Chapter XXV…

Chapter XXV

Shows what noise a bee can make when it gets into the house.

As the party were all gathered, it was time to set to work. The fire in the front room was burning up finely now, but Miss Fortune had no idea of having pork-chopping or apple-paring done there. One party was despatched down-stairs into the lower kitchen; the others made a circle round the fire. Every one was furnished with a sharp knife, and a basket of apples was given to each two or three. Now it would be hard to say whether talking or working went on best. Not faster moved the tongues than the fingers; not smoother went the knives than the flow of talk; while there was a constant leaping of quarters of apples from the hands that had prepared them into the bowls, trays, or whatnot, that stood on the hearth to receive them. Ellen had nothing to do: her aunt had managed it so, though she would gladly have shared the work that looked so pretty and pleasant in other people's hands. Miss Fortune would not let her; so she watched the rest and amused herself as well as she could with hearing and seeing; and standing between Alice and Jenny Hitchcock, she handed them the apples out of the basket as fast as they were ready for them. It was a pleasant evening that. Laughing and talking went on merrily; stories were told; anecdotes, gossip, jokes, passed from mouth to mouth; and not one made himself so agreeable, or had so much to do with the life and pleasure of the party, as Alice. Ellen saw it, delighted. The pared apples kept dancing into the bowls and trays; the baskets got empty surprisingly fast; Nancy and Ellen had to run to the barrels in the shed again for fresh supplies.

"Do they mean to do all these to-night?" said Ellen to Nancy, on one of these occasions.

"I don't know what they mean, I am sure," replied Nancy, diving down into the barrel to reach the apples; "if you had asked me what Miss Fortune meant, I might ha' given a guess."

"But only look," said Ellen — "only so many done, and all these to do! — Well, I know what 'busy as a bee' means now, if I never did before."

"You'll know it better to-morrow, I can tell you."

"Why?"

"Oh, wait till you see. I wouldn't be you to-morrow for something, though. Do you like sewing?"

"Sewing!" said Ellen. But "Girls! girls! — what are you leaving the door open for!" sounded from the kitchen, and they hurried in.

" 'Most got through, Nancy?" inquired Bob Lawson. (Miss Fortune had gone downstairs.)

"Han't begun to, Mr. Lawson. There's every bit as many to do as there was at your house t'other night."

"What on airth does she want with such a sight of 'em," inquired Dan Dennison.

"Live on pies and apple-sass till next summer," suggested Mimy Lawson.

"That's the stuff for my money!" replied her brother; "taters and apple-sass is my sass in the winter."

"It's good those is easy got," said his sister Mary; "the sass is the most of the dinner to Bob, most commonly."

"Are they fixing for more apple-sass down-stairs?" Mr. Dennison went on rather drily.

"No — hush!" said Juniper Hitchcock — "sassages!"

"Humph!" said Dan, as he speared up an apple out of the basket on the point of his knife — "ain't that something like what you can call killing two" —

"Just that, exactly," said Jenny Hitchcock, as Dan broke off short, and the mistress of the house walked in. "Ellen," she whispered, "don't you want to go downstairs and see when the folks are coming up to help us? And tell the doctor he must be spry, for we ain't agoing to get through in a hurry," she added, laughing.

"Which is the doctor, Ma’am?"

"The doctor! — Doctor Marshchalk! — don't you know?"

"Is he a doctor?" said Alice.

"No, not exactly, I suppose, but he's just as good as the real. There was a man broke his leg horribly at Thirlwall, the other day, and Gibson was out of the way, and Marshchalk set it, and did it famously they said. So go, Ellen, and bring us word what they are all about."

Mr. Van Brunt was head of the party in the lower kitchen. He stood at one end of the table, cutting, with his huge knife, the hard-frozen pork into very thin slices, which the rest of the company took, and, before they had time to thaw, cut up into small dice on the little boards Mr. Van Brunt had prepared. As large a fire as the chimney would hold was built up and blazing finely; the room looked as cozy and bright as the one upstairs, and the people as busy and as talkative. They had less to do, however, or they had been more smart, for they were drawing to the end of their chopping; of which Miss Janet declared herself very glad, for, she said, "the wind came sweeping in under the doors, and freezing her feet the whole time, and she was sure the biggest fire ever was built couldn't warm that room;" an opinion in which Mrs. Van Brunt agreed perfectly. Miss Janet no sooner spied Ellen standing in the chimney-corner, than she called her to her side, kissed her, and talked to her a long time, and finally, fumbling in her pocket, brought forth an old, little, three-cornered pin- cushion, which she gave her for a keepsake. Jane Huff and her brother also took kind notice of her; and Ellen began to think the world was full of nice people. About half-past eight the choppers went up and joined the company, who were paring apples; the circle was a very large one now, and the buzz of the tongues grew quite furious.

"What are you smiling at?" asked Alice of Ellen, who stood at her elbow.

"Oh, I don't know," said Ellen, smiling more broadly; and presently added — "they're all so kind to me."

"Who?"

"Oh, everybody — Miss Jenny, and Miss Jane Huff, and Miss Janet, and Mrs. Van Brunt, and Mr. Huff — they all speak so kindly, and look so kindly at me. But it's very funny what a notion people have for kissing — I wish they hadn't — I've run away from three kisses already, and I'm so afraid somebody else will try next."

"You don't seem very bitterly displeased," said Alice, smiling.

"I am, though — I can't bear it," said Ellen, laughing and blushing. "There's Mr. Dennison caught me, in the first place, and tried to kiss me, but I tried so hard to get away, I believe he saw I was really in good earnest, and let me go. And just now — only think of it! — while I was standing talking to Miss Jane Huff, downstairs, her brother caught me, and kissed me, before I knew what he was going to do. I declare it's too bad!" said Ellen, rubbing her cheek very hard, as if she would rub off the affront.

"You must let it pass, my dear; it is one way of expressing kindness. They feel kindly towards you, or they would not do it."

"Then I wish they wouldn't feel quite so kindly," said Ellen — "that's all. Hark! — what was that?"

"What is that?" said somebody else; and instantly there was silence, broken again, after a minute or two, by the faint blast of a horn.

"It's old Father Swaim, I reckon," said Mr. Van Brunt; "I'll go fetch him in."

"Oh, yes! bring him in — bring him in," was heard on all sides.

"That horn makes me think of what happened to me once," said Jenny Hitchcock to Ellen. "I was a little girl at school, not so big as you are; and one afternoon, when we were all as still as mice, and studying away, we heard Father Swaim's horn —"

"What does he blow it for?" said Ellen, as Jenny stooped for her knife, which she had let fall.

"Oh to let people know he's there, you know; did you never see Father Swaim?"

"No."

"La! he's the funniest old fellow! He goes round and round the country, carrying the news-papers; and we get him to bring our letters from the post-office, when there are any. He carries 'em in a pair of saddle-bags hanging across that old white horse of his — I don't think that horse will ever grow old, no more than his master; — and in summer he has a stick — so long — with a horse's tail tied to the end of it, to brush away the flies, for the poor horse has had his tail cut off pretty short. I wonder if it isn't the very same," said Jenny, laughing heartily: "Father Swaim thought he could manage it best, I guess."

"But what was it that happened to you that time at school?" said Ellen.

"Why, when we heard the horn blow, our master — the schoolmaster, you know — went out to get a paper; and I was tired with sitting still, so I jumped up, and ran across the room and then back again, and over and back again, five or six times; and when he came in, one of the girls up and told of it. It was Fanny Lawson," said Jenny, in a whisper to Alice, "and I think she ain't much different now from what she was then. I can hear her now — 'Mr. Starks, Jenny Hitchcock's been running all around the room.' Well, what do you think he did to me? He took hold of my two hands, and swung me round and round by the arms, till I didn't know which was head and which was feet."

"What a queer schoolmaster!" said Ellen.

"Queer enough; you may say that. His name was Starks; — the boys used to call him Starksification. We did hate him, that's a fact. I'll tell you what he did to a black boy of ours — you know our black Sam, Alice? — I forget what he had been doing; but Starks took him so — by the rims of the ears — and danced him up and down upon the floor."

"But didn't that hurt him?"

"Hurt him! I guess it did, he meant it should. He tied me under the table once. Sometime, when he wanted to punish two boys at a time, he would set them to spit in each other's faces."

"Oh! don't tell me about him!" cried Ellen, with a face of horror: "I don't like to hear it."

Jenny laughed; and just then the door opened, and Mr. Van Brunt and the old news-carrier came in.

He was a venerable, mild-looking man, with thin hair as white as snow. He wore a long snuff-coloured coat and a broad- brimmed hat, the sides of which were oddly looped up to the crown, with twine; his tin horn or trumpet was in his hand. His saddle-bags were on Mr. Van Brunt's' arm. As soon as she saw him, Ellen was fevered with the notion that perhaps he had something for her; and she forgot everything else. It would seem that the rest of the company had the same hope, for they crowded round him, shouting out welcomes, and questions, and inquiries for letters — all in a breath.

"Softly — softly," said the old man, sitting down, slowly; "not all at once; I can't attend to you all at once; — one at a time — one at a time."

"Don't attend to 'em at all till you're ready," said Miss Fortune — "let 'em wait." And she handed him a glass of cider.

He drank it off at a breath, smacking his lips as he gave back the glass to her hand, and exclaiming, "That's prime!" Then taking up his saddle-bags from the floor, he began slowly to undo the fastenings.

"You are going to our house to-night, ain't you, Father Swaim?" said Jenny.

That's where I was going," said the old man — "I was agoing to stop with your father, Miss Jenny; but since I've got into farmer Van Brunt's hands, I don't know any more what's going to become of me; — and after that glass of cider, I don't much care! Now let's see — let's see — 'Miss Jenny Hitchcock,' — here's something for you. I should like very much to know what's inside of that letter — there's a blue seal to it. Ah, young folks! — young folks!

Jenny received her letter amidst a great deal of laughing and joking, and seemed herself quite as much amused as anybody.

" 'Jedediah B. Lawson' — there's for your father, Miss Mimy; that saves me a long tramp — if you've twenty-one cents in your pocket, that is; if you han't, I shall be obleeged to tramp after that. Here's something for 'most all of you, I'm thinking. 'Miss Cecilia Dennison' — your fair hands — how's the squire? — rheumatism, eh? I think I'm a younger man now than your father, Cecilly; and yet I must ha' seen a good many years more than Squire Dennison; — I must, surely. 'Miss Fortune Emerson' — that's for you; a double letter, Ma’am."

Ellen with a beating heart had pressed nearer and nearer to the old man, till she stood close by his right hand, and could see every letter as he handed it out. A spot of deepening red was on each cheek as her eye eagerly scanned letter after letter; it spread to a sudden flush when the last name was read. Alice watched in some anxiety her keen look as it followed the letter from the old man's hand to her aunt's, and thence to the pocket, where Miss Fortune coolly bestowed it. Ellen could not stand this; she sprang forward across the circle.

"Aunt Fortune, there's a letter inside of that for me — won't you give it to me? — won't you give it to me?" she repeated, trembling.

Her aunt did not notice her by so much as a look; she turned away and began talking to some one else. The red had left Ellen's face when Alice could see it again — it was livid and spotted from stifled passion. She stood in a kind of maze. But as her eye caught Alice's anxious and sorrowful look, she covered her face with her hands, and as quick as possible made her escape out of the room.

For some minutes Alice heard none of the hubbub around her. Then came a knock at the door, and the voice of Thomas Grimes saying to Mr. Van Brunt that Miss Humphreys' horse was there.

"Mr. Swaim," said Alice, rising, "I don't like to leave you with these gay friends of ours; you'll stand no chance of rest with them to-night. Will you ride home with me?"

Many of the party began to beg Alice would stay to supper, but she said her father would be uneasy. The old news-carrier concluded to go with her, for, he said, "there was a pint he wanted to mention to Parson Humphreys that he had forgotten to bring for'ard when they were talking on that 'ere subject two months ago." So Nancy brought her things from the next room, and helped her on with them, and looked pleased, as well she might, at the smile and kind words with which she was rewarded. Alice lingered at her leave-taking, hoping to see Ellen — but it was not till the last moment that Ellen came in. She did not say a word, but the two little arms were put around Alice's neck, and held her with a long, close earnestness, which did not pass from her mind all the evening afterwards.

When she was gone, the company sat down again to business; and apple-paring went on more steadily than ever for a while, till the bottom of the barrels was seen, and the last basketful of apples was duly emptied. Then there was a general shout; the kitchen was quickly cleared, and everybody's face brightened, as much as to say, "Now for fun!" While Ellen and Nancy, and Miss Fortune and Mrs. Van Brunt were running all ways with trays, pans, baskets, knives, and buckets, the fun began by Mr. Juniper Hitchcock's whistling in his dog, and setting him to do various feats for the amusement of the company. There followed such a rushing, leaping, barking, laughing, and scolding on the part of the dog and his admirers, that the room was in an uproar. He jumped over a stick; he got into a chair, and sat up on two legs; he kissed the ladies' hands; he suffered an apple-paring to be laid across his nose, then threw it up with a jerk and caught it in his mouth. Nothing very remarkable, certainly, but, as Miss Fortune observed to somebody, "if he had been the learned pig, there couldn't ha' been more fuss made over him."

Ellen stood looking on, smiling partly at the dog and his master, and partly at the antics of the company. Presently Mr. Van Brunt, bending down to her, said —

"What is the matter with your eyes?"

"Nothing," said Ellen, starting — "at least nothing that's any matter, I mean."

"Come here," said he, drawing her on one side; "tell me all about it — what is the matter?"

"Never mind — please don't ask me, Mr. Van Brunt, it's nothing I ought to tell you — it isn't any matter."

But her eyes were full again, and he still held her fast doubtfully.

"I'll tell you about it, Mr. Van Brunt," said Nancy, as she came past them — "you let her go, and I'll tell you by-and- by."

And Ellen tried in vain afterwards to make her promise she would not.

"Come, June," said Miss Jenny, "we have got enough of you and Jumper — turn him out; we are going to have the cat now. Come! — Puss, puss in the corner! Go off in t'other room, will you, everybody that don't want to play. Puss, puss!"

Now the fun began in good earnest, and but few minutes had passed before Ellen was laughing with all her heart, as if she never had had anything to cry for in her life. After "puss, puss in the corner" came "blind-man's-buff;" and this was played with great spirit, the two most distinguished being Nancy and Dan Dennison, though Miss Fortune played admirably well. Ellen had seen Nancy play before; but she forgot her own part of the game in sheer amazement at the way Mr. Dennison managed his long body, which seemed to go where there was no room for it, and vanish into air just when the grasp of some grasping "blind man" was ready to fasten upon him. And when he was blinded, he seemed to know by instinct where the walls were, and keeping clear of them, he would swoop like a hawk from one end of the room to the other, pouncing upon the unlucky people who could by no means get out of the way fast enough. When this had lasted awhile, there was a general call for "the fox and the goose," and Miss Fortune was pitched upon for the latter, she having in the other game showed herself capable of good generalship. But who for the fox? Mr. Van Brunt?

"Not I," said Mr. Van Brunt — "there ain't nothing of the fox about me; Miss Fortune would beat me all hollow."

"Who then, farmer?" said Bill Huff; — "come! who is the fox? Will I do?"

"Not you, Bill; the goose 'ud be too much for you."

There was a general shout, and cries of "Who then? who then?"

"Dan Dennison," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Now look out for a sharp fight."

Amidst a great deal of laughing and confusion, the line was formed, each person taking hold of a handkerchief or band passed round the waist of the person before him, except when the women held by each other's skirts. There were ranged according to height, the tallest being next their leader, the "goose." Mr. Van Brunt and the elder ladies, and two or three more, chose to be lookers-on, and took post outside the door.

Mr. Dennison began by taking off his coat, to give himself more freedom in his movements; for his business was to catch the train of the goose, one by one, as each in turn became the hindmost; while her object was to baffle him and keep her family together, meeting him with outspread arms at every rush he made to seize one of her brood; while the long train behind her, following her quick movements, and swaying from side to side to get out of the reach of the furious fox, was sometimes in the shape of the letter C, and sometimes in that of the letter S, and sometimes looked like a long snake with a curling tail. Loud was the laughter, shrill the shrieks, as the fox drove them hither and thither, and seemed to be in all parts of the room at once. He was a cunning fox that, as well as a bold one. Sometimes, when they thought him quite safe, held at bay by the goose, he dived under or leaped over her outstretched arms, and almost snatched hold of little Ellen, who being the least, was the last one of the party. But Ellen played very well, and just escaped him two or three times, till he declared she gave him so much trouble, that when he caught her he would "kiss her the worst kind." Ellen played none the worse for that; however she was caught at last, and kissed, too; there was no help for it, so she bore it as well as she could. Then she watched and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks, to see how the fox and the goose dodged each other, what tricks were played, and how the long train pulled each other about. At length Nancy was caught, and then Jenny Hitchcock, and then Cecilia Dennison, and then Jane Huff, and so on, till at last the fox and the goose had a long struggle for Mimy Lawson, which would never have come to an end if Mimy had not gone over to the enemy.

There was a general pause. The hot and tired company were seated around the room, panting and fanning themselves with their pocket-handkerchiefs, and speaking broken sentences; glad to rest even from laughing. Miss Fortune had thrown herself down on a seat close by Ellen, when Nancy came up and softly asked, "Is it time to beat the eggs now?" Miss Fortune nodded, and then drew her close to receive a long, low whisper in her ear, at the end of which Nancy ran off.

"Is there anything I can do, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen, so gently and timidly, that it ought to have won a kind answer.

"Yes," said her aunt, "you may go and put yourself to bed; it's high time, long ago." And looking round as she moved off, she added, "Go!" with a little nod that as much as said, "I am in earnest."

Ellen's heart throbbed — she stood doubtful. One word to Mr. Van Brunt, and she need not go — that she knew. But as surely, too, that word would make trouble and do harm. And then she remembered, "A charge to keep I have!" She turned quick, and quitted the room.

Ellen sat down on the first stair she came to, for her bosom was heaving up and down, and she was determined not to cry. The sounds of talking and laughing came to her from the parlour, and there at her side stood the covered-up supper; — for a few minutes it was hard to keep her resolve. The thick breath came and went very fast. Through the fanlights of the hall door, opposite to which she was sitting, the bright moonlight streamed in; and presently, as Ellen quieted, it seemed to her fancy, like a gentle messenger from its Maker bidding his child remember Him; — and then came up some words in her memory that her mother's lips had fastened there long ago — "I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me." She remembered her mother had told her it is Jesus who says this. Her lost pleasure was well nigh forgotten; and yet, as she sat gazing into the moonlight, Ellen's eyes were gathering tears very fast.

"Well, I am seeking Him," she thought — "can it be that he loves me! — Oh, I'm so glad!"

And they were glad tears that little Ellen wiped away as she went upstairs, for it was too cold to sit there long, if the moon was ever so bright.

She had her hand on the latch of the door, when her grandmother called out from the other room to know who was there.

"It's I, grandma."

"Ain't somebody there? Come in here — who is it?"

"It's I, Grandma," said Ellen, coming to the door.

"Come in here, deary," said the old woman, in a lower tone — "what is it all? what's the matter? who's down stairs?"

"It's a bee, Grandma; there's nothing the matter."

"A bee! who's been stung? what's all the noise about?"

" 'T isn't that kind of bee, Grandma; don't you know? there's a parcel of people that came to pare apples, and they've been playing games in the parlour — that's all."

"Paring apples, eh? Is there company below?"

"Yes, Ma’am — a whole parcel of people."

"Dear me!" said the old lady, "I oughtn't to ha' been abed! Why han't Fortune told me? I'll get right up. Ellen, you go in that fur closet and bring me my paddysoy, that hangs there, and then help me on with my things — I'll get right up. Dear me! what was Fortune thinking about?"

The moonlight served very well instead of candles. After twice bringing the wrong dresses, Ellen at last hit upon the "paddysoy," which the old lady knew immediately by the touch. In haste, and not without some fear and trembling on Ellen's part, she was arrayed in it; her best cap put on, not over hair in the best order, Ellen feared, but the old lady would not stay to have it made better; Ellen took care of her down the stairs, and after opening the door for her went back to her room.

A little while had passed, and Ellen was just tying her nightcap strings, and ready to go peacefully to sleep, when Nancy burst in.

"Ellen! Hurry! you must come right downstairs."

"Downstairs! — why, I am just ready to go to bed."

"No matter — you must come right away down. There's Mr. Van Brunt says he won't begin supper till you come."

"But does Aunt Fortune want me too?"

"Yes, I tell you! and the quicker you come the better she'll be pleased. She sent me after you in all sorts of a hurry. She said she didn't know where you was!"

"Said she didn't know where I was! Why, she told me herself," — Ellen began, and stopped short.

"Of course!" said Nancy; "don't you think I know that? But he don't, and if you want to plague her, you'll just tell him. Now come, and be quick, will you? The supper's splendid."

Ellen lost the first view of the table, for everything had begun to be pulled to pieces before she came in. The company were all crowded round the table, eating and talking, and helping themselves; and ham and bread and butter, pumpkin-pies and mince-pies and apple-pies, cake of various kinds, and glasses of egg-nogg and cider, were in everybody's hands. One dish in the middle of the big table had won the praise of every tongue; nobody could guess, and many asked how it was made, but Miss Fortune kept a satisfied silence, pleased to see the constant stream of comers to the big dish, till it was near empty. Just then, Mr. Van Brunt, seeing Ellen had nothing, gathered up all that was left, and gave it to her.

It was sweet, and cold, and rich. Ellen told her mother afterwards it was the best thing she had ever tasted except the ice-cream she once gave her in New York. She had taken, however, but one spoonful, when her eye fell upon Nancy, standing at the back of all the company, and forgotten. Nancy had been upon her good behaviour all the evening, and it was a singular proof of this that she had not pushed in and helped herself among the first. Ellen's eye went once or twice from her plate to Nancy, and then she crossed over and offered it to her. It was eagerly taken, and, a little disappointed Ellen stepped back again. But she soon forgot the disappointment. "She'll know now that I don't bear her any grudge," she thought.

"Han't you got nothing?" said Nancy, coming up presently; "that wasn't your'n that you gave me — was it?"

Ellen nodded, smilingly.

"Well, there ain't no more of it," said Nancy. "The bowl is empty."

"I know it," said Ellen.

"Why, didn't you like it?"

"Yes — very much."

"Why, you're a queer little fish," said Nancy. "What did you get Mr. Van Brunt to let me in for?"

"How did you know I did?"

" 'Cause he told me. Say — what did you do it for? Mr. Dennison, won't you give Ellen a piece of cake or something? Here — take this," said Nancy, pouncing upon a glass of egg- nog, which a gap in the company enabled her to reach; "I made it more than half myself. Ain't it good?"

"Yes, very," said Ellen, smacking her lips; "what's in it?"

"Oh, plenty of good things. But what made you ask Mr. Van Brunt to let me stop to-night? you didn't tell me — did you want me to stay?"

"Never mind," said Ellen; "don't ask me any questions."

"Yes, but I will though: and you've got to answer me. Why did you? Come! do you like me? — say!"

"I should like you, I dare say, if you would be different."

"Well, I don't care," said Nancy, after a little pause; "I like you, though you're as queer as you can be. I don't care whether you like me or not. Look here, Ellen, that cake there is the best — I know it is, for I've tried 'em all. — You know I told Van Brunt that I would tell him what you were crying about?"

"Yes, and I asked you not. Did you?"

Nancy nodded, being at the moment still further engaged in "trying" the cake.

"I am sorry you did. What did he say?"

"He didn't say much to me — somebody else will hear of it, I guess. He was mad about it, or I am mistaken. What makes you sorry?"

"It will only do harm, and make Aunt Fortune angry."

"Well, that's just what I should like, if I were you. I can't make you out."

"I'd a great deal rather have her like me," said Ellen. "Was she vexed when Grandma came down?"

"I don't know, but she had to keep it to herself if she was; everybody else was so glad, and Mr. Van Brunt made such a fuss. Just look at the old lady, how pleased she is! I declare if the folks ain't talking of going! Come, Ellen! now for the cloaks! you and me'll finish our supper afterwards."

That, however, was not to be. Nancy was offered a ride home to Mrs. Van Brunt's, and a lodging there. They were ready cloaked and shawled, and Ellen was still hunting for Miss Janet's things in the moonlit hall, when she heard Nancy close by, in a lower tone than common, say —

"Ellen, will you kiss me?"

Ellen dropped her armful of things, and, taking Nancy's hands, gave her truly the kiss of peace.

When she went up to undress for the second time, she found on her bed — her letter! And with tears Ellen kneeled down and gave earnest thanks for this blessing, and that she had been able to gain Nancy's good-will.

Chapter XXVI

Sundry things round a pot of chocolate.

It was Tuesday, the 22nd of December, and late in the day. Not a pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low; the air was keen and raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was sitting alone in the firelight, when two little feet came running round the corner of the house; the glass door opened, and Ellen rushed in.

"I have come! I have come!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear Alice, I'm so glad!"

So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.

"But how late, my child! how late you are!"

"Oh, I thought I never was going to get done!" said Ellen, pulling off her things in a great hurry, and throwing them on the sofa — "but I am here at last. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Why, what has been the matter?" said Alice, folding up what Ellen laid down.

"Oh, a great deal of matter! — I couldn't think what Nancy meant last night — I know very well now. I shan't want to see any more apples all winter. What do you think I have been about all to-day, dear Miss Alice?"

"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling — "if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good Spitzenberg yourself."

"That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune said a while ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy potatoes."

"But about the apples?" said Alice.

"Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the first thing I knew, Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down on the floor, and then she gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together; and as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I tried very hard to get through before, but I could not; and I am so tired! I thought I never should get to the bottom of that big basket."

"Never mind, love — come to the fire — we'll try and forget all disagreeable things while we are together."

"I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat down in Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't care for it at all now."

But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour Miss Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept her for awhile quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat so till the clock struck half- past five; then Alice proposed they should go into the kitchen, and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great cordiality. She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her husband that Ellen was "an uncommon well-behaved child." She said she would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few minutes.

"But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body, out by, waiting to speak to you. I was just coming in to tell you; will you please to see her now?"

"Certainly — let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?"

"No, Miss Alice — there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her."

The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed, untidy, — no wonder Margery's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into her spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her, the hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow lay white, not yet melted away.

"Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice, pleasantly.

"If ye plase, Ma’am, it the master I'm wanting," said the woman, dropping a courtesy.

"My father? Margery, will you tell him?"

Margery departed.

"Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?"

"It is, Ma’am — a bitter storm."

"Have you come far?"

"It's a good bit, my lady — it's more nor a mile beyant Carra — just right forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback; in Jemmy Morrison's woods — where Pat M'Farren's clearing is — it's there I live, my lady."

"That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow," said Alice, kindly; "sit down, and come nearer the fire. Margery will give you something to refresh you."

"I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night; and when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's little the cold or the storm can do to put out the heart's fire."

"Life and death! who is sick?" said Alice.

"It's my own child, Ma’am — my own boy — all the child I have — and I'll have none by the morning light."

"Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?"

"Myself doesn't know."

The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances.

"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly. Margery — oh, that's right — a cup of tea will do her good. What do you want with my father?"

"The Lord bless ye! — I'll tell you, my lady."

She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that Margery offered her.

"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left it — it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm thinking the bitter winters of this cowld country has chilled the life o' him — and troubles cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone. "I seed him grow waker and waker, an' his dair face grown thinner and thinner, and the red all left it, only two burning spots was on it some days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I couldn't do nothing at all to help him, for he just growed waker an' waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him, but he's an aisy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was already like a heavenly angel itself, an' always was, but then more nor ever. Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely! — let Father Shannon say what he will."

She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and pitying.

"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the tears that came quickly again — "an' I seed he was going fast from me, an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is it, thin?' says I. 'About the gintleman that praiches at Carra,' says he — 'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praist at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draiming, or out o' his head, or crazy wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,' says I, 'what is it you want,' says I — 'an' sure, if it's anything in heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,' says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms around my neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver, an' kissed me — he did — 'An',' says he, 'mother dair,' says he — 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good gintleman that praiches at Carra, till I spake to him.' 'Is it the praist you want, John, my boy?' says I — 'sure he's in it,' says I'; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had come home wid him half an hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's not him at all that I mane — it's the gintleman that spakes in the little white church at Carra — he's not a praist at all,' says he. 'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him, thin, the night, Kitty Dolan,' says my husband — 'are ye mad,' says he; 'sure it's not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praist in yer own house.' 'I'm maining none,' says I — 'nor more, he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born angel to you, Michael Dolan, anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the kiss of his lips on my face, wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an' he a dying? by the blessing, an' I will, if twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praist, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy? — for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."

"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was speaking. "Wait but one moment."

In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.

"It storms very hard," she said — "and he had not had his tea! But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen, love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get back again? it will be so deep by that time."

There was a cloud on her fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed away, and, quiet and calm as ever, she sat down at the little tea-table with Ellen. From her face all shadows seemed to have flown for ever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery's good bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright in reply. Ellen was well pleased, for her part, that the third seat was empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometime as a gust of wind swept by, and once or twice went to the window.

After tea, Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire; while Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some purse silk in a mysterious fashion, that no eye could be quick enough to follow, and with such skill and steadiness, that the work grew fast under her hand.

"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.

"Had you? what about?"

"It was pleasant, too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk — "but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on board the boat — you know? — I told you about him?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where — and he didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; and I thought I didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know me, but then I thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see me; and he asked me if I had been pious since he saw me."

Ellen stopped to laugh.

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very pleased."

"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."

"I didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my dream."

"Had what? kept close to the truth?"

"No, no — been what he said."

"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.

"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen, thoughtfully.

"How so, my dear?"

"I don't know, Miss Alice — because I never am good, I suppose."

"But what has been the matter to-day?"

"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and then, when I found I must do all those baskets of apples first, I was very ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was, and said something that made me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner, and when I found I couldn't, I said I wouldn't come to dinner; but she made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything, and then, when I got back to the apples again, I sewed so hard, that I ran the needle into my finger ever so far — see there, what a mark it left! — and Aunt Fortune said it served me right, and she was glad of it, and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong, afterwards, and I was very sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved so hard I wouldn't."

"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours are — it is strange they should be so evil."

"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 'Actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she only wouldn't say that just as she does! it does worry me so."

"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat looking sorrowfully up at her. "You must try not to give her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good."

"That is just what Mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her arms around Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love, gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection.

"Oh, what do you think!" she said, suddenly, her face changing again, — "I got my letter last night!"

"Your letter!"

"Yes, the letter the old man brought — don't you know? and it was written in the ship, and there was only a little bit from Mamma, and a little bit from Papa, but so good! Papa says she is a great deal better, and he has no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite well again. Isn't that good?"

"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."

"It was, on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there; and I don't care, either, so long as I've got it. What are you making?"

"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection.

"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"

"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."

"Oh, that's beautiful," said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect; "and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"

"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."

"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New Year."

"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year presents!" said Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. "I wish I could make something for somebody. Oh! I wonder if I couldn't make something for Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to, very much."

Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.

"What could you make for him?"

"I don't know — that's the thing. He keeps his money in his pocket; and besides, I don't know how to make purses."

"There are other things besides purses. How would a watch- guard do? Does he wear a watch?"

"I don't know whether he does or not; he doesn't every day, I am sure, but I don't know about Sundays."

"Then, we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a nightcap."

"A nightcap? — you're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think a nightcap would be pretty for a Christmas present — do you?"

"Well, what shall we do, Ellen?" said Alice, laughing. "I made a pocket-pincushion for Papa once, when I was a little girl, but I fancy Mr. Van Brunt would not know exactly what use to make of such a convenience. I don't think you could fail to please him, though, with anything you should hit upon."

"I have got a dollar," said Ellen, "to buy stuff with; it came in my letter last night. If I only knew what!"

Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, while Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible article of Mr. Van Brunt's dress.

"I have some nice pieces of fine linen," said Alice; "suppose I cut out a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and then Margery will starch and iron it for you, all ready to give to him. How will that do? Can you stitch well enough?"

"Oh, yes, I guess I can," said Ellen. "Oh, thank you, dear Alice! you are the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do you think?"

"I am sure he will — very much."

"Then, that will do nicely," said Ellen, much relieved. "And now, what do you think about Nancy's Bible?"

"Nothing could be better; only that I am afraid Nancy would either sell it for something else, or let it go to destruction very quickly. I never heard of her spending five minutes over a book, and the Bible, I am afraid, last of all."

"But I think," said Ellen slowly, — "I think she would not spoil it, or sell it either, if I gave it to her."

And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last night.

"That's the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for a long time," said Alice. "We will get her the Bible by all means, my dear — a nice one — and I hope you will be able to persuade her to read it."

She rose as she spoke, and went to the glass door. Ellen followed her, and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She opened the door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their faces, and they were glad to shut it again.

"It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy and cold. Papa will be late getting home."

"I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice."

"I am not much worried, love. I have often known Papa out late before, but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, we'll try to make a good use of the time while we are waiting. Suppose you read to me while I work."

She took down a volume of Cowper, and found his account of the three pet hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller pieces of poetry. Then followed a long talk about hares and other animals; about Cowper and his friends, and his way of life. Time passed swiftly away; it was getting late.

"How weary papa will be!" said Alice. "He has had nothing to eat since dinner. I'll tell you what we'll do, Ellen," she exclaimed, as she threw her work down, — "we'll make some chocolate for him — that'll be the very thing. Ellen, dear, run into the kitchen and ask Margery to bring me the little chocolate-pot and a pitcher of night's milk."

Margery brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice had cut up the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen watched it with great interest till it was melted, and the boiling water stirred in, and the whole was simmering quietly on the coals.

"Is it done now?"

"No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be put in, and when that has boiled, the eggs — and then it will be done."

With Margery and the chocolate-pot the cat had walked in. Ellen immediately endeavoured to improve his acquaintance; that was not so easy. The Captain chose the corner of the rug furthest from her, in spite of all her calling and coaxing, paying her no more attention than if he had not heard her. Ellen crossed over to him, and began most tenderly and respectfully to stroke his head and back, touching his soft fur with great care. Parry presently lifted up his head uneasily, as much as to say, "I wonder how long this is going to last" — and finding there was every prospect of its lasting some time, he fairly got up and walked over to the other end of the rug. Ellen followed him, and tried again, with exactly the same effect.

"Well, cat! you aren't very kind," said she as length; — "Alice, he won't let me have anything to do with him!"

"I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable; he is a cat of very bad taste — that is all I can say."

"But I never saw such a cat! he won't let me touch him ever so softly; he lifts up his head and looks as cross; — and then walks off."

"He don't know you yet, and truth is, Parry has no fancy for extending the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty!" said Alice, fondly stroking his head, "why don't you behave better?"

Parry lifted his head, and opened and shut his eyes, with an expression of great satisfaction, very different from that he had bestowed on Ellen. Ellen gave him up for the present as a hopeless case, and turned her attention to the chocolate, which had now received the milk, and must be watched lest it should run over, which Alice said it would very easily do when once it began to boil again. Meanwhile Ellen wanted to know what chocolate was made of — where it came from — where it was made best — burning her little face in the fire all the time, lest the pot should boil over while she was not looking. At last the chocolate began to gather a rich froth, and Ellen called out —

"Oh, Alice! look here — quick! here's the shape of the spoon on the top of the chocolate! do look at it."

An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly raised on the smooth frothy surface. As they were both bending forward to watch it, Alice waiting to take the pot off the moment it began to boil, Ellen head a slight click of the lock of the door, and turning her head, was a little startled to see a stranger there, standing still at the far end of the room. She touched Alice's arm without looking round. But Alice started to her feet with a slight scream, and in another minute had thrown her arms round the stranger, and was locked in his. Ellen knew what it meant now, very well. She turned away as if she had nothing to do with what was going on there, and lifted the pot of chocolate off the fire with infinite difficulty; but it was going to boil over, and she would have broken her back rather than not do it. And then she stood with her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire, as if she was determined not to see them till she couldn't help it. But what she was thinking of, Ellen could not have told, then or afterwards. It was but a few minutes, though it seemed to her a great many, before they drew near the fire. Curiosity began to be strong, and she looked round to see if the new- comer was like Alice. No, not a bit — how different! — darker hair and eyes — not a bit like her; handsome enough, too, to be her brother. And Alice did not look like herself; her usually calm, sweet face was quivering and sparkling now — lit up as Ellen had never seen it — oh, how bright! Poor Ellen herself had never looked duller in her life; and when Alice said, gaily, "This is my brother, Ellen," her confusion of thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into a flood of tears; she sprang and hid her face in Alice's arms.

Ellen's were not the only eyes that were full just then, but of course she did not know that.

"Come, Ellen," whispered Alice, presently, "look up! — what kind of a welcome is this? come! — we have no business with tears just now. Won't you run into the kitchen for me, love," she added, more low, "and ask Margery to bring some bread and butter, and anything else she has that is fit for a traveller?"

Glad of an escape, Ellen darted away that her wet face might not be seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when she returned.

"John," said Alice, "this is my little sister that I wrote you about — Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well as mine, you know."

"Stop! stop!" said her brother. "Miss Ellen, this sister of mine is giving us away to each other at a great rate; I should like to know first what you say to it. Are you willing to take a strange brother upon her recommendation?"

Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker's face, but meeting the grave though somewhat comical look of two very keen eyes, she looked down again, and merely answered, "yes."

"Then, if I am to be your brother, you must give me a brother's right, you know," said he, drawing her gently to him, and kissing her gravely on the lips.

Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John Humphreys and Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentlemen of the apple-paring; for, though she coloured a good deal, she made no objection, and showed no displeasure. Alice and she now busied themselves with getting the cups and saucers out of the cupboard, and setting the table: but all that evening, through whatever was doing, Ellen's eyes sought the stranger as if by fascination. She watched him whenever she could without being noticed. At first she was in doubt what to think of him; she was quite sure, from that one looking into his eyes, that he was a person to be feared; — there was no doubt of that; as to the rest she didn't know.

"And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the evening?" said John Humphreys, one time that Alice was gone into the kitchen on some kind errand for him.

"Talking, Sir," — said Ellen, doubtfully.

"Talking! this whole evening? Alice must have improved. What have you been talking about?"

"Hares — and dogs — and about Mr. Cowper — and some other things."

"Private affairs, eh?" said he, with again the look Ellen had seen before.

"Yes, Sir," said Ellen, nodding and laughing.

"And how came you upon Mr. Cowper?"

"Sir?"

"How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper?"

"I was reading about his hares, and about John Gilpin; and then Alice told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends."

"Well, I don't know, after all, that you have had a pleasanter evening than I have had," said her questioner, "though I have been riding hard, with the cold wind in my face, and the driving snow doing all it could to discomfort me. I have had this very bright fireside before me all the way."

He fell into a fit of grave musing, which lasted till Alice came in, then suddenly fell afumbling in his pocket.

"Here's a note for you," said he, throwing it into her lap.

"A note! — Sophia Marshman — where did you get it?"

"From her own hand. Passing there to-day, I thought I must stop a moment to speak to them, and had no notion of doing more; but Mrs. Marshman was very kind, and Miss Sophia in despair, so the end of it was, I dismounted and went in to await the preparing of that billet while my poor nag was led off to the stables and a fresh horse supplied me — I fancy that tells you on what conditions."

"Charming!" said Alice — "to spend Christmas — I am very glad; I should like to, very much — with you dear. If I can only get Papa — but I think he will; it will do him a great deal of good. To-morrow, she says, we must come; but I doubt the weather will not let us; we shall see."

"I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the sleighing will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old sleigh is in being yet, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes — in good order. Ellen? what are you looking so grave about? you are going? too."

"I?" said Ellen, a great spot of crimson coming in each cheek.

"To be sure; do you think I am going to leave you behind?"

"But" —

"But what?"

"There won't be room."

"Room in the sleigh? Then we'll put John on Prince Charlie, and let him ride there, postilion fashion."

"But — Mr. Humphreys?"

"He always goes on horse-back; he will ride Sharp or old John."

In great delight, Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss; and then they all gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or rather to see John take his, which his sister would not let him wait for any longer. The storm had ceased, and through the broken clouds the moon and stars were looking out, so they were no more uneasy for Mr. Humphreys, and expected him every moment. Still the supper was begun and ended without him, and they had drawn round the fire again before his welcome step was at last heard.

There was new joy then; new embracing, and questioning, and answering; the little circle opened to let him in; and Alice brought the corner of the table to his side and poured him out a cup of hot chocolate. But, after drinking half of it, and neglecting the eatables beside him, he sat with one hand in the other, his arm leaning on his knee, with a kind of softened gravity upon his countenance.

"Is your chocolate right, Papa?" said Alice, at length.

"Very good, my daughter."

He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude and look. Gradually they ceased their conversation, and waited with respectful affection and some curiosity for him to speak; something of more than common interest seemed to be in his thoughts. He sat looking earnestly in the fire, sometimes with almost a smile on his face, and gently striking one hand in the palm of the other. And sitting so, without moving or stirring his eyes, he said at last, as though the words had been forced from him, "Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift!"

As he added no more, Alice said, gently, "What have you seen to-night, Papa?"

He roused himself, and pushed the empty cup towards her.

"A little more, my daughter; — I have seen the fairest sight, almost, a man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed spirit go home to its rest. Oh, that 'unspeakable gift!' " He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his chocolate; but having drunk it, he pushed the table from him, and drew up his chair.

"You had a long way to go, Papa," observed Alice, again.

"Yes — a long way there — I don't know what it was coming home; I never thought of it. How independent the spirit can be of externals! I scarcely felt the storm to-night."

"Nor I," said his son.

"I had a long way to go," said Mr. Humphreys; "that poor woman — that Mrs. Dolan — she lives in the woods behind the Cat's Back, a mile beyond Carra-carra, or more — it seemed a long mile to-night; and a more miserable place I never saw yet. A little rickety shanty, the storm was hardly kept out of it, and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere or in anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and in a corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye met mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but couldn't at first make out where. Do you remember, Alice, a little ragged boy, with a remarkably bright, pleasant face, who has planted himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time past in the south aisle of the church, and stood there all service time?"

Alice said no.

"I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most fixed and steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him on his way out of the church, to speak to him, but always failed. I asked him to night, when I first went in, if he knew me. 'I do, Sir,' he said. I asked him where he had seen me. He said, 'In the church beyant.' 'So,' said I, 'you are the little boy I have seen there so regularly; what did you come there for?"

" 'To hear your honor spake the good words.'

" 'What good words?' said I; 'about what?'

"He said, 'About Him that was slain, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.'

" 'And do you think he has washed away yours?' I said.

"He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat difficult for him to speak; and, to tell the truth, so it was for me, for I was taken by surprise; but the people in the hut had gathered round, and I wished to hear him say more, for their sake as well as my own. I asked him why he thought his sins were washed away. He gave me for answer part of the verse, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' but did not finish it. 'Do you think you are very sick, John?' I asked.

" 'I am, Sir,' he said — 'I'll not be long here.'

" 'And where do you think you are going, then?' said I.

"He lifted one little, thin, bony arm from under his coverlid, and, through all the dirt and the pallor of his face, the smile of heaven I am sure was on it, as he looked and pointed upward, and answered, 'Jesus!'

"I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished to see me for. I don't know whether he heard me or not; he lay with his eyes half closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted whether he would speak again; and indeed, for myself, I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me entirely; — for the sake of the group around the bed, I could have desired something further. They kept perfect stillness; awed, I think, by a profession of faith such as they had never heard before. They and I stood watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than ten or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and with sudden life and strength rose up half-way in bed, exclaiming, 'Thanks to be God for his unspeakable gift!' — and then fell back — just dead."

The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished, for Alice and Ellen were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered his face with his hands.

"I have felt," said the old gentleman, presently, "as if I could have shouted out his words — his dying words — all the way as I came home. My little girl," said he, drawing Ellen to him, "do you know the meaning of those sweet things of which little John Dolan's mind was so full?"

Ellen did not speak.

"Do you know what it is to be a sinner? — and what it is to be a forgiven child of God?"

"I believe I do, Sir," Ellen said.

He kissed her forehand and blessed her; and then said, "Let us pray."

It was late; the servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. Oh! what a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for that "unspeakable gift!" — that they, every one there, had been made to know and rejoice in it; for the poor little boy, rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same rejoicing; for their own loved ones who were there already; and for the hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the "new song" for ever and ever.

There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, Mr. Humpreys, after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good night, gave one to Ellen too, which he had never done before, and then going to his son, and laying both hands on his shoulders, kissed his cheek also; then silently took his candle and went.

They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round the fire as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother, for, laying her hand and her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, "And so you have been well all this time, John?"

He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen as well as his sister saw the look of love with which he answered her question, rather of endearment than inquiry; and from that minute Ellen's mind was made up as to the doubt which had troubled her. She went to bed quite satisfied that her new brother was a decided acquisition.

Chapter XXVII

The jingling of sleigh-bells.

Before Ellen's eyes were open the next morning — almost before she awoke — the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh- ride, John Humphreys, and the weather, all rushed into her mind at once, and started her half up in the bed to look out of the window. Well frosted the panes of glass were, but at the corners and edges, unmistakeable bright gleams of light came in.

"Oh, Alice, it's beautiful!" exclaimed Ellen; "look how the sun is shining! and 'tisn't very cold. Are we going to-day?"

"I don't know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We'll settle that at breakfast."

At breakfast it was settled. They were to go, and set off directly. Mr. Humphreys could not go with them, because he had promised to bury little John Dolan; the priest had declared he would have nothing to do with it; and the poor mother had applied to Mr. Humphreys, as being the clergyman her child had most trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that little John had pursuaded her out of half her prejudices by his affectionate talk and blameless behaviour during some time past. Mr. Humphreys, therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised, however, to follow them the next, and would by no means permit them to wait for him. He said the day was fine, and they must improve it; and he should be pleased to have them with their friends as long as possible.

So the little travelling-bag was stuffed, with more things than it seemed possible to get into it. Among the rest, Ellen brought her little red Bible, which Alice decided should go in John's pocket; the little carpet-bag could not take it. Ellen was afraid it never would be locked. By dint of much pushing and crowding, however, locked it was; and they made themselves ready. Over Ellen's merino dress and coat went an old fur tippet; a little shawl was tied round her neck; her feet were cased in a pair of warm moccassins, which, belonging to Margery, were of course a world too big for her, but "anything but cold," as their owner said. Her nice blue hood would protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green veil to save her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen shuffled out of Alice's room in this trim, John gave her one of his grave looks, and saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to know how she expected to get to the sleigh; he said she would want a footman indeed to wait upon her, to pick up her slippers, if she went in that fashion. However, he ended by picking her up, carried her, and set her down safely in the sleigh. Alice followed, and in another minute they were off.

Ellen's delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a corner and left the house behind out of sight; and they were speeding away along a road that was quite new to her. Ellen's heart felt like dancing for joy. Nobody would have thought it, she sat so still and quiet between Alice and her brother; but her eyes were very bright as they looked joyously about her, and every now and then she could not help smiling to herself. Nothing was wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was of winter's fairest; the blue sky as clear as if clouds had never dimmed or crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold, but not bitterly cold, nor windy; the sleigh skimmed along over the smooth frozen surface of the snow as if it was no trouble at all to Prince Charlie to draw it; and the sleigh bells jingled and rang, the very music for Ellen's thoughts to dance to. And then with somebody she liked very much on each side of her, and pleasures untold in the prospect, no wonder she felt as if her heart could not hold any more. The green veil could not be kept on, everything looked so beautiful in that morning's sun. The long, wide slopes of untrodden and unspotted snow, too bright sometimes for the eye to look at; the shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and scattered trees; the very brown fences, and the bare arms and branches of the leafless trees, showing sharp against the white ground and clear bright heaven; — all seemed lovely in her eyes. For

"It is content of heart Gives nature power to please."

She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And, besides, they were in a nice little red sleigh, with a warm buffalo robe, and Prince Charlie was a fine-spirited gray, that scarcely ever needed to be touched with the whip; at a word of encouragement from his driver, he would toss his head and set forward with new life, making all the bells jingle again. To be sure, she would have been just as happy if they had had the poorest of vehicles on runners, with old John instead; but still it was pleasanter so.

Their road at first was through a fine undulating country, like that between the Nose and Thirlwall; farmhouses and patches of woodland scattered here and there. It would seem that the minds of all the party were full of the same thoughts, for, after a very long silence, Alice's first word, almost sigh, was —

"This is a beautiful world, John!"

"Beautiful! — wherever you can escape from the signs of man's presence and influence."

"Isn't that almost too strong?" said Alice.

He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince Charlie, who was indulging himself in a walk.

"But there are bright exceptions," said Alice.

"I believe it; — never so much as when I come home."

"Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have confidence and sympathy?"

He shook his head again. "Not enough, Alice. I long for you every day of my life."

Alice turned her head quick away.

"It must be so, my dear sister," he said, presently; "we can never expect to find it otherwise. There are, as you say, bright exceptions — many of them; but in almost all I find some sad want. We must wait till we join the spirits of the just made perfect, before we see society that will be all we wish for."

"What is Ellen thinking of all this while?" said Alice, presently, bending down to see her face. "As grave as a judge! — what are you musing about?"

"I was thinking," said Ellen, "how men could help the world's being beautiful."

"Don't trouble your little head with that question," said John, smiling — "long may it be before you are able to answer it. Look at those snow-birds!"

By degrees the day wore on. About one o'clock they stopped at a farmhouse to let the horse rest, and to stretch their own limbs, which Ellen, for her part, was very glad to do. The people of the house received them with great hospitality, and offered them pumpkin-pies and sweet cider. Alice had brought a basket of sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was furnished with a bag of corn Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for him; so they were all well refreshed and rested and warmed before they set off again.

From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman's place, was more than thirty miles, and the longest, because the most difficult, part of the way was still before them. Ellen, however, soon became sleepy, from riding in the keen air; she was content now to have the green veil over her face, and sitting down in the bottom of the sleigh, her head leaning against Alice, and covered well with the buffalo robe, she slept in happy unconsciousness of hill and dale, wind and sun, and all the remaining hours of the way.

It was drawing towards four o'clock, when Alice, with some difficulty, roused her to see the approach to the house, and get wide awake before they should reach it. They turned from the road, and entered by a gateway into some pleasure-grounds, through which a short drive brought them to the house. These grounds were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth spread of snow now; the great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and wintry; and patches of shrubbery offered little but tufts and bunches of brown twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary, but that some well-grown evergreens were clustered round the house, and others scattered here and there relieved the eye; — a few holly-bushes, singly and in groups, proudly displayed their bright dark leaves and red berries; and one unrivalled hemlock, on the west, threw its graceful shadow quite across the lawn, on which, as on itself, the white chimney-tops, and the naked branches of oaks and elms, was the faint smile of the afternoon sun.

A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid of her moccassins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of steps, and into the house. They entered a large, handsome square hall, with a blue-and-white stone floor, at one side of which the staircase went winding up. Here they were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced, who threw her arms round Alice, and kissed her a great many times, seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen, too, with such warmth, that she began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and expected — told Mr. John he had behaved admirably — and then led them into a large room, where was a group of ladies and gentlemen.

The welcome they got here was less lively, but quite as kind. Mr. and Mrs. Marshman were fine, handsome old people, of stately presence, and most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. Ellen saw that Alice was at home here, as if she had been a daughter of the family. Mrs. Marshman also stooped down and kissed her herself, telling her she was very glad she had come, and that there were a number of young people there, who would be much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen could not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. John and Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of pleasant voices, and a great bustle of shaking hands.

The children had all gone out to walk, and, as they had had their dinner a great while ago, it was decided that Ellen should take hers that day with the elder part of the family. While they were waiting to be called to dinner, and everybody else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman took notice of little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his own, began a long conversation. He asked her a great many questions, some of them such funny ones, that she could not help laughing, but she answered them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By the time the butler came to say dinner was ready, she had almost forgotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the dining-room, begged the elder ladies would excuse him, but he felt bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He placed her on his right hand, and took the greatest care of her all dinner-time; once sending her plate the whole length of the table for some particular little thing he thought she would like. On the other side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one of Mr. Marshman's daughters; a lady with a sweet, gentle, quiet face and manner, that made Ellen like to sit by her. Another daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother's stately bearing; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and good-humoured.

Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed with the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and raisins, admiring the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly-cut and coloured glass, and silver decanter-stands, which were reflected in it; when a door at the further end of the room half-opened, a little figure came partly in, and holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along the table, as if seeking for some one.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Mrs. Bland told me, Mamma," she began, her eye not ceasing its uneasy quest; but then breaking off and springing to Alice's side, she threw her arms round her neck, and gave her, certainly, the warmest of all the warm welcomes she had had that day.

"Hallo!" cried Mr. Marshman, rapping on the table; "that's too much for any one's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me just such another."

The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed him with a very good will, remarking, however, "Ah, but I've seen you before to-day, Grandpapa!"

"Well, here's somebody you've not seen before," said he, good- humouredly, pulling her round to Ellen, — "here's a new friend for you — a young lady from the great city, so you must brush up your country manners. Miss Ellen Montgomery, come from — pshaw! what is it? — come from —"

"London, Grandpapa?" said the little girl, as with a mixture of simplicity and kindness she took Ellen's hand, and kissed her on the cheek.

"From Carra-carra, Sir," said Ellen, smiling.

"Go along with you," said he, laughing, and pinching her cheek. "Take her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take good care of her. Tell Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa's guests."

The two children had not, however, reached the door, when Ellen Chauncey exclaimed, "Wait — oh, wait a minute! I must speak to aunt Sophia about the bag." And, flying to her side, there followed an earnest whispering, and then a nod and smile from aunt Sophia; and, satisfied, Ellen returned to her companion, and led her out of the dining-room.

"We have both got the same name," said she, as they went along a wide corridor; "how shall we know which is which?"

"Why," said Ellen, laughing, "when you say 'Ellen,' I shall know you mean me; and when I say it you will know I mean you. I shouldn't be calling myself, you know."

"Yes, but when somebody else calls 'Ellen,' we shall both have to run. Do you run when you are called?"

"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, but I do always; Mamma always makes me. I thought perhaps you were like Marianne Gillespie — she waits often as much as half a minute before she stirs, when anybody calls her. Did you come with Miss Alice?"

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much! — oh, very much!"

Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour, with a glance of mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong promise of growing love.

"So do I," she answered, gaily; "I am very glad she is come, and I am very glad you are come, too."

The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence of a group of young people, rather older than themselves.

"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen, "this is Miss Ellen Montgomery — she came with Alice, and she is come to keep Christmas with us — aren't you glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us when what's-her-name comes — won't there?"

Marianne shook hands with Ellen.

"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said little Ellen Chauncey; "and he says we must brush up our country manners — she's come from the great city."

"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?" inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Marianne Gillespie to prove him her brother.

"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.

"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here?"

"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Come! Stand out of my way, right and left, all of you, will you? and give me a chance. Now then!"

Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to her, bowed down to her knees — then slowly raising his head, stepped back.

"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you at Ventnor. — Isn't that polite, now? Is that like what you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"

"No, Sir — thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The mirth of the others redoubled.

"May I request to be informed then," continued Gillespie, "what is the fashion of making bows in the great city?"

"I don't know," said Ellen; "I never saw a boy make a bow before."

"Humph! — I guess country manners will do for you," said William, turning on his heel.

"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said another boy.

"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey; "didn't I tell you she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen, I'll take you somewhere else."

She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly stopped again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said; "I asked aunt Sophia about the bag of moroccoes, and she said she would have 'em early to-morrow morning, and then we can divide 'em right away."

"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.

"Oh, no — not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then ran off again.

"I am so glad you are come!" said she; "the others are all so much older, and they have all so much to do together — and now you can help me think what I will make for Mamma. Hush! don't say a word about it!"

They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were soon gathered for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided; the elder persons were standing or sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had leisure to look about her, and her eyes soon wandered from the tea-table in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman, talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently, as she caught her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of recognition. John came up just then to set down his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was smiling at.

"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at what's going on."

"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John Humphreys, gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile."

The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever so well-disposed, compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however, not even his sister, could keep their countenances, for the eye of the speaker had pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible, that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to," and a threat to "do something" to his tormentor.

"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in his look and tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone retaining entire gravity.

"What's all this? what's all this? — what's all this laughing about?" said old Mr. Marshman, coming up.

"This young gentleman, Sir," said John, "has been endeavouring — with a mouthful of arguments — to prove to us the inferiority of city manners to those learned in the country."

"Will," said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's discomfited face; then added, sternly, "I don't care where your manners were learned, Sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music."

He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept her by him, and kept her very much amused, too, in his own way; then he would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good-night to their elders; and, pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her, as well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.

The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain, old- fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood-fire. The very old brass-headed hand-irons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for comfort." A little, dark, mahogany book-case in one place — an odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another; and opposite the fire an old-fashioned high-post bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor.

"This is aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; — "this is where you are to sleep."

"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.

"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with aunt Sophia; that is because the house is so full, you know; — and here is your bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here! Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun."

Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for, instead of a bedstead, it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it.

"This is aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where Mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"

"To be sure I do," said Ellen — "always."

"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and stockings for herself."

"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.

"Why, Lester — aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?"

"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"

"Oh, yes — ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage — we live here since then."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No," said little Ellen, gravely — "he never will came back — he never will come back any more."

Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a minute.

"I'll tell you what," said little Ellen, jumping up — "Mamma said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring 'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?"

XXVIII. Scraps of Morocco and talk

Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea! They often travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home-look of everything, where yet she was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. "To-morrow will be Christmas-eve — last Christmas-eve — oh, Mamma!"

Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, began the business of undressing.

"Don't you love Christmas time?" said she; "I think it's the pleasantest in all the year; we always have a houseful of people, and such fine times. But then in summer I think that's the pleasantest. I s'pose they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Don't you! why, I always did, ever since I can remember. I used to think, when I was a little girl, you know," said she, laughing — "I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up my stocking as near the fire- place as I could; but I know better than that now; I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you?"

"He's nobody," said Ellen.

"Oh, yes, he is — he's a great many people — he's whoever gives you anything. My Santa Claus is Mamma, and Grandpapa, and Grandmamma, and Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda; and I thought I should have had Uncle George, too, this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come; I like him the best of all my uncles."

"I never had anybody but Mamma to give me presents," said Ellen, "and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times."

"I used to have presents from Mamma and Grandpapa, too, both Christmas and New Year, but now I have grown so old, Mamma only gives me something Christmas and Grandpapa only New Year. It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a stocking will hold 'em much longer. But oh! we've got such a fine plan in our heads," said little Ellen, lowering her voice, and speaking with open eyes and great energy — "we are going to make presents this year! — we children — won't it be fine? — we are going to make what we like for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it; and then New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins, we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine? I'm so glad you are here, for I want you to tell me what I shall make."

"Who is it for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, Mamma! you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had rather it should be for Mamma. I thought of making her a needle-book with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them — he can paint beautifully — and having her name and something else written very nicely inside; — how do you think that would do?"

"I should think it would do very nicely," said Ellen — "very nicely, indeed."

"I wish Uncle George was at home, though, to write it for me — he writes so beautifully; I can't do it well enough."

"I am afraid I can't either," said Ellen. "Perhaps somebody else can."

"I don't know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, — and besides, I don't want her to know anything about it. But there's another thing I don't know how to fix, and that's the edges of the leaves — the leaves for the needles — they must be fixed — somehow."

"I can show you how to do that," said Ellen, brightening; "Mamma had a needlebook that was given to her that had the edges beautifully fixed; and I wanted to know how it was done, and she showed me. I'll show you that. It takes a good while, but that's no matter."

"Oh, thank you; how nice that is! Oh no, that's no matter. And then it will do very well, won't it? Now, if I can only catch Gilbert in a good humour — he isn't my cousin — he's Marianne's cousin — that big boy you saw down-stairs — he's so big he won't have anything to say to me, sometimes, but I guess I'll get him to do this. Don't you want to make something for somebody?"

Ellen had had one or two feverish thoughts on this subject since the beginning of the conversation, but she only said —

"It's no matter — you know I haven't got anything here; and besides, I shall not be here till New Year."

"Not here till New Year! — yes, you shall," said little Ellen, throwing herself upon her neck; "indeed you aren't going away before that. I know you aren't — I heard Grandmamma and Aunt Sophia talking about it. Say you will stay here till New Year — do!"

"I should like to, very much indeed," said Ellen, "if Alice does."

In the midst of half a dozen kisses with which her little companion rewarded this speech, somebody close by said, pleasantly —

"What time of night do you suppose it is?"

The girls started — there was Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, Mamma!" exclaimed her little daughter, springing to her feet, "I hope you haven't heard what we have been talking about?"

"Not a word," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "but as to-morrow will be long enough to talk in, hadn't you better go to bed now?"

Her daughter obeyed her immediately, after one more hug to Ellen, and telling her she was so glad she had come. Mrs. Chauncey stayed to see Ellen in bed, and press one kind, motherly kiss upon her face, so tenderly that Ellen's eyes were moistened as she withdrew. But in her dreams that night, the rosy, sweet face, blue eyes, and little plump figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest part.

She slept till Alice was obliged to waken her the next morning; and then got up with her head in a charming confusion of, pleasures past and pleasures to come — things known and unknown, to be made for everybody's New Year presents — linen collars and painted needlebooks; and no sooner was breakfast over than she was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey a particularly splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of needlebook leaves. Deep in this, they were still an hour afterwards, and in the comparative merits of purple and rose-colour, when a little hubbub arose at the other end of the room, on the arrival of a new-comer. Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped it, exclaiming, "There she is! — now for the bag!" — and pulled Ellen along with her towards the party. A young lady was in the midst of it, talking so fast, that she had not time to take off her cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen's, however, she came to a sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen's face certainly showed no pleasure; Margaret's darkened with a very disagreeable surprise.

"My goodness! — Ellen Montgomery! — how on earth did you get here?"

"Do you know her?" asked one of the girls, as the two Ellens went off after "Aunt Sophia."

"Do I know her? Yes — just enough — exactly. How did she get here?"

"Miss Humphreys brought her."

"Who's Miss Humphreys?"

"Hush!" said Marianne, lowering her tone — "that's her brother in the window."

"Whose brother? — hers or Miss Humphreys'?"

"Miss Humphreys'. Did you never see her? She is here, or has been here, a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her fourth daughter; and she is just as much at home as if she was; and she brought her here."

"And she's at home, too, I suppose. Well, it's no business of mine."

"What do you know of her?"

"Oh, enough — that's just it — don't want to know any more."

"Well, you needn't; but what's the matter with her?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll tell you some other time — she's a conceited little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river — that's how I come to know about her; Ma said it was the last child she would be bothered with in that way."

Presently the two girls came back, bring word to clear the table, for Aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccoes. As soon as she came, Ellen Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest question. "Certainly!" Aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the contents of the bag; and her little niece delightedly told Ellen she was to have her share as well as the rest.

The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco, of all sizes and colours, which were hastily turned over and examined with eager hands and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be sure; but others showed a breadth and length of beauty which was declared to be "first-rate," and "fine;" and one beautiful large piece of blue morocco in particular was made up in imagination by two or three of the party in as many different ways. Marianne wanted it for a book-cover; Margaret declared she could make a lovely reticule with it; and Ellen could not help thinking it would make a very pretty needlebox, such a one as she had seen in the possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice.

"Well, what's to be done now?" said Miss Sophia— "or am I not to know?"

"Oh, you're not to know — you're not to know, Aunt Sophy," cried the girls — "you mustn't ask."

"I'll tell you what they are going to do with 'em," said George Walsh, coming up to her with a mischievous face, and adding in a loud whisper, shielding his mouth with his hand — "they're going to make pr —"

He was laid hold of forcibly by the whole party, screaming and laughing, and stopped short from finishing his speech.

"Well, then, I'll take my departure," said Miss Sophia — "but how will you manage to divide all these scraps!"

"Suppose we were to put them in the bag again, and you hold the bag, and we were to draw them out without looking," said Ellen Chauncey — "as we used to do with the sugar-plums."

As no better plan was thought of, this was agreed upon; and little Ellen shutting up her eyes very tight, stuck in her hand and pulled out a little bit of green morocco about the size of a dollar. Ellen Montgomery came next; then Margaret, then Marianne, then their mutual friend Isabel Hawthorn. Each had to take her turn a great many times; and at the end of the drawing, the pieces were found to be pretty equally divided among the party, with the exception of Ellen, who, besides several other good pieces, had drawn the famous blue.

"That will do very nicely," said little Ellen Chauncey — "I am glad you have got that, Ellen. Now, Aunt Sophy! — one thing more — you know the silks and ribbons you promised us?"

"Bless me! I haven't done yet, eh? Well, you shall have them; but we are all going out to walk now; I'll give them to you this afternoon. Come! put these away, and get on your bonnets and cloaks."

A hard measure! but it was done. After the walk came dinner; after dinner, Aunt Sophia had to be found and waited on, till she had fairly sought out and delivered to their hands the wished-for bundles of silks and satins. It gave great satisfaction.

"But how shall we do about dividing these?" said little Ellen — "shall we draw lots again?"

"No, Ellen," said Marianne, "that won't do, because we might every one get just the thing we do not want. I want one colour or stuff to go with my morocco, and you want another to go with yours; and you might get mine and I might get yours. We had best each choose in turn what we like, beginning at Isabel."

"Very well," said little Ellen — "I'm agreed."

"Anything for a quiet life," said George Walsh.

But this business of choosing was found to be very long and very difficult, each one was so fearful of not taking the exact piece she wanted most. The elder members of the family began to gather for dinner, and several came and stood round the table where the children were; little noticed by them, they were so wrapped up in silks and satins. Ellen seemed the least interested person at table, and had made her selections with the least delay and difficulty; and now, as it was not her turn, sat very soberly looking on, with her head resting on her hand.

"I declare it's too vexatious!" said Margaret Dunscombe — "here I've got this beautiful piece of blue satin, and can't do anything with it; it just matches that blue morocco — it's a perfect match — I could have made a splendid thing of it, and I have got some cord and tassels that would just do — I declare it's too bad!"

Ellen's colour changed.

"Well, choose, Margaret," said Marianne.

"I don't know what to choose — that's the thing. What can one do with red and purple morocco and blue satin? I might as well give up. I've a great notion to take this piece of yellow satin, and dress up a Turkish doll to frighten the next young one I meet with."

"I wish you would, Margaret, and give it to me when it's done," cried little Ellen Chauncey.

" 'Tain't made yet," said the other dryly.

Ellen's colour had changed and changed; her hand twitched nervously, and she glanced uneasily from Margaret's store of finery to her own.

"Come, choose, Margaret," said Ellen Chauncey; — "I dare say Ellen wants the blue morocco as much as you do."

"No, I don't!" said Ellen, abruptly, throwing it over the table to her; — "take it, Margaret, you may have it."

"What do you mean?" said the other, astounded.

"I mean you may have it," said Ellen — "I don't want it."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said the other — "I'll give you yellow satin for it — or some of my red morocco!"

"No, I had rather not," repeated Ellen; "I don't want it — you may have it."

"Very generously done," remarked Miss Sophia; "I hope you'll all take a lesson in the art of being obliging."

"Quite a noble little girl," said Mrs. Gillespie.

Ellen crimsoned. "No, Ma'am, I am not, indeed," she said, looking at them with eyes that were filling fast; "please don't say so — I don't deserve it."

"I shall say what I think, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, smiling; "but I am glad you add the grace of modesty to that of generosity; it is the more uncommon of the two."

"I am not modest! I am not generous! you mustn't say so," cried Ellen. She struggled; the blood rushed to the surface, suffusing every particle of skin that could be seen; then left it, as with eyes cast down she went on — "I don't deserve to be praised — it was more Margaret's than mine. I oughtn't to have kept it at all — for I saw a little bit when I put my hand in. I didn't mean to, but I did!"

Raising her eyes hastily to Alice's face, they met those of John, who was standing behind her. She had not counted upon him for one of her listeners; she knew Mrs. Gillespie, Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Alice, had heard her; but this was the one drop too much. Her head sunk; she covered her face a moment, and then made her escape out of the room, before even Ellen could follow her.

There was a moment's silence. Alice seemed to have some difficulty not to follow Ellen's example. Margaret pouted; Mrs. Chauncey's eyes filled with tears and her little daughter seemed divided between doubt and dismay. Her first move, however, was to run off in pursuit of Ellen. Alice went after her.

"Here's a beautiful example of honour and honesty for you!" said Margaret Dunscombe, at length.

"I think it is," observed John, quietly.

"An uncommon instance," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"I am glad everybody thinks so," said Margaret, sullenly; "I hope I shan't copy it, that's all."

"I think you are in no danger," said John, again.

"Very well!" said Margaret, who, between her desire of speaking and her desire of concealing her vexation, did not know what to do with herself; — "everybody must judge for himself, I suppose; I've got enough of her, for my part."

"Where did you ever see her before?" said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Oh, she came up the river with us — Mamma had to take care of her — she was with us two days."

"And didn't you like her?"

"No, I guess I didn't! she was a perfect plague. All the day on board the steamboat she scarcely came near us; we couldn't pretend to keep sight of her; Mamma had to send her maid out to look after her, I don't know how many times. She scraped acquaintance with some strange man on board, and liked his company better than ours, for she stayed with him the whole blessed day, waking and sleeping; of course Mamma didn't like it at all. She didn't go to a single meal with us; you know, of course, that wasn't proper behaviour."

"No, indeed," said Isabel.

"I suppose," said John, coolly, "she chose the society she thought the pleasantest. Probably Miss Margaret's politeness was more than she had been accustomed to."

Margaret coloured, not quite knowing what to make of the speaker or his speech.

"It would take much to make me believe," said gentle Mrs. Chauncey, "that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as that little girl evidently has, could take pleasure in improper company."

Margaret had a reply at her tongue's end, but she had also an uneasy feeling that there were eyes not far off too keen of sight to be baffled; she kept silence till the group dispersed, and she had an opportunity of whispering in Marianne's ear that "that was the very most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life."

"What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of Alice's, Mr. John!" said Mrs. Marshman's youngest daughter. "You quite surprise me."

"Did you think me a misanthrope, Miss Sophia?"

"Oh, no, not at all; but I always had a notion you would not be easily pleased in the choice of favourites."

"Easily! When a simple, intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased."

"Twelve or thirteen!" said Miss Sophia; "what are you thinking about? Alice says she is only ten or eleven."

"In years — perhaps."

"How gravely you take me up!" said the young lady, laughing. "My dear Mr. John, 'in years perhaps,' you may call yourself twenty, but in everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty."

As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back; the former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud that all the moroccoes had been in the fire. They had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it after dinner; and a second search was made in vain. John went to the library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there; but the pleasant light of the room, where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the moonlight, when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole in noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought the room empty, till in passing slowly down towards the fire she came upon him in the window. Her start first let him know she was there; she would have run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away.

"Running away from your brother, Ellie!" said he, kindly; "what is the matter?"

Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.

"I know all, Ellie, said he, still very kindly — "I have seen all — why do you shun me?"

Ellen said nothing; the big tears began to run down her face and frock.

"You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen," he said, drawing her close to him; "you did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair the wrong — neither man nor woman can do more than that."

But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever.

"Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come! lift up your head, and let me see you smile again."

Ellen lifted her head but could not her eyes, though she tried to smile.

"I want to talk to you a little about this," said he. "You know you gave me leave to be your brother — will you let me ask you a question or two?"

"Oh, yes — whatever he pleased," Ellen said.

"Then sit down here," said he, making room for her on the wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand and speaking very gently. "You said you saw when you took the morocco — I don't quite understand — how was it?"

"Why," said Ellen, "we were not to look, and we had gone three times round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it; and I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just before I shut my eyes I happened to see the corner of it sticking up, and then I took it."

"With your eyes open?"

"No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for it, and wished it back."

"You will wonder at me, perhaps, Ellie," said John, "but I am not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before; it has only made you see what you are — very, very weak — quite unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you — so it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would not have done as you did?"

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I was sorry a minute after."

"And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ellen; "it wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day."

"Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help we cannot stand a moment."

Ellen sobbed; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said —

"But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie?"

The sobs ceased; he saw his words had taken hold.

"Is it right," he said, softly, "that we should be more troubled about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonoured Him?"

Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished.

"You understand me, I see," said he. "Be humbled in the dust before him — the more the better; but whenever we are greatly concerned, for our own sakes, about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too little of God and what will please him."

"I am very sorry," said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to drop again — "I am very wrong: but I couldn't bear to think what Alice would think — and you — and all of them."

"Here's Alice to speak for herself," said John.

As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them.

"All's well again," said Alice, "and we are going in to tea."

He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things, so pleasantly, that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and Marianne to call them to tea; so the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be.

She behaved very well; her face was touchingly humble that night; and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party was quite divided; and not the least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself with spirits; the secret of which, perhaps, was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that "it was Christmas eve!"

Chapter XXIX

Stockings, to which the "Bas Bleu" was nothing.

Christmas morning was dawning gray, but it was still far from broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering "Ellen! Ellen!" in a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in nightgown and nightcap, and barefooted, too, with a face brimfull of excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise, and asked what the matter was.

"I am going to look at my stocking," whispered her visitor; "don't you want to get up and come with me? it's just here in the other room; come! — don't make any noise."

"But what if you should find nothing in it?" said Ellen, laughingly, as she bounded out of bed.

"Ah, but I shall, I know; I always do — never fear. Hush! step ever so softly — I don't want to wake anybody."

"It's hardly light enough for you to see," whispered Ellen, as the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room.

"Oh, yes, it is — that's all the fun. Hush! — don't make a bit of noise — I know where it hangs — Mamma always puts it at the back of her big easy-chair; come this way — here it is! Oh, Ellen! there's two of 'em! There's one for you! there's one for you!"

In a tumult of delight, one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of her bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her with all her heart, declaring she was so glad, she didn't know what to do.

"But how shall we know which is which?"

"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.

"No — at any rate, one's for me, and t'other's for you. Stop! here are pieces of paper, with our names, on I guess — let's turn the chair a little bit to the light — there — yes! — Ellen M-o-n— there, that's yours; my name doesn't begin with an M; and this is mine!"

Another caper round the room, and then she brought up in front of the chair, where Ellen was still standing.

"I wonder what's in 'em," she said; "I want to look, and I don't want, too. Come, you begin."

"But that's no stocking of mine," said Ellen, a smile gradually breaking upon her sober little face; "my leg never was as big as that."

"Stuffed, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Oh, do make haste, and see what is in yours. I want to know so, I don't know what to do."

"Well, will you take out of yours as fast as I take out of mine?"

"Well!"

Oh, mysterious delight, and delightful mystery, of the stuffed stocking! Ellen's trembling fingers sought the top, and then very suddenly left it.

"I can't think what it is," said she, laughing — "it feels so funny."

"Oh, never mind! make haste," said Ellen Chauncey; "it won't hurt you, I guess."

"No, it won't hurt me," said Ellen, — "but" —

She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes.

"Splendid! isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Now for mine."

It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.

"So far, so good," said she. "Now for the next."

The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar- plums.

"Well, that's fine, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey — "yours is tied with white ribbon, and mine with blue; that's all the difference. Oh! and your paper's red and mine is purple."

"Yes, and the pictures are different," said Ellen.

"Well, I had rather they would be different — wouldn't you? I think it's just as pleasant. One's as big as the other at any rate. Come, what's next?"

Ellen drew out a little bundle, which, being opened, proved to be a nice little pair of dark kid gloves.

"Oh, I wonder who gave me this!" she said — "it's just what I wanted. How pretty! oh, I'm so glad! I guess who it was."

"Oh, look here," said the other Ellen, who had been diving into her stocking — "I've got a ball — this is just what I wanted, too; George told me if I'd get one he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice ball. I'm glad I've got it. Why, here is another great round thing in my stocking! — what can it be? — they wouldn't give me two balls," said she, chuckling.

"So there is in mine!" said Ellen. "Maybe they're apples?"

"They aren't! they wouldn't give us apples; besides, it is soft. Pull it out and see."

"Then they are oranges," said Ellen laughing.

"I never felt such a soft orange," said little Ellen Chauncey. "Come, Ellen! stop laughing, and let's see."

They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and E. M., very neatly stuck in pins.

"Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we?" said Ellen. "Who gave us these?"

"I know," said little Ellen Chauncey — "Mrs. Bland."

"She was very kind to make one for me," said Ellen. "Now for the next!"

Her next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water.

"I can tell who put that in," said her friend — "Aunt Sophia. I know her little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love Cologne water? Aunt Sophia's is delicious."

Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction.

"Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with," said she, — "raisins and almonds, I declare! — and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good Christmas?"

"What are you about, you monkeys?" cried the voice of Aunt Sophia, from the dressing-room door. "Alice, Alice! do look at them. Come right back to bed, both of you. Crazy pates! It is lucky it is Christmas day — if it was any other in the year, we should have you both sick in bed; as it is, I suppose you will go scot free."

Laughing, and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed together; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the painted needlebook was entirely decided upon in this consultation; also two or three other matters; and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since day-break by the time they came down to breakfast.

After breakfast, Ellen applied secretly to Alice, to know if she could write very beautifully — she exceedingly wanted something done.

"I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine; but John can do it for you."

"Can he? Do you think he would?"

"I am sure he will, if you ask him."

"But I don't like to ask him," said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at the window.

"Nonsense, he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him."

"Well, you won't say anything about it?"

"Certainly not."

Ellen accordingly went near, and said, gently, "Mr. Humphreys!" — but he did not seem to hear her. "Mr. Humphreys!" — a little louder.

"He has not arrived yet," said John, looking round gravely.

He spoke so gravely, that Ellen could not tell whether he were joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of countenance.

"Whom do you want to speak to?" said he, smiling.

"I wanted to speak to you, Sir," said Ellen, "if you are not too busy."

"Mr. Humphreys is always busy," said he, shaking his head; "but Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for you whatever you please to ask him."

"Then, Mr. John," said Ellen, laughing, "if you please, I wanted to ask you to do something for me, very much indeed, if you are not too busy; Alice said I shouldn't disturb you."

"Not at all; I've been long enough over this stupid newspaper. What is it?"

"I want you, if you will be so good," said Ellen, "to write a little bit for me on something, very beautifully."

" 'Very beautifully!' Well — come to the library; we will see."

"But it is a great secret," said Ellen; "you won't tell anybody?"

"Tortures shan't draw it from me — when I know what it is," said he, with one of his comical looks.

In high glee, Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to form the backs of the needlebook, and brought them to the library; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer should choose.

"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needlebooks?" said John, as he carefully mended his pen.

"Stop!" said Ellen — "I'll tell you in a minute. On this one, the front, you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;' — and on this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know," she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's day; nor anybody else."

"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions, they shall find me as obscure as an oracle."

"What is an oracle, Sir?"

"Why," said John, smiling — "this pen won't do yet — the old heathens believed there were certain spots on earth to which some of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."

"And did they?" said Ellen.

"Did they what?"

"Did they answer their questions?"

"Did who answer their questions?"

"The — oh, to be sure," said Ellen, "there were no such gods. But what made people think they answered them? and how could they ask questions?"

"I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests, to increase their power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and priestesses; the questions were put through them; and they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence, who could pay them well, by making splendid gifts to the god."

"But I should think the people would have thought the priest or priestess had made up the answers themselves."

"Perhaps they did, sometimes. But people had not the Bible then, and did not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural to think the gods would care a little for the poor people that lived on the earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the answers of the oracle, that helped to deceive."

"How was it?" said Ellen; — "how could they manage, and what was the oracle?"

"The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was supposed to give it, or the place where it was given; and there were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak-tree, and people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman, who pretended to be put into a kind of fit — tearing her hair and beating her breast."

"But suppose the oracle made a mistake — what would the people think then?"

"The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come true in any event."

"I don't see how they could do that," said Ellen.

"Very well — just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some question; — I'll answer you."

"But you can't tell what's going to happen?"

"No matter — you ask me truly, and I'll answer you oracularly."

"That means, like an oracle, I suppose?" said Ellen. "Well, Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her New Year?"

"She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day."

"Ah, but," said Ellen, laughing, "that isn't fair; you haven't answered me; perhaps somebody else will give her something, and then she might be pleased with that, and not with mine."

"Exactly — but the oracle never means to be understood."

"Well, I won't come to you," said Ellen. "I don't like such answers. Now for the needlebook!"

Breathlessly she looked on while the skilful pen did its work; and her exclamations of delight and admiration when the first cover was handed to her were not loud but deep.

"It will do, then, will it? Now let us see — 'From her dear little daughter' — there; now, 'Ellen Chauncey,' I suppose, must be in hieroglyphics."

"In what?" said Ellen.

"I mean, written in some difficult character."

"Yes," said Ellen. "But what was that you said?"

"Hieroglyphics."

Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked up, and smiled.

"Do you want to know what that means?"

"Yes, if you please," said Ellen.

The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. From hieroglyphics they went to the pyramids; and Ellen had got to the top of one, and was enjoying the prospect (in imagination), when she suddenly came down to tell John of her stuffed stocking and its contents. The pen went on again, and came to the end of the writing by the time Ellen had got to the toe of the stocking.

"Wasn't it very strange they should give me so many things?" said she; — "people that don't know me?"

"Why, no," said John, smiling — "I cannot say I think it was very strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands?"

"This is all; and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. John."

Her grateful, affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid.

Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rose and the butterfly, which, finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very ready to do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery of the leaves, which was by no means the business of an hour.

A very happy Christmas day was that. With their needles and thimbles, and rose-coloured silk, they kept by themselves in a corner, or in the library, out of the way; and sweetening their talk with a sugar-plum now and then, neither tongues nor needles knew any flagging. It was wonderful what they found so much to say, but there was no lack. Ellen Chauncey especially was inexhaustible. Several times, too, that day, the Cologne bottle was handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball tried, and the new scissors extolled as "just the thing for their work." Ellen attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and hieroglyphics, but was fain to give it up; little Ellen showed a decided preference for American, not to say Ventnor, subjects, where she felt more at home.

Then came Mr. Humphreys; and Ellen was glad, both for her own sake and because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came the great merry Christmas dinner, when the girls had not talked themselves out, but tired themselves with working. Young and old dined together to-day, and the children not set by themselves, but scattered among the grown-up people; and as Ellen was nicely placed between Alice and little Ellen Chauncey, she enjoyed it all very much. The large long table surrounded with happy faces; tones of cheerfulness, and looks of kindness, and lively talk; the superb display of plate and glass and china; the stately dinner; and last, but not least, the plum-pudding. There was sparkling wine, too, and a great deal of drinking of healths; but Ellen noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in water; so, when old Mr. Marshman called to her to "hold out her glass," she held it out, to be sure, and let him fill it, but she lifted her tumbler of water to her lips instead, after making him a very low bow. Mr. Marshman laughed at her a great deal, and asked her if she was "a proselyte to the new notions;" and Ellen laughed with him, without having the least idea what he meant, and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant, too, when they went into the drawing-room to take coffee. The young ones were permitted to have coffee to-night as a great favour. Old Mrs. Marshman had the two little ones on either side of her, and was so kind, and held Ellen's hand in her own, and talked to her about her mother, till Ellen loved her.

After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old joined in them. They played the Old Curiosity Shop; and Ellen thought Mr. John's curiosities could not be matched. They played the Old Family Coach, Mr. Howard Marshman being the manager, and Ellen laughed till she was tired; she was the coach door, and he kept her opening and shutting, and swinging and breaking, it seemed all the while, though most of the rest were worked just as hard. When they were well tired, they sat down to rest and hear music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and Mrs. Gillespie, and Miss Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard; sometimes alone, sometimes three or four, or all together.

At last came ten o'clock, and the young ones were sent off; and from beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken and unclouded pleasure. Ellen's last act was to take another look at her Cologne bottle, gloves, pincushion, grapes, and paper of sugar-plums, which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer.

XXX. Sunday at Ventnor

Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor; and it was also settled that his children should not leave it till after New Year. This was less their own wish than his; he said Alice wanted the change, and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides, the earnest pleadings of the whole family were not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this, though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor — she could not feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She tried to think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to prevent her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow wider.

About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole family; but the hour of dinner and the distance prevented any one from going in the afternoon. The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the house, most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look in the library for her friends. They were there, and alone; Alice half reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms; he was reading or talking to her; there was a book in his hand.

"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near; "aren't you well, dear Alice? Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I know" —

She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a pleased face, her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of Cologne water in the other.

"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; — "I can't open it; I guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's delicious. Mamma used to have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, dear Alice, won't you eat these? — do! — try one."

"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she smilingly took a grape.

"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till I wanted it. Eat them all, dear Alice — please do!"

"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."

"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"

Ellen took, however, as precious payment, Alice's look and kiss; and then, with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother and sister might like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go, for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not want any company. At last, with her little Bible, she placed herself on the old sofa in the hall above-stairs, which was perfectly well warmed, and for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed like Sunday; and the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half an hour or so, to her dismay she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children come trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading or thinking was out of the question.

"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!" said Marianne Gillespie.

"One can play games on a Sunday," answered her brother. "Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, I think."

"William! — William!" sounded the shocked voice of little Ellen Chauncey — "you are a real wicked boy!"

"Well, now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say — I should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie a-bed and sleep, or for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for Grandpa to talk politics, or for mother to talk about the fashions? — there were she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this morning doing everything but make a dress. Now which is the worst?"

"Oh, William! William! — for shame! for shame!" said little Ellen again.

"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey, will you?" said Marianne, sharply; — "and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is good for yourself. I don't care whether it's right or wrong, I do get dolefully tired with doing nothing."

"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep all Sunday."

"I'll tell you what," said George — "I know a game we can play, and no harm either, for it's all out of the Bible."

"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.

"I don't believe it is good for anything if it is out of the Bible," said Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"

"I ain't staring," said Ellen, indignantly; — "but I don't believe it is right to play it, if it is out of the Bible."

"Well, it is, though," said George. "Now listen; — I'll think of somebody in the Bible — some man or woman, you know; and you all may ask me twenty questions about him, to see if you can find out who it is."

"What kind of questions?"

"Any kind of questions — whatever you like."

"That will improve your knowledge of scripture history," said Gilbert.

"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the time," said little Ellen.

"Or bad people and what they did," said William.

"But I don't know enough about people and things in the Bible," said Margaret; "I couldn't guess."

"Oh, never mind — it will be all the more fun," said George. "Come! let's begin. Who'll take somebody?"

"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey; — "but, Ellen — where's Ellen? — we want her."

"No we don't want her! — we've enough without her — she won't play!" shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered, however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could, she withstood her little friend's entreaties, and very unwillingly at last yielded and went with her downstairs.

"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told Ellen what the game is; who's going to begin?"

"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of somebody. Man or woman?"

"Man."

"Young or old?"

"Why, he was young first, and old afterwards."

"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister. "Besides, you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert?"

"Humph! — why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."

"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"

"Upon my honour!"

"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss Hawthorn.

"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder — a very respectable person indeed."

"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you, he wasn't anything in particular; what kind of a person was he, Gilbert?"

"A very good man."

"Handsome or ugly?"

"History don't say."

"Well, what does it say?" said George — "what did he do?"

"He took a journey once upon a time."

"What for?"

"Do you mean why he went, or what was the object of his going?"

"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Well, what was the object of his going?"

"He went after a wife."

"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen Chauncey.

"No — it wasn't Samson either."

"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said George. "That king — what's his name? — that married Esther?"

The children screamed. "He didn't go after a wife, George — his wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"

"No, he didn't go after a wife, either," said Gilbert; "he married two of them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find them. You had better go on with your questions. You have had eight already. If you don't look out, you won't catch me. Come!"

"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen Chauncey.

"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.

"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.

"He did not fail."

"Did he bring home his wife then? You said he wasn't married."

"He never was, that I know of; but he brought home a wife notwithstanding."

"But how funny you are, Gilbert!" said little Ellen. "He had a wife and he hadn't a wife: — what became of her?"

"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions: — take care."

"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret, — "what was he, Gilbert?"

"He was a Damascene."

"A what?"

"Of Damascus — of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you?"

"Fiddle!" said Marianne — "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or after the Flood?"

"After. I should think you might have known that."

"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne. "We shall have to give it up."

"No, no — not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his wife?"

"Too close a question."

"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"

"Never."

"Was she willing to go with him?"

"Very willing. Ladies always are, when they go to be married."

"And what became of her?"

"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."

"But you said he wasn't married?"

"Well, what then? I didn't say she married him."

"Whom did she marry?"

"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."

"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.

"Several days' journey — I don't know how far."

"How did they travel?"

"On camels."

"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.

There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels in the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her.

The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert at last told them his thought. It was Eliezer, Abraham's steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.

"Why haven't you guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to Ellen Montgomery.

"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was, some time ago."

"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single question," said George.

"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen Chauncey.

"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice, proper- behaved boys and girls to be playing on Sunday; she is very sorry she could not help being amused."

"Do you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.

"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.

Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she would say. She coloured, and looked down at her little Bible, which was still in her hand. It encouraged her.

"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think it is quite right to play such plays, or any plays."

She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not?" "Why not?"

"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things; and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that; and I have a kind of feeling that I ought not to do it."

"Well, I hope you'll act according to your feeling, then," said William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had better go somewhere else, though, for we are going on; we have been learning to be good long enough for one day. Come! I have thought of somebody."

Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half-sneer she saw in the look and manner of the others, as well as in William's words. She wished for no better than to go away; but as she did so, her bosom swelled, and the tears started, and her breath came quicker. She found Alice lying down and asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out again, and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession of the sofa, and tried to read again; reading somehow did not go well, and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the unkindness of the children; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any part of Sunday in such games; what Alice would think of it, and John, and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that dear mother was with her; and then she wondered how she was passing this very one — while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what she was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there only were such things as oracles that could tell truly, how much she should like to ask about her.

"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.

She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he was lying in the window-seat.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," said Ellen.

"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my little sister?"

He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about different things — nothing is the matter," said Ellen.

"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"

"I don't know," said she, laughing — "there weren't any till I came here. I was thinking just now about Mamma."

He said no more — still, however, keeping her beside him.

"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes' musing look out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if there were such things as oracles — don't you, Mr. John?"

"No."

"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen?"

"I do know a great deal about it."

"About what is going to happen!"

He smiled.

"Yes — a great deal, Ellen — enough to give me work for all the rest of my life."

"Oh, you mean from the Bible — I was thinking of other things."

"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie — I am very glad to know those the Bible teaches us."

"But is doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"

"Go to the window, and tell me what you see."

"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking a grave look out.

"Well, what in general?"

"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes; and the sun is shining on everything, just as it did the day we came; and there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue sky."

"Now look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come, when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll — they shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment — and it, and all the works that are therein, shall be burned up."

As he spoke, Ellen's fancy tried to follow — to picture the ruin and desolation of all that stood so fair, and seemed to stand so firm before her; but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the window.

"Do you believe it?" said John.

"Yes," said Ellen — "I know it; but I think it is very disagreeable to think about it."

"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side — "very disagreeable — very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But we know more — read here."

Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.

" 'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, neither come into mind.' "

"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen — "shall we forget all about them?"

"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall not want to think of these."

Ellen's eyes sought the window again.

"You are thinking that it is hardly possible?" said John with a smile.

"I suppose it is possible," said Ellen — "but" —

"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, and sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin there; sorrow and sighing shall flee away; love to each other and love to their blessed King will fill all hearts, and his presence will be with them. Don't you see that, even if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be far, far more lovely than this can ever be, with the shadow of sin upon it?"

"Oh, yes!" said Ellen. "I know, whenever I feel wrong in any way, nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much."

"Very well," said John — "I see you understand me. I like to think of that land, Ellen — very much."

"Mr. John," said Ellen — "don't you think people will know each other again?"

"Those that love each other here! — I have no doubt of it."

Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better; and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother and sister now; Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of his service even here — till thoughts grew too strong for words, and silence again stole upon the group. The short winter-day came to an end; the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn; and from where she sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered with the moonlight, which began to steal in at the window. It was very, very beautiful — yet she could think now without sorrow that all this should come to an end; because of that new heaven and new earth wherein righteousness should dwell.

"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice — "or rather I have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes in my life; John said the reason was because every one tasted of you."

"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.

"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on. "Except for my headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did; and you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! — there has been many a day lately when I would gladly have had a headache for the power of laying my head on your shoulder!"

"And if Mamma had not gone away, I should never have known you," said Ellen. "I wish she never had gone, but I am very, very glad for this!"

She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for Marianne. It was done with the gracefulness that could only come from a spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.

XXXI. Flowers and Thorns

The next day it happened that the young people were amusing themselves with talking in a room where John Humphreys, walking up and down, was amusing himself with thinking. In the course of his walk, he began to find their amusement rather disturbing to his. The children were all grouped closely around Margaret Dunscombe, who was entertaining them with a long and very detailed account of a wedding and great party at Randolph, which she had had the happiness of attending. Eagerly fighting her battles over again, and pleased with the rapt attention of her hearers, the speaker forgot herself, and raised her voice much more than she meant to do. As every turn of his walk brought John near, there came to his ears sufficient bits and scraps of Margaret's story to give him a very fair sample of the whole; and he was sorry to see Ellen among the rest, and as the rest, hanging upon her lips and drinking in what seemed to him to be very poor nonsense. "Her gown was all blue satin, trimmed here — and so — you know, with the most exquisite lace, as deep as that — and on the shoulders and here, you know, it was looped up with the most lovely bunches of" — here John lost the sense. When he came near again, she had got upon a different topic — " 'Miss Simmons,' says I, 'what did you do that for?' 'Why,' says she, 'how could I help it? I saw Mr. Payne coming, and I thought I'd get behind you, and so' " —. The next time the speaker was saying with great animation, "And lo and behold, when I was in the midst of all my pleasure, up comes a little gentleman of about his dimensions —." He had not taken many turns, when he saw that Margaret's nonsense was branching out right and left into worse than nonsense.

"Ellen!" said he, suddenly — "I want you in the library."

"My conscience!" said Margaret, as he left the room — "King John the second, and no less."

"Don't go on till I come back," said Ellen; "I won't be three minutes; just wait for me."

She found John seated at one of the tables in the library, sharpening a pencil.

"Ellen," said he, in his usual manner — "I want you to do something for me."

She waited eagerly to hear what; but, instead of telling her, he took a piece of drawing-paper, and began to sketch something. Ellen stood by, wondering and impatient to the last degree; not caring, however, to show her impatience, though her very feet were twitching to run back to her companions.

"Ellen," said John, as he finished the old stump of a tree, with one branch left on it, and a little bit of ground at the bottom, "did you ever try your hand at drawing?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Then sit down here," said he, rising from his chair, "and let me see what you can make of that."

"But I don't know how," said Ellen.

"I will teach you. There is a piece of paper, and this pencil is sharp enough. Is that chair too low for you?"

He placed another, and with extreme unwillingness and some displeasure, Ellen sat down. It was on her tongue to ask if another time would not do, but somehow she could not get the words out. John showed her how to hold her pencil, how to place her paper, where to begin, and how to go on; and then went to the other end of the room, and took up his walk again. Ellen at first felt more inclined to drive her pencil through the paper than to make quiet marks upon it. However, necessity was upon her. She began her work; and once fairly begun, it grew delightfully interesting. Her vexation went off entirely; she forgot Margaret and her story; the wrinkles on the old trunk smoothed those on her brow; and those troublesome leaves at the branch end brushed away all thoughts of everything else. Her cheeks were burning with intense interest, when the library door burst open, and the whole troop of children rushed in; they wanted Ellen for a round game in which all their number were needed; she must come directly.

"I can't come just yet," said she; "I must finish this first."

"Afterwards will do just as well," said George; — "come, Ellen, do! — you can finish it afterwards."

"No, I can't," said Ellen, — "I can't leave it till it's done. Why, I thought Mr. John was here! I didn't see him go out. I'll come in a little while."

"Did he set you about that precious piece of business?" said William.

"Yes."

"I declare," said Margaret, "he's fitter to be the Grand Turk than any one else I know of."

"I don't know who the Grand Turk is," said Ellen.

"I'll tell you," said William, putting his mouth close to her ear, and speaking in a disagreeable loud whisper, — "it's the biggest gobbler in the yard."

"Ain't you ashamed, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey.

"That's it exactly," said Margaret — "always strutting about."

"He isn't a bit," said Ellen, very angry; "I've seen people a great deal more like gobblers than he is."

"Well," said William, reddening in his turn, "I had rather, at any rate, be a good turkey gobbler, than one of those outlandish birds that have an appetite for stones, and glass, and bits of morocco, and such things. Come, let us leave her to do the Grand Turk's bidding. Come, Ellen Chauncey, you mustn't stay to interrupt her — we want you!"

They left her alone. Ellen had coloured, but William's words did not hit very sore; since John's talk with her about the matter referred to, she had thought of it humbly and wisely; it is only pride that makes such fault-finding very hard to bear. She was very sorry, however, that they had fallen out again, and that her own passion, as she feared, had been the cause. A few tears had to be wiped away before she could see exactly how the old tree stood, — then, taking up her pencil, she soon forgot everything in her work. It was finished, and with head now on one side, now on the other, she was looking at her picture with very great satisfaction, when her eye caught the figure of John standing before her.

"Is it done?" said he.

"It is done," said Ellen, smiling, as she rose up to let him come. He sat down to look at it.

"It is very well, he said — "better than I expected — it is very well indeed. Is this your first trial, Ellen?"

"Yes — the first."

"You found it pleasant work?"

"Oh, very, very pleasant. I like it dearly."

"Then I will teach you. This shows you have a taste for it, and that is precisely what I wanted to find out. I will give you an easier copy next time. I rather expected, when you sat down," said he, smiling a little, "that the old tree would grow a good deal more crooked under your hands than I meant it to be."

Ellen blushed exceedingly. "I do believe, Mr. John," she said, stammering, "that you know everything I am thinking about."

"I might do that, Ellen, without being as wise as an oracle. But I do not expect to make any very painful discoveries in that line."

Ellen thought, if he did not, it would not be her fault. She truly repented her momentary anger and hasty speech to William. Not that he did not deserve it, or that it was not true; but it was unwise, and had done mischief; and "it was not a bit like peace-making, nor meek at all," Ellen said to herself. She had been reading that morning the fifth chapter of Matthew, and it ran in her head, "Blessed are the meek" — "Blessed are the peace-makers; for they shall be called the children of God." She strove to get back a pleasant feeling towards her young companions, and prayed that she might not be angry at anything they should say. She was tried again at tea- time.

Miss Sophia had quitted the table, bidding William hand the dough-nuts to those who could not reach them. Marianne took a great while to make her choice. Her brother grew impatient.

"Well, I hope you have suited yourself?" said he. "Come, Miss Montgomery, don't you be as long; my arm is tired. Shut your eyes, and then you'll be sure to get the biggest one in the basket."

"No, Ellen," said John, who none of the children thought was near — "it would be ungenerous — I wouldn't deprive Master William of his best arguments."

"What do you mean by my arguments?" said William, sharply.

"Generally, those which are the most difficult to take in," answered his tormentor with perfect gravity.

Ellen tried to keep from smiling, but could not; and others of the party did not try. William and his sister were enraged, the more because John had said nothing they could take hold of, or even repeat. Gilbert made common cause with them.

"I wish I was grown up for once," said William.

"Will you fight me, Sir?" asked Gilbert, who was a matter of three years older, and well-grown enough.

His question received no answer, and was repeated.

"No, Sir."

"Why not, Sir?"

"I am afraid you'd lay me up with a sprained ankle," said John, "and I should not get back to Doncaster as quickly as I must."

"It is very mean of him," said Gilbert, as John walked away — "I could whip him, I know."

"Who's that?" said Mr. Howard Marshman.

"John Humphreys."

"John Humphreys! You had better not meddle with him, my dear fellow. It would be no particular proof of wisdom."

"Why, he is no such great affair," said Gilbert, "he's tall enough, to be sure, but I don't believe he is heavier than I am."

"You don't know, in the first place, how to judge of the size of a perfectly well-made man; and, in the second place, I was not a match for him a year ago; so you may judge — I do not know precisely," he went on to the lady he was walking with, "what it takes to rouse John Humphreys; but when he is roused, he seems to me to have strength enough for twice his bone and muscle. I have seen him do curious things once or twice!"

"That quiet Mr. Humphreys?"

"Humph!" said Mr. Howard — "gunpowder is pretty quiet stuff, so long as it keeps cool."

The next day another matter happened to disturb Ellen. Margaret had received an elegant pair of ear-rings as a Christmas present, and was showing them for the admiration of her young friends. Ellen's did not satisfy her.

"Ain't they splendid?" said she. "Tell the truth, now, Ellen Montgomery, wouldn't you give a great deal if somebody would send you such a pair?"

"They are very pretty," said Ellen, "but I don't think I care much for such things — I would rather have the money."

"Oh, you avaricious! — Mr. Marshman!" cried Margaret, as the old gentleman was just then passing through the room — "here's Ellen Montgomery says she'd rather have money than anything else for her present."

He did not seem to hear her, and went out without making any reply.

"Oh, Margaret!" said Ellen, shocked and distressed — "how could you! how could you! What will Mr. Marshman think?"

Margaret answered she didn't care what he thought. Ellen could only hope he had not heard.

But a day or two after, when neither Ellen nor her friends were present, Mr. Marshman asked who it was that had told him Ellen Montgomery would like money better than anything else for her New Year's present.

"It was I, Sir," said Margaret.

"It sounds very unlike her to say so," remarked Mrs. Chauncey.

"Did she say so?" inquired Mr. Marshman.

"I understood her so," said Margaret — "I understood her to say she wouldn't care for anything else."

"I am disappointed in her," said the old gentleman; "I wouldn't have believed it."

"I do not believe it," said Mrs. Chauncey, quietly; "there has been some mistake."

It was hard for Ellen now to keep to what she thought right. Disagreeable feelings would rise when she remembered the impoliteness, the half-sneer, the whole taunt, and the real unkindness of several of the young party. She found herself ready to be irritated, inclined to dislike the sight of those, even wishing to visit some sort of punishment upon them. But Christian principle had taken strong hold in little Ellen's heart; she fought her evil tempers manfully. It was not an easy battle to gain. Ellen found that resentment and pride had roots deep enough to keep her pulling up the shoots for a good while. She used to get alone when she could, to read a verse, if no more, of her Bible, and pray; she could forgive William and Margaret more easily then. Solitude and darkness saw many a prayer and tear of hers that week. As she struggled thus to get rid of sin, and to be more like what would please God, she grew humble and happy. Never was such a struggle carried on by faith in Him, without success. And after a time, though a twinge of the old feeling might come, it was very slight; she would bid William and Margaret good morning, and join them in any enterprise of pleasure or business, with a brow as unclouded as the sun. They, however, were too conscious of having behaved unbecomingly towards their little stranger guest to be over fond of her company. For the most part, she and Ellen Chauncey were left to each other.

Meanwhile the famous needlebook was in a fair way to be finished. Great dismay had at first been excited in the breast of the intended giver, by the discovery that Gilbert had consulted what seemed to be a very extraordinary fancy, in making the rose a yellow one. Ellen did her best to comfort her. She asked Alice, and found there were such things as yellow roses, and they were very beautiful, too; and, besides, it would match so nicely the yellow butterfly on the other leaf.

"I had rather it wouldn't match!" said Ellen Chauncey; — "and it don't match the rose-coloured silk, besides. Are the yellow roses sweet?"

"No," said Ellen; "but this couldn't have been a sweet rose at any rate, you know."

"Oh, but," said the other, bursting out into a fresh passion of inconsolable tears; "I wanted it should be the picture of a sweet rose! And I think he might have put a purple butterfly — yellow butterflies are so common! I had a great deal rather have had a purple butterfly and a red rose!"

What cannot be cured, however, must be endured. The tears were dried, in course of time, and the needlebook, with its yellow pictures and pink edges, was very neatly finished. Ellen had been busy, too, on her own account. Alice had got a piece of fine linen for her from Miss Sophia; the collar for Mr. Van Brunt had been cut out, and Ellen with great pleasure had made it. The stitching, the strings, and the very buttonhole, after infinite pains, were all finished by Thursday night. She had also made a needlecase for Alice, not of so much pretension as the other one; this was green morocco, lined with crimson satin; no leaves, but ribbon stitched in to hold papers of needles, and a place for a bodkin. Ellen worked very hard at this; it was made with the extremest care, and made beautifully. Ellen Chauncey admired it very much, and anew lamented the uncouth variety of colours in her own. It was a grave question whether pink or yellow ribbon should be used for the latter; Ellen Montgomery recommended pink, she herself inclined to yellow, and, tired of doubting, at last resolved to split the difference, and put one string of each colour. Ellen thought that did not mend matters, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Besides the needlecase for Alice, she had snatched the time, whenever she could get away from Ellen Chauncey, to work at something for her. She had begged Alice's advice and help; and between them, out of Ellen's scraps of morocco and silk, they had manufactured a little bag of all the colours of the rainbow, and very pretty and tasteful withal. Ellen thought it a chef-d'oeuvre, and was unbounded in her admiration. It lay folded up in white paper in a locked drawer, ready for New Year's day. In addition to all these pieces of business, John had begun to give her drawing lessons, according to his promise. These became Ellen's delight. She would willingly have spent much more time upon them than he would allow her. It was the most loved employment of the day. Her teacher's skill was not greater than the perfect gentleness and kindness with which he taught. Ellen thought of Mr. Howard's speech about gunpowder— she could not understand it.

"What is your conclusion on the whole?" asked John, one day, as he stood beside her mending a pencil.

"Why," said Ellen, laughing and blushing, "how could you guess what I was thinking about, Mr. John?"

"Not very difficult, when you are eyeing me so hard."

"I was thinking," said Ellen, — "I don't know whether it is right in me to tell it — because somebody said you —"

"Well?"

"Were like gunpowder."

"Very kind of somebody! And so you have been in doubt of an explosion?"

"No — I don't know — I wondered what he meant."

"Never believe what you hear said of people, Ellen; judge for yourself. Look here — that house has suffered from a severe gale of wind, I should think — all the uprights are slanting off to the right — can't you set it up straight?"

Ellen laughed at the tumble-down condition of the house, as thus pointed out to her, and set about reforming it.

It was Thursday afternoon that Alice and Ellen were left alone in the library, several of the family having been called out to receive some visitors; Alice had excused herself, and Ellen, as soon as they were gone, nestled up to her side.

"How pleasant it is to be alone together, dear Alice! — I don't have you even at night now."

"It is very pleasant, dear Ellie! Home will not look disagreeable again, will it, even after all our gaiety here?"

"No indeed! — at least, your home won't — I don't know what mine will. O me! I had almost forgotten Aunt Fortune!"

"Never mind, dear Ellie! You and I have each something to bear — we must be brave, and bear it manfully. There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, you know. We shan't be unhappy if we do our duty and love Him."

"How soon is Mr. John going away?"

"Not for all next week. And so long as he stays, I do not mean that you shall leave me."

Ellen cried for joy.

"I can manage it with Miss Fortune, I know," said Alice. "These fine drawing lessons must not be interrupted. John is very much pleased with your performances."

"Is he?" said Ellen delighted. "I have taken all the pains I could."

"That is the sure way to success, Ellie. But, Ellie, I want to ask you something. What was that you said to Margaret Dunscombe about wanting money for a New Year's present?"

"You know it, then!" cried Ellen, starting up. "Oh, I'm so glad! I wanted to speak to you about it, so I didn't know what to do, and I thought I oughtn't to. What shall I do about it, dear Alice? How did you know? George said you were not there."

"Mrs. Chauncey told me; she thought there had been some mistake, or something wrong; — how was it, Ellen?"

"Why," said Ellen, "she was showing us her ear-rings, and asking us what we thought of them, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have such a pair; and I thought I would a great deal rather have the money they cost, to buy other things with, you know, that I would like better; and I said so; and just then Mr. Marshman came in, and she called out to him, loud, that I wanted money for a present, or would like it better than anything else, or something like that. Oh, Alice, how I felt! I was frightened; — but then I hoped Mr. Marshman did not hear her, for he did not say anything; but the next day George told me all about what she had been saying in there, and oh! it made me so unhappy!" said poor Ellen, looking very dismal. "What will Mr. Marshman think of me? He will think I expected a present, and I never dreamed of such a thing! It makes me ashamed to speak of it, even; and I can't bear he should think so — I can't bear it! What shall I do, dear Alice?"

"I don't know what you can do, dear Ellie; but be patient — Mr. Marshman will not think anything very hard of you, I dare say."

"But I think he does already; he hasn't kissed me since that as he did before; I know he does, and I don't know what to do. How could Margaret say that! — oh, how could she! — it was very unkind. What can I do?" said Ellen, again, after a pause, and wiping away a few tears. "Couldn't Mrs. Chauncey tell Mr. Marshman not to give me anything for that I never expected it, and would a great deal rather not?"

"Why, no, Ellie, I do not think that would be exactly the best or most dignified way."

"What then; dear Alice? I'll do just as you say."

"I would just remain quiet."

"But Ellen says the things are all put on the plates in the morning; and if there should be money on mine — I don't know what I should do, I should feel so badly. I couldn't keep it, Alice! — I couldn't!"

"Very well, you need not; but remain quiet in the mean while; and if it should be so, then say what you please, only take care that you say it in the right spirit and in a right manner. Nobody can hurt you much, my child, while you keep the even path of duty; poor Margaret is her own worst enemy."

"Then, if there should be money in the morning, I may tell Mr. Marshman the truth about it?"

"Certainly — only do not be in haste; speak gently."

"Oh, I wish everybody would be kind and pleasant always!" said poor Ellen, but half comforted.

"What a sigh was there!" said John, coming in. "What is the matter with my little sister?"

"Some of the minor trials of life, John," said Alice, with a smile.

"What is the matter, Ellie?"

"Oh, something you can't help," said Ellen.

"And something I mustn't know. Well, to change the scene — suppose you go with me to visit the greenhouse and hothouses. Have you seen them yet?"

"No," said Ellen, as she eagerly sprang forward to take his hand; — "Ellen promised to go with me, but we have been so busy."

"Will you come, Alice?"

"Not I," said Alice, — "I wish I could, but I shall be wanted elsewhere."

"By whom, I wonder, so much as by me?" said her brother. "However, after to-morrow I will have you all to myself."

As he and Ellen were crossing the hall, they met Mrs. Marshman.

"Where are you going, John?" said she.

"Where I ought to have been before, Ma'am — to pay my respects to Mr. Hutchinson."

"You've not seen him yet! — that is very ungrateful of you. Hutchinson is one of your warmest friends and admirers. There are few people he mentions with so much respect, or that he is so glad to see, as Mr. John Humphreys."

"A distinction I owe, I fear, principally to my English blood," said John, shaking his head.

"It is not altogether that," said Mrs. Marshman, laughing; "though I do believe; I am the only Yankee good Hutchinson has ever made up his mind entirely to like. But go and see him — do, he will be very much pleased."

"Who is Mr. Hutchinson?" said Ellen, as they went on.

"He is the gardener, or rather the head gardener. He came out with his master some thirty or forty years ago, but his old English prejudice will go to the grave with him, I believe."

"But why don't he like the Americans?"

John laughed. "It would never do for me to attempt to answer that question, Ellie; fond of going to the bottom of things as you are. We should just get to hard fighting about tea-time, and should barely make peace by mid-day to-morrow, at the most moderate calculation. You shall have an answer to your question, however."

Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait for his promised answer.

As they entered the large and beautifully-kept greenhouse, Hutchinson came from the further end of it to meet them — an old man, of most respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and then slipped his pruning-knife into his left hand, to leave the right at liberty for John, who shook it cordially.

"And why 'aven't you been to see me before, Mr. John? I've thought it rather 'ard of you: Miss h'Alice has come several times."

"The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. You look flourishing here."

"Why, yes, Sir — pretty middling, within doors; but I don't like the climate, Mr. John — I don't the climate, Sir. There's no country like h'England, I believe, for my business. 'Ere's a fine rose, Sir — if you'll step a bit this way — quite a new kind — I got it over last h'autumn — the Palmerston it is. Those are fine buds, Sir."

The old man was evidently much pleased to see his visitor, and presently plunged him deep into English politics, for which he seemed to have lost no interest by forty years' life in America. As Ellen could not understand what they were talking about, she quitted John's side, and went wandering about by herself. From the moment the sweet aromatic smell of the plants had greeted her, she had been in a high state of delight; and now, lost to all the world beside, from the mystery of one beautiful and strange green thing to another she went wondering and admiring, and now and then timidly advancing her nose to see if something glorious was something sweet too. She could hardly leave a superb cactus, in the petals of which there was such a singular blending of scarlet and crimson as almost to dazzle her sight; and if the pleasure of smell could intoxicate, she would have reeled away from a luxuriant daphne odorata in full flower, over which she feasted for a long time. The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her; some rough and brown-streaked, some shining as if they were varnished, others of hair-like delicacy of structure — all lovely. At last she stood still with admiration, and almost held her breath before a white camellia.

"What does that flower make you think of, Ellen?" said John, coming up. His friend the gardener had left him to seek a newspaper in which he wished to show him a paragraph.

"I don't know," said Ellen — "I couldn't think of anything but itself."

"It reminds me of what I ought to be — and of what I shall be if I ever see heaven — it seems to me the emblem of a sinless, pure spirit — looking up in fearless spotlessness. Do you remember what was said to the old Church of Sardis? — 'Thou hast a few names that have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.' "

The tears rushed to Ellen's eyes, she felt she was so very unlike this; but Mr. Hutchinson coming back prevented anything more from being said. She looked at the white camellia; it seemed to speak to her.

"That's the paragraph, Sir," said the old gardener, giving the paper to John. " 'Ere's a little lady that is fond of flowers, if I don't make a mistake; this is somebody I've not seen before? Is this the little lady Miss h'Ellen was telling me about."

"I presume so," said John. "She is Miss Ellen Montgomery — a sister of mine, Mr. Hutchinson, and Mr. Marshman's guest."

"By both names h'entitled to my greatest respect," said the old man, stepping back, and making a very low bow to Ellen, with his hand upon his heart, at which she could not help laughing. "I am very glad to see Miss h'Ellen; what can I do to make her remember old 'Utchinson? Would Miss h'Ellen like a bouquet?"

Ellen did not venture to say yes, but her blush and sparkling eyes answered him. The old gardener understood her, and was as good as his word. He began with cutting a beautiful sprig of a large purple geranium, then a slip of lemon myrtle. Ellen watched him as the bunch grew in his hand, and could hardly believe her eyes as one beauty after another was added to what became a most elegant bouquet. And most sweet, too; to her joy, the delicious daphne and fragrant lemon blossom went to make part of it. Her thanks, when it was given her, were made with few words, but with all her face; the old gardener smiled, and was quite satisfied that his gift was not thrown away. He afterwards showed them his hothouses, where Ellen was astonished and very much interested to see ripe oranges and lemons in abundance, and pines, too, such as she had been eating since she came to Ventnor, thinking nothing less than that they grew so near home. The grapes had all been cut.

There was to be quite a party at Ventnor in the evening of New Year's day. Ellen knew this, and destined her precious flowers for Alice's adornment. How to keep them, in the meanwhile? She consulted Mr. John, and according to his advice, took them to Mrs. Bland, the housekeeper, to be put in water, and kept in a safe place for her till the time. She knew Mrs. Bland, for Ellen Chauncey and she had often gone to her room to work, where none of the children would find and trouble them. Mrs. Bland promised to take famous care of the flowers, and said she would do it with the greatest pleasure. "Mr. Marshman's guests," she added, smiling, "must have everything they wanted."

"What does that mean, Mrs. Bland?" said Ellen.

"Why, you see, Miss Ellen, there's a deal of company always coming, and some is Mrs. Gillespie's friends, and some Mr. Howard's, and some to see Miss Sophia more particularly, and some belong to Mrs. Marshman, or the whole family, maybe; but now and then Mr. Marshman, has an old English friend or so, that he sets the greatest store by; and then he calls his guests; and the best in the house is hardly good enough for them, or the country either."

"And so I am one of Mr. Marshman's guests?" said Ellen, "I didn't know what it meant."

She saved out one little piece of rose-geranium from her flowers for the gratification of her own nose; and skipped away through the hall to rejoin her companions, very light- hearted indeed.

XXXII. The Bank-Note and George Washington

New Year's morning dawned.

"How I wish breakfast was over!" thought Ellen as she was dressing. However, there is no way of getting over this life but by going through it; so when the bell rang she went down as usual. Mr. Marshman had decreed that he would not have a confusion of gifts at the breakfast table; other people might make presents in their own way; they must not interfere with his. Needlecases, bags, and so forth, must therefore wait another opportunity; and Ellen Chauncey decided it would just make the pleasure so much longer, and was a great improvement on the old plan. "Happy New Years" and pleasant greetings were exchanged, as the party gathered in the breakfast-room; pleasure sat on all faces, except Ellen's, and many a one wore a broad smile as they sat down to table. For the napkins were in singular disarrangement this morning; instead of being neatly folded up on the plates, in their usual fashion, they were in all sorts of disorder — sticking up in curious angles, some high, some low, some half-folded, some quite unfolded, according to the size and shape of that which they covered. It was worth while to see that long tableful, and the faces of the company, before yet a napkin was touched. An anxious glance at her own, showed Ellen that it lay quite flat; Alice's, which was next, had an odd little rising in the middle, as if there were a small dumpling under it. Ellen was in an agony for this pause to come to an end. It was broken by some of the older persons, and then in a trice every plate was uncovered. And then, what a buzz! — pleasure, and thanks, and admiration, and even laughter. Ellen dreaded at first to look at her plate; she bethought her, however, that if she waited long, she would have to do it with all eyes upon her; she lifted the napkin slowly; — yes — just as she feared — there lay a clean bank-note — of what value she could not see, for confusion covered her; the blood rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She could not have spoken, and happily it was no time then; everybody else was speaking — she could not have been heard. She had time to cool and recollect herself; but she sat with her eyes cast down, fastened upon her plate and the unfortunate bank-bill, which she detested with all her heart. She did not know what Alice had received; she understood nothing that was going on, till Alice touched her, and said gently, "Mr. Marshman is speaking to you, Ellen."

"Sir!" said Ellen, starting.

"You need not look so terrified," said Mr. Marshman, smiling; "I only asked you if your bill was a counterfeit — something seems to be wrong about it."

Ellen looked at her plate and hesitated. Her lip trembled.

"What is it?" continued the old gentleman. "Is anything the matter."

Ellen desperately took up the bill, and with burning cheeks, marched to his end of the table.

"I am very much obliged to you, Sir, but I had a great deal rather not — if you please — if you will please to be so good as to let me give it back to you — I should be very glad."

"Why, hoity-toity!" said the old gentleman — "what's all this? what's the matter? don't you like it? I thought I was doing the very thing that would please you best of all."

"I am very sorry you should think so, Sir," said Ellen, who had recovered a little breath, but had the greatest difficulty to keep back her tears; "I never thought of such a thing as your giving me anything, Sir, till somebody spoke of it; and I had rather never have anything in the world than that you should think what you thought about me."

"What did I think about you?"

"George told me that somebody told you, Sir, I wanted money for my present."

"And didn't you say so?"

"Indeed I didn't, Sir!" said Ellen, with a sudden fire. "I never thought of such a thing!"

"What did you say then?"

"Margaret was showing us her ear-rings, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have some like them; and I couldn't help thinking I would a great deal rather have the money they would cost to buy something for Alice; and just when I said so, you came in, Sir, and she said what she did. I was very much ashamed. I wasn't thinking of you, Sir, at all, nor of New Year."

"Then you would like something else better than money."

"No, Sir, nothing at all, if you please. If you'll only be so good as not to give me this, I will be very much obliged to you indeed; and please not to think I could be so shameful as you thought I was."

Ellen's face was not to be withstood. The old gentleman took the bill from her hand.

"I will never think anything of you," said he, "but what is the very tip-top of honourable propriety. But you make me ashamed now — what am I going to do with this? here have you come and made me a present, and I feel very awkward indeed."

"I don't care what you do with it, Sir," said Ellen, laughing, though in imminent danger of bursting into tears! — "I am very glad it is out of my hands."

"But you needn't think I am going to let you off so," said he — "you must give me half a dozen kisses at least, to prove that you have forgiven me for making so great a blunder."

"Half a dozen is too many at once," said Ellen, gaily; — "three now, and three to-night."

So she gave the old gentleman three kisses, but he caught her in his arms and gave her a dozen at least; after which he found out that the waiter was holding a cup of coffee at his elbow, and Ellen went back to her place with a very good appetite for her breakfast.

After breakfast the needlecases were delivered. Both gave the most entire satisfaction. Mrs. Chauncey assured her daughter that she would quite as lief have a yellow as a red rose on the cover, and that she liked the inscription extremely; which the little girl acknowledged to have been a joint device of her own and Ellen's. Ellen's bag gave great delight, and was paraded all over the house.

After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and when she had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not give her for a good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers— a sweet gift still to be made. Why not make it now? why should not Alice have the pleasure of them all day? A bright thought! Ellen ran forthwith to the house-keeper's room, and after a long, admiring look at her treasures, carried them, glass and all, to the library, where Alice and John often were in the morning alone. Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the flowers were smelled and admired afresh.

"Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Ellie, except Mr. Marshman's gift."

"And what was that, Alice? I haven't seen it yet."

Alice pulled out of her pocket a small, round, morocco case, the very thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under the napkin, and opened it.

"It's Mr. John!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, how beautiful!"

Neither of her hearers could help laughing.

"It is very fine, Ellie," said Alice; "you are quite right. Now I know what was the business that took John to Randolph every day, and kept him there so long, while I was wondering at him unspeakably. Kind, kind Mr. Marshman!"

"Did Mr. John get anything?"

"Ask him, Ellie."

"Did you get anything, Mr. John?" said Ellen, going up to him where he was reading on the sofa.

"I got this," said John, handing her a little book which lay beside him.

"What is this! Wime's — Wiem's — Life of Washington — Washington? he was — may I look at it?"

"Certainly!"

She opened the book, and presently sat down on the floor where she was, by the side of the sofa. Whatever she had found within the leaves of the book, she had certainly lost herself. An hour passed. Ellen had not spoken or moved except to turn over leaves.

"Ellen!" said John.

She looked up — her cheeks coloured high.

"What have you found there?" said he, smiling.

"Oh, a great deal! But — did Mr. Marshman give you this?"

"No."

"O!" said Ellen, looking puzzled, "I thought you said you got this this morning."

"No, I got it last night. I got it for you, Ellie."

"For me!" said Ellen, her colour deepening very much; "for me! did you? Oh, thank you! — oh, I'm so much obliged to you, Mr. John!"

"It is only an answer to one of your questions."

"This! is it? I don't know what, I am sure. Oh, I wish I could do something to please you, Mr. John!"

"You shall, Ellie; you shall give me a brother's right again."

Blushingly Ellen approached her lips to receive one of his grave kisses; and then, not at all displeased, went down on the floor, and was lost in her book.

Oh, the long joy of that New Year's day! — how shall it be told? The pleasure of that delightful book, in which she was wrapped the whole day — even when called off, as she often was, by Ellen Chauncey, to help her in fifty little matters of business or pleasure. These were attended to, and faithfully and cheerfully, but the book was in her head all the while. And this pleasure was mixed with Alice's pleasure, the flowers and the miniature, and Mr. Marshman's restored kindness. She never met John's or Alice's eye that day without a smile. Even when she went to be dressed, her book went with her, and was laid on the bed within sight, ready to be taken up the moment she was at liberty. Ellen Chauncey lent her a white frock, which was found to answer very well with a tuck let out; and Alice herself dressed her. While this was doing, Margaret Dunscombe put her head in at the door to ask Anne, Miss Sophia's maid, if she was almost ready to come and curl her hair.

"Indeed I can't say that I am, Miss Margaret," said Anne. "I've something to do for Miss Humphreys, and Miss Sophia hasn't so much as done the first thing towards beginning to get ready yet. It'll be a good hour, and more."

Margaret went away, exclaiming, impatiently, that she could get nobody to help her, and would have to wait till everybody was downstairs.

A few minutes after, she heard Ellen's voice at the door of her room, asking if she might come in.

"Yes — who's that? — what do you want?"

"I'll fix your hair if you'll let me," said Ellen.

"You? I don't believe you can."

"Oh, yes, I can; I used to do Mamma's very often; I am not afraid, if you'll trust me."

"Well, thank you, I don't care if you try, then," said Margaret, seating herself; "it won't do any harm, at any rate; and I want to be downstairs before anybody gets here; I think it's half the fun to see them come in. Bless me! you're dressed and all ready."

Margaret's hair was in long, thick curls; it was not a trifling matter to dress them. Ellen plodded through it patiently and faithfully, taking great pains, and doing the work well, and then went back to Alice. Margaret's thanks, not very gracefully given, would have been a poor reward for the loss of three-quarters of an hour of pleasure. But Ellen was very happy in having done right. It was no longer time to read; they must go downstairs.

The New Year's party was a nondescript — young and old together; a goodly number of both were gathered from Randolph and the neighbouring country. There were games for the young, dancing for the gay, and a superb supper for all; and the big, bright rooms were full of bright faces. It was a very happy evening to Ellen. For a good part of it, Mr. Marshman took possession of her, or kept her near him; and his extreme kindness would alone have made the evening pass pleasantly; she was sure he was her firm friend again.

In the course of the evening, Mrs. Chauncey found occasion to ask her about her journey up the river, without at all mentioning Margaret, or what she had said. Ellen answered that she had come with Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter.

"Did you have a pleasant time?" asked Mrs. Chauncey.

"Why, no, Ma'am." Said Ellen — "I don't know — it was partly pleasant, and partly unpleasant."

"What made it so, love?"

"I had left Mamma that morning, and that made me unhappy."

"But you said it was partly pleasant?"

"Oh, that was because I had such a good friend on board," said Ellen, her face lighting up, as his image came before her.

"Who was that?"

"I don't know, Ma'am, who he was."

"A stranger to you?"

"Yes, Ma'am — I never saw him before — I wish I could see him again."

"Where did you find him?"

"I didn't find him — he found me, when I was sitting up on the highest part of the boat."

"And your friends with you?"

"What friends?"

"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter."

"No, Ma'am — they were down in the cabin."

"And what business had you to be wandering about the boat alone?" said Mr. Marshman, good-humouredly.

"They were strangers, Sir," said Ellen, colouring a little.

"Well, so was this man — your friend — a stranger, too, wasn't he?"

"Oh, he was a very different stranger," said Ellen, smiling, — "and he wasn't a stranger long, besides."

"Well, you must tell me more about him — come, I'm curious; — what sort of a strange friend was this?"

"He wasn't a strange friend," said Ellen, laughing; — "he was a very, very good friend; he took care of me the whole day; he was very good and very kind."

"What kind of a man?" said Mrs. Chauncey; — "a gentleman?"

"Oh, yes, Ma'am!" said Ellen, looking surprised at the question. "I am sure he was."

"What did he look like?"

Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct.

"What did he wear? Coat or cloak?"

"Coat — dark brown, I think."

"This was the end of October, wasn't it?"

Ellen thought a moment and answered, "yes."

"And you don't know his name?"

"No, Ma'am; I wish I did."

"I can tell you," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; — "he is one of my best friends, too, Ellen; it is my brother, Mr. George Marshman."

How Ellen's face crimsoned! Mr. Marshman asked how she knew.

"It was then he came up the river, you know, Sir; and don't you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat, who was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavoured to befriend? I had forgotten it entirely till a minute or two ago."

"Miss Margaret Dunscombe!" cried George Walsh, "what kind of a person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up the river?"

"I don't know, nor care," said Margaret. "Somebody she picked up somewhere."

"It was Mr. George Marshman!"

"It wasn't."

"Uncle George!" exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the group her cousin had quitted; — "my uncle George? Do you know uncle George, Ellen?"

"Very much — I mean — yes," said Ellen.

Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It seemed to bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it, too. Mrs. Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remembered very well her son's speaking of her, and was very glad to find who it was. And now, Ellen thought, she would surely see him again some time.

The next day they left Ventnor. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry to lose her new friend, and begged she would come again "as soon as she could." All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told her she must give him a large place in her heart, or he should be jealous of her "strange friend;" and Alice was charged to bring her whenever she came to see them.

The drive back to Carra-carra was scarcely less pleasant than the drive out had been; and home, Ellen said, looked lovely; — that is, Alice's home, which she began to think more her own than any other. The pleasure of the past ten days, though great, had not been unmixed; the week that followed was one of perfect enjoyment. In Mr. Humphreys' household there was an atmosphere of peace and purity, that even a child could feel, and in which such a child as Ellen throve exceedingly. The drawing lessons went on with great success; other lessons were begun; there were fine, long walks, and charming sleigh-rides, and more than one visit to Mrs. Vawse; and what Ellen, perhaps, liked the best of all, the long evenings of conversation, and reading aloud, and bright fire-lights, and brighter sympathy, and intelligence, and affection. That week did them all good, and no one more than Ellen.

It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune's, and begin her old life there. She went on the evening of the day John had departed. They were at supper.

"Well!" said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, "have you got enough of visiting? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn't wanted, for my part."

"I haven't, Aunt Fortune," said Ellen.

"She's been nowhere but what's done her good," said Mr. Van Brunt; "she's reely growed handsome since she's been away."

"Grown a fiddlestick!" said Miss Fortune.

"She couldn't grow handsomer than she was before," said the old grandmother, hugging and kissing her little grand-daughter with great delight; — "the sweetest posie in the garden she always was!"

Mr. Van Brunt looked as if he entirely agreed with the old lady. That, while it made some amends for Miss Fortune's dryness, perhaps increased it. She remarked, that "she thanked Heaven she could always make herself contented at home;" which Ellen could not help thinking was a happiness for the rest of the world.

In the matter of the collar, it was hard to say whether the giver or receiver had the most satisfaction. Ellen had begged him not to speak of it to her aunt; and accordingly, one Sunday, when he came there with it on, both he and she were in a state of exquisite delight. Miss Fortune's attention was at last aroused; she made a particular review of him, and ended it by declaring, that "he looked uncommonly dandified, but she could not make out what he had done to himself;" a remark which transported Mr. Van Brunt and Ellen beyond all bounds of prudence.

Nancy's Bible, which had been purchased for her at Randolph, was given to her the first opportunity. Ellen anxiously watched her as she slowly turned it over, her face showing, however, very decided approbation of the style of the gift. She shook her head once or twice, and then said —

"What did you give this to me for, Ellen?"

"Because I wanted to give you something for New Year," said Ellen — "and I thought that would be the best thing — if you would only read it — it would make you so happy and good."

"You are good, I believe," said Nancy, "but I don't expect ever to be, myself — I don't think I could be. You might as well teach a snake not to wriggle."

"I am not good at all," said Ellen — "we're none of us good;" and the tears rose to her eyes; "but the Bible will teach us how to be. If you'll only read it! — please, Nancy, do! say you will read a little every day."

"You don't want me to make a promise I shouldn't keep, I guess, do you?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Well, I shouldn't keep that, so I won't promise it; but I tell you what I will do, — I'll take precious fine care of it and keep it always for your sake."

"Well," said Ellen, sighing — "I am glad you will even do so much as that. But, Nancy, before you begin to read the Bible, you may have to go where you never can read it, nor be happy nor good neither."

Nancy made no answer, but walked away, Ellen thought, rather more soberly than usual.

This conversation had cost Ellen some effort. It had not been made without a good deal of thought and some prayer. She could not hope she had done much good, but she had done her duty. And it happened that Mr. Van Brunt, standing behind the angle of the wall, had heard every word.

Chapter XXXIII

A gathering cloud in the spring weather.

Ellen's life had nothing to mark it for many months. The rest of the winter passed quietly away, every day being full of employment. At home the state of matters was rather bettered. Either Miss Fortune was softened by Ellen's gentle, inoffensive ways and obedient usefulness, or she had resolved to bear what could not be helped, and make the best of the little inmate she could not get rid of. She was certainly resolved to make the most of her. Ellen was kept on the jump a great deal of the time: she was runner of errands and maid of all work — to set the table and clear it was only a trifle in the list of her every-day duties — and they were not ended till the last supper dish was put away and the hearth swept up. Miss Fortune never spared herself, and never spared Ellen, so long as she had any occasion for her.

There were, however, long pieces of time that were left free — these Ellen seized for her studies and used most diligently; urged on by a three or four-fold motive; for the love of them, and for her own sake, that John might think she had done well — that she might presently please and satisfy Alice — above all, that her mother's wishes might be answered. This thought, whenever it came, was a spur to her efforts — so was each of the others; and Christian feeling added another, and kept all the rest in force. Without this, indolence might have weakened, or temptation surprised her resolution; little Ellen was open to both; but if ever she found herself growing careless from either cause, conscience was sure to smite her; and then would rush in all the motives that called upon her to persevere. Soon faithfulness began to bring its reward. With delight she found herself getting the better of difficulties, beginning to see a little through the mists of ignorance, making some sensible progress on the long road of learning. Study grew delightful — her lessons with Alice one of her greatest enjoyments. And as they were a labour of love to both teacher and scholar, and as it was the aim of each to see quite to the bottom of every matter, where it was possible, and to leave no difficulties behind them on the road which they had not cleared away, no wonder Ellen went forward steadily and rapidly. Reading also became a wonderful pleasure. Weems' Life of Washington was read, and read, and read over again, till she almost knew it by heart; and from that she went to Alice's library, and ransacked it for what would suit her. Happily it was a well-picked one, and Ellen could not light upon many books that would do her mischief. For those, Alice's wish was enough — she never opened them. Furthermore, Alice insisted that when Ellen had once fairly begun a book she should go through with it — not capriciously leave it for another, nor have half a dozen about at a time. But when Ellen had read it once she commonly wanted to go over it again, and seldom laid it aside until she had sucked the sweetness all out of it.

As for drawing, it could not go on very fast while the cold weather lasted. Ellen had no place at home where she could spread out her paper and copies without danger of being disturbed. Her only chance was at the parsonage. John had put all her pencils in order before he went, and had left her an abundance of copies, marked as she was to take them. They, or some of them, were bestowed in Alice's desk; and whenever Ellen had a spare hour or two, of a fine morning or afternoon, she made the best of her way to the mountain; it made no difference whether Alice were at home or not — she went in, coaxed up the fire, and began her work. It happened many a time that Alice, coming home from a walk or a run in the woods, saw the little hood and cloak on the settee before she opened the glass door, and knew very well how she should find Ellen, bending intently over her desk. These runs to the mountain were very frequent; sometimes to draw, sometimes to recite, always to see Alice and be happy. Ellen grew rosy, and hardy, and in spite of her separation from her mother, she was very happy, too. Her extreme and varied occupation made this possible. She had no time to indulge useless sorrow; on the contrary, her thoughts were taken up with agreeable matters, either doing or to be done; and at night, she was far too tired and sleepy to lie awake musing. And besides she hoped that her mother would come back in the spring, or the summer at farthest. It is true Ellen had no liking for the kind of business her aunt gave her — it was often-times a trial of temper and patience. Miss Fortune was not the pleasantest work-mistress in the world, and Ellen was apt to wish to be doing something else; but, after all, this was not amiss. Besides, the discipline of character, these trials made the pleasant things with which they were mixed up seem doubly pleasant — the disagreeable parts of her life relished the agreeable wonderfully. After spending the whole morning with Miss Fortune in the depths of house-work, how delightful it was to forget all in drawing some nice little cottage, with a bit of stone wall, and a barrel in front! or to go with Alice, in thought, to the south of France, and learn how the peasants manage their vines, and make the wine from them; or run over the Rock of Gibraltar with the monkeys; or, at another time, seated on a little bench in the chimney corner, when the fire blazed up well, before the candles were lighted, to forget the kitchen, and the supper, and her bustling aunt, and sail round the world with Captain Cook. Yes — these things were all the sweeter for being tasted by snatches.

Spring brought new occupation; household labours began to increase in number and measure; her leisure times were shortened. But pleasures were increased too. When the snow went off, and spring-like days began to come, and birds' notes were heard again, and the trees put out their young leaves, and the brown mountains were looking soft and green, Ellen's heart bounded at the sight. The springing grass was lovely to see; dandelions were marvels of beauty; to her each wild wood- flower was a never to be enough admired and loved wonder. She used to take long rambles with Mr. Van Brunt when business led him to the woods, sometimes riding part of the way on the ox- sled. Always a basket for flowers went along; and when the sled stopped, she would wander all around seeking among the piled-up dead leaves for the white wind-flower, and pretty little hang-head uvularia, and delicate blood-root, and the wild geranium and columbine; and many others, the names of which she did not know. They were like friends to Ellen; she gathered them affectionately as well as admiringly into her little basket, and seemed to purify herself in their pure companionship. Even Mr. Van Brunt came to have an indistinct notion that Ellen and flowers were made to be together. After he found what a pleasure it was to her to go on these expeditions, he made it a point, whenever he was bound to the woods of a fine day, to come to the house for her. Miss Fortune might object as she pleased; he always found an answer; and at last Ellen, to her great joy, would be told, "Well! go get your bonnet and be off with yourself." Once under the shadow of the big trees, the dried leaves crackling beneath her feet, and alone with her kind conductor — and Miss Fortune and all in the world that was disagreeable was forgotten — forgotten, no more to be remembered till the walk should come to an end. And it would have surprised anybody to hear the long conversations she and Mr. Van Brunt kept up — he, the silentest man in Thirlwall! Their talk often ran upon trees, among which Mr. Van Brunt was at home. Ellen wanted to become acquainted with them, as well as with the little flowers that grew at their feet; and he tried to teach her how to know each separate kind by the bark and leaf and manner of growth. The pine and hemlock and fir were easily learnt; the white birch, too; beyond those, at first, she was perpetually confounding one with another. Mr. Van Brunt had to go over and over his instructions — never weary, always vastly amused. Pleasant lessons these were! Ellen thought so, and Mr. Van Brunt thought so too.

Then there were walks with Alice, pleasanter still, if that could be. And even in the house, Ellen managed to keep a token of spring-time. On her toilet-table, the three uncouth legs of which were now hidden by a neat dimity cover, there always stood a broken tumbler with a supply of flowers. The supply was very varied, it is true; sometimes only a handful of dandelions, sometimes a huge bunch of lilac flowers, which could not be persuaded to stay in the glass without the help of the wall, against which it leaned in very undignified style; sometimes the bouquet was of really delicate and beautiful wild-flowers. All were charming in Ellen's eyes.

As the days grew long and the weather warm, Alice and she began to make frequent trips to the Cat's Back, and French came very much into fashion. They generally took Sharp to ease the long way, and rested themselves with a good stay on the mountain. Their coming was always a joy to the old lady. She was dearly fond of them both, and delighted to hear from their lips the language she loved best. After a time they spoke nothing else when with her. She was well qualified to teach them; and, indeed, her general education had been far from contemptible, though nature had done more for her. As the language grew familiar to them, she loved to tell and they to hear long stories of her youth and native country — scenes and people so very different from all Ellen had ever seen or heard of; and told in a lively, simple style, which she could not have given in English, and with a sweet colouring of Christian thought and feeling. Many things made these visits good and pleasant. It was not the least of Alice's and Ellen's joy to carry their old friend something that might be for her comfort in her lonely way of life. For even Miss Fortune now and then told Ellen "she might take a piece of that cheese along with her;" or, "she wondered if the old lady would like a little fresh meat; — she guessed she'd cut her a bit of that nice lamb; she wouldn't want but a little piece." A singular testimony this was to the respect and esteem of Mrs. Vawse had from everybody. Miss Fortune very, very seldom was known to take a bit from her own comforts to add to those of another. The ruling passion of this lady was thrift; her next, good housewifery. First, to gather to herself and heap up of what the world most esteems; after that, to be known as the most thorough housekeeper and the smartest woman in Thirlwall.

Ellen made other visits she did not like so well. In the course of the winter and summer she became acquainted with most of the neighbourhood. She sometimes went with her aunt to a formal tea-drinking, one, two, three, or four miles off, as the case might be. They were not very pleasant. To some places she was asked by herself; and though the people invariably showed themselves very kind, and did their best to please her, Ellen seldom cared to go a second time — liked even home and Miss Fortune better. There were a few exceptions; Jenny Hitchcock was one of her favourites, and Jane Huff was another; and all of their respective families came in, with good reason, for a share of her regard — Mr. Juniper, indeed, excepted. Once they went to a quilting at Squire Dennison's; the house was spotlessly neat and well-ordered; the people all kind; but Ellen thought they did not seem to know how to be pleasant. Dan Dennison alone had no stiffness about him. Miss Fortune remarked with pride, that even in this family of pretension, as she thought it, the refreshments could bear no comparison with hers. Once they were invited to tea at the Lawsons'; but Ellen told Alice, with much apparent disgust, that she never wanted to go again. Mrs. Van Brunt she saw often. To Thirlwall, Miss Fortune never went.

Twice in the course of the summer Ellen had a very great pleasure in the company of little Ellen Chauncey. Once Miss Sophia brought her, and once her mother; and the last time they made a visit of two weeks. On both occasions Ellen was sent for to the parsonage, and kept while they stayed; and the pleasure that she and her little friend had together cannot be told. It was unmixed now. Rambling about through the woods and over the fields, no matter where, it was all enchanting; helping Alice garden; helping Thomas make hay, and the mischief they did his haycocks by tumbling upon them, and the patience with which he bore it; the looking for eggs; the helping Margery to churn, and the helping each other to set tables; the pleasant mornings, and pleasant evenings, and pleasant mid-days — it cannot be told. Long to be remembered, sweet and pure, was the pleasure of those summer days, unclouded by a shade of discontent or disagreement on either brow. Ellen loved the whole Marshman family now, for the sake of one, the one she had first known; and little Ellen Chauncey repeatedly told her mother in private that Ellen Montgomery was the very nicest girl she had ever seen. They met with joy, and parted with sorrow, entreating and promising if possible, a speedy meeting again.

Amidst all the improvement and enjoyment of these summer months — and they had a great deal of both for Ellen — there was one cause of sorrow she could not help feeling, and it began to press more and more. Letters — they came slowly — and when they came, they were not at all satisfactory. Those in her mother's hand dwindled and dwindled, till at last there came only mere scraps of letters from her; and sometimes, after a long interval, one from Captain Montgomery would come alone. Ellen's heart sickened with long-deferred hope. She wondered what could make her mother neglect a matter so necessary for her happiness; sometimes she fancied they were travelling about, and it might be inconvenient to write; sometimes she thought, perhaps they were coming home without letting her know, and would suddenly surprise her some day, and make her half lose her wits with joy. But they did not come, nor write; and, whatever was the reason, Ellen felt it was very sad, and sadder and sadder as the summer went on. Her own letters became pitiful in their supplications for letters; they had been very cheerful, and filled with encouraging matter, and in part they were still.

For a while her mind was diverted from this sad subject, and her brow cleared up, when John came home in August. As before, Alice gained Miss Fortune's leave to keep her at the parsonage the whole time of his stay, which was several weeks. Ellen wondered that it was so easily granted, but she was much too happy to spend time in thinking about it. Miss Fortune had several reasons. She was unwilling to displease Miss Humphreys, and conscious that it would be a shame to her to stand openly in the way of Ellen's good. Besides, though Ellen's services were lost for a time, yet she said she got tired of setting her to work; she liked to dash round the house alone, without thinking what somebody else was doing or ought to be doing. In short, she liked to have her out of the way for a while. Furthermore, it did not please her that Mr. Van Brunt and her little handmaid were, as she expressed it, "so thick." His first thought, and his last thought, she said, she believed, were for Ellen, whether she came in or went out; and Miss Fortune was accustomed to be chief, not only in her own house, but in the regards of all who came to it. At any rate, the leave was granted and Ellen went.

And now was repeated the pleasure of the first week in January. It would have been increased, but that increase was not possible. There was only the difference between lovely winter and lovely summer weather; it was seldom very hot in Thirlwall. The fields and hills were covered with green instead of white; fluttering leaves had taken the place of snow-covered sprays and sparkling icicles; and for the keen north and brisk northwester, soft summer airs were blowing. Ellen saw no other difference — except that, perhaps, if it could be, there was something more of tenderness in the manner of Alice and her brother towards her. No little sister could have been more cherished and cared for. If there was a change, Mr. Humphreys shared it. It is true, he seldom took much part in the conversation, and seldomer was with them in any of their pursuits or pleasures. He generally kept by himself in his study. But whenever he did speak to Ellen, his tone was particularly gentle, and his look kind. He sometimes called her "My little daughter," which always gave Ellen great pleasure; she would jump at such times with double zeal, to do anything he asked her.

Now drawing went on with new vigour under the eye of her master. And many things beside. John took a great deal of pains with her in various ways. He made her read to him; he helped her and Alice with their French; he went with them to Mrs. Vawse's; and even Mr. Humphreys went there too, one afternoon to tea. How much Ellen enjoyed that afternoon! They took with them a great basket of provisions, for Mrs. Vawse could not be expected to entertain so large a party; and borrowed Jenny Hitchcock's pony, which, with old John and Sharp, mounted three of the company; they took turns in walking. Nobody minded that. The fine weather, the beautiful mountain-top, the general pleasure, Mr. Humphreys' uncommon spirits and talkableness, the oddity of their way of travelling, and of a tea-party up on the "Cat's Back," and, furthermore, the fact that Nancy stayed at home and behaved very well the whole time, all together filled Ellen's cup of happiness, for the time, as full as it could hold. She never forgot that afternoon. And the ride home was the best of all. The sun was low by the time they reached the plain; long shadows lay across their road; the soft air just stirred the leaves on the branches; stillness and loveliness were over all things; and down the mountain and along the roads, through the open country, the whole way, John walked at her bridle; so kind in his care of her, so pleasant in his talk to her, teaching her how to sit in the saddle, and hold the reins and whip, and much more important things, too, that Ellen thought a pleasanter thing could not be than to ride so. After that they took a great many rides, borrowing Jenny's pony or some other, and explored the beautiful country far and near. And almost daily, John had up Sharp and gave Ellen a regular lesson. She often thought, and sometimes looked, what she had once said to him, "I wish I could do something for you, Mr. John;" but he smiled at her, and said nothing.

At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home, and in many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The thought had been kept from weighing upon her by the thousand pleasures that filled up every moment of his stay; she could not be sad then, or only for a minute; hope threw off the sorrow as soon as it was felt; and she forgot how time flew. But when his visit was over, and she went back to her old place and her old life at her aunt's, the old feeling came back in greater strength. She began again to count the days and the weeks; to feel the bitter unsatisfied longing. Tears would drop down upon her Bible; tears streamed from her eyes when she prayed that God would make her mother well and bring her home to her quickly — oh! quickly! — and little Ellen's face began to wear once more something of its old look.