ellen, "if you'll tell me where."

"Sit down and be quiet!" said Miss Fortune. "You go into my room just
when I bid you, and not till then."

Ellen sat down; but no sooner was Miss Fortune hid in the buttery than
the old lady beckoned her to her side, and nodding her head a great many
times, gave her the box, saying softly--

"You can run up now; she won't see you, deary. It's in a jar in the
closet. Now's the time."

Ellen could not bear to say no. She hesitated a minute, and then boldly
opened the buttery door.

"Keep out! What do you want?"

"She wanted me to go for the snuff," said Ellen, in a whisper; "please
do let me. I won't look at anything nor touch anything, but just get the
snuff."

With an impatient gesture her aunt snatched the box from her hand,
pushed Ellen out of the buttery, and shut the door. The old lady kissed
and fondled her as if she had done what she had only tried to do;
smoothed down her hair, praising its beauty, and whispered--

"Never mind, deary; you'll read to grandma, won't you?"

It cost Ellen no effort now. With the beginning of kind offices to her
poor old parent, kind feeling had sprung up fast; instead of disliking
and shunning she had begun to love her.

There was no dinner for any one this day. Mr. and Mrs. Van Brunt came to
an early tea; after which Ellen was sent to dress herself, and Mr. Van
Brunt to get some pieces of wood for the meat-choppers. He came back
presently with an armful of square bits of wood, and sitting down before
the fire, began to whittle the rough-sawn ends over the hearth. His
mother grew nervous. Miss Fortune bore it as she would have borne it
from no one else, but vexation was gathering in her breast for the first
occasion. Presently Ellen's voice was heard singing down the stairs.

"I'd give something to stop that child's pipe!" said Miss Fortune.
"She's eternally singing the same thing over and over--something about
'a charge to keep.' I'd a good notion to give her a charge to keep this
morning; it would have been to hold her tongue."

"That would have been a public loss, _I_ think," said Mr. Van Brunt
gravely.

"Well, you _are_ making a precious litter!" said the lady, turning short
upon him.

"Never mind," said he, in the same tone. "It's nothing but what the
fire'll burn up, anyhow. Don't worry yourself about it."

Just as Ellen came in, so did Nancy by the other door.

"What are you here for?" said Miss Fortune, with an ireful face.

"Oh, come to see the folks and get some peaches," said Nancy. "Come to
help along, to be sure."

"Ain't your grandma coming?"

"No, ma'am, she ain't. I knew she wouldn't be of much use, so I thought
I wouldn't ask her."

Miss Fortune immediately ordered her out. Half laughing, half serious,
Nancy tried to keep her ground. But Miss Fortune was in no mood to hear
parleying. She laid violent hands on the passive Nancy, and between
pulling and pushing at last got her out and shut the door. Her next
sudden move was to haul off her mother to bed. Ellen looked her sorrow
at this, and Mr. Van Brunt whistled _his_ thoughts; but that either made
nothing, or made Miss Fortune more determined. Off she went with her old
mother under her arm. While she was gone Ellen brought the broom to
sweep up the hearth, but Mr. Van Brunt would not let her.

"No," said he, "it's more than you nor I can do. You know," said he,
with a sly look, "we might sweep up the shavings into the wrong corner."

This entirely overset Ellen's gravity, and unluckily she could not get
it back again, even though warned by Mrs. Van Brunt that her aunt was
coming. Trying only made it worse, and Miss Fortune's entrance was but
the signal for a fresh burst of hearty merriment. What she was laughing
at was of course instantly asked, in no pleased tone of voice. Ellen
could not tell, and her silence and blushing only made her aunt more
curious.

"Come, leave bothering her," said Mr. Van Brunt at last. "She was only
laughing at some of my nonsense, and she won't tell on me."

"Will you swear to that?" said the lady sharply.

"Humph! No, I won't swear, unless you will go before a magistrate with
me; but it is true."

"I wonder if you think I am as easy blinded as all that comes to?" said
Miss Fortune scornfully.

And Ellen saw that her aunt's displeasure was all gathered upon her for
the evening. She was thinking of Alice's words, and trying to arm
herself with patience and gentleness, when the door opened, and in
walked Nancy as demurely as if nobody had ever seen her before.

"Miss Fortune, granny sent me to tell you she is sorry she can't come
to-night. She don't think it would do for her to be out so late. She's a
little touch of the rheumatics, she says."

"Very well," said Miss Fortune. "Now, clear out."

"You had better not say so, Miss Fortune. I'll do as much for you as any
two of the rest; see if I don't!"

"I don't care if you did as much as fifty!" said Miss Fortune
impatiently. "I won't have you here; so go, or I'll give you something
to help you along."

Nancy saw she had no chance with Miss Fortune in her present humour, and
went quickly out. A little while after Ellen was standing at the window,
from which, through the shed window, she had a view of the chip-yard,
and there she saw Nancy lingering still, walking round and round in a
circle, and kicking the snow with her feet in a discontented fashion.

"I am very glad she isn't going to be here," thought Ellen. "But, poor
thing! I dare say she is very much disappointed. And how sorry she will
feel going back all that long, long way home! What if I should get her
leave to stay? Wouldn't it be a fine way of returning good for evil?
But, oh dear! I don't want her here! But that's no matter."

The next minute Mr. Van Brunt was half startled by Ellen's hand on his
shoulder, and the softest of whispers in his ear. He looked up, very
much surprised.

"Why, do _you_ want her?" said he, likewise in a low tone.

"No," said Ellen, "but I know I should feel very sorry if I was in her
place."

Mr. Van Brunt whistled quietly to himself. "Well!" said he, "you _are_ a
good-natured piece."

"Miss Fortune," said he presently, "if that mischievous girl comes in
again, I recommend you to let her stay."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's true what she said--she'll do you as much good as
half-a-dozen. She'll behave herself this evening, I'll engage, or if she
don't I'll make her."

"She's too impudent to live! But I don't care; her grandmother is
another sort. But I guess she is gone by this time."

Ellen waited only till her aunt's back was turned. She slipped
downstairs and out at the kitchen door, and ran up the <DW72> to the
fence of the chip-yard.

"Nancy--Nancy!"

"What?" said Nancy, wheeling about.

"If you go in now, I guess Aunt Fortune will let you stay."

"What makes you think so?" said the other surlily.

"'Cause Mr. Van Brunt was speaking to her about it. Go in, and you'll
see."

Nancy looked doubtfully at Ellen's face, and then ran hastily in. More
slowly Ellen went back by the way she came. When she reached the upper
kitchen she found Nancy as busy as possible--as much at home already as
if she had been there all day, helping to set the table in the hall, and
going to and fro between that and the buttery with an important face.
Ellen was not suffered to help, nor even to stand and see what was
doing, so she sat down in the corner by her old friend Mrs. Van Brunt,
and with her head in her lap watched by the firelight the busy figures
that went back and forward, and Mr. Van Brunt, who still sat working at
his bits of board. There were pleasant thoughts in Ellen's head that
kept the dancing blaze company. Mr. Van Brunt once looked up and asked
her what she was smiling at. The smile brightened at his question, but
he got no more answer.

At last the supper was all set out in the hall so that it could very
easily be brought into the parlour when the time came; the waiter with
the best cups and saucers, which always stood covered with a napkin on
the table in the front room, was carried away; the great pile of wood in
the parlour fireplace, built ever since morning, was kindled; all was in
apple-pie order, and nothing was left but to sweep up the shavings that
Mr. Van Brunt had made. This was done; and then Nancy seized hold of
Ellen.

"Come along," said she, pulling her to the window--"come along, and let
us watch the folks come in."

"But it isn't time for them to be here yet," said Ellen; "the fire is
only just burning."

"Fiddle-de-dee! they won't wait for the fire to burn, I can tell you.
They'll be along directly, some of them. I wonder what Miss Fortune is
thinking of--that fire had ought to have been burning this long time
ago, but they won't set to work till they all get here, that's one
thing. Do you know what's going to be for supper?"

"No."

"Not a bit?"

"No."

"Ain't that funny! Then I'm better off than you. I say, Ellen, any one
would think _I_ was Miss Fortune's niece and you was somebody else,
wouldn't they? Goodness! I'm glad I ain't. I am going to make part of
the supper myself--what do you think of that? Miss Fortune always has
grand suppers--when she has 'em at all; 'tain't very often, that's one
thing. I wish she'd have a bee every week, I know, and let me come and
help. Hark!--didn't I tell you? there's somebody coming this minute;
don't you hear the sleigh-bells? I'll tell you who it is now; it's the
Lawsons; you see if it ain't. It's good it's such a bright night--we can
see 'em first-rate. There--here they come--just as I told you--here's
Mimy Lawson, the first one--if there's anybody I do despise it's Mimy
Lawson."

"Hush!" said Ellen. The door opened and the lady herself walked in,
followed by three others--large, tall women, muffled from head to foot
against the cold. The quiet kitchen was speedily changed into a scene of
bustle. Loud talking and laughing--a vast deal of unrobing--pushing back
and pulling up chairs on the hearth--and Nancy and Ellen running in and
out of the room with countless wrappers, cloaks, shawls, comforters,
hoods, mittens, and moccasins.

"What a precious muss it will be to get 'em all their own things when
they come to go away again," said Nancy. "Throw 'em all down there,
Ellen, in that heap. Now, come quick--somebody else'll be here
directly."

"Which is Miss Mimy?" said Ellen.

"That big ugly woman in a purple frock. The one next her is Kitty--the
black-haired one is Mary, and t'other is Fanny. Ugh! don't look at 'em;
I can't bear 'em."

"Why?"

"'Cause I don't, I can tell you; reason good. They are as stingy as they
can live. Their way is to get as much as they can out of other folks,
and let other folks get as little as they can out of them. I know 'em.
Just watch that purple frock when it comes to the eating. There's Mr.
Bob."

"Mr. who?"

"Bob--Bob Lawson. He's a precious small young man for such a big one.
There--go take his hat. Miss Fortune," said Nancy, coming forward,
"mayn't the gentlemen take care of their own things in the stoop, or
must the young ladies wait upon them too? t'other room won't hold
everything neither."

This speech raised a general laugh, in the midst of which Mr. Bob
carried his own hat and cloak into the shed as desired. Before Nancy had
done chuckling came another arrival; a tall, lank gentleman, with one of
those unhappy-shaped faces that are very broad at the eyes and very
narrow across the chops, and having a particularly grave and dull
expression. He was welcomed with such a shout of mingled laughter,
greeting, and jesting, that the room was in a complete hurly-burly; and
a plain-looking stout elderly lady, who had come in just behind him, was
suffered to stand unnoticed.

"It's Miss Janet," whispered Nancy--"Mr. Marshchalk's aunt. Nobody
wants to see her here; she's one of your pious kind, and that's a kind
your aunt don't take to."

Instantly Ellen was at her side, offering gently to relieve her of hood
and cloak, and with a tap on his arm drawing Mr. Van Brunt's attention
to the neglected person.

Quite touched by the respectful politeness of her manner, the old lady
inquired of Miss Fortune as Ellen went off with a load of mufflers, "Who
was that sweet little thing?"

"It's a kind of sweetmeats that is kept for company, Miss Janet,"
replied Miss Fortune, with a darkened brow.

"She's too good for everyday use, that's a fact," remarked Mr. Van
Brunt.

Miss Fortune  and tossed her head, and the company were for a
moment still with surprise. Another arrival set them agoing again.

"Here come the Hitchcocks, Ellen," said Nancy. "Walk in, Miss Mary--walk
in, Miss Jenny--Mr. Marshchalk has been here this great while."

Miss Mary Hitchcock was in nothing remarkable. Miss Jenny when her
wrappers were taken off showed a neat little round figure, and a round
face of very bright and good-humoured expression. It fastened Ellen's
eye, till Nancy whispered her to look at Mr. Juniper Hitchcock, and that
young gentleman entered dressed in the last style of elegance. His hair
was arranged in a faultless manner--unless perhaps it had a _little_ too
much of the tallow-candle; for when he had sat for a while before the
fire it had somewhat the look of being excessively wet with
perspiration. His boots were as shiny as his hair; his waistcoat was of
a startling pattern; his pantaloons were very tightly strapped down; and
at the end of a showy watch-ribbon hung some showy seals.

The kitchen was now one buzz of talk and good-humour. Ellen stood half
smiling to herself to see the universal smile, when Nancy twitched her.

"Here's more coming--Cilly Dennison, I guess--no, it's too tall; _who_
is it?"

But Ellen flung open the door with a half-uttered scream and threw
herself into the arms of Alice, and then led her in; her face full of
such extreme joy that it was perhaps one reason why her aunt's wore a
very doubtful air as she came forward. That could not stand however
against the graceful politeness and pleasantness of Alice's greeting.
Miss Fortune's brow smoothed, her voice cleared, she told Miss Humphreys
she was very welcome, and she meant it. Clinging close to her friend as
she went from one to another, Ellen was delighted to see that every one
echoed the welcome. Every face brightened at meeting hers, every eye
softened, and Jenny Hitchcock even threw her arms round Alice and kissed
her.

Ellen left now the window to Nancy and stood fast by her adopted sister,
with a face of satisfaction it was pleasant to see, watching her very
lips as they moved. Soon the door opened again, and various voices
hailed the new-comer as "Jane," "Jany," and "Jane Huff." She was a
decidedly plain-looking country girl, but when she came near, Ellen saw
a sober, sensible face and a look of thorough good-nature which
immediately ranked her next to Jenny Hitchcock in her fancy. Mr. Bill
Huff followed, a sturdy young man; quite as plain and hardly so
sensible-looking, he was still more shining with good-nature. He made no
pretension to the elegance of Mr. Juniper Hitchcock; but before the
evening was over, Ellen had a vastly greater respect for him.

Last, not least, came the Dennisons; it took Ellen some time to make up
her mind about them. Miss Cilly, or Cecilia, was certainly very elegant
indeed. Her hair was in the extremest state of nicety, with a little
round curl plastered in front of each ear; how she coaxed them to stay
there Ellen could not conceive. She wore a real watch, there was no
doubt of that, and there was even a ring on one of her fingers with two
or three blue or red stones in it. Her dress was smart, and so was her
figure, and her face was pretty; and Ellen overheard one of the Lawsons
whisper to Jenny Hitchcock that "there wasn't a greater lady in the land
than Cilly Dennison." Her brother was very different; tall and athletic,
and rather handsome, _he_ made no pretension to be a gentleman. He
valued his fine farming and fine cattle a great deal higher than Juniper
Hitchcock's gentility.




CHAPTER XXV

          W' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
            I wat they didna weary;
          An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,
            Their sports were cheap an' cheery.

                                        --BURNS.


As the party were all gathered it was time to set to work. The fire in
the front room was burning up finely now, but Miss Fortune had no idea
of having pork-chopping or apple-paring done there. One party was
despatched downstairs into the lower kitchen; the others made a circle
round the fire. Every one was furnished with a sharp knife, and a basket
of apples was given to each two or three. Now, it would be hard to say
whether talking or working went on best. Not faster moved the tongues
than the fingers; not smoother went the knives than the flow of talk;
while there was a constant leaping of quarters of apples from the hands
that had prepared them into the bowls, trays, or what not that stood on
the hearth to receive them. Ellen had nothing to do; her aunt had
managed it so, though she would gladly have shared the work that looked
so pretty and pleasant in other people's hands. Miss Fortune would not
let her; so she watched the rest, and amused herself as well as she
could with hearing and seeing; and standing between Alice and Jenny
Hitchcock, she handed them the apples out of the basket as fast as they
were ready for them. It was a pleasant evening that. Laughing and
talking went on merrily; stories were told; anecdotes, gossip, jokes,
passed from mouth to mouth; and not one made himself so agreeable, or
had so much to do with the life and pleasure of the party, as Alice.
Ellen saw it, delighted. The pared apples kept dancing into the bowls
and trays; the baskets got empty surprisingly fast; Nancy and Ellen had
to run to the barrels in the shed again and again for fresh supplies.

"Do they mean to do all these to-night?" said Ellen to Nancy on one of
these occasions.

"I don't know what _they_ mean, I am sure," replied Nancy, diving down
into the barrel to reach the apples; "if you had asked me what _Miss
Fortune_ meant, I might ha' given a guess."

"But only look," said Ellen--"only so many done, and all these to
do!--Well, I know what 'busy as a bee' means now if I never did before."

"You'll know it better to-morrow, I can tell you."

"Why?"

"Oh, wait till you see. I wouldn't be you to-morrow for something
though. Do you like sewing?"

"Sewing!" said Ellen. But "Girls! girls! what are you leaving the door
open for?" sounded from the kitchen, as they hurried in.

"Most got through, Nancy?" inquired Bob Lawson. (Miss Fortune had gone
downstairs.)

"Ha'n't begun to, Mr. Lawson. There's every bit as many to do as there
was at your house t'other night."

"What on airth does she want with such a sight of 'em," inquired Dan
Dennison.

"Live on pies and apple-sass till next summer," suggested Mimy Lawson.

"That's the stuff for my money!" replied her brother; "'taters and
apple-sass is my sass in the winter."

"It's good those is easy got," said his sister Mary; "the sass is the
most of the dinner to Bob most commonly."

"Are they fixing for more apple-sass downstairs?" Mr. Dennison went on
rather dryly.

"No--hush!" said Juniper Hitchcock--"sassages!"

"Humph!" said Dan, as he speared up an apple out of the basket on the
point of his knife, "ain't that something like what you call killing
two----"

"Just that exactly," said Jenny Hitchcock, as Dan broke off short, and
the mistress of the house walked in. "Ellen," she whispered, "don't you
want to go downstairs and see when the folks are coming up to help us?
And tell the doctor he must be spry, for we ain't agoing to get through
in a hurry," she added, laughing.

"Which is the doctor, ma'am?"

"The doctor--Doctor Marshchalk--don't you know?"

"Is he a doctor?" said Alice.

"No, not exactly, I suppose, but he's just as good as the real. He's a
natural knack at putting bones in their places, and all that sort of
thing. There was a man broke his leg horribly at Thirlwall the other
day, and Gibson was out of the way, and Marshchalk set it, and did it
famously, they said. So go, Ellen, and bring us word what they are all
about."

Mr. Van Brunt was head of the party in the lower kitchen. He stood at
one end of the table, cutting with his huge knife the hard frozen pork
into very thin slices, which the rest of the company took, and before
they had time to thaw cut up into small dice on the little boards Mr.
Van Brunt had prepared. As large a fire as the chimney would hold was
built up and blazing finely; the room looked as cosy and bright as the
one upstairs, and the people as busy and as talkative. They had less to
do, however, or they had been more smart, for they were drawing to the
end of their chopping; of which Miss Janet declared herself very glad,
for she said, "the wind came sweeping in under the doors and freezing
her feet the whole time, and she was sure the biggest fire ever was
built couldn't warm that room;" an opinion in which Mrs. Van Brunt
agreed perfectly. Miss Janet no sooner spied Ellen standing in the
chimney-corner than she called her to her side, kissed her, and talked
to her a long time, and finally fumbling in her pocket brought forth an
odd little three-cornered pin-cushion which she gave her for a keepsake.
Jane Huff and her brother also took kind notice of her; and Ellen began
to think the world was full of nice people. About half-past eight the
choppers went up and joined the company who were paring apples; the
circle was a very large one now, and the buzz of tongues grew quite
furious.

"What are you smiling at?" asked Alice of Ellen, who stood at her elbow.

"Oh, I don't know," said Ellen, smiling more broadly; and presently
added, "they're all so kind to me."

"Who?"

"Oh, everybody--Miss Jenny, and Miss Jane Huff, and Miss Janet, and Mrs.
Van Brunt, and Mr. Huff, they all speak so kindly and look so kindly at
me. But it's very funny what a notion people have for kissing--I wish
they hadn't--I've run away from three kisses already, and I'm so afraid
somebody else will try next."

"You don't seem very bitterly displeased," said Alice, smiling.

"I am, though, I can't bear it," said Ellen, laughing and blushing.
"There's Mr. Dennison caught me in the first place and tried to kiss me,
but I tried so hard to get away I believe he saw I was really in good
earnest and let me go. And just now, only think of it, while I was
standing talking to Miss Jane Huff downstairs, her brother caught me and
kissed me before I knew what he was going to do. I declare it's too
bad!" said Ellen, rubbing her cheek very hard as if she would rub off
the affront.

"You must let it pass, my dear; it is one way of expressing kindness.
They feel kindly towards you or they would not do it."

"Then I wish they wouldn't feel quite so kindly," said Ellen, "that's
all. Hark! what was that?"

"What is that?" said somebody else, and instantly there was silence,
broken again after a minute or two by the faint blast of a horn.

"It's old Father Swaim, I reckon," said Mr. Van Brunt. "I'll go fetch
him in."

"Oh yes! bring him in--bring him in," was heard on all sides.

"That horn makes me think of what happened to me once," said Jenny
Hitchcock to Ellen. "I was a little girl at school, not so big as you
are, and one afternoon, when we were all as still as mice and studying
away, we heard Father Swaim's horn----"

"What does he blow it for?" said Ellen, as Jenny stooped for her knife
which she had let fall.

"Oh, to let people know he's there, you know. Did you never see Father
Swaim?"

"No."

"La! he's the funniest old fellow! He goes round and round the country
carrying the newspapers; and we get him to bring us our letters from
the post-office, when there are any. He carries 'em in a pair of
saddle-bags hanging across that old white horse of his; I don't think
that horse will ever grow old, no more than his master; and in summer he
has a stick--so long--with a horse's tail tied to the end of it, to
brush away the flies, for the poor horse has had _his_ tail cut off
pretty short. I wonder if it isn't the very same," said Jenny, laughing
heartily: "Father Swaim thought he could manage it best, I guess."

"But what was it that happened to you that time at school?" said Ellen.

"Why, when we heard the horn blow, our master, the schoolmaster, you
know, went out to get a paper; and I was tired with sitting still, so I
jumped up and ran across the room and then back again, and over and back
again five or six times; and when he came in one of the girls up and
told of it. It was Fanny Lawson," said Jenny in a whisper to Alice, "and
I think she ain't much different now from what she was then. I can hear
her now, 'Mr. Starks, Jenny Hitchcock's been running all round the
room.' Well, what do you think he did to me? He took hold of my two
hands and swung me round and round by the arms till I didn't know which
was head and which was feet."

"What a queer schoolmaster?" said Ellen.

"Queer enough; you may say that. His name was Starks; the boys used to
call him Starksification. We did hate him, that's a fact. I'll tell you
what he did to a black boy of ours--you know our black Sam, Alice?--I
forget what he had been doing; but Starks took him so, by the rims of
the ears and danced him up and down upon the floor."

"But didn't that hurt him?"

"Hurt him! I guess it did! he meant it should. He tied me under the
table once. Sometimes when he wanted to punish two boys at a time he
would set them to spit in each other's faces."

"Oh, don't tell me about him!" cried Ellen, with a face of horror; "I
don't like to hear it."

Jenny laughed; and just then the door opened and Mr. Van Brunt and the
old news-carrier came in.

He was a venerable, mild-looking old man, with thin hair as white as
snow. He wore a long snuff- coat, and a broad-brimmed hat, the
sides of which were oddly looped up to the crown with twine; his tin
horn or trumpet was in his hand. His saddle-bags were on Mr. Van Brunt's
arm. As soon as she saw him Ellen was fevered with the notion that
perhaps he had something for her, and she forgot everything else. It
would seem that the rest of the company had the same hope, for they
crowded round him shouting out welcomes and questions and inquiries for
letters, all in a breath.

"Softly, softly," said the old man, sitting down slowly; "not all at
once; I can't attend to you all at once; one at a time--one at a time."

"Don't attend to 'em at all till you're ready," said Miss Fortune; "let
'em wait." And she handed him a glass of cider.

He drank it off at a breath, smacking his lips as he gave back the glass
to her hand, and exclaiming, "That's prime!" Then taking up his
saddle-bags from the floor, he began slowly to undo the fastenings.

"You are going to our house to-night, ain't you, Father Swaim?" said
Jenny.

"That's where I _was_ going," said the old man; "I _was_ agoing to stop
with your father, Miss Jenny; but since I've got into farmer Van Brunt's
hands, I don't know any more what's going to become of me; and after
that glass of cider I don't much care. Now, let's see, let's see--'Miss
Jenny Hitchcock,' here's something for you. I should like very much to
know what's inside of that letter, there's a blue seal to it. Ah, young
folks, young folks!"

Jenny received her letter amidst a great deal of laughing and joking,
and seemed herself quite as much amused as anybody.

"'Jedediah B. Lawson,'--there's for your father, Miss Mimy; that saves
me a long tramp, if you've twenty-one cents in your pocket, that is; if
you ha'n't, I shall be obleeged to tramp after that. Here's something
for 'most all of you, I'm thinking. 'Miss Cecilia Dennison,' your fair
hands--how's the Squire? rheumatism, eh? I think I'm a younger man now
than your father, Cecilly; and yet I must ha' seen a good many years
more than Squire Dennison; I must surely. 'Miss Fortune Emerson,' that's
for you; a double letter, ma'am."

Ellen with a beating heart had pressed nearer and nearer to the old man,
till she stood close by his right hand, and could see every letter as he
handed it out. A spot of deepening red was on each cheek as her eye
eagerly scanned letter after letter; it spread to a sudden flush when
the last name was read. Alice watched in some anxiety her keen look as
it followed the letter from the old man's hand to her aunt's, and thence
to the pocket, where Miss Fortune coolly bestowed it. Ellen could not
stand this; she sprang forward across the circle.

"Aunt Fortune, there's a letter inside of that for me--won't you give it
to me?--won't you give it to me?" she repeated, trembling.

Her aunt did not notice her by so much as a look; she turned away and
began talking to some one else. The red had left Ellen's face when Alice
could see it again; it was livid and spotted from stifled passion. She
stood in a kind of maze. But as her eyes caught Alice's anxious and
sorrowful look, she covered her face with her hands, and as quick as
possible made her escape out of the room.

For some minutes Alice heard none of the hubbub around her. Then came a
knock at the door, and the voice of Thomas Grimes saying to Mr. Van
Brunt that Miss Humphreys' horse was there.

"Mr. Swaim," said Alice, rising, "I don't like to leave you with these
gay friends of ours; you'll stand no chance of rest with them to-night.
Will you ride home with me?"

Many of the party began to beg Alice would stay to supper, but she said
her father would be uneasy. The old news-carrier concluded to go with
her, for he said "there was a pint he wanted to mention to Parson
Humphreys that he had forgotten to bring for'ard when they were talking
on that 'ere subject two months ago." So Nancy brought her things from
the next room and helped her on with them, and looked pleased, as well
she might, at the smile and kind words with which she was rewarded.
Alice lingered at her leave-taking, hoping to see Ellen; but it was not
till the last moment that Ellen came in. She did not say a word; but the
two little arms were put around Alice's neck, and held her with a long,
close earnestness which did not pass from her mind all the evening
afterward.

When she was gone the company sat down again to business; and
apple-paring went on more steadily than ever for a while, till the
bottom of the barrels was seen, and the last basketful of apples was
duly emptied. Then there was a general shout; the kitchen was quickly
cleared, and everybody's face brightened, as much as to say, "Now for
fun!" While Ellen and Nancy and Miss Fortune and Mrs. Van Brunt were
running all ways with trays, pans, baskets, knives, and buckets, the fun
began by Mr. Juniper Hitchcock's whistling in his dog and setting him to
do various feats for the amusement of the company. There followed such a
rushing, leaping, barking, laughing, and scolding, on the part of the
dog and his admirers, that the room was in an uproar. He jumped over a
stick; he got into a chair and sat up on two legs; he kissed the ladies'
hands; he suffered an apple-paring to be laid across his nose, then
threw it up with a jerk and caught it in his mouth. Nothing very
remarkable certainly, but, as Miss Fortune observed to somebody, "if he
had been the learned pig there couldn't ha' been more fuss made over
him."

Ellen stood looking on, smiling partly at the dog and his master, and
partly at the antics of the company. Presently Mr. Van Brunt, bending
down to her, said--

"What is the matter with your eyes?"

"Nothing," said Ellen, starting--"at least nothing that's any matter, I
meant."

"Come here," said he, drawing her on one side; "tell me all about
it--what is the matter?"

"Never mind--please don't ask me, Mr. Van Brunt. I ought not to tell
you--it isn't any matter."

But her eyes were full again, and he still held her fast doubtfully.

"_I'll_ tell you about it, Mr. Van Brunt," said Nancy, as she came past
them, "you let her go, and I'll tell you by-and-by."

And Ellen tried in vain afterwards to make her promise she would not.

"Come, June," said Miss Jenny, "we have got enough of you and
Jumper--turn him out; we are going to have the cat now. Come!--Puss,
puss in the corner! go off in t'other room, will you, everybody that
don't want to play. Puss, puss!"

Now the fun began in good earnest, and few minutes had passed before
Ellen was laughing with all her heart, as if she never had had anything
to cry for in her life. After "puss, puss in the corner," came
"blind-man's-buff;" and this was played with great spirit, the two most
distinguished being Nancy and Dan Dennison, though Miss Fortune played
admirably well. Ellen had seen Nancy play before; but she forgot her own
part of the game in sheer amazement at the way Mr. Dennison managed his
long body, which seemed to go where there was no room for it, and vanish
into air just when the grasp of some grasping "blind man" was ready to
fasten upon him. And when _he_ was blinded, he seemed to know by
instinct where the walls were, and keeping clear of them he would swoop
like a hawk from one end of the room to the other, pouncing upon the
unlucky people who could by no means get out of the way fast enough.
When this had lasted a while there was a general call for "the fox and
the goose;" and Miss Fortune was pitched upon for the latter; she having
in the other game showed herself capable of good generalship. But who
for the fox? Mr. Van Brunt?

"Not I," said Mr. Van Brunt--"there ain't nothing of the fox about me;
Miss Fortune would beat me all hollow."

"Who then, farmer?" said Bill Huff; "come, who is the fox? Will I do?"

"Not you, Bill; the goose 'ud be too much for you."

There was a general shout, and cries of "who then?" "who then?"

"Dan Dennison," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Now look out for a sharp fight."

Amidst a great deal of laughing and confusion the line was formed, each
person taking hold of a handkerchief or band passed round the waist of
the person before him, except when the women held by each other's
skirts. They were ranged according to height, the tallest being next
their leader the "goose." Mr. Van Brunt and the elder ladies, and two or
three more, chose to be lookers-on, and took post outside the door.

Mr. Dennison began by taking off his coat, to give himself more freedom
in his movements; for his business was to catch the train of the goose,
one by one, as each in turn became the hindmost; while _her_ object was
to baffle him and keep her family together, meeting him with outspread
arms at every rush he made to seize one of her brood; while the long
train behind her, following her quick movements and swaying from side to
side to get out of the reach of the furious fox, was sometimes in the
shape of the letter C, and sometimes in that of the letter S, and
sometimes looked like a long snake with a curling tail. Loud was the
laughter, shrill the shrieks, as the fox drove them hither and thither,
and seemed to be in all parts of the room at once. He was a cunning fox
that, as well as a bold one. Sometimes, when they thought him quite
safe, held at bay by the goose, he dived under or leaped over her
outstretched arms, and _almost_ snatched hold of little Ellen, who being
the least was the last one of the party. But Ellen played very well, and
just escaped him two or three times, till he declared she gave him so
much trouble that when he caught her he would "kiss her the worst kind."
Ellen played none the worse for that; however she was caught at last,
and kissed too; there was no help for it, so she bore it as well as she
could. Then she watched, and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks
to see how the fox and the goose dodged each other, what tricks were
played, and how the long train pulled each other about. At length Nancy
was caught; and then Jenny Hitchcock; and then Cecilia Dennison; and
then Jane Huff, and so on, till at last the fox and the goose had a long
struggle for Mimy Lawson, which would never have come to an end if Mimy
had not gone over to the enemy.

There was a general pause. The hot and tired company were seated
round the room, panting and fanning themselves with their
pocket-handkerchiefs, and speaking in broken sentences; glad to rest
even from laughing. Miss Fortune had thrown herself down on a seat close
by Ellen, when Nancy came up and softly asked, "Is it time to beat the
eggs now?" Miss Fortune nodded, and then drew her close to receive a
long whisper in her ear, at the end of which Nancy ran off.

"Is there anything _I_ can do, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen, so gently and
timidly that it ought to have won a kind answer.

"Yes," said her aunt, "you may go and put yourself to bed; it's high
time long ago." And looking round as she moved off she added "Go!"--with
a little nod that as much as said, "I am in earnest."

Ellen's heart throbbed; she stood doubtful. One word to Mr. Van Brunt
and she need not go, that she knew. But as surely too that word would
make trouble and do harm. And then she remembered, "A charge to keep I
have!" She turned quick and quitted the room.

Ellen sat down on the first stair she came to, for her bosom was heaving
up and down, and she was determined not to cry. The sounds of talking
and laughing came to her ear from the parlour, and there at her side
stood the covered-up supper; for a few minutes it was hard work to keep
her resolve. The thick breath came and went very fast. Through the
fanlights of the hall door, opposite to which she was sitting, the
bright moonlight streamed in; and presently, as Ellen quieted, it seemed
to her fancy like a gentle messenger from its Maker, bidding His child
remember Him; and then came up some words in her memory that her
mother's lips had fastened there long ago; "I love them that love me,
and they that seek me early shall find me." She remembered her mother
had told her it is Jesus who says this. Her lost pleasure was well-nigh
forgotten; and yet as she sat gazing into the moonlight Ellen's eyes
were gathering tears very fast.

"Well, I _am_ seeking Him," she thought; "can it be that He loves me!
Oh, I'm so glad!"

And they were glad tears that little Ellen wiped away as she went
upstairs; for it was too cold to sit there long if the moon was ever so
bright.

She had her hand on the latch of the door when her grandmother called
out from the other room to know who was there.

"It's I, grandma."

"Ain't somebody there? Come in here--who is it?"

"It's I, grandma," said Ellen, coming to the door.

"Come in here, deary," said the old woman, in a lower tone; "what is it
all? what's the matter? who's downstairs?"

"It's a bee, grandma; there's nothing the matter."

"A bee! who's been stung? what's all the noise about?"

"'Tisn't that kind of bee, grandma; don't you know? there's a parcel of
people that came to pare apples, and they've been playing games in the
parlour--that's all."

"Paring apples, eh? Is there company below?"

"Yes, ma'am; a whole parcel of people."

"Dear me!" said the old lady, "I oughtn't to ha' been abed! Why ha'n't
Fortune told me? I'll get right up. Ellen, you go in that fur closet and
bring me my paddysoy that hangs there, and then help me on with my
things; I'll get right up. Dear me! what was Fortune thinking about?"

The moonlight served very well instead of candles. After twice bringing
the wrong dresses Ellen at last hit upon the "paddysoy," which the old
lady knew immediately by the touch. In haste, and not without some fear
and trembling on Ellen's part, she was arrayed in it; her best cap put
on, not over hair in the best order, Ellen feared, but the old lady
would not stay to have it made better; Ellen took care of her down the
stairs, and after opening the door for her went back to her room.

A little while had passed, and Ellen was just tying her night-cap strings
and ready to go peacefully to sleep, when Nancy burst in.

"Ellen! hurry! you must come right downstairs."

"Downstairs! why, I am just ready to go to bed."

"No matter, you must come right away down. There's Mr. Van Brunt says he
won't begin supper till you come."

"But does Aunt Fortune know?"

"Yes, I tell you! and the quicker you come the better she'll be pleased.
She sent me after you in all sorts of a hurry. She said she didn't know
where you was."

"Said she didn't know where I was! Why, she told me herself----," Ellen
began and stopped short.

"Of course!" said Nancy, "don't you think I know that? But _he_ don't,
and if you want to plague her you'll just tell him. Now come and be
quick, will you. The supper's splendid."

Ellen lost the first view of the table, for everything had begun to be
pulled to pieces before she came in. The company were all crowded round
the table, eating and talking and helping themselves; and ham and bread
and butter, pumpkin pies and mince pies and apple pies, cakes of various
kinds, and glasses of egg-nogg and cider, were in everybody's hands. One
dish in the middle of the big table had won the praise of every tongue;
nobody could guess and many asked how it was made, but Miss Fortune kept
a satisfied silence, pleased to see the constant stream of comers to the
big dish till it was near empty. Just then Mr. Van Brunt, seeing Ellen
had nothing, gathered up all that was left and gave it to her.

It was sweet and cold and rich. Ellen told her mother afterwards it was
the best thing she had ever tasted except the ice-cream she once gave
her in New York. She had taken, however, but one spoonful when her eye
fell upon Nancy, standing back of all the company, and forgotten. Nancy
had been upon her good behaviour all the evening, and it was a singular
proof of this that she had not pushed in and helped herself among the
first. Ellen's eye went once or twice from her plate to Nancy, and then
she crossed over and offered it to her. It was eagerly taken, and, a
little disappointed, Ellen stepped back again. But she soon forgot the
disappointment. "She'll know now that I don't bear her any grudge," she
thought.

"Ha'n't you got nothing?" said Nancy, coming up presently; "that wasn't
your'n that you gave me, was it?"

Ellen nodded smilingly.

"Well, there ain't no more of it," said Nancy. "The bowl is empty."

"I know it," said Ellen.

"Why, didn't you like it?"

"Yes, very much."

"Why, you're a queer little fish," said Nancy. "What did you get Mr. Van
Brunt to let me in for?"

"How did you know I did?"

"Cause he told me. Say--what did you do it for? Mr. Dennison, won't you
give Ellen a piece of cake or something? Here--take this," said Nancy,
pouncing upon a glass of egg-nogg which a gap in the company enabled her
to reach; "I made it more than half myself. Ain't it good?"

"Yes, very," said Ellen, smacking her lips; "what's in it?"

"Oh, plenty of good things. But what made you ask Mr. Van Brunt to let
me stop to-night? you didn't tell me--did you want me to stay?"

"Never mind," said Ellen; "don't ask me any questions."

"Yes, but I will though, and you've got to answer me. Why did you? Come!
do you like me?--say."

"I should like you, I dare say, if you would be different."

"Well, I don't care," said Nancy, after a little pause, "I like _you_,
though you're as queer as you can be. I don't care whether you like me
or not. Look here, Ellen, _that_ cake there is the best, I know it is,
for I've tried 'em all. You know I told Van Brunt I would tell him what
you were crying about?"

"Yes, and I asked you not. Did you?"

Nancy nodded, being at the moment still further engaged in "trying" the
cake.

"I am sorry you did. What did he say?"

"He didn't say much to _me_--somebody else will hear of it, I guess. He
_was_ mad about it, or I am mistaken. What makes you sorry?"

"It will only do harm, and make Aunt Fortune angry."

"Well, that's just what I should like if I were you. I can't make you
out."

"I'd a great deal rather have her like me," said Ellen. "Was she vexed
when grandma came down?"

"I don't know, but she had to keep it to herself if she was; everybody
else was so glad, and Mr. Van Brunt made such a fuss. Just look at the
old lady, how pleased she is. I declare, if the folks ain't talking of
going. Come, Ellen, now for the cloaks! you and me'll finish our supper
afterwards."

That, however, was not to be. Nancy was offered a ride home to Mrs. Van
Brunt's and a lodging there. They were ready cloaked and shawled, and
Ellen was still hunting for Miss Janet's things in the moonlit hall,
when she heard Nancy close by, in a lower tone than common, say--

"Ellen, will you kiss me?"

Ellen dropped her armful of things, and taking Nancy's hands, gave her
truly the kiss of peace.

When she went up to undress for the second time, she found on her
bed--her letter! And with tears Ellen kneeled down and gave earnest
thanks for this blessing, and that she had been able to gain Nancy's
goodwill.




CHAPTER XXVI

          He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.

                                                  --MACBETH.


It was Tuesday, the 22nd of December, and late in the day. Not a
pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low; the air was keen and
raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was sitting alone in the
firelight, when two little feet came running round the corner of the
house; the glass door opened, and Ellen rushed in.

"I have come! I have come!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear Alice! I'm so
glad!"

So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.

"But how late, my child! how late you are."

"Oh, I thought I never was going to get done," said Ellen, pulling off
her things in a great hurry, and throwing them on the sofa; "but I am
here at last. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Why, what has been the matter?" said Alice, folding up what Ellen laid
down.

"Oh, a great deal of matter; I couldn't think what Nancy meant last
night; I know very well now. I shan't want to see any more apples all
winter. What do you think I have been about all to-day, dear Miss
Alice?"

"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling, "if I am to
guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good Spitzenberg yourself."

"That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune said awhile
ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy potatoes."

"But about the apples?" said Alice.

"Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the
first thing I knew Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of
apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down on the floor, and then she
gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together,
and as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I
tried very hard to get through before, but I could not, and I am so
tired! I thought I never _should_ get to the bottom of that big basket."

"Never mind, love; come to the fire; we'll try and forget all
disagreeable things while we are together."

"I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat down in
Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't care for it at all
now."

But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour Miss
Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept her for awhile
quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat
so till the clock struck half-past five; then Alice proposed they should
go into the kitchen and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she
had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great cordiality.
She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her
husband that Ellen was "an uncommon well-behaved child." She said she
would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few
minutes.

"But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body out by, waiting to speak to you.
I was just coming in to tell you; will you please to see her now?"

"Certainly, let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?"

"No, Miss Alice; there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her."

The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young,
rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed,
untidy; no wonder Margery's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into
her spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about
her, the hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the
snow lay white, not yet melted away.

"Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice pleasantly.

"If ye plase, ma'am, it's the master I'm wanting," said the woman,
dropping a curtsey.

"My father? Margery, will you tell him?"

Margery departed.

"Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father will be
here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?"

"It is, ma'am; a bitter storm."

"Have you come far?"

"It's a good bit, my lady, it's more nor a mile beyant Carra, just right
forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback; in Jemmy Morrison's
woods, where Pat M'Farren's clearing is; it's there I live, my lady."

"That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow," said Alice
kindly; "sit down and come nearer the fire. Margery will give you
something to refresh you."

"I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night; and
when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's little the cold or the
storm can do to put out the heart's fire."

"Life and death? who is sick?" said Alice.

"It's my own child, ma'am; my own boy; all the child I have; and I'll
have none by the morning light."

"Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?"

"Myself doesn't know."

The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and
Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from
bursting out. They exchanged glances.

"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet
shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly.
Margery--oh, that's right; a cup of tea will do her good. What do you
want with my father?"

"The Lord bless ye! I'll tell you, my lady."

She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that
Margery offered her.

"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a
prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left
it; it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm
thinking the bitter winters o' this cowld country has chilled the life
out o' him, and trouble's cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone.
"I seed him grow waker an' waker, an' his daar face grew thinner an'
thinner, and the red all left it; only two burning spots was on it some
days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I
couldn't do nothing at all to help him, but he just growd waker an'
waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him; but he's
an 'asy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to
this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor,
an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be
better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was like a
heavenly angel itself already, an' always was, but then more nor ever.
Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely, let Father Shannon say what
he will."

She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and
pitying.

"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the
tears that came quickly again; "an' I seed he was going fast from me,
an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the
men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is
it thin?' says I. 'About the jantleman that praaches at Carra,' says he;
'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praast at all
at Carra, an' I thought he was draaming, or out o' his head, or crazy
wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,'
says I, 'what is it you want?' says I; 'an' sure if it's anything in
heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,'
says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms to my
neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver,
an' kissed me, he did; an', says he, 'Mother daar,' says he, 'if ye love
me,' says he, 'fetch me the good jantleman that praaches at Carra till I
spake to him.' 'Is it the praast you want, John, my boy?' says I; 'sure
he's in it,' says I; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had
come home wid him half-an-hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's
not him at all that I maan; it's the jantleman that spakes in the little
white church at Carra; he's not a praast at all,' says he. 'An' who is
he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or
how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him thin the night,
Kitty Dolan,' says my husband; 'are ye mad?' says he; 'sure it's not his
own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic, he is,'
says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praast in yer own
house.' 'I'm maaning none,' says I; 'nor more he isn't a hiritic; but if
he was, he's a born angel to Michael Dolan anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the
kiss of his lips on my face wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an'
he a-dying? by the blessing an' I will, if twenty men stud between me
an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praast, if there's the
love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word
for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till
here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy?
for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."

"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was
speaking. "Wait but one moment."

In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their
walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.

"It storms very hard," she said, "and he has not had his tea! But he
couldn't wait. Come, Ellen love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get
back again! it will be so deep by that time."

There was a cloud on the fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed
away, and quiet and calm as ever she sat down at the little tea-table
with Ellen. From _her_ face all shadows seemed to have flown for ever.
Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery's good bread and butter, and the
nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear
face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright
in reply. Ellen was well pleased for her part that the third seat was
empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometimes as a gust of wind swept by,
and once or twice went to the window.

After tea Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly
down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very
contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire; while
Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some purse
silk in a mysterious fashion that no eye could be quick enough to
follow, and with such skill and steadiness that the work grew fast under
her hand.

"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.

"Did you? What about?"

"It was pleasant too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk--"but
very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on
board the boat--you know?--I told you about him?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where, and he
didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; and I thought I
didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know _me_, but then I
thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see
me; and he asked me if I had been _pious_ since he saw me."

Ellen stopped to laugh.

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very pleased."

"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."

"_I_ didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my dream."

"Had what? Kept close to the truth?"

"No, no;--been what he said."

"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.

"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen
thoughtfully.

"How so, my dear?"

"I don't know, Miss Alice--because I never _am_ good, I suppose."

"But what has been the matter to-day?"

"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and then when
I found I must do all those baskets of apples first I was very
ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was, and said something that made
me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner,
and when I found I couldn't I said I wouldn't come to dinner, but she
made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything,
and then when I got back to the apples again I sewed so hard that I ran
the needle into my finger ever so far--see there! what a mark it
left!--and Aunt Fortune said it served me right and she was glad of it,
and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very
sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved
so hard I wouldn't?"

"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours
are--it _is_ strange they should be so evil."

"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 'actions speak
louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she only wouldn't say that
just as she does! it does worry me so."

"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat
looking sorrowfully up at her; "you must try not to give her occasion.
Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good."

"That is just what mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her
arms round Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love,
gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection.

"Oh, what do you think!" she said suddenly, her face changing again--"I
got my letter last night!"

"Your letter!"

"Yes, the letter the old man brought--don't you know? And it was written
on the ship, and there was only a little bit from mamma, and a little
bit from papa, but so good! Papa says she is a great deal better, and
he has no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite
well again. Isn't that good?"

"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."

"It was on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there--and don't
care either, so long as I have got it. What are you making?"

"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection.

"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"

"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."

"Oh, that's beautiful!" said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect;
"and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"

"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."

"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New
Year."

"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year presents!" said
Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. "I
wish I could make something for somebody. Oh, I wonder if I couldn't
make something for Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to very much!"

Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.

"What could you make for him?"

"I don't know--that's the thing. He keeps his money in his pocket--and
besides, I don't know how to make purses."

"There are other things besides purses. How would a watch-guard do?
Does he wear a watch?"

"I don't know whether he does or not. He doesn't every day, I am sure;
but I don't know about Sundays."

"Then we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a nightcap."

"A nightcap? You're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think a nightcap
would be pretty for a Christmas present, do you?"

"Well, what shall we do, Ellen?" said Alice, laughing. "I made a pocket
pin-cushion for papa once when I was a little girl; but I fancy Mr. Van
Brunt would not know exactly what use to make of such a convenience. I
don't think you could fail to please him though, with anything you
should hit upon."

"I have got a dollar," said Ellen, "to buy stuff with; it came in my
letter last night. If I only knew what!"

Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, while
Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible article of Mr.
Van Brunt's dress.

"I have some nice pieces of fine linen," said Alice; "suppose I cut out
a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and then Margery
will starch and iron it for you, all ready to give to him. How will that
do? Can you stitch well enough?"

"Oh yes, I guess I can," said Ellen. "Oh, thank you, dear Alice! you are
the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do you think?"

"I am sure he will very much."

"Then that will do nicely," said Ellen, much relieved. "And now, what do
you think about Nancy's Bible?"

"Nothing could be better, only that I am afraid Nancy would either sell
it for something else, or let it go to destruction very quickly. I never
heard of her spending five minutes over a book, and the Bible, I am
afraid, last of all."

"But I think," said Ellen slowly, "I think she would not spoil it or
sell it either if _I_ gave it to her."

And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last night.

"That's the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for a long
time," said Alice. "We will get her the Bible by all means, my dear--a
nice one--and I hope you will be able to persuade her to read it."

She rose as she spoke and went to the glass door. Ellen followed her,
and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She opened the
door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their faces, and they
were glad to shut it again.

"It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy and cold.
Papa will be late getting home."

"I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice."

"I am not _much_ worried, love. I have often known papa out late before,
but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, we'll try to make
a good use of the time while we are waiting. Suppose you read to me
while I work."

She took down a volume of Cowper and found his account of the three pet
hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller pieces of poetry.
Then followed a long talk about hares and other animals; about Cowper
and his friends and his way of life. Time passed swiftly away; it was
getting late.

"How weary papa will be," said Alice, "he has had nothing to eat since
dinner. I'll tell you what we'll do, Ellen," she exclaimed, as she threw
her work down, "we'll make some chocolate for him--that'll be the very
thing. Ellen, dear, run into the kitchen and ask Margery to bring me the
little chocolate pot, and a pitcher of night's milk."

Margery brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice had cut up
the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen watched it with
great interest till it was melted and the boiling water stirred in, and
the whole was simmering quietly on the coals.

"Is it done now?"

"No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be put in, and
when that is boiled the eggs, and then it will be done."

With Margery and the chocolate pot the cat had walked in. Ellen
immediately tried to improve his acquaintance; that was not so easy. The
Captain chose the corner of the rug farthest from her, in spite of all
her calling and coaxing, paying her no more attention than if he had not
heard her. Ellen crossed over to him and began most tenderly and
respectfully to stroke his head and back, touching his soft hair with
great care. Parry presently lifted up his head uneasily, as much as to
say, "I wonder how long this is going to last," and finding there was
every prospect of its lasting some time, he fairly got up and walked to
the other end of the rug. Ellen followed him and tried again, with
exactly the same effect.

"Well, cat, you aren't very kind," said she, at length; "Alice, he won't
let me have anything to do with him."

"I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable; he is a cat of very bad
taste, that is all I can say."

"But I never saw such a cat! he won't let me touch him ever so softly;
he lifts up his head and looks as cross!--and then walks off."

"He don't know you yet, and truth is, Parry has no fancy for extending
the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty!" said Alice, fondly
stroking his head, "why don't you behave better?"

Parry lifted his head, and opened and shut his eyes, with an expression
of great satisfaction very different from that he had bestowed on Ellen.
Ellen gave him up for the present as a hopeless case, and turned her
attention to the chocolate, which had now received the milk, and must be
watched lest it should run over, which Alice said it would very easily
do when once it began to boil again. Meanwhile Ellen wanted to know what
chocolate was made of, where it came from, where it was made best,
burning her little face in the fire all the time lest the pot should
boil over while she was not looking. At last the chocolate began to
gather a rich froth, and Ellen called out:

"Oh, Alice, look here quick; here's the shape of the spoon on the top of
the chocolate! do look at it."

An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly raised on the
smooth frothy surface. As they were both bending forward to watch it,
Alice waiting to take the pot off the moment it began to boil, Ellen
heard a slight click of the lock of the door, and turning her head was a
little startled to see a stranger there, standing still at the far end
of the room. She touched Alice's arm without looking round. But Alice
started to her feet with a slight scream, and in another minute had
thrown her arms round the stranger and was locked in his. Ellen knew
what it meant now very well. She turned away as if she had nothing to do
with what was going on there, and lifted the pot of chocolate off the
fire with infinite difficulty; but it was going to boil over, and she
would have broken her back rather than not do it. And then she stood
with her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire, as if
she was determined not to see them till she couldn't help it. But what
she was thinking of, Ellen could not have told, then or afterward. It
was but a few minutes, though it seemed to her a great many, before they
drew near the fire. Curiosity began to be strong, and she looked round
to see if the new-comer was like Alice. No, not a bit--how
different!--darker hair and eyes--not a bit like her; handsome enough,
too, to be her brother. And Alice did not look like herself; her usually
calm, sweet face was quivering and sparkling now, lit up as Ellen had
never seen it, oh, how bright! Poor Ellen herself had never looked
duller in her life; and when Alice said gaily, "This is my brother,
Ellen," her confusion of thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into
a flood of tears; she sprang and hid her face in Alice's arms.

Ellen's were not the only eyes that were full just then, but of course
she didn't know that.

"Come, Ellen," whispered Alice presently, "look up! what kind of a
welcome is this? come! we have no business with tears just now--won't
you run into the kitchen for me, love," she added more low, "and ask
Margery to bring some bread and butter, and anything else she has that
is fit for a traveller?"

Glad of an escape, Ellen darted away that her wet face might not be
seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when she returned.

"John," said Alice, "this is my little sister that I wrote to you
about--Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well as mine,
you know."

"Stop! stop!" said her brother. "Miss Ellen, this sister of mine is
giving us away to each other at a great rate--I should like to know
first what you say to it. Are you willing to take a strange brother upon
her recommendation?"

Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker's face, but meeting
the grave though somewhat comical look of two very keen eyes, she looked
down again, and merely answered "yes."

"Then if I am to be your brother you must give me a brother's right, you
know," said he, drawing her gently to him, and kissing her gravely on
the lips.

Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John Humphreys and
Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentlemen of the apple-paring; for though
she  a good deal, she made no objection and showed no
displeasure. Alice and she now busied themselves with getting the cups
and saucers out of the cupboard, and setting the table; but all that
evening, through whatever was doing, Ellen's eyes sought the stranger as
if by fascination. She watched him whenever she could without being
noticed. At first she was in doubt what to think of him; she was quite
sure from that one look into his eyes that he was a person to be feared;
there was no doubt of that, as to the rest she didn't know.

"And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the evening?" said
John Humphreys, one time that Alice was gone into the kitchen on some
kind errand for him.

"Talking, sir," said Ellen doubtfully.

"Talking! this whole evening? Alice must have improved. What have you
been talking about?"

"Hares and dogs, and about Mr. Cowper, and some other things----"

"Private affairs, eh?" said he, with again the look Ellen had seen
before.

"Yes, sir," said Ellen, nodding and laughing.

"And how came you upon Mr. Cowper?"

"Sir?"

"How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper?"

"I was reading about his hares, and about John Gilpin; and then Alice
told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends."

"Well, I don't know after all that you have had a pleasanter evening
than I have had," said her questioner, "though I have been riding hard
with the cold wind in my face, and the driving snow doing all it could
to discomfort me. I have had this very bright fireside before me all the
way."

He fell into a fit of grave musing, which lasted till Alice came in.
Then suddenly fell a fumbling in his pocket.

"Here's a note for you," said he, throwing it into her lap.

"A note!--Sophia Marshman!--where did you get it?"

"From her own hand. Passing there to-day, I thought I must stop a moment
to speak to them, and had no notion of doing more; but Mrs. Marshman
was very kind, and Miss Sophia in despair, so the end of it was I
dismounted and went in to await the preparing of that billet, while my
poor nag was led off to the stables and a fresh horse supplied me. I
fancy that tells you on what conditions."

"Charming!" said Alice, "to spend Christmas--I am very glad; I should
like to very much--with you, dear. If I can only get papa--but I think
he will; it will do him a great deal of good. To-morrow, she says, we
must come; but I doubt the weather will not let us; we shall see."

"I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the sleighing
will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old sleigh is in being
yet, I suppose?"

"Oh yes! in good order. Ellen, what are you looking so grave about? you
are going too."

"I!" said Ellen, a great spot of crimson coming in each cheek.

"To be sure; do you think I am going to leave you behind."

"But----"

"But what?"

"There won't be room."

"Room in the sleigh? Then we'll put John on Prince Charlie, and let him
ride there postillion-fashion."

"But--Mr. Humphreys?"

"He always goes on horseback; he will ride Sharp or old John."

In great delight Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss; and then they all
gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or rather to see John
take his, which his sister would not let him wait for any longer. The
storm had ceased, and through the broken clouds the moon and stars were
looking out, so they were no more uneasy for Mr. Humphreys, and expected
him every moment. Still the supper was begun and ended without him, and
they had drawn round the fire again before his welcome step was at last
heard.

There was new joy then; new embracing, and questioning and answering;
the little circle opened to let him in; and Alice brought the corner of
the table to his side, and poured him out a cup of hot chocolate. But
after drinking half of it, and neglecting the eatables beside him, he
sat with one hand in the other, his arm leaning on his knee, with a kind
of softened gravity upon his countenance.

"Is your chocolate right, papa?" said Alice at length.

"_Very_ good, my daughter!"

He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude and look.
Gradually they ceased their conversation, and waited with respectful
affection and some curiosity for him to speak; something of more than
common interest seemed to be in his thoughts. He sat looking earnestly
in the fire, sometimes with almost a smile on his face, and gently
striking one hand in the palm of the other. And sitting so, without
moving or stirring his eyes, he said at last, as though the words had
been forced from him, "Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift!"

As he added no more, Alice said gently, "What have you seen to-night,
papa?"

He roused himself and pushed the empty cup towards her.

"A little more, my daughter; I have seen the fairest sight, almost, a
man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed spirit go home
to its rest. Oh, that 'unspeakable gift!'"

He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his
chocolate; but having drunk it he pushed the table from him, and drew up
his chair.

"You had a long way to go, papa," observed Alice again.

"Yes, a long way there; I don't know what it was coming home; I never
thought of it. How independent the spirit can be of externals! I
scarcely felt the storm to-night."

"Nor I," said his son.

"I had a long way to go," said Mr. Humphreys; "that poor woman--that
Mrs. Dolan--she lives in the woods behind the Cat's Back, a mile beyond
Carra-carra, or more, it seemed a long mile to-night; and a more
miserable place I never saw yet. A little rickety shanty, the storm was
hardly kept out of it, and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere
or in anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and in a
corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye met
mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but
couldn't at first make out where. Do you remember, Alice, a little
ragged boy, with a remarkably bright, pleasant face, who has planted
himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time past in the south
aisle of the church, and stood there all service time?"

Alice said No.

"I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most fixed and
steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him on his way out of
church, to speak to him, but always failed. I asked him to-night, when I
first went in, if he knew me. 'I do, sir,' he said. I asked him where he
had seen me. He said, 'In the church beyant.' 'So,' said I, 'you are the
little boy I have seen there so regularly; what did you come there
for?'

"'To hear yer honour spake the good words.'

"'What good words?' said I; 'about what?'

"He said, 'About Him that was slain, and washed us from our sins in His
own blood.'

"'And do you think He has washed away yours?' I said.

"He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat difficult
for him to speak; and to tell the truth so it was for me, for I was
taken by surprise; but the people in the hut had gathered round, and I
wished to hear him say more, for their sake as well as my own. I asked
him why he thought his sins were washed away. He gave me for answer part
of the verse, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me,' but did not
finish it. 'Do you think you are very sick, John?' I asked.

"'I am, sir,' he said. 'I'll not be long here.'

"'And where do you think you are going, then?' said I.

"He lifted one little thin bony arm from under his coverlid, and through
all the dirt and pallor of his face the smile of heaven I am sure was on
it, as he looked and pointed upward and answered, 'Jesus!'

"I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished to see me
for. I don't know whether he heard me or not; he lay with his eyes half
closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted whether he would speak
again, and indeed, for myself, I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me
entirely; for the sake of the group around the bed I could have desired
something further. They kept perfect stillness; awed, I think, by a
profession of faith such as they had never heard before. They and I
stood watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than ten
or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and with sudden life and strength rose
up half way in bed, exclaiming, 'Thanks be to God for His unspeakable
gift!'--and then fell back--just dead."

The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished, for Alice and Ellen
were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered his face with his
hands.

"I have felt," said the old gentleman presently, "as if I could have
shouted out his words--his dying words--all the way as I came home. My
little girl," said he, drawing Ellen to him, "do you know the meaning of
those sweet things of which little John Dolan's mind was so full?"

Ellen did not speak.

"Do you know what it is to be a sinner? and what it is to be a forgiven
child of God?"

"I believe I do, sir," Ellen said.

He kissed her forehead and blessed her; and then said, "Let us pray."

It was late; the servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. Oh, what
a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for that "unspeakable gift;"
that they, every one there, had been made to know and rejoice in it; for
the poor little boy, rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same
rejoicing; for their own loved one who was there already; and for the
hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the "new
song" for ever and ever.

There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, Mr. Humphreys,
after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good-night, gave one to
Ellen too, which he had never done before, and then going to his son and
laying both hands on his shoulders, kissed his cheek also; then silently
took his candle and went.

They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round the fire
as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy with his own
thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother, for laying her hand
and her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, "And so you have been
well all this time, John?"

He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen as well as
his sister saw the look of love with which he answered her question,
rather of endearment than inquiry; and from that minute Ellen's mind was
made up as to the doubt which had troubled her. She went to bed quite
satisfied that her new brother was a decided acquisition.




CHAPTER XXVII

          The night was winter in his roughest mood.
          The morning sharp and clear . . . . . . .
          . . . . . . . . . . . . The vault is blue
          Without a cloud, and white without a speck
          The dazzling splendour of the scene below.

                                                  --COWPER.


Before Ellen's eyes were open the next morning, almost before she awoke,
the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh-ride, John Humphreys, and
the weather, all rushed into her mind at once, and started her half up
in the bed to look out of the window. Well frosted the panes of glass
were, but at the corners and edges unmistakable bright gleams of light
came in.

"Oh, Alice, it's beautiful!" exclaimed Ellen; "look how the sun is
shining! and 'tisn't very cold. Are we going to-day?"

"I don't know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We'll settle that
at breakfast."

At breakfast it was settled. They were to go, and set off directly. Mr.
Humphreys could not go with them, because he had promised to bury little
John Dolan; the priest had declared _he_ would have nothing to do with
it, and the poor mother had applied to Mr. Humphreys, as being the
clergyman her child had most trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that
little John had persuaded her out of half her prejudices by his
affectionate talk and blameless behaviour during some time past. Mr.
Humphreys, therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised, however,
to follow them the next, and would by no means permit them to wait for
him. He said the day was fine, and they must improve it; and he should
be pleased to have them with their friends as long as possible.

So the little travelling bag was stuffed with more things than it seemed
possible to get into it. Among the rest Ellen brought her little red
Bible, which Alice decided should go in John's pocket; the little
carpet-bag could not take it. Ellen was afraid it never would be locked.
By dint of much pushing and crowding, however, locked it was; and they
made themselves ready. Over Ellen's merino dress and coat went an old
fur tippet; a little shawl was tied round her neck; her feet were cased
in a pair of warm moccasins, which belonging to Margery were of course a
world too big for her, but "anything but cold," as their owner said. Her
nice blue hood would protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green
veil to save her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen shuffled
out of Alice's room in this trim, John gave her one of his grave looks,
and saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to know how she expected
to get to the sleigh; he said she would want a _foot_man indeed to wait
upon her, to pick up her slippers, if she went in that fashion. However,
he ended by picking _her_ up, carried her, and set her down safely in
the sleigh. Alice followed, and in another minute they were off.

Ellen's delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a corner and
left the house behind out of sight; and they were speeding away along a
road that was quite new to her. Ellen's heart felt like dancing for joy.
Nobody would have thought it, she sat so still and quiet between Alice
and her brother; but her eyes were very bright as they looked joyously
about her, and every now and then she could not help smiling to herself.
Nothing was wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was of
winter's fairest; the blue sky as clear as if clouds had never dimmed or
crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold, but not bitterly cold, nor
windy; the sleigh skimmed along over the smooth frozen surface of the
snow as if it was no trouble at all to Prince Charlie to draw it; and
the sleigh-bells jingled and rang, the very music for Ellen's thoughts
to dance to. And then with somebody she liked very much on each side of
her, and pleasures untold in the prospect, no wonder she felt as if her
heart could not hold any more. The green veil could not be kept on,
everything looked so beautiful in that morning's sun. The long wide
<DW72>s of untrodden and unspotted snow too bright sometimes for the eye
to look at; the shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and
scattered trees; the very brown fences, and the bare arms and branches
of the leafless trees showing sharp against the white ground and clear
bright heaven; all seemed lovely in her eyes. For

         "It is content of heart
          Gives nature power to please."

She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And besides they were in a
nice little red sleigh, with a warm buffalo robe, and Prince Charlie was
a fine spirited grey that scarcely ever needed to be touched with the
whip; at a word of encouragement from his driver he would toss his head
and set forward with new life, making all the bells jingle again. To be
sure she would have been just as happy if they had had the poorest of
vehicles on runners, with old John instead; but still it was pleasanter
so.

Their road at first was through a fine undulating country like that
between the Nose and Thirlwall; farmhouses and patches of woodland
scattered here and there. It would seem that the minds of all the party
were full of the same thoughts, for after a very long silence Alice's
first word, almost sigh, was--

"This is a beautiful world, John!"

"Beautiful!--wherever you can escape from the signs of man's presence
and influence."

"Isn't that almost too strong?" said Alice.

He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince Charlie,
who was indulging himself in a walk.

"But there are bright exceptions," said Alice.

"I believe it; never so much as when I come home."

"Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have confidence and
sympathy?"

He shook his head again. "Not enough, Alice. I long for you every day of
my life."

Alice turned her head quick away.

"It must be so, my dear sister," he said presently; "we can never expect
to find it otherwise. There are, as you say, bright exceptions--many of
them; but in almost all I find some sad want. We must wait till we join
the spirits of the just made perfect, before we see society that will be
all we wish for."

"What is Ellen thinking of all this while?" said Alice presently,
bending down to see her face. "As grave as a judge!--what are you musing
about?"

"I was thinking," said Ellen, "how men could help the world's being
beautiful."

"Don't trouble your little head with that question," said John, smiling;
"long may it be before you are able to answer it. Look at those
snowbirds!"

By degrees the day wore on. About one o'clock they stopped at a
farm-house to let the horse rest, and to stretch their own limbs, which
Ellen for her part was very glad to do. The people of the house received
them with great hospitality, and offered them pumpkin pies and sweet
cider. Alice had brought a basket of sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was
furnished with a bag of corn Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for
him; so they were all well refreshed and rested and warmed before they
set off again.

From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman's place, was more than thirty miles,
and the longest, because the most difficult, part of the way was still
before them. Ellen, however, soon became sleepy, from riding in the keen
air; she was content now to have the green veil over her face, and
sitting down in the bottom of the sleigh, her head leaning against
Alice, and covered well with the buffalo robe, she slept in happy
unconsciousness of hill and dale, wind and sun, and all the remaining
hours of the way.

It was drawing towards four o'clock when Alice with some difficulty
roused her to see the approach to the house and get wide awake before
they should reach it. They turned from the road and entered by a gateway
into some pleasure-grounds, through which a short drive brought them to
the house. These grounds were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth
spread of snow now; the great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and
wintry; and patches of shrubbery offered little but tufts and bunches of
brown twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary, but that some
well-grown evergreens were clustered round the house, and others
scattered here and there relieved the eye; a few holly bushes, singly
and in groups, proudly displayed their bright dark leaves and red
berries; and one unrivalled hemlock on the west threw its graceful
shadow quite across the lawn, on which, as on itself, the white
chimney-tops, and the naked branches of oaks and elms, was the faint
smile of the afternoon sun.

A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid of her
moccasins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of steps and
into the house. They entered a large handsome square hall with a blue
and white stone floor, at one side of which the staircase went winding
up. Here they were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced,
who threw her arms round Alice and kissed her a great many times,
seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen too with such
warmth that she began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and
expected; told Mr. John he had behaved admirably; and then led them into
a large room where was a group of ladies and gentlemen.

The welcome they got here was less lively but quite as kind. Mr. and
Mrs. Marshman were fine, handsome old people, of stately presence, and
most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. Ellen saw that Alice
was at home here, as if she had been a daughter of the family. Mrs.
Marshman also stooped down and kissed herself, telling her she was very
glad she had come, and that there were a number of young people there
who would be much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen
could not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. John and
Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of pleasant voices
and a great bustle of shaking hands.

The children had all gone out to walk, and as they had had their dinner
a great while ago it was decided that Ellen should take hers that day
with the elder part of the family. While they were waiting to be called
to dinner and everybody else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman
took notice of little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his
own, began a long conversation. He asked her a great many questions,
some of them such funny ones that she could not help laughing, but she
answered them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By
the time the butler came to say dinner was ready she had almost
forgotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the
dining-room, begging the elder ladies would excuse him, but he felt
bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He
placed her on his right hand and took the greatest care of her all
dinner-time; once sending her plate the whole length of the table for
some particular little thing he thought she would like. On the other
side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one of Mr. Marshman's daughters; a lady
with a sweet, gentle, quiet face and manner that made Ellen like to sit
by her. Another daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother's
stately bearing; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the
hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and
good-humoured.

Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed with
the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and raisins, admiring
the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly-cut and  glass,
and silver decanter stands, which were reflected in it, when a door at
the farther end of the room half-opened, a little figure came partly in,
and holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along the
table, as if seeking for some one.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Mrs. Bland told me, mamma," she began, her eye not ceasing its uneasy
quest, but then breaking off and springing to Alice's side, she threw
her arms around her neck, and gave her certainly the warmest of all the
warm welcomes she had had that day.

"Hallo!" cried Mr. Marshman, rapping on the table, "that's too much for
any one's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me just such another."

The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed him with a
very good will, remarking, however, "Ah, but I've seen you before
to-day, grandpapa!"

"Well, here's somebody you've not seen before," said he good-humouredly,
pulling her round to Ellen. "Here's a new friend for you, a young lady
from the great city, so you must brush up your country manners--Miss
Ellen Montgomery, come from--pshaw! what is it? Come from----"

"London, grandpapa?" said the little girl, as with a mixture of
simplicity and kindness she took Ellen's hand and kissed her on the
cheek.

"From Carra-carra, sir?" said Ellen, smiling.

"Go along with you," said he, laughing, and pinching her cheek. "Take
her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take good care of her. Tell
Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa's guests."

The two children had not, however reached the door when Ellen Chauncey
exclaimed, "Wait, oh! wait a minute! I must speak to Aunt Sophia about
the bag." And flying to her side, there followed an earnest whispering,
and then a nod and a smile from Aunt Sophia; and, satisfied, Ellen
returned to her companion and led her out of the dining-room.

"We have both got the same name," said she, as they went along a wide
corridor. "How shall we know which is which?"

"Why," said Ellen, laughing, "when you say 'Ellen' I shall know you mean
me, and when I say it you will know I mean you. I shouldn't be calling
myself, you know."

"Yes, but when somebody else calls 'Ellen,' we shall both have to run.
Do you run when you are called?"

"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, but I do always; mamma always makes me. I thought perhaps you were
like Marianne Gillespie. She waits often as much as half-a-minute before
she stirs when anybody calls her. Did you come with Miss Alice?"

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much! Oh, very much!"

Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour with a glance of
mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong promise of growing
love.

"So do I," she answered gaily. "I am very glad she is come, and I am
very glad you are come, too."

The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence
of a group of young people rather older than themselves.

"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen, "this
is Miss Ellen Montgomery. She came with Alice, and she is come to keep
Christmas with us. Aren't you glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us
when what's-her-name comes, won't there?"

Marianne shook hands with Ellen.

"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said little Ellen
Chauncey, "and he says we must brush up our country manners; she's come
from the great city."

"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?" inquired a
well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Marianne Gillespie to
prove him her brother.

"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.

"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here?"

"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Come, stand out of my way, right and left, all of you, will
you, and give me a chance? Now, then!"

Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself
gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to
her, bowed down to her knees; then slowly raising his head, stepped
back.

"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you
at Ventnor. Isn't that polite, now? Is that like what you have been
accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"

"No, sir, thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The
mirth of the others redoubled.

"May I request to be informed, then," continued Gillespie, "what is the
fashion of making bows in the great city?"

"I don't know," said Ellen. "I never saw a boy make a bow before."

"Humph! I guess country manners will do for you," said William, turning
on his heel.

"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said another boy.

"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey. "Didn't I tell you
she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen; I'll take you
somewhere else!"

She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly
stopped again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" she said. "I asked Aunt Sophia about the bag
of moroccos, and she said she would have 'em early to-morrow morning,
and then we can divide 'em right away."

"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.

"Oh no, not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then ran off
again.

"I am so glad you are come," said she; "the others are all so much
older, and they have all so much to do together--and now you can help me
think what I will make for mamma. Hush! don't say a word about it!"

They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were gathered
for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to a well-spread
table, at which Miss Sophia presided; the elder persons were standing or
sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had
leisure to look about her, and her eye soon wandered from the tea-table
in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman,
talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently as she caught
her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of
recognition. John came up just then to set down his coffee-cup, and
asked her what she was smiling at.

"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at what's going
on."

"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John Humphreys
gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile."

The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously
large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever so well-disposed,
compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however,
not even his sister, could keep their countenances, for the eye of the
speaker had pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in
the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible,
that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to," and a threat to "do
something" to his tormentor.

"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in his look and
tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone
retaining entire gravity.

"What's all this--what's all this? What's all this laughing about?" said
old Mr. Marshman, looking up.

"This young gentleman, sir," said John, "has been endeavouring--with a
mouthful of arguments--to prove to us the inferiority of city manners to
those learned in the country."

"Will!" said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's
discomfited face; then added sternly, "I don't care where your manners
were learnt, sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort
you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music."

He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept
her by him, and kept her very much amused too, in his own way; then he
would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her
lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was
jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as
Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet
flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight
o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good-night to their
elders; and pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her as
well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.

The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort.
It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fashioned furniture, and
lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood fire. The very old brass-headed
andirons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look
of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for
comfort." A little dark mahogany bookcase in one place--an odd
toilet-table of the same stuff in another: and opposite the fire an
old-fashioned high post-bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and
ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of
the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; "this is where
you are to sleep."

"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.

"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with Aunt Sophia; that is because
the house is so full, you know; and here is your bed, here on the
floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here. Don't you love
to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun."

Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for instead of a
bedstead it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat
down together on the foot of it.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it,
out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where mamma
and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"

"To be sure I do," said Ellen, "always."

"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and
stockings for herself."

"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.

"Why, Lester--Aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came
here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I
can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on
one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?"

"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"

"Oh yes, ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage--we live
here since then."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No," said little Ellen gravely, "he never came back--he never will come
back any more."

Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a
minute.

"I'll tell you what!" said little Ellen, jumping up, "mamma said we
mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring
'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?"




CHAPTER XXVIII

    He that loses anything, and gets wisdom by it, is a gainer by the
    loss.

                                                  --L'ESTRANGE.


Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly
Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They often
travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home look of
everything, where yet _she_ was not at home, might have sent them. There
was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped.
"To-morrow will be Christmas eve--last Christmas eve--oh, mamma!"

Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the
foot of the bed, began the business of undressing.

"Don't you love Christmas time?" said she. "I think it's the pleasantest
in all the year; we always have a house full of people, and such fine
times. But then in summer I think _that's_ the pleasantest. I s'pose
they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Why, I always did ever since I can remember. I used to
think, when I was a little girl, you know," said she, laughing, "I used
to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up
my stocking as near the fireplace as I could; but I know better than
that now; I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is,
don't you?"

"He's nobody," said Ellen.

"Oh yes, he is; he's a great many people; he's whoever gives you
anything. _My_ Santa Claus is mamma, and grandpapa, and grandmamma, and
Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda; and I thought I should have had Uncle
George too this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never
gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come; I like him the
best of all my uncles."

"I never had anybody but mamma to give me presents," said Ellen, "and
she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times."

"I used to have presents from mamma and grandpapa too, both Christmas
and New Year; but now I have grown so old, mamma only gives me something
Christmas and grandpapa only New Year. It would be too much, you know,
for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a
stocking would hold 'em much longer. But oh! we've got such a fine plan
in our heads," said little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with
open eyes and great energy; "_we_ are going to make presents this
year--we children. Won't it be fine? We are going to make what we like
for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it; and then
New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins,
we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will
know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine? I'm
so glad you are here, for I want you to tell me what I shall make."

"Who is it for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, mamma; you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had
rather it should be for mamma. I _thought_ of making her a needle-book
with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them--he can
paint beautifully--and having her name and something else written very
nicely inside. How do you think that would do?"

"I should think it would do very nicely," said Ellen, "very nicely
indeed."

"I wish Uncle George was at home, though, to write it for me; he writes
so beautifully; I can't do it well enough."

"I am afraid I can't either," said Ellen. "Perhaps somebody else can."

"I don't know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, and besides, I
don't want her to know anything about it. But there's another thing I
don't know how to fix, and that's the edges of the leaves--the leaves
for the needles; they must be fixed somehow."

"I can show you how to do that," said Ellen, brightening. "Mamma had a
needle book that was given to her that had the edges beautifully fixed;
and I wanted to know how it was done, and she showed me. I'll show you
that. It takes a good while, but that's no matter."

"Oh, thank you; how nice that is! Oh no, that's no matter. And then it
will do very well, won't it? Now, if I can only catch Gilbert in a
good-humour--he isn't my cousin, he's Marianne's cousin--that big boy
you saw downstairs--he's so big he won't have anything to say to me
sometimes--but I guess I'll get him to do this. Don't you want to make
something for somebody?"

Ellen _had_ had one or two feverish thoughts on this subject since the
beginning of the conversation; but she only said--

"It's no matter--you know I haven't got anything here; and besides, I
shall not be here till New Year."

"Not here till New Year! yes, you shall," said little Ellen, throwing
herself upon her neck; "indeed you aren't going away before that. I
_know_ you aren't; I heard grandmamma and Aunt Sophia talking about it.
Say you will stay here till New Year--do."

"I should like to very much indeed," said Ellen, "if Alice does."

In the midst of half-a-dozen kisses with which her little companion
rewarded this speech, somebody close by said pleasantly--

"What time of night do you suppose it is?"

The girls started; there was Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed her little daughter, springing to her feet, "I
hope you haven't heard what we have been talking about?"

"Not a word," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "but as to-morrow will be
long enough to talk in, hadn't you better go to bed now?"

Her daughter obeyed her immediately, after one more hug to Ellen, and
telling her she was _so_ glad she had come. Mrs. Chauncey stayed to see
Ellen in bed, and press one kind motherly kiss upon her face, so
tenderly that Ellen's eyes were moistened as she withdrew. But in her
dreams that night the rosy sweet face, blue eyes, and little plump
figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest part.

She slept till Alice was obliged to waken her the next morning, and then
got up with her head in a charming confusion of pleasures past and
pleasures to come--things known and unknown to be made for everybody's
New Year presents--linen collars and painted needle-books; and no sooner
was breakfast over than she was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey
a particularly splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of
needle-book leaves. Deep in this they were still an hour afterwards, and
in the comparative merits of purple and rose-colour, when a little
hubbub arose at the other end of the room on the arrival of a new-comer.
Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped it, exclaiming,
"There she is! now for the bag!" and pulled Ellen along with her towards
the party. A young lady was in the midst of it, talking so fast that she
had not time to take off her cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen's,
however, she came to a sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen's
face certainly showed no pleasure; Margaret's darkened with a very
disagreeable surprise.

"My goodness, Ellen Montgomery, how on earth did you get _here_?" said
Margaret.

"Do you know her?" asked one of the girls, as the two Ellens went off
after "Aunt Sophia."

"Do I know her? Yes, just enough--exactly. How did she get here?"

"Miss Humphreys brought her."

"Who's Miss Humphreys?"

"Hush!" said Marianne, lowering her tone; "that's her brother in the
window."

"Who's brother?--hers or Miss Humphreys'?"

"Miss Humphreys'. Did you never see her? She is here, or has been here,
a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her fourth daughter, and she
is just as much at home as if she was; and she brought her here."

"And she's at home too, I suppose. Well, it's no business of mine."

"What do you know of her?"

"Oh, enough--that's just it--don't want to know any more."

"Well, you needn't; but what's the matter with her?"

"Oh, I don't know; I'll tell you some other time; she's a conceited
little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river, that's how I
come to know about her. Ma said it was the last child she would be
bothered with in that way."

Presently the two girls came back, bringing word to clear the table, for
Aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccos. As soon as she came Ellen
Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest question.
"Certainly!" Aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the contents of the
bag; and her little niece delightedly told Ellen _she_ was to have her
share as well as the rest.

The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco of all sizes and
colours, which were hastily turned over and examined with eager hands
and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be sure, but others showed
a breadth and length of beauty which was declared to be "first-rate" and
"fine," and one beautiful large piece of blue morocco in particular was
made up in imagination by two or three of the party in as many different
ways. Marianne wanted it for a book-cover, Margaret declared she could
make a lovely reticule with it, and Ellen could not help thinking it
would make a very pretty needle-box, such a one as she had seen in the
possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice.

"Well, what's to be done now?" said Miss Sophia, "or am I not to know?"

"Oh, you're not to know--you're not to know, Aunt Sophia," cried the
girls; "you mustn't ask."

"I'll tell you what they are going to do with 'em," said George Walsh,
coming up to her with a mischievous face, and adding in a loud whisper,
shielding his mouth with his hand; "they're going to make pr----"

He was laid hold of forcibly by the whole party screaming and laughing,
and stopped short from finishing his speech.

"Well then, I'll take my departure," said Miss Sophia; "but how will you
manage to divide all these scraps?"

"Suppose we were to put them in the bag again, and you hold the bag, and
we were to draw them out without looking," said Ellen Chauncey, "as we
used to do with the sugar-plums."

As no better plan was thought of this was agreed upon, and little Ellen,
shutting up her eyes very tight, stuck in her hand and pulled out a
little bit of green morocco about the size of a dollar. Ellen Montgomery
came next; then Margaret, then Marianne, then their mutual friend Isabel
Hawthorn. Each had to take her turn a great many times, and at the end
of the drawing the pieces were found to be pretty equally divided among
the party, with the exception of Ellen, who, besides several other good
pieces, had drawn the famous blue.

"That will do very nicely," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I am glad you
have got that, Ellen. Now, Aunt Sophy! one thing more--you know the
silks and ribbons you promised us."

"Bless me! I haven't done yet, eh? Well, you shall have them, but we are
all going out to walk now; I'll give them to you this afternoon. Come!
put these away, and get on your bonnets and cloaks."

A hard measure! but it was done. After the walk came dinner; after
dinner Aunt Sophia had to be found and waited on, till she had fairly
sought out and delivered to their hands the wished-for bundles of silks
and satins. It gave great satisfaction.

"But how shall we do about dividing these?" said little Ellen; "shall we
draw lots again?"

"No, Ellen," said Marianne, "that won't do, because we might every one
get just the things we do not want. I want one colour or stuff to go
with my morocco, and you want another to go with yours; and you might
get mine and I might get yours. We had best each choose in turn what we
like, beginning at Isabel."

"Very well," said little Ellen, "I'm agreed."

"Anything for a quiet life," said George Walsh.

But this business of choosing was found to be very long and very
difficult, each one was so fearful of not taking the exact piece she
wanted most. The elder members of the family began to gather for dinner,
and several came and stood round the table where the children were,
little noticed by them, they were so wrapped up in silks and satins.
Ellen seemed the least interested person at the table, and had made her
selections with the least delay and difficulty; and now, as it was not
her turn, sat very soberly looking on with her head resting on her hand.

"I declare it's too vexatious!" said Margaret Dunscombe; "here I've got
this beautiful piece of blue satin, and can't do anything with it; it
just matches that blue morocco--it's a perfect match--I could have made
a splendid thing of it, and I have got some cord and tassels that would
just do--I declare it's too bad."

Ellen's colour changed.

"Well, choose, Margaret," said Marianne.

"I don't know what to choose--- that's the thing. What can one do with
red and purple morocco and blue satin? I might as well give up. I've a
great notion to take this piece of yellow satin and dress up a Turkish
doll to frighten the next young one I meet with."

"I wish you would, Margaret, and give it to me when it's done," cried
little Ellen Chauncey.

"Tain't made yet," said the other dryly.

Ellen's colour had changed and changed; her hand twitched nervously, and
she glanced uneasily from Margaret's store of finery to her own.

"Come, choose, Margaret," said Ellen Chauncey; "I dare say Ellen wants
the blue morocco as much as you do."

"No, I don't!" said Ellen abruptly, throwing it over the table to her;
"take it, Margaret, you may have it."

"What do you mean?" said the other astounded.

"I mean you may have it," said Ellen; "I don't want it."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said the other, "I'll give you yellow satin
for it--or some of my red morocco?"

"No, I had rather not," repeated Ellen; "I don't want it--you may have
it."

"Very generously done," remarked Miss Sophia; "I hope you'll all take a
lesson in the art of being obliging."

"Quite a noble little girl," said Mrs. Gillespie.

Ellen crimsoned. "No, ma'am, I'm not indeed," she said, looking at them
with eyes that were filling fast, "please don't say so--I don't deserve
it."

"I shall say what I think, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, smiling, "but
I'm glad you add the grace of modesty to that of generosity; it is the
more uncommon of the two."

"I am not modest! I am not generous! you mustn't say so," cried Ellen.
She struggled; the blood rushed to the surface, suffusing every particle
of skin that could be seen; then left it, as with eyes cast down she
went on--"I don't deserve to be praised! it was more Margaret's than
mine. I oughtn't to have kept it at all, for I saw a little bit when I
put my hand in. I didn't mean to, but I did!"

Raising her eyes hastily to Alice's face, they met those of John, who
was standing behind her. She had not counted upon him for one of her
listeners; she knew Mrs. Gillespie, Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and
Alice had heard her, but this was the one drop too much. Her head sank;
she covered her face a moment, and then made her escape out of the room
before even Ellen could follow her.

There was a moment's silence. Alice seemed to have some difficulty not
to follow Ellen's example. Margaret pouted; Mrs. Chauncey's eyes filled
with tears, and her little daughter seemed divided between doubt and
dismay. Her first move, however, was to run off in pursuit of Ellen.
Alice went after her.

"Here's a beautiful example of honour and honesty for you!" said
Margaret Dunscombe, at length.

"I think it is," said John quietly.

"An uncommon instance," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"I'm glad everybody thinks so," said Margaret sullenly; "I hope I shan't
copy it, that's all."

"I think you are in no danger," said John again.

"Very well," said Margaret, who, between her desire of speaking and her
desire of concealing her vexation, did not know what to do with herself;
"everybody must judge for himself, I suppose; I've got enough of her,
for my part."

"Where did you ever see her before?" said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Oh, she came up the river with us--mamma had to take care of her--she
was with us two days."

"And didn't you like her?"

"No, I guess I didn't! she was a perfect plague. All the day on board
the steamboat she scarcely came near us; we couldn't pretend to keep
sight of her; mamma had to send her maid out to look after her I don't
know how many times. She scraped acquaintance with some strange man on
board, and liked his company better than ours, for she stayed with him
the whole blessed day, waking and sleeping: of course mamma didn't like
it at all. She didn't go a single meal with us; you know of course that
wasn't proper behaviour."

"No, indeed," said Isabel.

"I suppose," said John coolly, "she chose the society she thought the
pleasantest Probably Miss Margaret's politeness was more than she had
been accustomed to."

Margaret , not quite knowing what to make of the speaker or his
speech.

"It would take much to make me believe," said gentle Mrs. Chauncey,
"that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as that little girl
evidently has, could take pleasure in improper company."

Margaret had a reply at her tongue's end, but she had also an uneasy
feeling that there were eyes not far off too keen of sight to be
baffled; she kept silence till the group dispersed, and she had an
opportunity of whispering in Marianne's ear that "_that_ was the very
most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life."

"What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of Alice's, Mr.
John," said Mrs. Marshman's youngest daughter. "You quite surprise me."

"Did you think me a misanthrope, Miss Sophia?"

"Oh no, not at all; but I always had a notion you would not be easily
pleased in the choice of favourites."

"_Easily!_ When a simple, intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a
common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased."

"Twelve or thirteen!" said Miss Sophia; "what are you thinking about?
Alice says she is only ten or eleven."

"In years, perhaps."

"How gravely you take me up!" said the young lady, laughing. "My dear
Mr. John, 'in years perhaps,' you may call yourself twenty, but in
everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty."

As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back; the
former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud
that all the moroccos had been in the fire. They had not been able to
find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it
after dinner; and a second search was made in vain. John went to the
library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might
have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there; but the pleasant
light of the room, where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He
sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the
moonlight, when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole in
noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and _she_ thought the room
empty; till in passing slowly down toward the fire, she came upon him in
the window. Her start first let him know she was there; she would have
run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away.

"Running away from your brother, Ellie!" said he kindly. "What is the
matter?"

Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.

"I know all, Ellie," said he, still very kindly; "I have seen all; why
do you shun me?"

Ellen said nothing; the big tears began to run down her face and frock.

"You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen," he said, drawing
her close to him; "you did wrong, but you have done all you could to
repair the wrong; neither man nor woman can do more than that."

But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever.

"Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen
Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she
thought you had done with yourself. Come! lift up your head and let me
see you smile again."

Ellen lifted her head, but could not her eyes, though she tried to
smile.

"I want to talk to you a little about this," said he. "You know you gave
me leave to be your brother; will you let me ask you a question or two?"

"Oh yes; whatever you please," Ellen said.

"Then sit down here," said he, making room for her on the wide
window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand, and speaking very
gently. "You said you saw when you took the morocco; I don't quite
understand; how was it?"

"Why," said Ellen, "we were not to look, and we had gone three times
round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it;
and I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just
before I shut my eyes, I happened to see the corner of it sticking up,
and then I took it."

"With your eyes open?"

"No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for
it, and wished it back."

"You will wonder at me, perhaps, Ellie," said John, "but I am not very
sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before; it has only made
you see what you are--very, very weak, quite unable to keep yourself
right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you; so
it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men
on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would
not have done as you did?"

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I was sorry a minute after."

"And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen; "it wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day."

"Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in
future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help we cannot
stand a moment."

Ellen sobbed; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said,
"But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie."

The sobs ceased; he saw his words had taken hold.

"Is it right," he said softly, "that we should be more troubled about
what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonoured
Him?"

Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished.

"You understand me, I see," said he. "Be humbled in the dust before Him;
the more the better; but whenever we are greatly concerned, for our own
sakes, about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too
little of God and what will please Him."

"I am very sorry," said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to
drop again; "I am very wrong, but I couldn't bear to think what Alice
would think, and you, and all of them----"

"Here's Alice to speak for herself," said John.

As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen
sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John
walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them.

"All's well again," said Alice, "and we're going in to tea."

He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not
leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So
they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things,
so pleasantly that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss
Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and Marianne to call them to
tea; so the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen
thought it would be.

She behaved very well; her face was touchingly humble that night; and
all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging
an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose
to be where she was, the young party was quite divided; and not the
least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little
Ellen was half beside herself with spirits; the secret of which perhaps
was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening
whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that "it was Christmas
Eve!"




CHAPTER XXIX

          As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
          The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure.
          Kings may be blest, but _they_ were glorious,
          O'er all the ills o' life victorious.

                                                  --BURNS.


Christmas morning was dawning grey, but it was still far from broad
daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey
pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering, "Ellen! Ellen!" in
a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in
night-gown and night-cap, and barefooted too, with a face brimful of
excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no
little surprise, and asked what the matter was.

"I am going to look at my stocking," whispered her visitor; "don't you
want to get up and come with me? it's just here in the other room--come!
don't make any noise."

"But what if you should find nothing in it?" said Ellen laughingly, as
she bounded out of bed.

"Ah, but I shall, I know; I always do; never fear. Hush! step ever so
softly; I don't want to wake anybody."

"It's hardly light enough for you to see," whispered Ellen, as the two
little barefooted white figures glided out of the room.

"Oh yes, it is; that's all the fun. Hush! don't make a bit of noise--I
know where it hangs--mamma always puts it at the back of her big easy
chair--come this way--here it is! Oh, Ellen! there's two of 'em! There's
one for you! there's one for you."

In a tumult of delight one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of
her little bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for
pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her with all her
heart, declaring she was so glad she didn't know what to do.

"But how shall we know which is which?"

"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.

"No--at any rate one's for me, and t'other's for you. Stop! here are
pieces of paper, with our names on, I guess--let's turn the chair a
little bit to the light--there--yes!--Ellen--M-o-n--there, that's yours;
my name doesn't begin with an M; and this is mine!"

Another caper round the room, and then she brought up in front of the
chair where Ellen was still standing.

"I wonder what's in 'em," she said; "I want to look, and I _don't_ want
to. Come, you begin."

"But that's no stocking of mine," said Ellen, a smile gradually breaking
upon her sober little face; "my leg never was as big as that."

"Stuffed, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Oh, do make haste, and see
what is in yours. I want to know, so I don't know what to do."

"Well, will you take out of yours as fast as I take out of mine?"

"Well!"

Oh, mysterious delight, and delightful mystery, of the stuffed stocking!
Ellen's trembling fingers sought the top, and then very suddenly left
it.

"I can't think what it is," said she, laughing; "it feels so funny."

"Oh, never mind! make haste," said Ellen Chauncey; "it won't hurt you, I
guess."

"No, it won't hurt me," said Ellen; "but----"

She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes.

"Splendid! isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Now for mine."

It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.

"So far, so good," said she. "Now for the next."

The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar-plums.

"Well, that's fine, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey; "yours is tied with
white ribbon and mine with blue; that's all the difference. Oh, and your
paper's red and mine is purple."

"Yes, and the pictures are different," said Ellen.

"Well, I had rather they would be different, wouldn't you? I think it's
just as pleasant. One's as big as the other, at any rate. Come--what's
next!"

Ellen drew out a little bundle, which being opened proved to be a nice
little pair of dark kid gloves.

"Oh, I wonder who gave me this," she said; "it's just what I wanted. How
pretty! Oh, I am so glad. I guess who it was."

"Oh, look here," said the other Ellen, who had been diving into _her_
stocking, "I've got a ball--this is just what I wanted too; George told
me if I'd get one he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it
funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice
ball. I'm glad I have got it. Why, here is another great round thing in
my stocking! what can it be? they wouldn't give me _two_ balls," said
she, chuckling.

"So there is in mine!" said Ellen. "Maybe they're apples."

"They aren't! they wouldn't give us apples; besides, it is soft. Pull it
out and see."

"Then they are oranges," said Ellen, laughing.

"_I_ never felt such a soft orange," said little Ellen Chauncey. "Come,
Ellen! stop laughing, and let's see."

They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and E. M. very
neatly stuck in pins.

"Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we?" said Ellen. "Who
gave us these?"

"I know," said little Ellen Chauncey; "Mrs. Bland."

"She was very kind to make one for me," said Ellen. "Now for the next!"

The next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water.

"I can tell who put that in," said her friend; "Aunt Sophia. I know her
little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love Cologne water? Aunt
Sophia's is delicious."

Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey
had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction.

"Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with," said she; "raisins
and almonds, I declare! and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you
think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good
Christmas?"

"What are you about, you monkeys?" cried the voice of Aunt Sophia from
the dressing-room door. "Alice, Alice! do look at them. Come right back
to bed, both of you. Crazy pates! It is lucky it is Christmas day--if it
was any other in the year we should have you both sick in bed; as it is,
I suppose you will go scot free."

Laughing and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed
together; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most animated
conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and
whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the
painted needle-book was entirely decided upon in this consultation; also
two or three other matters; and the two children seemed to have already
lived a day since daybreak by the time they came down to breakfast.

After breakfast Ellen applied secretly to Alice to know if she could
write _very_ beautifully; she exceedingly wanted something done.

"I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine; but
John can do it for you."

"Can he? Do you think he would?"

"I am sure he will if you ask him."

"But I don't like to ask him," said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at
the window.

"Nonsense! he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him."

"Well, you won't say anything about it?"

"Certainly not."

Ellen accordingly went near and said gently, "Mr. Humphreys," but he did
not seem to hear her. "Mr. Humphreys!"--a little louder.

"He has not arrived yet," said John, looking round gravely.

He spoke so gravely that Ellen could not tell whether he was joking or
serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of
countenance. "Whom do you want to speak to?" said he, smiling.

"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said Ellen, "if you are not now too
busy."

"_Mr. Humphreys_ is always busy," said he, shaking his head, "but _Mr.
John_ can attend to you at any time, and _John_ will do for you whatever
you please to ask him."

"Then, Mr. John," said Ellen, laughing, "if you please, I wanted to ask
you to do something for me very much indeed, if you are not too busy;
Alice said I shouldn't disturb you."

"Not at all; I've been long enough over this stupid newspaper. What is
it?"

"I want you, if you will be so good," said Ellen, "to write a little bit
for me on something, very beautifully."

"'Very beautifully!' Well--come to the library; we will see."

"But it is a great secret," said Ellen; "you won't tell anybody?"

"Tortures shan't draw it from me--when I know what it is," said he, with
one of his comical looks.

In high glee Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to
form the backs of the needle-book, and brought them to the library; and
explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting,
a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as
possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer
should choose.

"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needle-books?"
said John, as he carefully mended his pen.

"Stop!" said Ellen, "I'll tell you in a minute--on this one, the front,
you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;'--and on
this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know,"
she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New
Year's day; nor anybody else."

"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions they shall find me
as obscure as an oracle."

"What is an oracle, sir?"

"Why," said John, smiling, "this pen won't do yet--the old heathens
believed there were certain spots of earth to which some of their gods
had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to
come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."

"And they did?" said Ellen.

"Did they what?"

"Did they answer their questions?"

"Did _who_ answer their questions?"

"The--oh! to be sure," said Ellen, "there were no such gods. But what
made people think they answered them? and how could they ask questions?"

"I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests to increase their power
and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and
priestesses; the questions were put through them; and they would not ask
them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence who could
pay them well by making splendid gifts to the god."

"But I should think the people would have thought the priests or
priestesses had made up the answer themselves."

"Perhaps they did sometimes. But people had not the Bible then, and did
not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural to think the gods
would take care a little for the poor people that lived on the earth.
Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the
answers of the oracle that helped to deceive."

"How was it?" said Ellen; "how could they manage? and what was _the
oracle_?"

"The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was supposed to
give it, or the place where it was given; and there were different ways
of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or
among the branches of an oak tree, and the people thought the tree spoke
to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman who pretended to
be put into a kind of fit--tearing her hair and beating her breast."

"But suppose the oracle made a mistake?--what would the people think
then?"

"The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come
true in any event."

"I don't see how they could do that," said Ellen.

"Very well--just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some
question; I'll answer you."

"But you can't tell what's going to happen?"

"No matter--you ask me truly and I'll answer you oracularly."

"That means, like an oracle, I suppose!" said Ellen. "Well--Mr. John,
will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her for her New
Year?"

"She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day."

"Ah, but," said Ellen, laughing, "that isn't fair; you haven't answered
me; perhaps somebody else will give her something, and then she might be
pleased with that and not with mine."

"Exactly--but the oracle never means to be understood."

"Well, I won't come to you," said Ellen. "I don't like such answers. Now
for the needle-book!"

Breathlessly she looked on while the skilful pen did its work; and her
exclamations of delight and admiration when the first cover was handed
to her were not loud but deep.

"It will do, then, will it? Now, let us see--'From her dear little
daughter,' there--now 'Ellen Chauncey' I suppose must be in
hieroglyphics."

"In what?" said Ellen.

"I mean written in some difficult character."

"Yes," said Ellen. "But what was that you said?"

"Hieroglyphics!"

Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked up and
smiled.

"Do you want to know what that means?"

"Yes, if you please," said Ellen.

The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little
listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. From
hieroglyphics they went to the pyramids; and Ellen had got to the top of
one and was enjoying the prospect (in imagination), when she suddenly
came down to tell John of her stuffed stocking and its contents. The pen
went on again, and came to the end of the writing by the time Ellen had
got to the toe of the stocking.

"Wasn't it very strange they should give me so many things?" said she;
"people that don't know me?"

"Why, no," said John, smiling, "I cannot say I think it was _very_
strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands?"

"This is all; and I am _very_ much obliged to you, Mr. John."

Her grateful affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid.

Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rose and the butterfly, which,
finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very ready to
do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery of the leaves,
which was by no means the business of an hour.

A very happy Christmas day was that. With their needles and thimbles,
and rose- silk, they kept by themselves in a corner, or in the
library, out of the way; and sweetening their talk with a sugar-plum now
and then, neither tongues nor needles knew any flagging. It was
wonderful how they found so much to say, but there was no lack. Ellen
Chauncey especially was inexhaustible. Several times too that day the
Cologne bottle was handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball
tried, and the new scissors extolled as "just the thing for their work."
Ellen attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and
hieroglyphics, but was fain to give it up; little Ellen showed a decided
preference for American, not to say Ventnor, subjects, where she felt
more at home.

Then came Mr. Humphreys; and Ellen was glad, both for her own sake and
because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came the great merry
Christmas dinner, when the girls had, not talked themselves out, but
tired themselves with working. Young and old dined together to-day, and
the children not set by themselves, but scattered among the grown-up
people; and as Ellen was nicely placed between Alice and little Ellen
Chauncey, she enjoyed it all very much. The large long table surrounded
with happy faces; tones of cheerfulness and looks of kindness, and
lively talk; the superb display of plate and glass and china; the
stately dinner; and last but not least, the plum-pudding. There was
sparkling wine too, and a great deal of drinking of healths; but Ellen
noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in water;
so when old Mr. Marshman called to her to "hold out her glass," she held
it out to be sure and let him fill it, but she lifted her tumbler of
water to her lips instead, after making him a very low bow. Mr. Marshman
laughed at her a great deal, and asked her if she was "a proselyte to
the new notions;" and Ellen laughed with him, without having the least
idea what he meant, and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant too
when they went into the drawing-room to take coffee. The young ones were
permitted to have coffee to-night as a great favour. Old Mrs. Marshman
had the two little ones on either side of her; and was so kind, and held
Ellen's hand in her own, and talked to her about her mother, till Ellen
loved her.

After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old joined in
them. They played the Old Curiosity Shop; and Ellen thought Mr. John's
curiosities could not be matched. They played the Old Family Coach, Mr.
Howard Marshman being the manager, and Ellen laughed till she was tired;
she was the coach door, and he kept her opening and shutting and
swinging and breaking, it seemed all the while, though most of the rest
were worked just as hard. When they were well tired they sat down to
rest and hear music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and
Mrs. Gillespie, and Miss Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard;
sometimes alone, sometimes three or four or altogether.

At last came ten o'clock and the young ones were sent off; and from
beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken and
unclouded pleasure. Ellen's last act was to take another look at her
Cologne bottle, gloves, pin-cushion, grapes, and paper of sugar-plums,
which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer.




CHAPTER XXX

          But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
          A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
          Whose glory, with a light that never fades,
          Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades.

                                                  --COWPER.


Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor; and it was
also settled that his children should not leave it till after New Year.
This was less their own wish than his; he said Alice wanted the change,
and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides the earnest pleading
of the whole family was not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this,
though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor--she could not
feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey
and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost
thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she
recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She
tried to think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to prevent
her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow
wider.

About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither
they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole family; but the hour of
dinner and the distance prevented any one from going in the afternoon.
The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the
house, most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her
escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did
not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look
in the library for her friends. They were there, and alone; Alice half
reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms; he was reading or
talking to her; there was a book in his hand.

"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near; "aren't you
well, dear Alice?--Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I know----"

She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a pleased face,
her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of Cologne water in the
other.

"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; "I can't open it; I
guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's delicious. Mamma used to
have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, dear Alice, won't you
eat these?--do!--try one."

"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she smilingly took a
grape.

"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till I wanted
it. Eat them all, dear Alice, please do!"

"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of
the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."

"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them all to you
and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"

Ellen took, however, as precious payment Alice's look and kiss; and then
with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother and sister might
like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go,
for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not
want any company. At last with her little Bible she placed herself on
the old sofa in the hall above stairs, which was perfectly well warmed,
and for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after
all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed
like Sunday; and the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to
Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half-an-hour or so, to her
dismay she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children came
trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that
reading or thinking was out of the question.

"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!" said
Marianne Gillespie.

"One _can_ play games on a Sunday," answered her brother, "Where's the
odds? It's all Sunday's good for, _I_ think."

"William! William!" sounded the shocked voice of little Ellen Chauncey,
"you're a real wicked boy!"

"Well now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say, I should like to
know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt
Sophia to lie abed and sleep, or for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for
grandpa to talk politics, or for mother to talk about the
fashions?--there was she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this
morning doing everything but _make_ a dress. Now, which is the worst?"

"Oh, William! William! for shame! for shame!" said little Ellen again.

"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey! will you?" said Marianne sharply; "and you had
better hush too, William, if you know what is good for yourself. I don't
care whether it's right or wrong, I do get dolefully tired with doing
nothing."

"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep all
Sunday."

"I'll tell you what," said George, "I know a game we can play, and no
harm, either, for it's all out of the Bible."

"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.

"I don't believe it's good for anything if it is out of the Bible," said
Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"

"I _ain't_ staring," said Ellen indignantly, "but I don't believe it is
right to play it, if it _is_ out of the Bible."

"Well, it is though," said George. "Now listen; I'll think of somebody
in the Bible, some man or woman, you know; and you may all ask me twenty
questions about him to see if you can find out who it is."

"What kind of questions?"

"Any kind of questions, whatever you like."

"That will improve your knowledge of Scripture history," said Gilbert.

"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the
time," said little Ellen.

"Or bad people and what they did," said William.

"But I don't know enough about people and things in the Bible," said
Margaret; "I couldn't guess."

"Oh, never mind; it will be all the more fun," said George. "Come! let's
begin. Who'll take somebody?"

"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey; "but
Ellen--where's Ellen? we want her."

"No, we don't want her! we've enough without her; she won't play!"
shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered,
however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was found seated on
the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could she withstood her
little friend's entreaties, and very unwillingly at last yielded and
went with her downstairs.

"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told Ellen what
the game is; who's going to begin?"

"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of somebody. Man or
woman?"

"Man."

"Young or old?"

"Why, he was young first and old afterwards."

"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister. "Besides,
you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert?"

"Humph! why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should
think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."

"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"

"Upon my honour!"

"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss Hawthorn.

"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder--a very respectable
person indeed."

"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you he wasn't
anything in particular; what kind of a person was he, Gilbert?"

"A very good man."

"Handsome or ugly?"

"History don't say."

"Well, what _does_ it say?" said George; "what did he do?"

"He took a journey once upon a time."

"What for?"

"Do you mean _why_ he went, or what was the _object_ of his going?"

"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Well, what was the object of his going?"

"He went after a wife."

"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen Chauncey.

"No, it wasn't Samson either."

"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said George.
"That king--what's his name?--that married Esther?"

The children screamed. "_He_ didn't go after a wife, George; his wives
were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"

"No, he didn't go after a wife either," said Gilbert; "he married two of
them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find them. You had better go on
with your questions. You have had eight already. If you don't look out
you won't catch me. Come!"

"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen Chauncey.

"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.

"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.

"He did not fail."

"Did he bring home his wife, then? You said he wasn't married."

"He never was that I know of; but he brought home a wife
notwithstanding."

"But how funny you are, Gilbert," said little Ellen. "He had a wife and
he hadn't a wife; what became of her?"

"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions; take care."

"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret; "what was he,
Gilbert?"

"He was a Damascene."

"A _what_?"

"Of Damascus--of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you?"

"Fiddle!" said Marianne; "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or
after the Flood?"

"After. I should think you might have known that."

"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne. "We shall
have to give it up."

"No, no, not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his wife?"

"Too close a question."

"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"

"Never."

"Was she willing to go with him?"

"Very willing. Ladies always are when they go to be married."

"And what became of her?"

"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."

"But you said _he_ wasn't married."

"Well, what then? I didn't say she married _him_."

"Whom did she marry?"

"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."

"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.

"Several days' journey; I don't know how far."

"How did they travel?"

"On camels."

"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.

There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor little
Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she remembered the
Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels in the picture of the
Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her.

The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert at last
told them his thought. It was Eleazar, Abraham's steward, whom he sent
to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.

"Why haven't _you_ guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to Ellen
Montgomery.

"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was some time ago."

"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single question,"
said George.

"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen Chauncey.

"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she thinks it is
wicked, and that we are not at all nice proper-behaved boys and girls to
be playing on Sunday; she is very sorry she could not help being
amused."

"_Do_ you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.

"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.

Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she would
say. She , and looked down at her little Bible which was still
in her hand. It encouraged her.

"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think it is
quite right to play such plays, or any plays."

She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not? Why not?"

"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I think
Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things;
and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that; and I
have a kind of _feeling_ that I ought not to do it."

"Well, I hope you'll act according to your _feelings_ then," said
William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had better go
somewhere else though, for we are going on; we have been learning to be
good long enough for one day. Come! I have thought of somebody."

Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half sneer she saw in
the look and manner of the others as well as in William's words. She
wished for no better than to go away, but as she did so her bosom
swelled and the tears started and her breath came quicker. She found
Alice lying down and asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out
again and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession
of the sofa and tried to read again; reading somehow did not go well,
and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the
unkindness of the children; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any
part of Sunday in such games; what Alice would think of it, and John,
and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that
dear mother was with her; and then she wondered how _she_ was passing
this very one--while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what
_she_ was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there only
_were_ such things as oracles that could tell truly, how much she would
like to ask about her.

"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.

She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he was lying in
the window seat.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," said Ellen.

"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there
till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my
little sister?"

He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you thinking
about?"

"I was thinking about different things; nothing is the matter," said
Ellen.

"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"

"I don't know," said she, laughing; "there weren't any till I came here.
I was thinking just now about mamma."

He said no more, still, however, keeping her beside him.

"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes' musing look
out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if there were such things
as oracles--don't you, Mr. John?"

"No."

"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen?"

"I do know a great deal about it."

"About what is going to happen?"

He smiled.

"Yes, a great deal, Ellie, enough to give me work for all the rest of my
life."

"Oh, you mean from the Bible!--I was thinking of other things."

"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie; I am very glad to know
those the Bible teaches us."

"But it doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"

"Go to the window and tell me what you see."

"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking a grave
look out.

"Well, what in general?"

"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes; and
the sun is shining on everything just as it did the day we came; and
there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue
sky."

"Now, look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come
when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll--they shall
vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment; and
it and all the works that are therein shall be burned up."

As he spoke Ellen's fancy tried to follow, to picture the ruin and
desolation of all that stood so fair and seemed to stand so firm before
her; but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the
shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and
cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the window.

"Do you believe it?" said John.

"Yes," said Ellen, "I know it; but I think it is very disagreeable to
think about it."

"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side, "very
disagreeable--very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But
we know more--read here."

Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.

"'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not
be remembered, neither come into mind.'"

"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen; "shall we forget all about
them?"

"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth
will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall not want to think
of these."

Ellen's eyes sought the window again.

"You are thinking that it is hardly possible," said John, with a smile.

"I suppose it is _possible_," said Ellen, "but----"

"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, and sin
has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the
earth groans. There will be no sin _there_; sorrow and sighing shall
flee away; love to each other and love to their blessed King will fill
all hearts, and His presence will be with them. Don't you see that even
if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be
far, far more lovely than this can ever be with the shadow of sin upon
it?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen. "I know whenever I feel wrong in any way nothing
seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much."

"Very well," said John. "I see you understand me. I like to think of
that land, Ellen--very much."

"Mr. John," said Ellen, "don't you think people will know each other
again?"

"Those that love each other here? I have no doubt of it."

Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that followed
these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better; and taking
her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother
and sister now; Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked
of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead
mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of
His service, even here--till thoughts grew too strong for words, and
silence again stole upon the group. The short winter day came to an end;
the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn;
and from where she sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered
with the moonlight which began to steal in at the window. It was very,
very beautiful: yet she could think now without sorrow that all this
should come to an end, because of that new heaven and new earth wherein
righteousness should dwell.

"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice, "or rather _I_
have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes
in my life. John said the reason was because every one tasted of you."

"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.

"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on; "except for my
headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did; and
you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! there
has been many a day lately when I would gladly have had a headache for
the power of laying my head on your shoulder."

"And if mamma had not gone away I should never have known you," said
Ellen. "I wish she never _had_ gone, but I am very, very glad for this."

She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round the neck,
just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every
disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the
drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint
against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it
came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for
Marianne. It was done with the gracefulness that could only come from a
spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and
for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The evening passed
pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.




CHAPTER XXXI

          The ancient heroes were illustrious,
          For being benign, and not blustrous.

                                                  --HUDIBRAS.


The next day it happened that the young people were amusing themselves
with talking in a room where John Humphreys, walking up and down, was
amusing _himself_ with thinking. In the course of his walk, he began to
find their amusement rather disturbing to his. The children were all
grouped closely around Margaret Dunscombe, who was entertaining them
with a long and very detailed account of a wedding and great party at
Randolph which she had had the happiness of attending. Eagerly fighting
her battles over again, and pleased with the rapt attention of her
hearers, the speaker forgot herself, and raised her voice much more than
she meant to do. As every turn of his walk brought John near, there came
to his ears sufficient bits and scraps of Margaret's story to give him a
very fair sample of the whole; and he was sorry to see Ellen among the
rest, and as the rest, hanging upon her lips and drinking in what seemed
to him to be very poor nonsense. "Her gown was all blue satin, trimmed
here--and so--you know, with the most _exquisite_ lace, as deep as
that--and on the shoulders and here--you know, it was looped up with the
most lovely bunches of"--here John lost the sense. When he came near
again she had got upon a different topic--"'Miss Simmons,' says I, 'what
did you do that for?' 'Why,' says she, 'how could I help it? I saw Mr.
Payne coming, and I thought I'd get behind you, and so----.'" The next
time the speaker was saying with great animation, "And lo, and behold,
when I was in the midst of all my pleasure, up comes a little gentleman
of about his dimensions----." He had not taken many turns when he saw
that Margaret's nonsense was branching out right and left into worse
than nonsense.

"Ellen," said he suddenly, "I want you in the library."

"My conscience!" said Margaret as he left the room, "King John the
Second, and no less."

"Don't go on till I come back," said Ellen. "I won't be three minutes.
Just wait for me."

She found John seated at one of the tables in the library, sharpening a
pencil.

"Ellen," said he, in his usual manner, "I want you to do something for
me."

She waited eagerly to hear what, but instead of telling her he took a
piece of drawing-paper and began to sketch something. Ellen stood by,
wondering and impatient, to the last degree; not caring, however, to
show her impatience, though her very feet were twitching to run back to
her companions.

"Ellen," said John, as he finished the old stump of a tree with one
branch left on it, and a little bit of ground at the bottom, "did you
ever try your hand at drawing?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Then sit down here," said he, rising from his chair, "and let me see
what you can make of that."

"But I don't know how," said Ellen.

"I will teach you. There is a piece of paper, and this pencil is sharp
enough. Is that chair too low for you?"

He placed another, and with extreme unwillingness and some displeasure
Ellen sat down. It was on her tongue to ask if another time would not
do, but somehow she could not get the words out. John showed her how to
hold her pencil, how to place her paper, where to begin, and how to go
on; and then went to the other end of the room and took up his walk
again. Ellen at first felt more inclined to drive her pencil _through_
the paper than to make quiet marks upon it. However necessity was upon
her. She began her work, and once fairly begun, it grew delightfully
interesting. Her vexation went off entirely; she forgot Margaret and her
story; the wrinkles on the old trunk smoothed those on her brow, and
those troublesome leaves at the branch end brushed away all thoughts of
everything else. Her cheeks were burning with intense interest, when the
library door burst open and the whole troop of children rushed in; they
wanted Ellen for a round game in which all their number were needed; and
she must come directly.

"I can't come just yet," said she; "I must finish this first."

"Afterwards will just do as well," said George; "come, Ellen, do! you
can finish it afterwards."

"No, I can't," said Ellen; "I can't leave it till it's done. Why, I
thought Mr. John was here! I didn't see him go out. I'll come in a
little while."

"Did _he_ set you about that precious piece of business?" said William.

"Yes."

"I declare," said Margaret, "he's fitter to be the Grand Turk than any
one else I know of."

"I'll tell you," said William, putting his mouth close to her ear, and
speaking in a disagreeable loud whisper, "it's the biggest gobbler in
the yard."

"Ain't you ashamed, William?" cried little Ellen Chauncey.

"That's it exactly," said Margaret; "always strutting about."

"He isn't a bit," said Ellen, very angry; "I've seen people a great deal
more like gobblers than he is."

"Well," said William, reddening in his turn, "I had rather, at any rate,
be a good turkey gobbler than one of those outlandish birds that have an
appetite for stones and glass and bits of morocco, and such things.
Come, let us leave her to do the Grand Turk's bidding. Come, Ellen
Chauncey, you mustn't stay to interrupt her; we want you!"

They left her alone. Ellen had , but William's words did not hit
very sore. Since John's talk with her about the matter referred to she
had thought of it humbly and wisely; it is only pride that makes such
fault-finding very hard to bear. She was very sorry, however, that they
had fallen out again, and that her own passion, as she feared, had been
the cause. A few tears had to be wiped away before she could see exactly
how the old tree stood; then, taking up her pencil, she soon forgot
everything in her work. It was finished, and with head now on one side,
now on the other, she was looking at her picture with very great
satisfaction, when her eye caught the figure of John standing before
her.

"Is it done?" said he.

"It is done," said Ellen, smiling, as she rose up to let him come. He
sat down to look at it.

"It is very well," he said; "better than I expected. It is very well
indeed. Is this your _first_ trial, Ellen?"

"Yes, the first."

"You found it pleasant work?"

"Oh, very! very pleasant. I like it dearly."

"Then I will teach you. This shows you have a taste for it, and that is
precisely what I wanted to find out. I will give you an easier copy next
time. I rather expected when you sat down," said he, smiling a little,
"that the old tree would grow a good deal more crooked under your hands
than I meant it to be."

Ellen blushed exceedingly. "I do believe, Mr. John," she said,
stammering, "that you know everything I am thinking about."

"I might do that, Ellen, without being as wise as an oracle. But I do
not expect to make any very painful discoveries in that line," answered
John Humphreys.

Ellen thought, if he did not, it would not be her fault. She truly
repented her momentary anger and hasty speech to William. Not that he
did not deserve it, or that it was not true; but it was unwise, and had
done mischief, and "it was not a bit like peacemaking, nor meek at all,"
Ellen said to herself. She had been reading that morning the fifth
chapter of Matthew, and it ran in her head, "Blessed are the meek;"
"Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of
God." She strove to get back a pleasant feeling toward her young
companions, and prayed that she might not be angry at anything they
should say. She was tried again at tea-time.

Miss Sophia had quitted the table, bidding William hand the dough-nuts to
those who could not reach them. Marianne took a great while to make her
choice. Her brother grew impatient.

"Well, I hope you have suited yourself," said he. "Come, Miss
Montgomery, don't you be as long; my arm is tired. Shut your eyes, and
then you'll be sure to get the biggest one in the basket."

"No, Ellen," said John, who none of the children thought was near, "it
would be ungenerous; I wouldn't deprive Master William of his best
arguments."

"What do you mean by my arguments?" said William sharply.

"Generally, those which are the most difficult to take in," answered his
tormentor, with perfect gravity.

Ellen tried to keep from smiling, but could not; and others of the party
did not try. William and his sister were enraged, the more because John
had said nothing they could take hold of, or even repeat. Gilbert made
common cause with them.

"I wish I was grown up for once," said William.

"Will you fight _me_, sir?" asked Gilbert, who was a matter of three
years older, and well grown enough.

His question received no answer, and was repeated.

"No, sir."

"Why not, sir?"

"I am afraid you'd lay me up with a sprained ankle," said John, "and I
should not get back to Doncaster as quickly as I must."

"It is very mean of him," said Gilbert, as John walked away; "I could
whip him, I know."

"Who's that?" said Mr. Howard Marshman.

"John Humphreys."

"John Humphreys! You had better not meddle with him, my dear fellow. It
would be no particular proof of wisdom."

"Why, he's no such great affair," said Gilbert; "he is tall enough, to
be sure, but I don't believe he is heavier than I am."

"You don't know, in the first place, how to judge of the size of a
perfectly well-made man; and in the second place, _I_ was not a match
for him a year ago; so you may judge. I do not know precisely," he went
on to the lady he was walking with, "what it takes to rouse John
Humphreys, but when he _is_ roused, he seems to me to have strength
enough for twice his bone and muscle. I have seen him do curious things
once or twice!"

"That quiet Mr. Humphreys?"

"Humph!" said Mr. Howard; "gunpowder is pretty quiet stuff so long as it
keeps cool."

The next day another matter happened to disturb Ellen. Margaret had
received an elegant pair of ear-rings as a Christmas present, and was
showing them for the admiration of her young friends. Ellen's did not
satisfy her.

"Ain't they splendid?" said she. "Tell the truth now, Ellen Montgomery,
wouldn't you give a great deal if somebody would send you such a pair?"

"They are very pretty," said Ellen, "but I don't think I care much for
such things; I would rather have the money."

"Oh, you avaricious! Mr. Marshman!" cried Margaret, as the old gentleman
was just then passing through the room, "here's Ellen Montgomery says
she'd rather have money than anything else for _her_ present."

He did not seem to hear her, and went out without making any reply.

"O Margaret!" said Ellen, shocked and distressed, "how could you! how
could you! What will Mr. Marshman think?"

Margaret answered she didn't care what he thought. Ellen could only hope
he had not heard.

But a day or two after, when neither Ellen nor her friends were present,
Mr. Marshman asked who it was that had told him Ellen Montgomery would
like money better than anything else for her New Year's present.

"It was I, sir," said Margaret.

"It sounds very unlike her to say so," remarked Mrs. Chauncey.

"Did she say so?" inquired Mr. Marshman.

"I understood her so," said Margaret; "I understood her to say she
wouldn't care for anything else."

"I am disappointed in her," said the old gentleman; "I wouldn't have
believed it."

"I do not believe it," said Mrs. Chauncey quietly; "there has been some
mistake."

It was hard for Ellen now to keep to what she thought right.
Disagreeable feelings would rise when she remembered the impoliteness,
the half-sneer, the whole taunt, and the real unkindness of several of
the young party. She found herself ready to be irritated, inclined to
dislike the sight of those, even wishing to visit some sort of
punishment upon them. But Christian principle had taken strong hold in
little Ellen's heart; she fought her evil tempers manfully. It was not
an easy battle to gain. Ellen found that resentment and pride had roots
deep enough to keep her pulling up the shoots for a good while. She used
to get alone when she could, to read a verse, if no more, of her Bible,
and pray; she could forgive William and Margaret more easily then.
Solitude and darkness saw many a prayer and tear of hers that week. As
she struggled thus to get rid of sin, and to be more like what would
please God, she grew humble and happy. Never was such a struggle carried
on by faith in Him without success. And after a time, though a twinge of
the old feeling might come, it was very slight; she would bid William
and Margaret good-morning, and join them in any enterprise of pleasure
or business, with a brow as unclouded as the sun. They, however, were
too conscious of having behaved unbecomingly towards their little
strange guest to be over fond of her company. For the most part she and
Ellen Chauncey were left to each other.

Meanwhile the famous needle-book was in a fair way to be finished. Great
dismay had at first been excited in the breast of the intended giver by
the discovery that Gilbert had consulted what seemed to be a very
extraordinary fancy, in making the rose a yellow one. Ellen did her best
to comfort her. She asked Alice, and found there were such things as
yellow roses, and they were very beautiful too; and, besides, it would
match so nicely the yellow butterfly on the other leaf.

"I had rather it wouldn't match!" said Ellen Chauncey; "and it don't
match the rose- silk besides. Are the yellow roses sweet?"

"No," said Ellen; "but _this_ couldn't have been a sweet rose at any
rate, you know."

"Oh, but," said the other, bursting out into a fresh passion of
inconsolable tears, "I wanted it should be the _picture_ of a sweet
rose! And I think he might have put a purple butterfly; yellow
butterflies are so common! I had a great deal rather had a purple
butterfly and a red rose!"

What cannot be cured, however, must be endured. The tears were dried in
course of time, and the needle-book with its yellow pictures and pink
edges was very neatly finished. Ellen had been busy too on her own
account. Alice had got a piece of fine linen for her from Miss Sophia;
the collar for Mr. Van Brunt had been cut out, and Ellen with great
pleasure had made it. The stitching, the strings, and the very
button-holes, after infinite pains, were all finished by Thursday night.
She had also made a needle-case for Alice, not of so much pretension as
the other one; this was green morocco lined with crimson satin; no
leaves, but ribbon stitched in to hold papers of needles, and a place
for a bodkin. Ellen worked very hard at this; it was made with the
extremest care, and made beautifully. Ellen Chauncey admired it very
much, and anew lamented the uncouth variety of colours in her own. It
was a grave question whether pink or yellow ribbon should be used for
the latter; Ellen Montgomery recommended pink, she herself inclined to
yellow; and tired of doubting, at last resolved to split the difference,
and put one string of each colour. Ellen thought that did not mend
matters, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Besides the
needle-case for Alice, she had snatched the time whenever she could get
away from Ellen Chauncey to work at something for her. She had begged
Alice's advice and help; and between them, out of Ellen's scraps of
morocco and silk, they had manufactured a little bag of all the colours
of the rainbow, and very pretty and tasteful withal. Ellen thought it a
_chef-d'[oe]uvre_, and was unbounded in her admiration. It lay folded up
in white paper in a locked drawer ready for New Year's day. In addition
to all these pieces of business, John had begun to give her drawing
lessons, according to his promise. These became Ellen's delight. She
would willingly have spent much more time upon them than he would allow
her. It was the most loved employment of the day. Her teacher's skill
was not greater than the perfect gentleness and kindness with which he
taught. Ellen thought of Mr. Howard's speech about gunpowder; she could
not understand it.

"What is your conclusion on the whole?" asked John one day, as he stood
beside her mending a pencil.

"Why," said Ellen, laughing and blushing, "how _could_ you guess what I
was thinking about, Mr. John?"

"Not very difficult when you are eyeing me so hard."

"I was thinking," said Ellen; "I don't know whether it is right in me to
tell it, because somebody said you----"

"Well?"

"Were like gunpowder."

"Very kind of somebody! And so you have been in doubt of an explosion?"

"No; I don't know; I wondered what he meant."

"Never believe what you hear said of people, Ellen; judge for yourself.
Look here; that house has suffered from a severe gale of wind, I should
think; all the uprights are slanting off to the right; can't you set it
up straight?"

Ellen laughed at the tumble-down condition of the house as thus pointed
out to her, and set about reforming it.

It was Thursday afternoon that Alice and Ellen were left alone in the
library, several of the family having been called out to receive some
visitors; Alice had excused herself, and Ellen, as soon as they were
gone, nestled up to her side.

"How pleasant it is to be alone together, dear Alice! I don't have you
even at night now."

"It is very pleasant, dear Ellie! Home will not look disagreeable again,
will it? even after all our gaiety here."

"No, indeed! at least _your_ home won't; I don't know what mine will. Oh
me! I had almost forgotten Aunt Fortune!"

"Never mind, dear Ellie! You and I have each something to bear; we must
be brave and bear it manfully. There is a Friend that sticketh closer
than a brother, you know. We shan't be unhappy if we do our duty and
love Him."

"How soon is Mr. John going away?"

"Not for all next week. And so long as he stays, I do not mean that you
shall leave me."

Ellen cried for joy.

"I can manage it with Miss Fortune, I know," said Alice. "These fine
drawing lessons must not be interrupted. John is very much pleased with
your performances."

"Is he?" said Ellen, delighted; "I have taken all the pains I could."

"That is the sure way to success, Ellie. But, Ellie, I want to ask you
about something. What was that you said to Margaret Dunscombe about
wanting money for a New Year's present?"

"You know it, then!" cried Ellen, starting up. "Oh, I am so glad! I
wanted to speak to you about it so, I didn't know what to do, and I
thought I oughtn't to. What shall I do about it, dear Alice? How did you
know? George said you were not there."

"Mrs. Chauncey told me; she thought there had been some mistake, or
something wrong; how was it, Ellen?"

"Why," said Ellen, "she was showing us her ear-rings, and asking us what
we thought of them, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have such a
pair; and I thought I would a great deal rather have the money they
cost, to buy other things with, you know, that I would like better; and
I said so; and just then Mr. Marshman came in, and she called out to
him, loud, that I wanted money for a present, or would like it better
than anything else, or something like that. O Alice, how I felt! I was
frightened; but then I hoped Mr. Marshman did not hear her, for he did
not say anything; but the next day George told me all about what she had
been saying in there, and oh, it made me so unhappy!" said poor Ellen,
looking very dismal. "What _will_ Mr. Marshman think of me? he will
think I expected a present, and I never _dreamed_ of such a thing; it
makes me ashamed to speak of it, even; and I _can't bear_ he should
think so; I can't bear it. What shall I do, dear Alice?"

"I don't know what you can do, dear Ellie, but be patient. Mr. Marshman
will not think anything very hard of you, I dare say."

"But I think he does already; he hasn't kissed me since that as he did
before; I know he does, and I don't know what to do. How could Margaret
say that! oh, how could she! it was very unkind. What can I do?" said
Ellen again, after a pause, and wiping away a few tears. "Couldn't Mrs.
Chauncey tell Mr. Marshman not to give me anything, for that I never
expected it, and would a great deal rather not?"

"Why, no, Ellie, I do not think that would be exactly the best or most
dignified way."

"What, then, dear Alice? I'll do just as you say."

"I would just remain quiet."

"But Ellen says the things are all put on the plates in the morning; and
if there should be money on mine--I don't know what I should do, I
should feel so badly. I couldn't keep it, Alice!--I couldn't!"

"Very well--you need not!--but remain quiet in the meanwhile; and if it
should be so, then say what you please, only take care that you say it
in a right spirit and in a right manner. Nobody can hurt you much, my
child, while you keep the even path of duty; poor Margaret is her own
worst enemy."

"Then if there should be money in the morning, I may tell Mr. Marshman
the truth about it?"

"Certainly--only do not be in haste; speak gently."

"Oh, I wish everybody would be kind and pleasant always!" said poor
Ellen, but half comforted.

"What a sigh was there!" said John, coming in. "What is the matter with
my little sister?"

"Some of the minor trials of life, John," said Alice, with a smile.

"What is the matter, Ellie?"

"Oh, something you can't help," said Ellen.

"And something I mustn't know. Well, to change the scene--suppose you go
with me to visit the greenhouse and hothouses. Have you seen them yet?"

"No," said Ellen, as she eagerly sprang forward to take his hand;
"Ellen promised to go with me, but we have been so busy."

"Will you come, Alice?"

"Not I," said Alice, "I wish I could, but I shall be wanted elsewhere."

"By whom, I wonder, so much as by me," said her brother. "However, after
to-morrow I will have you all to myself."

As he and Ellen were crossing the hall they met Mrs. Marshman.

"Where are you going, John?" said she.

"Where I ought to have been before, ma'am--to pay my respects to Mr.
Hutchinson."

"You've not seen him yet? that is very ungrateful of you. Hutchinson is
one of your warmest friends and admirers. There are few people he
mentions with so much respect, or that he is so glad to see, as Mr. John
Humphreys."

"A distinction I owe, I fear, principally to my English blood," said
John, shaking his head.

"It is not altogether that," said Mrs. Marshman, laughing; "though I do
believe I am the only Yankee good Hutchinson has ever made up his mind
entirely to like. But go and see him, do, he will be very much pleased."

"Who is Mr. Hutchinson?" said Ellen, as they went on.

"He is the gardener, or rather the head-gardener. He came out with his
master some thirty or forty years ago, but his old English prejudice
will go to the grave with him, I believe."

"But why don't he like the Americans?"

John laughed. "It would never do for me to attempt to answer that
question, Ellie, fond of going to the bottom of things as you are. We
should just get to hard fighting about tea-time, and should barely make
peace by mid-day to-morrow at the most moderate calculation. You shall
have an answer to your question, however."

Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait for his
promised answer.

As they entered the large and beautifully-kept greenhouse, Hutchinson
came from the farther end of it to meet them--an old man of most
respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and then slipped his
priming-knife into his left hand to leave the right at liberty for John,
who shook it cordially.

"And why 'aven't you been to see me before, Mr. John? I have thought it
rather 'ard of you; Miss h'Alice has come several times."

"The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. You look flourishing
here."

"Why, yes, sir, pretty middling within doors; but I don't like the
climate, Mr. John, I don't like the climate, sir. There's no country
like h'England, I believe, for my business. 'Ere's a fine rose, sir--if
you'll step a bit this way--quite a new kind--I got it over last
h'autumn--the Palmerston it is. Those are fine buds, sir."

The old man was evidently much pleased to see his visitor, and presently
plunged him deep into English politics, for which he seemed to have lost
no interest by forty years' life in America. As Ellen could not
understand what they were talking about, she quitted John's side, and
went wandering about by herself. From the moment the sweet aromatic
smell of the plants had greeted her she had been in a high state of
delight; and now, lost to all the world beside, from the mystery of one
beautiful and strange green thing to another, she went wandering and
admiring, and now and then timidly advancing her nose to see if
something glorious was something sweet too. She could hardly leave a
superb cactus, in the petals of which there was such a singular blending
of scarlet and crimson as almost to dazzle her sight; and if the
pleasure of smell could intoxicate she would have _reeled_ away from a
luxuriant daphne odorata in full flower, over which she feasted for a
long time. The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her; some
rough and brown-streaked, some shining as if they were varnished, others
of hair-like delicacy of structure--all lovely. At last she stood still
with admiration and almost held her breath before a white camellia.

"What does that flower make you think of, Ellen?" said John, coming up;
his friend the gardener had left him to seek a newspaper in which he
wished to show him a paragraph.

"I don't know," said Ellen--"I couldn't think of anything but itself."

"It reminds me of what I ought to be--and of what I shall be if I ever
see heaven; it seems to me the emblem of a sinless pure spirit, looking
up in fearless spotlessness. Do you remember what was said to the old
Church of Sardis? 'Thou hast a few names that have not defiled their
garments; and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.'"

The tears rushed to Ellen's eyes, she felt she was so very unlike this;
but Mr. Hutchinson coming back prevented anything more from being said.
She looked at the white camellia; it seemed to speak to her.

"That's the paragraph, sir," said the old gardener, giving the paper to
John. "'Ere's a little lady that is fond of flowers, if I don't make a
mistake; this is somebody I've not seen before. Is this the little lady
Miss h'Ellen was telling me about?"

"I presume so," said John; "she is Miss Ellen Montgomery, a sister of
mine, Mr. Hutchinson, and Mr. Marshman's guest."

"By both names h'entitled to my greatest respect," said the old man,
stepping back and making a very low bow to Ellen, with his hand upon his
heart, at which she could not help laughing. "I am very glad to see Miss
h'Ellen. What can I do to make her remember old 'Utchinson? Would Miss
h'Ellen like a bouquet?"

Ellen did not venture to say yes, but her blush and sparkling eyes
answered him. The old gardener understood her, and was as good as his
word. He began with cutting a beautiful sprig of a large purple
geranium, then a slip of lemon myrtle. Ellen watched him as the bunch
grew in his hand, and could hardly believe her eyes as one beauty after
another was added to what became a most elegant bouquet. And most sweet
too; to her joy the delicious daphne and fragrant lemon blossom went to
make part of it. Her thanks, when it was given her, were made with few
words but with all her face; the old gardener smiled, and was quite
satisfied that his gift was not thrown away. He afterwards showed them
his hothouses, where Ellen was astonished and very much interested to
see ripe oranges and lemons in abundance, and pines too, such as she had
been eating since she came to Ventnor, thinking nothing less than that
they grew so near home. The grapes had all been cut.

There was to be quite a party at Ventnor in the evening of New Year's
day. Ellen knew this, and destined her precious flowers for Alice's
adornment. How to keep them in the meanwhile? She consulted Mr. John,
and, according to his advice, took them to Mrs. Bland, the housekeeper,
to be put in water and kept in a safe place for her till the time. She
knew Mrs. Bland, for Ellen Chauncey and she had often gone to her room
to work where none of the children would find and trouble them. Mrs.
Bland promised to take famous care of the flowers, and said she would do
it with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Marshman's guests, she added
smilingly, must have everything they wanted.

"What does that mean, Mrs. Bland?" said Ellen.

"Why, you see, Miss Ellen, there's a deal of company always coming, and
some is Mrs. Gillespie's friends, and some Mr. Howard's, and some to see
Miss Sophia more particularly, and some belong to Mrs. Marshman, or the
whole family maybe; but now and then _Mr_. Marshman has an old English
friend or so, that he sets the greatest store by; and them he calls
_his_ guests, and the best in the house is hardly good enough for them,
or the country either."

"And so I am one of Mr. Marshman's guests!" said Ellen; "I didn't know
what it meant."

She saved but one little piece of rose-geranium from her flowers, for
the gratification of her own nose, and skipped away through the hall to
rejoin her companions, very light-hearted indeed.




CHAPTER XXXII

          This life, sae far's I understand,
          Is a' enchanted fairy-land,
          Where pleasure is the magic wand
                That, wielded right,
          Makes hours like minutes, hand in hand,
                Dance in fu' light.

                                        --BURNS.


New Year's morning dawned.

"How I wish breakfast was over!" thought Ellen as she was dressing.
However, there is no way of getting _over_ this life but by going
through it; so when the bell rang she went down as usual. Mr. Marshman
had decreed that he would not have a confusion of gifts at the
breakfast-table; other people might make presents in their own way; they
must not interfere with his. Needle-cases, bags, and so forth, must
therefore wait another opportunity; and Ellen Chauncey decided it would
just make the pleasure so much longer, and was a great improvement on
the old plan. "Happy New Years" and pleasant greetings were exchanged as
the party gathered in the breakfast-room; pleasure sat on all faces
except Ellen's, and many a one wore a broad smile as they sat down to
table. For the napkins were in singular disarrangement this morning;
instead of being neatly folded up on the plates, in their usual fashion,
they were in all sorts of disorder, sticking up in curious angles, some
high, some low, some half folded, some quite unfolded, according to the
size and shape of that which they covered. It was worth while to see
that long tableful, and the faces of the company, before yet a napkin
was touched. An anxious glance at her own showed Ellen that it lay quite
flat; Alice's, which was next, had an odd little rising in the middle,
as if there were a small dumpling under it. Ellen was in an agony for
this pause to come to an end. It was broken by some of the older
persons, and then in a trice every plate was uncovered. And then what a
buzz! pleasure and thanks and admiration, and even laughter. Ellen
dreaded at first to look at her plate; she bethought her, however, that
if she waited long she would have to do it with all eyes upon her; she
lifted the napkin slowly--yes--just as she feared--there lay a clean
bank-note--of what value she could not see, for confusion covered her;
the blood rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She could not
have spoken, and happily it was no time then; everybody else was
speaking; she could not have been heard. She had time to cool and
recollect herself: but she sat with her eyes cast down, fastened upon
her plate and the unfortunate bank-bill, which she detested with all her
heart. She did not know what Alice had received; she understood nothing
that was going on, till Alice touched her, and said gently, "Mr.
Marshman is speaking to you, Ellen."

"Sir!" said Ellen, starting.

"You need not look so terrified," said Mr. Marshman, smiling; "I only
asked you if your bill was a counterfeit--something seems to be wrong
about it."

Ellen looked at her plate and hesitated. Her lip trembled.

"What is it?" continued the old gentleman. "Is anything the matter?"

Ellen desperately took up the bill, and with burning cheeks marched to
his end of the table.

"I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I had a great deal rather not;
if you please--if you will please to be so good as to let me give it
back to you--I should be very glad."

"Why, hoity toity!" said the old gentleman, "what's all this? what's the
matter? don't you like it? I thought I was doing the very thing that
would please you best of all."

"I am very sorry you should think so, sir," said Ellen, who had
recovered a little breath, but had the greatest difficulty to keep back
her tears; "I never thought of such a thing as your giving me anything,
sir, till somebody spoke of it, and I had rather never have anything in
the world than that you should think what you thought about me."

"What did I think about you?"

"George told me that somebody told you, sir, I wanted money for my
present."

"And didn't you say so?"

"Indeed I didn't, sir!" said Ellen, with sudden fire. "I never thought
of such a thing!"

"What _did_ you say then?"

"Margaret was showing us her ear-rings, and she asked me if I wouldn't
like to have some like them; and I couldn't help thinking I would a
great deal rather have the money they would cost to buy something for
Alice; and just when I said so you came in, sir, and she said what she
did. I was very much ashamed. I wasn't thinking of you, sir, at all, nor
of New Year."

"Then you would like something else better than money."

"No, sir, nothing at all, if you please. If you'll only be so good as
not to give me this I will be very much obliged to you indeed; and
please not to think I could be so shameful as you thought I was."

Ellen's face was not to be withstood. The old gentleman took the bill
from her hand.

"I will never think anything of you," said he, "but what is the very
tip-top of honourable propriety. But you make _me_ ashamed now--what am
I going to do with this? Here have you come and made me a present, and I
feel very awkward indeed."

"I don't care what you do with it, sir," said Ellen, laughing, though in
imminent danger of bursting into tears--"I am very glad it is out of
_my_ hands."

"But you needn't think I am going to let you off so," said he; "you must
give me half-a-dozen kisses at least to prove that you have forgiven me
for making so great a blunder."

"Half-a-dozen is too many at once," said Ellen gaily, "three now and
three to-night."

So she gave the old gentleman three kisses, but he caught her in his
arms and gave her a dozen at least; after which he found out that the
waiter was holding a cup of coffee at his elbow, and Ellen went back to
her place with a very good appetite for her breakfast.

After breakfast the needle-cases were delivered. Both gave the most
entire satisfaction. Mrs. Chauncey assured her daughter that she would
quite as lief have a yellow as a red rose on the cover, and that she
liked the inscription extremely, which the little girl acknowledged to
have been a joint device of her own and Ellen's. Ellen's bag gave great
delight, and was paraded all over the house.

After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and when she
had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not give her for a
good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers--a sweet gift still to be
made. Why not make it now? why should not Alice have the pleasure of
them all day? A bright thought! Ellen ran forthwith to the housekeeper's
room, and after a long admiring look at her treasures, carried them
glass and all to the library, where Alice and John often were in the
morning alone. Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the
flowers were smelled and admired afresh.

"Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Ellie, except Mr. Marshman's
gift."

"And what was that, Alice? I haven't seen it yet."

Alice pulled out of her pocket a small round morocco case, the very
thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under the napkin,
and opened it.

"It's Mr. John!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, how beautiful!"

Neither of her hearers could help laughing.

"It is very fine, Ellie," said Alice; "you are quite right. Now I know
what was the business that took John to Randolph every day, and kept him
there so long, while I was wondering at him unspeakably. Kind, kind Mr.
Marshman."

"Did Mr. John get anything?"

"Ask him, Ellie."

"Did you get anything, Mr. John?" said Ellen, going up to him where he
was reading on the sofa.

"I got this," said John, handing her a little book which lay beside him.

"What is this? Wime's--Wiem's--Life of Washington--Washington? he
was--may I look at it?"

"Certainly!"

She opened the book, and presently sat down on the floor where she was
by the side of the sofa. Whatever she had found within the leaves of the
book, she had certainly lost herself. An hour passed. Ellen had not
spoken or moved except to turn over leaves.

"Ellen!" said John.

She looked up, her cheeks  high.

"What have you found there?" said he, smiling.

"Oh, a great deal! But--did Mr. Marshman give you this?"

"No."

"Oh!" said Ellen, looking puzzled, "I thought you said you got this this
morning."

"No, I got it last night. I got it for you, Ellie."

"For me!" said Ellen, her colour deepening very much--"for me! did you?
Oh, thank you!--oh, I'm so very much obliged to you, Mr. John."

"It is only an answer to one of your questions."

"This! is it?--I don't know what, I am sure. Oh, I wish I could do
something to please you, Mr. John!"

"You shall, Ellie; you shall give me a brother's right again."

Blushingly Ellen approached her lips to receive one of his grave kisses;
and then, not at all displeased, went down on the floor and was lost in
her book.

Oh, the long joy of that New Year's day! how shall it be told? The
pleasure of that delightful book, in which she was wrapped the whole
day; even when called off, as she often was, by Ellen Chauncey to help
her in fifty little matters of business or pleasure. These were attended
to, and faithfully and cheerfully, but _the book_ was in her head all
the while. And this pleasure was mixed with Alice's pleasure, the
flowers and the miniature, and Mr. Marshman's restored kindness. She
never met John's or Alice's eye that day without a smile. Even when she
went to be dressed her book went with her, and was laid on the bed
within sight, ready to be taken up the moment she was at liberty. Ellen
Chauncey lent her a white frock, which was found to answer very well
with a tuck let out; and Alice herself dressed her. While this was
doing, Margaret Dunscombe put her head in at the door to ask Anne, Miss
Sophia's maid, if she was almost ready to come and curl her hair.

"Indeed I can't say that I am, Miss Margaret," said Anne. "I've
something to do for Miss Humphreys, and Miss Sophia hasn't so much as
done the first thing towards beginning to get ready yet. It'll be a good
hour and more."

Margaret went away exclaiming impatiently that she could get nobody to
help her, and would have to wait till everybody was downstairs.

A few minutes after she heard Ellen's voice at the door of her room
asking if she might come in.

"Yes--what's that? what do you want?"

"I'll fix your hair if you'll let me," said Ellen.

"You? I don't believe you can."

"Oh yes, I can; I used to do mamma's very often; I am not afraid if
you'll trust me."

"Well, thank you, I don't care if you try then," said Margaret, seating
herself, "it won't do any harm, at any rate; and I want to be downstairs
before anybody gets here; I think it's half the fun to see them come in.
Bless me! you're dressed and all ready."

Margaret's hair was in long thick curls; it was not a trifling matter to
dress them. Ellen plodded through it patiently and faithfully, taking
great pains, and doing the work well; and then went back to Alice.
Margaret's thanks, not very gracefully given, would have been a poor
reward for the loss of three-quarters of an hour of pleasure. But Ellen
was very happy in having done right. It was no longer time to read; they
must go downstairs.

The New Year's party was a nondescript, young and old together; a goodly
number of both were gathered from Randolph and the neighbouring country.
There were games for the young, dancing for the gay, and a superb supper
for all; and the big bright rooms were full of bright faces. It was a
very happy evening to Ellen. For a good part of it Mr. Marshman took
possession of her, or kept her near him; and his extreme kindness would
alone have made the evening pass pleasantly; she was sure he was her
firm friend again.

In the course of the evening Mrs. Chauncey found occasion to ask her
about her journey up the river, without at all mentioning Margaret or
what she had said.

Ellen answered that she had come with Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter.

"Did you have a pleasant time?" asked Mrs. Chauncey.

"Why, no, ma'am," said Ellen, "I don't know--it was partly pleasant and
partly unpleasant."

"What made it so, love?"

"I had left mamma that morning, and that made me unhappy."

"But you said it was partly pleasant?"

"Oh, that was because I had such a good friend on board," said Ellen,
her face lighting up as his image came before her.

"Who was that?"

"I don't know, ma'am, who he was."

"A stranger to you?"

"Yes, ma'am--I never saw him before--I wish I could see him again."

"Where did you find him?"

"I didn't find him--he found me, when I was sitting up on the highest
part of the boat."

"And your friends with you?"

"What friends?"

"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter."

"No, ma'am; they were down in the cabin."

"And what business had you to be walking about the boat alone?" said Mr.
Marshman good-humouredly.

"They were strangers, sir," said Ellen, colouring a little.

"Well, so was this man--your friend--a stranger too, wasn't he?"

"Oh, he was a very different stranger," said Ellen, smiling; "and he
wasn't a stranger long, besides."

"Well, you must tell me more about him; come, I'm curious. What sort of
a strange friend was this?"

"He wasn't a _strange_ friend," said Ellen, laughing; "he was a very,
very good friend; he took care of me the whole day; he was very good and
very kind."

"What kind of a man?" said Mrs. Chauncey; "a gentleman?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!" said Ellen, looking surprised at the question. "I am
sure he was."

"What did he look like?"

Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct.

"What did he wear? Coat or cloak?"

"Coat--dark brown, I think."

"This was in the end of October, wasn't it?"

Ellen thought a moment and answered "Yes."

"And you don't know his name?"

"No, ma'am; I wish I did."

"I can tell you," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "he is one of my best
friends too, Ellen; it is my brother, Mr. George Marshman."

How Ellen's face crimsoned! Mr. Marshman asked how she knew.

"It was then he came up the river, you know, sir; and don't you remember
his speaking of a little girl on board the boat who was travelling with
strangers, and whom he endeavoured to befriend? I had forgotten it
entirely till a minute or two ago."

"Miss Margaret Dunscombe!" cried George Walsh, "what kind of a person
was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up the river?"

"I don't know, nor care," said Margaret. "Somebody she picked up
somewhere."

"It was Mr. George Marshman!"

"It wasn't."

"Uncle George!" exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the group her
cousin had quitted; "_My_ Uncle George? Do you know Uncle George,
Ellen?"

"Very much--I mean--yes," said Ellen.

Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It seemed to
bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it too. Mrs.
Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remembered very well
her son's speaking of her, and was very glad to find who it was. And
now, Ellen thought, she would surely see him again some time.

The next day they left Ventnor. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry to lose
her new friend, and begged she would come again "as soon as she could."
All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told her she must give him a
large place in her heart, or he should be jealous of her "strange
friend;" and Alice was charged to bring her whenever she came to see
them.

The drive back to Carra-carra was scarcely less pleasant than the drive
out had been; and home, Ellen said, looked lovely. That is, Alice's
home, which she began to think more her own than any other. The pleasure
of the past ten days, though great, had not been unmixed; the week that
followed was one of perfect enjoyment. In Mr. Humphrey's household there
was an atmosphere of peace and purity that even a child could feel, and
in which such a child as Ellen throve exceedingly. The drawing lessons
went on with great success; other lessons were begun; there were fine
long walks, and charming sleigh-rides, and more than one visit to Mrs.
Vawse; and what Ellen perhaps liked best of all, the long evenings of
conversation and reading aloud, and bright firelights, and brighter
sympathy and intelligence and affection. That week did them all good,
and no one more than Ellen.

It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune's and begin her old life
there. She went on the evening of the day John had departed. They were
at supper.

"Well!" said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, "have you got enough of
visiting? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn't wanted, for my part."

"I haven't, Aunt Fortune," said Ellen.

"She's been nowhere but what's done her good," said Mr. Van Brunt;
"she's reely growed handsome since she's been away."

"Grown a fiddlestick!" said Miss Fortune.

"She couldn't grow handsomer than she was before," said the old
grandmother, hugging and kissing her little granddaughter with great
delight; "the sweetest posie in the garden she always was!"

Mr. Van Brunt looked as if he entirely agreed with the old lady. That,
while it made some amends for Miss Fortune's dryness, perhaps increased
it. She remarked, that "she thanked Heaven she could always make herself
contented at home;" which Ellen could not help thinking was a happiness
for the rest of the world.

In the matter of the collar, it was hard to say whether the giver or
receiver had the most satisfaction. Ellen had begged him not to speak of
it to her aunt; and accordingly one Sunday when he came there with it
on, both he and she were in a state of exquisite delight. Miss Fortune's
attention was at last aroused; she made a particular review of him, and
ended it by declaring that "he looked uncommonly dandified, but she
could not make out what he had done to himself;" a remark which
transported Mr. Van Brunt and Ellen beyond all bounds of prudence.

Nancy's Bible, which had been purchased for her at Randolph, was given
to her the first opportunity. Ellen anxiously watched her as she slowly
turned it over, her face showing, however, very decided approbation of
the style of the gift. She shook her head once or twice, and then said--

"What did you give this to me for, Ellen?"

"Because I wanted to give you something for New Year," said Ellen, "and
I thought that would be the best thing--if you would only read it, it
would make you so happy and good."

"_You_ are good, I believe," said Nancy, "but I don't expect ever to be
myself--I don't think I _could_ be. You might as well teach a snake not
to wriggle."

"I am not good at all," said Ellen, "we're none of us good"--and the
tears rose to her eyes--"but the Bible will teach us how to be. If
you'll only read it! please Nancy, do! say you will read a little every
day."

"You don't want me to make a promise I shouldn't keep, I guess, do you?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Well, I shouldn't keep that, so I won't promise it; but I tell you what
I _will_ do, I'll take precious fine care of it, and keep it always for
your sake."

"Well," said Ellen, sighing, "I am glad you will even do so much as
that. But Nancy--before you begin to read the Bible you may have to go
where you never can read it, nor be happy nor good neither."

Nancy made no answer, but walked away, Ellen thought, rather more
soberly than usual.

This conversation had cost Ellen some effort. It had not been made
without a good deal of thought and some prayer. She could not hope she
had done much good, but she had done her duty. And it happened that Mr.
Van Brunt, standing behind the angle of the wall, had heard every word.




CHAPTER XXXIII

          If erst he wished, now he longed sore.

                                        --FAIRFAX.


Ellen's life had nothing to mark it for many months. The rest of the
winter passed quietly away, every day being full of employment. At home
the state of matters was rather bettered. Either Miss Fortune was
softened by Ellen's gentle inoffensive ways and obedient usefulness, or
she had resolved to bear what could not be helped, and make the best of
the little inmate she could not get rid of. She was certainly resolved
to make the _most_ of her. Ellen was kept on the jump a great deal of
the time; she was runner of errands and maid-of-all-work; to set the
table and clear it was only a trifle in the list of her everyday
duties; and they were not ended till the last supper dish was put away
and the hearth swept up. Miss Fortune never spared herself, and never
spared Ellen, so long as she had any occasion for her.

There were, however, long pieces of time that were left free; these
Ellen seized for her studies and used most diligently, urged on by a
three or fourfold motive. For the love of them, and for her own
sake--that John might think she had done well--that she might presently
please and satisfy Alice--above all, that her mother's wishes might be
answered. This thought, whenever it came, was a spur to her efforts; so
was each of the others; and Christian feeling added another and kept all
the rest in force. Without this, indolence might have weakened, or
temptation surprised her resolution; little Ellen was open to both; but
if ever she found herself growing careless, from either cause,
conscience was sure to smite her, and then would rush in all the motives
that called upon her to persevere. Soon faithfulness began to bring its
reward. With delight she found herself getting the better of
difficulties, beginning to see a little through the mists of ignorance,
making some sensible progress on the long road of learning. Study grew
delightful; her lessons with Alice one of her greatest enjoyments. And
as they were a labour of love to both teacher and scholar, and as it was
the aim of each to see quite to the bottom of every matter, where it was
possible, and to leave no difficulties behind them on the road which
they had not cleared away, no wonder Ellen went forward steadily and
rapidly. Reading also became a wonderful pleasure. Wiem's Life of
Washington was read, and read, and read over again, till she almost knew
it by heart; and from that she went to Alice's library, and ransacked it
for what would suit her. Happily it was a well-picked one, and Ellen
could not light upon many books that would do her mischief. For those,
Alice's wish was enough; she never opened them. Furthermore, Alice
insisted that when Ellen had only fairly begun a book she should go
through with it; not capriciously leave it for another, nor have
half-a-dozen about at one time. But when Ellen had read it once she
commonly wanted to go over it again, and seldom laid it aside until she
had sucked the sweetness all out of it.

As for drawing, it could not go on very fast while the cold weather
lasted. Ellen had no place at home where she could spread out her paper
and copies without danger of being disturbed. Her only chance was at the
parsonage. John had put all her pencils in order before he went, and had
left her an abundance of copies, marked as she was to take them. They,
or some of them, were bestowed in Alice's desk; and whenever Ellen had
a spare hour or two, of a fine morning or afternoon, she made the best
of her way to the mountain; it made no difference whether Alice were at
home or not; she went in, coaxed up the fire, and began her work. It
happened many a time that Alice, coming home from a walk or a run in the
woods, saw the little hood and cloak on the settee before she opened the
glass door, and knew very well how she should find Ellen, bending
intently over her desk. These runs to the mountain were very frequent;
sometimes to draw, sometimes to recite, always to see Alice and be
happy. Ellen grew rosy and hardy, and in spite of her separation from
her mother, she was very happy too. Her extreme and varied occupation
made this possible. She had no time to indulge useless sorrow; on the
contrary, her thoughts were taken up with agreeable matters, either
doing or to be done; and at night she was far too tired and sleepy to
lie awake musing. And besides, she hoped that her mother would come back
in the spring, or the summer at farthest. It is true Ellen had no liking
for the kind of business her aunt gave her; it was oftentimes a trial of
temper and patience. Miss Fortune was not the pleasantest work-mistress
in the world, and Ellen was apt to wish to be doing something else; but,
after all, this was not amiss. Besides the discipline of character,
these trials made the pleasant things with which they were mixed up seem
doubly pleasant, the disagreeable parts of her life relished the
agreeable wonderfully. After spending the whole morning with Miss
Fortune in the depths of housework, how delightful it was to forget all
in drawing some nice little cottage with a bit of stone wall and a
barrel in front; or to go with Alice, in thought, to the south of
France, and learn how the peasants manage their vines and make the wine
from them; or run over the Rock of Gibraltar with the monkeys; or at
another time, seated on a little bench in the chimney corner, when the
fire blazed up well, before the candles were lighted, to forget the
kitchen and the supper and her bustling aunt, and sail round the world
with Captain Cook. Yes--these things were all the sweeter for being
tasted by snatches.

Spring brought new occupation; household labours began to increase in
number and measure; her leisure times were shortened. But pleasures were
increased too. When the snow went off, and spring-like days began to
come, and birds' notes were heard again, and the trees put out their
young leaves, and the brown mountains were looking soft and green,
Ellen's heart bounded at the sight. The springing grass was lovely to
see; dandelions were marvels of beauty; to her each wild wood flower was
a never-to-be-enough admired and loved wonder. She used to take long
rambles with Mr. Van Brunt when business led him to the woods,
sometimes riding part of the way on the ox-sled. Always a basket for
flowers went along; and when the sled stopped, she would wander all
around seeking among the piled-up dead leaves for the white wind-flower,
and pretty little hang-head uvularia, and delicate blood-root, and the
wild geranium and columbine; and many others the names of which she did
not know. They were like friends to Ellen; she gathered them
affectionately as well as admiringly into her little basket, and seemed
to purify herself in their pure companionship. Even Mr. Van Brunt came
to have an indistinct notion that Ellen and flowers were made to be
together. After he found what a pleasure it was to her to go on these
expeditions, he made it a point, whenever he was bound to the woods of a
fine day, to come to the house for her. Miss Fortune might object as she
pleased; he always found an answer; and at last Ellen, to her great joy,
would be told, "Well! go get your bonnet and be off with yourself." Once
under the shadow of the big trees, the dried leaves crackling beneath
her feet, and alone with her kind conductor, and Miss Fortune and all in
the world that was disagreeable was forgotten--forgotten, no more to be
remembered till the walk should come to an end. And it would have
surprised anybody to hear the long conversations she and Mr. Van Brunt
kept up, he, the silentest man in Thirlwall! Their talk often ran upon
trees, among which Mr. Van Brunt was at home. Ellen wanted to become
acquainted with them, as well as with the little flowers that grew at
their feet; and he tried to teach her how to know each separate kind by
the bark, and leaf, and manner of growth. The pine and hemlock and fir
were easily learnt; the white birch too; beyond those at first she was
perpetually confounding one with another. Mr. Van Brunt had to go over
and over his instructions; never weary, always vastly amused. Pleasant
lessons these were! Ellen thought so, and Mr. Van Brunt thought so too.

Then there were walks with Alice, pleasanter still, if that could be.
And even in the house Ellen managed to keep a token of spring-time. On
her toilet-table, the three uncouth legs of which were now hidden by a
neat dimity cover, there always stood a broken tumbler with a supply of
flowers. The supply was very varied, it is true; sometimes only a
handful of dandelions, sometimes a huge bunch of lilac flowers, which
could not be persuaded to stay in the glass without the help of the
wall, against which it leaned in very undignified style; sometimes the
bouquet was of really delicate and beautiful wild flowers. All were
charming in Ellen's eyes.

As the days grew long and the weather warm, Alice and she began to make
frequent trips to the Cat's Back, and French came very much into
fashion. They generally took Sharp to ease the long way, and rested
themselves with a good stay on the mountain. Their coming was always a
joy to the old lady. She was dearly fond of them both, and delighted to
hear from their lips the language she loved best. After a time they
spoke nothing else when with her. She was well qualified to teach them;
and, indeed, her general education had been far from contemptible,
though nature had done more for her. As the language grew familiar to
them, she loved to tell and they to hear long stories of her youth and
native country, scenes and people so very different from all Ellen had
ever seen or heard of; and told in a lively simple style which she could
not have given in English, and with a sweet colouring of Christian
thought and feeling. Many things made these visits good and pleasant. It
was not the least of Alice's and Ellen's joy to carry their old friend
something that might be for her comfort in her lonely way of life. For
even Miss Fortune now and then told Ellen "she might take a piece of
that cheese along with her;" or "she wondered if the old lady would like
a little fresh meat? she guessed she'd cut her a bit of that nice lamb;
she wouldn't want but a little piece." A singular testimony this was to
the respect and esteem Mrs. Vawse had from everybody. Miss Fortune very,
very seldom was known to take a bit from her own comforts to add to
those of another. The ruling passion of this lady was thrift; her next,
good housewifery. First, to gather to herself and heap up of what the
world most esteems; after that, to be known as the most thorough
housekeeper and the smartest woman in Thirlwall.

Ellen made other visits she did not like so well. In the course of the
winter and summer she became acquainted with most of the neighbourhood.
She sometimes went with her aunt to a formal tea-drinking, one, two,
three, or four miles off, as the case might be. They were not very
pleasant. To some places she was asked by herself; and though the people
invariably showed themselves very kind, and did their best to please
her, Ellen seldom cared to go a second time; liked even home and Miss
Fortune better. There were a few exceptions: Jenny Hitchcock was one of
her favourites, and Jane Huff was another; and all of their respective
families came in, with good reason, for a share of her regard, Mr.
Juniper indeed excepted. Once they went to a quilting at Squire
Dennison's; the house was spotlessly neat and well ordered; the people
all kind; but Ellen thought they did not seem to know how to be
pleasant. Dan Dennison alone had no stiffness about him. Miss Fortune
remarked with pride that even in this family of pretension, as she
thought it, the refreshments could bear no comparison with hers. Once
they were invited to tea at the Lawsons'; but Ellen told Alice, with
much apparent disgust, that she never wanted to go again. Mrs. Van Brunt
she saw often. To Thirlwall Miss Fortune never went.

Twice in the course of the summer Ellen had a very great pleasure in the
company of little Ellen Chauncey. Once Miss Sophia brought her, and once
her mother; and the last time they made a visit of two weeks. On both
occasions Ellen was sent for to the parsonage and kept while they
stayed; and the pleasure that she and her little friend had together
cannot be told. It was unmixed now. Rambling about through the woods and
over the fields, no matter where, it was all enchanting; helping Alice
garden; helping Thomas make hay, and the mischief they did his haycocks
by tumbling upon them, and the patience with which he bore it; the
looking for eggs; the helping Margery churn, and the helping each other
set tables; the pleasant mornings and pleasant evenings and pleasant
mid-days, it cannot be told. Long to be remembered, sweet and pure, was
the pleasure of those summer days, unclouded by a shade of discontent or
disagreement on either brow. Ellen loved the whole Marshman family now,
for the sake of one, the one she had first known; and little Ellen
Chauncey repeatedly told her mother in private that Ellen Montgomery was
the very nicest girl she had ever seen. They met with joy and parted
with sorrow, entreating and promising, if possible, a speedy meeting
again.

Amidst all the improvements and enjoyments of these summer months, and
they had a great deal of both, for Ellen there was one cause of sorrow
she could not help feeling, and it began to press more and more.
Letters--they came slowly, and when they came they were not at all
satisfactory. Those in her mother's hand dwindled and dwindled, till at
last there came only mere scraps of letters from her; and sometimes
after a long interval one from Captain Montgomery would come alone.
Ellen's heart sickened with long-deferred hope. She wondered what could
make her mother neglect a matter so necessary for her happiness;
sometimes she fancied they were travelling about, and it might be
inconvenient to write; sometimes she thought perhaps they were coming
home without letting her know, and would suddenly surprise her some day
and make her half lose her wits with joy. But they did not come, nor
write; and whatever was the reason, Ellen felt it was very sad, and
sadder and sadder as the summer went on. Her own letters became pitiful
in their supplications for letters; they had been very cheerful and
filled with encouraging matter, and in part they were still.

For a while her mind was diverted from this sad subject, and her brow
cleared up, when John came home in August. As before, Alice gained Miss
Fortune's leave to keep her at the parsonage the whole time of his stay,
which was several weeks. Ellen wondered that it was so easily granted,
but she was much too happy to spend time in thinking about it. Miss
Fortune had several reasons. She was unwilling to displease Miss
Humphreys, and conscious that it would be a shame to her to stand openly
in the way of Ellen's good. Besides, though Ellen's services were lost
for a time, yet she said she got tired of setting her to work; she liked
to dash round the house alone, without thinking what somebody else was
doing or ought to be doing. In short, she liked to have her out of the
way for a while. Furthermore, it did not please her that Mr. Van Brunt
and her little handmaid were, as she expressed it, "so thick." His first
thought and his last thought, she said, she believed were for Ellen,
whether she came in or went out; and Miss Fortune was accustomed to be
chief, not only in her own house, but in the regards of all who came to
it. At any rate the leave was granted, and Ellen went.

And now was repeated the pleasure of the first week in January. It would
have been increased, but that increase was not possible. There was only
the difference between lovely winter and lovely summer weather; it was
seldom very hot in Thirlwall. The fields and hills were covered with
green instead of white; fluttering leaves had taken the place of
snow-covered sprays and sparkling icicles; and for the keen north and
brisk northwester, soft summer airs were blowing. Ellen saw no other
difference, except that perhaps, if it could be, there was something
more of tenderness in the manner of Alice and her brother towards her.
No little sister could have been more cherished and cared for. If there
was a change, Mr. Humphreys shared it. It is true he seldom took much
part in the conversation, and seldomer was with them in any of their
pursuits or pleasures. He generally kept by himself in his study. But
whenever he did speak to Ellen his tone was particularly gentle and his
look kind. He sometimes called her "My little daughter," which always
gave Ellen great pleasure; she would jump at such times with double zeal
to do anything he asked her.

Now drawing went on with new vigour under the eye of her master. And
many things beside. John took a great deal of pains with her in various
ways. He made her read to him; he helped her and Alice with their
French; he went with them to Mrs. Vawse's; and even Mr. Humphreys went
there too one afternoon to tea. How much Ellen enjoyed that afternoon!
They took with them a great basket of provisions, for Mrs. Vawse could
not be expected to entertain so large a party; and borrowed Jenny
Hitchcock's pony, which with old John and Sharp mounted three of the
company; they took turns in walking. Nobody minded that. The fine
weather, the beautiful mountain-top, the general pleasure, Mr.
Humphreys' uncommon spirits and talkableness, the oddity of their way of
travelling, and of a tea-party up on the "Cat's Back," and furthermore,
the fact that Nancy stayed at home and behaved very well the whole time,
all together filled Ellen's cup of happiness, for the time, as full as
it could hold. She never forgot that afternoon. And the ride home was
the best of all. The sun was low by the time they reached the plain;
long shadows lay across their road; the soft air just stirred the leaves
on the branches; stillness and loveliness were over all things; and down
the mountain and along the roads through the open country, the whole
way, John walked at her bridle; so kind in his care of her, so pleasant
in his talk to her, teaching her how to sit in the saddle and hold the
reins and whip, and much more important things too, that Ellen thought a
pleasanter thing could not be than to ride so. After that they took a
great many rides, borrowing Jenny's pony or some other, and explored the
beautiful country far and near. And almost daily John had up Sharp and
gave Ellen a regular lesson. She often thought, and sometimes looked,
what she had once said to him, "I wish I could do something for _you_,
Mr. John;" but he smiled and said nothing.

At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home, and in
many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The thought had been
kept from weighing upon her by the thousand pleasures that filled up
every moment of his stay; she could not be sad then, or only for a
minute; hope threw off the sorrow as soon as it was felt; and she forgot
how time flew. But when his visit was over, and she went back to her old
place and her old life at her aunt's, the old feeling came back in
greater strength. She began again to count the days and the weeks; to
feel the bitter unsatisfied longing. Tears would drop down upon her
Bible; tears streamed from her eyes when she prayed that God would make
her mother well and bring her home to her quickly, oh, quickly!--and
little Ellen's face began to wear once more something of its old look.




CHAPTER XXXIV

          All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
          All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
          All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

                                                  --LONGFELLOW.


One day in the early part of September, she was standing in front of the
house at the little wicket that opened on the road. With her back
against the open gate, she was gently moving it to and fro, half
enjoying the weather and the scene, half indulging the melancholy mood
which drove her from the presence of her bustling aunt. The gurgling
sound of the brook a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her
ear than Miss Fortune's sharp tones. By-and-by a horseman came in sight
at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What made Ellen
look at him so sharply? Poor child, she was always expecting news. At
first she could only see that the man rode a white horse; then, as he
came nearer, an odd looped-up hat showed itself, and something queer in
his hand, what was it? who is it?--The old newsman! Ellen was sure.
Yes--she could now see his saddle-bags, and the white horse-tail set in
a handle with which he was brushing away the flies from his horse; the
tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow withal. He was a venerable
old figure with all his oddities; clad in a suit of snuff brown, with a
neat quiet look about him, he and the saddle-bags and the white horse
jogged on together as if they belonged to nothing else in the world but
each other. In an ecstasy of fear and hope Ellen watched the pace of the
old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the gate. Her
breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she was trembling from
head to foot. _Would_ he stop, or was he going on? Oh, the long agony of
two minutes! He stopped. Ellen went towards him.

"What little gal is this?" said he.

"I am Ellen Montgomery, sir," said Ellen, eagerly; "Miss Fortune's
niece--I live here."

"Stop a bit," said the old man, taking up his saddle-bags, "Miss
Fortune's niece, eh? Well--I believe--as I've got somethin' for
her--somethin' here--aunt well, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's more than you be, ain't it?" said he, glancing sideways at
Ellen's face. "How do you know but I've got a letter for you here, eh?"

The colour rushed to that face, and she clasped her hands.

"No, dear, no," said he, "I ha'n't got any for you--it's for the old
lady--there, run in with it, dear."

But Ellen knew before she touched it that it was a foreign letter, and
dashed into the house with it. Miss Fortune coolly sent her back to pay
the postage.

When she came in again her aunt was still reading the letter. But her
look, Ellen _felt_, was unpromising. She did not venture to speak;
expectation was chilled. She stood till Miss Fortune began to fold up
the paper.

"Is there nothing for me?" she said then, timidly.

"No."

"Oh, why don't she write to me!" cried Ellen, bursting into tears.

Miss Fortune stalked about the room without any particular purpose, as
far as could be seen.

"It is very strange!" said Ellen sorrowfully. "I am afraid she is
worse--does papa say she is worse?"

"No."

"Oh, if she had only sent me a message! I should think she might. Oh, I
wish she had!--three words!--does papa say why she don't write?"

"No."

"It is very strange!" repeated poor Ellen.

"Your father talks of coming home," said Miss Fortune, after a few
minutes, during which Ellen had been silently weeping.

"Home!--then she must be better!" said Ellen, with new life. "Does papa
say she is better?"

"No."

"But what does he mean?" said Ellen uneasily. "I don't see what he
means; he doesn't say she is worse, and he doesn't say she is better,
what _does_ he say?"

"He don't say much about anything."

"Does he say when they are coming home?"

Miss Fortune mumbled something about "Spring," and whisked off to the
buttery. Ellen thought no more was to be got out of her. She felt
miserable. Her father and aunt both seemed to act strangely; and where
to find comfort she scarcely knew. She had been one day telling her
doubts and sorrows to John. He did not try to raise her hopes, but said,
"Troubles will come in this world, Ellie; the best is to trust them and
ourselves to our dear Saviour, and let trials drive us to Him. Seek to
love Him more and to be patient under His will; the good Shepherd means
nothing but kindness to any lamb in His flock, you may be sure of that,
Ellie."

Ellen remembered his words and tried to follow them now, but she could
not be "patient under His will" yet, not quite. It was very hard to be
patient in such uncertainty. With swimming eyes she turned over her
Bible in search of comfort, and found it. Her eye lit upon words she
knew very well, but that were like the fresh sight of a friend's face
for all that. "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God,
believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions." There is no
parting there, thought little Ellen. She cried a long time; but she was
comforted nevertheless. The heart that rests on the blessed One who said
those words can never be quite desolate.

For several days things went on in the old train, only her aunt, she
thought, was sometimes rather queer, not quite as usual in her manner
towards her. Mr. Van Brunt was not _rather_ but _very_ queer; he scarce
spoke or looked at Ellen; bolted down his food and was off without a
word; and even stayed away entirely from two or three meals. She saw
nobody else. Weather and other circumstances prevented her going to the
mountain.

One afternoon she was giving her best attention to a French lesson, when
she heard herself called. Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen dipping
candles. Ellen ran down.

"I don't know what's got into these candles," said Miss Fortune. "I
can't make 'em hang together; the tallow ain't good, I guess. Where's
the nearest place they keep bees?"

"They have got bees at Mrs. Hitchcock's," said Ellen.

"So they have in Egypt, for anything I know," said her aunt; "one would
be about as much good now as t'other. Mrs. Lowndes'; that ain't far off.
Put on your bonnet, Ellen, and run over there, and ask her to let me
have a little bees-wax. I'll pay her in something she likes best."

"Does Mrs. Lowndes keep bee-hives?" said Ellen doubtfully.

"No--she makes the bees-wax herself," said Miss Fortune, in the tone she
always took when anybody presumed to suppose she might be mistaken in
anything.

"How much shall I ask for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, I don't know--a pretty good piece."

Ellen was not very clear what quantity this might mean. However, she
wisely asked no more questions, and set out upon her walk. It was hot
and disagreeable; just the time of day when the sun had most power, and
Mrs. Lowndes' house was about half way on the road to Alice's. It was
not a place where Ellen liked to go, though the people always made much
of her; she did not fancy them, and regularly kept out of their way
when she could. Miss Mary Lawson was sitting with Mrs. Lowndes and her
daughter when Ellen came in and briefly gave her aunt's message.

"Bees-wax," said Mrs. Lowndes, "well, I don't know. How much does she
want?"

"I don't know, ma'am, exactly; she said a pretty good piece."

"What's it for? do you know, honey?"

"I believe it's to put in some tallow for candles," said Ellen; "the
tallow was too soft, she said."

"I didn't know Miss Fortune's tallow was ever anything but the hardest,"
said Sarah Lowndes.

"You had better not let your aunt know you've told on her, Ellen,"
remarked Mary Lawson; "she won't thank you."

"Had she a good lot of tallow to make up?" inquired the mother,
preparing to cut her bees-wax.

"I don't know, ma'am; she had a big kettle, but I don't know how full it
was."

"You may as well cut a good piece, ma, while you are about it," said the
daughter; "and ask her to let us have a piece of her sage cheese, will
you?"

"Is it worth while to weigh it?" whispered Mrs. Lowndes.

Her daughter answered in the same tone, and Miss Mary joining them, a
conversation of some length went on over the bees-wax which Ellen could
not hear. The tones of the speakers became lower and lower; till at
length her own name and an incautious sentence were spoken more
distinctly and reached her.

"Shouldn't you think Miss Fortune might put a black ribbon at least on
her bonnet?"

"Anybody but her would."

"Hush!----" They whispered again under breath.

The words entered Ellen's heart like cold iron. She did not move, hand
or foot; she sat motionless with pain and fear, yet what she feared she
dared not think. When the bees-wax was given her she rose up from her
chair and stood gazing into Mrs. Lowndes' face as if she had lost her
senses.

"My goodness, child, how you look!" said that lady. "What ails you,
honey?"

"Ma'am," said Ellen, "what was that you said, about----"

"About what, dear?" said Mrs. Lowndes, with a startled look at the
others.

"About--a ribbon," said Ellen, struggling to get the words out of white
lips.

"My goodness!" said the other; "did you ever hear anything like that? I
didn't say nothing about a ribbon, dear."

"Do you suppose her aunt ha'n't told her?" said Miss Mary in an
undertone.

"Told me what?" cried Ellen, "oh what? what?"

"I wish I was a thousand miles off!" said Mrs. Lowndes; "I don't know,
dear--I don't know what it is--Miss Alice knows."

"Yes, ask Miss Alice," said Mary Lawson; "she knows better than we do."

Ellen looked doubtfully from one to the other; then as "Go ask Miss
Alice," was repeated on all sides, she caught up her bonnet, and
flinging the bees-wax from her hand, darted out of the house. Those she
had left looked at each other a minute in silence.

"Ain't that too bad now!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowndes, crossing the room to
shut the door. "But what could I say?"

"Which way did she go?"

"I don't know, I am sure; I had no head to look, or anything else. I
wonder if I had ought to ha' told her. But I couldn't ha' done it."

"Just look at her bees-wax!" said Sarah Lowndes.

"She will kill herself if she runs up the mountain at that rate," said
Mary Lawson.

They all made a rush to the door to look after her.

"She ain't in sight," said Mrs. Lowndes; "if she's gone the way to the
Nose, she's got as far as them big poplars already, or she'd be
somewhere this side of 'em where we could see her."

"You hadn't ought to ha' let her go, ma, in all this sun," said Miss
Lowndes.

"I declare," said Mrs. Lowndes, "she scared me so I hadn't three idees
left in my head. I wish I knew where she was, though, poor little soul!"

Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a fear that
knew no stay of heat or fatigue; they were little to her that day. She
saw nothing on her way; all within and without was swallowed up in that
one feeling; yet she dared not think what it was she feared. She put
that by. Alice knew, Alice would tell her! On that goal her heart fixed,
to that she pressed on; but oh, the while, what a cloud was gathering
over her spirit, and growing darker and darker. Her hurry of mind and
hurry of body made each other worse; it must be so; and when she at last
ran round the corner of the house and burst in at the glass door she was
in a frightful state.

Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look that
stopped Ellen short. She stood still; the colour in her cheeks, as her
eyes read Alice's, faded quite away; words and the power to speak them
were gone together. Alas! the need to utter them was gone too. Alice
burst into tears and held out her arms, saying only, "My poor child!"
Ellen reached her arms, and strength and spirit seemed to fail there.
Alice thought she had fainted; she laid her on the sofa, called Margery,
and tried the usual things, weeping bitterly herself as she did so. It
was not fainting, however; Ellen's senses soon came back, but she seemed
like a person stunned with a great blow, and Alice wished grief had had
any other effect upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung
over her; tears did not come; the violent strain of every nerve and
feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep long heavy
sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to have no power to do
anything else.

Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days lived but
to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from Mary Lawson and Mr.
Van Brunt, who had both been to the parsonage, one on Mrs. Lowndes'
part, the other on his own, to ask about her, and she dreaded that a
violent fit of illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone.
She was mistaken, however; Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind and
body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As the
first stupor wore off there were indeed more lively signs of grief; she
would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often, but it was very
quietly; no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too
strong hold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it.
Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let her go
back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise; yet it may be
that Ellen would have been better there. The busy industry to which she
would have been forced at home might have roused her. As it was, nothing
drew her, and nothing could be found to draw her, from her own thoughts.
Her interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their
charm; walks and drives and staying at home were all one, except indeed
that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed, her cheeks grew
colourless, and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not soon put to
this gradual sinking, it would at last end with her life; but all her
efforts were without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to
Ellen alone.

As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again took
pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone or into a corner
with it, and turn the leaves over and over, looking out its gentle
promises and sweet comforting words to the weak and the sorrowing. She
loved to read about Christ, all He said and did; all His kindness to His
people and tender care of them; the love shown them here, and the joys
prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that one
unchangeable Friend from whose love neither life nor death can sever
those that believe in Him; and her heart, tossed and shaken as it had
been, began to take rest again in that happy resting-place with stronger
affection and even with greater joy than ever before. Yet, for all that,
this joy often kept company with bitter weeping; the stirring of
anything like pleasure roused sorrow up afresh; and though Ellen's look
of sadness grew less dark, Alice could not see that her face was at all
less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother after once hearing
when and where she had died; she never hinted at her loss, except
exclaiming in an agony, "I shall get no more letters!" and Alice dared
not touch upon what the child seemed to avoid so carefully, though Ellen
sometimes wept on her bosom, and often sat for hours still and silent
with her head in her lap.

The time drew nigh when John was expected home for the holidays. In the
meanwhile they had had many visits from other friends. Mr. Van Brunt had
come several times, enough to set the whole neighbourhood a-wondering,
if they had only known it; his good old mother oftener still. Mrs. Vawse
as often as possible. Miss Fortune once; and that because, as she said
to herself, "everybody would be talking about what was none of their
business if she didn't." As neither she nor Ellen knew in the least what
to say to each other, the visit was rather a dull one, spite of all
Alice could do. Jenny Hitchcock and the Huffs, and the Dennisons, and
others, came now and then, but Ellen did not like to see any of them all
but Mrs. Vawse. Alice longed for her brother.

He came at last, just before New Year's day. It was the middle of a fine
afternoon, and Alice and her father had gone in the sleigh to
Carra-carra. Ellen had chosen to stay behind, but Margery did not know
this, and of course did not tell John. After paying a visit to her in
the kitchen, he had come back to the empty sitting-room, and was
thoughtfully walking up and down the floor, when the door of Alice's
room slowly opened, and Ellen appeared. It was never her way, when she
could help it, to show violent feeling before other people, so she had
been trying to steel herself to meet John without crying, and now came
in with her little grave face prepared not to give way. His first look
had like to overset it all.

"Ellie!" said he; "I thought everybody was gone. My dear Ellie!----"

Ellen could hardly stand the tone of these three words, and she bore
with the greatest difficulty the kiss that followed them; it took but a
word or two more, and a glance at the old look and smile, to break down
entirely all her guard. According to her usual fashion, she was rushing
away; but John held her fast, and though gently, drew her close to him.

"I will not let you forget that I am your brother, Ellie," said he.

Ellen hid her face on his shoulder, and cried as if she had never cried
before.

"Ellie," said he, after a while, speaking low and tenderly, "the Bible
says, 'We have known and believed the love that God hath towards us';
have you remembered and believed this lately?"

Ellen did not answer.

"Have you remembered that God loves every sinner that has believed in
His dear Son? and loves them so well that He will let nothing come near
them to harm them? and loves them never better than when He sends bitter
trouble on them? It is wonderful! but it is true. Have you thought of
this, Ellie?"

She shook her head.

"It is not in anger He does it; it is not that He has forgotten you; it
is not that He is careless of your trembling little heart, never, never!
If you are His child, all is done in love, and shall work good for you;
and if we often cannot see how, it is because we are weak and foolish,
and can see but a very little way."

Ellen listened, with her face hid on his shoulder.

"Do you love Christ, Ellen?"

She nodded, weeping afresh.

"Do you love Him less since He has brought you into this great sorrow?"

"No," sobbed Ellen; "_more_."

He drew her closer to his breast, and was silent a little while.

"I am very glad to hear you say that! then all will be well. And haven't
you the best reason to think that all _is_ well with your dear mother?"

Ellen almost shrieked. Her mother's name had not been spoken before her
in a great while, and she could hardly bear to hear it now. Her whole
frame quivered with hysterical sobs.

"Hush, Ellie!" said John, in a tone that, low as it was, somehow found
its way through all her agitation, and calmed her like a spell; "have
you not good reason to believe that all is well with her?"

"Oh yes! oh yes!"

"She loved and trusted Him too; and now she is with Him; she has reached
that bright home where there is no more sin, nor sorrow, nor death."

"Nor parting either," sobbed Ellen, whose agitation was excessive.

"Nor parting! and though _we_ are parted from them, it is but for a
little; let us watch and keep our garments clean, and soon we shall be
all together, and have done with tears for ever. _She_ has done with
them now. Did you hear from her again?"

"Oh no; not a word!"

"That is a hard trial. But in it all, believe, dear Ellie, the love that
God hath toward us; remember that our dear Saviour is near us, and feels
for us, and is the same at all times. And don't cry so, Ellie."

He kissed her once or twice, and begged her to calm herself. For it
seemed as if Ellen's very heart was flowing away in her tears; yet they
were gentler and softer far than at the beginning. The conversation had
been a great relief. The silence between her and Alice on the thing
always in her mind, a silence neither of them dared to break, had grown
painful. The spell was taken off; and though at first Ellen's tears knew
no measure, she was easier even then; as John soothed her and went on
with his kind talk, gradually leading it away from their first subject
to other things, she grew not only calm, but more peaceful at heart than
months had seen her. She was quite herself again before Alice came home.

"You have done her good already," exclaimed Alice as soon as Ellen was
out of the room; "I knew you would; I saw it in her face as soon as I
came in."

"It is time," said her brother. "She is a dear little thing!"

The next day, in the middle of the morning, Ellen, to her great
surprise, saw Sharp brought before the door with the side-saddle on, and
Mr. John carefully looking to the girth, and shortening the stirrup.

"Why, Alice," she exclaimed, "what is Mr. John going to do?"

"I don't know, Ellie, I am sure; he does queer things sometimes. What
makes you ask?"

Before she could answer, he opened the door.

"Come, Ellen, go and get ready. Bundle up well, for it is rather frosty.
Alice, has she a pair of gloves that are warm enough? Lend her yours,
and I'll see if I can find some at Thirlwall."

Ellen thought she would rather not go; to anybody else she would have
said so. Half a minute she stood still, then went to put on her things.

"Alice, you will be ready by the time we get back? in half-an-hour."

Ellen had an excellent lesson, and her master took care it should not be
an easy one. She came back looking as she had not done all winter. Alice
was not quite ready; while waiting for her, John went to the bookcase
and took down the first volume of "Rollin's Ancient History;" and giving
it to Ellen, said he would talk with her to-morrow about the first
twenty pages. The consequence was, the hour and a half of their absence,
instead of being moped away, was spent in hard study. A pair of gloves
was bought at Thirlwall; Jenny Hitchcock's pony was sent for; and after
that, every day when the weather would at all do, they took a long ride.
By degrees reading and drawing and all her studies were added to the
history, till Ellen's time was well filled with business again. Alice
had endeavoured to bring this about before, but fruitlessly. What she
asked of her Ellen indeed _tried_ to do; what John told her _was done_.
She grew a different creature. Appetite came back; the colour sprang
again to her cheek; hope, meek and sober as it was, relighted her eye.
In her eagerness to please and satisfy her teacher, her whole soul was
given to the performance of whatever he wished her to do. The effect was
all that he looked for.

The second evening after he came, John called Ellen to his side, saying
he had something he wanted to read to her. It was before candles were
brought, but the room was full of light from the blazing wood fire.
Ellen glanced at his book as she came to the sofa; it was a largish
volume in a black leather cover a good deal worn; it did not look at all
interesting.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It is called," said John, "'The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to a
Better.'"

Ellen thought it did not _sound_ at all interesting. She had never been
more mistaken in her life, and that she found almost as soon as he
began. Her attention was nailed; the listless, careless mood in which
she sat down was changed for one of rapt delight; she devoured every
word that fell from the reader's lips; indeed they were given their
fullest effect by a very fine voice and singularly fine reading.
Whenever anything might not be quite clear to Ellen, John stopped to
make it so; and with his help, and without it, many a lesson went home.
Next day she looked a long time for the book; it could not be found; she
was forced to wait until evening. Then, to her great joy, it was brought
out again, and John asked her if she wished to hear some more of it.
After that, every evening while he was at home they spent an hour with
the "Pilgrim." Alice would leave her work and come to the sofa too; and
with her head on her brother's shoulder, her hand in his, and Ellen's
face leaning against his other arm, that was the common way they placed
themselves to see and hear. No words can tell Ellen's enjoyment of those
readings. They made her sometimes laugh and sometimes cry; they had much
to do in carrying on the cure which John's wisdom and kindness had
begun.

They came to the place where Christian loses his burden at the cross;
and as he stood looking and weeping, three shining ones came to him. The
first said to him, "Thy sins be forgiven thee;" the second stripped him
of his rags and clothed him with a change of raiment; the third also set
a mark on his forehead.

John explained what was meant by the rags and the change of raiment.

"And the mark in his forehead?" said Ellen.

"That is the mark of God's children--the change wrought in them by the
Holy Spirit--the change that makes them different from others, and
different from their old selves."

"Do all Christians have it?"

"Certainly. None can be a Christian without it."

"But how can any one tell whether one has it or no?" said Ellen, very
gravely.

"Carry your heart and life to the Bible and see how they agree. The
Bible gives a great many signs and descriptions by which Christians may
know themselves--know both what they are and what they ought to be. If
you find your own feelings and manner of life at one with these Bible
words, you may hope that the Holy Spirit has changed you and set His
mark upon you."

"I wish you would tell me of one of those places," said Ellen.

"The Bible is full of them. 'To them that believe _Christ is precious_,'
there is one. 'If ye love me _keep my commandments_'; 'He that saith He
abideth in Him ought himself also _so to walk even as He walked_'; 'Oh
how _love I Thy law_.' The Bible is full of them, Ellie; but you have
need to ask for great help when you go to try yourself by them; the
heart is deceitful."

Ellen looked sober all the rest of the evening, and the next day she
pondered the matter a good deal.

"I think I am changed," she said to herself at last. "I didn't use to
like to read the Bible, and now I do very much; I never liked praying in
old times, and now, oh, what should I do without it! I didn't love Jesus
at all, but I am sure I do now. I don't keep His commandments, but I do
_try_ to keep them; I _must_ be changed a little. Oh, I wish mamma had
known it before----"

Weeping with mixed sorrow and thankful joy, Ellen bent her head upon her
little Bible to pray that she might be _more_ changed; and then, as she
often did, raised the cover to look at the text in the beloved
handwriting.

"I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me."

Ellen's tears were blinding her. "That has come true," she thought.

"I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee."

"That has come true too!" she said, almost in surprise, "and mamma
believed it would." And then, as by a flash, came back to her mind the
time it was written; she remembered how when it was done her mother's
head had sunk upon the open page; she seemed to see again the thin
fingers tightly clasped; she had not understood it then; she did now!
"She was praying for me," thought Ellen; "she was praying for me! she
believed that would come true."

The book was dashed down, and Ellen fell upon her knees in a perfect
agony of weeping.

Even this, when she was calm again, served to steady her mind. There
seemed to be a link of communion between her mother and her that was
wanting before. The promise, written and believed in by the one,
realised and rejoiced in by the other, was a dear something in common,
though one had in the meanwhile removed to heaven, and the other was
still a lingerer on the earth. Ellen bound the words upon her heart.

Another time, when they came to the last scene of Christian's journey,
Ellen's tears ran very fast. John asked if he should pass it over? if it
distressed her? She said, Oh no, it did not distress her; she wanted him
to go on, and he went on, though himself much distressed, and Alice was
near as bad as Ellen. But the next evening, to his surprise, Ellen
begged that before he went on to the second part he would read that
piece over again. And when he lent her the book, with only the charge
that she should not go further than he had been, she pored over that
scene with untiring pleasure till she almost had it by heart. In short,
never was a child more comforted and contented with a book than Ellen
was with the "Pilgrim's Progress." That was a blessed visit of John's.
Alice said he had come like a sunbeam into the house; she dreaded to
think what would be when he went away.

She wrote him, however, when he had been gone a few weeks, that his will
seemed to carry all before it, present or absent. Ellen went on steadily
mending; at least she did not go back any. They were keeping up their
rides, also their studies, most diligently. Ellen was untiring in her
efforts to do whatever he had wished her, and was springing forward,
Alice said, in her improvement.




CHAPTER XXXV

    I keep his house, and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat,
    and make the beds, and do all myself.--SHAKESPEARE.


The spring had come, and Alice and Ellen were looking forward to
pleasanter rides and walks after the sun should have got a little warmth
and the snow should be gone, when one morning, in the early part of
March, Mr. Van Brunt made his appearance. Miss Fortune was not well, and
had sent him to beg that Ellen would come back to her. He was sorry, he
said; he knew Ellen was in the best place: but her aunt wanted her, and
"he s'posed she'd have to go." He did not know what was the matter with
Miss Fortune; it was a little of one thing and a little of another; "he
s'posed she'd overdid, and it was a wonder, for he didn't know she
_could_ do it. _She_ thought she was as tough as a piece of
shoe-leather, but even that could be wore out."

Ellen looked blank. However, she hurriedly set herself to get her things
together, and with Alice's help, in half-an-hour she was ready to go.
The parting was hard. They held each other fast a good while, and kissed
each other many times without speaking.

"Good-bye, dear Ellie," whispered Alice at last; "I'll come and see you
soon. Remember what John said when he went away."

Ellen did not trust herself to speak. She pulled herself away from
Alice, and turned to Mr. Van Brunt, saying by her manner that she was
ready. He took her bundle, and they went out of the house together.

Ellen made a manful effort all the way down the hill to stifle the tears
that were choking her. She knew they would greatly disturb her
companion, and she did succeed, though with great difficulty, in keeping
them back. Luckily for her, he said hardly anything during the whole
walk; she could not have borne to answer a question. It was no fault of
Mr. Van Brunt's that he was so silent. He was beating his brains the
whole way to think of something it would do to say, and could not suit
himself. His single remark was, "that it was like to be a fine spring
for the maple, and he guessed they'd make a heap of sugar."

When they reached the door he told her she would find her aunt upstairs,
and himself turned off to the barn. Ellen stopped a minute upon the
threshold to remember the last time she had crossed it, and the _first_
time. How changed everything now! And the thought came, was _this_ now
to be her home for ever? She had need again to remember John's words.
When bidding her good-bye he had said, "My little pilgrim, I hope you
will keep the straight road, and win the praise of the servant who was
faithful over a few things." "I will try!" thought poor Ellen; and then
she passed through the kitchen and went up to her own room. Here,
without stopping to think, she took off her things, gave one strange
look at the old familiar place and her trunk in the corner, fell on her
knees for one minute, and then went to her aunt's room.

"Come in!" cried Miss Fortune, when Ellen had knocked. "Well, Ellen,
there you are. I am thankful it is you. I was afraid it might be Mimy
Lawson or Sarah Lowndes, or some of the rest of the set; I know they'll
all come scampering here as soon as they hear I'm laid up."

"Are you very sick, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen.

"La! no, child. I shall be up again to-morrow; but I felt queer this
morning, somehow, and I thought I'd try lying down. I expect I've caught
some cold."

There was no doubt of this, but this was not all. Besides catching cold,
and doing her best to bring it about, Miss Fortune had overtasked her
strength; and by dint of economy, housewifery, and _smartness_, had
brought on herself the severe punishment of lying idle and helpless for
a much longer time than she at first reckoned on.

"What can I do for you, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen.

"Oh, nothing as I know," said Miss Fortune, "only let me alone and don't
ask me anything, and keep people out of the house. Mercy! my head feels
as if it would go crazy! Ellen, look here," said she, raising herself on
her elbow, "I won't have anybody come into this house, if I lie here
till doomsday, I won't. Now, you mind me. I ain't agoing to have Mimy
Lawson, nor nobody else, poking all round into every hole and corner,
and turning every cheese upside down to see what's under it. There ain't
one of 'em too good for it, and they sha'n't have a chance. They'll be
streaking here, a dozen of 'em, to help take care of the house; but I
don't care what becomes of the house--I won't have anybody in it.
Promise me you won't let Mr. Van Brunt bring any one here to help. I
know I can trust to you to do what I tell you. Promise me!"

Ellen promised, a good deal gratified at her aunt's last words, and once
more asked if she could do anything for her.

"Oh, I don't know!" said Miss Fortune, flinging herself back on her
pillow. "I don't care what you do if you only keep the house clear.
There's the clothes in the basket under the table downstairs--you might
begin to iron 'em; they're only rough dry. But don't come asking me
about anything; I can't bear it. Ellen, don't let a soul go into the
buttery except yourself. And, Ellen! I don't care if you make me a
little catnip tea. The catnip's up in the storeroom, the furthest door
in the back attic--here's the keys. Don't go fussing with anything else
there."

Ellen thought the prospect before her rather doleful when she reached
the kitchen. It was in order, to be sure, and clean; but it looked as if
the mistress was away. The fire had gone out, the room was cold; even so
little a matter as catnip tea seemed a thing far off and hard to come
by. While she stood looking at the great logs in the fireplace, which
she could hardly move, and thinking it was rather a dismal state of
things, in came Mr. Van Brunt with his good-natured face, and wanted to
know if he could do anything for her. The very room seemed more
comfortable as soon as his big figure was in it. He set about kindling
the fire forthwith, while Ellen went up to the storeroom. A well-filled
storeroom! Among other things, there hung at least a dozen bunches of
dried herbs from one of the rafters. Ellen thought she knew catnip, but
after smelling of two or three she became utterly puzzled, and was fain
to carry a leaf of several kinds down to Mr. Van Brunt to find out which
was which. When she came down again she found he had hung on the kettle
for her, and swept up the hearth; so Ellen, wisely thinking it was best
to keep busy, put the ironing blanket on the table, and folded the
clothes, and set the irons to the fire. By this time the kettle boiled.
How to make catnip tea Ellen did not exactly know, but supposed it must
follow the same rules as black tea, in the making of which she felt
herself very much at home. So she put a pinch or two of catnip leaves
into the pot, poured a little water on them, and left it to draw.
Meanwhile came in kind Mr. Van Brunt with an armful or two of small
short sticks for the fire, which Ellen could manage.

"I wish I could stay here and take care of you all the while," said he;
"but I'll be round. If you want anything you must come to the door and
holler."

Ellen began to thank him.

"Just don't say anything about that," said he, moving his hands as if he
were shaking her thanks out of them; "I'd back all the wood you could
burn every day for the pleasure of having you hum again, if I didn't
know you was better where you was; but I can't help that. Now, who am I
going to get to stay with you? Who would you like to have?"

"Nobody, if you please, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen; "Aunt Fortune don't
wish it, and I had rather not, indeed."

He stood up and looked at her in amazement.

"Why, you don't mean to say," said he, "that you are thinking, or she is
thinking, you can get along here alone without help?"

"I'll get along somehow," said Ellen. "Never mind, please let me, Mr.
Van Brunt; it would worry Aunt Fortune very much to have anybody; don't
say anything about it."

"Worry her!" said he; and he muttered something Ellen did not quite
understand, about "bringing the old woman to reason."

However he went off for the present; and Ellen filled up her teapot and
carried it upstairs. Her old grandmother was awake; before, when Ellen
was in the room, she had been napping; now she showed the greatest
delight at seeing her; fondled her, kissed her, cried over her, and
finally insisted on getting up directly and going downstairs. Ellen
received and returned her caresses with great tenderness, and then began
to help her to rise and dress.

"Yes, do," said Miss Fortune; "I shall have a little better chance of
sleeping. My stars! Ellen, what do you call this?"

"Isn't it catnip?" said Ellen, alarmed.

"Catnip! it tastes of nothing but the tea-kettle. It's as weak as
dish-water. Take it down and make some more. How much did you put in?
you want a good double handful, stalks and all; make it strong. I can't
drink such stuff as that. I think if I could get into a sweat I should
be better."

Ellen went down, established her grandmother in her old corner, and made
some more tea. Then, her irons being hot, she began to iron; doing
double duty at the same time, for Mrs. Montgomery had one of her talking
fits on, and it was necessary to hear and answer a great many things.
Presently the first visitor appeared in the shape of Nancy.

"Well, Ellen!" said she; "so Miss Fortune is really sick for once, and
you are keeping house. Ain't you grand?"

"I don't feel very grand," said Ellen. "I don't know what is the matter
with these clothes; I _cannot_ make 'em look smooth."

"Irons ain't hot," said Nancy.

"Yes they are, too hot. I've scorched a towel already."

"My goodness, Ellen! I guess you have. If Miss Fortune was down you'd
get it. Why, they're bone dry!" said Nancy, plunging her hand into the
basket; "you haven't sprinkled 'em, have you?"

"To be sure," said Ellen, with an awakened face, "I forgot it!"

"Here, get out of the way, _I'll_ do it for you," said Nancy, rolling up
her sleeves, and pushing Ellen from the table; "you just get me a bowl
of water, will you? and we'll have 'em done in no time. Who's acoming to
help you?"

"Nobody."

"Nobody! you poor chicken; do you think you're agoing to do all the work
of the house yourself?"

"No," said Ellen, "but I can do a good deal, and the rest will have to
go."

"You ain't going to do no such thing; I'll stay myself."

"No, you can't, Nancy," said Ellen quietly.

"I guess I will if I've a mind to. I should like to know how you'd help
it; Miss Fortune's abed."

"I could help it though," said Ellen; "but I am sure you won't when I
ask you not."

"I'll do anything you please," said Nancy, "if you'll get Miss Fortune
to let me stay. Come do, Ellen! It will be splendid; and I'll help you
finely, and I won't bother you neither. Come! go ask her; if you don't,
I will."

"I can't, Nancy; she don't want anybody; and it worries her to talk to
her. I can't go and ask her."

Nancy impatiently flung down the cloth she was sprinkling and ran
upstairs. In a few minutes she came down with a triumphant face, and
bade Ellen go up to her aunt.

"Ellen," said Miss Fortune, "if I let Nancy stay will you take care of
the keys and keep her out of the buttery?"

"I'll try to, ma'am, as well as I can."

"I'd as lief have her as anybody," said Miss Fortune, "if she'd behave;
she was with me a little in the winter; she is smart and knows the ways;
if I was sure she would behave herself, but I am afraid she will go
rampaging about the house like a wild cat."

"I think I could prevent that," said Ellen, who, to say truth, was
willing to have anybody come to share what she felt would be a very
great burden. "She knows I could tell Mr. Van Brunt if she didn't do
right, and she would be afraid of that."

"Well," said Miss Fortune disconsolately, "let her stay then. Oh dear,
to lie here! but tell her, if she don't do just what you tell her, I'll
have Mr. Van Brunt turn her out by the ears. And don't let her come near
me, for she drives me mad. And, Ellen, put the keys in your pocket. Have
you got a pocket in that dress?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Put 'em in there and don't take 'em out. Now go."

Nancy agreed to the conditions with great glee; and the little
housekeeper felt her mind a good deal easier; for though Nancy herself
was somewhat of a charge, she was strong and willing and ready, and if
she liked anybody, liked Ellen. Mr. Van Brunt privately asked Ellen if
she chose to have Nancy stay; and told her, if she gave her any trouble
to let him know, and he would make short work with her. The young lady
herself also had a hint on the subject.

"I'll tell you what," said Nancy, when this business was settled, "we'll
let the men go off to Miss Van Brunt's to meals; we'll have enough to do
without 'em. That's how Miss Fortune has fixed herself, she would have
Sam and Johnny in to board; they never used to, you know, afore this
winter."

"The men may go," said Ellen, "but I had a great deal rather Mr. Van
Brunt would stay than not, if we can only manage to cook things for him;
we should have to do it at any rate for ourselves, and for grandma."

"Well, _I_ ain't as fond as him as all that," said Nancy, "but it'll
have to be as you like, I suppose. We'll feed him somehow."

Mr. Van Brunt came in to ask if they had anything in the house for
supper. Ellen told him "plenty," and would have him come in just as
usual. There was nothing to do but to make tea; cold meat and bread and
butter and cheese were all in the buttery; so that evening went off very
quietly.

When she came down the next morning the fire was burning nicely, and the
kettle on and singing. Not Nancy's work; Mr. Van Brunt had slept in the
kitchen, whether on the table, the floor, or the chairs, was best known
to himself; and before going to his work had left everything he could
think of ready done to her hand; wood for the fire, pails of water
brought from the spout, and some matters in the lower kitchen got out of
the way. Ellen stood warming herself at the blaze, when it suddenly
darted into her head that it was milking time. In another minute she had
thrown open the door and was running across the chip-yard to the barn.
There, in the old place, were all her old friends, both four-legged and
two-legged; and with great delight she found Dolly had a fine calf and
Streaky another superb one brindled just like herself. Ellen longed to
get near enough to touch their little innocent heads, but it was
impossible; and recollecting the business on her hands, she too danced
away.

"Whew!" said Nancy, when Ellen told her of the new inmates of the
barn-yard: "there'll be work to do! Get your milk-pans ready, Ellen; in
a couple of weeks we'll be making butter."

"Aunt Fortune will be well by that time, I hope," said Ellen.

"She won't, then, so you may just make up your mind to it. Dr. Gibson
was to see her yesterday forenoon, and he stopped at Miss Lowndes' on
his way back; and he said it was a chance if she got up again in a month
an' more. So that's what it is, you see."

"A month and more." It was all that. Miss Fortune was not dangerously
ill; but one part of the time in a low, nervous fever, part of the time
encumbered with other ailments, she lay from week to week, bearing her
confinement as ill as possible, and making it as disagreeable and
burdensome as possible for Ellen to attend upon her. Those were weeks of
trial. Ellen's patience and principle and temper were all put to the
proof. She had no love, in the first place, for household work, and now
her whole time was filled up with it. Studies could not be thought of.
Reading was only to be had by mere snatches. Walks and rides were at an
end. Often when already very tired she had to run up and down stairs for
her aunt, or stand and bathe her face and hands with vinegar, or read
the paper to her when Miss Fortune declared she was so nervous she
should fly out of her skin if she didn't hear something besides the
wind. And very often when she was not wanted upstairs, her old
grandmother would beg her to come and read to _her_--perhaps at the very
moment when Ellen was busiest. Ellen did her best. Miss Fortune never
could be put off; her old mother sometimes could, with a kiss and a
promise; but not always; and then, rather than she should fret, Ellen
would leave everything and give half-an-hour to soothing and satisfying
her. She loved to do this at other times; now it was sometimes
burdensome. Nancy could not help her at all in these matters, for
neither Miss Fortune nor the old lady would let her come near them.
Besides all this there was a measure of care constantly upon Ellen's
mind; she felt charged with the welfare of all about the house; and
under the effort to meet the charge, joined to the unceasing bodily
exertion, she grew thin and pale. She was tired with Nancy's talk; she
longed to be reading and studying again; she longed, oh how she longed!
for Alice's and John's company again; and it was no wonder if she
sometimes cast very sad longing looks further back still. Now and then
an old fit of weeping would come. But Ellen remembered John's words; and
often in the midst of her work, stopping short with a sort of pang of
sorrow and weariness, and the difficulty of doing right, she would press
her hands together and say to herself, "I will try to be a good
pilgrim!" Her morning hour of prayer was very precious now; and her
Bible grew more and more dear. Little Ellen found its words a mighty
refreshment; and often when reading it she loved to recall what Alice
had said at this and the other place, and John, and Mr. Marshman, and
before them her mother. The passages about heaven, which she well
remembered reading to her one particular morning, became great
favourites; they were joined with her mother in Ellen's thoughts; and
she used to go over and over them till she nearly knew them by heart.

"What _do_ you keep reading that for, the whole time?" said Nancy one
day.

"Because I like to," said Ellen.

"Well, if you do, you're the first one ever I saw that did."

"O Nancy!" said Ellen; "your grandma!"

"Well, she does, I believe," said Nancy, "for she's always at it; but
all the rest of the folks that ever I saw are happy to get it out of
their hands, _I_ know. They think they must read a little, and so they
do, and they are too glad if something happens to break 'em off. You
needn't tell _me_; I've seen 'em."

"I wish _you_ loved it, Nancy," said Ellen.

"Well, what do you love it for? come! let's hear; maybe you'll convert
me."

"I love it for a great many reasons," said Ellen, who had some
difficulty in speaking of what she felt Nancy could not understand.

"Well, I ain't any wiser yet."

"I like to read it because I want to go to heaven, and it tells me how."

"But what's the use?" said Nancy; "you ain't going to die yet; you are
too young; you have time enough."

"O Nancy! little John Dolan, and Eleanor Parsons, and Mary Huff, all
younger than you and I; how can you say so?"

"Well," said Nancy, "at any rate, that ain't reading it because you love
it; it's because you must, like other folks."

"That's only one of my reasons," said Ellen, hesitating and speaking
gravely; "I like to read about the Saviour, and what He has done for me,
and what a friend He will be to me, and how He forgives me. I had rather
have the Bible, Nancy, than all the other books in the world."

"That ain't saying much," said Nancy; "but how come you to be so sure
you are forgiven?"

"Because the Bible says, 'He that believeth on Him shall not be
ashamed,' and I believe in Him; and that He will not cast out any one
that comes to Him, and I have come to Him; and that He loves those that
love Him, and I love Him. If it did not speak so very plainly I should
be afraid, but it makes me happy to read such verses as these. I wish
you knew, Nancy, how happy it makes me." This profession of faith was
not spoken without starting tears. Nancy made no reply.

As Miss Fortune had foretold, plenty of people came to the house with
proffers of service. Nancy's being there made it easy for Ellen to get
rid of them all. Many were the marvels that Miss Fortune should trust
her house "to two girls like that," and many the guesses that she would
rue it when she got up again. People were wrong. Things went on very
steadily and in an orderly manner; and Nancy kept the peace as she would
have done in few houses. Bold and insolent as she sometimes was to
others, she regarded Ellen with a mixed notion of respect and
protection, which led her at once to shun doing anything that would
grieve her, and to thrust her aside from every heavy or difficult job,
taking the brunt herself. Nancy might well do this, for she was at least
twice as strong as Ellen; but she would not have done it for everybody.

There were visits of kindness as well as visits of officiousness. Alice
and Mrs. Van Brunt and Margery, one or the other every day. Margery
would come in and mix up a batch of bread; Alice would bring a bowl of
butter, or a basket of cake; and Mrs. Van Brunt sent whole dinners. Mr.
Van Brunt was there always at night, and about the place as much as
possible during the day; when obliged to be absent, he stationed Sam
Larkens to guard the house, also to bring wood and water, and do
whatever he was bid. All the help, however, that was given from abroad
could not make Ellen's life an easy one; Mr. Van Brunt's wishes that
Miss Fortune would get up again began to come very often. The history of
one day may serve for the history of all those weeks.

It was in the beginning of April. Ellen came downstairs early, but come
when she would she found the fire made and the kettle on. Ellen felt a
little as if she had not quite slept off the remembrance of yesterday's
fatigue; however, that was no matter; she set to work. She swept up the
kitchen, got her milk strainer and pans ready upon the buttery shelf,
and began to set the table. By the time this was half done, in came Sam
Larkens with two great pails of milk, and Johnny Low followed with
another. They were much too heavy for Ellen to lift, but, true to her
charge, she let no one come into the buttery but herself; she brought
the pans to the door, where Sam filled them for her, and as each was
done she set it in its place on the shelf. This took some time, for
there were eight of them. She had scarce wiped up the spilt milk and
finished setting the table when Mr. Van Brunt came in.

"Good morning!" said he. "How d'ye do to-day?"

"Very well, Mr. Van Brunt."

"I wish you'd look a little redder in the face. Don't you be too busy.
Where's Nancy?"

"Oh, she's busy out with the clothes."

"Same as ever upstairs? What are you going to do for breakfast, Ellen?"

"I don't know, Mr. Van Brunt; there isn't anything cooked in the house;
we have eaten everything up."

"Cleaned out, eh? Bread and all?"

"Oh no, not bread; there's plenty of that, but there's nothing else."

"Well, never mind; you bring me a ham and a dozen of eggs, and I'll make
you a first-rate breakfast."

Ellen laughed, for this was not the first time Mr. Van Brunt had acted
as cook for the family. While she got what he had asked for, and bared a
place on the table for his operations, he went to the spout and washed
his hands.

"Now a sharp knife, Ellen, and the frying-pan, and a dish, and that's
all I want of you."

Ellen brought them, and while he was busy with the ham she made the
coffee and set it by the side of the fire to boil; got the cream and
butter, and set the bread on the table; and then set herself down to
rest, and amuse herself with Mr. Van Brunt's cookery. He was no mean
hand, his slices of ham were very artist-like, and frying away in the
most unexceptional manner. Ellen watched him and laughed at him, till
the ham was taken out and all the eggs broke in; then, after seeing that
the coffee was right, she went upstairs to dress her grandmother--always
the last thing before breakfast.

"Who's frying ham and eggs downstairs?" inquired Miss Fortune.

"Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen.

This answer was unexpected. Miss Fortune tossed her head over in a
dissatisfied kind of way, and told Ellen to "tell him to be careful."

"Of what?" thought Ellen; and wisely concluded with herself not to
deliver the message; very certain she should laugh if she did, and she
had running in her head an indistinct notion of the command, "Honour thy
father and thy mother."

Breakfast was ready but no one there when she got downstairs. She placed
her grandmother at table, and called Nancy, who all this time had been
getting the clothes out of the rinsing water and hanging them out on the
line to dry; the said clothes having been washed the day before by Miss
Sarah Lowndes, who came there for the purpose. Ellen poured out the
coffee, and then in came Mr. Van Brunt with a head of early lettuce
which he had pulled in the garden and washed at the spout. Ellen had to
jump up again to get the salt and pepper and vinegar; but she always
jumped willingly for Mr. Van Brunt. The meals were pleasanter during
those weeks than in all the time Ellen had been in Thirlwall before; or
she thought so. That sharp eye at the head of the table was pleasantly
missed. They with one accord sat longer at meals; more talking and
laughing went on; nobody felt afraid of being snapped up. Mr. Van Brunt
praised Ellen's coffee (he had taught her how to make it), and she
praised his ham and eggs. Old Mrs. Montgomery praised everything, and
seemed to be in particular comfort: talking as much as she had a mind,
and was respectfully attended to. Nancy was in high feather; and the
clatter of knives and forks and teacups went on very pleasantly. But at
last chairs were pushed from the table, and work began again.

Nancy went back to her tubs. Ellen supplied her grandmother with her
knitting and filled her snuff-box; cleared the table and put up the
dishes ready for washing. Then she went into the buttery to skim the
cream. This was a part of the work she liked. It was heavy lifting the
pans of milk to the skimming shelf before the window, but as Ellen drew
her spoon round the edge of the cream she liked to see it wrinkle up in
thick yellow leathery folds, showing how deep and rich it was; it looked
half butter already. She knew how to take it off now very nicely. The
cream was set by in a vessel for future churning, and the milk, as each
pan was skimmed, was poured down the wooden trough at the left of the
window through which it went into a great hogshead at the lower kitchen
door.

This done, Ellen went upstairs to her aunt. Dr. Gibson always came
early, and she and her room must be put in apple-pie order first. It was
a long and wearisome job. Ellen brought the basin for her to wash her
face and hands; then combed her hair and put on her clean cap. That was
always the first thing. The next was to make the bed; and for this, Miss
Fortune, weak or strong, wrapped herself up and tumbled out upon the
floor. When she was comfortably placed again, Ellen had to go through a
laborious dusting of the room and all the things in it, even taking a
dust-pan and brush to the floor if any speck of dust or crumbs could be
seen there. Every rung of every chair must be gone over, though ever so
clean; every article put up or put out of the way; Miss Fortune made the
most of the little province of housekeeping that was left her; and a
fluttering tape escaping through the crank of the door would have put
her whole spirit topsy-turvy. When all was to her mind, and not before,
she would have her breakfast. Only gruel and biscuit, or toast and tea,
or some such trifle, but Ellen must prepare it, and bring it upstairs,
and wait till it was eaten. And very particularly it must be prepared,
and very faultlessly it must be served, or with an impatient expression
of disgust Miss Fortune would send it down again. On the whole Ellen
always thought herself happy when this part of her day was well over.

When she got down this morning she found the kitchen in nice order, and
Nancy standing by the fire in a little sort of pause, having just done
her breakfast dishes.

"Well!" said Nancy, "what are you going to do now?"

"Put away these dishes, and then churn," said Ellen.

"My goodness! so you are. What's going to be for dinner, Ellen?"

"That's more than I know," said Ellen, laughing. "We have eaten up Mrs.
Van Brunt's pie and washed the dish; there's nothing but some cold
potatoes."

"_That_ won't do," said Nancy. "I tell you what, Ellen, we'll just boil
pot for to-day; somebody else will send us something by to-morrow most
likely."

"I don't know what you mean by 'boil pot,'" said Ellen.

"Oh, you don't know everything yet, by half. _I_ know--I'll fix it. You
just give me the things, Miss Housekeeper, that's all you've got to do;
I want a piece of pork and a piece of beef, and all the vegetables
you've got."

"All?" said Ellen.

"Every soul on 'em. Don't be scared, Ellen; you shall see what I can do
in the way of cookery; if you don't like it you needn't eat it. What
have you got in the cellar?"

"Come and see, and take what you want, Nancy; there is plenty of
potatoes and carrots and onions, and beets, I believe; the turnips are
all gone."

"Parsnips out in the yard, ain't there?"

"Yes, but you'll have to do with a piece of pork, Nancy; I don't know
anything about beef."

While Nancy went round the cellar gathering in her apron the various
roots she wanted, Ellen uncovered the pork barrel, and after looking a
minute at the dark pickle she never loved to plunge into, bravely bared
her arm and fished up a piece of pork.

"Now, Nancy, just help me with this churn out of the cellar, will you?
and then you may go."

"My goodness! it is heavy," said Nancy. "You'll have a time of it,
Ellen; but I can't help you."

She went off to the garden for parsnips, and Ellen quietly put in the
dasher and the cover, and began to churn. It was tiresome work. The
churn was pretty full, as Nancy had said; the cream was rich and cold,
and at the end of half-an-hour grew very stiff. It spattered and
sputtered up on Ellen's face and hands and apron, and over the floor;
legs and arms were both weary; but still that pitiless dasher must go up
and down, hard as it might be to force it either way; she must not stop.
In this state of matters she heard a pair of thick shoes come clumping
down the stairs, and beheld Mr. Van Brunt.

"Here you are," said he. "Churning!--been long at it?"

"A good while," said Ellen, with a sigh.

"Coming?"

"I don't know when."

Mr. Van Brunt stepped to the door and shouted for Sam Larkens. He was
ordered to take the churn and bring the butter; and Ellen, very glad of
rest, went out to amuse herself with feeding the chickens, and then
upstairs to see what Nancy was doing.

"Butter come?" said Nancy.

"No, Sam has taken it. How are you getting on? Oh, I am tired!"

"I'm getting on first-rate; I've got all the things in."

"In what?"

"Why, in the pot!--in a pot of water, boiling away as fast as they can;
we'll have dinner directly. Hurra! who comes there?"

She jumped to the door. It was Thomas, bringing Margery's respects, and
a custard-pie for Ellen.

"I declare," said Nancy, "it's a good thing to have friends, ain't it?
I'll try and get some. Hollo! what's wanting? Mr. Van Brunt's calling
you, Ellen."

Ellen ran down.

"The butter's come," said he. "Now do you know what to do with it?"

"Oh, yes," said Ellen, smiling; "Margery showed me nicely."

He brought her a pail of water from the spout, and stood by with a
pleased kind of look, while she carefully lifted the cover and rinsed
down the little bits of butter which stuck to it and the dasher; took
out the butter with her ladle into a large wooden bowl, washed it, and
finally salted it.

"Don't take too much pains," said he; "the less of the hand it gets the
better. That will do very well."

"Now, are you ready?" said Nancy, coming downstairs, "'cause dinner is.
My goodness! ain't that a fine lot of butter? there's four pounds, ain't
there?"

"Five," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"And as sweet as it can be," said Ellen. "Beautiful, isn't it? Yes; I'm
ready, as soon as I set this in the cellar and cover it up."

Nancy's dish, the pork, potatoes, carrots, beans and cabbage, all boiled
in the same pot together, was found very much to everybody's taste
except Ellen's. She made her dinner off potatoes and bread, the former
of which she declared, laughing, were very porky and cabbagy; her meal
would have been an extremely light one had it not been for the
custard-pie.

After dinner new labours began. Nancy had forgotten to hang on a pot of
water for the dishes; so after putting away the eatables in the buttery,
while the water was heating, Ellen warmed some gruel and carried it with
a plate of biscuit upstairs to her aunt. But Miss Fortune said she was
tired of gruel and couldn't eat it; she must have some milk porridge;
and she gave Ellen very particular directions how to make it. Ellen
sighed only once as she went down with her despised dish of gruel, and
set about doing her best to fulfil her aunt's wishes. The first dish of
milk she burnt; another sigh and another trial; better care this time
had better success, and Ellen had the satisfaction to see her aunt
perfectly suited with her dinner.

When she came down with the empty bowl, Nancy had a pile of dishes ready
washed, and Ellen took the towel to dry them. Mrs. Montgomery, who had
been in an uncommonly quiet fit all day, now laid down her knitting, and
asked if Ellen would not come and read to her.

"Presently, grandma, as soon as I have done here."

"I know somebody that's tired," said Nancy. "I tell you what, Ellen, you
had better take to liking pork; you can't work on potatoes. I ain't
tired a bit. There's somebody coming to the door again! Do run and open
it, will you? My hands are wet. I wonder why folks can't come in without
giving so much trouble."

It was Thomas again, with a package for Ellen which had just come, he
said, and Miss Alice thought she would like to have it directly. Ellen
thanked her and thanked him, with a face from which all signs of
weariness had fled away. The parcel was sealed up, and directed in a
hand she was pretty sure she knew. Her fingers burned to break the seal;
but she would not open it there, neither leave her work unfinished; she
went on wiping the dishes with trembling hands and a beating heart.

"What's that?" said Nancy; "what did Thomas Grimes want? What have you
got there?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling; "something good, I guess."

"Something good! Is it something to eat?"

"No," said Ellen, "I didn't mean anything to eat when I said something
good; I don't think those are the best things."

To Ellen's delight she saw that her grandmother had forgotten about the
reading, and was quietly taking short naps with her head against the
chimney. So she put away the last dish, and then seized her package and
flew upstairs. She was sure it had come from Doncaster; she was right.
It was a beautiful copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, on the first leaf
written, "To my little sister, Ellen Montgomery, from J. H.;" and within
the cover lay a letter. This letter Ellen read in the course of the next
six days at least twice as many times; and never without crying over it.

"Alice has told me" (said John) "about your new troubles. There is said
to be a time 'when clouds return after the rain.' I am sorry, my little
sister, this time should come to you so early. I often think of you, and
wish I could be near you. Still, dear Ellie, the good Husbandman knows
what His plants want; do you believe that, and can you trust Him? They
should have nothing but sunshine if that was good for them. He knows it
is not; so there come clouds and rains, and 'stormy winds fulfilling His
will.' And what is it all for? 'Herein is my Father glorified, _that ye
bear much fruit_;' do not disappoint His purpose, Ellie. We shall have
sunshine enough by-and-by, but I know it is hard for so young a one as
my little sister to look much forward; so do not look forward, Ellie;
look up! look off unto Jesus, from all your duties, troubles, and wants;
He will help you in them all. The more you look up to Him the more He
will look down to you; and He especially said,'Suffer _little children_
to come unto Me'; you see you are particularly invited." Ellen was a
long time upstairs, and when she came down it was with red eyes.

Mrs. Montgomery was now awake and asked for the reading again, and for
three-quarters of an hour Ellen and she were quietly busy with the
Bible. Nancy meanwhile was downstairs washing the dairy things. When her
grandmother released her Ellen had to go up to wait upon her aunt; after
which she went into the buttery and skimmed the cream, and got the pans
ready for the evening milk. By this time it was five o'clock, and Nancy
came in with the basket of dry clothes, at which Ellen looked with the
sorrowful consciousness that they must be sprinkled and folded
by-and-by, and ironed to-morrow. It happened, however, that Jane Huff
came in just then with a quantity of hot short-cake for tea, and seeing
the basket, she very kindly took the business of sprinkling and folding
upon herself. This gave Ellen spirits to carry out a plan she had long
had, to delight the whole family with some eggs scrambled in Margery's
fashion; after the milk was strained and put away she went about it,
while Nancy set the table. A nice bed of coals was prepared; the spider
set over them, the eggs broken in, peppered and salted, and she began
carefully to stir them as she had seen Margery do. But instead of acting
right the eggs maliciously stuck fast to the spider and burned. Ellen
was confounded.

"How much butter did you put in?" said Mr. Van Brunt, who had come in,
and stood looking on.

"Butter?" said Ellen, looking up; "oh, I forgot all about it! I ought to
have put that in, oughtn't I? I'm sorry."

"Never mind," said Mr. Van Brunt, "'taint worth your being sorry about.
Here, Nancy, clean off this spider, and we'll try again."

At this moment Miss Fortune was heard screaming; Ellen ran up.

"What did she want?" said Mr. Van Brunt when she came down again.

"She wanted to know what was burning."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes."

"Well, what did she say?"

"Said I mustn't use any more eggs without asking her."

"That ain't fair play," said Mr. Van Brunt; "you and I are the head of
the house now, I take it. You just use as many on 'em as you've a mind;
and all you spile I'll fetch you again from hum. That's you, Nancy! Now,
Ellen, here's the spider; try again; let's have plenty of butter in this
time, and plenty of eggs too." This time the eggs were scrambled to a
nicety, and the supper met with great favour from all parties.

Ellen's day was done when the dishes were. The whole family went early
to bed. She was weary, but she could rest well. She had made her old
grandmother comfortable; she had kept the peace with Nancy; she had
pleased Mr. Van Brunt; she had faithfully served her aunt. Her sleep was
uncrossed by a dream, untroubled by a single jar of conscience; and her
awaking to another day of labour, though by no means joyful, was yet not
unhopeful or unhappy.

She had a hard trial a day or two after. It was in the end of the
afternoon, she had her big apron on, and was in the buttery skimming the
milk, when she heard the kitchen door open, and footsteps enter the
kitchen. Out went little Ellen to see who it was, and there stood Alice
and old Mr. Marshman! He was going to take Alice home with him the next
morning, and wanted Ellen to go too; and they had come to ask her. Ellen
knew it was impossible--that is, that it would not be right, and she
said so; and in spite of Alice's wistful look, and Mr. Marshman's
insisting, she stood her ground, not without some difficulty and some
glistening of the eyes. They had to give it up. Mr. Marshman then wanted
to know what she meant by swallowing herself up in an apron in that sort
of way? so Ellen had him into the buttery and showed him what she had
been about. He would see her skim several pans, and laughed at her
prodigiously; though there was a queer look about his eyes, too, all the
time. And when he went away he held her in his arms, and kissed her
again and again, and said that "some of these days he would take her
away from her aunt, and she should have her no more." Ellen stood and
looked after them till they were out of sight, and then went upstairs
and had a good cry.

The butter-making soon became quite too much for Ellen to manage, so
Jane Huff and Jenny Hitchcock were engaged to come by turns and do the
heavy part of it; all within the buttery being still left to Ellen, for
Miss Fortune would have no one else go there. It was a great help to
have them take even so much off her hands, and they often did some other
little odd jobs for her. The milk, however, seemed to increase as fast
as the days grew longer, and Ellen could not find that she was much less
busy. The days were growing pleasant too; soft airs began to come; the
grass was of a beautiful green; the buds on the branches began to swell,
and on some trees to put out. When Ellen had a moment of time she used
to run across the chip-yard to the barn, or round the garden, or down to
the brook, and drink in the sweet air and the lovely sights which never
had seemed quite so lovely before. If once in a while she could get
half-an-hour before tea, she used to take her book and sit down on the
threshold of the front door or on the big log under the apple-tree in
the chip-yard. In those minutes the reading was doubly sweet, or else
the loveliness of earth and sky was such that Ellen could not take her
eyes from them, till she saw Sam or Johnny coming out of the cow-house
door with the pails of milk, or heard their heavy tramp over the chips;
then she had to jump and run. Those were sweet half-hours. Ellen did not
at first know how much reason she had to be delighted with her
"Pilgrim's Progress;" she saw, to be sure, that it was a fine copy, well
bound, with beautiful cuts. But when she came to look further, she found
all through the book, on the margin or at the bottom of the leaves, in
John's beautiful handwriting, a great many notes--simple, short, plain,
exactly what was needed to open the whole book to her and make it of the
greatest possible use and pleasure. Many things she remembered hearing
from his lips when they were reading it together; there was a large part
of the book where all was new, the part he had not had time to finish.
How Ellen loved the book and the giver when she found those beautiful
notes, it is impossible to tell. She counted it her greatest treasure
next to her little red Bible.




CHAPTER XXXVI

          Oh what will I do wi' him, quo' he,
            What will I do wi' him?
          What will I do wi' him, quo' he,
            What will I do wi' him?

                                        --OLD SONG.


In the course of time Miss Fortune showed signs of mending, and at last,
towards the latter end of April, she was able to come downstairs. All
parties hailed this event for different reasons; even Nancy was grown
tired of her regular life, and willing to have a change. Ellen's joy
was, however, soon diminished by the terrible rummaging which took
place. Miss Fortune's hands were yet obliged to lie still, but her eyes
did double duty; _they_ were never known to be idle in the best of
times, and it seemed to Ellen now as if they were taking amends for all
their weeks of forced rest. Oh, those eyes! Dust was found where Ellen
had never dreamed of looking for any; things were said to be "dreadfully
in the way" where she had never found it out; disorder and dirt were
groaned over, where Ellen did not know the fact or was utterly ignorant
how to help it; waste was suspected where none had been, and
carelessness charged where rather praise was due. Impatient to have
things to her mind, and as yet unable to do anything herself, Miss
Fortune kept Nancy and Ellen running, till both wished her back in bed;
and even Mr. Van Brunt grumbled that "to pay Ellen for having grown
white and poor, her aunt was going to work the little flesh she had left
off her bones." It was rather hard to bear, just when she was looking
for ease too; her patience and temper were more tried than in all those
weeks before. But if there was small pleasure in pleasing her aunt,
Ellen did earnestly wish to please God; she struggled against ill
temper, prayed against it; and though she often blamed herself in
secret, she did so go through that week as to call forth Mr. Van Brunt's
admiration, and even to stir a little the conscience of her aunt. Mr.
Van Brunt comforted her with the remark that "it is darkest just before
day," and so it proved. Before the week was at an end, Miss Fortune
began, as she expressed it, to "take hold;" Jenny Hitchcock and Jane
Huff were excused from any more butter-making; Nancy was sent away;
Ellen's labours were much lightened; and the house was itself again.

The third of May came. For the first time in near two months, Ellen
found in the afternoon that she could be spared awhile; there was no
need to think twice what she would do with her leisure. Perhaps Margery
could tell her something of Alice! Hastily and joyfully she exchanged
her working frock for a merino, put on nice shoes and stockings and
ruffle again, and taking her bonnet and gloves to put on out of doors,
away she ran. Who can tell how pleasant it seemed, after so many weeks,
to be able to walk abroad again, and to walk to the mountain! Ellen
snuffed the sweet air, skipped on the green sward, picked nosegays of
grass and dandelion, and at last unable to contain herself set off to
run. Fatigue soon brought this to a stop; then she walked more leisurely
on, enjoying. It was a lovely spring day. Ellen's eyes were gladdened by
it; she felt thankful in her heart that God had made everything so
beautiful; she thought it was pleasant to think _He_ had made them;
pleasant to see in them everywhere so much of the wisdom and power and
goodness of Him she looked up to with joy as her best friend. She felt
quietly happy, and sure He would take care of her. Then a thought of
Alice came into her head; she set off to run again, and kept it up this
time till she got to the old house and ran round the corner. She stopped
at the shed door, and went through into the lower kitchen.

"Why, Miss Ellen, dear!" exclaimed Margery, "if that isn't you! Aren't
you come in the _very_ nick of time! How _do_ you do? I am _very_ glad
to see you--uncommon glad to be sure. What witch told you to come here
just now? Run in, run into the parlour, and see what you'll find there."

"Has Alice come back?" cried Ellen. But Margery only laughed and said,
"Run in!"

Up the steps, through the kitchen, and across the hall Ellen ran, burst
open the parlour door, and was in Alice's arms. There were others in the
room; but Ellen did not seem to know it, clinging to her and holding her
in a fast glad embrace, till Alice bade her look up and attend to
somebody else. And then she was seized round the neck by little Ellen
Chauncey; and then came her mother, and then Miss Sophia. The two
children were overjoyed to see each other, while their joy was touching
to see, from the shade of sorrow in the one, and of sympathy in the
other. Ellen was scarcely less glad to see kind Mrs. Chauncey; Miss
Sophia's greeting, too, was very affectionate. But Ellen returned to
Alice, and rested herself in her lap, with one hand round her neck, the
other hand being in little Ellen's grasp.

"And now you are happy, I suppose?" said Miss Sophia, when they were
thus placed.

"Very," said Ellen, smiling.

"Ah, but you'll be happier by-and-by," said Ellen Chauncey.

"Hush, Ellen!" said Miss Sophia; "what curious things children are! You
didn't expect to find us all here, did you, Ellen Montgomery?"

"No, indeed, ma'am," said Ellen, drawing Alice's cheek nearer for
another kiss.

"We have but just come, Ellie," said her sister. "I should not have been
long in finding you out. My child, how thin you have got."

"Oh, I'll grow fat again now," said Ellen.

"How is Miss Fortune?"

"Oh, she is up again and well."

"Have you any reason to expect your father home, Ellen?" said Mrs.
Chauncey.

"Yes, ma'am; Aunt Fortune says perhaps he will be here in a week."

"Then you are very happy in looking forward, aren't you?" said Miss
Sophia, not noticing the cloud that had come over Ellen's brow.

Ellen hesitated, ,  more, and finally, with a sudden
motion, hid her face against Alice.

"When did he sail, Ellie?" said Alice gravely.

"In the _Duc d'Orleans_--he said he would----"

"_When?_"

"The 5th of April. Oh, I can't help it!" exclaimed Ellen, failing in the
effort to control herself; she clasped Alice as if she feared even then
the separating hand. Alice bent her head down and whispered words of
comfort.

"Mamma!" said little Ellen Chauncey under her breath, and looking solemn
to the last degree, "don't Ellen want to see her father?"

"She's afraid that he may take her away where she will not be with Alice
any more; and you know she has no mother to go to."

"Oh!" said Ellen, with a very enlightened face; "but he won't, will he?"

"I hope not; I think not."

Cheered again, the little girl drew near and silently took one of
Ellen's hands.

"We shall not be parted, Ellie," said Alice, "you need not fear. If
your father takes you away from your Aunt Fortune, I think it will be
only to give you to me. You need not fear yet."

"Mamma says so too, Ellen," said her little friend.

This was strong consolation. Ellen looked up and smiled.

"Now come with me," said Ellen Chauncey, pulling her hand, "I want you
to show me something; let's go down to the garden, come! exercise is
good for you."

"No, no," said her mother, smiling, "Ellen has had exercise enough
lately; you mustn't take her down to the garden now; you would find
nothing there. Come here!"

A long whisper followed, which seemed to satisfy little Ellen and she
ran out of the room. Some time passed in pleasant talk and telling all
that had happened since they had seen each other; then little Ellen came
back and called Ellen Montgomery to the glass door, saying she wanted
her to look at something.

"It is only a horse we brought with us," said Miss Sophia. "Ellen thinks
it is a great beauty, and can't rest till you have seen it."

Ellen went accordingly to the door. There, to be sure, was Thomas before
it holding a pony bridled and saddled. He was certainly a very pretty
little creature; brown all over except one white forefoot; his coat
shone, it was so glossy; his limbs were fine; his eye gentle and bright;
his tail long enough to please the children. He stood as quiet as a
lamb, whether Thomas held him or not.

"Oh, what a beauty!" said Ellen; "what a lovely little horse!"

"Ain't he!" said Ellen Chauncey; "and he goes so beautifully besides,
and never starts nor nothing; and he is as good-natured as a little
dog."

"As a _good-natured_ little dog, she means, Ellen," said Miss Sophia;
"there are little dogs of very various character."

"Well, he looks good-natured," said Ellen. "What a pretty head! and what
a beautiful new side-saddle, and all. I never saw such a dear little
horse in my life. Is it yours, Alice?"

"No," said Alice, "it is a present to a friend of Mr. Marshman's."

"She'll be a very happy friend, I should think," said Ellen.

"That's what I said," said Ellen Chauncey, dancing up and down, "that's
what I said. I said you'd be happier by-and-by, didn't I?"

"I?" said Ellen, colouring.

"Yes, you--you are the friend it is for; it's for you, it's for you! you
are grandpa's friend, aren't you?" she repeated, springing upon Ellen,
and hugging her up in an ecstasy of delight.

"But it isn't really for me, is it?" said Ellen, now looking almost
pale. "O Alice!----"

"Come, come," said Miss Sophia, "what will papa say if I tell him you
received his present so? come, hold up your head! Put on your bonnet and
try him: come, Ellen! let's see you."

Ellen did not know whether to cry or laugh, till she mounted the pretty
pony; that settled the matter. Not Ellen Chauncey's unspeakable delight
was as great as her own. She rode slowly up and down before the house,
and once agoing would not have known how to stop if she had not
recollected that the pony had travelled thirty miles that day and must
be tired. Ellen took not another turn after that. She jumped down, and
begged Thomas to take the tenderest care of him; patted his neck; ran
into the kitchen to beg of Margery a piece of bread to give him from her
hand; examined the new stirrup and housings, and the pony all over a
dozen times; and after watching him as Thomas led him off, till he was
out of sight, finally came back into the house with a face of marvellous
contentment. She tried to fashion some message of thanks for the kind
giver of the pony; but she wanted to express so much that no words would
do. Mrs. Chauncey, however, smiled and assured her she knew exactly what
to say.

"That pony has been destined for you, Ellen," she said, "this year and
more; but my father waited to have him thoroughly well broken. You need
not be afraid of him; he is perfectly gentle and well-trained; if he had
not been sure of that my father would never have sent him; though Mr.
John _is_ making such a horsewoman of you."

"I wish I could thank him," said Ellen; "but I don't know how."

"What will you call him, Ellen?" said Miss Sophia. "My father has dubbed
him 'George Marshman'; he says you will like that, as my brother is such
a favourite of yours."

"He didn't _really_, did he?" said Ellen, looking from Sophia to Alice.
"I needn't call him that, need I?"

"Not unless you like," said Miss Sophia, laughing, "you may change it;
but what _will_ you call him?"

"I don't know," said Ellen very gravely, "he must have a name to be
sure."

"But why don't you call him that?" said Ellen Chauncey; "George is a
very pretty name; I like that; I should call him 'Uncle George.'"

"Oh, I couldn't!" said Ellen, "I couldn't call him so; I shouldn't like
it at all."

"George Washington!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I guess I wouldn't!"

"Why? is it too good, or not good enough?" said Miss Sophia.

"Too good! A great deal too good for a horse! I wouldn't for anything."

"How would Brandywine do then, since you are so patriotic?" said Miss
Sophia, looking amused.

"What is 'patriotic'?" said Ellen.

"A patriot, Ellen," said Alice, smiling, "is one who has a strong and
true love for his country."

"I don't know whether I am patriotic," said Ellen, "but I won't call him
Brandywine. Why, Miss Sophia!"

"No, I wouldn't either," said Ellen Chauncey; "it isn't a pretty name.
Call him 'Seraphine'!--like Miss Angell's pony--that's pretty."

"No, no--'Seraphine'! nonsense!" said Miss Sophia; "call him Benedict
Arnold, Ellen; and then it will be a relief to your mind to whip him."

"Whip him!" said Ellen, "I don't want to whip him, I am sure; and I
should be afraid to besides."

"Hasn't John taught you that lesson yet?" said the young lady; "he is
perfect in it himself. Do you remember, Alice, the chastising he gave
that fine black horse of ours we called the 'Black Prince'?--a beautiful
creature he was--more than a year ago? My conscience! he frightened me
to death."

"I remember," said Alice; "I remember I could not look on."

"What did he do that for?" said Ellen.

"What's the matter, Ellen Montgomery?" said Miss Sophia, laughing,
"where did you get that long face from? Are you thinking of John or the
horse?"

Ellen's eye turned to Alice.

"My dear Ellen," said Alice, smiling, though she spoke seriously, "it
was necessary; it sometimes is necessary to do such things. You do not
suppose John would do it cruelly or unnecessarily?"

Ellen's face shortened considerably.

"But what had the horse been doing?"

"He had not been doing anything; he would _not_ do, that was the
trouble; he was as obstinate as a mule."

"My dear Ellen," said Alice, "it was no such terrible matter as Sophia's
words have made you believe. It was a clear case of obstinacy. The horse
was resolved to have his own way and not to do what his rider required
of him; it was necessary that either the horse or the man should give
up; and as John has no fancy for giving up, he carried his point--partly
by management, partly, I confess, by a judicious use of the whip and
spur; but there was no such furious flagellation as Sophia seems to
mean, and which a good horseman would scarce be guilty of."

"A very determined 'use,'" said Miss Sophia. "I advise you, Ellen, not
to trust your pony to Mr. John; he'll have no mercy on him."

"Sophia is laughing, Ellen," said Alice. "You and I know John, do we
not?"

"Then he did right?" said Ellen.

"Perfectly right--except in mounting the horse at all, which I never
wished him to do. No one on the place would ride him."

"He carried John beautifully all the day after that though," said Miss
Sophia, "and I dare say he might have ridden him to the end of the
chapter if you would have let papa give him to him. But he was of no use
to anybody else. Howard couldn't manage him--I suppose he was too lazy.
Papa was delighted enough that day to have given John anything. And I
can tell you Black Prince the Second is spirited enough; I am afraid you
won't like him."

"John has a present of a horse too, Ellen," said Alice.

"Has he?--from Mr. Marshman?"

"Yes."

"I am very glad! Oh, what rides we can take now, can't we, Alice? We
shan't want to borrow Jenny's pony any more. What kind of a horse is Mr.
John's?"

"Black--perfectly black."

"Is he handsome?"

"Very."

"Is his name Black Prince?"

"Yes."

Ellen began to consider the possibility of calling her pony the Brown
Princess, or by some similar title--the name of John's two charges
seeming the very most striking a horse could be known by.

"Don't forget, Alice," said Mrs. Chauncey, "to tell John to stop for him
on his way home. It will give us a chance of seeing him, which is not a
common pleasure, in any sense of the term."

They went back to the subject of the name, which Ellen pondered with
uneasy visions of John and her poor pony flitting through her head. The
little horse was hard to fit, or else Ellen's taste was very hard to
suit; a great many names were proposed, none of which were to her mind.
Charley, and Cherry, and Brown, and Dash, and Jumper--but she said they
had "John" and "Jenny" already in Thirlwall, and she didn't want a
"Charley;" "Brown" was not pretty, and she hoped he wouldn't "dash" at
anything, nor be a "jumper" when she was on his back. Cherry she mused
awhile about, but it wouldn't do.

"Call him Fairy," said Ellen Chauncey; "that's a pretty name. Mamma says
she used to have a horse called Fairy. Do, Ellen! call him Fairy."

"No," said Ellen; "he can't have a lady's name--that's the trouble."

"I have it, Ellen!" said Alice; "I have a name for you--call him 'The
Brownie.'"

"'The Brownie?'" said Ellen.

"Yes--brownies are male fairies; and brown is his colour; so how will
that do?"

It was soon decided that it would do very well. It was simple,
descriptive, and not common; Ellen made up her mind that "The Brownie"
should be his name. No sooner given, it began to grow dear. Ellen's face
quitted its look of anxious gravity and came out into the broadest and
fullest satisfaction. She never showed joy boisterously; but there was a
light in her eye which brought many a smile into those of her friends as
they sat round the tea-table.

After tea it was necessary to go home, much to the sorrow of all
parties. Ellen knew, however, it would not do to stay; Miss Fortune was
but just got well, and perhaps already thinking herself ill-used. She
put on her things.

"Are you going to take your pony home with you?" inquired Miss Sophia.

"Oh no, ma'am, not to-night. I must see about a place for him; and
besides, poor fellow, he is tired, I dare say."

"I do believe you would take more care of his legs than of your own,"
said Miss Sophia.

"But you'll be here to-morrow early, Ellie?"

"Oh, won't I!" exclaimed Ellen, as she sprang to Alice's neck; "as early
as I can, at least; I don't know when Aunt Fortune will have done with
me."

The way home seemed as nothing. If she was tired she did not know it.
The Brownie! the Brownie!--the thought of him carried her as cleverly
over the ground as his very back would have done. She came running into
the chip-yard.

"Hollo!" cried Mr. Van Brunt, who was standing under the apple-tree
cutting a piece of wood for the tongue of the ox-cart, which had been
broken, "I'm glad to see you _can_ run. I was afeard you'd hardly be
able to stand by this time; but there you come like a young deer!"

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, coming close up to him and speaking in
an undertone, "you don't know what a present I have had! What do you
think Mr. Marshman has sent me from Ventnor?"

"Couldn't guess," said Mr. Van Brunt, resting the end of his pole on the
log and chipping at it with his hatchet; "never guessed anything in my
life; what is it?"

"He has sent me the most beautiful little horse you ever saw!--for my
own--for me to ride; and a new beautiful saddle and bridle; you never
saw anything so beautiful, Mr. Van Brunt; he is all brown, with one
white forefoot, and I've named him 'The Brownie'; and oh, Mr. Van Brunt!
do you think Aunt Fortune will let him come here?"

Mr. Van Brunt chipped away at his pole, and was looking very
good-humoured.

"Because you know I couldn't have half the good of him if he had to stay
away from me up on the mountain. I shall want to ride him every day. Do
you think Aunt Fortune will let him be kept here, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I guess she will," said Mr. Van Brunt soberly, and his tone said to
Ellen, "_I_ will, if she don't."

"Then will you ask her and see about it?--if you please, Mr. Van Brunt.
I'd rather you would. And you won't have him put to plough or anything,
will you, Mr. Van Brunt? Miss Sophia says it would spoil him."

"I'll plough myself first," said Mr. Van Brunt with his half smile;
"there sha'n't be a hair of his coat turned the wrong way. _I'll_ see to
him--as if he was a prince."

"Oh thank you, dear Mr. Van Brunt! How good you are. Then I shall not
speak about him at all till you do, remember. I am _very_ much obliged
to you, Mr. Van Brunt!"

Ellen ran in. She got a chiding for her long stay, but it fell upon ears
that could not hear. The Brownie came like a shield between her and all
trouble. She smiled at her aunt's hard words as if they had been
sugar-plums. And her sleep that night might have been prairie land, for
the multitude of horses of all sorts that chased through it.

"Have you heerd the news?" said Mr. Van Brunt, when he had got his
second cup of coffee at breakfast next morning.

"No," said Miss Fortune. "What news?"

"There ain't as much news as there used to be when I was young," said
the old lady; "seems to me I don't hear nothing nowadays."

"You might if you'd keep your ears open, mother. _What_ news, Mr. Van
Brunt?"

"Why, here's Ellen got a splendid little horse sent her a present from
some of her great friends--Mr. Marshchalk----"

"Mr. Marshman," said Ellen.

"Mr. Marshman. There ain't the like in the country, as I've heerd tell;
and I expect next thing she'll be flying over all the fields and fences
like smoke."

There was a meaning silence. Ellen's heart beat.

"What's going to be done with him, do you suppose?" said Miss Fortune.
Her look said, "If you think I am coming round you are mistaken."

"Humph!" said Mr. Van Brunt slowly, "I s'pose he'll eat grass in the
meadow--and there'll be a place fixed for him in the stables."

"Not in _my_ stables," said the lady shortly.

"No--in mine," said Mr. Van Brunt, half smiling; "and I'll settle with
you about it by-and-by--when we square up our accounts."

Miss Fortune was very much vexed; Ellen could see that; but she said no
more, good or bad, about the matter; so the Brownie was allowed to take
quiet possession of meadow and stables, to his mistress's unbounded joy.

Anybody that knew Mr. Van Brunt would have been surprised to hear what
he said that morning; for he was thought to be quite as keen a looker
after the main chance as Miss Fortune herself, only somehow it was never
laid against him as it was against her. However that might be, it was
plain he took pleasure in keeping his word about the pony. Ellen herself
could not have asked more careful kindness for her favourite than the
Brownie had from every man and boy about the farm.




CHAPTER XXXVII

    Thou must run to him; for thou hast stayed so long that going will
    scarce serve the turn.--SHAKESPEARE.


Captain Montgomery did _not_ come the next week, nor the week after; and
what is more, the _Duck Dorleens_, as his sister called the ship in
which he had taken passage, was never heard of from that time. She
sailed duly on the 5th of April, as they learned from the papers; but
whatever became of her she never reached port. It remained a doubt
whether Captain Montgomery had actually gone in her; and Ellen had many
weeks of anxious watching, first for himself, and then for news of him
in case he were still in France. None ever came. Anxiety gradually faded
into uncertainty; and by midsummer no doubt of the truth remained in
any mind. If Captain Montgomery had been alive, he would certainly have
written, if not before, on learning the fate of the vessel in which he
had told his friends to expect him home.

Ellen rather felt that she was an orphan than that she had lost her
father. She had never learned to love him, he had never given her much
cause. Comparatively a small portion of her life had been passed in his
society, and she looked back to it as the least agreeable of all; and it
had not been possible for her to expect with pleasure his return to
America and visit to Thirlwall; she dreaded it. Life had nothing now
worse for her than a separation from Alice and John Humphreys; she
feared her father might take her away and put her in some dreadful
boarding-school, or carry her about the world wherever he went, a
wretched wanderer from everything good and pleasant. The knowledge of
his death had less pain for her than the removal of this fear brought
relief.

Ellen felt sometimes, soberly and sadly, that she was thrown upon the
wide world now. To all intents and purposes so she had been a year and
three-quarters before; but it was something to have a father and mother
living even on the other side of the world. Now, Miss Fortune was her
sole guardian and owner. However, she could hardly realise that, with
Alice and John so near at hand. Without reasoning much about it, she
felt tolerably secure that they would take care of her interests, and
make good their claim to interfere if ever need were.

Ellen and her little horse grew more and more fond of each other. This
friendship, no doubt, was a comfort to the Brownie; but to his mistress
it made a large part of the pleasure of her everyday life. To visit him
was her delight at all hours, early and late; and it is to the Brownie's
credit that he always seemed as glad to see her as she was to see him.
At any time Ellen's voice would bring him from the far end of the meadow
where he was allowed to run. He would come trotting up at her call, and
stand to have her scratch his forehead or, pat him and talk to him; and
though the Brownie could not answer her speeches, he certainly seemed to
hear them with pleasure. Then, throwing up his head, he would bound off,
take a turn in the field, and come back again to stand as still as a
lamb as long as she stayed there herself. Now and then, when she had a
little more time, she would cross the fence and take a walk with him;
and there, with his nose just at her elbow, wherever she went the
Brownie went after her. After a while there was no need that she should
call him; if he saw or heard her at a distance it was enough; he would
come running up directly. Ellen loved him dearly.

She gave him more proof of it than words and caresses. Many were the
apples and scraps of bread hoarded up for him; and if these failed,
Ellen sometimes took him a little salt to show that he was not
forgotten. There were not, certainly, many scraps left at Miss Fortune's
table; nor apples to be had at home for such a purpose, except what she
gathered up from the poor ones that were left under the trees for the
hogs; but Ellen had other sources of supply. Once she had begged from
Jenny Hitchcock a waste bit that she was going to throw away; Jenny
found what she wanted to do with it, and after that many a basket of
apples and many a piece of cold short-cake was set by for her. Margery,
too, remembered the Brownie when disposing of her odds and ends;
likewise did Mrs. Van Brunt; so that among them all Ellen seldom wanted
something to give him. Mr. Marshman did not know what happiness he was
bestowing when he sent her that little horse. Many, many were the hours
of enjoyment she had upon his back. Ellen went nowhere but upon the
Brownie. Alice made her a riding-dress of dark gingham; and it was the
admiration of the country to see her trotting or cantering by, all
alone, and always looking happy. Ellen soon found that if the Brownie
was to do her much good she must learn to saddle and bridle him herself.
This was very awkward at first, but there was no help for it. Mr. Van
Brunt showed her how to manage, and after a while it became quite easy.
She used to call the Brownie to the bar-place, put the bridle on, and
let him out; and then he would stand motionless before her while she
fastened the saddle on; looking round sometimes as if to make sure that
it was she herself, and giving a little kind of satisfied neigh when he
saw that it was. Ellen's heart began to dance as soon as she felt him
moving under her; and once off and away on the docile and spirited
little animal, over the roads, through the lanes, up and down the hills,
her horse her only companion, but having the most perfect understanding
with him, both Ellen and the Brownie cast care to the winds. "I do
believe," said Mr. Van Brunt, "that critter would a _leetle_ rather have
Ellen on his back than not." He was the Brownie's next best friend. Miss
Fortune never said anything to him or of him.

Ellen, however, reaped a reward for her faithful steadiness to duty
while her aunt was ill. Things were never after that as they had been
before. She was looked on with a different eye. To be sure, Miss Fortune
tasked her as much as ever, spoke as sharply, was as ready to scold if
anything went wrong; all that was just as it used to be, but beneath all
that Ellen felt with great satisfaction that she was trusted and
believed. She was no longer an interloper, in everybody's way; she was
not watched and suspected; her aunt treated her as one of the family and
a person to be depended on. It was a very great comfort to little
Ellen's life. Miss Fortune even owned that "she believed she was an
honest child and meant to do right," a great deal from her; Miss Fortune
was never over forward to give any one the praise of _honesty_. Ellen
now went out and came in without feeling she was an alien. And though
her aunt was always bent on keeping herself and everybody else at work,
she did not now show any particular desire for breaking off Ellen from
her studies; and was generally willing, when the work was pretty well
done up, that she should saddle the Brownie and be off to Alice or Mrs.
Vawse.

Though Ellen was happy, it was a sober kind of happiness; the sun
shining behind a cloud. And if others thought her so, it was not because
she laughed loudly or wore a merry face.

"I can't help but think," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "that that child has
something more to make her happy than what she gets in this world."

There was a quilting party gathered that afternoon at Mrs. Van Brunt's
house.

"There is no doubt of that, neighbour," said Mrs. Vawse; "nobody ever
found enough here to make him happy yet."

"Well, I don't want to see a prettier girl than that," said Mrs.
Lowndes; "you'll never catch her, working at home or riding along on
that handsome little critter of her'n, that she ha'n't a pleasant look
and a smile for you, and as pretty behaved as can be. I never see her
look sorrowful but once."

"Ain't that a pretty horse?" said Mimy Lawson.

"_I've_ seen her look sorrowful though," said Sarah Lowndes; "I've been
up at the house when Miss Fortune was hustling everybody round, and as
sharp as vinegar, and you'd think it would take Job's patience to stand
it; and for all there wouldn't be a bit of crossness in that child's
face, she'd go round, and not say a word that wasn't just so; you'd ha'
thought her bread was all spread with honey; and everybody knows it
ain't. I don't see how she could do it, for my part. I know _I_
couldn't."

"Ah, neighbour," said Mrs. Vawse, "Ellen looks higher than to please her
aunt; she tries to please her God; and one can bear people's words or
looks when one is pleasing Him. She is a dear child!"

"And there's 'Brahm," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "he thinks the hull world of
her. I never see him take so to any one. There ain't an airthly thing he
wouldn't do to please her. If she was his own child I've no idee he
could set her up more than he does."

"Very well!" said Nancy, coming up, "good reason! Ellen don't set _him_
up any, does she? I wish you'd just seen her once, the time when Miss
Fortune was abed, the way she'd look out for him! Mr. Van Brunt's as
good as at home in that house, sure enough; whoever's downstairs."

"Bless her dear little heart!" said his mother.

"A good name is better than precious ointment."

August had come, and John was daily expected home. One morning Miss
Fortune was in the lower kitchen, up to the elbows in making a rich fall
cheese; Ellen was busy upstairs, when her aunt shouted to her to "come
and see what was all that splashing and crashing in the garden." Ellen
ran out.

"Oh, Aunt Fortune," said she, "Timothy has broken down the fence and got
in."

"Timothy!" said Miss Fortune, "what Timothy?"

"Why, Timothy, the near ox," said Ellen laughing; "he has knocked down
the fence over there where it was low, you know."

"The near ox!" said Miss Fortune, "I wish he warn't quite so near this
time. Mercy! he'll be at the corn and over everything. Run and drive him
into the barn-yard, can't you?"

But Ellen stood still and shook her head. "He wouldn't stir for me," she
said; "and besides I am as afraid of that ox as can be. If it was Clover
I wouldn't mind!"

"But he'll have every bit of the corn eaten up in five minutes! Where's
Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I heard him say he was going home till noon," said Ellen.

"And Sam Larkens is gone to mill--and Johnny Low is laid up with the
shakes. Very careless of Mr. Van Brunt!" said Miss Fortune, drawing her
arms out of the cheese-tub, wringing off the whey, "I wish he'd mind his
own oxen. There was no business to be a low place in the fence! Well,
come along! you ain't afraid with me, I suppose?"

Ellen followed, at a respectful distance. Miss Fortune, however, feared
the face of neither man nor beast; she pulled up a bean poll, and made
such a show of fight that Timothy, after looking at her a little, fairly
turned tail, and marched out of the breach he had made. Miss Fortune
went after, and rested not till she had driven him quite into the
meadow; get him into the barn-yard she could not.

"You ain't worth a straw, Ellen!" said she, when she came back;
"couldn't you ha' headed him and driv' him into the barn-yard? Now that
plaguy beast will just be back again by the time I get well to work. He
ha'n't done much mischief yet--there's Mr. Van Brunt's salary, he's made
a pretty mess of; I'm glad on't! He should ha' put potatoes, as I told
him. I don't know what's to be done--I can't be leaving my cheese to run
and mind the garden every minute, if it was full of Timothys; and
_you'd_ be scared if a mosquito flew at you; you had better go right off
for Mr. Van Brunt and fetch him straight home--serve him right! he has
no business to leave things so. Run along, and don't let the grass grow
under your feet!"

Ellen wisely thought her pony's feet would do the business quicker. She
ran and put on her gingham dress and saddled and bridled the Brownie in
three minutes; but before setting off she had to scream to her aunt that
Timothy was just coming round the corner of the barn again; and Miss
Fortune rushed out to the garden as Ellen and the Brownie walked down to
the gate.

The weather was fine, and Ellen thought to herself it was an ill wind
that blew no good. She was getting a nice ride in the early morning,
that she would not have had but for Timothy's lawless behaviour. To ride
at that time was particularly pleasant and rare; and forgetting how she
had left poor Miss Fortune between the ox and the cheese-tub, Ellen and
the Brownie cantered on in excellent spirits.

She looked in vain as she passed his grounds to see Mr. Van Brunt in the
garden or about the barn. She went on to the little gate of the
courtyard, dismounted, and led the Brownie in. Here she was met by
Nancy, who came running from the way of the barn-yard.

"How d'ye do, Nancy?" said Ellen; "where's Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Goodness, Ellen! what do you want?"

"I want Mr. Van Brunt, where is he?"

"Mr. Van Brunt! he's out in the barn, but he's used himself up."

"Used himself up! what do you mean?"

"Why, he's fixed himself in fine style; he's fell through the trap-door
and broke his leg."

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen, "he hasn't! how could he?"

"Why, easy enough if he didn't look where he was going, there's so much
hay on the floor. But it's a pretty bad place to fall."

"How do you know his leg is broken?"

"'Cause he says so, and anybody with eyes can see it must be. I'm going
over to Hitchcock's to get somebody to come and help in with him; for
you know me and Mrs. Van Brunt ain't Samsons."

"Where is Mrs. Van Brunt?"

"She's out there--in a terrible to do."

Nancy sped on to the Hitchcocks'; and greatly frightened and distressed,
Ellen ran over to the barn, trembling like an aspen. Mr. Van Brunt was
lying in the lower floor, just where he had fallen; one leg doubled
under him in such a way as left no doubt it must be broken. He had lain
there some time before any one found him; and on trying to change his
position when he saw his mother's distress, he had fainted from pain.
She sat by weeping most bitterly. Ellen could bear but one look at Mr.
Van Brunt; that one sickened her. She went up to his poor mother, and
getting down on her knees by her side, put both arms round her neck.

"_Don't_ cry so, dear Mrs. Van Brunt" (Ellen was crying so she could
hardly speak herself), "pray don't do so! he'll be better--Oh, what
shall we do?"

"Oh, ain't it dreadful!" said poor Mrs. Van Brunt. "Oh, 'Brahm, 'Brahm!
my son! the best son that ever was to me--Oh, to see him, there--ain't
it dreadful? he's dying!"

"Oh no, he isn't," said Ellen, "oh no, he isn't! What shall we do, Mrs.
Van Brunt? what shall we do?"

"The doctor," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "he said send for the doctor! but I
can't go, and there's nobody to send. Oh, he'll die! Oh my dear 'Brahm;
I wish it was me!"

"What doctor?" said Ellen; "I'll find somebody to go; tell me what
doctor?"

"Dr. Gibson, he said; but he's away off to Thirlwall; and he's been
lying here all the morning a'ready! nobody found him--he couldn't make
us hear. Oh, isn't it dreadful?"

"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Van Brunt," said Ellen, pressing her cheek
to the poor old lady's; "he'll be better--he will! I've got the Brownie
here, and I'll ride over to Mrs. Hitchcock's and get somebody to go
right away for the doctor. I won't be long, we'll have him here in a
little while, _don't_ feel so bad!"

"You're a dear blessed darling!" said the old lady, hugging and kissing
her, "if ever there was one. Make haste, dear, if you love him! he loves
you!"

Ellen stayed but to give her another kiss. Trembling so that she could
hardly stand she made her way back to the house, led out the Brownie
again, and set off full speed for Mrs. Hitchcock's. It was well her pony
was sure-footed, for letting the reins hang, Ellen bent over his neck
crying bitterly, only urging him now and then to greater speed, till at
length the feeling that she had something to do came to her help. She
straightened herself, gathered up her reins, and by the time she reached
Mrs. Hitchcock's was looking calm again, though very sad and very
earnest. She did not alight, but stopped before the door and called
Jenny. Jenny came out, expressing her pleasure.

"Dear Jenny," said Ellen, "isn't there somebody here that will go right
off to Thirlwall for Dr. Gibson? Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg, I am
afraid, and wants the doctor directly."

"Why, dear Ellen," said Jenny, "the men have just gone off this minute
to Mrs. Van Brunt's. Nancy was here for them to come and help move him
in a great hurry. How did it happen? I couldn't get anything out of
Nancy."

"He fell down through the trap-door. But, dear Jenny, isn't there
_anybody_ about? Oh," said Ellen, clasping her hands, "I want somebody
to go for the doctor _so_ much."

"There ain't a living soul!" said Jenny; "two of the men and all the
teams are 'way on the other side of the hill ploughing, and pa and June
and Black Bill have gone over, as I told you; but I don't believe
they'll be enough. Where's his leg broke?"

"I didn't meet them," said Ellen; "I came away only a little while after
Nancy."

"They went 'cross lots, I guess--that's how it was; and that's the way
Nancy got the start of you."

"What shall I do?" said Ellen. She could not bear to wait till they
returned; if she rode back she might miss them again, besides the delay;
and then a man on foot would make a long journey of it. Jenny told her
of a house or two where she might try for a messenger; but they were
strangers to her; she could not make up her mind to ask such a favour of
them. Her friends were too far out of the way.

"I'll go myself!" she said suddenly. "Tell 'em, dear Jenny, will you,
that I have gone for Dr. Gibson, and that I'll bring him back as quick
as ever I can. I know the road to Thirlwall."

"But, Ellen! you mustn't," said Jenny; "I am afraid to have you go all
that way alone. Wait till the men come back, they won't be long."

"No, I can't, Jenny," said Ellen, "I can't wait; I must go. You needn't
be afraid. Tell 'em I'll be as quick as I can."

"But see, Ellen!" cried Jenny, as she was moving off, "I don't like to
have you!"

"I must, Jenny. Never mind."

"But see, Ellen!" cried Jenny again, "if you _will_ go--if you don't
find Dr. Gibson just get Dr. Marshchalk, he's every bit as good and some
folks think he's better; he'll do just as well. Good-bye!"

Ellen nodded and rode off. There was a little fluttering of the heart at
taking so much upon herself; she had never been to Thirlwall but once
since the first time she saw it. But she thought of Mr. Van Brunt,
suffering for help which could not be obtained, and it was impossible
for her to hesitate. "I am sure I am doing right," she thought, "and
what is there to be afraid of? If I ride two miles alone, why shouldn't
I four? And I am doing right--God will take care of me." Ellen earnestly
asked Him to do so; and after that she felt pretty easy. "Now, dear
Brownie," said she, patting his neck, "you and I have work to do to-day,
behave like a good little horse as you are." The Brownie answered with a
little cheerful kind of neigh, as much as to say, Never fear me! They
trotted on nicely.

But nothing could help that being a disagreeable ride. Do what she
would, Ellen felt a little afraid when she found herself on a long piece
of road where she had never been alone before. There were not many
houses on the way; the few there were looked strange; Ellen did not know
exactly where she was, or how near the end of her journey; it seemed a
long one. She felt rather lonely; a little shy of meeting people, and
yet a little unwilling to have the intervals between them so very long.
She repeated to herself, "I am doing right--God will take care of me,"
still there was a nervous trembling at heart. Sometimes she would pat
her pony's neck and say, "Trot on, dear Brownie! we'll soon be there!"
by way of cheering herself; for certainly the Brownie needed no
cheering, and was trotting on bravely. Then the thought of Mr. Van
Brunt, as she had seen him lying on the barn floor, made her feel sick
and miserable; many tears fell during her ride when she remembered him.
"Heaven will be a good place," thought little Ellen as she went; "there
will be no sickness, no pain, no sorrow; but Mr. Van Brunt!--I wonder if
he is fit to go to heaven?" This was a new matter of thought and
uneasiness, not now for the first time in Ellen's mind; and so the time
passed till she crossed the bridge over the little river, and saw the
houses of Thirlwall stretching away in the distance. Then she felt
comfortable.

Long before, she had bethought her that she did not know where to find
Dr. Gibson, and had forgotten to ask Jenny. For one instant Ellen drew
bridle, but it was too far to go back, and she recollected anybody could
tell her where the doctor lived. When she got to Thirlwall, however,
Ellen found that she did not like to ask _anybody_; she remembered her
old friend Mrs. Forbes of the Star Inn, and resolved she would go there
in the first place. She rode slowly up the street, and looking carefully
till she came to the house. There was no mistaking it; there was the
very same big star over the front door that had caught her eye from the
coach-window, and there was the very same boy or man, Sam, lounging on
the sidewalk. Ellen reined up, and asked him to ask Mrs. Forbes if she
would be so good as to come out to her for one minute. Sam gave her a
long Yankee look and disappeared, coming back again directly with the
landlady.

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Forbes?" said Ellen, holding out her hand; "don't you
know me? I am Ellen Montgomery--that you were so kind to, and gave me
bread and milk--when I first came here--Miss Fortune's----"

"Oh, bless your dear little heart," cried the landlady; "don't I know
you? and ain't I glad to see you! I must have a kiss. Bless you! I
couldn't mistake you in Jerusalem, but the sun was in my eyes in that
way I was a'most blind. But ain't you grown though! Forget you? I guess
I ha'n't! there's one o' your friends wouldn't let me do that in a
hurry; if I ha'n't seen you I've heerd on you. But what are you sitting
there in the sun for? Come in--come in--and I'll give you something
better than bread and milk this time. Come, jump down."

"Oh, I can't, Mrs. Forbes," said Ellen; "I am in a great hurry. Mr. Van
Brunt has broken his leg, and I want to find the doctor."

"Mr. Van Brunt?" cried the landlady. "Broken his leg! The land's sakes!
how did he do that? _he_ too!"

"He fell down through the trap-door in the barn; and I want to get Dr.
Gibson as soon as I can to come to him. Where does he live, Mrs.
Forbes?"

"Dr. Gibson? You won't catch him to hum, dear; he's flying round
somewheres. But how come the trap-door to be open? and how happened Mr.
Van Brunt not to see it afore he put his foot in it? Dear! I declare I'm
real sorry to hear you tell. How happened it, darlin'? I'm cur'ous to
hear."

"I don't know, Mrs. Forbes," said Ellen; "but oh, where shall I find Dr.
Gibson? Do tell me! He ought to be there now. Oh, help me! Where shall I
go for him?"

"Well, I declare," said the landlady, stepping back a pace; "I don't
know as I can tell. There ain't no sort of likelihood that he's to hum
at this time o' day. Sam! you lazy feller, you ha'n't got nothing to do
but to gape at folks; ha' you seen the doctor go by this forenoon?"

"I seen him go down to Mis' Perriman's," said Sam. "Mis' Perriman was a
dyin', Jim Barstow said."

"How long since?" said his mistress.

But Sam shuffled and shuffled, looked every way but at Ellen or Mrs.
Forbes, and "didn't know."

"Well, then," said Mrs. Forbes, turning to Ellen, "I don't know but you
might about as well go down to the post-office; but if _I_ was you, I'd
just get Dr. Marshchalk instead! He's a smarter man than Dr. Gibson any
day in the year; and he ain't quite so awful high neither, and that's
something. _I'd_ get Dr. Marshchalk; they say there ain't the like o'
him in the country for settin' bones; it's quite a gift--he takes to it
natural like."

But Ellen said Mr. Van Brunt wanted Dr. Gibson, and if she could she
must find him.

"Well," said Mrs. Forbes, "every one has their fancies. _I_ wouldn't let
Dr. Gibson come near me with a pair of tongs; but anyhow, if you must
have him, your best way is to go right straight down to the post-office
and ask for him there. Maybe you'll catch him."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen. "Where is the post-office?"

"It's that white-faced house down street," said the landlady, pointing
with her finger where Ellen saw no lack of white-faced houses. "You see
that big red store with the man standing out in front?--the next white
house below, that is Mis' Perriman's; just run right in and ask for Dr.
Gibson. Good-bye, dear; I'm real sorry you can't come in. That first
white house."

Glad to get free, Ellen rode smartly down to the post-office. Nobody
before the door; there was nothing for it but to get off here and go in;
she did not know the people either. "Never mind; wait for me a minute,
dear Brownie, like a good little horse as you are!"

No fear of the Brownie. He stood as if he did not mean to budge again in
a century. At first going in Ellen saw nobody in the post-office;
presently, at an opening in a kind of boxed-up place in one corner, a
face looked out and asked what she wanted.

"Is Dr. Gibson here?"

"No," said the owner of the face, with a disagreeable kind of smile.

"Isn't this Miss Perriman's house?"

"You are in the right box, my dear, and no mistake," said the young man;
"but then it ain't Dr. Gibson's house, you know."

"Can you tell me, sir, where I can find him?"

"Can't indeed. The doctor never tells me where he is going, and I never
ask him. I am sorry I didn't this morning, for your sake."

The way, and the look, made the words extremely disagreeable, and
furthermore, Ellen had an uncomfortable feeling that neither was new to
her. Where _had_ she seen the man before? She puzzled herself to think.
Where but in a dream had she seen that bold, ill-favoured face, that
horrible smile, that sandy hair? She knew--it was Mr. Saunders, the man
who had sold her the merino at St. Clair & Fleury's. She knew him, and
she was very sorry to see that he knew her. All she desired now was to
get out of the house and away; but on turning she saw another man, older
and respectable-looking, whose face encouraged her to ask again if Dr.
Gibson was there. He was not, the man said; he had been there and gone.

"Do you know where I should be likely to find him, sir?"

"No, I don't," said he. "Who wants him?"

"I want to see him, sir."

"For yourself?"

"No, sir; Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg, and wants Dr. Gibson to come
directly and set it."

"Mr. Van Brunt," said he. "Farmer Van Brunt that lives down towards the
Cat's Back? I'm very sorry! How did it happen?"

Ellen told as shortly as possible, and again begged to know where she
might look for Dr. Gibson.

"Well," said he, "the best plan I can think of will be for you----How
did you come here?"

"I came on horseback, sir."

"Ah, well, the best plan will be for you to ride up to his house; maybe
he'll have left word there, and anyhow _you_ can leave word for him to
come down as soon as he gets home. Do you know where the doctor lives?"

"No, sir."

"Come here," said he, pulling her to the door. "You can't see it from
here; but you must ride up street till you have passed two churches, one
on the right hand first, and then a good piece beyond you'll come to
another red brick one on the left hand; and Dr. Gibson lives in the next
block but one after that, on the other side. Anybody will tell you the
house. Is that your horse?"

"Yes, sir. I'm very much obliged to you."

"Well I will say! if you ha'n't the prettiest fit-out in Thirlwall.
Shall I help you? Will you have a cheer?"

"No, I thank you, sir; I'll bring him up to this step; it will do just
as well. I am _very_ much obliged to you, sir."

He did not seem to hear her thanks; he was all eyes, and, with his
clerk, stood looking after her till she was out of sight.

Poor Ellen found it a long way up to the doctor's. The post-office was
near the lower end of the town and the doctor's house was near the
upper; she passed one church and then the other; but there was a long
distance between, or what she thought so. Happily the Brownie did not
seem tired at all; his little mistress _was_ tired and disheartened
too. And there all this time was poor Mr. Van Brunt lying without a
doctor! She could not bear to think of it.

She jumped down when she came to the block she had been told of, and
easily found the house where Dr. Gibson lived. She knocked at the door.
A grey-haired woman with a very dead-and-alive face presented herself.
Ellen asked for the doctor.

"He ain't to hum."

"When will he be at home?"

"Couldn't say."

"Before dinner?"

The woman shook her head. "Guess not till late in the day."

"Where is he gone?"

"He has gone to Babcock--gone to 'attend a consummation,' I guess, he
told me--Babcock is a considerable long way."

Ellen thought a minute.

"Can you tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives?"

"I guess you'd better wait till Dr. Gibson comes back, ha'n't you?" said
the woman coaxingly; "he'll be along by-and-by. If you'll leave me your
name I'll give it to him."

"I cannot wait," said Ellen, "I am in a dreadful hurry. Will you be so
good as to tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives?"

"Well--if so be you're in such a takin' you can't wait--you know where
Miss Forbes lives?"

"At the inn?--the Star--yes."

"He lives a few doors this side o' her'n; you'll know it the first
minute you set your eyes on it--it's painted a bright yaller."

Ellen thanked her, once more mounted, and rode down the street.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

          And he had ridden o'er dale and down
          By eight o'clock in the day,
          When he was ware of a bold Tanner,
          Came riding along the way.

                                        --OLD BALLAD.


The yellow door, as the old woman had said, was not to be mistaken.
Again Ellen dismounted and knocked; then she heard a slow step coming
along the entry, and the pleasant kind face of Miss Janet appeared at
the open door. It was a real refreshment, and Ellen wanted one.

"Why, it's dear little--ain't it--her that lives down to Miss Fortune
Emerson's?--yes, it is; come in, dear; I'm very glad to see you. How's
all at your house?"

"Is the doctor at home, ma'am?"

"No, dear, he ain't to home just this minute, but he'll be in directly.
Come in;--is that your horse?--just kitch him to the post there so he
won't run away, and come right in. Who did you come along with?"

"Nobody, ma'am; I came alone," said Ellen, while she obeyed Miss Janet's
directions.

"Alone! on that 'ere little skittish creeter?--he's as handsome as a
picture too--why do tell if you warn't afraid? it a'most scares me to
think of it."

"I was a little afraid," said Ellen, as she followed Miss Janet along
the entry, "but I couldn't help that. You think the doctor will soon be
in, ma'am?"

"Yes, dear, sure of it," said Miss Janet, kissing Ellen and taking off
her bonnet; "he won't be five minutes, for it's a'most dinner time.
What's the matter, dear? is Miss Fortune sick again?"

"No, ma'am," said Ellen sadly, "Mr. Van Brunt has fallen through the
trap-door in the barn and broken his leg."

"Oh!" cried the old lady, with a face of real horror, "you don't tell
me! Fell through the trap-door! and he ain't a light weight neither. Oh,
that is a lamentable event! And how is the poor old mother, dear?"

"She is very much troubled, ma'am," said Ellen, crying at the
remembrance: "and he has been lying ever since early this morning
without anybody to set it; I have been going round and round for a
doctor this ever so long."

"Why, warn't there nobody to come but you, you poor lamb?" said Miss
Janet.

"No, ma'am; nobody quick enough; and I had the Brownie, there, and so I
came."

"Well, cheer up, dear! the doctor will be here now, and we'll send him
right off; he won't be long about his dinner, I'll engage. Come and set
in this big cheer--do--it'll rest you; I see you're a'most tired out,
and it ain't a wonder. There, don't that feel better? now I'll give you
a little sup of dinner, for you won't want to swallow it at the rate
Leander will his'n. Dear! dear! to think of poor Mr. Van Brunt. He's a
likely man too; I'm very sorry for him and his poor mother. A kind body
she is as ever the sun shined upon."

"And so is he," said Ellen.

"Well, so I daresay," said Miss Janet, "but I don't know so much about
him; howsoever he's got everybody's good word as far as I know; he's a
likely man."

The little room in which Miss Janet had brought Ellen was very plainly
furnished indeed, but as neat as hands could make it. The carpet was as
crumbless and lintless as if meals were never taken there nor work seen;
and yet a little table ready set for dinner forbade the one conclusion,
and a huge basket of naperies in one corner showed that Miss Janet's
industry did not spend itself in housework alone. Before the fire stood
a pretty good-sized kettle, and a very appetising smell came from it to
Ellen's nose. In spite of sorrow and anxiety her ride had made her
hungry. It was not without pleasure that she saw her kind hostess arm
herself with a deep plate and tin dipper, and carefully taking off the
pot cover, so that no drops might fall on the hearth, proceed to ladle
out a goodly supply of what Ellen knew was that excellent country dish
called pot-pie. Excellent it is when well made, and that was Miss
Janet's. The pieces of crust were white and light like new bread, the
very tit-bits of the meat she culled out for Ellen; and the soup-gravy
poured over all would have met even Miss Fortune's wishes, from its just
degree of richness and exact seasoning. Smoking hot it was placed before
Ellen on a little stand by her easy-chair, with some nice bread and
butter; and presently Miss Janet poured her out a cup of tea; "for," she
said, "Leander never could take his dinner without it." Ellen's appetite
needed no silver fork. Tea and pot-pie were never better liked; yet Miss
Janet's enjoyment was perhaps greater still. She sat talking and looking
at her little visitor with secret but immense satisfaction.

"Have you heard what fine doings we're agoing to have here by-and-by?"
said she. "The doctor's tired of me; he's going to get a new
housekeeper; he's going to get married some of these days."

"Is he?" said Ellen. "Not to Jenny?"

"Yes, indeed he is--to Jenny--Jenny Hitchcock; and a nice little wife
she'll make him. You're a great friend of Jenny, I know."

"How soon?" said Ellen.

"Oh, not just yet--by-and-by--after we get a little smarted up, I guess;
before a great while. Don't you think he'll be a happy man?"

Ellen could not help wondering, as the doctor just then came in, and she
looked up at his unfortunate three-cornered face, whether Jenny would be
a happy woman. But as people often do, she only judged from the outside;
Jenny had not made such a bad choice after all.

The doctor said he would go directly to Mr. Van Brunt after he had been
over to Mrs. Sibnorth's; it wouldn't be a minute. Ellen meant to ride
back in his company; and having finished her dinner, waited now only for
him. But the one minute passed--two minutes--ten--twenty--she waited
impatiently, but he came not.

"I'll tell you how it must be," said his sister, "he's gone off without
his dinner, calculating to get it at Miss Hitchcock's; he'd be glad of
the chance. That's how it is, dear; and you'll have to ride home alone.
I'm real sorry. S'pose you stop till evening, and I'll make the doctor
go along with you. But, oh dear! maybe he wouldn't be able to neither;
he's got to go up to that tiresome Mrs. Robin's; it's too bad. Well,
take good care of yourself, darling. Couldn't you stop till it's cooler?
Well, come and see me as soon as you can again, but don't come without
some one else along! Good-bye! I wish I could keep you."

She went to the door to see her mount, and smiled and nodded her off.

Ellen was greatly refreshed with her rest and her dinner; it grieved her
that the Brownie had not fared as well. All the refreshment that kind
words and patting could give him she gave, promised him the freshest of
water and the sweetest of hay when he should reach home, and begged him
to keep up his spirits and hold on for a little longer. It may be
doubted whether the Brownie understood the full sense of her words, but
he probably knew what the kind tones and gentle hand meant. He answered
cheerfully; threw up his head and gave a little neigh, as much as to
say, _he_ wasn't going to mind a few hours of sunshine; and trotted on
as if he knew his face was towards home--which no doubt he did. Luckily
it was not a very hot day; for August it was remarkably cool and
beautiful; indeed, there was little very hot weather ever known in
Thirlwall. Ellen's heart felt easier, now that her business was done;
and when she had left the town behind her and was again in the fields,
she was less timid than she had been before; she was going towards home;
that makes a great difference; and every step was bringing her nearer.
"I am glad I came after all," she thought; "but I hope I shall never
have to do such a thing again. But I am glad I came."

She had no more than crossed the little bridge, however, when she saw
what brought her heart into her mouth. It was Mr. Saunders, lolling
under it tree. What could he have come there for at that time of day? A
vague feeling crossed her mind that if she could only get past him she
should pass a danger; she thought to ride by without seeming to see
him, and quietly gave the Brownie a pat to make him go faster. But as
she drew near Mr. Saunders rose up, came to the middle of the road, and
taking hold of her bridle, checked her pony's pace so that he could walk
alongside, to Ellen's unspeakable dismay.

"What's kept you so long?" said he; "I've been looking out for you this
great while. Had hard work to find the doctor?"

"Won't you please to let go of my horse?" said Ellen, her heart beating
very fast; "I am in a great hurry to get home; please don't keep me."

"Oh, I want to see you a little," said Mr. Saunders; "you ain't in such
a hurry to get away from me as that comes to, are you?"

Ellen was silent.

"It's quite a long time since I saw you last," said he; "how have the
merinoes worn?"

Ellen could not bear to look at his face, and did not see the expression
which went with these words, yet she _felt_ it.

"They have worn very well," said she; "but I want to get home very
much--_please_ let me go."

"Not yet--not yet," said he--"oh no, not yet. I want to talk to you.
Why, what are you in such a devil of a hurry for? I came out on purpose;
do you think I am going to have all my long waiting for nothing?"

Ellen did not know what to say; her heart sprang with a nameless pang to
the thought, if she ever got free from this! Meanwhile she was not free.

"Whose horse is that you're on?"

"Mine," said Ellen.

"Your'n! that's a likely story. I guess he ain't your'n, and so you
won't mind if I touch him up a little; I want to see how well you can
sit on a horse."

Passing his arm through the bridle as he said these words, Mr. Saunders
led the pony down to the side of the road where grew a clump of high
bushes, and with some trouble cut off a long stout sapling. Ellen looked
in every direction while he was doing this, despairing, as she looked,
of aid from any quarter of the broad quiet open country. Oh for wings!
But she could not leave the Brownie if she had them.

Returning to the middle of the road, Mr. Saunders amused himself as they
walked along with stripping off all the leaves and little twigs from his
sapling, leaving it when done a very good imitation of an ox-whip in
size and length, with a fine lash-like point. Ellen watched him in an
ecstasy of apprehension, afraid alike to speak or to be silent.

"There! what do you think of that?" said he, giving it two or three
switches in the air to try its suppleness and toughness; "don't that
look like a whip? Now we'll see how he'll go!"

"Please don't do anything with it," said Ellen earnestly; "I never touch
him with a whip--he doesn't need it--he isn't used to it; pray, pray do
not!"

"Oh, we'll just tickle him a little with it," said Mr. Saunders coolly;
"I want to see how well you'll sit him; just make him caper a little
bit."

He accordingly applied the switch lightly to the Brownie's heels, enough
to annoy without hurting him. The Brownie showed signs of uneasiness,
quitted his quiet pace, and took to little starts and springs and
whiskey motions, most unpleasing to his rider.

"Oh, do not!" cried Ellen, almost beside herself; "he's very spirited,
and I don't know what he will do if you trouble him."

"You let me take care of that," said Mr. Saunders; "if he troubles _me_
I'll give it to him! If he rears up, only you catch hold of his mane and
hold on tight, and you won't fall off; I want to see him rear."

"But you'll give him bad tricks!" said Ellen. "Oh, pray don't do so!
It's very bad for him to be teased. I am afraid he will kick if you do
so, and he'd be ruined if he got a habit of kicking. Oh, _please_ let us
go!" said she, with the most acute accent of entreaty--"I want to be
home."

"You keep quiet," said Mr. Saunders coolly; "if he kicks I'll give him
such a lathering as he never had yet; he won't do it but once. I ain't
agoing to hurt him, but I am agoing to make him rear; no, I won't--I'll
make him leap over a rail, the first bar-place we come to; that'll be
prettier."

"Oh, you mustn't do that," said Ellen; "I have not learned to leap yet;
I couldn't keep on; you mustn't do that, if you please."

"You just hold fast and hold your tongue. Catch hold of his ears, and
you'll stick on fast enough; if you can't you may get down, for I am
going to make him take the leap whether you will or no." Ellen feared
still more to get off and leave the Brownie to her tormentor's mercy
than to stay where she was and take her chance. She tried in vain, as
well as she could, to soothe her horse; the touches of the whip coming
now in one place and now in another, and some of them pretty sharp, he
began to grow very frisky indeed; and she began to be very much
frightened for fear she should suddenly be jerked off. With a good deal
of presence of mind, though wrought up to a terrible pitch of
excitement and fear, Ellen gave her best attention to keeping her seat
as the Brownie sprang and started and jumped to one side and the other;
Mr. Saunders holding the bridle as loose as possible so as to give him
plenty of room. For some little time he amused himself with this game,
the horse growing more and more irritated. At length a smart stroke of
the whip upon his haunches made the Brownie spring in a way that brought
Ellen's heart into her mouth, and almost threw her off.

"Oh, don't!" cried Ellen, bursting into tears for the first time; she
had with great effort commanded them back until now. "Poor Brownie! How
can you! Oh, please let us go!--please let us go!"

For one minute she dropped her face in her hands.

"Be quiet!" said Mr. Saunders. "Here's a bar-place--now for the leap!"

Ellen wiped away her tears, forced back those that were coming, and
began the most earnest remonstrance and pleading with Mr. Saunders that
she knew how to make. He paid her no sort of attention. He led the
Brownie to the side of the road, let down all the bars but the lower
two, let go the bridle, and stood a little off prepared with his whip to
force the horse to take the spring.

"I tell you I shall fall," said Ellen, reining him back. "How can you be
so cruel? I want to go home!"

"Well, you ain't agoing home yet. Get off if you are afraid," said Mr.
Saunders.

But though trembling in every nerve from head to foot, Ellen fancied the
Brownie was safer so long as he had her on his back; she would not leave
him. She pleaded her best, which Mr. Saunders heard as if it was
amusing, and without making any answer kept the horse capering in front
of the bars, pretending every minute he was going to whip him up to take
the leap. His object, however, was merely to gratify the smallest of
minds by teasing a child he had a spite against; he had no intention to
risk breaking her bones by a fall from her horse; so in time he had
enough of the bar-place; took the bridle again and walked on. Ellen drew
breath a little more freely.

"Did you hear how I handled your old gentleman after that time?" said
Mr. Saunders.

Ellen made no answer.

"No one ever affronts me that don't hear news of it afterwards, and so
he found to his cost. _I_ paid him off, to my heart's content. I gave
the old fellow a lesson to behave in future. I forgive him now entirely.
By the way, I've a little account to settle with you. Didn't you ask
Mr. Perriman this morning if Dr. Gibson was in the house?"

"I don't know who it was," said Ellen.

"Well, hadn't I told you just before he warn't there?"

Ellen was silent.

"What did you do that for, eh? Didn't you believe me?"

Still she did not speak.

"I say!" said Mr. Saunders, touching the Brownie as he spoke, "did you
think I told you a lie about it?--eh?"

"I didn't know but he might be there," Ellen forced herself to say.

"Then you didn't believe me?" said he, always with that same smile upon
his face; Ellen knew that.

"Now that warn't handsome of you; and I am agoing to punish you for it,
somehow or 'nother; but it ain't pretty to quarrel with ladies, so
Brownie and me'll settle it together. You won't mind that, I dare say."

"What are you going to do?" said Ellen, as he once more drew her down to
the side of the fence.

"Get off, and you'll see," said he, laughing. "Get off, and you'll see."

"What do you want to do?" repeated Ellen, though scarce able to speak
the words.

"I'm just going to tickle Brownie a little, to teach you to believe
honest folks when they speak the truth. Get off!"

"No, I won't," said Ellen, throwing both arms round the neck of her
pony. "Poor Brownie! You shan't do it. He hasn't done you any harm, nor
I either. You are a bad man!"

"Get off!" repeated Mr. Saunders.

"I will not!" said Ellen, still clinging fast.

"Very well," said he coolly, "then I will take you off; it don't make
much difference. We'll go along a little further till I find a nice
stone for you to sit down upon. If you had got off then I wouldn't ha'
done much to him, but I'll give it to him now! If he hasn't been used to
a whip he'll know pretty well what it means by the time I have done with
him; and then you may go home as fast as you can."

It is very likely Mr. Saunders would have been as good, or as bad, as
his word. His behaviour to Ellen in the store at New York, and the
measures taken by the old gentleman who had befriended her, had been the
cause of his dismissal from the employ of Messrs. St. Clair and Fleury.
Two or three other attempts to get into business had come to nothing,
and he had been obliged to return to his native town. Ever since, Ellen
and the old gentleman had lived in his memory as objects of the deepest
spite;--the one for interfering, the other for having been the innocent
cause; and he no sooner saw her in the post-office than he promised
himself revenge, such revenge as only the meanest and most cowardly
spirit could have taken pleasure in. His best way of distressing Ellen,
he found, was through her horse; he had almost satisfied himself; but
very naturally his feelings of spite had grown stronger and blunter with
indulgence, and he meant to wind up with such a treatment of her pony,
real or seeming, as he knew would give great pain to the pony's
mistress. He was prevented.

As they went slowly along, Ellen still clasping the Brownie's neck, and
resolved to cling to him to the last, Mr. Saunders making him caper in a
way very uncomfortable to her, one was too busy and the other too
deafened by fear to notice the sound of fast approaching hoofs behind
them. It happened that John Humphreys had passed the night at Ventnor;
and having an errand to do for a friend at Thirlwall, had taken that
road, which led him but a few miles out of his way, and was now at full
speed on his way home. He had never made the Brownie's acquaintance, and
did not recognise Ellen as he came up; but in passing them, some strange
notion crossing his mind, he wheeled his horse round directly in front
of the astonished pair.

Ellen quitted her pony's neck, and stretching out both arms towards him,
exclaimed, and almost shrieked, "Oh, John, John! send him away! make him
let me go!"

"What are you about, sir?" said the new comer sternly.

"It's none of your business!" answered Mr. Saunders, in whom rage for
the time overcame cowardice.

"Take your hand off the bridle!" with a slight touch of the riding-whip
upon the hand in question.

"Not for you, brother," said Mr. Saunders sneeringly. "I'll walk with
any lady I've a mind to. Look out for yourself!"

"We will dispense with your further attendance," said John coolly. "Do
you hear me? Do as I order you!"

The speaker did not put himself in a passion, and Mr. Saunders,
accustomed for his own part to make bluster serve instead of prowess,
despised a command so calmly given. Ellen, who knew the voice, and still
better, could read the eye, drew conclusions very different. She was
almost breathless with terror. Saunders was enraged and mortified at an
interference that promised to baffle him; he was a stout young man, and
judged himself the stronger of the two, and took notice besides that the
stranger had nothing in his hand but a slight riding-whip. He answered
very insolently and with an oath; and John saw that he was taking the
bridle in his left hand and shifting his sapling whip so as to bring the
club end of it uppermost. The next instant he aimed a furious blow at
his adversary's horse. The quick eye and hand of the rider disappointed
that with a sudden swerve. In another moment, and Ellen hardly saw how,
it was so quick, John had dismounted, taken Mr. Saunders by the collar,
and hurled him quite over into the gully at the side of the road, where
he lay at full length without stirring. "Ride on, Ellen!" said her
deliverer.

She obeyed. He stayed a moment to say to his fallen adversary a few
words of pointed warning as to ever repeating his offence; then
remounted and spurred forward to join Ellen. All her power of keeping up
was gone, now that the necessity was over. Her head was once more bowed
on her pony's neck, her whole frame shaking with convulsive sobs; she
could scarce with great effort keep from crying out aloud.

"Ellie!" said her adopted brother, in a voice that could hardly be known
for the one that had last spoken. She had no words, but as he gently
took one of her hands, the convulsive squeeze it gave him showed the
state of nervous excitement she was in. It was very long before his
utmost efforts could soothe her, or she could command herself enough to
tell him her story. When at last told, it was with many tears.

"Oh how could he! how could he!" said poor Ellen; "how could he do
so--it was very hard!"

An involuntary touch of the spurs made John's horse start.

"But what took you to Thirlwall alone?" said he; "you have not told me
that yet."

Ellen went back to Timothy's invasion of the cabbages, and gave him the
whole history of the morning.

"I thought when I was going for the doctor at first," said she, "and
then afterwards when I had found him, what a good thing it was that
Timothy broke down the garden fence and got in this morning; for if it
had not been for that I should not have gone to Mr. Van Brunt's; and
then again after that I thought, if he only hadn't!"

"Little things often draw after them long trains of circumstances," said
John, "and that shows the folly of those people who think that God does
not stoop to concern Himself about trifles; life, and much more than
life, may hang upon the turn of a hand. But, Ellen, you must ride no
more alone. Promise me that you will not."

"I will not to Thirlwall, certainly," said Ellen, "but mayn't I to
Alice's? how can I help it?"

"Well--to Alice's--that is a safe part of the country; but I should
like to know a little more of your horse before trusting you even
there."

"Of the Brownie?" said Ellen; "oh, he is as good as he can be; you need
not be afraid of him; he has no trick at all; there never was such a
good little horse."

John smiled. "How do you like mine?" said he.

"Is that your new one? Oh, what a beauty!--oh me--what a beauty! I
didn't look at him before. Oh, I like him much! he's handsomer than the
Brownie; do you like him?"

"Very well! this is the first trial I have made of him. I was at Mr.
Marshman's last night, and they detained me this morning, or I should
have been here much earlier. I am very well satisfied with him so far."

"And if you had _not_ been detained," said Ellen.

"Yes, Ellie, I should not have fretted at my late breakfast, and having
to try Mr. Marshman's favourite mare, if I had known what good purpose
the delay was to serve. I wish I could have been here half-an-hour
sooner, though."

"Is his name the Black Prince?" said Ellen, returning to the horse.

"Yes, I believe so; but you shall change it, Ellie, if you can find one
you like better."

"Oh, I cannot! I like that very much. How beautiful he is! Is he good?"

"I hope so," said John, smiling; "if he is not I shall be at the pains
to make him so. We are hardly acquainted yet."

Ellen looked doubtfully at the black horse and his rider, and patting
the Brownie's neck, observed with great satisfaction that _he_ was very
good.

John had been riding very slowly on Ellen's account; they now mended
their pace. He saw, however, that she still looked miserable, and
exerted himself to turn her thoughts from everything disagreeable. Much
to her amusement he rode round her two or three times, to view her horse
and show her his own; commended the Brownie; praised her bridle hand;
corrected several things about her riding; and by degrees engaged her in
a very animated conversation. Ellen roused up; the colour came back to
her cheeks; and when they reached home and rode round to the glass door
she looked almost like herself.

She sprang off as usual without waiting for any help. John scarce saw
that she had done so, when Alice's cry of joy brought him to the door,
and from that together they went into their father's study. Ellen was
left alone on the lawn. Something was the matter, for she stood with
swimming eyes and a trembling lip rubbing her stirrup, which really
needed no polishing, and forgetting the tired horses, which would have
had her sympathy at any other time. What _was_ the matter? Only--that
Mr. John had forgotten the kiss he always gave her on going or coming.
Ellen was jealous of it as a pledge of sistership, and could not want
it; and though she tried as hard as she could to get her face in order,
so that she might go in and meet them, somehow it seemed to take a great
while. She was still busy with her stirrup, when she suddenly felt two
hands on her shoulders, and looking up, received the very kiss, the want
of which she had been lamenting. But John saw the tears in her eyes, and
asked her, she thought, with somewhat of a comical look, what the matter
was. Ellen was ashamed to tell, but he had her there by the shoulders,
and besides, whatever that eye demanded, she never knew how to keep
back, so with some difficulty she told him.

"You are a foolish child, Ellie," said he gently, and kissing her again.
"Run in out of the sun while I see to the horses."

Ellen ran in and told her long story to Alice; and then feeling very
weary and weak she sat on the sofa and lay resting in her arms in a
state of the most entire and unruffled happiness. Alice, however, after
a while, transferred her to bed, thinking, with good reason, that a long
sleep would be the best thing for her.




CHAPTER XXXIX

            Now is the pleasant time,
          The cool, the silent, save where silence yields
          To the night-warbling bird; that now awake,
          Tunes sweetest her love-laboured song; now reigns
          Full orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light
          Shadowy, sets off the face of things.

                                                  --MILTON.


When Ellen came out of Alice's room again it was late in the afternoon.
The sun was so low that the shadow of the house had crossed the narrow
lawn and mounted up near to the top of the trees; but on them he was
still shining brightly, and on the broad landscape beyond, which lay
open to view through the gap in the trees. The glass door was open; the
sweet summer air and the sound of birds and insects and fluttering
leaves floated into the room, making the stillness musical. On the
threshold pussy sat crouched, with his fore feet doubled under his
breast, watching with intense gravity the operations of Margery, who was
setting the table on the lawn just before his eyes. Alice was paring
peaches.

"Oh, we are going to have tea out of doors, aren't we?" said Ellen, "I'm
very glad. What a lovely evening, isn't it? Just look at pussy, will
you, Alice? don't you believe he knows what Margery is doing? Why didn't
you call me to go along with you after peaches?"

"I thought you were doing the very best thing you possibly could, Ellie,
my dear. How do you do?"

"Oh, nicely now? Where's Mr. John? I hope he won't ask for my last
drawing to-night, I want to fix the top of that tree before he sees it."

"_Fix_ the top of your tree, you little Yankee!" said Alice; "what do
you think John would say to that! _un_fix it, you mean; it is too stiff
already, isn't it?"

"Well, what _shall_ I say?" said Ellen, laughing. "I am sorry that is
Yankee, for I suppose one must speak English. I want to do something to
my tree, then. Where is he, Alice?"

"He is gone down to Mr. Van Brunt's to see how he is, and to speak to
Miss Fortune about you on his way back."

"Oh how kind of him! he's _very_ good; that is just what I want to know;
but I am sorry, after this long ride----"

"He don't mind _that_, Ellie. He'll be home presently."

"How nice those peaches look; they are as good as strawberries, don't
you think so? better, I don't know which is the best; but Mr. John likes
these best, don't he? Now you've done; shall I set them on the table?
and here's a pitcher of splendid cream, Alice!"

"You had better not tell John so, or he will make you define
_splendid_."

John came back in good time, and brought word that Mr. Van Brunt was
doing very well, so far as could be known; also, that Miss Fortune
consented to Ellen's remaining where she was. He wisely did not say,
however, that her consent had been slow to gain till he had hinted at
his readiness to provide a substitute for Ellen's services; on which
Miss Fortune had instantly declared that she did not want her, and she
might stay as long as she pleased. This was all that was needed to
complete Ellen's felicity.

"Wasn't your poor horse too tired to go out again this afternoon, Mr.
John?"

"I did not ride him, Ellie; I took yours."

"The Brownie! did you? I'm very glad! How did you like him? But perhaps
_he_ was tired a little, and you couldn't tell so well to-day."

"He was not tired with any work you had given him, Ellie; perhaps he may
be a little now."

"Why?" said Ellen, somewhat alarmed.

"I have been trying him; and instead of going quietly along the road we
have been taking some of the fences in our way. As I intend practising
you at the bar, I wished to make sure in the first place that he knew
his lesson."

"Well, how did he do?"

"Perfectly well; I believe he is a good little fellow. I wanted to
satisfy myself if he was fit to be trusted with you, and I rather think
Mr. Marshman has taken care of that."

The whole wall of trees was in shadow when the little family sat down to
table; but there was still the sunlit picture behind; and there was
another kind of sunshine in every face at the table. Quietly happy the
whole four, or at least the whole three, were; first, in being together;
after that, in all things besides. Never was tea so refreshing, or bread
and butter so sweet, or the song of birds so delightsome. When the birds
had gone to their nests, the cricket and grasshopper and tree toad and
katy-did, and nameless other songsters, kept up a concert--nature's own,
in delicious harmony with woods and flowers, and summer breezes and
evening light. Ellen's cup of enjoyment was running over. From one
beautiful thing to another her eye wandered, from one joy to another her
thoughts went, till her heart full fixed on the God who had made and
given them all, and that Redeemer whose blood had been their purchase
money. From the dear friends beside her, the best-loved she had in the
world, she thought of the one dearer yet, from whom death had separated
her, yet living still, and to whom death would restore her, thanks to
Him who had burst the bonds of death and broken the gates of the grave,
and made a way for His ransomed to pass over. And the thought of Him was
the joyfullest of all!

"You look happy, Ellie," said her adopted brother.

"So I am," said Ellen, smiling a very bright smile.

"What are you thinking about?"

But John saw it would not do to press his question.

"You remind me," said he, "of some old fairy story that my childish ears
received, in which the fountains of the sweet and bitter waters of life
were said to stand very near each other, and to mingle their streams but
a little way from their source. Your tears and smiles seem to be
brothers and sisters; whenever we see one we may be sure the other is
not far off."

"My dear Jack," said Alice, laughing, "what an unhappy simile! Are
brothers and sisters always found like that?"

"I wish they were," said John, sighing and smiling; "but my last words
had nothing to do with my simile as you call it."

When tea was over, and Margery had withdrawn the things and taken away
the table, they still lingered in their places. It was far too pleasant
to go in. Mr. Humphreys moved his chair to the side of the house, and
throwing a handkerchief over his head to defend him from the mosquitoes,
a few of which were buzzing about, he either listened, meditated, or
slept; most probably one of the two latter; for the conversation was not
very loud nor very lively; it was happiness enough merely to breathe so
near each other. The sun left the distant fields and hills; soft
twilight stole through the woods, down the gap, and over the plain; the
grass lost its green; the wall of trees grew dark and dusky; and very
faint and dim showed the picture that was so bright a little while ago.
As they sat quite silent, listening to what nature had to say to them,
or letting fancy and memory take their way, the silence was
broken--hardly broken--by the distinct far-off cry of a whip-poor-will.
Alice grasped her brother's arm, and they remained motionless, while it
came nearer, nearer--then quite near--with its clear, wild, shrill,
melancholy note sounding close by them again and again, strangely,
plaintively; then leaving the lawn, it was heard further and further
off, till the last faint "whip-poor-will," in the far distance, ended
its pretty interlude. It was almost too dark to read faces, but the eyes
of the brother and sister had sought each other and remained fixed till
the bird was out of hearing; then Alice's hand was removed to his, and
her head found its old place on her brother's shoulder.

"Sometimes, John," said Alice, "I am afraid I have one tie too strong to
this world. I cannot bear, as I ought, to have you away from me."

Her brother's lips were instantly pressed to her forehead.

"I may say to you, Alice, as Colonel Gardiner said to his wife, 'We have
an eternity to spend together!'"

"I wonder," said Alice, after a pause, "how those can bear to love and
be loved, whose affection can see nothing but a blank beyond the grave."

"Few people, I believe," said her brother, "would come exactly under
that description; most flatter themselves with a vague hope of reunion
after death."

"But that is a miserable hope--very different from ours."

"Very different indeed! and miserable; for it can only deceive; but ours
is sure. 'Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him.'"

"Precious!" said Alice. "How exactly fitted to every want and mood of
the mind are the sweet Bible words."

"Well!" said Mr. Humphreys, rousing himself, "I am going in! These
mosquitoes have half eaten me up. Are you going to sit there all
night?"

"We are thinking of it, papa," said Alice cheerfully.

He went in, and was heard calling Margery for a light.

They had better lights on the lawn. The stars began to peep out through
the soft blue, and as the blue grew deeper they came out more and
brighter, till all heaven was hung with lamps. But that was not all. In
the eastern horizon, just above the low hills that bordered the far side
of the plain, a white light, spreading and growing and brightening,
promised the moon, and promised that she would rise very splendid; and
even before she came began to throw a faint lustre over the landscape.
All eyes were fastened, and exclamations burst, as the first silver edge
showed itself, and the moon rapidly rising looked on them with her whole
broad bright face; lighting up not only their faces and figures but the
wide country view that was spread out below, and touching most
beautifully the trees in the edge of the gap, and faintly the lawn;
while the wall of wood stood in deeper and blacker shadow than ever.

"Isn't that beautiful!" said Ellen.

"Come round here, Ellie," said John. "Alice may have you all the rest of
the year, but when I am at home you belong to me. What was your little
head busied upon a while ago?"

"When?" said Ellen.

"When I asked you----"

"Oh, I know--I remember. I was thinking----"

"Well----?"

"I was thinking--do you want me to tell you?"

"Unless you would rather not."

"I was thinking about Jesus Christ," said Ellen, in a low tone.

"What about Him, dear Ellie?" said her brother, drawing her closer to
his side.

"Different things--I was thinking of what He said about little
children--and about what He said, you know--'In my Father's house are
many mansions'; and I was thinking that mamma was there; and I
thought--that we all----"

Ellen could get no further.

"'He that believeth in Him shall not be ashamed,'" said John softly.
"'This is the promise that He hath promised us, even eternal life; and
who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Not death, nor things
present, nor things to come. But he that hath this hope in him purifieth
himself even as He is pure;' let us remember that too."

"Mr. John," said Ellen presently, "don't you like some of the chapters
in the Revelation very much?"

"Yes, very much. Why?--do you?"

"Yes. I remember reading parts of them to mamma, and that is one reason,
I suppose; but I like them very much. There is a great deal I can't
understand, though."

"There is nothing finer in the Bible than parts of that book," said
Alice.

"Mr. John," said Ellen, "what is meant by the 'white stone'?"

"And in the stone a new name written----"

"Yes, that I mean."

"Mr. Baxter says it is the sense of God's love in the heart; and indeed
that is it 'which no man knoweth saving him that receiveth it.' This, I
take it, Ellen, was Christian's certificate, which he used to comfort
himself with reading in, you remember?"

"Can a child have it?" said Ellen thoughtfully.

"Certainly--many children have had it--you may have it. Only seek it
faithfully. 'Thou meetest him that rejoiceth and worketh righteousness,
those that remember thee in thy ways.' And Christ said, 'He that loveth
me shall be loved of my Father, and I will love him, and I will manifest
myself to him.' There is no failure in these promises, Ellie; He that
made them is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."

For a little while each was busy with his own meditations. The moon
meanwhile, rising higher and higher, poured a flood of light through the
gap in the woods before them, and stealing among the trees here and
there lit up a spot of ground under their deep shadow. The distant
picture lay in mazy brightness. All was still, but the ceaseless chirrup
of insects and gentle flapping of leaves; the summer air just touched
their cheeks with the lightest breath of a kiss, sweet from distant
hay-fields, and nearer pines and hemlocks, and other of nature's
numberless perfume-boxes. The hay-harvest had been remarkably late this
year.

"This is higher enjoyment," said John, "than half those who make their
homes in rich houses and mighty palaces have any notion of."

"But cannot rich people look at the moon?" said Ellen.

"Yes, but the taste for pure pleasure is commonly gone when people make
a trade of pleasure."

"Mr. John," Ellen began.

"I will forewarn you," said he, "that Mr. John has made up his mind he
will do nothing more for you. So if you have anything to ask, it must
lie still, unless you will begin again."

Ellen drew back. He looked grave, but she saw Alice smiling.

"But what shall I do?" said she, a little perplexed and half laughing.
"What do you mean, Mr. John? What does he mean, Alice?"

"You could speak without a 'Mr.' to me this morning when you were in
trouble."

"Oh!" said Ellen, laughing, "I forgot myself then."

"Have the goodness to forget yourself permanently for the future."

"Was that man hurt this morning, John?" said his sister.

"What man?"

"That man you delivered Ellen from."

"Hurt? no--nothing material; I did not wish to hurt him. He richly
deserved punishment, but it was not for me to give it."

"He was in no hurry to get up," said Ellen.

"I do not think he ventured upon that till we were well out of the way.
He lifted his head and looked after us as we rode off."

"But I wanted to ask something," said Ellen. "Oh! what is the reason the
moon looks so much larger when she first gets up than she does
afterwards?"

"Whom are you asking?"

"You."

"And who is _you_? Here are two people in the moonlight."

"Mr. John Humphreys, Alice's brother, and that Thomas calls 'the young
master,'" said Ellen, laughing.

"You are more shy of taking a leap than your little horse is," said
John, smiling, "but I shall bring you up to it yet. What is the cause of
the sudden enlargement of my thumb?"

He had drawn a small magnifying glass from his pocket and held it
between his hand and Ellen.

"Why, it is not enlarged," said Ellen, "it is only magnified."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, the glass makes it look larger."

"Do you know how, or why?"

"No."

He put up the glass again.

"But what do you mean by that?" said Ellen; "there is no magnifying
glass between us and the moon to make _her_ look larger."

"You are sure of that?"

"Why, yes!" said Ellen; "I am perfectly sure; there is nothing in the
world. There she is, right up there, looking straight down upon us, and
there is nothing between."

"What is it that keeps up that pleasant fluttering of leaves in the
wood?"

"Why, the wind."

"And what is the wind?"

"It is air--air moving, I suppose."

"Exactly. Then there _is_ something between us and the moon."

"The air? But, Mr. John, one can see quite clearly through the air; it
doesn't make things look larger or smaller."

"How far do you suppose the air reaches from us towards the moon?"

"Why, all the way, don't it?"

"No--only about forty miles. If it reached all the way there would
indeed be no magnifying glass in the case."

"But how is it?" said Ellen. "I don't understand."

"I cannot tell you to-night, Ellie. There is a long ladder of knowledge
to go up before we can get to the moon, but we will begin to mount
to-morrow, if nothing happens. Alice, you have that little book of
Conversations on Natural Philosophy, which you and I used to delight
ourselves with in old time?"

"Safe and sound in the bookcase," said Alice. "I have thought of giving
it to Ellen before, but she has been busy enough with what she had
already."

"I have done Rollin now, though," said Ellen; "that is lucky. I am ready
for the moon."

This new study was begun the next day, and Ellen took great delight in
it. She would have run on too fast in her eagerness but for the steady
hand of her teacher; he obliged her to be very thorough. This was only
one of her items of business. The weeks of John's stay were as usual not
merely weeks of constant and varied delight, but of constant and swift
improvement too.

A good deal of time was given to the riding-lessons. John busied himself
one morning in preparing a bar for her on the lawn; so placed that it
might fall if the horse's heels touched it. Here Ellen learned to take
first standing, and then running, leaps. She was afraid at first, but
habit wore that off; and the bar was raised higher and higher, till
Margery declared she "couldn't stand and look at her going over it."
Then John made her ride without the stirrup, and with her hands behind
her, while he, holding the horse by a long halter, made him go round in
a circle, slowly at first, and afterwards trotting and cantering, till
Ellen felt almost as secure on his back as in a chair. It took a good
many lessons, however, to bring her to this, and she trembled very much
at the beginning. Her teacher was careful and gentle, but determined;
and whatever he said she did, tremble or no tremble; and in general
loved her riding lessons dearly.

Drawing too went on finely. He began to let her draw things from nature;
and many a pleasant morning the three went out together with pencils and
hooks and work, and spent hours in the open air. They would find a
pretty point of view, or a nice shady place where the breeze came, and
where there was some good old rock with a tree beside it, or a piece of
fence, or the house or barn in the distance, for Ellen to sketch; and
while she drew and Alice worked, John read aloud to them. Sometimes he
took a pencil too, and Alice read; and often, often pencils, books, and
work were all laid down; and talk, lively, serious, earnest, always
delightful, took the place of them. When Ellen could not understand the
words, at least she could read the faces; and that was a study she was
never weary of. At home there were other studies and much reading; many
tea-drinkings on the lawn, and even breakfastings, which she thought
pleasanter still.

As soon as it was decided that Mr. Van Brunt's leg was doing well, and
in a fair way to be sound again, Ellen went to see him; and after that
rarely let two days pass without going again. John and Alice used to
ride with her so far, and taking a turn beyond while she made her visit,
call for her on their way back. She had a strong motive for going in the
pleasure her presence always gave, both to Mr. Van Brunt and his mother.
Sam Larkens had been to Thirlwall and seen Mrs. Forbes, and from him
they had heard the story of her riding up and down the town in search of
the doctor; neither of them could forget it. Mrs. Van Brunt poured out
her affection in all sorts of expressions whenever she had Ellen's ear;
her son was not a man of many words; but Ellen knew his face and manner
well enough without them, and read there whenever she went into his room
what gave her great pleasure.

"How do you do, Mr. Van Brunt?" she said on one of these occasions.

"Oh, I'm getting along, I s'pose," said he; "getting along as well as a
man can that's lying on his back from morning to night; prostrated, as
'Squire Dennison said his corn was t'other day."

"It is very tiresome, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"It's the tiresomest work that ever was, for a man that has two arms to
be adoing nothing, day after day. And what bothers me is the wheat in
that ten-acre lot, that _ought_ to be prostrated too, and ain't, nor
ain't like to be, as I know, unless the rain comes and does it. Sam and
Johnny 'll make no headway at all with it--I can tell as well as if I
see 'em."

"But Sam is good, isn't he?" said Ellen.

"Sam's as good a boy as ever was; but then Johnny Low is mischievous,
you see, and he gets Sam out of his tracks once in a while. I never see
a finer growth of wheat. I had a sight rather cut and harvest the hull
of it than to lie here and think of it getting spoiled. I'm a'most out
o' conceit o' trap-doors, Ellen."

Ellen could not help smiling.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"There ain't nothing," said he; "I wish there was. How are you coming
along at home?"

"I don't know," said Ellen; "I am not there just now, you know; I am
staying up with Miss Alice again."

"Oh ay! while her brother's at home. He's a splendid man, that young Mr.
Humphreys, ain't he?"

"Oh, _I_ knew that a great while ago," said Ellen, the bright colour of
pleasure overspreading her face.

"Well, _I_ didn't, you see, till the other day, when he came here, very
kindly, to see how I was getting on. I wish something would bring him
again. I never heerd a man talk I liked to hear so much."

Ellen secretly resolved something _should_ bring him; and went on with a
purpose she had had for some time in her mind.

"Wouldn't it be pleasant, while you are lying there and can do
nothing--wouldn't you like to have me read something to you, Mr. Van
Brunt? _I_ should like to, very much."

"It's just like you," said he gratefully, "to think of that; but I
wouldn't have you be bothered with it."

"It wouldn't indeed. I should like it very much."

"Well, if you've a mind," said he; "I can't say but it would be a kind
o' comfort to keep that grain out o' my head a while. Seems to me I have
cut and housed it all three times over already. Read just whatever you
have a mind to. If you was to go over a last year's almanac, it would be
as good as a fiddle to me."

"I'll do better for you than that, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, laughing
in high glee at having gained her point. She had secretly brought her
"Pilgrim's Progress" with her, and now with marvellous satisfaction drew
it forth.

"I ha'n't been as much of a reader as I had ought to," said Mr. Van
Brunt, as she opened the book and turned to the first page; "but,
however, I understand my business pretty well; and a man can't be
everything to once. Now let's hear what you've got there."

With a throbbing heart Ellen began, and read, notes and all, till the
sound of trampling hoofs and Alice's voice made her break off. It
encouraged and delighted her to see that Mr. Van Brunt's attention was
perfectly fixed. He lay still, without moving his eyes from her face,
till she stopped; then thanking her, he declared that was a "first-rate
book," and he "should like mainly to hear the hull on it."

From that time Ellen was diligent in her attendance on him. That she
might have more time for reading than the old plan gave her, she set off
by herself alone some time before the others, of course riding home with
them. It cost her a little sometimes to forego so much of their company;
but she never saw the look of grateful pleasure with which she was
welcomed without ceasing to regret her self-denial. How Ellen blessed
those notes as she went on with her reading! They said exactly what she
wanted Mr. Van Brunt to hear, and in the best way, and were too short
and simple to interrupt the interest of the story. After a while she
ventured to ask if she might read him a chapter in the Bible. He agreed
very readily; owning "he hadn't ought to be so long without reading one
as he had been." Ellen then made it a rule to herself, without asking
any more questions, to end every reading with a chapter in the Bible;
and she carefully sought out those that might be most likely to take
hold of his judgment or feelings. They took hold of her own very deeply,
by the means; what was strong or tender before, now seemed to her too
mighty to be withstood; and Ellen read not only with her lips but with
her whole heart the precious words, longing that they might come with
their just effect upon Mr. Van Brunt's mind.

Once as she finished reading the tenth chapter of John, a favourite
chapter, which between her own feeling of it and her strong wish for him
had moved her even to tears, she cast a glance at his face to see how he
took it. His head was a little turned to one side, and his eyes closed;
she thought he was asleep. Ellen was very much disappointed. She sank
her head upon her book and prayed that a time might come when he would
know the worth of those words. The touch of his hand startled her.

"What is the matter?" said he. "Are you tired?"

"No," said Ellen, looking hastily up; "oh no! I'm not tired."

"But what ails you?" said the astonished Mr. Van Brunt; "what have you
been a crying for? what's the matter?"

"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, brushing her hand over her eyes, "it's no
matter."

"Yes, but I want to know," said Mr. Van Brunt; "you shan't have anything
to vex you that _I_ can help; what is it?"

"It is nothing, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, bursting into tears again,
"only I thought you were asleep; I--I thought you didn't care enough
about the Bible to keep awake; I want so much that you should be a
Christian!"

He half groaned and turned his head away.

"What makes you wish that so much?" said he, after a minute or two.

"Because I want you to be happy," said Ellen, "and I know you can't
without."

"Well, I am pretty tolerable happy," said he; "as happy as most folks, I
guess."

"But I want you to be happy when you die, too," said Ellen; "I want to
meet you in heaven."

"I hope I will go there, surely," said he gravely, "when the time
comes."

Ellen was uneasily silent, not knowing what to say.

"I ain't as good as I ought to be," said he presently, with a half sigh;
"I ain't good enough to go to heaven; I wish I was. _You_ are, I _do_
believe."

"I! Oh no, Mr. Van Brunt, do not say that; I am not good at all; I am
full of wrong things."

"Well, I wish I was full of wrong things too, in the same way," said he.

"But I am," said Ellen, "whether you will believe it or not. Nobody is
good, Mr. Van Brunt. But Jesus Christ has died for us, and if we ask
Him, He will forgive us, and wash away our sins, and teach us to love
Him, and make us good, and take us to be with Him in heaven. Oh, I wish
you would ask Him!" she repeated with an earnestness that went to his
heart. "I don't believe any one can be very happy that doesn't love
Him."

"Is that what makes _you_ happy?" said he.

"I have a great many things to make me happy," said Ellen, soberly, "but
that is the greatest of all. It always makes me happy to think of Him,
and it makes everything else a thousand times pleasanter. I wish you
knew how it is, Mr. Van Brunt."

He was silent for a little, and disturbed, Ellen thought.

"Well!" said he at length, "'taint the folks that thinks themselves the
best that _is_ the best always; if you ain't good I should like to know
what goodness is. _There's_ somebody that thinks you be," said he a
minute or two afterwards, as the horses were heard coming to the gate.

"No, she knows me better than that," said Ellen.

"It isn't any _she_ that I mean," said Mr. Van Brunt. "There's somebody
else out there, ain't there?"

"Who?" said Ellen, "Mr. John? Oh no, indeed he don't. It was only this
morning he was telling me of something I did that was wrong." Her eyes
watered as she spoke.

"He must have mighty sharp eyes, then," said Mr. Van Brunt, "for it
beats all _my_ powers of seeing things."

"And so he has," said Ellen, putting on her bonnet, "he always knows
what I am thinking of just as well as if I told him. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," said he; "I ha'n't forgotten what you've been saying, and I
don't mean to."

How full of sweet pleasure was the ride home!

The "something wrong," of which Ellen had spoken, was this. The day
before, it happened that Mr. John had broken her off from a very
engaging book to take her drawing-lesson; and as he stooped down to give
a touch or two to the piece she was to copy, he said, "I don't want you
to read any more of that, Ellie; it is not a good book for you." Ellen
did not for a moment question that he was right, nor wish to disobey;
but she had become very much interested, and was a good deal annoyed at
having such a sudden stop put to her pleasure. She said nothing, and
went on with her work. In a little while Alice asked her to hold a skein
of cotton for her while she wound it. Ellen was annoyed again at the
interruption; the harp-strings were jarring yet, and gave fresh discord
to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her vexation be seen;
she went immediately and held the cotton, and as soon as it was done sat
down again to her drawing. Before ten minutes had passed Margery came to
set the table for dinner; Ellen's papers and desk must move.

"Why, it is not dinner-time yet this great while, Margery," said she;
"it isn't much after twelve."

"No, Miss Ellen," said Margery under her breath, for John was in one
corner of the room reading, "but by-and-by I'll be busy with the chops
and frying the salsify, and I couldn't leave the kitchen; if you'll let
me have the table now."

Ellen said no more, and moved her things to a stand before the window,
where she went on with her copying till dinner was ready. Whatever the
reason was, however, her pencil did not work smoothly; her eye did not
see true; and she lacked her usual steady patience. The next morning,
after an hour and more's work and much painstaking, the drawing was
finished. Ellen had quite forgotten her yesterday's trouble. But when
John came to review her drawing, he found several faults with it;
pointed out two or three places in which it had suffered from haste and
want of care; and asked her how it had happened. Ellen knew it happened
yesterday. She was vexed again, though she did her best not to show it;
she stood quietly and heard what he had to say. He then told her to get
ready for her riding lesson.

"Mayn't I just make this right first?" said Ellen; "it won't take me
long."

"No," said he, "you have been sitting long enough; I must break you off.
The Brownie will be here in ten minutes."

Ellen was impatiently eager to mend the bad places in her drawing, and
impatiently displeased at being obliged to ride first. Slowly and
reluctantly she went to get ready; John was already gone; she would not
have moved so leisurely if he had been anywhere within seeing distance.
As it was, she found it convenient to quicken her movements; and was at
the door ready as soon as he and the Brownie. She was soon thoroughly
engaged in the management of herself and her horse; a little smart
riding shook all the ill humour out of her, and she was entirely herself
again. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes they drew up under the
shade of a tree to let the Brownie rest a little. It was a warm day, and
John had taken off his hat and stood resting too, with his arm leaning
on the neck of the horse. Presently he looked round to Ellen, and asked
her with a smile if she felt right again.

"Why?" said Ellen, the crimson of her cheeks mounting to her forehead.
But her eye sank immediately at the answering glance of his. He then, in
very few words, set the matter before her, with such a happy mixture of
pointedness and kindness, that while the reproof, coming from him, went
to the quick, Ellen yet joined with it no thought of harshness or
severity. She was completely subdued, however; the rest of the lesson
had to be given up, and for an hour Ellen's tears could not be stayed.
But it was, and John had meant it should be, a strong check given to her
besetting sin. It had a long and lasting effect.




CHAPTER XL

    _Speed._ But tell me true, will't be a match?

    _Laun._ Ask my dog; if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, it will;
    if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

                                              --TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.


In due time Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's
joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and
Johnny found they must "spring to," as their leader said; and Miss
Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a long breath again,
for do what she would she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and
the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone
again.

"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully
looking down the road by which he had gone, "before he will be through
that--before he will be able to leave Doncaster?"

"Next summer."

"And what will he do then?"

"Then he will be ordained."

"Ordained?--what is that?"

"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and
appointed to it by a number of clergymen."

"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"

"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he may for a
little; but papa wishes very much that before he is settled anywhere he
should visit England and Scotland and see our friends there, though I
hardly think John will do it unless he sees some further reason for
going. If he do not, he will probably soon be called somewhere--Mr.
Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."

"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, "at any rate now we
must wait until next Christmas."

The winter passed away with little to mark it except the usual visits to
Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed
should _not_ be when John was at home. At all other times they were much
prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to
come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a
letter; and it was bargained that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see
them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the
disappointments were seldom; she too had become quite domesticated at
Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the
times she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met
her old friend of the boat again; but she was very much attached to old
Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter, the latter of
whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with
Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than any
one else of her age.

"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice--- I should think anybody
would learn well with her; and Mr. John--I suppose he's as good, though
I don't know so much about him; but he must be a great deal better
teacher than Mr. Sandford, mamma, for Ellen draws _ten times_ as well as
I do!"

"Perhaps that is your fault and not Mr. Sandford's," said her mother,
"though I rather think you overrate the difference."

"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the little girl;
"what more can I do, mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always;
she never seems to think she does better than I; and she is always ready
to help me and take ever so much time to show me how to do things; she
is _so_ pleasant; isn't she, mamma? I know I have heard you say she is
very polite."

"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie, "and there is a grace in
her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and
refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and
working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my
comprehension."

"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in the society
of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.

"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't say two
dozen words a day."

"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is with them a great deal. Aunt Matilda," said Ellen Chauncey, "and
they teach her everything, and she does learn! She must be very clever;
don't you think she is, mamma? Mamma, she beats me entirely in speaking
French, and she knows all about English history and arithmetic!--and did
you ever hear her sing, mamma?"

"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation
of others," said Mrs. Chauncey smiling, and bending forward to kiss her
daughter; "but what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in
history than you?"

"I don't know, mamma, unless--I wish I wasn't so fond of reading
stories."

"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said Miss
Sophia.

"Yes. Oh I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr. John don't
let her read them, except now and then one."

"I fancy she does it though when their backs are turned," said Mrs.
Gillespie.

"She! Oh, Aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like
for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here,
unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first."

"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is a _good_ child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, mamma, and that is what I wanted to say; I do not think Ellen is
so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is
so sweet and good. I don't think she could _help_ being polite."

"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness
would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen,
Ellen Montgomery is a _perfectly_ well-behaved child."

"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or
example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and
great sweetness of temper."

"That's exactly what _I_ think, mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.

Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one
of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline has not
done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the housework grew less,
and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all
sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head that some of
Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this
lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together.
The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her downstairs with the big
spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed
pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls
of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them
into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of
yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn
as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must
be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing and
studying; her very heart sank within her. She made no remonstrance,
unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day
at the big spinning-wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went
round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite
of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of
a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was
a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own
room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to
do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how much
yarn--and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and
reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do:
she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might
shine bright;" and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes,
if overpressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as
Alice had advised her, that _she_ wished to have her do such and such
things. Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning
that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things
yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the
practice of them; this wearisome work was one of the many seemingly
untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen _did_
secure to herself was held the more precious and used the more
carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to
her.

John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual;
only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The
sole other event that broke the quiet course of things (beside the
journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very
unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January.
Ellen was very sorry; both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she
was sure felt much, though according to his general custom he said
nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an
important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.

The winter passed and the spring came. One fine mild pleasant afternoon
early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she
wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the
table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of
white beans which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish
of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.

"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I
can't. All these to do!"

"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth. "Where's your
aunt?"

Ellen pointed to the buttery. He immediately went to the door and rapped
on it with his knuckles.

"Here, ma'am!" said he, "can't you let this child go with me? I want her
along to help feed the sheep."

To Ellen's astonishment her aunt called to her through the closed door
to "go along and leave the beans till she came back." Joyfully Ellen
obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap
which would still be there to pick over when she returned; and ran to
get her bonnet. In all the time she had been at Thirlwall something had
always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went
eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.

They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn to a low rocky hill
covered with trees. On the other side of this they came to a fine field
of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain; Ellen and
Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of
rocky woodland that lay on the far side of the wheatfield. It was a very
fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the trees were
beginning to show their leaves; the air was soft and spring-like. In
great glee Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr.
Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity
seemed greater than ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow
with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly told
him she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were; and then he
took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at anything he saw
that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again by
laughing at his wastefulness; and so they came to the wood. She left him
then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for
flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and
wait for her.

"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen as she came up with her hands full of
anemones, "and look--there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out
before now--the dear little thing! but I can't find any blood-root, Mr.
Van Brunt."

"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so much. Oh,
I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago when I used to
take so many walks with you. Only think of my not having been to look
for flowers before this spring."

"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"I don't know how it has."

"Oh, there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, you beauties!
Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer," said he,
with his half smile.

"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! how can you? but an ear of wheat's pretty too. Oh,
Mr. Van Brunt, what _is_ that? Do you get me some of it, will you,
please? Oh, how beautiful! what is it?"

"That's black birch," said he; "_'tis_ kind o' handsome; stop, I'll find
you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon's seal--do you want
some of that?"

Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and before she could rise
from her stooping posture discovered some cowslips to be scrambled for.
Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and more uvularias, which she
called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very
elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as
Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail.

"Now I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she, when her
hands were as full as they could hold; "I have kept you a great while;
you are very good to wait for me."

They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last
piece of rocky woodland came to an open hillside, sloping gently up, at
the foot of which were several large flat stones.

"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.

"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause they don't
know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the
fence. Ca-nan! ca-nan! Ca-nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan!"

This was the sheep call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it
sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it sounded; and then
Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep at the edge of the woods on the top
of the hill. On the call's sounding again the sheep set forward, and in
a long train they came running along a narrow footpath down towards
where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a
multitude of light hoofs in another direction turned Ellen's eyes that
way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill
from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering
along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near; then the whole
multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and
doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt and the strange little figure
standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt, every sheep
of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt was not a traitor, who had put on a
friend's voice and lured them down there with some dark evil intent,
which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking
stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and
go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt gently repeating his
call, went quietly up to the nearest stone and began to scatter the salt
upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had hung out the
white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of
double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt; the rocks where it was
strewn were covered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it
possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice
heaped up with snow, or queen cakes with an immoderately thick frosting.
It was one scene of pushing and crowding; those which had not had their
share of the feast forcing themselves to get at it, and shoving others
off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and
pretty sight, the busy hustling crowd of gentle creatures; with the soft
noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of
the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening; and did
not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were
carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps been
disappointed of their part still lingered upon the stones in the vain
hope of yet licking a little saltness from them.

"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before. How they
do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Good for them?" said he, "to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a
critter that walks as I know, that it ain't good for--'cept chickens,
and it's very queer it kills them."

They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her
flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her
hand; and greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying
her walk as much as it was possible, she was going home very happy! yet
she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was
uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were
alone together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a desire to
cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for
walking sticks. He did not want to make any use of them, that was
certain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away and
cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields where
there were none to be found.

"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt Fortune
was getting well of her long fit of sickness."

"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; "something is
always happening most years."

Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.

"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I think it
is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly."

"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I
s'pose--mightn't it?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly; "why, Mr. Van Brunt, what _is_
going to happen?"

"I declare," said he, half laughing, "you're as cute as a razor; I
didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I?"

"But is there?" said Ellen.

"Ha'n't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, "she never tells me anything; what is it?"

"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt, "at least I know, for I've
understood as much from herself, that--I believe she is going to be
married before long."

"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married!--Aunt Fortune!"

"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft of tall
grass and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he carried to his
mouth.

There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air,
or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or
meadow. To frame words into another sentence was past her power. They
came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time.

"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Why, pretty soon, as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought it was
time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"

"I don't _know_" said Ellen in a low voice; "I couldn't help guessing."

"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without looking at her.

There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her
thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such confusion.

"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded
the corner of the barn, "we have made up our minds to draw in the same
yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead folks, so I guess we'll
contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lief tell you, Ellen,
that all this was as good as settled a long spell back--'afore ever you
came to Thirlwall; but I was never agoing to leave my old mother without
a home; so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had never
been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing to keep me to
the old place any longer. So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted
you should."

With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van
Brunt turned off into the barn-yard, leaving Ellen to go home by
herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the
chip-yard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically
she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the
beans might have been flowers and the flowers beans for all the
difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's
faces most carefully for a long time; Ellen felt it impossible to meet
her eyes; and it is a matter of great uncertainty which in fact did
first look at the other. Other than this there was no manner of
difference in anything without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's
being absolutely speechless was not a _very_ uncommon thing.




CHAPTER XLI

          Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,
            Must we no longer live together?
          And dost thou prune thy trembling wing
            To take thy flight thou knowest not whither?

                                                  --PRIOR.


As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, and
eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and all. She was somewhat
disappointed at the calmness of her hearer.

"But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I thought
you would be so much surprised."

"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."

"Not!--aren't you!--why, did you know anything of this before?"

"I did not _know_, but I suspected. I thought it was very likely. I am
_very_ glad it is so."

"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry;--why are you glad, Alice?"

"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"

"Oh, because!--I don't know--it seems so queer!--I don't like it at all.
I am very sorry indeed."

"For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the bargain?"

"Why, he, to be sure; I think he will; I don't think she will. I think
he is a great deal too good. And besides--I wonder if he wants to
really; it was settled so long ago--may-be he has changed his mind
since."

"Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?" said Alice, smiling.

"I don't know; I don't think he seemed particularly glad."

"It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his own mind, my
dear; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope so."

"But then, besides," said Ellen, with a face of great perplexity and
vexation, "I don't know; it don't seem right! How can I ever? must I? do
you think I shall have to call him anything but Mr. Van Brunt?"

Alice could not help smiling again.

"What is your objection, Ellie?"

"Why, because I _can't_! I couldn't do it somehow. It would seem so
strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad, dear Alice?"

"It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head; you will know
by-and-by why I am glad, Ellie."

"Well, I am glad if you are glad," said Ellen, sighing; "I don't know
why I was so sorry, I couldn't help it; I suppose I shan't mind it after
a while."

She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or impossibility
of ever forming her lips to the words "Uncle Abraham," "Uncle Van
Brunt," or barely "Uncle;" her soul rebelled against all three. "Yet if
he should think me unkind, then I must; oh, rather fifty times over than
that!" Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and tenderly
asked--

"What is the matter, oh dear Alice? what are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will give you
pain."

"Pain! you needn't be afraid of giving me pain," said Ellen, fondly,
throwing her arms around her, "tell me, dear Alice; is it something I
have done that is wrong? what is it?"

Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.

"What is the matter, oh dear Alice?" said Ellen, encircling Alice's head
with both her arms; "oh don't cry! do tell me what it is?"

"It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie."

"But why?" said Ellen, in some alarm; "why are you sorry for me? I don't
care, if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't! Never mind me; is it
something that troubles you, dear Alice?"

"No, except for the effect it may have on others."

"Then I can bear it," said Ellen; "you need not be afraid to tell me,
dear Alice; what is it? don't be sorry for me!"

But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not help
being afraid to hear; she anxiously repeated "What is it?"

Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking herself
somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the uplifted face.

"Suppose, Ellie," she said at length, "that you and I were taking a
journey together--a troublesome, dangerous journey--and that _I_ had a
way of getting at once safe to the end of it; would you be willing to
let me go, and you do without me for the rest of the way?"

"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a kind of
maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going, Alice?"

"I think I am going home, Ellie, before you."

"Home?" said Ellen.

"Yes, home I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank God it is
my _home_ I am going to."

Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.

"It is your home too, love, I trust and believe," said Alice, tenderly;
"we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself; I only grieve
to leave you alone, and others, but God knows best. We must both look to
Him."

"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly, "what do you mean? what
do you mean? I don't understand you; what do you mean?"

"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"

"But Alice! but Alice, _dear_ Alice, what makes you say so? is there
anything the matter, with you?"

"Do I look well, Ellie?"

With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in Alice's face
for the tokens of what she wished and what she feared. It _had_ once or
twice lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and
seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding, or walking, or any
other exertion; and it _had_ struck her that the bright spots of colour
in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in
her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now as she
recalled them and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and
her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew, hope for a moment
faded. She grew white, even to the lips.

"My poor Ellie! my poor Ellie!" said Alice, pressing her little sister
to her bosom, "it must be! We must say 'the Lord's will be done'; we
must not forget He does all things well."

But Ellen rallied; she raised her head again; she could not believe what
Alice had told her. To her mind it seemed an evil _too great to happen_;
it could not be! Alice saw this in her look, and again sadly stroked her
hair from her brow. "It must be, Ellie," she repeated.

"But have you seen somebody? have you asked somebody?" said Ellen; "some
doctor?"

"I have seen, and I have asked," said Alice; "it was not necessary, but
I have done both. They think as I do."

"But these Thirlwall doctors----"

"Not them; I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent physician at
Randolph, the last time I went to Ventnor."

"And he said----"

"As I have told you." Ellen's countenance fell--fell.

"It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left, I know that,
my dear little Ellie! You have no reason to be sorry for me; I _am_
sorry for you: but the hand that is taking me away is one that will
touch neither of us but to do us good; I know that too. We must both
look away to our dear Saviour, and not for a moment doubt His love. I do
not; you must not. Is it not said that 'He loved Martha, and her sister,
and Lazarus'?"

"Yes," said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice's.

"And might He not, did it not rest with a word of His lips, to keep
Lazarus from dying, and save his sisters from all the bitter sorrow his
death caused them?"

Again Ellen said, "Yes," or her lips seemed to say it.

"And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why He should not, little as
poor Martha and Mary could understand it. But had He at all ceased to
_love them_ when He bade all that trouble come? Do you remember,
Ellie--oh how beautiful those words are!--when at last He arrived near
the place, and first one sister came to Him with the touching reminder
that He might have saved them from this, and then the other, weeping and
falling at His feet, and repeating 'Lord, if thou hadst been here'! when
He saw their tears, and more, saw the torn hearts that tears could not
ease, He even wept with them too! Oh, I thank God for those words! He
saw reason to strike, and His hand did not spare; but His love shed
tears for them! and He is just the same now."

Some drops fell from Alice's eyes, not sorrowful ones; Ellen had hid her
face.

"Let us never doubt His love, dear Ellie, and surely then we can bear
whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it. I do believe it
shall be well with them that fear God. I believe it will be well for me
when I die, well for you, my dear, dear Ellie; well even for my
father----"

She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But oh, Ellen
knew what it would have been; and it suddenly startled into life all the
load of grief that had been settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts
had not looked that way before; now when they did, this new vision of
misery was too much to bear. Quite unable to contain herself, and
unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help, with a smothered burst
of feeling she sprang away, out of the door, into the woods, where she
would be unseen and unheard.

And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost thought she
should die. Her grief had not now indeed the goading sting of
impatience; she knew the hand that gave the blow, and did not raise her
own against it; she believed too what Alice had been saying, and the
sense of it was, in a manner, present with her in her darkest time. But
her spirit died within her; she bowed her head as if she were never to
lift it up again; and she was ready to say with Job, "What good is my
life to me?"

It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she came in
again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt's. She would have done
it hurriedly and turned away; but Alice held her and looked sadly for a
minute into the woe-begone little face, then clasped her close and
kissed her again and again.

"Oh, Alice," sobbed Ellen on her neck, "aren't you mistaken? maybe you
are mistaken?"

"I am not mistaken, my dear Ellie, my own Ellie," said Alice's clear
sweet voice; "nor sorry, except for others. I will talk with you more
about this. You will be sorry for me at first, and then I hope you will
be glad. It is only that I am going home a little before you. Remember
what I was saying to you a while ago. Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I
should like to see him for a few minutes some time when he has leisure?
And come to me early to-morrow, love."

Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see where she
was stepping; and again and again her fulness of heart got the better of
everything else, and unmindful of the growing twilight she sat down on a
stone by the wayside or flung herself on the ground to let sorrows have
full sway. In one of these fits of bitter struggling with pain, there
came on her mind, like a sunbeam across a cloud, the thought of Jesus
weeping at the grave of Lazarus. It came with singular power. Did He
love them so well? thought Ellen--and is He looking down upon us with
the same tenderness even now? She felt that the sun was shining still,
though the cloud might be between; her broken heart crept to His feet
and laid its burden there, and after a few minutes she rose up and went
on her way, keeping that thought still close to her heart. The
unspeakable tears that were shed during those few minutes were that
softened outpouring of the heart that leaves it eased. Very, very
sorrowful as she was, she went on calmly now and stopped no more.

It was getting dark, and a little way from the gate on the road, she met
Mr. Van Brunt.

"Why, I was beginning to get scared about you," said he. "I was coming
to see where you was. How come you so late?"

Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer and he could see more
distinctly, his tone changed.

"What's the matter?" said he, "you ha'n't been well! what has happened?
what ails you, Ellen?"

In astonishment and then in alarm, he saw that she was unable to speak,
and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know what was the matter,
and if he could do anything. Ellen shook her head.

"Ain't Miss Alice well?" said he; "you ha'n't heerd no bad news up there
on the hill, have you?"

Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yea or nay. She
recovered herself enough to give him Alice's message.

"I'll be sure and go," said he, "but you ha'n't told me yet what's the
matter! Has anything happened?"

"No," said Ellen; "don't ask me--she'll tell you--don't ask me."

"I guess I'll go up the first thing in the morning, then," said he,
"before breakfast."

"No," said Ellen; "better not--perhaps she wouldn't be up so early."

"After breakfast then--I'll go up right after breakfast. I was agoing
with the boys up into that 'ere wheat lot, but anyhow I'll do that
first. They won't have a chance to do much bad or good before I get back
to them, I reckon."

As soon as possible she made her escape from Miss Fortune's eye and
questions of curiosity which she could not bear to answer, and got to
her own room. There the first thing she did was to find the eleventh
chapter of John. She read it as she never had read it before; she found
in it what she never had found before; one of those cordials that none
but the sorrowing drink. On the love of Christ, as there shown, little
Ellen's heart fastened; and with that one sweetening thought amid all
its deep sadness, her sleep that night might have been envied by many a
luxurious roller in pleasure.

At Alice's wish she immediately took up her quarters at the parsonage,
to leave her no more. But she could not see much difference in her from
what she had been for several weeks past; and with the natural
hopefulness of childhood, her mind presently almost refused to believe
the extremity of the evil which had been threatened. Alice herself was
constantly cheerful, and sought by all means to further Ellen's
cheerfulness! though careful at the same time to forbid, as far as she
could, the rising of the hope she saw Ellen was inclined to cherish.

One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking out upon
the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all the fresh greenness
of the young spring. The woods were not yet in full leaf; and the light
of the setting sun upon the trees bordering the other side of the lawn
showed them in the most exquisite and varied shades of colour. Some had
the tender green of the new leaf, some were in the red or yellow browns
of the half-opened bud; others in various stages of forwardness mixing
all the tints between, and the evergreens standing dark as ever, setting
off the delicate hues of the surrounding foliage. This was all softened
off in the distance; the very light of the spring was mild and tender
compared with that of other seasons; and the air that stole round the
corner of the house and came in at the open window was laden with
aromatic fragrance. Alice and Ellen had been for some time silently
breathing it, and gazing thoughtfully on the loveliness that was abroad.

"I used to think," said Alice, "that it must be a very hard thing to
leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so, Ellie?"

"I don't know," said Ellen faintly, "I don't remember."

"I used to think so," said Alice, "but I do not now, Ellie; my feeling
has changed. Do _you_ feel so now, Ellie?"

"Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?"

"For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap again."

"I am afraid you cannot bear it."

"Yes, I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used to;" and
Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead. "You are a great comfort to
me, dear Ellie."

"Oh, Alice, don't say so; you'll kill me!" exclaimed Ellen, in great
distress.

"Why should I not say so, love?" said Alice soothingly. "I like to say
it, and you will be glad to know it by-and-by. You are a _great_ comfort
to me."

"And what have you been to me?" said Ellen, weeping bitterly.

"What I cannot be much longer; and I want to accustom you to think of
it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know that if I am sorry at
all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, not myself. Ellie, you
yourself will be glad for me in a little while; you will not wish me
back."

Ellen shook her head.

"I know you will not--after a while; and I shall leave you in good
hands--I have arranged for that, my dear little sister."

The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but a mute
caress answered the _spirit_ of Alice's words.

"Look up, Ellie--look out again. Lovely--lovely! all that is--but I know
heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our eyes are with beauty,
I believe that eye has not seen, nor heart imagined, the things that God
has prepared for them that love Him. _You_ believe that, Ellie; you must
not be so _very_ sorry that I have gone to see it a little before you."

Ellen could say nothing.

"After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful world that
make people happy--it is loving and being loved; and that is the reason
why I am happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if He receives me--I
shall be with my Saviour; I shall see Him and know Him, without any of
the clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and displeasing
Him now--never serving Him well nor loving Him right. I shall be glad to
find myself where all that will be done with for ever. I shall be like
Him! Why do you cry so, Ellie?" said Alice tenderly.

"I can't help it, Alice."

"It is only my love for you--and for two more--that could make me wish
to stay here--nothing else; and I give all that up, because I do not
know what is best for you or myself. And I look to meet you all again
before long. Try to think of it as I do, Ellie."

"But what shall I do without you?" said poor Ellen.

"I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place, and take
care of those I leave behind; will you? and they will take care of you."

"But," said Ellen, looking up eagerly, "Aunt Fortune----"

"I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel easy and
happy about you, and far easier and happier about my father, if I leave
you established here, to be to him, as far as you can, what I have been.
Will you promise me, Ellie?"

In words it was not possible; but what silent kisses, and the close
pressure of the arms round Alice's neck could say, was said.

"I am satisfied, then," said Alice presently. "My father will be your
father--think him so, dear Ellie, and I know John will take care of you.
And my place will not be empty. I am very, very glad."

Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not say so.

"It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage, Ellie," Alice
soon went on. "I foresaw she might raise some difficulties in my way,
hard to remove perhaps; but now I have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has
promised me that nothing shall hinder your taking up your abode and
making your home entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly
have loved to have you in his own house."

"I am sure he would," said Ellen, "but oh, how much rather----"

"He behaved very well about it the other morning; in a very manly,
frank, kind way; showed a good deal of feeling I think, too. He gave me
to understand that for his own sake he should be extremely sorry to let
you go; but he assured me that nothing over which he had any control
should stand in the way of your good."

"He is _very_ kind--he is _very_ good--he is always so," said Ellen. "I
love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind to me as he could
be."

They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out of the
window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all without was
graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty to another. The sweet
air seemed still sweeter than before the sun went down.

"You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am happy now. I
enjoy all this, and I love you all, but I can leave it and can leave
you--yes, both--for I would seek Jesus! He who has taught me to love Him
will not forsake me now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the
days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I
thank Him! Oh, I thank Him!"

Alice's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone through
tears.

"Ellie, dear, you must love Him with all your heart, and live constantly
in His presence. I know if you do He will make you happy in any event.
He can always give more than He takes away. Oh, how good He is! and what
wretched returns we make Him! I was miserable when John first went away
to Doncaster; I did not know how to bear it. But now, Ellie, I think I
can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All
things are ours, all things; the world, and life, and death too."

"Alice," said Ellen, as well as she could, "you know what you were
saying to me the other day?"

"About what, love?"

"That about--you know--that chapter----"

"About the death of Lazarus?"

"Yes. It has comforted me very much."

"So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at different
times. Come, sing to me--'How firm a foundation.'"

From time to time Alice led to this kind of conversation, both for
Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her go on with all
her usual studies and duties; and but for these talks Ellen would have
scarce known how to believe that it could be true which she feared.

The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet one. It
happened at far too busy a time of year, and they were too cool
calculators, and looked upon their union in much too business-like a
point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a wedding-tour, or even
resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a wedding-party. Miss Fortune
would not have left her cheese and butter-making to see all the New
Yorks and Bostons that ever were built; and she would have scorned a
trip to Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished
himself all the while back among his furrows and crops. So one day they
were quietly married at home, the Rev. Mr. Clark having been fetched
from Thirlwall for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have preferred that
Mr. Humphreys should perform the ceremony; but Miss Fortune was quite
decided in favour of the Thirlwall gentleman, and of course he it was.

The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this marriage,
and opinions were greatly divided; some, congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on
having made himself one of the richest landholders "in town" by the
junction of another fat farm to his own; some pitying him for having got
more than his match within doors, and "guessing he'd missed his
reckoning for once."

"If he has, then," said Sam Larkins, who heard some of these condoling
remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can tell you. If _she_
ain't a little mistaken, I wish I mayn't get a month's wages in a year
to come. I tell you, you don't know Van Brunt; he's as easy as anybody
as long as he don't care about what you're doing; but if he once takes a
notion you can't make him gee nor haw no more than you can our near ox
Timothy when he's out o' yoke; and he's as ugly a beast to manage as
ever I see when he ain't yoked up. Why, bless you! there ha'n't been a
thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked--_she_
don't know it. I've heerd her," said Sam, chuckling, "I've heerd her a
telling him how she wanted this thing done, and t'other, and he'd just
not say a word and go and do it right t'other way. It'll be a wonder if
somebody ain't considerably startled in her calculations afore summer's
out."




CHAPTER XLII

            She enjoys sure peace for evermore.
          As weather-beaten ship arrived on happy shore.

                                                  --SPENSER.


It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that Alice was
right in her notion about her health. The greatness of the evil was such
that his mind refused to receive it, much as Ellen's had done. His
unbelief, however, lasted longer than hers. Constantly with Alice as she
was, and talking to her on the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope
she had clung to; though still, bending all her energies to the present
pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking
at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice
said she was, a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly
Alice's look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It
was Ellen's precious reward, and in seeking to earn it she half the time
earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with Mr.
Humphreys. He saw much less of his daughter; and when he was with her,
it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to speak to him as
freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speaking to Ellen. The
consequences were such as grieved her, but could not be helped.

As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia Marshman
came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen was almost sorry; it
broke up in a measure the sweet and peaceful way of life she and Alice
had held together ever since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make
a third in their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less and
she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friend's being
there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was
active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in
manner and temper; a very useful person in a house where one was ailing.
Mrs. Vawse was often there too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever she
came, as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help
_her_; Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal.

Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. She
said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster; she would
not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from home. In August he
would be quite through; the first of August he would be home.

Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail much more
rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too likely that if she
waited for his regular return at the first of August she would see but
little of her brother. She at last reluctantly consented that Mrs.
Chauncey should write to him; and from that moment counted the days.

Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence respecting
her. He came into her room one morning when just about to set out for
Carra-carra to visit one or two of his poor parishioners.

"How are you to-day, my daughter?" he asked tenderly.

"Easy, papa, and happy," said Alice.

"You are looking better," said he. "We shall have you well again among
us yet."

There was some sorrow for him in Alice's smile, as she looked up at him
and answered, "Yes, papa, in the land where the inhabitants shall no
more say 'I am sick.'"

He kissed her hastily and went out.

"I almost wish I was in your place, Alice," said Miss Sophia. "I hope I
may be half as happy when my time comes."

"What right have you to hope so, Sophia?" said Alice, rather sadly.

"To be sure," said the other, after a pause, "you have been ten times as
good as I. I don't wonder you feel easy when you look back and think how
blameless your life has been."

"Sophia, Sophia!" said Alice, "you know it is not that. I never did a
good thing in all my life that was not mixed and spoiled with evil. I
never came up to the full measure of duty in any matter."

"But surely," said Miss Sophia, "if one does the best one can, it will
be accepted?"

"It won't do to trust to that, Sophia. God's law requires perfection;
and nothing less than perfection will be received as payment of its
demand. If you owe a hundred dollars, and your creditor will not hold
you quit for anything less than the whole sum, it is of no manner of
signification whether you offer him ten or twenty."

"Why, according to that," said Miss Sophia, "it makes no difference what
kind of life one leads."

Alice sighed and shook her head.

"The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God _will_ strive to please
Him--always."

"And is it of no use to strive to please Him?"

"Of no manner of use, if you make that your _trust_."

"Well, I don't see what one _is_ to trust to," said Miss Sophia, "if it
isn't a good life."

"I will answer you," said Alice, with a smile in which there was no
sorrow, "in some words that I love very much, of an old Scotchman, I
think--'I have taken all my good deeds and all my bad, and have cast
them together in a heap before the Lord; and from them all I have fled
to Jesus Christ, and in Him alone I have sweet peace.'"

Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look.

"Well," said she, "I don't understand it; that is what George is always
talking about; but I can't understand him."

"I am _very_ sorry you cannot," said Alice gravely.

They were both silent for a little while.

"If all Christians were like you," said Miss Sophia, "I might think more
about it; but they are such a dull set; there seems to be no life nor
pleasure among them."

Alice thought of these lines--

         "Their pleasures rise to things unseen,
            Beyond the bounds of time;
          Where neither eyes nor ears have been,
            Nor thoughts of mortals climb."

"You judge," she said, "like the rest of the world, of that which they
see not. After all, _they_ know best whether they are happy. What do you
think of Mrs. Vawse?"

"I don't know what to think of her; she is wonderful to me; she is past
my comprehension entirely. Don't make _her_ an example."

"No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your brother?"

"George--_he_ is happy--there is no doubt of that; he is the happiest
person in the family, by all odds; but then I think he has a natural
knack at being happy; it is impossible for anything to put him out."

Alice smiled and shook her head again.

"Sophistry, Sophia. What do you think of _me_?"

"I don't see what reason you have to be anything but happy."

"What have I to make me so?"

Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers.

"I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I were not
going to somewhat I love better? Should I be happy if I had no secure
prospect of meeting with them again?--or if I were doubtful of my
reception in that place whither I hope to go to."

Sophia burst into tears. "Well, I don't know," said she; "I suppose you
are right; but I don't understand it."

Alice drew her face down to hers and whispered something in her ear.

Undoubtedly Alice had much around as well as within her to make a
declining life happy. Mrs. Vawse and Miss Marshman were two friends and
nurses not to be surpassed, in their different ways. Margery's motherly
affection, her zeal, and her skill, left nothing for heart to wish in
her line of duty. And all that affection, taste, and kindness, which
abundant means could supply, was at Alice's command. Still her greatest
comfort was Ellen. Her constant thoughtful care; the thousand tender
attentions, from the roses daily gathered for her table to the chapters
she read and the hymns she sung to her; the smile that often covered a
pang; the pleasant words and tone that many a time came from a sinking
heart; they were Alice's daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had learned
self-command in more than one school; affection, as once before, was her
powerful teacher now, and taught her well. Sophia openly confessed that
Ellen was the best nurse; and Margery, when nobody heard her, muttered
blessings on the child's head.

Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never stayed long.
It was plain he could not bear it. It might have been difficult too for
Alice to bear, but she wished for her brother. She reckoned the time
from Mrs. Chauncey's letter to that when he might be looked for; but
some irregularities in the course of the post-office made it impossible
to count with certainty upon the exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile
her failure was very rapid. Mrs. Vawse began to fear he would not arrive
in time.

The weeks of June ran out; the roses, all but a few late kinds,
blossomed and died.

July came.

One morning when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her close to her
and said, "You remember, Ellie, in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' when
Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river?--I think
the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry, love--listen--this is
the token he seems to bring me--'I have loved thee with an everlasting
love.' I am sure of it, Ellie; I have no doubt of it--so don't cry for
me. You have been my dear comfort--my blessing--we shall love each other
in heaven, Ellie."

Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped from
her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come back again.
But she came at last; and went on through all that day as she had done
for weeks before. The day seemed long, for every member of the family
was on the watch for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would
not live to see another. It wore away; hour after hour passed without
his coming; and the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she
evidently wished and watched for him; and Ellen, whose affection read
her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening door--the eye
turned towards the window--the attitude of listening--grew feverish with
her intense desire that she should be gratified.

From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that
John generally occupied when he was at home, directly over the
sitting-room, and with pleasant windows towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey,
Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse were all there. Alice was lying quietly on
the bed, and seemed to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were
brought, that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an
inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it; slipping softly
out, she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the
glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer the
knowledge of what she wished for.

It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly on the
little lawn and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one
well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to
it. How like and how unlike! All around was just the same as it had been
then; the cool moonlight upon the distant fields, the trees in the gap
lit up, as then, the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy
party gathered there now; they were scattered. One was away; one a
sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight; one waiting to be gone where
there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered
they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoice in
them; she thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her
distress. She remembered the whip-poor-will; none was heard to-night,
near or far; she was glad of it; it would have been too much; and there
were no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up
again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the
reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still gazed up towards them in
their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her
head of that which was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long
they have been shining, thought Ellen; going on just the same from night
to night and from year to year, as if they never would come to an end.
But they _will_ come to an end; the time _will_ come when they stop
shining, bright as they are; and then, when all they are swept away,
then heaven will be only begun; that will never end! never. And in a few
years we who were so happy a year ago and are so sorry now, shall be all
glad together there, this will be all over! And then as she looked, and
the tears sprang to her thoughts, a favourite hymn of Alice's came to
her remembrance.

         "Ye stars are but the shining dust
            Of my divine abode;
          The pavements of those heavenly courts
            Where I shall see my God.

          The Father of eternal lights
            Shall there His beams display;
          And not one moment's darkness mix
            With that unvaried day."

"'Not one moment's darkness!' Oh," thought little Ellen, "there are a
great many here!" Still gazing up at the bright calm heavens, while the
tears ran fast down her face, and fell into her lap, there came trooping
through Ellen's mind many of those words she had been in the habit of
reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.

"And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither
light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall
reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no more curse, but the
throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and His servants shall
serve Him; and they shall see His face; and His name shall be in their
foreheads. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there
be any more pain: for the former things have passed away."

"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive
you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, with a
strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing grief, there
came to her ear through the perfect stillness of the night the faint,
far-off, not-to-be-mistaken sound of quick-coming horse's feet, nearer
and nearer every second. It came with a mingled pang of pain and
pleasure, both very acute; she rose instantly to her feet, and stood
pressing her hand to her heart while the quick-measured beat of hoofs
grew louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The minutes
were few, but they were moments of intense bitterness. The tired horse
stooped his head, as the rider flung himself from the saddle and came
to the door where Ellen stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered,
the question that lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way, and
uttered the words, "up stairs;" and John rushed thither. He checked
himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it and went in as
calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution was very
needless. Alice knew his step, she knew _his horse's step_ too well; she
had raised herself up and stretched out both arms towards him before he
entered. In another moment they were round his neck, and she was
supported in his. There was a long, long silence.

"Are you happy, Alice?" whispered her brother.

"Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John."

As he did so, again and again, she felt his tears on her cheek, and put
up her hands to his face to wipe them away; kissed him then, and then
once again laid her head on his breast. They remained so a little while
without stirring, except that some whispers were exchanged too low for
others to hear, and once more she raised her face to kiss him. A few
minutes after those who could look saw his colour change; he felt the
arms unclasp their hold; and as he laid her gently back on the pillow,
they fell languidly down; the will and the power that had sustained them
were gone. _Alice_ was gone; but the departing spirit had left a ray of
brightness on its earthly house; there was a half smile on the sweet
face, of most entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a
moment, closed the eyes, kissed, once and again, the sweet lips, and
left the room.

Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it. For her,
wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in long heavy slumber.
From the pitch to which her spirits had been wrought by care, sorrow,
and self-restraint, they now suddenly and completely sank down;
naturally and happily, she lost all sense of trouble in sleep.

When sleep at last left her, and she stole downstairs into the
sitting-room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was stirring
about the house but herself. It seemed deserted; the old sitting-room
looked empty and forlorn; the stillness was oppressive. Ellen could not
bear it. Softly opening the glass door, she went out upon the lawn,
where everything was sparkling in the early freshness of the summer
morning. How could it look so pleasant without, when all pleasantness
was gone within? It pressed upon Ellen's heart. With a restless feeling
of pain, she went on, round the corner of the house, and paced slowly
along the road till she came to the footpath that led up to the place on
the mountain John had called the Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that
path, often travelled and much loved by her; and slowly, with
slow-dripping tears, made her way up over moss wet with the dew, and the
stones and rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She passed the
place where Alice at first found her; she remembered it well; there was
the very stone beside which they had kneeled together, and where Alice's
folded hands were laid. Ellen knelt down beside it again, and for a
moment laid her cheek to the cold stone while her arms embraced it, and
a second time it was watered with tears. She rose up again quickly and
went on her way, toiling up the steep path beyond, till she turned the
edge of the mountain and stood on the old place where she and Alice that
evening had watched the setting sun. Many a setting sun they had watched
from thence; it had been a favourite pleasure of them both to run up
there for a few minutes before or after tea and see the sun go down at
the far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one of Alice's
haunts; she missed her there; and the thought went keenly home that
there she would come with her no more. She sat down on the stone she
called her own, and leaning her head on Alice's, which was close by, she
wept bitterly, yet not very long; she was too tired and subdued for
bitter weeping; she raised her head again, and wiping away her tears,
looked abroad over the beautiful landscape. Never more beautiful than
then.

The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. The
sides and tops of the hills looking towards the east were bright with
the cool brightness of the morning; beyond and between them deep shadows
lay. The sun could not yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen
sat, nor at the long reach of ground it screened from his view,
stretching from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley; but to
the left, between that and the Cat's Back, the rays of the sun streamed
through, touching the houses of the village, showing the lake, and
making every tree and barn and clump of wood in the distance stand out
in bright relief. Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a
warm day was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of
yesterday. Now, the air was fresh with the dew and sweet from hayfield
and meadow; and the birds were singing like mad all around. There was no
answering echo in the little human heart that looked and listened. Ellen
loved all these things too well not to notice them even now; she felt
their full beauty; but she felt it sadly. "_She_ will look at it no
more!" she said to herself. But instantly came an answer to her thought:
"Behold I create new heavens, and a new earth; and the former shall not
be remembered, nor come into mind. Thy sun shall no more go down;
neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine
everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."

"She is there now," thought Ellen, "she is happy, why should I be sorry
for her? I am not; but oh! I must be sorry for myself. Oh, Alice! dear
Alice!"

She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with
which she was so familiar, "the days of thy mourning shall be ended;"
and again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for
herself alone. And for herself, "Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?"
she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down
into the brightening valley or off to the hills that stretched away on
either hand of it; when up through the still air the sound of the little
Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then
stopped. It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for
at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had entirely
forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness, the
sound came pealing up.

"One--two!"

Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.

It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasions
of death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by
way of drawing attention; these are followed after a little pause by a
single one if the knell is for a man, or two for a woman. Then another
short pause. Then follows the number of years the person has lived, told
in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing
once more the tolling begins, and is kept up for some time; the strokes
following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die
quite away before another breaks upon the ear.

Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it
familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given
out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be heard at Miss
Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and
surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly told out,
every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her
face in her lap and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and
as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the
air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her
when the sound ceased.

Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not
trust its higher tones, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from
whence cometh my help!"

How differently _that_ sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an
indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she
slowly rose from her seat and put both her arms round the speaker's
neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen the arm that held her was more
than all words; it was the dividing line between her and the world, on
this side everything, on that side nothing.

No word was spoken for many minutes.

"My dear Ellen," said her brother softly, "how came you here?"

"I don't know," whispered Ellen, "there was nobody there--I couldn't
stay in the house."

"Shall we go home now?"

"Oh yes--whenever you please."

But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still stood with
her arm upon her brother's shoulder; the eyes of both were on the scene
before them; the thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again.

"Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love
in this world; that is His meaning--let sorrow but bring us closer to
Him. Dear Alice is well--she is well, and if we are made to suffer, we
know and we love the hand that has done it, do we not, Ellie?"

Ellen put her hands to her face; she thought her heart would break. He
gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and still keeping his
arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on--

"Think that she is happy; think that she is safe; think that she is with
that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance, satisfied with His
likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin; think that sweetly and
easily she has got home; and it is our home too. We must weep, because
we are left alone; but for her 'I heard a voice from heaven saying unto
me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord'!"

As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped;
but she still kept her hands to her face.

"Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother, after another silence.

She rose up instantly and said yes. But he held her still, and looking
for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her
countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of
endearment which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand
they went down the mountain together.




CHAPTER XLIII

          I have seen angels by the sick one's pillow;
            There was the soft tone and the soundless tread,
          Where smitten hearts were drooping like the willow,
            They stood "between the living and the dead."

                                                  --UNKNOWN.


The whole Marshman family arrived to-day from Ventnor, some to see
Alice's lovely remains, and all to follow them to the grave. The
parsonage could not hold so many; the two Mr. Marshmans, therefore, with
Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made their quarters at Thirlwall. Margery's
hands were full enough with those that were left.

In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the room, _the_
room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the sweet face
she loved so dearly, when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. Vawse came up for the
same purpose. All three stood some time in silence.

The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. Upon the
pillow, and upon and about the hands which were folded on the breast,
were scattered some of the rich late roses, roses and rosebuds, strewn
with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A single stem of white lilies
lay on the side of the bed; the rest of the flowers, a large quantity,
covered the feet, seeming to have been flung there without any attempt
at arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with
exquisite taste and feeling. Beside the roses, there were none that were
not either white or distinguished for their fragrance. The delicate
white verbena, the pure feverfew, mignonette, sweet geranium, white
myrtle, the rich-scented heliotrope, were mingled with the late
blossoming damask and purple roses; no yellow flowers, no purple, except
those mentioned; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left
out by the nice hand that had culled them. But the arranging of these
beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted; though indeed
it might be questioned whether the finest art could have bettered the
effect of what the overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs.
Chauncey, however, after a while began slowly to take a flower or two
from the foot and place them on other parts of the bed.

"Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold," said Margery then, who had
looked on with no pleasure while this was doing, "but if she had seen
when those flowers were put there, it wouldn't be her wish, I am sure it
wouldn't be her wish, to stir one of them."

Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew back.

"Why, who put them there?" she asked.

"Miss Ellen, ma'am."

"Where is Ellen?"

"I think she is sleeping, ma'am. Poor child! she's the most wearied of
us all with sorrow and watching," said Margery, weeping.

"You saw her bring them up, did you?"

"I saw her, ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live!"

"Why?" said Mrs. Chauncey gently.

"It's a thing one should have seen, ma'am, to understand. I don't know
as I can tell it well."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish, Margery went
on, half under her breath.

"Why, ma'am, the way it was, I had come up to get some linen out of the
closet, for I had watched my time; Mrs. Chauncey sees, I was afeared of
finding Mr. John here, and I knew that he was lying down just then,
so----"

"Lying down, was he?" said Mrs. Vawse. "I did not know he had taken any
rest to-day."

"It was very little he took, ma'am, indeed, though there was need
enough, I am sure; he had been up with his father the live-long blessed
night. And then the first thing this morning he was away after Miss
Ellen, poor child! wherever she had betaken herself to; I happened to
see her before anybody was out, going round the corner of the house, and
so I knew when he asked me for her."

"Was she going after flowers _then_?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh no, ma'am, it was a long time after; it was this morning some time.
I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr. John was in his room, and
I thought I was safe; and I had just taken two or three pieces on my
arm, you know, ma'am, when somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I
had come for, and leaving what I should ha' been adoing, I was standing
there, looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to see
in death--and I had entirely forgotten what I was there for, ma'am--when
I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming softly upstairs. I didn't
want her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back
a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me back in the closet
where I was. But it had like to have got the better of me entirely,
ma'am, when I see her come in with a lap full of them flowers, and
looking so as she did too! but with much trouble I kept quiet. She went
up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs. Chauncey is
standing, with her sweet sad little face--it's the hardest thing to see
a child's face look so--and the flowers all gathered up in her frock. It
was odd to see her, she didn't cry--not at all--only once I saw her brow
wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, for she put her hand
up to her face and held it a little, and then she began to take out the
flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose here and a rose-bud there, and
so; and then she went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and
two or three more roses there on the pillow. But I could see all the
while it was getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn't get
through; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there in that
hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her face; she
turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed up all the
flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot there--that's just as they
fell--and down she went on her knees, and her face in her hands on the
side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen," said Margery,
weeping--"I couldn't do anything but look at that child kneeling there,
and her flowers--and all beside her she used to call her sister, and
that couldn't be a sister to her no more; and she's without a sister now
to be sure, poor child!"

"She has a brother, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. Chauncey, when she
could speak.

"And that's just what I was going to tell you, ma'am. She had been there
five or ten minutes without moving, or more--I am sure I don't know how
long it was, I didn't think how time went--when the first thing I knew I
heard another step, and Mr. John came in. I thought, and expected, he
was taking some sleep; but I suppose," said Margery sighing, "he
couldn't rest. I knew his step, and just drew myself back further. He
came just where you are, ma'am, and stood with his arms folded a long
time looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear him come in; but
however she didn't; and they were both as still as death, one on one
side and the other on the other side. And I wondered he didn't see her;
but her white dress and all--and I suppose he had no thought but for one
thing. I knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked over and
spied her on the other side of the bed; I see his colour change; and
then his mouth took the look it always did whenever he sets himself to
do anything. He stood a minute, and then he went round and knelt down
beside of her, and softly took away one of her hands from under her
face, and held it in both of his own, and then he made such a prayer!
Oh," said Margery, her tears falling fast at the recollection, "I never
heard the like! I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Alice, and he had
reason enough, to be sure, and for himself and Miss Ellen--I wondered to
hear him! and he prayed for them too, and others--and--oh, I thought I
couldn't stand and hear him; and I was afeared to breathe the whole
time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beautifullest prayer I
did ever hear, or ever shall, however."

"And how did Ellen behave?" said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.

"She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he had done,
and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. John put the
rest of the flowers up there round her hands and the pillow--Miss Ellen
hadn't put more than half-a-dozen; I noticed how he kept hold of Miss
Ellen's hand all the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't
finish the flowers, and he told her, 'I saw it all, Ellie,' he said; and
he said 'it didn't want finishing.' I wondered how he should see it, but
I suppose he did, however. _I_ understood it very well. They went away
downstairs after that."

"He is beautifully changed," said Mrs. Vawse.

"I don't know, ma'am," said Margery, "I've heard that said afore, but I
can't say as I ever could see it. He always was the same to me--always
the honourablest, truest, noblest--my husband says he was a bit fiery,
but I never could tell that the one temper was sweeter than the other;
only everybody always did whatever Mr. John wanted, to be sure; but he
was the perfectest gentleman, always."

"I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came," said
Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, ma'am," said Margery, "they were out reading under the trees for a
long time; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way a little while ago and
went to lie down."

"How is Mr. Humphreys?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, ma'am; he is worse than any one knows of, I am
afraid, unless Mr. John; you will not see him, ma'am; he has not been
here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will go hard with my poor
master, I am afraid," said Margery, weeping; "dear Miss Alice said Miss
Ellen was to take her place; but it would want an angel to do that."

"Ellen will do a great deal," said Mrs. Vawse; "Mr. Humphreys loves her
well now, I know."

"So do I, ma'am, I am sure; and so does every one; but still----"

Margery broke off her sentence and sorrowfully went downstairs. Mrs.
Chauncey moved no more flowers.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into Ellen's
room.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you?"

"Yes, Margery," said Ellen, sitting up on the bed; "come in. What is
it?"

"I came to ask Miss Ellen if she _could_ do me a great favour; there's a
strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet, and it don't seem
right. He has been here this some time."

"Have you told Mr. John?"

"No, Miss Ellen; he's in the library with my master; and somehow I
dursn't go to the door; mayhap they wouldn't be best pleased. _Would_
Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentleman's being here?"

Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that; Margery could
hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon herself; she did not
say so.

"You are sure he is there, Margery?"

"I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you; but if you
wouldn't mind--I am ashamed to have the gentleman left to himself so
long."

"I'll do it, Margery."

She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing her hair,
set off to the library. On the way she almost repented her willingness
to oblige Margery; the errand was marvellously disagreeable to her. She
had never gone to that room except with Alice; never entered it
uninvited. She could hardly make up her mind to knock at the door. But
she had promised; it must be done.

The first fearful tap was too light to rouse any mortal ears. At the
second, though not much better, she heard some one move, and John opened
the door. Without waiting to hear her speak he immediately drew her in,
very unwillingly on her part, and led her silently up to his father. The
old gentleman was sitting in his great study-chair with a book open at
his side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his and
held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared not raise her
eyes.

"My little girl," said he very gravely, though not without a tone of
kindness too, "are you coming here to cheer my loneliness?"

Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word; it was impossible;
she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand that lay on
the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon her head.

"God bless you," said he, "abundantly, for all the love you showed
_her_. Come--if you will--and be, as far as a withered heart will let
you, all that she wished. All is yours--except what will be buried with
her."

Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words and manner
were sad and solemn; it was the _tone_ that distressed her. There was no
tearfulness in it; it trembled a little; it seemed to come indeed from a
withered heart. She shook with the effort she made to control herself.
John asked her presently what she had come for.

"A gentleman," said Ellen--"there's a gentleman--a stranger----"

He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. Ellen
did not know whether to go too or stay, she thought from his not taking
her with him he wished her to stay; she stood doubtfully. Presently she
heard steps coming back along the hall--steps of two persons--the door
opened, and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen! she
knew him in a moment; it was her old friend, her friend of the boat--Mr.
George Marshman.

Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook hands in
silence. Ellen had at first shrunk out of the way to the other side of
the room, and now when she saw an opportunity she was going to make her
escape, but John gently detained her; and she stood still by his side,
though with a kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or
time for her old friend to recognise her. He was sitting by Mr.
Humphreys and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought
nothing of what they were saying; with eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr.
Marshman she was reading memory's long story over again. The same
pleasant look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort
her in her first sorrow--the old way of speaking, and even of moving an
arm or hand, the familiar figure and face; how they took Ellen's
thoughts back to the deck of the steamboat, the hymns, the talks; the
love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and
effectually to do her duty; it was all present again; and Ellen gazed at
him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for the moment everything
else. The same love and kindness were endeavouring now to say something
for Mr. Humphreys' relief; it was a hard task. The old gentleman heard
and answered, for the most part briefly, but so as to show that his
friend laboured in vain; the bitterness and hardness of grief were
unallayed yet. It was not till John made some slight remark that Mr.
Marshman turned his head that way; he looked for a moment in some
surprise, and then said, his countenance lightening, "Is that Ellen
Montgomery?"

Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched hand. But as
she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the whole look, the
thought of which she had treasured up for years, it was too much. Back
as in a flood to her heart, seemed to come at once all the thoughts and
feelings of the time since then; the difference of this meeting from the
joyful one she had so often pictured to herself; the sorrow of that time
mixed with the sorrow now; and the sense that the very hand that had
wiped those first tears away was the one now laid in the dust by death.
All thronged on her heart at once; and it was too much. She had scarce
touched Mr. Marshman's hand when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave
way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious. There was
such an utter absence of all bitterness or hardness in the tone of this
grief; there was so touching an expression of submission mingled with
it, that even Mr. Humphreys was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued
weeper there; not the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart.
For a few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till
Ellen recovered enough to make her escape; and then the colour of sorrow
was lightened, in one breast at least.

"Brother," said Mr. Humphreys, "I can hear you now better than I could a
little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is good. 'Light in the
darkness'; I see it now. That child has given me a lesson."

Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had followed her
quitting the room. But she thought when John came to the tea-table he
looked relieved. If his general kindness and tenderness of manner
towards herself _could_ have been greater than usual, she might have
thought it was that night; but she only thought he felt better.

Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a great
comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with sorrow, he was able
to make that effort for the good of the rest, which no one yet had been
equal to. The whole family, except Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together
at this time; and his grave, cheerful, unceasing kindness made that by
far the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding
grateful to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old remembrance as well
as the present effect. And he had not forgotten his old kindness for
her; she saw it in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every way;
and the feeling that she had got her old friend again and should never
lose him now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could
possibly have done at that time. His own family too had not seen him in
a long time, so his presence was a matter of general satisfaction.

Later in the evening Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, looking
and listening--he was like a piece of old music to her--when John came
to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to speak to her. She went
with him to the other side of the room.

"Ellie," said he in a low voice, "I think my father would like to hear
you sing a hymn, do you think you could?"

Ellen looked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resolution
in her countenance, and said yes.

"Not if it will pain you too much, and not unless you think you can
surely go through with it, Ellen," he said gently.

"No," said Ellen; "I will try."

"Will it not give you too much pain? do you think you can?"

"No--I will try!" she repeated.

As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself that she
_would_ do it. The library was dark; coming from the light Ellen at
first could see nothing. John placed her in a chair, and went away
himself to a little distance where he remained perfectly still. She
covered her face with her hands for a minute, and prayed for strength;
she was afraid to try.

Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and utterance.
The latter Ellen had in part caught from them; in the former she thought
herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she underrated herself; her voice,
though not indeed powerful, was low and sweet, and very clear; and the
entire simplicity and feeling with which she sang hymns was more
effectual than any higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been
very much accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth
and simplicity of expression; listening with delight, as she had often
done, and often joining with her, Ellen had caught something of her
manner.

She thought nothing of all this now; she had a trying task to go
through. Sing!--then, and there! And what should she sing? All that
class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of their sorrow must be
left on one side; she hardly dared think of them. Instinctively she took
up another class, that without baring the wound would lay the balm close
to it. A few minutes of deep stillness were in the dark room; then very
low, and in tones that trembled a little, rose the words--

         "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
            In a believer's ear;
          It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
            And drives away his fear."

The tremble in her voice ceased, as she went on---

         "It makes the wounded spirit whole,
            And calms the troubled breast;
          'Tis manna to the hungry soul,
            And to the weary, rest.

          By him my prayers acceptance gain,
            Although with sin defiled;
          Satan accuses me in vain,
            And I am owned a child.

          Weak is the effort of my heart,
            And cold my warmest thought,--
          But when I see thee as thou art,
            I'll praise thee as I ought.

          Till then I would thy love proclaim
            With every lab'ring breath;
          And may the music of thy name
            Refresh my soul in death."

Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in the room.
She thought of the hymn, "Loving Kindness;" but the tune, and the spirit
of the words, was too lively. Her mother's favourite, "'Tis my happiness
below," but Ellen could not venture that; she strove to forget it as
fast as possible. She sang, clearly and sweetly as ever now--

         "Hark, my soul, it is the Lord,
          'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word;
          Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee,
          'Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou me!

          'I delivered thee when bound,
          And when bleeding healed thy wound;
          Sought thee wandering, set thee right,
          Turned thy darkness into light.

          'Can a mother's tender care
          Cease toward the child she bare?
          Yea--_she_ may forgetful be,
          Yet will I remember thee.

          'Mine is an unchanging love;
          Higher than the heights above,
          Deeper than the depths beneath,
          Free and faithful, strong as death.

          'Thou shalt see my glory soon,
          When the work of life is done,
          Partner of my throne shalt be,
          Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?'

          Lord, it is my chief complaint
          That my love is weak and faint;
          Yet I love thee and adore,
          Oh for grace to love thee more!"

Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She hoped she
was doing some good; and that hope enabled her, after the first
trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She was not
thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see the effect upon
her auditors. Through the dark her eyes could only just discern a dark
figure stretched upon the sofa and another standing by the mantelpiece.
The room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The choice
of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of "Jerusalem, my
happy home," but it would not do; she and Alice had too often sung it in
strains of joy. Happily came to her mind the beautiful,

         "How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord," &c.

She went through all the seven long verses. Still, when Ellen paused at
the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite her to go on.
She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed words had gone down
into her very heart; did they ever seem half so sweet before? She was
cheered and strengthened, and thought she could go through with the next
hymn, though it had been much loved and often used, both by her mother
and Alice.

         "Jesus, lover of my soul,
          Let me to thy bosom fly,
          While the billows near me roll,
          While the tempest still is nigh.
          Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
          Till the storm of life be past:--
          Safe into the haven guide,--
          O receive my soul at last!

          Other refuge have I none,
          Hangs my helpless soul on thee--
          Leave, ah! leave me not alone!
          Still support and comfort me.
          All my trust on thee is stayed,
          All my help from thee I bring:--
          Cover my defenceless head,
          Beneath the shadow of thy wing.

          Thou, O Christ, art all I want;
          More than all in thee I find;
          Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
          Heal the sick, and lead the blind.
          Just and holy is thy name,
          I am all unrighteousness;
          Vile and full of sin I am,
          Thou art full of truth and grace."

Still silence; "silence that spoke!" Ellen did not know what it said,
except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next was a
favourite hymn of them all.

         "What are these in bright array," &c.

Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the words,
for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She was fain to
make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. But in vain; the
tender nerve was touched; there was no stilling its quivering.

"Ellen," said Mr. Humphreys then, after a few minutes. She rose and went
to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast.

"Thank you, my child," he said presently; "you have been a comfort to
me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been sweeter."

As Ellen went away back through the hall her tears almost choked her;
but for all that there was a strong throb of pleasure at her heart.

"I have been a comfort to him," she repeated. "Oh, dear Alice! so I
will."




CHAPTER XLIV

          A child no more!--a maiden now--
          A graceful maiden with a gentle brow;
          A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye,
          And all hearts bless her as she passes by.

                                                  --MARY HOWITT.


The whole Marshman family returned to Ventnor immediately after the
funeral, Mr. George excepted; he stayed with Mr. Humphreys over the
Sabbath, and preached for him; and much to every one's pleasure lingered
still a day or two longer; then he was obliged to leave them. John also
must go back to Doncaster for a few weeks; he would not be able to get
home again before the early part of August. For the month between, and
as much longer indeed as possible, Mrs. Marshman wished to have Ellen
at Ventnor; assuring her that it was to be her home always whenever she
chose to make it so. At first neither Mrs. Marshman nor her daughters
would take any denial; and old Mr. Marshman was fixed upon it. But Ellen
begged with tears that she might stay at home, and begin at once, as far
as she could, to take Alice's place. Her kind friends insisted that it
would do her harm to be left alone for so long, at such a season. Mr.
Humphreys at the best of times kept very much to himself, and now he
would more than ever; she would be very lonely. "But how lonely _he_
will be if I go away!" said Ellen: "I can't go." Finding that her heart
was set upon it, and that it would be a real grief to her to go to
Ventnor, John at last joined to excuse her; and he made an arrangement
with Mrs. Vawse instead that she should come and stay with Ellen at the
parsonage till he came back. This gave Ellen great satisfaction; and her
kind Ventnor friends were obliged unwillingly to leave her.

The first few days after John's departure were indeed sad days--very sad
to every one; it could not be otherwise. Ellen drooped miserably. She
had, however, the best possible companion in her old Swiss friend. Her
good sense, her steady cheerfulness, her firm principle, were always
awake for Ellen's good, ever ready to comfort her, to cheer her, to
prevent her from giving undue way to sorrow, to urge her to useful
exertion. Affection and gratitude, to the living and the dead, gave
powerful aid to these efforts. Ellen rose up in the morning and lay down
at night with the present pressing wish to do and be for the ease and
comfort of her adopted father and brother all that it was possible for
her. Very soon, so soon as she could rouse herself to anything, she
began to turn over in her mind all manner of ways and means for this
end. And in general, whatever Alice would have wished, what John did
wish, was law to her.

"Margery," said Ellen one day, "I wish you would tell me all the things
Alice used to do; so that I may begin to do them, you know, as soon as I
can."

"What things, Miss Ellen?"

"I mean, the things she used to do about the house, or to help you,
don't you know? all sorts of things. I want to know them all, so that I
may do them as she did. I want to very much."

"Oh, Miss Ellen, dear," said Margery tearfully, "you are too little and
tender to do them things; I'd be sorry to see you, indeed!"

"Why no, I am not, Margery," said Ellen; "don't you know how I used to
do at Aunt Fortune's? Now tell me--please, dear Margery. If I can't do
it, I won't, you know."

"Oh, Miss Ellen, she used to see to various things about the house; I
don't know as I can tell 'em all directly; some was to help me; and some
to please her father or Mr. John, if he was at home; she thought of
every one before herself, sure enough."

"Well, what, Margery? what are they? Tell me all you can remember?"

"Why, Miss Ellen, for one thing, she used to go into the library every
morning to put it in order, and dust the books and papers and things; in
fact, she took the charge of that room entirely; I never went into it at
all, unless once or twice in the year, or to wash the windows."

Ellen looked grave; she thought with herself there might be a difficulty
in the way of her taking this part of Alice's daily duties; she did not
feel that she had the freedom of the library.

"And then," said Margery, "she used to skim the cream for me, most
mornings, when I'd be busy; and wash up the breakfast things."

"Oh, I forgot all about the breakfast things!" exclaimed Ellen, "how
could I? I'll do them to be sure after this. I never thought of them,
Margery. And I'll skim the cream too."

"Dear Miss Ellen, I wouldn't want you to; I didn't mention it for that,
but you was wishing me tell you--I don't want you to trouble your dear
little head about such work. It was more the thoughtfulness that cared
about me than the help of all she could do, though that wasn't a little;
I'll get along well enough!"

"But I should like to, it would make me happier; and don't you think _I_
want to help you too, Margery?"

"The Lord bless you, Miss Ellen," said Margery, in a sort of
desperation, setting down one iron and taking up another, "don't talk in
that way or you'll upset me entirely. I ain't a bit better than a
child," said she, her tears falling fast on the sheet she was hurriedly
ironing.

"What else, dear Margery?" said Ellen presently. "Tell me what else?"

"Well, Miss Ellen," said Margery, dashing away the water from either
eye, "she used to look over the clothes when they went up from the wash;
and put them away; and mend them if there was any places wanted
mending."

"I am afraid I don't know how to manage that," said Ellen, very gravely.
"There is one thing I can do, I can darn stockings very nicely; but
that's only one kind of mending. I don't know much about the other
kinds."

"Ah well; but _she_ did, however," said Margery, searching in her basket
of clothes for some particular pieces. "A beautiful mender she was, to
be sure! Look here, Miss Ellen, just see that patch--the way it is put
on--so evenly by a thread all round; and the stitches, see--and see the
way this rent is darned down; oh, that was the way she did everything!"

"I can't do it so," said Ellen, sighing, "but I can learn; that I can
do. You will teach me, Margery, won't you?"

"Indeed, Miss Ellen, dear, it's more than I can myself; but I will tell
you who will, and that's Mrs. Vawse. I am thinking it was her she
learned of in the first place--but I ain't certain. Anyhow, she's a
first-rate hand."

"Then I'll get her to teach me," said Ellen; "that will do very nicely.
And now, Margery, what else?"

"Oh dear, Miss Ellen--I don't know--there was a thousand little things
that I'd only recollect at the minute; she'd set the table for me when
my hands was uncommon full; and often she'd come out and make some
little thing for the master when I wouldn't have the time to do the same
myself; and I can't tell--one can't think of those things but just at
the minute. Dear Miss Ellen, I'd be sorry indeed to see you atrying your
little hands to do all that she done."

"Never mind, Margery," said Ellen, and she threw her arms round the kind
old woman as she spoke. "I won't trouble you--and you won't be troubled
if I am awkward about anything at first, will you?"

Margery could only throw down her holder to return most affectionately
as well as respectfully Ellen's caress, and press a very hearty kiss
upon her forehead.

Ellen next went to Mrs. Vawse to beg her help in the mending and
patching line. Her old friend was very glad to see her take up anything
with interest, and readily agreed to do her best in the matter. So some
old clothes were looked up; pieces of linen, cotton, and flannel
gathered together; a large basket found to hold all these rags of shape
and no shape; and for the next week or two Ellen was indefatigable. She
would sit making vain endeavours to arrange a large linen patch
properly, till her cheeks were burning with excitement; and bend over a
darn, doing her best to make invisible stitches, till Mrs. Vawse was
obliged to assure her it was quite unnecessary to take _so much_ pains.
Taking pains, however, is the sure way to success. Ellen could not rest
satisfied till she had equalled Alice's patching and darning; and
though, when Mrs. Vawse left her, she had not quite reached that point,
she was bidding fair to do so in a little while.

In other things she was more at home. She could skim milk well enough,
and immediately began to do it for Margery. She at once also took upon
herself the care of the parlour cupboard and all the things in it, which
she well knew had been Alice's office; and, thanks to Miss Fortune's
training, even Margery was quite satisfied with her neat and orderly
manner of doing it. Ellen begged her when the clothes came up from the
wash, to show her where everything went, so that for the future she
might be able to put them away; and she studied the shelves of the linen
closet, and the chests of drawers in Mr. Humphreys' room, till she
almost knew them by heart. As to the library, she dared not venture. She
saw Mr. Humphreys at meals and at prayers--only then. He had never asked
her to come into his study since the night she sang to him, and as for
_her_ asking--nothing could have been more impossible. Even when he was
out of the house, out by the hour, Ellen never thought of going where
she had not been expressly permitted to go.

When Mr. Van Brunt informed his wife of Ellen's purpose to desert her
service and make her future home at the parsonage, the lady's
astonishment was only less than her indignation, the latter not at all
lessened by learning that Ellen was to become the adopted child of the
house. For a while her words of displeasure were poured forth in a
torrent; Mr. Van Brunt meantime saying very little, and standing by like
a steadfast rock that the waves dash _past_, not _upon_. She declared
that this was "the cap-sheaf of Miss Humphreys' doings; she might have
been wise enough to have expected as much; she wouldn't have been such a
fool if she had! This was what she had let Ellen go there for! a pretty
return!" But she went on. "She wondered who they thought they had to
deal with; did they think she was going to let Ellen go in that way?
_she_ had the first and only right to her; and Ellen had no more
business to go and give herself away than one of her oxen; they would
find it out, she guessed, pretty quick; Mr. John and all; she'd have her
back in no time!" What were her thoughts and feelings, when, after
having spent her breath, she found her husband quietly opposed to this
conclusion, words cannot tell. _Her_ words could not; she was absolutely
dumb, till he had said his say; and then, appalled by the serenity of
his manner, she left indignation on one side for the present and began
to argue the matter. But Mr. Van Brunt coolly said he had promised; she
might get as many helps as she liked, he would pay for them and welcome;
but Ellen would have to stay where she was. He had promised Miss Alice;
and he wouldn't break his word "for kings, lords, and commons." A most
extraordinary expletive for a good Republican--which Mr. Van Brunt had
probably inherited from his father and grandfather. What can waves do
against a rock? The whilome Miss Fortune disdained a struggle which must
end in her own confusion, and wisely kept her chagrin to herself, never
even approaching the subject afterwards, with him or any other person.
Ellen had left the whole matter to Mr. Van Brunt, expecting a storm and
not wishing to share it. Happily it all blew over.

As the month drew to an end, and indeed long before, Ellen's thoughts
began to go forward eagerly to John coming home. She had learned by this
time how to mend clothes; she had grown somewhat wonted to her new round
of little household duties; in everything else the want of him was felt.
Study flagged; though knowing what his wish would be, and what her duty
was, she faithfully tried to go on with it. She had no heart for riding
or walking by herself. She was lonely; she was sorrowful; she was weary;
all Mrs. Vawse's pleasant society was not worth the mere knowledge that
_he_ was in the house; she longed for his coming.

He had written what day they might expect him. But when it came Ellen
found that her feeling had changed; it did not look the bright day she
had expected it would. Up to that time she had thought only of herself;
now she remembered what sort of a coming home this must be to him; and
she dreaded almost as much as she wished for the moment of his arrival.
Mrs. Vawse was surprised to see that her face was sadder that day than
it had been for many past; she could not understand it. Ellen did not
explain. It was late in the day before he reached home, and her anxious
watch of hope and fear for the sound of his horse's feet grew very
painful. She busied herself with setting the tea-table; it was all done;
and she could by no means do anything else. She could not go to the door
to listen there; she remembered too well the last time; and she knew he
would remember it.

He came at last. Ellen's feelings had judged rightly of his, for the
greeting was without a word on either side; and when he left the room to
go to his father, it was very, very long before he came back. And it
seemed to Ellen for several days that he was more grave and talked less
than even the last time he had been at home. She was sorry when Mrs.
Vawse proposed to leave them. But the old lady wisely said they would
all feel better when she was gone; and it was so. Truly as she was
respected and esteemed, on all sides, it was felt a relief by every one
of the family when she went back to her mountain top. They were left to
themselves; they saw what their numbers were; there was no restraint
upon looks, words, or silence. Ellen saw at once that the gentlemen felt
easier, that was enough to make her so. The extreme oppression that had
grieved and disappointed her the first few days after John's return,
gave place to a softened gravity; and the household fell again into all
its old ways; only that upon every brow there was a chastened air of
sorrow, in everything that was said a tone of remembrance, and that a
little figure was going about where Alice's used to move as mistress of
the house.

Thanks to her brother, that little figure was an exceeding busy one. She
had in the first place, her household duties, in discharging which she
was perfectly untiring. From the cream skimmed for Margery, and the cups
of coffee poured out every morning for Mr. Humphreys and her brother, to
the famous mending, which took up often one half of Saturday, whatever
she did was done with her best diligence and care; and from love to both
the dead and the living, Ellen's zeal never slackened. These things,
however, filled but a small part of her time, let her be as particular
as she would; and Mr. John effectually hindered her from being too
particular. He soon found plenty for both her and himself to do.

Not that they ever forgot or tried to forget Alice; on the contrary.
They sought to remember her, humbly, calmly, hopefully, thankfully. By
diligent performance of duty, by Christian faith, by conversation and
prayer, they strove to do this; and after a time succeeded. Sober that
winter was, but it was very far from being an unhappy one.

"John," said Ellen one day, some time after Mrs. Vawse had left them,
"do you think Mr. Humphreys would let me go into his study every day
when he is out, to put it in order and dust the books?"

"Certainly. But why does not Margery do it?"

"She does, I believe, but she never used to; and I should like to do it
very much if I was sure he would not dislike it. I would be careful not
to disturb anything; I would leave everything just as I found it."

"You may go when you please, and do what you please there, Ellie."

"But I don't like to--I couldn't without speaking to him first; I should
be afraid he would come back, and find me there, and he might think I
hadn't had leave."

"And you wish _me_ to speak to him, is that it? Cannot you muster
resolution enough for that, Ellie?"

Ellen was satisfied, for she knew by his tone he would do what she
wanted.

"Father," said John, the next morning at breakfast, "Ellen wishes to
take upon herself the daily care of your study, but she is afraid to
venture without being assured it will please you to see her there."

The old gentleman laid his hand affectionately on Ellen's head, and
told her she was welcome to come and go when she would; the whole house
was hers.

The grave kindness and tenderness of the tone and action spoiled Ellen's
breakfast. She could not look at anybody, nor hold up her head for the
rest of the time.

As Alice had anticipated, her brother was called to take charge of a
church at Randolph, and at the same time another more distant was
offered him. He refused them both, rightly judging that his place for
the present was at home. But the call from Randolph being pressed upon
him very much, he at length agreed to preach for them during the winter;
riding thither for the purpose every Saturday, and returning to
Carra-carra on Monday.

As the winter wore on, a grave cheerfulness stole over the household.
Ellen little thought how much she had to do with it. She never heard
Margery tell her husband, which she often did with great affection,
"that that blessed child was the light of the house," and those who felt
it the most said nothing. Ellen was sure, indeed, from the way in which
Mr. Humphreys spoke to her, looked at her, now and then laid his hand on
her head, and sometimes, very rarely, kissed her forehead, that he loved
her and loved to see her about; and that her wish of supplying Alice's
place was in some little measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks
were, they said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from other
people; the least of them gladdened her heart with the feeling that she
was a comfort to him. But she never knew how much. Deep as the gloom
still over him was, Ellen never dreamed how much deeper it would have
been but for the little figure flitting round and filling up the
vacancy; how much he reposed on the gentle look of affection, the
pleasant voice, the watchful thoughtfulness that never left anything
undone that she could do for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it
himself. She was not sure he even noticed many of the little things she
daily did or tried to do for him. Always silent and reserved, he was
more so now than ever; she saw him little, and very seldom long at a
time, unless when they were riding to church together; he was always in
his study or abroad. But the trifles she thought he did not see were
noted and registered, and repaid with all the affection he had to give.

As for Mr. John, it never came into Ellen's head to think whether she
was a comfort to him; he was a comfort to _her_; she looked at it in
quite another point of view. He had gone to his old sleeping-room
upstairs, which Margery had settled with herself he would make his
study; and for that he had taken the sitting-room. This was Ellen's
study too, so she was constantly with him; and of the quietest she
thought her movements would have to be.

"What are you stepping so softly for?" said he, one day catching her
hand as she was passing near him.

"You were busy--I thought you were busy," said Ellen.

"And what then?"

"I was afraid of disturbing you."

"You never disturb me," said he; "you need not fear it. Step as you
please, and do not shut the doors carefully. I see you and hear you, but
without any disturbance."

Ellen found it was so. But she was an exception to the general rule;
other people disturbed him, as she had one or two occasions of knowing.

Of one thing she was perfectly sure, whatever he might be doing, that he
saw and heard her; and equally sure that if anything were not right she
should sooner or later hear of it. But this was a censorship Ellen
rather loved than feared. In the first place, she was never
misunderstood; in the second, however ironical and severe he might be to
others, and Ellen knew he could be both when there was occasion, he
never was either to her. With great plainness always, but with an
equally happy choice of time and manner, he either said or looked what
he wished her to understand. This happened indeed only about comparative
trifles; to have seriously displeased him, Ellen would have thought the
last great evil that could fall upon her in this world.

One day Margery came into the room with a paper in her hand.

"Miss Ellen," said she in a low tone, "here is Anthony Fox again--he has
brought another of his curious letters that he wants to know if Miss
Ellen will be so good as to write out for him once more. He says he is
ashamed to trouble you so much."

Ellen was reading, comfortably ensconced in the corner of the wide sofa.
She gave a glance, a most ungratified one, at the very original document
in Margery's hand. Unpromising it certainly looked.

"Another! Dear me! I wonder if there isn't somebody else he could get to
do it for him, Margery? I think I have had my share. You don't know what
a piece of work it is to copy out one of those scrawls. It takes me ever
so long in the first place to find what he has written, and then to put
it so that any one else can make sense of it--I've got about enough of
it. Don't you suppose he could find plenty of other people to do it for
him?"

"I don't know, Miss Ellen, I suppose he could."

"Then ask him, do; won't you, Margery? I'm so tired of it! and this is
the third one; and I've got something else to do. Ask him if there isn't
somebody else he can get to do it; if there isn't, I will; tell him I am
busy."

Margery withdrew, and Ellen buried herself again in her book. Anthony
Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a letter Ellen had
once offered to write out and make straight for him, upon hearing
Margery tell of his lamenting that he could not make one fit to send
_home_ to his mother.

Presently Margery came in again, stopping this time at the table which
Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room to get away from the
fire.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "I am ashamed to be so troublesome,
but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has begged me, and I didn't know
how to refuse him, to come in and ask for a sheet of paper and a pen for
him, sir, he wants to copy a letter, if Mr. John would be so good; a
quill pen, sir, if you please; he cannot write with any other."

"No," said John coolly. "Ellen will do it."

Margery looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but Ellen
instantly rose up and with a burning cheek came forward and took the
paper from the hand where Margery still held it.

"Ask him to wait a little while, Margery," she said hurriedly. "I'll do
it as soon as I can, tell him in half-an-hour."

It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it patiently, and
finished it well by the end of the half-hour, though with a burning
cheek still; and a dimness over her eyes frequently obliged her to stop
till she could clear them. It was done, and she carried it out to the
kitchen herself.

The poor man's thanks were very warm; but that was not what Ellen
wanted. She could not rest until she had got another word from her
brother. He was busy; she dared not speak to him; she sat fidgeting and
uneasy in the corner of the sofa till it was time to get ready for
riding. She had plenty of time to make up her mind about the right and
the wrong of her own conduct.

During the ride he was just as usual, and she began to think he did not
mean to say anything more on the matter. Pleasant talk and pleasant
exercise had almost driven it out of her head, when, as they were
walking their horses over a level place, he suddenly began--

"By-the-bye, you are too busy, Ellie," said he. "Which of your studies
shall we cut off?"

"_Please_, Mr. John," said Ellen, blushing, "don't say anything about
that! I was not studying at all--I was just amusing myself with a
book--I was only selfish and lazy."

"_Only_--I would rather you were too busy, Ellie."

Ellen's eyes filled.

"I was wrong," she said, "I knew it at the time, at least as soon as you
spoke I knew it, and a little before; I was very wrong!"

And his keen eye saw that the confession was not out of compliment to
him merely; it came from the heart.

"You are right now," he said, smiling. "But how are your reins?"

Ellen's heart was at rest again.

"Oh! I forgot them," said she gaily, "I was thinking of something else."

"You must not talk when you are riding, unless you can contrive to
manage two things at once; and no more lose command of your horse than
you would of yourself."

Ellen's eye met his with all the contrition, affection, and
ingenuousness that even he wished to see there; and they put their
horses to the canter.

This winter was in many ways a very precious one to Ellen. French gave
her now no trouble; she was a clever arithmetician; she knew geography
admirably; and was tolerably at home in both English and American
history; the way was cleared for the course of improvement in which her
brother's hand led and helped her. He put her into Latin; carried on the
study of natural philosophy they had begun the year before, and which
with his instructions was perfectly delightful to Ellen; he gave her
some works of stronger reading than she had yet tried, beside histories
in French and English, and higher branches of arithmetic. These things
were not crowded together so as to fatigue, nor hurried through so as to
overload. Carefully and thoroughly she was obliged to put her mind
through every subject they entered upon; and just at that age, opening
as her understanding was, it grappled eagerly with all that he gave her,
as well from love to learning as from love to him. In reading, too, she
began to take new and strong delight. Especially two or three new
English periodicals, which John sent for on purpose for her, were mines
of pleasure to Ellen. There was no fiction in them either; they were as
full of instruction as of interest. At all times of the day and night,
in her intervals of business, Ellen might be seen with one of these in
her hand; nestled among the cushions of the sofa, or on a little bench
by the side of the fireplace in the twilight, where she could have the
benefit of the blaze, which she loved to read by as well as ever.
Sorrowful remembrances were then flown, all things present were out of
view, and Ellen's face was dreamingly happy.

It was well there was always somebody by who, whatever he might himself
be doing, never lost sight of her. If ever Ellen was in danger of
bending too long over her studies or indulging herself too much in the
sofa-corner, she was sure to be broken off to take an hour or two of
smart exercise, riding or walking, or to recite some lesson (and their
recitations were very lively things), or to read aloud or to talk.
Sometimes, if he saw that she seemed to be drooping or a little sad, he
would come and sit down by her side, or call her to his, find out what
she was thinking about, and then, instead of slurring it over, talk of
it fairly and set it before her in such a light that it was impossible
to think of it again gloomily, for that day at least. Sometimes he took
other ways, but never when he was present allowed her long to look weary
or sorrowful. He often read to her, and every day made her read aloud to
him. This Ellen disliked very much at first, and ended with as much
liking it. She had an admirable teacher. He taught her how to manage her
voice and how to manage the language, in both which he excelled himself,
and was determined that she should; and besides this, their reading
often led to talking that Ellen delighted in. Always when he was making
copies for her she read to him, and once, at any rate, in the course of
the day.

Every day when the weather would permit, the Black Prince and the
Brownie with their respective riders might be seen abroad in the country
far and wide. In the course of their rides Ellen's horsemanship was
diligently perfected. Very often their turning-place was on the top of
the Cat's Back, and the horses had a rest and Mrs. Vawse a visit before
they went down again. They had long walks, too, by hill and dale;
pleasantly silent or pleasantly talkative, all pleasant to Ellen!

Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to Randolph. It
began early Saturday morning, and perhaps ended with Sunday night, for
all Monday was hope and expectation. Even Saturday she had not much time
to mope; that was the day for her great week's mending. When John was
gone and her morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her
work-basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet day's
sewing, without the lest fear of interruption. But sewing did not always
hinder thinking. And then certainly the room did seem very empty, and
very still; and the clock, which she never heard the rest of the week,
kept ticking an ungracious reminder that she was alone. Ellen would
sometimes forget it in the intense interest of some nice little piece
of repair which must be exquisitely done in a wristband or a glove; and
then perhaps Margery would softly open the door and come in.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you're lonesome enough; isn't there something I can
do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your being here all by
yourself."

"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, smiling, "I am doing very well. I am
living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here, Margery. How will that
do? Don't you think I am learning to mend?"

"It's beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can't make out how you've learned so
quick. I'll tell Mr. John some time who does these things for him."

"No indeed, Margery, don't you. _Please_ not, Margery. I like to do it
very much indeed, but I don't want he should know it, nor Mr. Humphreys.
Now you won't, Margery, will you?"

"Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as would be
worrisome to you for the whole world. Aren't you tired sitting here all
alone?"

"Oh, sometimes, a little," said Ellen, sighing. "I can't help that, you
know."

"I feel it even out there in the kitchen," said Margery; "I feel it
lonesome hearing the house so still; I miss the want of Mr. John's step
up and down the room. How fond he is of walking so, to be sure! How do
you manage, Miss Ellen, with him making his study here? Don't you have
to keep uncommon quiet?"

"No," said Ellen; "no quieter than I like. I do just as I have a mind
to."

"I thought, to be sure," said Margery, "he would have taken upstairs for
his study, or the next room, one or t'other; he used to be mighty
particular in old times; he didn't like to have anybody round when he
was busy. But I am glad he is altered, however; it is better for you,
Miss Ellen, dear, though I didn't know how you was ever going to make
out at first."

Ellen thought for a minute, when Margery was gone, whether it could be
that John was putting a force upon his liking for her sake, bearing her
presence when he would rather have been without it. But she thought of
it only a minute; she was sure, when she recollected herself, that
however it happened, she was no hindrance to him in any kind of work;
that she went out and came in, and as he had said, he saw and heard her
without any disturbance. Besides, he had said so, and that was enough.

Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in her books.
But when Sunday morning came with its calmness and brightness; when the
business of the week was put away, and quietness abroad and at home
invited to recollection, then Ellen's thoughts went back to old times,
and then she missed the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with
the day. She missed her in the morning when the early sun streamed in
through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast-table, where
John was not to take her place. On the ride to church, where Mr.
Humphreys was now her silent companion, and every tree on the road and
every opening in the landscape seemed to call Alice to see it with her.
Very much she missed her in church. The empty seat beside her, the
unused hymn-book on the shelf, the want of her sweet voice in the
singing, oh, how it went to Ellen's heart. And Mr. Humphreys' grave,
steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind; she saw it was in his.
Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were bitterly sad; her
tears used to flow abundantly whenever they could unseen. Time softened
this feeling.

While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the village beyond,
Ellen stayed at Carra-carra, and tried to teach a Sunday-school. She
determined as far as she could to supply beyond the home circle the loss
that was not felt only there. She was able, however, to gather together
but her own four children whom she had constantly taught from the
beginning, and two others. The rest were scattered. After her lunch,
which, having no companion but Margery, was now a short one, Ellen went
next to the two old women that Alice had been accustomed to attend for
the purpose of reading, and what Ellen called preaching. These poor old
people had sadly lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place
they never expected to see supplied in this world, and whose kindness
had constantly sweetened their lives with one great pleasure a week.
Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon herself, as to try to do for them
what Alice had done; however, she resolved; and at the very first
attempt their gratitude and joy far overpaid her for the effort she had
made. Practice and the motive she had soon enabled Ellen to remember and
repeat faithfully the greater part of Mr. Humphreys' morning sermon.
Reading the Bible to Mrs. Blockson was easy; she had often done that;
and to repair the loss of Alice's pleasant comments and explanations she
bethought her of her 'Pilgrim's Progress.' To her delight the old woman
heard it greedily, and seemed to take great comfort in it; often
referring to what Ellen had read before, and begging to hear such a
piece over again. Ellen generally went home pretty thoroughly tired, yet
feeling happy; the pleasure of doing good still far overbalanced the
pains.

Sunday evening was another lonely time; Ellen spent it as best she
could. Sometimes with her Bible and prayer, and then she ceased to be
lonely; sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts that had sprung up out
of the employments of the morning that she could not be sorrowful;
sometimes she could not help being both. In any case, she was very apt
when the darkness fell to take to singing hymns; and it grew to be a
habit with Mr. Humphreys when he heard her to come out of his study and
lie down upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room but
that of the fire. Ellen never was better pleased than when her Sunday
evenings were spent so. She sang with wonderful pleasure when she sang
for him; and she made it her business to fill her memory with all the
beautiful hymns she ever knew or could find, or that he liked
particularly.

With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came the thought,
"John will be at home to-day!" That was enough to carry Ellen pleasantly
through whatever the day might bring. She generally kept her mending of
stockings for Monday morning, because with that thought in head she did
not mind anything. She had no visits from Margery on Monday; but Ellen
sang over her work, sprang about with happy energy, and studied the
hardest; for John in what he expected her to do made no calculations for
work of which he knew nothing. He was never at home till late in the
day; and when Ellen had done all she had to do, and set the supper-table
with punctilious care, and a face of busy happiness, it would have been
a pleasure to see, if there had been any one to look at it, she would
take what happened to be the favourite book and plant herself near the
glass door; like a very epicure, to enjoy both the present and the
future at once. Even then the present often made her forget the future;
she would be lost in her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India or
fighting Nelson's battles over again, and the first news she would have
of what she had set herself there to watch for would be the click of the
door-lock or a tap on the glass, for the horse was almost always left at
the further door. Back then she came, from India or the Nile; down went
the book; Ellen had no more thought but for what was before her.

For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness was full.
It did not matter whether John were in a talkative or a thoughtful mood;
whether he spoke to her and looked at her or not; it was pleasure enough
to feel that he was there. She was perfectly satisfied merely to sit
down near him, though she did not get a word by the hour together.




CHAPTER XLV

          Ne in all the welkin was no cloud.

                                        --CHAUCER.


One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the corner of the
sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen thought so, and standing
near, she by-and-by put her hand gently into one of his, which he was
thoughtfully passing through the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped
immediately, and, quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had
been doing that day? Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and
a long rent in her dress; she merely answered, smiling, that she had
been busy.

"Too busy, I'm afraid. Come round here and sit down. What have you been
busy about?"

Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She 
and hesitated. He did not press it any further.

"Mr. John," said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in again,
"there is something I have been wanting to ask you this great while----"

"Why hasn't it been _asked_ this great while?"

"I didn't quite like to. I didn't know what you would say to it."

"I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie!"

"Why, you are not!" said Ellen, laughing; "how you talk! But I don't
much like to ask people things."

"I don't know about that," said he, smiling; "my memory rather seems to
say that you ask things pretty often."

"Ah yes--those things; but I mean I don't like to ask things when I am
not quite sure how people will take it."

"You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful in such a
matter; but it is best not to be doubtful when I am concerned."

"Well," said Ellen, "I wish very much--I was going to ask--if you would
have any objection to let me read one of your sermons?"

"None in the world, Ellie," said he, smiling; "but they have never been
written yet."

"Not written!"

"No; there is all I had to guide me yesterday."

"A half sheet of paper! and only written on one side! Oh, I can make
nothing of this. What is _this_? Hebrew?"

"Shorthand."

"And is that all? I cannot understand it," said Ellen, sighing as she
gave back the paper.

"What if you were to go with me next time? They want to see you very
much at Ventnor."

"So do I want to see them," said Ellen; "very much indeed."

"Mrs. Marshman sent a most earnest request by me that you would come to
her the next time I go to Randolph."

Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration, if one might judge
by her face.

"What do you say to it?"

"I should like to go--_very_ much," said Ellen slowly; "but----"

"But you do not think it would be pleasant?"

"No, no," said Ellen, laughing, "I don't mean that; but I think I would
rather not."

"Why?"

"Oh, I have some reasons."

"You must give me very good ones, or I think I shall overrule your
decision, Ellie."

"I have _very_ good ones--plenty of them--only----"

A glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen's
hesitation.

"I have indeed," said she, laughing, "only I did not want to tell you.
The reason why I didn't wish to go was because I thought I should be
missed. You don't know how much I miss you," said she, with tears in her
eyes.

"That is what I was afraid of. Your reasons make against you, Ellie."

"I hope not. I don't think they ought."

"But, Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you once or
twice than have you want what would be good for you."

"I know that! I am sure of that! but that don't alter my feeling, you
know. And besides--that isn't all."

"Who else will miss you?"

Ellen's quick look seemed to say that he knew too much already, and that
she did not wish him to know more. He did not repeat the question, but
Ellen felt that her secret was no longer entirely her own.

"And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely?" he went on
presently.

Ellen's eyes watered at the tone in which these words were spoken; she
answered, "Different things."

"The best remedy for it is prayer. In seeking the face of our best
Friend we forget the loss of others. That is what I try, Ellie, when I
feel alone. Do you try it?" said he softly.

Ellen looked up; she could not well speak at that moment.

"There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who said, 'he
that cometh to Me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall
never thirst.'"

"It troubles me," said he, after a pause, "to leave you so much alone. I
don't know that it were not best to take you with me every week."

"Oh no!" said Ellen; "don't think of me. I don't mind it indeed. I do
not always feel so--sometimes, but I get along very well; and I would
rather stay here, indeed I would. I am always happy as soon as Monday
morning comes."

He rose up suddenly and began to walk up and down the room.

"Mr. John----"

"What, Ellie?"

"I do sometimes seek His face very much when I cannot find it."

She hid her face in the sofa cushion. He was silent a few minutes, and
then stopped his walk.

"There is something wrong then with you, Ellie," he said gently. "How
has it been through the week? If you can let day after day pass without
remembering your best Friend, it may be that when you feel the want you
will not readily find Him. How is it daily, Ellie? is seeking His face
your first concern? do you give a sufficient time faithfully to your
Bible and prayer?"

Ellen shook her head; no words were possible. He took up his walk again.
The silence had lasted a length of time, and he was still walking when
Ellen came to his side and laid her hand on his arm.

"Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie?"

She weepingly answered yes. They walked a few turns up and down.

"Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be possible,
you will give an hour _at least_ to this business--whatever else may be
done or undone?"

Ellen promised; and then with her hand in his they continued their walk
through the room till Mr. Humphreys and the servants came in. Her
brother's prayer that night Ellen never forgot.

No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor; but a week or
two after, John smilingly told her to get all her private affairs
arranged and to let her friends know they need not expect to see her the
next Sunday, for that he was going to take her with him. As she saw he
had made up his mind, Ellen said nothing in the way of objecting; and
now that the decision was taken from her was really very glad to go. She
arranged everything, as he had said, and was ready Saturday morning to
set off with a very light heart.

They went in the sleigh. In a happy quiet mood of mind, Ellen enjoyed
everything exceedingly. She had not been to Ventnor in several months;
the change of scene was very grateful. She could not help thinking, as
they slid along smoothly and swiftly over the hard-frozen snow, that it
_was_ a good deal pleasanter, for once, than sitting alone in the
parlour at home with her work-basket. Those days of solitary duty,
however, had prepared her for the pleasure of this one; Ellen knew that,
and was ready to be thankful for everything. Throughout the whole way,
whether the eye and mind silently indulged in roving, or still better
loved talk interrupted, as it often did, Ellen was in a state of most
unmixed and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the slightest reason to
doubt the correctness of his judgment in bringing her. He went in but a
moment at Ventnor, and leaving her there, proceeded himself to Randolph.

Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken the greatest
care of and enjoyed as much as possible while one has it. Mrs. Marshman
and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she had been their own child. Ellen
Chauncey overwhelmed her with joyful caresses, and could scarcely let
her out of her arms by night or by day. She was more than ever Mr.
Marshman's pet; but indeed she was well petted by all the family. It was
a very happy visit.

Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy not only Mrs.
Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her brother (for his
church was not the one the family attended), but the carriage was
ordered in the afternoon also; and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter and
Miss Sophia went with her again. When they returned Miss Sophia, who had
taken a very great fancy to her, brought her into her own room and made
her lie down with her upon the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not
tired.

"Well, you ought to be, if you are not," said the lady. "I am. Keep
away, Ellen Chauncey, you can't be anywhere without talking. You can
live without Ellen for half-an hour, can't ye? Leave us a little while
in quiet."

Ellen for her part was quite willing to be quiet. But Miss Sophia was
not sleepy, and it soon appeared had no intention of being silent
herself.

"Well, how do you like your brother in the pulpit?" she began.

"I like him anywhere, ma'am," said Ellen, with a very unequivocal smile.

"I thought he would have come here with you last night! it is very mean
of him! He never comes near us; he always goes to some wretched little
lodging or place in the town there--always; never so much as looks at
Ventnor, unless sometimes he may stop for a minute at the door."

"He said he would come here to-night," said Ellen.

"Amazing condescending of him! However, he isn't like anybody else; I
suppose we must not judge him by common rules. How is Mr. Humphreys,
Ellen?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen, "it is hard to tell; he doesn't say
much. I think he is rather more cheerful--if anything--than I expected
he would be."

"And how do you get along there, poor child! with only two such grave
people about you?"

"I get along very well, ma'am," said Ellen, with what Miss Sophia
thought a somewhat curious smile.

"I believe you will grow to be as sober as the rest of them," said she.
"How does Mr. John behave?"

Ellen turned so indubitably curious a look upon her at this that Miss
Sophia half laughed and went on.

"Mr. Humphreys was not always as silent and reserved as he is now; I
remember him when he was different; though I don't think he ever was
much like his son. Did you ever hear about it?"

"About what, ma'am?"

"Oh, about coming to this country; what brought him to Carra-carra?"

"No, ma'am."

"My father, you see, had come out long before, but the two families had
been always very intimate in England, and it was kept up after he came
away. He was a particular friend of an elder brother of Mr. Humphreys;
his estate and my grandfather's lay very near each other; and besides,
there were other things that drew them to each other; he married my
aunt, for one. My father made several journeys back and forth in the
course of years, and so kept up his attachment to the whole family, you
know; and he became very desirous to get Mr. Humphreys over here--this
Mr. Humphreys, you know. He was the younger brother--younger brothers
in England generally have little or nothing; but you don't know anything
about that, Ellen. _He_ hadn't anything then but his living, and that
was a small one; he had some property left him though, just before he
came to America."

"But, Miss Sophia"--Ellen hesitated--"are you sure they would like I
should hear all this?"

"Why, yes, child!--of course they would; everybody knows it. Some things
made Mr. Humphreys as willing to leave England about that time as my
father was to have him. An excellent situation was offered him in one of
the best institutions here, and he came out. That's about--let me see--I
was just twelve years old and Alice was one year younger. She and I were
just like sisters always from that time. We lived near together, and saw
each other every day, and our two families were just like one. But they
were liked by everybody. Mrs. Humphreys was a very fine person--very; oh
very! I never saw any woman I admired more. Her death almost killed her
husband; and I think Alice--I don't know--there isn't the least sign of
delicate health about Mr. Humphreys nor Mr. John--not the slightest--nor
about Mrs. Humphreys either. She was a very fine woman!"

"How long ago did she die?" said Ellen.

"Five--six, seven--seven years ago. Mr. John had been left in England
till a little before. Mr. Humphreys was never the same after that. He
wouldn't hold his professorship any longer; he couldn't bear society; he
just went and buried himself at Carra-carra. That was a little after we
came here."

How much all this interested Ellen! She was glad however when Miss
Sophia seemed to have talked herself out, for she wanted very much to
think over John's sermon. And as Miss Sophia happily fell into a doze
soon after, she had a long quiet time for it, till it grew dark, and
Ellen Chauncey, whose impatience could hold no longer, came to seek her.

John came in the evening. Ellen's patience and politeness were severely
tried in the course of it; for while she longed exceedingly to hear what
her brother and the older members of the family were talking
about--animated, delightful conversation she was sure--Ellen Chauncey
detained her in another part of the room; and for a good part of the
evening she had to bridle her impatience, and attend to what she did not
care about. She did it, and Ellen Chauncey did not suspect it; and at
last she found means to draw both her and herself near the larger group.
But they seemed to have got through what they were talking about; there
was a lull. Ellen waited; and hoped they would begin again.

"You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John," said Miss Sophia.

He bowed gravely.

"Did you know whom you had among your auditors? the ---- and ---- were
there;" naming some distinguished strangers in the neighbourhood.

"I think I saw them."

"You 'think' you did! Is that an excess of pride or an excess of
modesty? Now, do be a reasonable creature, and confess that you are not
insensible to the pleasure and honour of addressing such an audience!"

Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt for an instant in his face,
instantly succeeded by a smile.

"Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old woman that
sat at the foot of the pulpit stairs."

"That old thing!" said Miss Sophia.

"I saw her," said Mrs. Chauncey; "poor old creature! she seemed most
deeply attentive when I looked at her."

"I saw her," cried Ellen Chauncey, "and the tears were running down her
cheeks several times."

"I didn't see her," said Ellen Montgomery, as John's eye met hers. He
smiled.

"But do you mean to say," continued Miss Sophia, "that you are
absolutely careless as to who hears you?"

"I have always one hearer, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity, that it
sinks the rest into great insignificance."

"That is a rebuke," said Miss Sophia; "but nevertheless I shall tell you
that I liked you very much this afternoon."

He was silent.

"I suppose you will tell me next," said the young lady, laughing, "that
you are sorry to hear me say so."

"I am," said he gravely.

"Why, may I ask?"

"You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at least as one
of my hearers was concerned."

"How do you know that?"

"Do you remember what Louis the Fourteenth said to Massillon?--Mon
p[`e]re, j'ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma chapelle; j'en
ai ['e]t['e] fort content, pour vous, toutes les fois que je vous ai
entendu, j'ai ['e]t['e] tr[`e]s m['e]content de moi-m[^e]me!"

Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for an instant.

"Then you really mean to be understood, that provided you fail of your
aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people think of you?"

"As I would take a bankrupt's promissory note in lieu of told gold. It
gives me small gratification, Miss Sophia--very small indeed--to see the
bowing head of the grain that yet my sickle cannot reach."

"I agree with you most heartily," said Mr. George Marshman. The
conversation dropped; and the two gentlemen began another in an
undertone, pacing up and down the floor together.

The next morning, not sorrowfully, Ellen entered the sleigh again and
they set off homewards.

"What a sober little piece that is," said Mr. Howard.

"Oh! sober!" cried Ellen Chauncey. "That is because you don't know her,
Uncle Howard. She is the cheerfullest, happiest girl that I ever saw
always."

"Except Ellen Chauncey--always," said her uncle.

"She is a singular child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "She is grave certainly,
but she don't look moped at all, and I should think she would be, to
death."

"There's not a bit of moping about her," said Miss Sophia. "She can
laugh and smile as well as anybody; though she has sometimes that
peculiar grave look of the eyes that would make a stranger doubt it. I
think John Humphreys has infected her; he has something of the same look
himself."

"I am not sure whether it is the eyes or the mouth, Sophia," said Mr.
Howard.

"It is both," said Miss Sophia. "Did you ever see the eyes look one way
and the mouth another?"

"And besides," said Ellen Chauncey, "she has reason to look sober, I am
sure."

"She is a fascinating child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "I cannot comprehend
where she gets the manner she has. I never saw a more perfectly polite
child; and there she has been for months with nobody to speak to her but
two gentlemen and the servants. It is natural to her, I suppose; she can
have nobody to teach her."

"I am not so sure as to that," said Miss Sophia; "but I have noticed the
same thing often. Did you observe her last night, Matilda, when John
Humphreys came in? you were talking to her at the moment; I saw her,
before the door was opened, I saw the colour come and her eyes sparkle,
but she did not look towards him for an instant, till you had finished
what you were saying to her, and she had given, as she always does, her
modest quiet answer; and then her eye went straight as an arrow to where
he was standing."

"And yet," said Mrs. Chauncey, "she never moved towards him when you
did, but stayed quietly on that side of the room with the young ones
till he came round to them, and it was some time too."

"She is an odd child," said Miss Sophia, laughing; "what do you think
she said to me yesterday? I was talking to her and getting rather
communicative on the subject of my neighbours' affairs; and she asked me
gravely--the little monkey--if I was sure they would like her to hear
it? I felt quite rebuked; though I didn't choose to let her know as
much."

"I wish Mr. John would bring her every week," said Ellen Chauncey,
sighing; "it would be so pleasant to have her."

Towards the end of the winter Mr. Humphreys began to propose that his
son should visit England and Scotland during the following summer. He
wished him to see his family and to know his native country, as well as
some of the most distinguished men and institutions in both kingdoms.
Mr. George Marshman also urged upon him some business in which he
thought he could be eminently useful. But Mr. John declined both
propositions, still thinking he had more important duties at home. This
only cloud that rose above Ellen's horizon, scattered away.

One evening, it was a Monday, in the twilight, John was as usual pacing
up and down the floor. Ellen was reading in the window.

"Too late for you, Ellie."

"Yes," said Ellen, "I know--I will stop in two minutes."

But in a quarter of that time she had lost every thought of stopping,
and knew no longer that it was growing dusk. Somebody else, however, had
not forgotten it. The two minutes were not ended, when a hand came
between her and the page and quietly drew the book away.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Ellen, starting up. "I entirely forgot
all about it!"

He did not look displeased; he was smiling. He drew her arm within his.

"Come and walk with me. Have you had any exercise to-day?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I had a good deal to do, and I had fixed myself so nicely on the sofa
with my books; and it looked cold and disagreeable out of doors."

"Since when have you ceased to be a fixture?"

"What! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "how shall I ever get rid of that
troublesome word? What shall I say? I had _arranged_ myself,
_established_ myself, so nicely on the sofa."

"And did you think that a sufficient reason for not going out?"

"No," said Ellen, "I did not; and I did not decide that I would not go;
and yet I let it keep me at home after all; just as I did about reading
a few minutes ago. I meant to stop, but I forgot, and I should have gone
on I don't know how long if you had not stopped me. I very often do so."

He paused a minute and then said--

"You must not do so any more, Ellie."

The tone, in which there was a great deal both of love and decision,
wound round Ellen's heart, and constrained her to answer immediately--

"I will not--I will not."

"Never parley with conscience; it's a dangerous habit."

"But then--it was only----"

"About trifles; I grant you; but the habit is no trifle. There will not
be a just firmness of mind and steadfastness of action, where tampering
with duty is permitted even in little things."

"I will try not to do it," Ellen repeated.

"No," said he, smiling, "let it stand as at first. '_I will not_,' means
something; '_I will try_,' is very apt to come to nothing. 'I will keep
thy precepts with my whole heart!' not 'I will _try_.' Your reliance is
precisely the same in either case."

"I will not, John," said Ellen, smiling.

"What were you poring over so intently a while ago?"

"It was an old magazine--Blackwood's Magazine, I believe, is the name of
it. I found two great piles of them in a closet upstairs the other day;
and I brought this one down."

"This is the first that you have read?"

"Yes; I got very much interested in a curious story there; why?"

"What will you say, Ellie, if I ask you to leave the rest of the two
piles unopened?"

"Why, I will say that I will do it, of course," said Ellen, with a
little smothered sigh of regret, however; "if you wish it."

"I do wish it, Ellie."

"Very well, I'll let them alone then. I have enough other reading; I
don't know how I happened to take that one up; because I saw it there, I
suppose."

"Have you finished Nelson yet?"

"Oh yes! I finished it Saturday night. Oh, I like it very much? I am
going all over it again, though. I like Nelson very much; don't you?"

"Yes; as well as I can like a man of very fine qualities without
principle."

"Was he that?" said Ellen.

"Yes; did you not find it out? I am afraid your eyes were blinded by
admiration."

"Were they?" said Ellen. "I thought he was so very fine in everything;
and I should be sorry to think he was not."

"Look over the book again by all means, with a more critical eye; and
when you have done so you shall give me your cool estimate of his
character."

"Oh, me?" said Ellen. "Well, but I don't know whether I can give you a
_cool_ estimate of him; however, I'll try. I cannot think coolly of him
now, just after Trafalgar. I think it was a shame that Collingwood did
not anchor as Nelson told him to; don't you? I think he might have been
obeyed while he was living, at least."

"It is difficult," said John, smiling, "to judge correctly of many
actions without having been on the spot and in the circumstances of the
actors. I believe you and I must leave the question of Trafalgar to more
nautical heads."

"How pleasant this moonlight is!" said Ellen.

"What makes it pleasant?"

"What _makes_ it pleasant! I don't know! I never thought of such a
thing. It is _made_ to be pleasant. I can't tell _why_; can anybody?"

"The eye loves light for many reasons, but all kinds of light are not
equally agreeable. What makes the peculiar charm of those long streams
of pale light across the floor? and the shadowy brightness without?"

"You must tell," said Ellen; "I cannot."

"You know we enjoy anything much more by contrast; I think that is one
reason. Night is the reign of darkness which we do not love; and here is
light struggling with the darkness, not enough to overcome it entirely,
but yet banishing it to nooks and corners and distant parts, by the side
of which it shows itself in contrasted beauty. Our eyes bless the
unwonted victory."

"Yes," said Ellen, "we only have moonlight nights once in a while."

"But that is only one reason out of many, and not the greatest. It is a
very refined pleasure, and to resolve it into its elements is something
like trying to divide one of these same white rays of light into the
many various  ones that go to form it; and not by any means so
easy a task."

"Then it is no wonder I couldn't answer," said Ellen.

"No, you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie."

"The moonlight is so calm and quiet," Ellen observed admiringly.

"And why is it calm and quiet? I must have an answer to that."

"Because _we_ are generally calm and quiet at such times!" Ellen
ventured after a little thought.

"Precisely! we and the world. And association has given the moon herself
the same character. Besides that her mild sober light is not fitted for
the purposes of active employment, and therefore the more graciously
invites us to the pleasures of thought and fancy."

"I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it," said Ellen.

"And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the pleasure we
have, not only in moonlight, but in most other things. When two things
have been in the mind together, and made any impression, the mind
_associates_ them; and you cannot see or think of the one without
bringing back the remembrance or the feeling of the other. If we have
enjoyed the moonlight in pleasant scenes, in happy hours, with friends
that we loved--though the sight of it may not always make us directly
remember them, it yet brings with it a waft from the feeling of the old
times, sweet as long as life lasts!"

"And sorrowful things may be associated too?" said Ellen.

"Yes, and sorrowful things. But this power of association is the cause
of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my mother used to sing--I
cannot hear it now without being carried swiftly back to my boyish days,
to the very spirit of the time; I _feel_ myself spring over the green
sward as I did then."

"Oh, I know that is true," said Ellen. "The camellia, the white
camellia, you know, I like it so much ever since what you said about it
one day. I never see it without thinking of it; and it would not seem
half so beautiful but for that."

"What did I say about it?"

"Don't you remember? you said it was like what you ought to be, and what
you should be if you ever reached heaven; and you repeated that verse in
the Revelation about 'those that have not defiled their garments.' I
always think of it. It seems to give me a lesson."

"How eloquent of beautiful lessons all nature would be to us," said John
musingly, "if we had but the eye and ear to take them in."

"And in that way you would heap associations upon associations?"

"Yes; till our storehouse of pleasure was very full."

"You do that now," said Ellen. "I wish you would teach me."

"I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of flowers you are
so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you?"

"I don't know--I only think of themselves, except sometimes they make me
think of Alice."

"You know from any works we may form some judgment of the mind and
character of their author?"

"From their writings, I know you can," said Ellen; "from what other
works?"

"From any which are not mechanical; from any in which the mind, not the
hand, has been the creating power. I saw you very much interested the
other day in the Eddystone lighthouse; did it help you to form no
opinion of Mr. Smeaton?"

"Why, yes, certainly," said Ellen, "I admired him exceedingly for his
cleverness and perseverance; but what other works? I can't think of
any."

"There is the lighthouse, that is one thing. What do you think of the
ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it?"

Ellen half shuddered. "I shouldn't like to go to sea, John! But you were
speaking of men's works and women's works?"

"Well, women's works; I cannot help forming some notion of a lady's mind
and character from the way she dresses herself."

"Can you? do you?"

"I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a lady's
dress that she never dreams of; the style of her thoughts among others."

"It is a pity ladies didn't know that," said Ellen, laughing; "they
would be very careful."

"It wouldn't mend the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things in which
people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so it will show
itself."

"But we have got a great way from the flowers," said Ellen.

"You shall bring me some to-morrow, Ellie, and we will read them
together."

"There are plenty over there now," said Ellen, looking towards the
little flower-stand, which was as full and as flourishing as ever, "but
we can't see them well by this light."

"A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that made them.
They are the work of His fingers; and I cannot consider them without
being joyfully assured of the glory and loveliness of their Creator. It
is written as plainly to me in their delicate painting and sweet breath
and curious structure, as in the very pages of the Bible; though no
doubt without the Bible I could not read the flowers."

"I never thought much of that," said Ellen. "And then you find
particular lessons in particular flowers?"

"Sometimes."

"Oh, come here!" said Ellen, pulling him towards the flower-stand, "and
tell me what this daphne is like--you need not see that, only smell it,
that's enough; do, John, and tell me what it is like!"

He smiled as he complied with her request, and walked away again.

"Well, what is it?" said Ellen; "I know you have thought of something."

"It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes leaves upon
the spirit; when it is just what it ought to be."

"My Mr. Marshman!" exclaimed Ellen.

John smiled again. "I thought of him, Ellie. And I thought also of
Cowper's lines--

        "'When one who holds communion with the skies,
          Has filled his urn where those pure waters rise,
          Descends and dwells among us meaner things,
          It is as if an angel shook his wings!'"

Ellie was silent a moment from pleasure.

"Well, I have got an association now with the daphne!" she said
joyously; and presently added, sighing, "How much you see in everything
that I do not see at all."

"Time, Ellie," said John; "there must be time for that. It will come.
Time is cried out upon as a great thief; it is people's own fault. Use
him but well, and you will get from his hand more than he will ever take
from you."

Ellen's thoughts travelled on a little way from this speech, and then
came a sigh, of some burden, as it seemed; and her face was softly laid
against the arm she held.

"Let us leave all that to God," said John gently.

Ellen started. "How did you know--how could you know what I was thinking
of?"

"Perhaps my thoughts took the same road," said he, smiling. "But, Ellie,
dear, let us look to that one source of happiness that can never be
dried up; it is not safe to count upon anything else."

"It is not wonderful," said Ellen in a tremulous voice, "if I----"

"It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up to God as
our Father, who rejoice in Christ our Saviour, we are happy, whatever
beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust Him, and never doubt that,
Ellie."

"But still----" said Ellen.

"But still, we will hope and pray alike in that matter. And while we
do, and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave ourselves in our
Father's hand. The joy of the knowledge of Christ! the joy the world
cannot intermeddle with, the peace it cannot take away! Let us make that
our own, Ellie; and for the rest put away all anxious care about what we
cannot control."

Ellen's hand, however, did not just then lie quite so lightly on his arm
as it did a few minutes ago; he could feel that; and could see the
glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight as they fell. The hand was
fondly taken in his; and as they slowly paced up and down, he went on in
low tones of kindness and cheerfulness with his pleasant talk, till she
was too happy in the present to be anxious about the future; looked up
again and brightly into his face, and questions and answers came as
gaily as ever.




CHAPTER XLVI

    Who knows what may happen? Patience and shuffle the cards!...
    Perhaps after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back St.
    Peter.

                                                  --LONGFELLOW.


The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, passed
happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more to belong to the former
than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest; April and May brought
warm days and wild flowers. Ellen refreshed herself and adorned the room
with quantities of them; and as soon as might be she set about restoring
the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening; he
provided her with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted
to be done for her, supplied her with new plants, and seeds, and roots,
and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or press of
business that called for it. But for the most part Ellen hoed, and
raked, and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked or read; often
giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and always coming in
between her and any difficult or heavy job. The hours thus spent were to
Ellen hours of unmixed delight. When he did not choose to go himself he
sent Thomas with her, as the garden was some little distance down the
mountain, away from the house and from everybody; he never allowed her
to go there alone.

As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is always
happening most years," about the middle of May there came letters that
after all determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two
relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr.
Humphreys; it required the personal attendance either of himself or his
son; he could not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side
the Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all the
ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it; this
would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably
more. And he must set off without delay.

In the midst, not of his hurry, for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be
in a hurry about anything; but in the midst of his business, he took
special care of everything that concerned or could possibly concern
Ellen. He arranged what books she could read, what studies she could
carry on; and directed that about these matters as well as about all
others she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter.
He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as
her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys
could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked
him for most of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she
thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring as he well
knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in view of his long
absence. The memory of those hours never went from her.

The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one
of them during all the time John should be gone; they urged it with
every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish
it; and finally compounded the matter by arranging that she should stay
at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor,
sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the
more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at
home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly
attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up; and Mr.
George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be
away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstasies. And it was further promised that
the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could
well be brought about.

Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she had
behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult for her to
behave well at all. That _was_ a comfort from him, whose notions of
unexceptionable behaviour she knew were remarkably high. But the
parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter; though softened as
much as it could be at the time and rendered very sweet to Ellen's
memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness, with which her
brother without checking soothed her grief. He was to go early in the
morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before; but he
was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he told her it was
very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of
her room and there bade her good-night.

How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were unspeakably long.

Not a week after, one morning Nancy Vawse came into the kitchen, and
asked in her blunt fashion--

"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"

"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery dryly.

"I want to speak to her."

Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.

"Miss Ellen, dear," she said softly, "here is that Nancy girl wanting to
speak with you--will you please to see her?"

Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in, by no means displeased to
have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she could not banish.
She received Nancy very kindly.

"Well, I declare, Ellen!" said that young lady, whose wandering eye was
upon everything but Ellen herself, "ain't you as fine as a fiddle? I
guess you never touch your fingers to a file nowadays, do you?"

"A file!" said Ellen.

"You ha'n't forgot what it means, I suppose," said Nancy, somewhat
scornfully, "'cause if you think I'm agoing to swallow that, you're
mistaken. I've seen you file off tables down yonder a few times, ha'n't
I?"

"Oh, I remember now," said Ellen, smiling; "it is so long since I heard
the word that I didn't know what you meant. Margery calls it a
dish-cloth, or a floor-cloth, or something else."

"Well, you don't touch one nowadays, do you?"

"No," said Ellen, "I have other things to do."

"Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now, for once,
ha'n't you? What a lot! I say, Ellen, have you got to read all these?"

"I hope so, in time," said Ellen, smiling. "Why haven't you been to see
me before?"

"Oh, I don't know!" said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a little as if
she felt herself out of her sphere. "I didn't know as you would care to
see me now."

"I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as glad to see
you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness to me when Aunt
Fortune was sick."

"You've forgotten all that went before that, I s'pose," said Nancy, with
a half laugh. "You beat all! Most folks remember and forget just
t'other way exactly. But besides, I didn't know but I should catch
myself in queer company."

"Well, I am all alone now," said Ellen, with a sigh.

"Yes, if you warn't I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What do you
think I have come for to-day, Ellen?"

"For anything but to see me?"

Nancy nodded very decisively.

"What?"

"Guess."

"How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your apron
there?"

"Ah! that's the very thing," said Nancy. "What _have_ I got, sure
enough?"

"Well, I can't tell through your apron," said Ellen, smiling.

"And _I_ can't tell either; that's more, ain't it. Now listen, and I'll
tell you where I got it, and then you may find out what it is, for I
don't know. Promise me you won't tell anybody."

"I don't like to promise that, Nancy."

"Why?"

"Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody about."

"But it ain't."

"If it isn't I won't tell. Can't you leave it so?"

"But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just for you, and
now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would it do you to promise?
it's nobody's business but yours and mine, and somebody else's that
won't make any talk about it, I promise you."

"I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought; can't
you trust me?"

"I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say so," said Nancy; "but
as you're as stiff as the mischief, I s'pose I'll have to let it go.
I'll trust you! Now listen. It don't look like anything, does it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, laughing; "you hold your apron so loose that I
cannot see anything."

"Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your aunt's--did
you?"

"No."

"Well, I have, these six weeks. You never see anything go on quieter
than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune never was so good
in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly as ever, you know, but she
has to keep it in. All I have to do if I think anything is going wrong,
I just let her think I am going to speak to _him_ about it; only I have
to do it very cunning for fear she should guess what I am up to; and
the next thing I know it's all straight. He _is_ about the coolest
shaver," said Nancy, "I ever did see. The way he walks through her
notions once in a while--not very often, mind you, but when he takes a
fancy--it's fun to see! Oh, I can get along there first-rate, now.
_You'd_ have a royal time, Ellen."

"Well, Nancy--your story?"

"Don't you be in a hurry! I am going to take my time. Well, I've been
there this six weeks; doing all sorts of things, you know, taking your
place, Ellen; don't you wish you was back in it? Well, a couple of weeks
since Mrs. Van took it into her head she would have up the waggon and go
to Thirlwall to get herself some things; a queer start for her; but at
any rate Van Brunt brought up the waggon, and in she got and off they
went. Now _she meant_, you must know, that I should be fast in the
cellar-kitchen all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given
me enough to keep me busy there; but I was up to her! I was as spry as a
cricket, and flew round, and got things put up; and then I thought I'd
have some fun. What do you think I did? Mrs. Montgomery was quietly
sitting in the chimney-corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How
Van Brunt looks out for her, Ellen; he won't let her be put out for
anything or anybody."

"I am glad of it," said Ellen, her face flushing and her eyes watering;
"it is just like him. I love him for it."

"The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great rate because
she hadn't you to read to her; and what do you think he does but goes
and takes the book and sits down and reads to her himself. You should
have seen Mrs. Van's face!"

"What book?" said Ellen.

"What book?--why, your book--the Bible. There ain't any other book in
the house as I know. What on earth are you crying for, Ellen? He's
fetched over his mother's old Bible, and there it lays on a shelf in the
cupboard; and he has it out every once in a while. Maybe he's coming
round, Ellen. But do hold up your head and listen to me! I can't talk to
you while you lie with your head in the cushion like that. I ha'n't more
than begun my story yet."

"Well, go on," said Ellen.

"You see, I ain't in any hurry," said Nancy, "because as soon as I've
finished I shall have to be off; and it's fun to talk to you. What do
you think I did when I had done up all my chores?--where do you think I
found this, eh? _you'd_ never guess."

"What is it?" said Ellen.

"No matter what it is; I don't know; where do you think I found it?"

"How can I tell? I don't know."

"You'll be angry with me when I tell you."

Ellen was silent.

"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot afore I'd
ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't like anybody else. Look
here!" said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger and slowly
marking off each word, "this--came out of--your--aunt's--box--in--the
closet upstairs--in--her room."

"Nancy!"

"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look. 'Twon't alter it, Ellen; that's
where it was, if you look till tea-time."

"But how came you there?"

"'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself,
and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it."

"Oh, Nancy!"

"Well, I don't say it was right, but anyhow I did it; you ha'n't heard
what I found yet."

"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have
a chance."

"Put it back again!--I'll give it to you, and then _you_ may put it back
again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you! Why, you don't know
what I found."

"Well, what did you find?"

"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a mind to see
what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the other till I got to
the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and papers, and
there--staring right in my face--the first thing I see was, 'Miss Ellen
Montgomery.'"

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen, "a letter for me?"

"Hush!--and sit down, will you?--yes, a whole package of letters for
you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that anyhow, and she
ain't agoing to take the care of it any more; so I just took it up and
put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any
more for you, but there warn't. There it is."

And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam.

"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; "I may go now, I suppose, and no
thanks to me."

"Yes, I do--I do thank you very much, Nancy," cried Ellen, starting up
and taking her by the hand--"I do thank you, though it wasn't right; but
oh, how could she! how could she!"

"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do anything.
_Why_ she did it, ain't so easy to tell."

Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only _felt_, that Nancy had gone. The
outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained
three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father's hand, the third
to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first
that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction;
she threw it down and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed
the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another
specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings; thankfulness,
tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present; _that_ letter was not
thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do
their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when
she had fairly begun it, she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly,
to the end.

    "MY DEAR, DEAR LITTLE ELLEN,--I am scarcely able--but I must write
    to you once more. _Once_ more, daughter, for it is not permitted me
    to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear
    child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me.
    I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your
    last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am
    comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me
    and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!

    "Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you as her
    own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never
    spoke to you of her. After your Aunt Bessy married and went to New
    York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who
    had always been her favourite child, should leave her for an
    American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all that entreaties
    and authority could urge, she said she forgave me for destroying all
    her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and
    gone she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must
    consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to her
    after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did
    not deserve it.

    "But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. She
    permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in the
    further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left is
    done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once
    filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have
    you as entirely her own, in all respects; and to this, in
    consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will
    lead, I am willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so.
    The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys
    me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you on
    the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you
    should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper
    persons going to Scotland who will be willing to take charge of you.
    Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say, help
    you in this.

    "To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are little.
    If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they
    are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot----"

The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter had
evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to
the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of
suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic and repair to No.--George
Street, Edinburgh; and that Miss Fortune would give her the money she
would need, which he had written to her to do, and that the accompanying
letter Ellen was to carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her
grandmother.

Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, gazed at
the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling
interest for her, wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to
do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open
it, or whether it would ever be opened; and finally in a perfect maze,
unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters
into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the
bed, and them beside her; and fell into a deep sleep.

She woke up towards evening with the pressure of a mountain weight upon
her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze still; and not Mr.
Humphreys himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was
that night. So many points were to be settled--so many questions
answered to herself--it was a good while before Ellen could disentangle
them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do.

She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject--she would be
exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But
must she obey them?

"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen; "I have promised Mr.
Humphreys--I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, my
grandmother! she cannot be nice or she wouldn't have treated my mother
so. She cannot be a nice person; hard, she must be hard; I never want to
see her. My mother! But then my mother loved her, and was very glad to
have me go to her. Oh! oh! how could she! how could they do so! when
they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they
might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then they did _not_ know,
that is the very thing--they thought I would have nobody but Aunt
Fortune, and so it's no wonder--Oh, what shall I do! What _ought_ I to
do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's,
let me see--it's just about three years now, a little less, since these
letters were written, and circumstances are changed; I have a home and a
father and a brother; may I not judge for myself? But my mother and my
father have ordered me, what shall I do! If John were only here--but
perhaps he would make me go, he might think it right. And to leave him,
and maybe never to see him again! and Mr. Humphreys! and how lonely he
would be without me. I cannot! I will not! Oh, what _shall_ I do! What
shall I do!" Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for
she could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could
not get rid of the feeling that perhaps it might come to that. She wept
bitterly; it didn't mend the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully,
long; and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the
matter to Mr. Humphreys; she feared his decision; and she feared also
that he would give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for
the journey; how much it might be Ellen had no idea. She could not
dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked
her with the fifth commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred
to her at last to take counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done she
knew without betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to
press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily
be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss
Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was no help for that. So
it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of
care for that time; she had leisure to think of some other things.

Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well,
but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying
despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard
the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the
parsonage. At the time of its being sent Captain Montgomery's movements
were extremely uncertain; and in obedience to the earnest request of his
wife he directed that without waiting for his own return Ellen should
immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he
sent; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all
straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already
this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious
doubts of ever being repaid; she instantly determined that if she had
once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in
adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter on a wild-goose
chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it;
it was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his
own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery
of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy
found them.

Early next morning after breakfast Ellen came into the kitchen, and
begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the door. Surprised
at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery gave the message, and
added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't
heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away.

The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, who had
dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone; there was old John
saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in waiting.

"It's not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas," said Ellen;
"I don't mind going alone at all."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen (Thomas touched his hat)--but Mr. John
left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen whenever it
pleased her to ride; never failing."

"Did he?" said Ellen; "but is it convenient for you now, Thomas? I want
to go as far as Mrs. Vawse's."

"It's always convenient, Miss Ellen, always; Miss Ellen need not think
of that at all, I am always ready."

Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the hand that
used to lift her to the saddle; and, spurred by this recollection, set
off at a round pace.

Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse's; and soon finding her alone, Ellen had
spread out all her difficulties before her and given her the letters to
read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak on the subject to no one
without Ellen's leave; her suspicions fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her
grand-daughter. She heard all the story, and read the letters before
making any remark.

"Now, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen anxiously, when the last one was
folded up and laid on the table, "what do you think?"

"I think, my child, you must go," said the old lady steadily.

Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her face; her
own changing more and more for a minute till she sunk it in her hands.

"Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin, je le vois bien," said the old
lady tenderly. (Their conversations were always in Mrs. Vawse's tongue.)

"But," said Ellen presently, lifting her head again (there were no
tears), "I cannot go without money."

"That can be obtained without any difficulty."

"From whom? I cannot ask Aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Vawse; I could not do
it!"

"There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to Mr.
Humphreys."

"Oh, I cannot!" said Ellen, covering her face again.

"Will you let me do it? I will speak to him if you permit me."

"But what use? _He_ ought not to give me the money, Mrs. Vawse! It would
not be right; and to show him the letters would be like asking him for
it. Oh, I can't bear to do that!"

"He would give it you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure."

"Oh no, Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "he would never be
pleased to send me away from him! I know--I know--he would miss me. Oh
what shall I do?"

"Not _that_, my dear Ellen," said the old lady coming to her and gently
stroking her head with both hands. "You must do what is _right_; and you
know it cannot be but that will be best and happiest for you in the
end."

"Oh I wish--I wish," exclaimed Ellen from the bottom of her heart,
"those letters had never been found!"

"Nay, Ellen, _that_ is not right."

"But I promised Alice, Mrs. Vawse; ought I go away and leave him? Oh,
Mrs. Vawse, it is very hard! _Ought_ I?"

"Your father and your mother have said it, my child."

"But they never would have said it if they had known!"

"But they did not know, Ellen; and here it is."

Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing words
which her old friend lavished upon her.

"There is one thing!" said she at last, raising her head, "I don't know
of anybody going to Scotland, and I am not likely to; and if I only do
not before autumn, that is not a good time to go, and then comes
winter."

"My dear Ellen," said Mrs. Vawse sorrowfully, "I must drive you from
your last hope. Don't you know that Mrs. Gillespie is going abroad with
all her family?--next month, I think."

Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel with her
own heart. Mrs. Vawse hardly knew what to say next.

"You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses," she remarked
after a pause; "you can easily repay them, if you wish, when you reach
your friends in Scotland."

Ellen did not hear her. She looked up with an odd expression of
determination in her face, determination taking its stand upon
difficulties.

"I shan't stay there, Mrs. Vawse, if I go! I shall go, I suppose, if I
must; but do you think anything will keep me there? Never!"

"You will stay for the same reason that you go for, Ellen; to do your
duty."

"Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Vawse, and then I
shall come back; if they will let me."

"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"

"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."

"My dear Ellen," said the old lady kindly, "be satisfied with doing your
duty now; leave the future. While you follow Him, God will be your
friend; is not that enough? and all things shall work for your good. You
do not know what you will wish when the time comes you speak of. You do
not know what new friends you may find to love."

Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for what she had said, and what
she saw by her smile Mrs. Vawse doubted; but she disdained to assert
what she could bring nothing to prove. She took a sorrowful leave of her
old friend and returned home.

After dinner when Mr. Humphreys was about going back to his study, Ellen
timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and asked him to look at
them sometime when he had leisure. She told him also where they were
found and how long they had lain there, and that Mrs. Vawse had said she
ought to show them to him.

She guessed he would read them at once, and she waited with a beating
heart. In a little while she heard his step coming back along the hall.
He came and sat down by her on the sofa and took her hand.

"What is your wish in this matter, my child?" he said gravely and
cheerfully.

Ellen's look answered that.

"I will do whatever you say I must, sir," she said faintly.

"I dare not ask myself what _I_ would wish, Ellen; the matter is taken
out of our hands. You must do your parents' will, my child. I will try
to hope that you will gain more than I lose. As the Lord pleases! If I
am bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

"Mrs. Gillespie," he said, after a pause, "is about going to England; I
know not how soon. It will be best for you to see her at once and make
all arrangements that may be necessary. I will go with you to-morrow to
Ventnor, if the day be a good one."

There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible to get it
out; she could not utter a word. She had pressed her hands upon her face
to try to keep herself quiet; but Mr. Humphreys could see the deep
crimson flushing to the very roots of her hair. He drew her close within
his arms for a moment, kissed her forehead, Ellen _felt_ it was sadly,
and went away. It was well she did not hear him sigh as he went back
along the hall; it was well she did not see the face of more settled
gravity with which he sat down to his writing; she had enough of her
own.

They went to Ventnor. Mrs. Gillespie with great pleasure undertook the
charge of her, and promised to deliver her safely to her friends in
Scotland. It was arranged that she should go back to Thirlwall to make
her adieus; and that in a week or two a carriage should be sent to bring
her to Ventnor, where her preparations for the journey should be made,
and whence the whole party would set off.

"So you are going to be a Scotchwoman after all, Ellen," said Miss
Sophia.

"I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia."

"Why, Hutchinson will tell you," said the young lady, "that it is
infinitely more desirable to be a Scotchwoman than that."

Ellen's face, however, looked so little inclined to be merry that she
took up the subject in another tone.

"Seriously, do you know," said she, "I have been thinking it is a very
happy thing for you. I don't know what would become of you alone in that
great parsonage house. You would mope yourself to death in a little
while; especially now that Mr. John is gone."

"He will be back," said Ellen.

"Yes; but what if he is? he can't stay at Thirlwall, child. He can't
live thirty miles from his church, you know. Did you think he would?
They think all the world of him already. I expect they'll barely put up
with Mr. George while he is gone; they will want Mr. John all to
themselves when he comes back, you may rely on that. What _are_ you
thinking of, child?"

For Ellen's eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts which Miss
Sophia could not read.

"I should like to know what you are smiling at," she said, with some
curiosity. But the smile was almost immediately quenched in tears.

Notwithstanding Miss Sophia's discouraging talk, Ellen privately agreed
with Ellen Chauncey that the Brownie should be sent to her to keep and
use as her own, _till his mistress should come back_; both children
being entirely of opinion that the arrangement was a most
unexceptionable one.

It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the date of the
letters left some uncertainty as to the present state of affairs among
Ellen's friends in Scotland; but this doubt was not thought sufficient
to justify her letting pass so excellent an opportunity of making the
journey, especially as Captain Montgomery's letter spoke of an _uncle_,
to whom, equally with her grandmother, Ellen was to be consigned. In
case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. Gillespie engaged to keep Ellen
with her, and bring her home to America when she herself should return.

And in little more than a month they were gone; adieus and preparations
and all were over. Ellen's parting with Mrs. Vawse was very tender and
very sad; with Mr. Van Brunt, extremely and gratefully affectionate, on
both sides; with her aunt, constrained and brief; with Margery, very
sorrowful indeed. But Ellen's longest and most lingering adieu was to
Captain Parry, the old grey cat. For one whole evening she sat with him
in her arms; and over poor pussy were shed the tears that fell for many
better loved and better deserving personages, as well as those not a few
that were wept for him. Since Alice's death Parry had transferred his
entire confidence and esteem to Ellen; whether from feeling a want, or
because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and the tone that
were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared it. Ellen was his chief
favourite and almost constant companion. And bitterer tears Ellen shed
at no time than that evening before she went away, over the old cat. She
could not distress kitty with her distress, nor weary him with the calls
upon his sympathy, though indeed it is true that he sundry times poked
his nose up wonderingly and caressingly in her face. She had no
remonstrance or interruption to fear; and taking pussy as the emblem and
representative of the whole household, Ellen wept them all over him,
with a tenderness and a bitterness that were somehow intensified by the
sight of the grey coat, and white paws, and kindly face, of her
unconscious old brute friend.

The old people at Carra-carra were taken leave of; the Brownie too, with
great difficulty. And Nancy.

"I'm really sorry you are going, Ellen," said she; "you're the only soul
in town I care about. I wish I'd thrown them letters in the fire after
all! Who'd ha' thought it!"

Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.

"I'm really sorry, Ellen," she repeated. "Ain't there something I can do
for you when you are gone?"

"Oh yes, dear Nancy," said Ellen, weeping, "if you would only take care
of your dear grandmother. She is left alone now. If you would only take
care of her, and read your Bible, and be good, Nancy. Oh, Nancy, Nancy!
do, do!"

They kissed each other, and Nancy went away fairly crying.

Mrs. Marshman's own woman, a steady, excellent person, had come in the
carriage for Ellen. And the next morning early after breakfast, when
everything else was ready, she went into Mr. Humphreys' study to bid the
last dreaded good-bye. She thought her obedience was costing her dear.

It was nearly a silent parting. He held her a long time in his arms; and
there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be. "What have I to do
to seek new relations?" she said to herself. But she was speechless;
till gently relaxing his hold he tenderly smoothed back her disordered
hair, and kissing her, said a very few grave words of blessing and
counsel. Ellen gathered all her strength together then, for she had
something that _must_ be spoken.

"Sir," said she, falling on her knees before him and looking up in his
face, "this don't alter--you do not take back what you said, do you?"

"What that I said, my child?"

"That," said Ellen, hiding her face in her hands on his knee, and scarce
able to speak with great effort, "that which you said when I first
came--that which you said about----"

"About what, my dear child?"

"My going away don't change anything, does it, sir? Mayn't I come back,
if ever I can?"

He raised her up and drew her close to his bosom again.

"My dear little daughter," said he, "you cannot be so glad to come back
as my arms and my heart will be to receive you. I scarce dare hope to
see that day, but all in this house is yours, dear Ellen, as well when
in Scotland as here. I take back nothing, my daughter. Nothing is
changed."

A word or two more of affection and blessing, which Ellen was utterly
unable to answer in any way, and she went to the carriage; with one drop
of cordial in her heart, that she fed upon a long while. "He called me
his daughter! he never said that before since Alice died! Oh, so I will
be as long as I live, if I find fifty new relations. But what good will
a daughter three thousand miles off do him?"




CHAPTER XLVII

    _Speed._ Item. _She is proud._

    _Laun._ Out with that;--it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en
    from her.

                                                  --SHAKESPEARE.


The voyage was peaceful and prosperous; in due time the whole party
found themselves safe in London. Ever since they set out Ellen had been
constantly gaining on Mrs. Gillespie's good will; the major hardly saw
her but she had something to say about that "best-bred child in the
world." "Best-hearted too, I think," said the major; and even Mrs.
Gillespie owned that there was something more than good-breeding in
Ellen's politeness. She had good trial of it; Mrs. Gillespie was much
longer ailing than any of the party; and when Ellen got well, it was her
great pleasure to devote herself to the service of the only member of
the Marshman family now within her reach. She could never do too much.
She watched by her, read to her, was quick to see and perform all the
little offices of attention and kindness where a servant's hand is not
so acceptable; and withal never was in the way nor put herself forward.
Mrs. Gillespie's own daughter was much less helpful. Both she and
William, however, had long since forgotten the old grudge, and treated
Ellen as well as they did anybody; rather better. Major Gillespie was
attentive and kind as possible to the gentle, well-behaved little body
that was always at his wife's pillow; and even Lester, the maid, told
one of her friends "she was such a sweet little lady, that it was a
pleasure and gratification to do anything for her." Lester acted this
out; and in her kindly disposition Ellen found very substantial comfort
and benefit throughout the voyage.

Mrs. Gillespie told her husband she should be rejoiced if it turned out
that they might keep Ellen with them, and carry her back to America; she
only wished it were not for Mr. Humphreys but herself. As their
destination was not now Scotland but Paris, it was proposed to write to
Ellen's friends to ascertain whether any change had occurred, or whether
they still wished to receive her. This, however, was rendered
unnecessary. They were scarcely established in their hotel, when a
gentleman from Edinburgh, an intimate friend of the Ventnor family, and
whom Ellen herself had more than once met there, came to see them. Mrs.
Gillespie bethought herself to make inquiries of him.

"Do you happen to know a family of Lindsays in George Street, Mr.
Dundas?"

"Lindsays? Yes, perfectly well. Do you know them?"

"No; but I am very much interested in one of the family. Is the old lady
living?"

"Yes, certainly; not very old either, not above sixty or sixty-five; and
as hale and alert as at forty. A very fine old lady."

"A very large family?"

"Oh no; Mr. Lindsay is a widower this some years, with no children; and
there is a widowed daughter lately come home--Lady Keith. That's all."

"Mr. Lindsay--that is the son?"

"Yes. You would like them. They are excellent people--excellent
family--wealthy--beautiful country seat on the south bank of the Tyne,
some miles out of Edinburgh. I was down there two weeks ago;--entertain
most handsomely and agreeably, two things that do not always go
together. You meet a pleasanter circle nowhere than at Lindsay's."

"And that is the whole family?" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"That is all. There were two daughters married in America some dozen or
so years ago. Mrs. Lindsay took it very hard, I believe; but she bore
up, and bears up now as if misfortune had never crossed her path; though
the death of Mr. Lindsay's wife and son was another great blow. I don't
believe there is a grey hair on her head at this moment. There is some
peculiarity about them perhaps, some pride too; but that is an amiable
weakness," he added, laughing, as he rose to go. "Mrs. Gillespie, I am
sure, will not find fault with them for it."

"That's an insinuation, Mr. Dundas; but look here, what I am bringing to
Mrs. Lindsay in the shape of a granddaughter."

"What, my old acquaintance, Miss Ellen! Is it possible? My dear madam,
if you had such a treasure for sale, they would pour half their fortune
into your lap to purchase it, and the other half at her feet."

"I would not take it, Mr. Dundas."

"It would be no mean price, I assure you, in itself, however it might be
comparatively. I give Miss Ellen joy."

Miss Ellen took none of his giving.

"Ah, Ellen, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, when he was gone, "we shall
never have you back in America again. I give up all hopes of it. Why do
you look so solemn, my love? You are a strange child; most girls would
be delighted at such a prospect opening before them."

"You forget what I leave, Mrs. Gillespie."

"So will you, my love, in a few days; though I love you for remembering
so well those that have been kind to you. But you don't realise yet what
is before you."

"Why, you'll have a good time, Ellen," said Marianne; "I wonder you are
not out of your wits with joy. _I_ should be."

"You may as well make over the Brownie to me, Ellen," said William; "I
expect you'll never want him again."

"I cannot, you know, William; I lent him to Ellen Chauncey."

"_Lent_ him!--that's a good one. For how long?"

Ellen smiled, though sighing inwardly to see how very much narrowed was
her prospect of ever mounting him again. She did not care to explain
herself to those around her. Still, at the very bottom of her heart lay
two thoughts in which her hope refuged itself. One was a peculiar
assurance that whatever her brother pleased, nothing could hinder him
from accomplishing; the other, a like confidence that it would not
please him to leave his little sister unlooked after. But all began to
grow misty, and it seemed now as if Scotland must henceforth be the
limit of her horizon.

Leaving their children at a relation's house, Major and Mrs. Gillespie
accompanied her to the north. They travelled post, and arriving in the
evening at Edinburgh, put up at a hotel in Princes Street. It was agreed
that Ellen should not seek her new home till the morrow; she should eat
one more supper and breakfast with her old friends, and have a night's
rest first. She was very glad of it. The Major and Mrs. Gillespie were
enchanted with the noble view from their parlour windows; while they
were eagerly conversing together, Ellen sat alone at the other window,
looking out upon the curious Old Town. There was all the fascination of
novelty and beauty about that singular picturesque mass of buildings, in
its sober colouring, growing more sober as the twilight fell; and just
before outlines were lost in the dusk, lights began feebly to twinkle
here and there, and grew brighter and more as the night came on, till
their brilliant multitude were all that could be seen where the curious
jumble of chimneys and house-tops and crooked ways had shown a little
before. Ellen sat watching this lighting up of the Old Town, feeling
strangely that she was in the midst of new scenes indeed, entering upon
a new stage of life; and having some difficulty to persuade herself that
she was really Ellen Montgomery. The scene of extreme beauty before her
seemed rather to increase the confusion and sadness of her mind.
Happily, joyfully, Ellen remembered, as she sat gazing over the
darkening city and its brightening lights, that there was One near her
who could not change; that Scotland was no remove from Him; that His
providence as well as His heaven was over her there; that there, not
less than in America, she was His child. She rejoiced, as she sat in her
dusky window, over His words of assurance, "I am the good Shepherd and
know My sheep, and am known of Mine;" and she looked up into the clear
sky (that at least was home-like), in tearful thankfulness, and with
earnest prayer that she might be kept from evil. Ellen guessed she might
have special need to offer that prayer. And as again her eye wandered
over the singular bright spectacle that kept reminding her she was a
stranger in a strange place, her heart joyfully leaned upon another
loved sentence, "This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our
Guide even unto death."

She was called from her window to supper.

"Why, how well you look!" said Mrs. Gillespie; "I expected you would
have been half tired to death. Doesn't she look well?"

"As if she was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy," said Major Gillespie
kindly; "and yet she must be all three."

Ellen was all three. But she had the rest of a quiet mind.

In the same quiet mind, a little fluttered and anxious now, she set out
in the post-chaise the next morning with her kind friends to No.--George
Street. It was their intention, after leaving her, to go straight on to
England. They were in a hurry to be there; and Mrs. Gillespie judged
that the presence of a stranger at the meeting between Ellen and her new
relations would be desired by none of the parties. But when they reached
the house they found the family were not at home; they were in the
country--at their place on the Tyne. The direction was obtained, and the
horses' heads turned that way. After a drive of some length, through
what kind of a country Ellen could hardly have told, they arrived at the
place.

It was beautifully situated; and through well-kept grounds they drove up
to a large, rather old-fashioned, substantial-looking house. "The ladies
were at home;" and that ascertained, Ellen took a kind leave of Mrs.
Gillespie, shook hands with the Major at the door, and was left alone
for the second time in her life to make her acquaintance with new and
untried friends. She stood for one second looking after the retreating
carriage--one swift thought went to her adopted father and brother far
away, one to her Friend in heaven--and Ellen quietly turned to the
servant and asked for Mrs. Lindsay.

She was shown into a large room where nobody was, and sat down with a
beating heart while the servant went upstairs; looking with a strange
feeling upon what was to be her future home. The house was handsome,
comfortably, luxuriously furnished; but without any attempt at display.
Things rather old-fashioned than otherwise; plain, even homely in some
instances; yet evidently there was no sparing of money in any line of
use or comfort; nor were reading and writing, painting and music,
strangers there. Unconsciously acting upon her brother's principle of
judging of people from their works, Ellen, from what she saw gathered
around her, formed a favourable opinion of her relations; without
thinking of it, for indeed she was thinking of something else.

A lady presently entered and said that Mrs. Lindsay was not very well.
Seeing Ellen's very hesitating look, she added, "Shall I carry her any
message for you?"

This lady was well-looking and well-dressed; but somehow there was
something in her face or manner that encouraged Ellen to an explanation;
she could make none. She silently gave her her father's letter, with
which the lady left the room.

In a minute or two she returned and said her mother would see Ellen
upstairs, and asked her to come with her. This then must be Lady Keith!
but no sign of recognition! Ellen wondered, as her trembling feet
carried her upstairs, and to the door of a room where the lady motioned
her to enter; she did not follow herself.

A large, pleasant dressing-room; but Ellen saw nothing but the dignified
figure and searching glance of a lady in black, standing in the middle
of the floor. At the look which instantly followed her entering,
however, Ellen sprang forward, and was received in arms that folded her
as fondly and as closely as ever those of her own mother had done.
Without releasing her from their clasp, Mrs. Lindsay presently sat down;
and placing Ellen on her lap, and for a long time without speaking a
word, she overwhelmed her with caresses, caresses often interrupted with
passionate bursts of tears. Ellen herself cried heartily for company,
though Mrs. Lindsay little guessed why. Along with the joy and
tenderness arising from the finding a relation that so much loved and
valued her, and along with the sympathy that entered into Mrs. Lindsay's
thoughts, there mixed other feelings. She began to know, as if by
instinct, what kind of a person her grandmother was. The clasp of the
arms that were about her said as plainly as possible, "I will never let
you go!" Ellen felt it; she did not know in her confusion whether she
was glad or most sorry; and this uncertainty mightily helped the flow of
her tears.

When this scene had lasted some time Mrs. Lindsay began with the utmost
tenderness to take off Ellen's gloves, her cape (her bonnet had been
hastily thrown off long before), and smoothing back her hair, and taking
the fair little face in her hands, she looked at it and pressed it to
her own, as indeed something most dearly prized and valued. Then saying,
"I must lie down; come in here, love," she led her into the next room,
locked the door, made Ellen stretch herself on the bed; and placing
herself beside her, drew her close to her bosom again, murmuring, "My
own child, my precious child, my Ellen, my own darling, why did you stay
away so long from me? tell me!"

It was necessary to tell; and this could not be done without revealing
Miss Fortune's disgraceful conduct. Ellen was sorry for that; she knew
her mother's American match had been unpopular with her friends; and now
what notions this must give them of one at least of the near connections
to whom it had introduced her. She winced under what might be her
grandmother's thoughts. Mrs. Lindsay heard her in absolute silence, and
made no comment; and at the end again kissed her lips and cheeks, and
embracing her, Ellen _felt_, as a recovered treasure that would not be
parted with. She was not satisfied till she had drawn Ellen's head
fairly to rest on her breast, and then her caressing hand often touched
her cheek, or smoothed back her hair softly, now and then asking slight
questions about her voyage and journey; till, exhausted from excitement
more than fatigue, Ellen fell asleep.

Her grandmother was beside her when she awoke, and busied herself with
evident delight in helping her to get off her travelling clothes and put
on others; and then she took her downstairs and presented her to her
aunt.

Lady Keith had not been at home, nor in Scotland, at the time the
letters passed between Mrs. Montgomery and her mother; and the result of
that correspondence respecting Ellen had been known to no one except
Mrs. Lindsay and her son. They had long given her up; the rather as they
had seen in the papers the name of Captain Montgomery among those lost
in the ill-fated _Duc d'Orleans_. Lady Keith therefore had no suspicion
who Ellen might be. She received her affectionately, but Ellen did not
get rid of her first impression.

Her uncle she did not see until late in the day, when he came home. The
evening was extremely fair, and having obtained permission, Ellen
wandered out into the shrubbery; glad to be alone, and glad for a moment
to exchange new faces for old; the flowers were old friends to her, and
never had looked more friendly than then. New and old both were there.
Ellen went on softly from flower-bed to flower-bed, soothed and rested,
stopping here to smell one, or there to gaze at some old favourite or
new beauty, thinking curious thoughts of the past and the future, and
through it all taking a quiet lesson from the flowers; when a servant
came after her with a request from Mrs. Lindsay that she would return to
the house. Ellen hurried in; she guessed for what, and was sure as soon
as she opened the door and saw the figure of a gentleman sitting before
Mrs. Lindsay. Ellen remembered well she was sent to her uncle as well as
her grandmother, and she came forward with a beating heart to Mrs.
Lindsay's outstretched hand, which presented her to this other ruler of
her destiny. He was very different from Lady Keith, her anxious glance
saw that at once--more like his mother. A man not far from fifty years
old; fine-looking and stately like her. Ellen was not left long in
suspense; his look instantly softened as his mother's had done; he drew
her to his arms with great affection, and evidently with very great
pleasure; then held her off for a moment while he looked at her changing
colour and downcast eye, and folded her close in his arms again, from
which he seemed hardly willing to let her go, whispering as he kissed
her, "You are my own child now, you are my little daughter, do you know
that, Ellen? I am your father henceforth; you belong to me entirely, and
I belong to you; my own little daughter!"

"I wonder how many times one may be adopted?" thought Ellen that
evening; "but to be sure, my father and my mother have quite given me up
here, that makes a difference; they had a right to give me away if they
pleased. I suppose I do belong to my uncle and grandmother in good
earnest, and I cannot help myself. Well! but Mr. Humphreys seems a great
deal more like my father than my Uncle Lindsay. I cannot help that, but
how they would be vexed if they knew it!"

That was profoundly true.

Ellen was in a few days the dear pet and darling of the whole household,
without exception and almost without limit. At first, for a day or two,
there was a little lurking doubt, a little anxiety, a constant watch, on
the part of all her friends, whether they were not going to find
something in their newly acquired treasure to disappoint them; whether
it could be that there was nothing behind to belie the first promise.
Less keen observers, however, could not have failed to see very soon
that there was no _disappointment_ to be looked for; Ellen was just what
she seemed, without the shadow of a cloak in anything. Doubts vanished;
and Ellen had not been three days in the house when she was taken home
to two hearts at least in unbounded love and tenderness. When Mr.
Lindsay was present he was not satisfied without having Ellen in his
arms or close beside him; and if not there she was at the side of her
grandmother.

There was nothing, however, in the character of this fondness, great as
it was, that would have inclined any child to presume upon it. Ellen was
least of all likely to try; but if her will, by any chance, had run
counter to theirs, she would have found it impossible to maintain her
ground. She understood this from the first with her grandmother; and in
one or two trifles since had been more and more confirmed in the feeling
that they would do with her and make of her precisely what they pleased,
without the smallest regard to her fancy. If it jumped with theirs, very
well; if not, it must yield. In one matter Ellen had been roused to
plead very hard, and even with tears, to have her wish, which she verily
thought she ought to have had. Mrs. Lindsay smiled and kissed her, and
went on with the utmost coolness in what she was doing, which she
carried through without in the least regarding Ellen's distress or
showing the slightest discomposure; and the same thing was repeated
every day, till Ellen got used to it. Her uncle she had never seen
tried; but she knew it would be the same with him. When Mr. Lindsay
clasped her to his bosom Ellen felt it was as _his own_; his eye always
seemed to repeat, "_my own_ little daughter;" and in his own manner love
was mingled with as much authority. Perhaps Ellen did not like them much
the worse for this, as she had no sort of disposition to displease them
in anything; but it gave rise to sundry thoughts, however, which she
kept to herself; thoughts that went both to the future and the past.

Lady Keith, it may be, had less _heart_ to give than her mother and
brother, but pride took up the matter instead; and according to her
measure Ellen held with her the same place she held with Mr. and Mrs.
Lindsay; being the great delight and darling of all three; and with all
three, seemingly, the great object in life.

A few days after her arrival, a week or more, she underwent one evening
a kind of catechising from her aunt as to her former manner of life;
where she had been and with whom since her mother left her; what she had
been doing; whether she had been to school, and how her time was spent
at home, &c., &c. No comments whatever were made on her answers, but a
something in her aunt's face and manner induced Ellen to make her
replies as brief and to give her as little information in them as she
could. She did not feel inclined to enlarge upon anything, or to go at
all further than the questions obliged her; and Lady Keith ended without
having more than a very general notion of Ellen's way of life for three
or four years past. This conversation was repeated to her grandmother
and uncle.

"To think," said the latter the next morning at breakfast--"to think
that the backwoods of America should have turned us out such a little
specimen of----"

"Of what, uncle?" said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, I shall not tell you that," said he.

"But it is extraordinary," said Lady Keith, "how after living among a
parcel of thick-headed and thicker tongued Yankees she could come out
and speak pure English in a clear voice; it is an enigma to me."

"Take care, Catherine," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, "you are touching
Ellen's nationality; look here," said he, drawing his fingers down her
cheek.

"She must learn to have no nationality but yours," said Lady Keith
somewhat shortly.

Ellen's lips were open, but she spoke not.

"It is well you have come out from the Americans, you see, Ellen,"
pursued Mr. Lindsay; "your aunt does not like them."

"But why, sir?"

"Why," said he gravely, "don't you know that they are a parcel of rebels
who have broken loose from all loyalty and fealty, that no good Briton
has any business to like?"

"You are not in earnest, uncle?"

"_You_ are, I see," said he, looking amused. "Are you one of those who
make a saint of George Washington?"

"No," said Ellen, "I think he was a great deal better than some saints.
But I don't think the Americans were rebels."

"You are a little rebel yourself. Do you mean to say you think the
Americans were right?"

"Do you mean to say you think they were wrong, uncle?"

"I assure you," said he, "if I had been in the English army I would have
fought them with all my heart."

"And if I had been in the American army I would have fought _you_ with
all my heart, Uncle Lindsay."

"Come, come," said he, laughing, "_you_ fight! you don't look as if you
would do battle with a good-sized mosquito."

"Ah, but I mean if I had been a man," said Ellen.

"You had better put in that qualification. After all, I am inclined to
think it may be as well for you on the whole that we did not meet. I
don't know but we might have had a pretty stiff encounter, though."

"A good cause is stronger than a bad one, uncle."

"But Ellen, these Americans forfeited entirely the character of good
friends to England and good subjects to King George."

"Yes, but it was King George's fault, uncle; he and the English
forfeited their characters first."

"I declare," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, "if your sword had been as
stout as your tongue, I don't know how I might have come off in that
same encounter."

"I hope Ellen will get rid of these strange notions about the
Americans," said Lady Keith discontentedly.

"I hope not, Aunt Keith," said Ellen.

"Where did you get them?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, sir?"

"These notions?"

"In reading, sir; reading different books; and talking."

"Reading! so you did read in the backwoods?"

"Sir!" said Ellen, with a look of surprise.

"What have you read on this subject?"

"Two lives of Washington, and some in the Annual Register, and part of
Graham's United States; and one or two other little things."

"But those gave you only one side, Ellen; you should read the English
account of the matter."

"So I did, sir; the Annual Register gave me both sides; the bills and
messages were enough."

"What Annual Register?"

"I don't know, sir; it is English; written by Burke, I believe."

"Upon my word! And what else have you read?"

"I think that's all about America," said Ellen.

"No, but about other things?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir," said Ellen, smiling; "a great many books; I
can't tell them all."

"Did you spend all your time over your books?"

"A good deal, sir, lately; not so much before."

"How was that?"

"I couldn't, sir. I had a great many other things to do."

"What else had you to do?"

"Different things," said Ellen, hesitating from the remembrance of her
aunt's manner the night before.

"Come, come! answer me."

"I had to sweep and dust," said Ellen, colouring, "and set tables and
wash and wipe dishes, and churn, and spin, and----"

Ellen _heard_ Lady Keith's look in her "could you have conceived it?"

"What shall we do with her?" said Mrs. Lindsay; "send her to school or
keep her at home?"

"Have you never been to school, Ellen?"

"No, sir; except for a very little while, more than three years ago."

"Would you like it?"

"I would a _great_ deal rather study at home, sir, if you will let me."

"What do you know now?"

"Oh, I can't tell, sir," said Ellen; "I don't know anything very well,
unless----"

"Unless what?" said her uncle, laughing; "come! now for your
accomplishments."

"I had rather not say what I was going to, uncle; please don't ask me."

"Yes, yes," said he; "I shan't let you off. Unless what?"

"I was going to say, unless riding," said Ellen, colouring.

"Riding! And pray how did you learn to ride? Catch a horse by the mane
and mount him by the fence and canter off bare-backed? was that it? eh?"

"Not exactly, sir," said Ellen, laughing.

"Well, but about your other accomplishments. You do not know anything of
French, I suppose?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

"Where did you get that?"

"An old Swiss lady in the mountains taught me."

"Country riding and Swiss French," muttered her uncle.

"Did she teach you to speak it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Lindsay and his mother exchanged glances, which Ellen interpreted,
"Worse and worse."

"One thing at least can be mended," observed Mr. Lindsay. "She shall go
to De Courcey's riding-school as soon as we get to Edinburgh."

"Indeed, uncle, I don't think that will be necessary."

"Who taught you to ride, Ellen?" asked Lady Keith.

"My brother."

"Humph! I fancy a few lessons will do you no harm," she remarked.

Ellen  and was silent.

"You know nothing of music, of course?"

"I cannot play, uncle."

"Can you sing?"

"I can sing hymns."

"Sing hymns! That's the only fault I find with you, Ellen, you are too
sober. I should like to see you a little more gay, like other children."

"But, uncle, I am not unhappy because I am sober."

"But I am," said he. "I do not know precisely what I shall do with you;
I must do something!"

"Can you sing nothing but hymns?" said Lady Keith.

"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen, with some humour twinkling about her eyes and
mouth, "I can sing 'Hail Columbia'!"

"Absurd," said Lady Keith.

"Why, Ellen," said her uncle, laughing, "I did not know you could be so
stubborn; I thought you were made up of gentleness and mildness. Let me
have a good look at you, there's not much stubbornness in those eyes,"
he said fondly.

"I hope you will never salute _my_ ears with your American ditty," said
Lady Keith.

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Lindsay, "she shall sing what she pleases, and the
more the better."

"She has a very sweet voice," said her grandmother.

"Yes, in speaking, I know; I have not heard it tried otherwise; and very
nice English it turns out. Where did you get your English, Ellen?"

"From my brother," said Ellen, with a smile of pleasure.

Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded. "Whom do you mean by that?"

"The brother of the lady who was so kind to me." Ellen disliked to speak
the loved names in the hearing of ears to which she knew they would be
unlovely.

"How was she so kind to you?"

"Oh, sir! in everything--I cannot tell you; she was my friend when I had
only one beside; she did everything for me."

"And who was the other friend?--your aunt?"

"No, sir."

"This brother?"

"No, sir; that was before I knew him."

"Who then?"

"His name was Mr. Van Brunt."

"Van Brunt! Humph! And what was he?"

"He was a farmer, sir."

"A Dutch farmer, eh? how came you to have anything to do with _him_?"

"He managed my aunt's farm, and was a great deal in the house."

"He was! And what makes you call this other _your brother_?"

"His sister called me her sister--and that makes me his."

"It is very absurd," said Lady Keith, "when they are nothing at all to
her, and ought not to be."

"It seems then you did not find a friend in your aunt, Ellen? eh?"

"I don't think she loved me much," said Ellen in a low voice.

"I am very glad we are clear of obligation on _her_ score," said Mrs.
Lindsay.

"Obligation! And so you had nothing else to depend on, Ellen, but this
man--this Van something--this Dutchman? What did he do for you?"

"A great deal, sir;" Ellen would have said more, but a feeling in her
throat stopped her.

"Now just hear that, will you?" said Lady Keith. "Just think of her in
that farm-house, with that sweeping and dusting woman and a Dutch
farmer, for these three years!"

"No," said Ellen, "not all the time; this last year I have been----"

"Where, Ellen?"

"At the other house, sir."

"What house is that?"

"Where that lady and gentleman lived that were my best friends."

"Well, it's all very well," said Lady Keith, "but it is past now; it is
all over; you need not think of them any more. We will find you better
friends than any of these Dutch Brunters or Grunters."

"Oh, Aunt Keith!" said Ellen, "if you knew----" But she burst into
tears.

"Come, come," said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, "I will not
have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, Ellen?"

But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or three times
before in the course of the conversation, and she wept now rather
violently.

"What is the matter, Ellen?"

"Because," said Ellen, thoroughly roused, "I love them dearly! and I
ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot forget them, and never
shall; and I can never have better friends--never! it's impossible--oh,
it's impossible."

Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first except to soothe her; but when she had
wept herself into quietness upon his breast he whispered--

"It is right to love these people if they were kind to you, but as your
aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to it. Forget
that you were American, Ellen, you belong to me; your name is not
Montgomery any more, it is Lindsay; and I will not have you call me
'uncle'--I am your father; you are my own little daughter, and must do
precisely what I tell you. Do you understand me?"

He would have a "yes" from her, and then added, "Go and get yourself
ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh."

Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words; with
great effort she controlled herself and obeyed him.

"I shall do precisely what he tells me, of course," she said to herself,
as she went to get ready; "but there are some things he cannot command;
nor I neither; I am glad of that! Forget indeed!"

She could not help loving her uncle; for the lips that kissed her were
very kind as well as very peremptory; and if the hand that pressed her
cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, its touch was also
exceeding fond. And as she was no more inclined to dispute his will than
he to permit it, the harmony between them was perfect and unbroken.




CHAPTER XLVIII

          Bear a lily in thy hand;
          Gates of brass cannot withstand
          One touch of that magic wand.

                              --LONGFELLOW.


Mr. Lindsay had some reason that morning to wish that Ellen would look
merrier; it was a very sober little face he saw by his side as the
carriage rolled smoothly on with them towards Edinburgh; almost pale in
its sadness. He lavished the tenderest kindness upon her, and, without
going back by so much as a hint to the subjects of the morning, he
exerted himself to direct her attention to the various objects of note
and interest they were passing. The day was fine and the country, also
the carriage and the horses; Ellen was dearly fond of driving; and long
before they reached the city Mr. Lindsay had the satisfaction of seeing
her smile break again, her eye brighten, and her happy attention fixing
on the things he pointed out to her, and many others that she found for
herself on the way--his horses first of all. Mr. Lindsay might relax his
efforts and look on with secret triumph; Ellen was in the full train of
delighted observation.

"You are easily pleased, Ellen," he said, in answer to one of her simple
remarks of admiration.

"I have a great deal to please me," said Ellen.

"What would you like to see in Edinburgh?"

"I don't know, sir; anything you please."

"Then I will show you a little of the city, in the first place."

They drove through the streets of Edinburgh, both the Old and the New
town, in various directions; Mr. Lindsay extremely pleased to see that
Ellen was so, and much amused at the curiosity shown in her questions,
which, however, were by no means as free and frequent as they might have
been had John Humphreys filled her uncle's place.

"What large building is that over there?" said Ellen.

"That? that is Holyrood House."

"Holyrood! I have heard of that before; isn't that where Queen Mary's
rooms are? Where Rizzio was killed?"

"Yes; would you like to see them?"

"Oh _very_ much!"

"Drive to the Abbey. So you have read Scottish history as well as
American, Ellen?"

"Not very much, sir; only the 'Tales of a Grandfather' yet. But what
made me say that, I have read an account of Holyrood House somewhere,
Uncle----"

"Ellen!"

"I beg your pardon, sir; I forgot; it seems strange to me," said Ellen,
looking distressed.

"It must not seem strange to you, my daughter; what were you going to
say?"

"I don't know, sir. Oh, I was going to ask if the silver cross is here
now, to be seen?"

"What silver cross?"

"That one from which the Abbey was named, the silver rood that was
given, they pretended, to--I forget now what king."

"David First, the founder of the Abbey? No, it is not here, Ellen; David
the Second lost it to the English. But why do you say _pretended_,
Ellen? It was a very real affair; kept in England for a long time with
great veneration."

"Oh yes, sir; I know the _cross_ was real; I mean it was pretended that
an angel gave it to King David when he was hunting here."

"Well, how can you tell but that was so? King David was made a saint,
you know."

"Oh, sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I know better than that; I know it was
only a monkish trick."

"Monkish trick! which do you mean? the giving of the cross, or making
the king a saint?"

"Both, sir," said Ellen, still smiling.

"At that rate," said Mr. Lindsay, much amused, "if you are such a
sceptic, you will take no comfort in anything at the Abbey, you will not
believe anything is genuine."

"I will believe what you tell me, sir."

"Will you? I must be careful what I say to you then, or I may run the
risk of losing my own credit."

Mr. Lindsay spoke this half jestingly, half in earnest. They went over
the palace.

"Is this very old, sir?" asked Ellen.

"Not very; it has been burnt and demolished and rebuilt, till nothing is
left of the old Abbey of King David but the ruins of the chapel, which
you shall see presently. The oldest part of the House is that we are
going to see now, built by James Fifth, Mary's father, where her rooms
are."

At these rooms Ellen looked with intense interest. She pored over the
old furniture, the needlework of which she was told was at least in part
the work of the beautiful Queen's own fingers; gazed at the stains in
the floor of the bed-chamber, said to be those of Rizzio's blood;
meditated over the trap-door in the passage, by which the conspirators
had come up; and finally sat down in the room and tried to realise the
scene which had once been acted there. She tried to imagine the poor
Queen and her attendant and her favourite Rizzio sitting there at
supper, and how that door, that very door, had opened, and Ruthven's
ghastly figure, pale and weak from illness, presented itself, and then
others; the alarm of the moment; how Rizzio knew they were come for him
and fled to the Queen for protection; how she was withheld from giving
it, and the unhappy man pulled away from her and stabbed with a great
many wounds before her face; and there, there! no doubt, his blood fell!

"You are tired; this doesn't please you much," said Mr. Lindsay,
noticing her grave look.

"Oh, it pleases me _very_ much!" said Ellen, starting up; "I do not
wonder she swore vengeance."

"Who?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"Queen Mary, sir."

"Were you thinking of her all this while? I am glad of it. I spoke to
you once without getting a word. I was afraid this was not amusing
enough to detain your thoughts."

"Oh yes, it was," said Ellen; "I have been trying to think all about
that. I like to look at old things very much."

"Perhaps you would like to see the regalia."

"The what, sir?"

"The Royal things--the old diadem and sceptre, &c., of the Scottish
kings. Well, come," said he, as he read the answer in Ellen's face, "we
will go; but first let us see the old chapel."

With this Ellen was wonderfully pleased. This was much older still than
Queen Mary's rooms. Ellen admired the wild melancholy look of the gothic
pillars and arches springing from the green turf, the large carved
window empty of glass, the broken walls; and looking up to the blue sky,
she tried to imagine the time when the gothic roof closed overhead, and
music sounded through the arches, and trains of stoled monks paced
through them, where now the very pavement was not. Strange it seemed,
and hard, to go back and realise it; but in the midst of this, the
familiar face of the sky set Ellen's thoughts off upon a new track, and
suddenly they were _at home_--on the lawn before the parsonage. The
monks and the abbey were forgotten; she silently gave her hand to her
uncle, and walked with him to the carriage.

Arrived at the Crown room, Ellen fell into another fit of grave
attention; but Mr. Lindsay, taught better, did not this time mistake
rapt interest for absence of mind. He answered questions and gave her
several pieces of information, and let her take her own time to gaze and
meditate.

"This beautiful sword," said he, "was a present from Pope Julius Second
to James Fourth."

"I don't know anything about the Popes," said Ellen. "James Fourth?--I
forget what kind of a king he was."

"He was a very good king. He was the one that died at Flodden."

"Oh, and wore an iron girdle because he had fought against his father,
poor man!"

"Why 'poor man,' Ellen? He was a very royal prince. Why do you say 'poor
man'?"

"Because he didn't know any better, sir."

"Didn't know any better than what?"

"Than to think an iron girdle would do him any good."

"But why wouldn't it do him any good?"

"Because, you know, sir, that is not the way we can have our sins
forgiven."

"What _is_ the way?"

Ellen looked at him to see if he was in jest or earnest. Her look
staggered him a little, but he repeated his question. She cast her eyes
down and answered--

"Jesus Christ said, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man
cometh unto the Father but by me.'"

Mr. Lindsay said no more.

"I wish that was the Bruce's crown," said Ellen after a while. "I should
like to see anything that belonged to him."

"I'll take you to the field of Bannockburn some day; that belonged to
him with a vengeance. It lies over yonder."

"Bannockburn! will you? and Stirling Castle! Oh, how I should like
that!"

"Stirling Castle," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling at Ellen's clasped hands of
delight; "what do you know of Stirling Castle?"

"From the history, you know, sir; and the Lord of the Isles--

         'Old Stirling's towers arose in light----'"

"Go on," said Mr. Lindsay.

        "'And twined in links of silver bright
            Her winding river lay.'"

"That's this same river Forth, Ellen. Do you know any more?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Go on and tell me all you can remember."

"_All!_ that would be a great deal, sir."

"Go on till I tell you to stop."

Ellen gave him a good part of the battle, with introduction to it.

"You have a good memory, Ellen," he said, looking pleased.

"Because I like it, sir; that makes it easy to remember. I like the
Scots people."

"Do you!" said Mr. Lindsay, much gratified. "I did not know you liked
anything on this side of the water. Why do you like them?"

"Because they never would be conquered by the English."

"So," said Mr. Lindsay, half amused and half disappointed, "the long and
the short of it is, you like them because they fought the enemies you
were so eager to have a blow at."

"Oh no, sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I do not mean that at all; the
French were England's enemies too, and helped us besides, but I like the
Scots a great deal better than the French. I like them because they
would be free."

"You have an extraordinary taste for freedom! And pray, are all the
American children as strong republicans as yourself?"

"I don't know, sir; I hope so."

"Pretty well, upon my word! Then I suppose even the Bruce cannot rival
your favourite Washington in your esteem?"

Ellen smiled.

"Eh?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like Washington better, sir, of course; but I like Bruce very much."

"Why do you prefer Washington?"

"I should have to think to tell you that, sir."

"Very well, think, and answer me."

"One reason, I suppose, is because he was an American," said Ellen.

"That is not reason enough for so reasonable a person as you are, Ellen;
you must try again, or give up your preference."

"I like Bruce very much indeed," said Ellen musingly, "but he did what
he did for _himself_, Washington didn't."

"Humph! I am not quite sure as to either of your positions."

"And, besides," said Ellen, "Bruce did one or two wrong things.
Washington always did right."

"He did, eh? What do you think of the murder of Andre?"

"I think it was right," said Ellen firmly.

"Your reasons, my little reasoner?" asked Mr. Lindsay.

"If it had not been right, Washington would not have done it."

"Ha! ha! so at that rate you may reconcile yourself to anything that
chances to be done by a favourite."

"No, sir," said Ellen, a little confused, but standing her ground, "but
when a person _always_ does right, if he happened to do something that I
don't know enough to understand, I have good reason to think it is
right, even though I cannot understand it."

"Very well! but apply the same rule of judgment to the Bruce, can't
you?"

"Nothing could make me think the murder of the Red Comyn right, sir.
Bruce didn't think so himself."

"But remember, there is a great difference in the times, those were rude
and uncivilised compared to these; you must make allowance for that."

"Yes, sir, I do! but I like the civilised times best."

"What do you think of this fellow over here--what's his name?--whose
monument I was showing you--Nelson?"

"I used to like him very much, sir."

"And you do not now?"

"Yes, sir, I do; I cannot help liking him."

"That is to say, you would if you could?"

"I don't think, sir, I ought to like a man merely for being great unless
he was good. Washington was great and good both."

"Well, what is the matter with Nelson?" said Mr. Lindsay, with an
expression of intense amusement. "I 'used to think,' as you say, that he
was a very noble fellow."

"So he was, sir; but he wasn't a good man."

"Why not?"

"Why, you know, sir, he left his wife; and Lady Hamilton persuaded him
to do one or two other very dishonourable things; it was a great pity!"

"So you will not like any great man that is not good as well. What is
your definition of a good man, Ellen?"

"One who always does right because it is right, no matter whether it is
convenient or not," said Ellen, after a little hesitation.

"Upon my word, you draw the line close. But opinions differ as to what
is right; how shall we know?"

"From the Bible, sir," said Ellen quickly, with a look that half amused
and half abashed him.

"And you, Ellen, are you yourself _good_ after this nice fashion?"

"No, sir; but I wish to be."

"I do believe that. But after all, Ellen, you might like Nelson; those
were only the spots in the sun."

"Yes, sir; but can a man be a truly great man who is not master of
himself?"

"That is an excellent remark."

"It is not mine, sir," said Ellen, blushing; "it was told me; I did not
find out all that about Nelson myself; I did not see it all the first
time I read his life; I thought he was perfect."

"I know who _I_ think is," said Mr. Lindsay, kissing her.

They drove now to his house in George Street. Mr. Lindsay had some
business to attend to, and would leave her there for an hour or two. And
that their fast might not be too long unbroken, Mrs. Allen, the
housekeeper, was directed to furnish them with some biscuits in the
library, whither Mr. Lindsay led Ellen.

She liked the looks of it very much. Plenty of books, old-looking
comfortable furniture, pleasant light; all manner of et ceteras around,
which rejoiced Ellen's heart. Mr. Lindsay noticed her pleased glance
passing from one thing to another. He placed her in a deep easy-chair,
took off her bonnet and threw it on the sofa, and kissing her fondly,
asked her if she felt at home.

"Not yet," Ellen said; but her look said it would not take long to make
her do so. She sat enjoying her rest, and munching her biscuit with
great appetite and satisfaction, when Mr. Lindsay poured her out a glass
of sweet wine.

The glass of wine looked to Ellen like an enemy marching up to attack
her. Because Alice and John did not drink it, she had always, at first
without other reason, done the same; and she was determined not to
forsake their example now. She took no notice of the glass of wine,
though she had ceased to see anything else in the room, and went on,
seemingly as before, eating her biscuits, though she no longer knew how
they tasted.

"Why don't you drink your wine, Ellen?"

"I do not wish any, sir."

"Don't you like it?"

"I don't know, sir; I have never drunk any."

"No! Taste it and see."

"I would rather not, sir, if you please. I don't care for it."

"Taste it, Ellen!"

This command was not to be disobeyed. The blood rushed to Ellen's
temples as she just touched the glass to her lips and set it down again.

"Well?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, sir?"

"How do you like it?"

"I like it very well, sir, but I would rather not drink it."

"Why?"

Ellen  again at this exceedingly difficult question, and
answered as well as she could, that she had never been accustomed to it,
and would rather not.

"It is of no sort of consequence what you have been accustomed to," said
Mr. Lindsay. "You are to drink it all, Ellen."

Ellen dared not disobey. When biscuits and wine were disposed of, Mr.
Lindsay drew her close to his side, and encircling her fondly with his
arms, said--

"I shall leave you now for an hour or two, and you must amuse yourself
as you can. The book-cases are open--perhaps you can find something
there; or there are prints in those portfolios; or you can go over the
house and make yourself acquainted with your new home. If you want
anything, ask Mrs. Allen. Does it look pleasant to you?"

"Very," Ellen said.

"You are at home here, daughter; go where you will and do what you will.
I shall not leave you long. But before I go, Ellen, let me hear you call
me father."

Ellen obeyed, trembling, for it seemed to her that it was to set her
hand and seal to the deed of gift her father and mother had made. But
there was no retreat; it was spoken; and Mr. Lindsay, folding her close
in his arms, kissed her again and again.

"Never let me hear you call me anything else, Ellen. You are mine own
now--my own child--my own little daughter. You shall do just what
pleases me in everything, and let bygones be bygones. And now lie down
there and rest, daughter; you are trembling from head to foot; rest and
amuse yourself in any way you like till I return."

He left the room.

"I have done it now!" thought Ellen, as she sat in the corner of the
sofa where Mr. Lindsay had tenderly placed her; "I have called him my
father, I am bound to obey him after this. I wonder what in the world
they will make me do next. If he chooses to make me drink wine every
day, I must do it! I cannot help myself. That is only a little matter.
But what if they were to want me to do something wrong?--they might;
John never did, I could not have disobeyed _him_, possibly; but I could
them, if it was necessary, and if it is necessary I will. I should have
a dreadful time; I wonder if I could go through with it. Oh yes, I
could, if it was right; and besides would rather bear anything in the
world from them than have John displeased with me; a great deal rather.
But perhaps after all they will not want anything wrong of me. I wonder
if this is really to be my home always, and if I shall ever get home
again? John will not leave me here; but I don't see how in the world he
can help it, for my father and my mother, and I myself; I know what he
would tell me if he was here, and I'll try to do it. God will take care
of me if I follow Him; it is none of my business."

Simply and heartily commending her interests to His keeping, Ellen tried
to lay aside the care of herself. She went on musing; how very different
and how much greater her enjoyment would have been that day if John had
been with her. Mr. Lindsay, to be sure, had answered her questions with
abundant kindness and sufficient ability; but his answers did not, as
those of her brother often did, skilfully draw her on from one thing to
another, till a train of thought was opened which at the setting out she
never dreamed of; and along with the joy of acquiring new knowledge she
had the pleasure of discovering new fields of it to be explored, and the
delight of the felt exercise and enlargement of her own powers, which
were sure to be actively called into play. Mr. Lindsay told her what she
asked, and there left her. Ellen found herself growing melancholy over
the comparison she was drawing; and wisely went to the book-cases to
divert her thoughts. Finding presently a history of Scotland, she took
it down, resolving to refresh her memory on a subject which had gained
such new and strange interest for her. Before long, however, fatigue,
and the wine she had drunk, effectually got the better of studious
thoughts; she stretched herself on the sofa and fell asleep.

There Mr. Lindsay found her a couple of hours afterwards under the guard
of the housekeeper.

"I cam in, sir," she said, whispering; "it's mair than an hour back,
and she's been sleeping just like a baby ever syne; she hasna stirred a
finger. Oh, Mr. Lindsay, it's a bonny bairn, and a gude. What a blessing
to the house!"

"You're about right there, I believe, Maggie; but how have you learned
it so fast?"

"I canna be mista'en, Mr. George; I ken it as weel as if we had had a
year auld acquentance; I ken it by thae sweet mouth and een, and by the
look she gied me when you tauld her, sir, I had been in the house near
as long's yoursel. And look at her eenow. There's heaven's peace within,
I'm a'maist assured."

The kiss that wakened Ellen found her in the midst of a dream. She
thought that John was a king of Scotland, and standing before her in
regal attire. She offered him, she thought, a glass of wine, but raising
the sword of state, silver scabbard and all, he with a tremendous swing
of it dashed the glass out of her hands; and then as she stood abashed,
he went forward with one of his old grave kind looks to kiss her. As the
kiss touched her lips Ellen opened her eyes to find her brother
transformed into Mr. Lindsay, and the empty glass standing safe and
sound upon the table.

"You must have had a pleasant nap," said Mr. Lindsay, "you wake up
smiling. Come, make haste, I have left a friend in the carriage. Bring
your book along if you want it."

The presence of the stranger, who was going down to spend a day or two
at "The Braes," prevented Ellen from having any talking to do.
Comfortably placed in the corner of the front seat of the barouche,
leaning on the elbow of the carriage, she was left to her own musings.
She could hardly realise the change in her circumstances. The carriage
rolling fast and smoothly on--the two gentlemen opposite to her, one her
father--the strange, varied, beautiful scenes they were flitting by; the
long shadows made by the descending sun; the cool evening air; Ellen,
leaning back in the wide easy seat, felt as if she were in a dream. It
was singularly pleasant; she could not help but enjoy it all very much;
and yet it seemed to her as if she were caught in a net from which she
had no power to get free, and she longed to clasp that hand that could,
she thought, draw her whence and whither it pleased. "But Mr. Lindsay
opposite? I have called him my father; I have given myself to him," she
thought; "but I gave myself to somebody else first; I can't undo that,
and I never will!" Again she tried to quiet and resign the care of
herself to better wisdom and greater strength than her own. "This may
all be arranged, easily, in some way I could never dream of," she said
to herself; "I have no business to be uneasy. Two months ago, and I was
quietly at home, and seemed to be fixed there for ever; and now, without
anything extraordinary happening, here I am, just as fixed. Yes, and
before that at Aunt Fortune's it didn't seem possible that I could ever
get away from being her child, and yet how easily all that was managed.
And just so in some way that I cannot imagine, things may open so as to
let me out smoothly from this." She resolved to be patient, and take
thankfully what she at present had to enjoy; and in this mood of mind
the drive home was beautiful; and the evening was happily absorbed in
the history of Scotland.

It was a grave question in the family that same evening whether Ellen
should be sent to school. Lady Keith was decided in favour of it; her
mother seemed doubtful; Mr. Lindsay, who had a vision of the little
figure lying asleep on his library sofa, thought the room had never
looked so cheerful before, and had near made up his mind that she should
be its constant adornment the coming winter. Lady Keith urged the school
plan.

"Not a boarding-school," said Mrs. Lindsay; "I will not hear of that."

"No, but a day-school; it would do her a vast deal of good, I am
certain; her notions want shaking up very much. And I never saw a child
of her age so much a child."

"I assure you _I_ never saw one so much a woman. She has asked me
to-day, I suppose," said he, smiling, "a hundred questions or less; and
I assure you there was not one foolish or vain one among them; not one
that was not sensible, and most of them singularly so."

"She was greatly pleased with her day," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I never saw such a baby-face in my life," said Lady Keith, "in a child
of her years."

"It is a face of uncommon intelligence," said her brother.

"It is both," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I was struck with it the other day," said Lady Keith--"the day she
slept so long upon the sofa upstairs after she was dressed; she had been
crying about something, and her eyelashes were wet still, and she had
that curious grave innocent look you only see in infants; you might have
thought she was fourteen months, instead of fourteen years, old;
fourteen and a half she says she is."

"Crying!" said Mr. Lindsay; "what was the matter?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Lindsay, "but that she had been obliged to submit
to me in something that did not please her."

"Did she give you any cause of displeasure?"

"No, though I can see she has strong passions. But she is the first
child I ever saw that I think I could not get angry with."

"Mother's heart half misgave her, I believe," said Lady Keith, laughing;
"she sat there looking at her for an hour."

"She seems to be perfectly gentle and submissive," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, but don't trust too much to appearances," said his sister. "If she
is not a true Lindsay after all, I am mistaken. Did you see her colour
once or twice this morning, when something was said that did not please
her?"

"You can judge nothing from that," said Mr. Lindsay; "she colours at
everything. You should have seen her to-day when I told her I would take
her to Bannockburn."

"Ah! she has got the right side of you; you will be able to discern no
faults in her presently."

"She has used no arts for it, sister; she is a straightforward little
hussy, and that is one thing I like about her, though I was as near as
possible being provoked with her once or twice to-day. There is only one
thing I wish was altered;--she has her head filled with strange
notions--absurd for a child of her age; I don't know what to do to get
rid of them."

After some more conversation, it was decided that school would be the
best thing for this end, and half decided that Ellen should go.

But this half decision Mr. Lindsay found it very difficult to keep to,
and circumstances soon destroyed it entirely. Company was constantly
coming and going at "The Braes," and much of it of a kind that Ellen
exceedingly liked to see and hear; intelligent, cultivated,
well-informed people, whose conversation was highly agreeable and always
useful to her. Ellen had nothing to do with the talking, so she made
good use of her ears.

One evening Mr. Lindsay, a M. Villars, and M. Muller, a Swiss gentleman
and a noted man of science, very much at home in Mr. Lindsay's house,
were carrying on, in French, a conversation in which the two foreigners
took part against their host. M. Villars began with talking about
Lafayette; from him they went to the American Revolution and Washington,
from them to other patriots and other republics, ancient and modern--MM.
Villars and Muller taking the side of freedom, and pressing Mr. Lindsay
hard with argument, authority, example, and historical testimony. Ellen
as usual was fast by his side, and delighted to see that he could by no
means make good his ground. The ladies at the other end of the room
would several times have drawn her away, but happily for her, and also
as usual, Mr. Lindsay's arm was around her shoulders, and she was left
in quiet to listen. The conversation was very lively, and on a subject
very interesting to her; for America had been always a darling theme;
Scottish struggles for freedom were fresh in her mind; her attention
had long ago been called to Switzerland and its history by Alice and
Mrs. Vawse, and French history had formed a good part of her last
winter's reading. She listened with the most eager delight, too much
engrossed to notice the good-humoured glances that were every now and
then given her by one of the speakers. Not Mr. Lindsay; though his hand
was upon her shoulder or playing with the light curls that fell over her
temples, _he_ did not see that her face was flushed with interest, or
notice the quick smile and sparkle of the eye that followed every turn
in the conversation that favoured her wishes or foiled his--it was M.
Muller. They came to the Swiss, and their famous struggle for freedom
against Austrian oppression. M. Muller wished to speak of the noted
battle in which that freedom was made sure, but for the moment its name
had escaped him.

"Par ma foi," said M. Villars, "il m'a enti[`e]rement pass['e]!"

Mr. Lindsay could not or would not help him out. But M. Muller suddenly
turned to Ellen, in whose face he thought he saw a look of intelligence,
and begged of her the missing name.

"Est-ce Morgarten, monsieur?" said Ellen, blushing.

"Morgarten! c'est [c,]a!" said he with a polite, pleased bow of thanks.
Mr. Lindsay was little less astonished than the Duke of Argyle when his
gardener claimed to be the owner of a Latin work on mathematics.

The conversation presently took a new turn with M. Villars; and M.
Muller withdrawing from it addressed himself to Ellen. He was a
pleasant-looking elderly gentleman; she had never seen him before that
evening.

"You know French well, then?" said he, speaking to her in that tongue.

"I don't know, sir," said Ellen modestly.

"And you have heard of the Swiss mountaineers?"

"Oh yes, sir; a great deal."

He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an exquisite little
painting, asking her if she knew what it was.

"It is an Alpine ch[^a]let, is it not, sir?"

He was pleased, and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen that
Switzerland was his country; and drawing a little aside from the other
talkers, he entered into a long and, to her, most delightful
conversation. In the pleasantest manner, he gave her a vast deal of very
entertaining detail about the country and the manners and the habits of
the people of the Alps, especially in the Tyrol, where he had often
travelled. It would have been hard to tell whether the child had most
pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and science most
pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He saw, he said, that
she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and asked if she had ever
heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese peasant who led on his brethren in
their noble endeavours to rid themselves of French and Bavarian
oppression. Ellen had never heard of him.

"You know William Tell?"

"Oh yes," Ellen said, she knew him.

"And Bonaparte?"

"Yes, very well."

He went on then to give her in a very interesting way the history of
Hofer; how when Napoleon made over his country to the rule of the King
of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose in mass; overcame army after
army that was sent against them in their mountain fastnesses, and freed
themselves from the hated Bavarian government; how, years after,
Napoleon was at last too strong for them; Hofer and his companions
defeated, hunted like wild beasts, shot down like them; how Hofer was at
last betrayed by a friend, taken, and executed, being only seen to weep
at parting with his family. The beautiful story was well told, and the
speaker was animated by the eager, deep attention and sympathy of his
auditor, whose changing colour, smiles, and even tears, showed how well
she entered into the feelings of the patriots in their struggle,
triumph, and downfall; till, as he finished, she was left full of pity
for them and hatred of Napoleon. They talked of the Alps again. M.
Muller put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a little painting in
mosaic to show her, which he said had been given him that day. It was a
beautiful piece of pietra dura work--Mont Blanc. He assured her the
mountain often looked exactly so. Ellen admired it very much. It was
meant to be set for a brooch or some such thing, he said, and he asked
if she would keep it and sometimes wear it, to "remember the Swiss, and
to do him a pleasure."

"Moi, monsieur!" said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and pleasure,
"je suis bien oblig['e]e, mais, monsieur, je ne saurais vous remercier!"

He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch of her
lips.

"Tenez, monsieur!" said Ellen, blushing, but smiling, and tendering back
the mosaic.

He laughed and bowed and begged her pardon, and said she must keep it to
assure him she had forgiven him; and then he asked by what name he might
remember her.

"Monsieur, je m'appelle Ellen M----"

She stopped short in utter and blank uncertainty what to call herself;
Montgomery she dared not; Lindsay stuck in her throat.

"Have you forgotten it?" said M. Muller, amused at her look, "or is it a
secret?"

"Tell M. Muller your name, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, turning round from
a group where he was standing at a little distance. The tone was stern
and displeased. Ellen felt it keenly, and with difficulty, and some
hesitation still, murmured--"Ellen Lindsay."

"Lindsay? Are you the daughter of my friend Mr. Lindsay?"

Again Ellen hesitated, in great doubt how to answer, but finally, not
without starting tears, said--

"Oui, monsieur."

"Your memory is bad to-night," said Mr. Lindsay in her ear; "you had
better go where you can refresh it."

Ellen took this as a hint to leave the room, which she did immediately,
not a little hurt at the displeasure she did not think she had deserved;
she loved Mr. Lindsay the best of all her relations, and really loved
him. She went to bed and to sleep again that night with wet eyelashes.

Meanwhile, M. Muller was gratifying Mr. Lindsay in a high degree by the
praises he bestowed upon his daughter, her intelligence, her manners,
her modesty, and her _French_. He asked if she was to be in Edinburgh
that winter, and whether she would be at school; and Mr. Lindsay
declaring himself undecided on the latter point, M. Muller said he
should be pleased, if she had leisure, to have her come to his rooms two
or three times a week to read with him. This offer, from a person of M.
Muller's standing and studious habits, Mr. Lindsay justly took as both a
great compliment and a great promise of advantage to Ellen. He at once,
and with much pleasure, accepted it. So the question of school was
settled.

Ellen resolved the next morning to lose no time in making up her
difference with Mr. Lindsay, and schooled herself to use a form of words
that she thought would please him. Pride said indeed, "Do no such thing;
don't go to making acknowledgments when you have not been in the wrong;
you are not bound to humble yourself before unjust displeasure." Pride
pleaded powerfully. But neither Ellen's heart nor her conscience would
permit her to take this advice. "He loves me very much," she thought,
"and perhaps he did not understand me last night; and besides, I owe
him--yes, I do!--a child's obedience now. I ought not to leave him
displeased with me a moment longer than I can help. And besides, I
couldn't be happy so. God gives grace to the humble. I will humble
myself."

To have a chance for executing this determination she went downstairs a
good deal earlier than usual; she knew Mr. Lindsay was generally there
before the rest of the family, and she hoped to see him alone. It was
too soon even for him, however; the rooms were empty. So Ellen took her
book from the table, and being perfectly at peace with herself, sat down
in the window and was presently lost in the interest of what she was
reading. She did not know of Mr. Lindsay's approach till a little
imperative tap on her shoulder startled her.

"What were you thinking of last night? what made you answer M. Muller in
the way you did?"

Ellen started up, but to utter her prepared speech was no longer
possible.

"I did not know what to say," she said, looking down.

"What do you mean by that?" said he angrily. "Didn't you know what I
wished you to say?"

"Yes--but--do not speak to me in that way!" exclaimed Ellen, covering
her face with her hands. Pride struggled to keep back the tears that
wanted to flow.

"I shall choose my own method of speaking. Why did you not say what you
knew I wished you to say?"

"I was afraid--I didn't know--but he would think what wasn't true."

"That is precisely what I wish him and all the world to think. I will
have no difference made, Ellen, either by them or you. Now lift up your
head and listen to me," said he, taking both her hands. "I lay my
commands upon you, whenever the like questions may be asked again, that
you answer simply according to what I have told you, without any
explanation or addition. It is true, and if people draw conclusions that
are not true, it is what I wish. Do you understand me?" Ellen bowed.

"Will you obey me?" She answered again in the same mute way.

He ceased to hold her at arm's length, and sitting down in her chair
drew her close to him, saying more kindly--

"You must not displease me, Ellen."

"I had no thought of displeasing you, sir," said Ellen, bursting into
tears, "and I was very sorry for it last night. I did not mean to
disobey you--I only hesitated----"

"Hesitate no more. My commands may serve to remove the cause of it. You
are my daughter, Ellen, and I am your father. Poor child!" said he, for
Ellen was violently agitated, "I don't believe I shall have much
difficulty with you."

"If you will only not speak and look at me so," said Ellen; "it makes me
very unhappy----"

"Hush!" said he, kissing her; "do not give me occasion."

"I did not give you occasion, sir."

"Why, Ellen!" said Mr. Lindsay, half displeased again, "I shall begin to
think your Aunt Keith is right, that you are a true Lindsay. But so am
I, and I will have only obedience from you--without either answering or
argument."

"You shall," murmured Ellen. "But do not be displeased with me, father."

Ellen had schooled herself to say that word; she knew it would greatly
please him; and she was not mistaken; though it was spoken so low that
his ears could but just catch it. Displeasure was entirely overcome. He
pressed her to his heart, kissing her with great tenderness, and would
not let her go from his arms till he had seen her smile again; and
during all the day he was not willing to have her out of his sight.

It would have been easy that morning for Ellen to have made a breach
between them that would not readily have been healed. One word of
humility had prevented it all, and fastened her more firmly than ever in
Mr. Lindsay's affection. She met with nothing from him but tokens of
great and tender fondness; and Lady Keith told her mother apart that
there would be no doing anything with George; she saw he was getting
bewitched with that child.




CHAPTER XLIX

          My heart is sair, I dare nae tell.
            My heart is sair for somebody;
          I could wake a winter night
            For the sake of somebody.
              Oh-hon! for somebody!
              Oh hey! for somebody!
          I wad do--what wad I not,
            For the sake of somebody.

                              --SCOTCH SONG.


In a few weeks they moved to Edinburgh, where arrangements were speedily
made for giving Ellen every means of improvement that masters and
mistresses, books and instruments, could afford.

The house in George Street was large and pleasant. To Ellen's great joy
a pretty little room opening from the first landing-place of the private
staircase was assigned for her special use as a study and work-room; and
fitted up nicely for her with a small book-case, a practising piano, and
various et ceteras. Here her beloved desk took its place on a table in
the middle of the floor, where Ellen thought she would make many a new
drawing when she was by herself. Her work-box was accommodated with a
smaller stand near the window. A glass door at one end of the room
opened upon a small iron balcony; this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a
very particular treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she arranged and
arranged her little sanctum till she had all things to her mind, and it
only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. "I will have that, too,
some of these days," she said to herself; and resolved to deserve her
pretty room by being very busy there. It was hers alone, open indeed to
her friends when they chose to keep her company; but lessons were taken
elsewhere; in the library or the music-room, or more frequently her
grandmother's dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs. Lindsay or Lady
Keith was always present.

Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole family. Not so
much, however, Lady Keith's plaything as her pride; while pride had a
less share in the affection of the other two, or rather perhaps was more
overtopped by it. Ellen felt, however, that all their hearts were set
upon her: felt it gratefully, and determined she would give them all the
pleasure she possibly could. Her love for other friends, friends that
they knew nothing of, _American_ friends, was, she knew, the sore point
with them; she resolved not to speak of those friends, nor allude to
them, especially in any way that would show how much of her heart was
out of Scotland. But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor
Ellen to keep. She was unaccustomed to concealments; and in ways that
she could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome truth would come
up, and the sore was not healed.

One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone, and
quietly stretched on her bed, very naturally Ellen's thoughts went back
to the last time she had had a headache, _at home_, as she always called
it to herself. She recalled with a straitened heart the gentle and
tender manner of John's care for her; how nicely he had placed her on
the sofa; how he sat by her side bathing her temples, or laying his cool
hand on her forehead, and once, she remembered, his lips. "I wonder,"
thought Ellen, "what I ever did to make him love me so much, as I know
he does?" She remembered how, when she was able to listen, he still sat
beside her, talking such sweet words of kindness and comfort and
amusement, that she almost loved to be sick to have such tending, and
looked up at him as at an angel. She felt it all over again.
Unfortunately, after she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see
how she was, and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making
their way down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not rest
till she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to tell, she did her
best to get off from it, but she did not know how to evade questions;
and those that were put to her indeed admitted of no evasion.

A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was remarked one
morning at breakfast that Ellen was very straight and carried herself
well.

"It is no thanks to me," said Ellen, smiling, "they never would let me
hold myself ill."

"Who is 'they'?" said Lady Keith.

"My brother and sister."

"I wish, George," said Lady Keith, discontentedly, "that you would lay
your commands upon Ellen to use that form of expression no more. My ears
are absolutely sick of it."

"You do not hear it very often, Aunt Keith," Ellen could not help
saying.

"Quite often enough; and I know it is upon your lips a thousand times
when you do not speak it."

"And if Ellen does, we do not," said Mrs. Lindsay, "wish to claim
kindred with all the world."

"How came you to take up such an absurd habit?" said Lady Keith. "It
isn't like you."

"They took it up first," said Ellen; "I was too glad----"

"Yes, I daresay they had their reasons for taking it up," said her aunt;
"they had acted from interested motives, no doubt; people always do."

"You are very much mistaken, Aunt Keith," said Ellen, with
uncontrollable feeling; "you do not in the least know what you are
talking about!"

Instantly Mr. Lindsay's fingers tapped her lips. Ellen 
painfully, but after an instant's hesitation she said--

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Keith, I should not have said that."

"Very well," said Mr. Lindsay. "But understand, Ellen, however you may
have taken it up--this habit--you will lay it down for the future. Let
us hear no more of brothers and sisters. _I_ cannot, as your grandmother
says, fraternise with all the world, especially with unknown relations."

"I am very glad you have made that regulation," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I cannot conceive how Ellen has got such a way of it," said Lady Keith.

"It is very natural," said Ellen, with some huskiness of voice, "that I
should say so, because I feel so."

"You do not mean to say," said Mr. Lindsay, "that this Mr. and Miss
somebody--these people--I don't know their names----"

"There is only one now, sir."

"This person you call your brother--do you mean to say you have the same
regard for him as if he had been born so?"

"No," said Ellen, cheek and eye suddenly firing, "but a thousand times
more!"

She was exceedingly sorry the next minute after she had said this! for
she knew it had given both pain and displeasure in a great degree. No
answer was made. Ellen dared not look at anybody, and needed not; she
wished the silence might be broken; but nothing was heard except a low
"whew!" from Mr. Lindsay, till he rose up and left the room. Ellen was
sure he was very much displeased. Even the ladies were too much offended
to speak on the subject; and she was merely bade to go to her room. She
went there, and sitting down on the floor, covered her face with her
hands. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" she said to herself. "I never
shall govern this tongue of mine. Oh, I wish I had not said that! they
never will forgive it. What _can_ I do to make them pleased with me
again? Shall I go to my father's study and beg him--but I can't ask him
to forgive me--I haven't done wrong--I can't unsay what I said. I can do
nothing. I can only go in the way of my duty and do the best I can--and
maybe they will come round again. But, oh, dear!"

A flood of tears followed this resolution.

Ellen kept it; she tried to be blameless in all her work and behaviour,
but she sorrowfully felt that her friends did not forgive her. There was
a cool air of displeasure about all they said and did; the hand of
fondness was not laid upon her shoulder, she was not wrapped in loving
arms, as she used to be a dozen times a day; no kisses fell on her brow
or lips. Ellen felt it, more from Mr. Lindsay than both the others; her
spirits sank; she had been forbidden to speak of her absent friends, but
that was not the way to make her forget them; and there was scarce a
minute in the day when her brother was not present to her thoughts.

Sunday came; her first Sunday in Edinburgh. All went to church in the
morning; in the afternoon Ellen found that nobody was going; her
grandmother was lying down. She asked permission to go alone.

"Do you want to go because you think you must? or for pleasure?" said
Mrs. Lindsay.

"For pleasure!" said Ellen's tongue, her eyes opening at the same time.

"You may go."

With eager delight Ellen got ready, and was hastening along the hall to
the door, when she met Mr. Lindsay.

"Where are you going?"

"To church, sir."

"Alone! What do you want to go for? No, no, I shan't let you. Come in
here--I want you with me; you have been once to-day already, haven't
you? You do not want to go again?"

"I do indeed, sir, very much," said Ellen, as she reluctantly followed
him into the library, "if you have no objection. You know I have not
seen Edinburgh yet."

"Edinburgh! that's true, so you haven't," said he, looking at her
discomfited face. "Well, go, if you want to go so much."

Ellen got to the hall door, no further; she rushed back to the library.

"I did not say right when I said that," she burst forth; "that was not
the reason I wanted to go. I will stay, if you wish me, sir."

"I don't wish it," said he in surprise; "I don't know what you mean--I
am willing you should go if you like it. Away with you! it is time."

Once more Ellen set out, but this time with a heart full; much too full
to think of anything she saw by the way. It was with a singular feeling
of pleasure that she entered the church alone. It was a strange church
to her, never seen but once before, and as she softly passed up the
broad aisle she saw nothing in the building or the people around her
that was not strange, no familiar face, no familiar thing. But it was a
church, and she was alone; quite alone in the midst of that crowd; and
she went up to the empty pew and ensconced herself in the far corner of
it, with a curious feeling of quiet and of being at home. She was no
sooner seated, however, than leaning forward as much as possible to
screen herself from observation, bending her head upon her knees, she
burst into an agony of tears. It was a great relief to be able to weep
freely; at home she was afraid of being seen or heard or questioned; now
she was alone and free, and she poured out her very heart in weeping
that she with difficulty kept from being loud weeping.

"Oh how could I say that! how could I say that! Oh what _would_ John
have thought of me if he had heard it. Am I beginning already to lose my
truth? am I going backward already? Oh what shall I do! what will become
of me if I do not watch over myself--there is no one to help me or lead
me right--not a single one--all to lead me wrong! what will become of
me? But there is One who has promised to keep those that follow Him--He
is sufficient, without any others--I have not kept near enough to Him!
that is it; I have not remembered nor loved Him. 'If ye love me, keep my
commandments.' I have not! I have not! Oh, but I will! I will; and He
will be with me, and help me and bless me, and all will go right with
me."

With bitter tears Ellen mingled as eager prayers for forgiveness and
help to be faithful. She resolved that nothing, come what would, should
tempt her to swerve one iota from the straight line of truth; she
resolved to be more careful of her private hour; she thought she had
scarcely had her full hour a day lately; she resolved to make the Bible
her only and her constant rule of life in everything; and she prayed,
such prayers as a heart thoroughly in earnest can pray, for the seal to
these resolutions. Not one word of the sermon did Ellen hear; but she
never passed a more profitable hour in church in her life.

_All_ her tears were not from the spring of these thoughts and feelings;
some were the pouring out of the gathered sadness of the week; some came
from recollections, oh, how tender and strong! of lost and distant
friends. Her mother--and Alice--and Mr. Humphreys--and Margery--and Mr.
Van Brunt--and Mr. George Marshman; and she longed, with longing that
seemed as if it would have burst her heart, to see her brother. She
longed for the pleasant voice, the eye of thousand expressions, into
which she always looked as if she had never seen it before, the calm
look that told he was satisfied with her, the touch of his hand, which
many a time had said a volume. Ellen thought she would give anything in
the world to see him and hear him speak one word. As this could not be,
she resolved with the greatest care to do what would please him; that
when she did see him he might find her all he wished.

She had wept herself out; she had refreshed and strengthened herself by
fleeing to the stronghold of the prisoners of hope; and when the last
hymn was given out she raised her head and took the book to find it. To
her great surprise, she saw Mr. Lindsay sitting at the other end of the
pew, with folded arms, like a man not thinking of what was going on
around him. Ellen was startled, but obeying the instinct that told her
what he would like, she immediately moved down the pew and stood beside
him while the last hymn was singing; and if Ellen had joined in no other
part of the service that afternoon, she at least did in that with all
her heart. They walked home then without a word on either side. Mr.
Lindsay did not quit her hand till he had drawn her into the library.
There he threw off her bonnet and wrappers, and taking her in his arms,
exclaimed--

"My poor little darling! what was the matter with you this afternoon?"

There was so much of kindness again in his tone, that overjoyed, Ellen
eagerly returned his caress, and assured him that there was nothing the
matter with her now.

"Nothing the matter!" said he, tenderly pressing her face against his
own, "nothing the matter! with these pale cheeks and wet eyes? nothing
_now_, Ellen?"

"Only that I am so glad to hear you speak kindly to me again, sir."

"Kindly? I will never speak any way but kindly to you, daughter. Come! I
will not have any more tears; you have shed enough for to-day, I am
sure; lift up your face and I will kiss them away. What was the matter
with you, my child?"

But he had to wait a little while for an answer. "What was it, Ellen?"

"One thing," said Ellen, "I was sorry for what I had said to you, sir,
just before I went out."

"What was that? I do not remember anything that deserved to be a cause
of grief."

"I told you, sir, when I wanted you to let me go to church, that I
hadn't seen Edinburgh yet."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, that wasn't being quite true; and I was very sorry for it!"

"Not true? yes it was; what do you mean? you had _not_ seen Edinburgh."

"No, sir, but I mean--_that_ was true, but I said it to make you believe
what wasn't true."

"How?"

"I meant you to think, sir, that that was the reason why I wanted to go
to church--to see the city and the new sights; and it wasn't at all."

"What was it then?" Ellen hesitated.

"I always love to go, sir; and besides, I believe I wanted to be alone."

"And you were not, after all," said Mr. Lindsay, again pressing her
cheek to his, "for I followed you there. But, Ellen, my child, you were
troubled without reason; you had said nothing that was false."

"Ah, sir, but I had made you believe what was false."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Lindsay, "you are a nice reasoner. And are you
always true upon this close scale?"

"I wish I was, sir, but you see I am not. I am sure I hate everything
else!"

"Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true," said Mr. Lindsay. "I
wish there was a little more of it in the world. Was this the cause of
all those tears this afternoon?"

"No, sir; not all."

"What beside, Ellen?" Ellen looked down, and was silent.

"Come--I must know."

"Must I tell you all, sir?"

"You must, indeed," said he, smiling; "I will have the whole, daughter."

"I had been feeling sorry all the week because you and grandmother and
Aunt Keith were displeased with me."

Again Mr. Lindsay's silent caress in its tenderness seemed to say that
she should never have the same complaint to make again.

"Was that all, Ellen?" as she hesitated.

"No, sir."

"Well?"

"I wish you wouldn't ask me further; please do not! I shall displease
you again."

"I will not be displeased."

"I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys," said Ellen in a low tone.

"Who is that?"

"You know, sir; you say I must not call him----"

"What were you thinking of him?"

"I was wishing very much I could see him again."

"Well, you _are_ a truth-teller," said Mr. Lindsay, "or bolder than I
think you."

"You said you would not be displeased, sir."

"Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you forget these
people?"

"Nothing, sir; I cannot forget them; I shouldn't deserve to have you
love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, and do not be angry with me
for it."

"But I am not satisfied to have your body here and your heart somewhere
else."

"I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling amidst
her tears, "if it had room in it for only one person."

"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay inquisitively, "did you _insinuate_ a
falsehood there?"

"No, sir!"

"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is honesty anywhere
in the world. I am satisfied--that is, half-satisfied. Now lie there, my
little daughter, and rest," said he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look
as if you needed it."

"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek upon the
grateful pillow, "except one thing--if grandmother would only forgive me
too."

"You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she does not
very readily forgive; but I think we can arrange this matter. Go you to
sleep."

"I wonder," said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, "why everybody
calls me 'little'; I don't think I am very little. Everybody says
'little.'"

Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it when, a few minutes after, he sat
watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The innocent brow, the
perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to belong to much younger years.
Even Mr. Lindsay could not help recollecting the house-keeper's comment,
"Heaven's peace within;" scarcely Ellen's own mother ever watched over
her with more fond tenderness than her adopted father did now.

For several days after this he would hardly permit her to leave him. He
made her bring her books and study where he was; he went out and came in
with her; and kept her by his side whenever they joined the rest of the
family at meals or in the evening. Whether Mr. Lindsay intended it or
not, this had soon the effect to abate the displeasure of his mother and
sister. Ellen was almost taken out of their hands, and they thought it
expedient not to let him have the whole of her. And though Ellen could
better bear their cold looks and words since she had Mr. Lindsay's
favour again, she was very glad when they smiled upon her too, and went
dancing about with quite a happy face.

She was now very busy. She had masters for the piano, and singing, and
different branches of knowledge; she went to M. Muller regularly twice a
week; and soon her riding-attendance began. She had said no more on the
subject, but went quietly, hoping they would find out their mistake
before long. Lady Keith always accompanied her.

One day Ellen had ridden near her usual time, when a young lady with
whom she attended a German class came up to where she was resting. This
lady was several years older than Ellen, but had taken a fancy to her.

"How finely you got on yesterday," said she, "making us all ashamed. Ah,
I guess M. Muller helped you."

"Yes," said Ellen, smiling, "he did help me a little; he helped me with
some troublesome pronunciations."

"With nothing else, I suppose? Ah, well, we must submit to be stupid.
How do you do to-day?"

"I am very tired, Miss Gordon."

"Tired? Oh, you're not used to it."

"No, it isn't that," said Ellen; "I _am_ used to it, that is the reason
I am tired. I am accustomed to ride up and down the country at any pace
I like; and it is very tiresome to walk stupidly round and round for an
hour."

"But do you know how to manage a horse? I thought you were only just
beginning to learn."

"Oh no, I have been learning this great while; only they don't think I
know how, and they have never seen me. Are you just come, Miss Gordon?"

"Yes, and they are bringing out Sophronisbe for me; do you know
Sophronisbe? look, that light grey, isn't she beautiful? she's the
loveliest creature in the whole stud."

"Oh, I know!" said Ellen; "I saw you on her the other day; she went
charmingly. How long shall I be kept walking here, Miss Gordon?"

"Why, I don't know; I should think they would find out; what does De
Courcy say to you?"

"Oh, he comes and looks at me and says, 'Tr[`e]s bien, tr[`e]s bien,'
and 'Allez comme [c,]a,' and then he walks off."

"Well, I declare that is too bad," said Miss Gordon, laughing. "Look
here, I've got a good thought in my head; suppose you mount Sophronisbe
in my place, without saying anything to anybody, and let them see what
you are up to. Can you trust yourself? she's very spirited."

"I could trust myself," said Ellen; "but, thank you, I think I had
better not."

"Afraid?"

"No, not at all: but my aunt and father would not like it."

"Nonsense! how should they dislike it; there's no sort of danger, you
know. Come! I thought you sat wonderfully for a beginner. I am surprised
De Courcy hadn't better eyes. I guess you have learned German before,
Ellen? Come, will you?"

But Ellen declined, preferring her plodding walk round the ring to any
putting of herself forward. Presently Mr. Lindsay came in. It was the
first time he had been there. His eyes soon singled out Ellen.

"My daughter sits well," he remarked to the riding-master.

"A merveille! Mademoiselle Lindsay does ride remarquablement pour une
beginner; qui ne fait que commencer. Would it be possible that she has
had no lessons before?"

"Why, yes; she has had lessons--of what sort I don't know," said Mr.
Lindsay, going up to Ellen. "How do you like it, Ellen?"

"I don't like it at all, sir."

"I thought you were so fond of riding."

"I don't call this riding, sir."

"Ha! what _do_ you call riding? Here, M. de Courcy, won't you have the
goodness to put this young lady on another horse, and see if she knows
anything about handling him?"

"With great pleasure!" M. de Courcy would do anything that was requested
of him. Ellen was taken out of the ring of walkers, and mounted on a
fine animal, and set by herself to have her skill tried in as many
various ways as M. de Courcy's ingenuity could point out. Never did she
bear herself more erectly; never were her hand and her horse's mouth on
nicer terms of acquaintanceship; never, even to please her master, had
she so given her whole soul to the single business of managing her horse
and herself perfectly well. She knew as little as she cared that a
number of persons besides her friends were standing to look at her; she
thought of only two people there; Mr. Lindsay and her aunt; and the
riding-master, as his opinion might affect theirs.

"C'est tr[`e]s bien--c'est tr[`e]s bien," he muttered--"c'est
parfaitement--Monsieur, mademoiselle votre fille has had good
lessons--voil[`a] qui est enti[`e]rement comme il faut."

"Assez bien," said Mr. Lindsay smiling. "The little gipsy!"

"Mademoiselle," said the riding-master, as she paused before them,
"pourquoi, wherefore have you stopped in your canter tant[^o]t--a little
while ago--et puis r['e]commenc['e]?"

"Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot."

"C'est [c,]a--justement!" he exclaimed.

"Have you practised leaping, Ellen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Try her, M. de Courcy. How high will you go, Ellen?"

"As high as you please, sir," said Ellen, leaning over and patting her
horse's neck to hide her smile.

"How you look, child!" said Mr. Lindsay in a pleased tone. "So _this_ is
what you call riding?"

"It is a little more like it, sir."

Ellen was tried with standing and running leaps, higher and higher, till
Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. de Courcy assured him that
his daughter had been taught by a very accomplished rider, and there was
little or nothing left for him to do; il n'y pouvait plus; but he should
be very happy to have her come there to practise, and show an example to
his pupils.

The very bright colour in Ellen's face as she heard this might have been
mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity, it was nothing less. Not one
word of this praise did she take to herself, nor had she sought for
herself; it was all for somebody else; and perhaps so Lady Keith
understood it, for she looked rather discomfited. But Mr. Lindsay was
exceedingly pleased, and promised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather
came she should have a horse and rides to her heart's content.




CHAPTER L

          She was his care, his hope, and his delight,
          Most in his thought, and ever in his sight.

                                                  --DRYDEN.


Ellen might now have been in some danger of being spoiled, not indeed
with over-indulgence, for that was not the temper of the family, but
from finding herself a person of so much consequence. She could not but
feel that in the minds of every one of her three friends she was the
object of greatest importance; their thoughts and care were principally
occupied with her. Even Lady Keith was perpetually watching,
superintending, and admonishing; though she every now and then remarked
with a kind of surprise, that "really she scarcely ever had to say
anything to Ellen; she thought she must know things by instinct." To Mr.
Lindsay and his mother she was the idol of life; and except when by
chance her will might cross theirs, she had what she wished and did what
she pleased.

But Ellen happily had two safeguards which effectually kept her from
pride or presumption.

One was her love for her brother and longing remembrance of him. There
was no one to take his place, not indeed in her affections, for that
would have been impossible, but in the daily course of her life. She
missed him in everything. She had abundance of kindness and fondness
shown her, but the _sympathy_ was wanting. She was talked _to_, but not
_with_. No one now knew always what she was thinking of, nor if they did
would patiently draw out her thoughts, canvass them, set them right, or
show them wrong. No one now could tell what she was _feeling_, nor had
the art sweetly, in a way she scarce knew how, to do away with sadness,
or dulness, or perverseness, and leave her spirits clear and bright as
the noonday. With all the petting and fondness she had from her new
friends, Ellen felt alone. She was petted and fondled as a darling
possession--a dear plaything--a thing to be cared for, taught, governed,
disposed of, with the greatest affection and delight; but John's was a
higher style of kindness, that entered into all her innermost feelings
and wants; and his was a higher style of authority too, that reached
where theirs could never attain; an authority Ellen always felt it
utterly impossible to dispute; it was sure to be exerted on the side of
what was right, and she could better have borne hard words from Mr.
Lindsay than a glance of her brother's eye. Ellen made no objection to
the imperativeness of her new guardians; it seldom was called up so as
to trouble her, and she was not of late particularly fond of having her
own way; but she sometimes drew comparisons.

"I could not any sooner--I could not as soon--have disobeyed John; and
yet he never would have spoken to me as they do if I had."

"_Some_ pride, perhaps," she said, remembering Mr. Dundas's words; "I
should say a great deal--John isn't proud; and yet--I don't know--he
isn't proud as they are; I wish I knew what kinds of pride are right and
what wrong--he would tell me if he was here."

"What are you in a 'brown study' about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I was thinking, sir, about different kinds of pride--I wish I knew the
right from the wrong--or is there any good kind?"

"All good, Ellen--all good," said Mr. Lindsay, "provided you do not have
too much of it."

"Would you like me to be proud, sir?"

"Yes," said he, laughing and pinching her cheek, "as proud as you like;
if you only don't let me see any of it."

Not very satisfactory; but that was the way with the few questions of
any magnitude Ellen ventured to ask; she was kissed and laughed at,
called metaphysical or philosophical, and dismissed with no light on the
subject. She sighed for her brother. The hours with M. Muller were the
best substitute she had; they were dearly prized by her, and, to say
truth, by him. He had no family, he lived alone, and the visits of his
docile and intelligent little pupil became very pleasant breaks in the
monotony of his home life. Truly kind-hearted and benevolent, and a true
lover of knowledge, he delighted to impart it. Ellen soon found she
might ask him as many questions as she pleased, that were at all proper
to the subject they were upon; and he, amused and interested, was
equally able and willing to answer her. Often, when not particularly
busy, he allowed her hour to become two. Excellent hours for Ellen. M.
Muller had made his proposition to Mr. Lindsay, partly from grateful
regard for him, and partly to gratify the fancy he had taken to Ellen on
account of her simplicity, intelligence, and good manners. This latter
motive did not disappoint him. He grew very much attached to his little
pupil; an attachment which Ellen faithfully returned, both in kind, and
by every trifling service that it could fall in her way to render him.
Fine flowers and fruit, that it was her special delight to carry to M.
Muller; little jobs of copying, or setting in order some disorderly
matters in his rooms, where he soon would trust her to do anything; or a
book from her father's library; and once or twice, when he was
indisposed, reading to him as she did by the hour patiently, matters
that could neither interest nor concern her. On the whole, and with good
reason, the days when they were to meet were hailed with as much
pleasure perhaps by M. Muller as by Ellen herself.

Her other safeguard was the precious hour alone which she had promised
John never to lose when she could help it. The only time she could have
was the early morning before the rest of the family were up. To this
hour, and it was often more than an hour, Ellen was faithful. Her little
Bible was extremely precious now; Ellen had never gone to it with a
deeper sense of need; and never did she find more comfort in being able
to disburden her heart in prayer of its load of cares and wishes. Never
more than now had she felt the preciousness of that Friend who draws
closer to His children the closer they draw to Him; she had never
realised more the joy of having Him to go to. It was her special delight
to pray for those loved ones she could do nothing else for; it was a joy
to think that He who hears prayer is equally present with all His
people, and that though thousands of miles lie between the petitioner
and the petitioned for, the breath of prayer may span the distance and
pour blessings on the far-off head. The burden of thoughts and
affections gathered during the twenty-three hours, was laid down in the
twenty-fourth; and Ellen could meet her friends at the breakfast-table
with a sunshiny face. Little they thought where her heart had been, or
where it had got its sunshine.

But notwithstanding this, Ellen had too much to remember and regret than
to be otherwise than sober--soberer than her friends liked. They noticed
with sorrow that the sunshine wore off as the day rolled on; that though
ready to smile upon occasion, her face always settled again into a
gravity they thought altogether unsuitable. Mrs. Lindsay fancied she
knew the cause, and resolved to break it up.

From the first of Ellen's coming her grandmother had taken the entire
charge of her toilet. Whatever Mrs. Lindsay's notions in general might
be as to the propriety of young girls learning to take care of
themselves, Ellen was much too precious a plaything to be trusted to any
other hands, even her own. At eleven o'clock regularly every day she
went to her grandmother's dressing-room for a very elaborate bathing
and dressing; though not a very long one, for all Mrs. Lindsay's acts
were energetic. Now, without any hint as to the reason, she was directed
to come to her grandmother an hour before the breakfast time, to go
through then the course of cold-water sponging and hair-gloving that
Mrs. Lindsay was accustomed to administer at eleven. Ellen heard in
silence, and obeyed, but made up her hour by rising earlier than usual,
so as to have it before going to her grandmother. It was a little
difficult at first, but she soon got into the habit of it, though the
mornings were dark and cold. After a while it chanced that this came to
Mrs. Lindsay's ears, and Ellen was told to come to her as soon as she
was out of bed in the morning.

"But, grandmother," said Ellen, "I am up a great while before you; I
should find you asleep; don't I come soon enough?"

"What do you get up so early for?"

"You know, ma'am, I told you some time ago. I want some time to myself."

"It is not good for you to be up so long before breakfast, and in these
cold mornings. Do not rise in future till I send for you."

"But, grandmother, that is the only time for me, there isn't as hour
after breakfast that I can have regularly to myself; and I cannot be
happy if I do not have some time."

"Let it be as I said," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Couldn't you let me come to you at eleven o'clock again, ma'am? _do_,
grandmother!"

Mrs. Lindsay touched her lips; a way of silencing her that Ellen
particularly disliked, and which both Mr. Lindsay and his mother were
accustomed to use.

She thought a great deal on the subject, and came soberly to the
conclusion that it was her duty to disobey. "I promised John," she said
to herself, "I will never break that promise! I'll do anything rather.
And besides, if I had not, it is just as much my duty--a duty that no
one here has a right to command me against. I will do what I think
right, come what may."

She could not without its coming to the knowledge of her grandmother. A
week, or rather two, after the former conversation, Mrs. Lindsay made
inquiries of Mason, her woman, who was obliged to confess that Miss
Ellen's light was always burning when she went to call her.

"Ellen," said Mrs. Lindsay the same day, "have you obeyed me in what I
told you the other morning about lying in bed till you are sent for?"

"No, ma'am."

"You are frank, to venture to tell me so. Why have you disobeyed me?"

"Because, grandmother, I thought it was right."

"You think it is right to disobey, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am, if----"

"If what?"

"I mean, grandmother, there is One I must obey even before you."

"If what?" repeated Mrs. Lindsay.

"Please do not ask me, grandmother; I don't want to say that."

"Say it at once, Ellen!"

"I think it is right to disobey if I am told to do what is wrong," said
Ellen in a low voice.

"Are you to be the judge of right and wrong?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who, then?"

"The Bible."

"I do not know what is the reason," said Mrs. Lindsay, "that I cannot be
very angry with you. Ellen, I repeat the order I gave you the other day.
Promise me to obey."

"I cannot, grandmother; I _must_ have that hour; I cannot do without
it."

"So must I be obeyed, I assure you, Ellen. You will sleep in my room
henceforth."

Ellen heard her in despair; she did not know what to do. _Appealing_ was
not to be thought of. There was, as she said, no time she could count
upon after breakfast. During the whole day and evening she was either
busy with her studies or masters, or in the company of her grandmother
or Mr. Lindsay; and if not there, liable to be called to them at any
moment. Her grandmother's expedient for increasing her cheerfulness had
marvellous ill-success. Ellen drooped under the sense of wrong, as well
as the loss of her greatest comfort. For two days she felt and looked
forlorn, and smiling now seemed to be a difficult matter. Mr. Lindsay
happened to be remarkably busy those two days, so that he did not notice
what was going on. At the end of them, however, in the evening, he
called Ellen to him, and whisperingly asked what was the matter.

"Nothing, sir," said Ellen, "only grandmother will not let me do
something I cannot be happy without doing."

"Is it one of the things you want to do because it is right, whether it
is convenient or not?" he asked, smiling. Ellen could not smile.

"Oh, father," she whispered, putting her face close to his, "if you
would only get grandmother to let me do it!"

The words were spoken with a sob, and Mr. Lindsay felt her warm tears
upon his neck. He had, however, far too much respect for his mother to
say anything against her proceedings while Ellen was present; he simply
answered that she must do whatever her grandmother said. But when Ellen
had left the room, which she did immediately, he took the matter up.
Mrs. Lindsay explained and insisted that Ellen was spoiling herself for
life and the world by a set of dull religious notions that were utterly
unfit for a child; that she would very soon get over thinking about her
habit of morning prayer, and would then do much better. Mr. Lindsay
looked grave; but with Ellen's tears yet wet upon his cheek, he could
not dismiss the matter so lightly, and persisted in desiring that his
mother should give up the point, which she utterly refused to do.

Ellen meanwhile had fled to her own room. The moonlight was quietly
streaming in through the casement; it looked to her like an old friend.
She threw herself down on the floor, close by the glass, and after some
tears which she could not help shedding, she raised her head and looked
thoughtfully out. It was very seldom now that she had a chance of the
kind; she was rarely alone but when she was busy.

"I wonder if that same moon is this minute shining in at the glass door
at home?--no, to be sure it can't this minute--what am I thinking
of?--but it was there or will be there, let me see, east, west, it was
there some time this morning, I suppose; looking right into our old
sitting-room. Oh, moon, I wish I was in your place for once, to look in
there too! But it is all empty now, there's nobody there, Mr. Humphreys
would be in his study, how lonely, how lonely he must be! Oh, I wish I
was back there with him!--John isn't there though--no matter--he will
be, and I could do so much for Mr. Humphreys in the meanwhile. He must
miss me. I wonder where John is--nobody writes to me; I should think
some one might. I wonder if I am ever to see them again. Oh, he will
come to see me surely before he goes home! but then he will have to go
away without me again--I am fast now--fast enough--but oh! am I to be
separated from them for ever? Well! I shall see them in heaven!"

It was a "Well" of bitter acquiescence, and washed down with bitter
tears.

"Is it my bonny Miss Ellen?" said the voice of the housekeeper, coming
softly in; "is my bairn sitting a' her lane in the dark? Why are ye no
wi' the rest o' the folk, Miss Ellen?"

"I like to be alone, Mrs. Allen, and the moon shines in here nicely?"

"Greeting!" exclaimed the old lady, drawing nearer; "I ken it by the
sound o' your voice; greeting eenow! Are ye no weel, Miss Ellen? What
vexes my bairn? Oh, but your father would be vexed an' he kenned it!"

"Never mind, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen; "I shall get over it directly;
don't say anything about it."

"But I'm wae to see ye," said the kind old woman, stooping down and
stroking the head that again Ellen had bowed on her knees. "Will ye no
tell me what vexes ye? Ye suld be as blithe as a bird the lang day."

"I can't, Mrs. Allen, while I am away from my friends."

"Frinds! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel', Miss Ellen, or better
frinds?--father and mither and a'; where wad ye find thae that will love
ye mair?"

"Ah, but I haven't my brother!" sobbed Ellen.

"Your brither, Miss Ellen? An' wha's he?"

"He's everything, Mrs. Allen! he's everything! I shall never be happy
without him!--never! never!"

"Hush, _dear_ Miss Ellen! for the love of a' that's gude; dinna talk
that gate! and dinna greet sae! your father wad be sair vexed to hear ye
or to see ye."

"I cannot help it," said Ellen; "it is true."

"It may be sae; but dear Miss Ellen, dinna let it come to your father's
ken; ye're his very heart's idol; he disna merit aught but gude frae
ye."

"I know it, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen, weeping, "and so I _do_ love
him--better than anybody in the world, except two. But oh, I want my
brother!--I don't know how to be happy or good either without him. I
want him all the while."

"Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for mony a day.
Will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn?"

"No, dear Mrs. Allen; I'll thank you. Did you know my mother!"

"Wha suld if I didna? She was brought up in my arms, and a dear lassie.
Ye're no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; ye're mair bonny than her; and no
a'thegither sae frack; though she was douce and kind too."

"I wish----" Ellen began, and stopped.

"My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve wha disposes a' things for us; and He
isna weel pleased when His children fash themselves wi' His
dispensations. He has ta'en and placed you here, for your ain gude I
trust,--I'm sure it's for the gude of us a',--and if ye haena a' things
ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him; dinna forget that, my ain bairn."

Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old Scotchwoman,
and when she left her, set herself to follow her advice. She tried to
gather her scattered thoughts and smooth her ruffled feelings, in using
this quiet time to the best advantage. At the end of half-an-hour she
felt like another creature; and began to refresh herself with softly
singing some of her old hymns.

The argument which was carried on in the parlour sank at length into
silence without coming to any conclusion.

"Where is Miss Ellen?" Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that came in.

"She is up in her room, ma'am, singing."

"Tell her I want her."

"No, stop," said Mr. Lindsay; "I'll go myself."

Her door was a little ajar, and he softly opened it without disturbing
her. Ellen was still sitting on the floor before the window, looking out
through it, and in rather a low tone singing the last verse of the hymn
"Rock of Ages:"--

         "While I draw this fleeting breath,--
          When my eyelids close in death,--
          When I rise to worlds unknown,
          And behold Thee on Thy throne,--
          Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
          Let me hide myself in Thee."

Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door. Ellen paused a minute, and then
sang "Jerusalem, my happy home." Her utterance was so distinct that he
heard every word. He did not move till she had finished, and then he
came softly in.

"Singing songs to the moon, Ellen?"

Ellen started and got up from the floor.

"No, sir; I was singing them to myself."

"Not entirely, for I heard the last one. Why do you make yourself sober
singing such sad things?"

"I don't, sir; they are not sad to me; they are delightful. I love them
dearly."

"How came you to love them? it is not natural for a child of your age.
What do you love them for, my little daughter?"

"Oh, sir, there are a great many reasons, I don't know how many."

"I will have patience, Ellen; I want to hear them all."

"I love them because I love to think of the things the hymns are about;
I love the tunes, dearly; and I like both the words and the tunes
better, I believe, because I have sung them so often with friends."

"Humph! I guessed as much. Isn't that the strongest reason of the
three?"

"I don't know, sir; I don't think it is."

"Is all your heart in America, Ellen, or have you any left to bestow on
us?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not very much?"

"I love _you_, father," said Ellen, laying her cheek gently alongside of
his.

"And your grandmother, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, clasping his arms
around her.

"Yes, sir."

But he well understood that the "yes" was fainter.

"And your aunt?--speak, Ellen."

"I don't love her as much as I wish I did," said Ellen; "I love her a
little, I suppose. Oh, why do you ask me such a hard question, father?"

"That is something you have nothing to do with," said Mr. Lindsay, half
laughing. "Sit down here," he added, placing her on his knee, "and sing
to me again."

Ellen was heartened by the tone of his voice, and pleased with the
request. She immediately sang with great spirit a little Methodist hymn
she had learned when a mere child. The wild air and simple words
singularly suited each other.

         "O Canaan--bright Canaan--
          I am bound for the land of Canaan.
          O Canaan! it is my happy, happy home--
          I am bound for the land of Canaan."

"Does that sound sad, sir?"

"Why, yes, I think it does, rather, Ellen. Does it make you feel merry?"

"Not _merry_, sir, it isn't _merry_; but I like it very much."

"The tune or the words?"

"Both, sir."

"What do you mean by the land of Canaan?"

"Heaven, sir."

"And do you like to think about that? at your age?"

"Why, certainly, sir! Why not?"

"Why _do_ you!"

"Because it is a bright and happy place," said Ellen gravely; "where
there is no darkness, nor sorrow, nor death, neither pain nor crying;
and my mother is there, and my dear Alice, and my Saviour is there; and
I hope I shall be there too."

"You are shedding tears now, Ellen."

"And if I am, sir, it is not because I am unhappy. It doesn't make me
unhappy to think of these things--it makes me glad; and the more I think
of them the happier I am."

"You are a strange child. I am afraid your grandmother is right, and
that you are hurting yourself with poring over serious matters that you
are too young for."

"She would not think so if she knew," said Ellen, sighing. "I should not
be happy at all without that, and you would not love me half so well,
nor she either. Oh, father," she exclaimed, pressing his hand in both
her own and laying her face upon it, "do not let me be hindered in that!
forbid me anything you please, but not that! the better I learn to
please my best Friend, the better I shall please you."

"Whom do you mean by 'your best friend'?"

"The Lord my Redeemer."

"Where did you get these notions?" said Mr. Lindsay after a short pause.

"From my mother, first, sir."

"She had none of them when I knew her."

"She had afterwards, then, sir; and oh!" Ellen hesitated, "I wish
everybody had them too!"

"My little daughter," said Mr. Lindsay, affectionately kissing the
cheeks and eyes which were moist again, "I shall indulge you in this
matter. But you must keep your brow clear, or I shall revoke my grant.
And you belong to me now; and there are some things I want you to
forget, and not remember, you understand? Now don't sing songs to the
moon any more to-night--good-night, my daughter."

"They think religion is a strange melancholy thing," said Ellen to
herself as she went to bed; "I must not give them reason to think so--I
must let my rushlight burn bright--I must take care--I never had more
need!"

And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her head on the
pillow.

Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let Ellen have
her way for a while, and begged that she might return to her old room
and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not hear of it. Ellen had disobeyed
her orders, she said; she must take the consequences.

"She is a bold little hussy to venture it," said Mr. Lindsay, "but I do
not think there is any naughtiness in her heart."

"No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only those
preposterous notions she has got from somebody or other."

Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen privately what she
did the first thing after breakfast. "Practise on the piano for an
hour," she said.

"Couldn't you do it at any other time?"

"Yes, sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother likes to
have me with her."

"Let it be done then, Ellen, in future."

"And what shall I do with the hour after breakfast, sir?"

"Whatever you please," said he, smiling.

Ellen thanked him in the way she knew he best liked, and gratefully
resolved he should have as little cause as possible to complain of her.
Very little cause indeed did he or any one else have. No fault could be
found with her performance of duty; and her cheerfulness was constant
and unvarying. She remembered her brother's recipe against loneliness,
and made use of it; she remembered Mrs. Allen's advice, and followed it;
she grasped the promises, "he that cometh to Me shall never hunger," and
"seek and ye shall find," precious words that never yet disappointed any
one; and though tears might often fall that nobody knew of, and she
might not be so _merry_ as her friends would have liked to see her;
though her cheerfulness was touched with sobriety, they could not
complain; for her brow was always unruffled, her voice clear, her smile
ready.

After a while she was restored to her own sleeping-room again, and
permitted to take up her former habits.




CHAPTER LI

              Other days come back on me
          With recollected music.

                              --BYRON.


Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of her life,
Ellen's principles were still now and then severely tried.

Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the company of the
old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded Christian, a most
benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal sensible and respectable,
person, devotedly attached to the family, and very fond of Ellen in
particular. Ellen loved, when she could, to get alone with her, and hear
her talk of her mother's young days; and she loved furthermore, and
almost as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no one
else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling directly on those
that she loved, she delighted to tell over to an interested listener the
things she had done, seen, and felt, with them.

"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said Lady Keith
one evening in the latter end of the winter.

"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment any one that
I think she could resemble without losing more than she gained."

"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You can take up
things fast enough when you find them out, but you never will see with
other people's eyes."

"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"

"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a baby."

"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling; "you should ask M. Muller
about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of an hour the
other day, and could not stint in her praises. She will go on, he says,
just as fast as he pleases to take her."

"Oh yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not wanting; that is
not what I mean."

"She is perfectly ladylike always," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Yes, I know that, and perfectly childlike too."

"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay; "I have no fancy for your grown-up
little girls."

"Well!" said Lady Keith in despair, "you may like it; but I tell you she
is too much of a child nevertheless in other ways. She hasn't an idea of
a thousand things. It was only the other day she was setting out to go,
at mid-day, through the streets with a basket on her arm, with some of
that fruit for M. Muller, I believe."

"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride; but I
don't know, I can't say I wish she had more of it."

"Oh no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take anything at all to
make the tears come in her eyes; the other day I didn't know whether to
laugh or be vexed at the way she went on with a kitten for half-an-hour
or more. I wish you had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over
that. Now I suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a
present of one."

"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling,
"I'll take breath and think about it."

"But she isn't like anybody else; she don't care for young companions;
she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family unless it is old Mrs.
Allen, and she is absurd about her. You know she is not very well
lately, and Ellen goes to see her I know every day regularly; and there
are the Gordons and Carpenters and Murrays and Mackintoshes, she sees
them continually, but I don't think she takes a great deal of pleasure
in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."

"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay, "and as
hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of your gigglers."

"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when other people
do. I think she is generally grave when there is most merriment around
her."

"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such a low
sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring of enjoyment. Yet
I must say I think Catherine is half right."

"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect much."

Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door opened, and
Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.

"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, holding out his hand; "here's your
aunt says you don't like anybody. How is it? are you of an unsociable
disposition?"

Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for a much
graver fault.

"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.

"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I like a great
many people _very_ much."

"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith; "that is what I
complain of, and it's unnatural. Now there's the other day, when you
went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother, and Miss MacPherson and
her brother, I heard you say you were not sorry to get home. Now where
will you find pleasanter young people?"

"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I do like them, ma'am, tolerably."

"What does 'tolerably' mean?"

"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said Ellen, "if they
had talked about sensible things."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M. Mullers."

"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who seemed amused.

"About partners in dancing, at least the ladies did, and dresses, and
different gentlemen, and what this one said and the other one said; it
wasn't very amusing to me."

Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen, how did you like them?"

"I didn't like them particularly, sir."

"What have you against _them_, Ellen?"

"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."

"Come, come--speak out."

"I didn't like their talking, sir, any better than the ladies'; and
besides that, I don't think they were very polite."

"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.

"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to sit still
on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby help me to mount.
They took me up at M. Muller's, you know, sir; M. Muller had been
obliged to go out and leave me."

Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister which she rather resented.

"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a mere child;
do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"

"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt Keith."

But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been before the
door on horseback, and she had run out to give him a message, his
instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was more a child then," she
thought, "and he wasn't a stranger."

"Whom _do_ you like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked extremely
satisfied with the result of the examination.

"I like M. Muller, sir."

"Nobody else?"

"Mrs. Allen."

"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.

"Have you come from her room just now?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's your fancy for going there?"

"I like to hear her talk, sir, and to read to her; it gives her a great
deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."

"What do you talk about?"

"She talks to me about my mother----"

"And you?"

"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing colour.

"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay.

In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a
remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's hand was upon
her lips. He next took the book she still held.

"Is this what you have been reading to her?"

Ellen bowed in answer.

"Who wrote all this?"

Before she could speak he had turned to the front leaf and read, "To my
little sister." He quietly put the book in his pocket; and Ellen as
quietly left the room.

"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are quick enough
when you see anything for yourself, but you never will believe other
people."

"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay, "only I will not have
her going back to those old recollections she is so fond of. I wish I
could make her drink Lethe!"

"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I hardly know," said he, turning it over, "except it is from that
person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency over her--it is
full of his notes--it is a religious work."

"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said Mrs.
Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it. You can do it
better than any one else; she is very fond of you."

That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his thoughts went
back to the conversation held that evening in Ellen's room, and to
certain other things; and perhaps he was thinking that if religion had
much to do with making her what she was, it was a tree that bore good
fruits.

"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes so little
to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit perfectly grave when
they were all laughing and talking around her--it really looks
singular--I don't like it--I presume she would have thought it wicked to
laugh with them. And the other night, I missed her from the younger part
of the company, where she should have been, and there she was in the
other room with M. Muller and somebody else, gravely listening to their
conversation!"

"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "and she looked anything but
dull or sober; I would rather have her gravity, after all, Catherine,
than anybody else's merriment, I know."

"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time when she
should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the letters,"
said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, indeed," said his sister, "and I have been in continual fear of a
visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen the book."

"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I don't know where he is; but he _was_ on this side of the water at the
time Ellen came on; so she told me."

"I wish he was in Egypt!"

"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady Keith, "if I
can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield orders, if any one asked for
her, to tell me immediately, and not her upon any account; but nobody
has come hitherto, and I am in hopes none will."

Mr. Lindsay rose and walked up and down the room with folded arms in a
very thoughtful style.

Ellen with some difficulty bore herself as usual throughout the next day
and evening, though constantly on the rack to get possession of her book
again. It was not spoken of nor hinted at. When another morning came she
could stand it no longer; she went soon after breakfast into Mr.
Lindsay's study, where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and laying
both her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear--

"Will you let me have my book again, father?"

A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.

"Go to the book-case," said Mr. Lindsay presently, "or to the book-store,
and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."

"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered with some
warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her throat. Mr. Lindsay
said nothing.

"At any rate," whispered Ellen after a minute, "you will not destroy it,
or do anything to it?--you will take care of it, and let me have it
again, won't you, sir?"

"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."

Again Ellen paused; and then came round in front of him to plead to more
purpose.

"I will do anything in the world for you, sir," she said earnestly, "if
you will give me my book again."

"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling and
pinching her cheek, "without that."

"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.

"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing; "and you are mine,
you must understand."

Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings of passion
and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last the wave rolled too
high and broke. Clasping her hands to her face, she exclaimed, not
indeed violently, but with sufficient energy of expression, "Oh, it's
not right! it's not right!"

"Go to your room and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I do not wish
to see you again to-day, Ellen."

Ellen was wretched. Not for grief at her loss merely; that she could
have borne; that had not even the greatest share in her distress; she
was at war with herself. Her mind was in a perfect turmoil. She had been
a passionate child in earlier days; under religion's happy reign that
had long ceased to be true of her; it was only very rarely that she or
those around her were led to remember or suspect that it had once been
the case. She was surprised and half-frightened at herself now, to find
the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She was utterly and
exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay, and consequently with
everybody and everything else; consequently conscience would not give
her a moment's peace; consequently that day was a long and bitter fight
betwixt right and wrong. Duties were neglected, because she could not
give her mind to them; then they crowded upon her notice at undue times;
all was miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and school
herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost treasure passion
would come flooding up and drown all her reasonings and endeavours. She
grew absolutely weary.

But the day passed and the night came, and she went to bed without being
able to make up her mind; and she arose in the morning to renew the
battle.

"How long is this miserable condition to last!" she said to herself.
"'Till you can entirely give up your feeling of resentment, and
apologise to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience. "Apologise! but I haven't
done wrong." "Yes, you have," said conscience; "you spoke improperly; he
is justly displeased; and you must make an apology before there can be
any peace." "But I said the truth--it is _not_ right--it is not right!
it is wrong; and am I to go and make an apology? I can't do it." "Yes,
for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is all your
concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases with you and yours,
and he may have his own reasons for what he has done; and he loves you
very much, and you ought not to let him remain displeased with you one
moment longer than you can help--he is in the place of a father to you,
and you owe him a child's duty."

But pride and passion still fought against reason and conscience, and
Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.

"There, I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and they will see
how I look, they will see I am angry and ill-humoured. Well, I _ought_
to be angry. But what will they think then of my religion? is my
rushlight burning bright? am I honouring Christ now? is _this_ the way
to make His name and His truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I
have enough to humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they
know I was angry."

Ellen threw herself upon her knees; and when she rose up the spirit of
pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died with
self-justification.

The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was afraid she
could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the table. "But it shall
make no difference," she said to herself, "they know I have offended
him, it is right they should hear what I have to say."

They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen went
straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in his, and the
other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and frankly confessed that she
had spoken as she ought not the day before, and that she was very sorry
she had displeased him, and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly
granted.

"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, as he fondly embraced
her.

"Oh no, sir! don't call me so, I am everything in the world but that."

"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't you come
to me before?"

"Because I couldn't, sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."

Mr. Lindsay laughed and kissed her, and bade her sit down and eat her
breakfast.

It was about a month after this that he made her a present of a
beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great delight; the
second was one of curious doubtful expression, directed to his face,
half tendering the watch back to him as she saw that he understood her.

"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather have that
than this?"

"A great deal!"

"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall not have it;
but you may make your mind easy, for I have it safe and it shall come
back to you again some time or other."

With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.

The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth, of purse and of
affection both, could bestow upon their darling. Early in the season the
family returned to "The Braes." Ellen liked it there much better than in
the city; there was more that reminded her of old times. The sky and the
land, though different from those she best loved, were yet but another
expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and on many a
sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.[1] She was sorry to lose M.
Muller, but she could not have kept him in Edinburgh; he quitted
Scotland about that time.

[Footnote 1: "Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee."--GEORGE HERBERT.]

Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to Edinburgh to
attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he was often there
himself, and after her lesson he loved to have her with him in the
library and at dinner and during the drive home. Ellen liked it because
it was so pleasant to him; and besides, there was a variety about it,
and the drives were always her delight, and she chose his company at any
time rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy day
that summer had she and Mr. Lindsay together; and many an odd pleasure
in the course of them did he find or make for her. Sometimes it was a
new book, sometimes a new sight, sometimes a new trinket. According to
his promise, he had purchased her a fine horse; and almost daily Ellen
was upon his back, and with Mr. Lindsay in the course of the summer
scoured the country far and near. Every scene of any historic interest
within a good distance of "The Braes" was visited, and some of them
again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were at Ellen's disposal; and to
her father and grandmother she was truly the light of their eyes.

And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even her
affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her calm and
sunshiny face and busy, happy demeanour, and fancied, though he
sometimes had doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself much
with old recollections, or would in time get over them. It was so. Ellen
never forgot; and sometimes when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was
the thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her
energies and giving colour to her cheeks. Still, as at first, it was in
her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up submission; it was
that calmed her brow and brightened her smile. And though now and then
she shed bitter tears, and repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I
will see him in heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the
bottom of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.

Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker and her smile less bright as the
year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her no letters. Ellen
marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day, mourning over it to Mrs. Allen,
the good housekeeper asked her if her friends knew her address? Ellen at
first said, "to be sure," but after a few minutes' reflection was
obliged to confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been
just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a matter, and
very natural for her, in her grief and confusion of mind and
inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote immediately to Mr.
Humphreys and supplied the defect; and hope brightened again. Once
before she had written, on the occasion of the refunding her expenses.
Mr. Lindsay and his mother were very prompt to do this, though Ellen
could not tell what the exact amount might be; they took care to be on
the safe side, and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since
she came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she understood
the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt her.

Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she received at
length one from Mr. Humphreys--a long, very kind, and very wise one. She
lived upon it for a good while. Mr. Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr.
Humphreys declined utterly to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked
upon her as his own child up to the time that her friends took her out
of his hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave
the money--she dared not give the whole message--to Mr. Lindsay. The
bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed and sent back to America.

Still nothing was heard from Mr. John. Ellen wondered, waited, wept;
sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went on, clung faster
and faster to her Bible and the refuge she found there.




CHAPTER LII

          _Hon._--Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?

          _Butler._--Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir,
                   Up or down, all's one to me.

                                                  --GOOD-NATURED MAN.


One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected at Mr.
Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home
her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they
had company. Generally Ellen liked it very much; not called upon to take
any active part herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet;
and often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to
conversation, in which she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it
happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things; and Mrs.
Lindsay's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied
with her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what
was going on.

"I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look somewhere;
I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you keep it down so."

"Oh, Mason, I think that'll do; it looks very well; you needn't do
anything more."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it's your grandmother that
must be satisfied, and she will have it just so; there, now that's going
to look lovely; but indeed, Miss Ellen, she won't be pleased if you
carry such a soberish face downstairs, and what will the master say!
Most young ladies would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so
many people, and indeed it's what you should."

"I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred," said
Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason.

"Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don't look as if
it was a funeral it was. There! 'tain't much trouble to fix you, anyhow;
if you'd only care a little more about it, it would be a blessing. Stop
till I fix this lace. The master will call you his white rose-bud
to-night, sure enough."

"That's nothing new," said Ellen, half smiling.

Mason left her; and feeling the want of something to raise her spirits,
Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it over, looked
along its pages to catch a sight of something cheering before she went
downstairs.

"_This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our guide even unto
death._"

"Isn't that enough?" thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in answer. "It
ought to be, John would say it was; oh! where is he?"

She went on turning leaf after leaf.

"_O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!_"

"That is true surely," she thought. "And I do trust in Him; I am
blessed; I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing come to those
that trust in Him but what is good for them; if He is my God, I have
enough to make me happy; I ought to be happy; I will be happy; I will
trust Him, and take what He gives me; and try to leave, as John used to
tell me, my affairs in His hand."

For a minute tears flowed; then they were wiped away; and the smile she
gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not less bright than
usual.

The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening, when a
gentleman came who declined to enter the drawing-room, and asked for
Miss Lindsay.

"Miss Lindsay is engaged."

"An' what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?" cried the voice of the
housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, "when ye ken as weel as I do
that Miss Ellen----"

The butler stopped her with saying something about "my lady," and
repeated his answer to the gentleman.

The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from his pocket,
and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried it to Lady Keith.

"What sort of a person, Porterfield?" said Lady Keith, crumpling the
paper in her fingers, and withdrawing a little from the company.

"Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady," Porterfield answered, in a low tone.

"A gentleman?" said Lady Keith inquiringly.

"Certain, my lady! and as up and down spoken as if he was a prince of
the blood; he's somebody that is not accustomed to be said 'no' to, for
sure."

Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting, however, that she had just left
Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind, and desired
Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered, unannounced, her
eyes unwillingly verified the butler's judgment; and to the inquiry
whether he might see Miss Lindsay she answered very politely, though
with regrets, that Miss Lindsay was engaged.

"May I be pardoned for asking," said the stranger, with the slightest
possible approach to a smile, "whether that decision is imperative? I
leave Scotland to-morrow--my reasons for wishing to see Miss Lindsay
this evening are urgent."

Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her countenance to
keep company with her expressions of "sorrow that it was
impossible--Miss Lindsay could not have the pleasure that evening."

"May I beg then to know at what hour I may hope to see her to-morrow?"

Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long-given
invitation, Lady Keith answered that she would not be in town--she would
leave Edinburgh at an early hour.

The stranger bowed and withdrew; that was all the bystanders saw. But
Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she could not help fancying
read her too well, saw that in his parting look which made her uneasy:
beckoning a servant who stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that
gentleman to the door.

The man obeyed; but the stranger did not take his cloak, and made no
motion to go.

"No, sir! not that way," he said sternly, as the servant laid his hand
on the lock; "show me to Miss Lindsay!"

"Miss Ellen?" said the man doubtfully, coming back, and thinking from
the gentleman's manner that he must have misunderstood Lady Keith;
"where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?"

The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he had just
come from on the other side of the hall.

"This way, sir, if you please; what name, sir?"

"No name--stand back!" said the stranger, as he entered.

There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at the piano
singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The gentleman advanced
quietly to the edge of the group and stood there without being noticed;
Ellen's eyes were bent on the floor. The expression of her face touched
and pleased him greatly; it was precisely what he wished to see. Without
having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines
that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but
where religion and discipline have done their work well; the writing of
the wisdom that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly, on all
things. He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to
the music or whether her mind was upon something far different and far
away; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment had
escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the performer at her
side; and while her eye was curiously tracing out the pattern of the
carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of the verses she had been
reading that same evening. Suddenly, and as it seemed from no connection
with anything in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the
image of John as she had first seen him that first evening she ever saw
him at Carra-carra, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and
espied him standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at
first wondered how that thought should have come into her head just
then; the next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her eyes to
search for the cause, and saw John's smile.

It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face. Lightning
makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but lightning does not
stay. With a spring she reached him, and seizing both his hands drew him
out of the door near which they were standing; and as soon as they were
hidden from view threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before,
however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again,
and led him back along the hall to the private staircase; she mounted it
rapidly to _her room_; and there again she threw herself into his arms,
exclaiming, "Oh, John! my dear John! my dear brother!"

But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. The
tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelled from the open sources
of love and memory to keep any bounds. And it kept none. Ellen sat down
and, bowing her head on the arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement
passion of her childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive
sobs. John might guess from the outpouring how much her heart had been
secretly gathering for months past. For a little while he walked up and
down the room; but this excessive agitation he was not willing should
continue. He said nothing; sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he
quietly possessed himself of one of her hands; and when in her
excitement the hand struggled to get away again, it was not permitted.
Ellen understood that very well and immediately checked herself. Better
than words, the calm firm grasp of his hand quieted her. Her sobbing
stilled; she turned from the arm of the sofa, and leaning her head upon
him took his hand in both hers and pressed it to her lips as if she were
half beside herself. But that was not permitted to last either, for his
hand quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could
not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak; she sat
gradually quieting down into fulness of happiness.

"I thought you never would come, John," at length Ellen half whispered,
half said.

"And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellie."

Ellen started up and looked up now.

"Leave me! For how long? Where are you going?"

"Home."

"To America?" Ellen's heart died within her. Was _this_ the end of all
her hopes? did her confidence end _here_? She shed no tears now. He
could see that she grew absolutely still from intense feeling.

"What's the matter, Ellie?" said the low gentle tones she so well
remembered; "I am leaving you but for a time. I _must_ go home now, but
if I live you will see me again."

"Oh, I wish I was going with you!" Ellen exclaimed, bursting into tears.

"My dear Ellie!" said her brother in an altered voice, drawing her again
to his arms, "you cannot wish it more than I."

"I never thought you would leave me here, John."

"Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute longer
than I can help; but we must both wait, my own Ellie. Do not cry so, for
my sake!"

"Wait? till when?" said Ellen, not a little reassured.

"I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, and you
have no right to choose for yourself."

"And when shall I?"

"In a few years."

"A few years! But in the meantime, John, what shall I do without you? If
I could see you once in a while, but there is no one here, not a single
one to help me to keep right; no one talks to me as you used to; and I
am all the while afraid I shall go wrong in something; what shall I do?"

"What the weak must always do, Ellie--seek for strength where it may be
had."

"And so I do, John," said Ellen, weeping; "but I want you, oh, how
much!"

"Are you not happy here?"

"Yes, I am happy, at least I thought I was half-an-hour ago, as happy as
I can be. I have everything to make me happy except what would do it."

"We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow and
loneliness--you have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie?"

"No, John," said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile.

"They love you here, do they not?"

"Very much--too much."

"And you love them?"

"Yes."

"That's a doubtful 'yes.'"

"I do love my father--very much; and my grandmother too, though not so
much. I cannot help loving them, they love me so. But they are so unlike
you!"

"That is not much to the purpose, after all," said John, smiling. "There
are varieties of excellence in the world."

"Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean; it isn't a variety of excellence.
They make me do everything they have a mind; I don't mean," she added,
smiling, "that _that_ is not like you, but you always had a reason; they
are different. My father makes me drink wine every now and then; I don't
like to do it, and he knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I
have to do it."

"That is not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they do not
make you do something wrong."

"They could not do that, I hope; and there is another thing they cannot
make me do."

"What is that?"

"Stay here when you will take me away."

There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides.

"You are grown, Ellie," said John, "you are not the child I left you."

"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling. "It seems to me I am just the
same."

"Let me see--look at me!"

She raised her face, and amidst smiles and tears its look was not less
clear and frank than his was penetrating. "Just the same," was the
verdict of her brother's eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen's smile grew
bright as she read it there.

"Why have you never come or written before, John?"

"I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for many
months until quite lately, and I could not get your address. I think my
father was without it for a long time, and when at last he sent it to
me, the letter miscarried--never reached me--there were delays upon
delays."

"And when did you get it?"

"I preferred coming to writing."

"And now you must go home so soon!"

"I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and it is
quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week--Mrs. Gillespie
is going with me--her husband stays behind till spring."

Ellen sighed.

"I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzerland last
summer--M. Muller."

"M. Muller! did you? Oh, I am very glad! I am very glad you know him--he
is the best friend I have got here, after my father. I don't know what I
should have done without him."

"I have heard him talk of you," said John, smiling.

"He has just come back; he was to be here this evening."

There was a pause again.

"It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie," said her brother
then. "I think you belong to me more than to anybody."

"That is exactly what I think!" said Ellen, with one of her bright
looks, and then bursting into tears. "I am very glad you think so too! I
will always do whatever you tell me--just as I used to--no matter what
anybody else says."

"Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie."

"Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy--so much happier if I
could be doing something to please you. I wish I was at home with you
again!"

"I will bring that about, Ellie, by-and-by, if you make your words
good."

"I shall be happy then," said Ellen, her old confidence standing
stronger than ever, "because I know you will if you say so. Though how
you will manage it I cannot conceive. My father and grandmother and
aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of America. I believe they would be
glad if there wasn't such a place in the world. They would not even let
me think of it if they could help it; I never dare mention your name, or
say a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody, I
believe. They want to have me all to themselves."

"What will they say to you then, Ellie, if you leave them to give
yourself to me?"

"I cannot help it," replied Ellen, "they must say what they please;" and
with abundance of energy, and not a few tears, she went on, "I love
them, but I had given myself to you a great while ago; long before I was
his daughter you called me your little sister--I can't undo that, John,
and I don't want to--it doesn't make a bit of difference that we were
not born so!"

John suddenly rose and began to walk up and down the room. Ellen soon
came to his side, and leaning upon his arm, as she had been used to do
in past times, walked up and down with him, at first silently.

"What is it you wanted me to do, John?" she said gently at length; "you
said 'two or three' things?"

"One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence with me."

"I am very glad that you will let me do that," said Ellen, "that is
exactly what I should like, but----"

"What?"

"I am afraid they will not let me."

"I will arrange that."

"Very well," said Ellen joyously, "then it will do. Oh, it will make me
so happy! And you will write to me?"

"Certainly!"

"And I will tell you everything about myself; and you will tell me how I
ought to do in all sorts of things; that will be next best to being with
you. And then you will keep me right."

"I won't promise you that, Ellie," said John, smiling, "you must learn
to keep yourself right."

"I know you will, though, however you may smile. What next?"

"Read no novels."

"I never do, John. I knew you did not like it, and I have taken good
care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told anybody why, though,
they would have made me read a dozen."

"Why, Ellie!" said her brother, "you must need some care to keep a
straight line where your course lies now."

"Indeed I do, John," said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears; "oh, now
I have felt that sometimes! And then how I wanted you!"

Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been taken of
old, and for a long time they paced up and down; the conversation
running sometimes in the strain that both loved and Ellen now never
heard; sometimes on other matters; such a conversation as those she had
lived upon in former days, and now drank in with a delight and eagerness
inexpressible. Mr. Lindsay would have been in dismay to have seen her
uplifted face, which, though tears were many a time there, was sparkling
and glowing with life and joy in a manner he had never known it. She
almost forgot what the morrow would bring, in the exquisite pleasure of
the instant, and hung upon every word and look of her brother as if her
life were there.

"And in a few weeks," said Ellen, at length, "you will be in our own
dear sitting-room again, and riding on the Black Prince! and I shall be
here! and it will be----"

"It will be empty without you, Ellie! but we have a friend that is
sufficient; let us love Him and be patient."

"It is very hard to be patient," murmured Ellen. "But, dear John, there
was something else you wanted me to do? what is it? you said 'two or
three' things."

"I will leave that to another time."

"But why? I will do it, whatever it be--pray tell me."

"No," said he, smiling, "not now; you shall know by-and-by--the time is
not yet. Have you heard of your old friend, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"No--what of him?"

"He has come out before the world as a Christian man."

"Has he?"

John took a letter from his pocket and opened it.

"You may see what my father says of him; and what he says of you too,
Ellie; he has missed you much."

"Oh, I was afraid he would," said Ellen, "I was sure he did!"

She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John told her she
might keep it to read at her leisure.

"And how are they all at Ventnor? and how is Mrs. Vawse? and Margery?"

"All well. Mrs. Vawse spends about half her time at my father's."

"I am very glad of that!"

"Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I could, and said
she had a home for you always at Ventnor."

"How kind she is," said Ellen; "how many friends I find everywhere. It
seems to me, John, that almost everybody loves me."

"That _is_ a singular circumstance! However, I am no exception to the
rule, Ellie."

"Oh, I know that," said Ellen, laughing. "And Mr. George?"

"Mr. George is well."

"How much I love him!" said Ellen. "How much I would give to see him. I
wish you could tell me about poor Captain and the Brownie, but I don't
suppose you have heard of them. Oh, when I think of it all at home, how
I want to be there! Oh, John, sometimes lately I have almost thought I
should only see you again in heaven."

"My dear Ellie! I shall see you there, I trust; but if we live we shall
spend our lives here together first. And while we are parted we will
keep as near as possible by praying for and writing to each other. And
what God orders let us quietly submit to."

Ellen had much ado to command herself at the tone of these words and
John's manner, as he clasped her in his arms and kissed her brow and
lips. She strove to keep back a show of feeling that would distress and
might displease him. But the next moment her fluttering spirits were
stilled by hearing the few soft words of a prayer that he breathed over
her head. It was a prayer for her and for himself, and one of its
petitions was that they might be kept to see each other again. Ellen
wrote the words on her heart.

"Are you going?"

He showed his watch.

"Well, I shall see you to-morrow!"

"Shall you be here?"

"Certainly; where else should I be? What time must you set out?"

"I need not till afternoon, but--How early can I see you?"

"As early as you please. Oh, spend all the time with me you can, John!"

So it was arranged.

"And now, Ellie, you must go downstairs and present me to Mr. Lindsay."

"To my father!"

For a moment Ellen's face was a compound of expressions. She instantly
acquiesced, however, and went down with her brother, her heart, it must
be confessed, going very pit-a-pat indeed. She took him into the
library, which was not this evening thrown open to company, and sent a
servant for Mr. Lindsay. While waiting for his coming, Ellen felt as if
she had not the fair use of her senses. Was that John Humphreys quietly
walking up and down the library?--Mr. Lindsay's library? and was she
about to introduce her brother to the person who had forbidden her to
mention his name? There was something, however, in Mr. John's figure and
air, in his utter coolness, that insensibly restated her spirits.
Triumphant confidence in him overcame the fear of Mr. Lindsay; and when
he appeared, Ellen with tolerable composure met him, her hand upon
John's arm, and said, "Father, this is Mr. Humphreys"--_my brother_ she
dared not add.

"I hope Mr. Lindsay will pardon my giving him this trouble," said the
latter; "we have one thing in common which should forbid our being
strangers to each other. I, at least, was unwilling to leave Scotland
without making myself known to Mr. Lindsay."

Mr. Lindsay most devoutly wished the "thing in common" had been anything
else. He bowed, and was "happy to have the pleasure," but evidently
neither pleased nor happy. Ellen could see that.

"May I take up five minutes of Mr. Lindsay's time to explain, perhaps to
apologise," said John, slightly smiling, "for what I have said?"

A little ashamed, it might be, to have his feeling suspected, Mr.
Lindsay instantly granted the request, and politely invited his
unwelcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance from her brother which
she understood, Ellen withdrew to the further side of the room, where
she could not hear what they said. John took up the history of Ellen's
acquaintance with his family, and briefly gave it to Mr. Lindsay, scarce
touching on the benefits by them conferred on her, and skilfully
dwelling rather on Ellen herself and setting forth what she had been to
them. Mr. Lindsay could not be unconscious of what his visitor
delicately omitted to hint at, neither could he help making secretly to
himself some most unwilling admissions; and though he might wish the
speaker at the antipodes, and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too
happily given, and his fondness for Ellen too great, for him not to be
delightedly interested in what was said of her. And however strong might
have been his desire to dismiss his guest in a very summary manner, or
to treat him with haughty reserve, the graceful dignity of Mr.
Humphreys' manners made either expedient impossible. Mr. Lindsay felt
constrained to meet him on his own ground--the ground of high-bred
frankness, and grew secretly still more afraid that his real feelings
should be discerned.

Ellen from afar, where she could not hear the words, watched the
countenances with great anxiety and great admiration. She could see
that while her brother spoke with his usual perfect ease, Mr. Lindsay
was embarrassed. She half read the truth. She saw the entire politeness
while she also saw the secret discomposure, and she felt that the
politeness was forced from him. As the conversation went on, however,
she wonderingly saw that the cloud on his brow lessened--she saw him
even smile; and when at last they rose, and she drew near, she almost
thought her ears were playing her false when she heard Mr. Lindsay beg
her brother to go in with him to the company and be presented to Mrs.
Lindsay. After a moment's hesitation this invitation was accepted, and
they went together into the drawing room.

Ellen felt as if she was in a dream. With a face as grave as usual, but
with an inward exultation and rejoicing in her brother impossible to
describe, she saw him going about among the company, talking to her
grandmother--yes, and her grandmother did not look less pleasant than
usual--recognising M. Muller, and in conversation with other people whom
he knew. With indescribable glee Ellen saw that Mr. Lindsay managed most
of the time to be of the same group. Never more than that night did she
triumphantly think that Mr. John could do anything. He finished the
evening there. Ellen took care not to seem too much occupied with him;
but she contrived to be near when he was talking with M. Muller, and to
hang upon her father's arm when he was in Mr. John's neighbourhood. And
when the latter had taken leave, and was in the hall, Ellen was there
before he could be gone. And there came Mr. Lindsay too behind her!

"You will come early to-morrow morning, John?"

"Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphreys, will you?" said Mr. Lindsay, with
sufficient cordiality.

But Mr. Humphreys declined this invitation, in spite of the timid touch
of Ellen's fingers upon his arm, which begged for a different answer.

"I will be with you early, Ellie," he said, however.

"And oh! John," said Ellen suddenly, "order a horse and let us have one
ride together; let me show you Edinburgh."

"By all means," said Mr. Lindsay, "let us show you Edinburgh; but order
no horses, Mr. Humphreys, for mine are at your service."

Ellen's other hand was gratefully laid upon her father's arm as this
second proposal was made and accepted.

"Let _us_ show you Edinburgh," said Ellen to herself, as she and Mr.
Lindsay slowly and gravely went back through the hall. "So there is an
end of my fine morning! But, however, how foolish I am! John has his own
ways of doing things--he can make it pleasant in spite of everything."

She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to cry for
joy and all sorts of feelings at once.

Good came out of evil, as it often does, and as Ellen's heart presaged
it would when she arose the next morning. The ride was preceded by
half-an-hour's chat between Mr. John, Mr. Lindsay, and her grandmother;
in which the delight of the evening before was renewed and confirmed.
Ellen was obliged to look down to hide the too bright satisfaction that
she felt was shining in her face. She took no part in the conversation,
it was enough to hear. She sat with charmed ears, seeing her brother
overturning all her father's and grandmother's prejudices, and making
his own way to their respect at least, in spite of themselves. Her
marvelling still almost kept even pace with her joy. "I knew he would do
what he pleased," she said to herself. "I knew they could not help that;
but I did not dream he would ever make them _like_ him--that I never
dreamed!"

On the ride again, Ellen could not wish that her father were not with
them. She wished for nothing; it was all a maze of pleasure, which there
was nothing to mar but the sense that she would by-and-by wake up and
find it was a dream. And no, not that either. It was a solid good and
blessing, which, though it must come to an end, she should never lose.
For the present there was hardly anything to be thought of but
enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed that Mr. Lindsay would have enjoyed it
too, but for herself; there was a little constraint about him still, she
could see. There was none about Mr. John; in the delight of his words
and looks and presence, Ellen half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely;
she had enough of them, she did not for one moment wish Mr. Lindsay had
less.

At last the long, beautiful ride came to an end; and the rest of the
morning soon sped away, though, as Ellen had expected, she was not
permitted to spend any part of it alone with her brother. Mr. Lindsay
asked him to dinner, but this was declined.

Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphreys' letter.
One bit of it may be given.

"Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has given me
great pleasure. He has been a regular attendant for a long time before.
He ascribes much to your instrumentality; but says his first thoughts
(earnest ones) on the subject of religion were on the occasion of a tear
that fell from Ellen's eye upon his hand one day when she was talking to
him about the matter. He never got over the impression. In his own
words, 'it scared him!' That was a dear child! I did not know how dear
till I had lost her. I did not know how severely I should feel her
absence; nor had I the least notion, when she was with us, of many
things respecting her that I have learned since. I half hoped we should
yet have her back, but that will not be. I shall be glad to see you, my
son."

The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was the delight
of Ellen's life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter wished to put a stop to
it; but Mr. Lindsay drily said that Mr. Humphreys had frankly spoken of
it before him, and as he had made no objection then, he could not now.

Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the third thing
John wanted of her; but whatever it were, she was very sure she would do
it!

For the gratification of those who are never satisfied, one word shall
be added, to wit, that--

The seed so early sown in little Ellen's mind, and so carefully tended
by sundry hands, grew in the course of time to all the fair structure
and comely perfection it had bid fair to reach; storms and winds that
had visited it did but cause the root to take deeper hold; and at the
point of its young maturity it happily fell again into those hands that
had of all been most successful in its culture. In other words, to speak
intelligibly, Ellen did in no wise disappoint her brother's wishes, nor
he hers. Three or four more years of Scottish discipline wrought her no
ill; they did but serve to temper and beautify her Christian character;
and then, to her unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with
the friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them still more
than she had been to her Scottish relations, the "light of the eyes."




                                 THE END




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Transcriber's notes:

Alternative spelling and hyphenation has been retained as it appears in
the original publication.

Accented characters are represented within square brackets with the
corresponding accent, e.g. ['e] for e with acute, and [c,] for c with
cedilla.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wide, Wide World, by Susan Warner

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