IX. The little Queen in the Arm-Chair…

IX. The little Queen in the Arm-Chair

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 off 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."

"You 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 han't come up to meet you! — that's real shabby of her; and how to get you down there to-night, I am sure 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 overnight, 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 han'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 maybe 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.

"Han'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 way to-day, han'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 cheeks. 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, 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 whirring, rickety voice, for all the world like a hoarse 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 coarse gray 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 here with you, han'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 now 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 arm-chair, 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 every body 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 to 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 dim 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 very 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."

"Han'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 "Gees!" and "Haws!" 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 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 any thing 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 up hill — 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-cheer 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 line 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 there; but at the right a window showed light glimmering within. Ellen made towards 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 fire-place; 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 this 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! It must go up stairs; 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 tea-pot.

"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 any thing, 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

Mud — and what came of it.

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 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, exceeding 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 down- stairs, a great noise of hissing and sputtering 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 downhearted, 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 sputtering 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 end 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 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 sputtering 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 so 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 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 outhouses looked bright. She thought it was the loveliest place she had ever 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 gazing 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, altogether, 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 further end. There was 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 a while. 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 slope 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 slope.

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 had 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 fore finger 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! Han't you got never a pair of coloured 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 gray 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 'em 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 down stairs, 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 should 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 lane, 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 am 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. 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 have 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 down stairs.

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 up stairs."

"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-coloured 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'm 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

Running away with the brook.

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 han'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! — may be 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 toward her, but she neither knew, nor at the moment cared about that. She stood motionless, utterly astounded at his 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?"

"The man that drives the oxen."

"What, Mr. Van Brunt?" And Ellen never forgot the loud ha! ha! which burst from Miss Fortune's wide-open 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 compulsive 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 shan'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 up stairs 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'nt 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 though the beautiful country, and being for a while 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 conversion.

"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 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 here with Ellen's awkwardness in climbing fences. Where it was a possible thing, she was fain to crawl under; but one 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. 'Tain't 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 her 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-fir 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 crookest 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?" said 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 going to name them all," said Nancy, "we shan'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 hair- breadth 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."

XII. Splitters

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 away 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 don't 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 coloured 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 mama 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 waiting here 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 near 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's 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 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 every thing 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 her 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; any how, 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 agoing 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 a walk, and worked it so as to get her into the brook, and then 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 han'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 makin' 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 gray 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 arm 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'm 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'd take twice as much any day for what you wouldn't give me this forenoon. But never fear, Miss Ellen, I ain't a going 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 then 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

Hope deferred.

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 be; "I can't go 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 little 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 change 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 fell quite 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 ten-penny 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 did'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 han'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 barnyard. There were the milky mothers, five in number, standing about, each in her own corner of the yard or cowhouse, 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 barnyard 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 streams 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 the 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 the 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 will go again, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Now, if I'd ha' know'd 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're 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 han'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, O 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 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 a while, 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!"

XIV. Work not deferred

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 for 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 gotten 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 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; and 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 gulley — 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 am 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 crinkum- crankums; 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 of herself above being useful; it's very strange you should say so when you don't know anything about her."

"I know she han'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 down stairs."

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 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. Any thing 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 up stairs 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 is 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," she said 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 gray 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 down stairs; 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 cowhouse 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-by, 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 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 store-room, where the corn for this purpose was stowed, 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 that 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 dustpan 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 Fortunes'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' spoken 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 plans 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 dispatched 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

Mother earth rather than aunt Fortune.

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 a 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 slope 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 further from home. The road or lane led towards a mountain somewhat to the northward 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, woodway 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 farmhouses 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 slope 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. That 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 in 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 lower 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 up 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 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 gray 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 gray 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 height?"

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.

XVI. Counsel, Cakes, and Captain Parry

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 l8th 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 22d 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 are 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 daresay — mothers always are blind. I daresay she took everything 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 Scotchwoman! 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 mean while?"

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 down stairs.

"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 mean time 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 up stairs, 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. Further from her aunt's house, however, her spirits began to rise; her foot fell lighter on the greensward. 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 round it 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, and 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 out-building or shed, jutting out from the side of the house. On the further 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-humored 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 further 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! — may be 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 further 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 musquito 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 nohow!' 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 down-stairs, 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 unkind 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 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 hath 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 house-keeping."

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 gray 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 tried gently 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. Captain Parry is very particular and delicate about his eating."

"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, by 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 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 cozily seated at supper, poor Ellen hardly knew herself, in such a pleasant state of things.