Chapter XXXIV…

Chapter XXXIV

The cloud overhead.

One day in the early part of September, she was standing in front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the road. With her back against the open gate, she was gently moving it to and fro, half-enjoying the weather and the scene, half-indulging the melancholy mood which drove her from the presence of her bustling aunt. The gurgling sound of the brook a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her ear than Miss Fortune's sharp tones. By-and-by a horseman came in sight at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What made Ellen look at him so sharply? Poor child! she was always expecting news. At first she could only see that the man rode a white horse; then, as he came nearer, an odd looped-up hat showed itself — and something queer in his hand — what was it? who is it? — the old newsman! Ellen was sure. Yes — she could now see the saddle-bags, and the white horsetail set in a handle, with which he was brushing away the flies from his horse; the tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow withal. He was a venerable old figure, with all his oddities; clad in a suit of snuff brown, with a neat, quiet look about him, he and the saddle-bags and the white horse jogged on together as if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other. In an ecstasy of fear and hope, Ellen watched the pace of the old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the gate. Her breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she was trembling from head to foot. Would he stop, or was he going on? Oh! the long agony of two minutes! He stopped. Ellen went towards him.

"What little gal is this?" said he.

"I am Ellen Montgomery, Sir," said Ellen, eagerly, "Miss Fortune's niece — I live here."

"Stop a bit," said the old man, taking up his saddle-bags; "Miss Fortune's niece, eh? Well, I believe as I've got somethin' for her — somethin' here. Aunt well, eh?"

"Yes, Sir."

"That's more than you be, ain't it?" said he, glancing sideways at Ellen's face. "How do you know but I've got a letter for you here, eh?"

The colour rushed to that face, and she clasped her hands.

"No, dear, no," said he; "I han't got any for you — it's for the old lady; there, run in with it, dear."

But Ellen knew before she touched it that it was a foreign letter, and dashed into the house with it. Miss Fortune coolly sent her back to pay the postage.

When she came in again, her aunt was still reading the letter. But her look, Ellen felt, was unpromising. She did not venture to speak — expectation was chilled. She stood till Miss Fortune began to fold up the paper.

"Is there nothing for me?" she said then, timidly.

"No."

"Oh! why don't she write to me?" cried Ellen, bursting into tears.

Miss Fortune stalked about the room, without any particular purpose as far as could be seen.

"It is very strange," said Ellen, sorrowfully; "I am afraid she is worse. Does papa say she is worse?"

"No."

"Oh! if she had only sent me a message! I should think she might — oh! I wish she had! — three words! — does papa say why she don't write?"

"No."

"It is very strange!" repeated poor Ellen.

"Your father talks of coming home," said Miss Fortune, after a few minutes, during which Ellen had been silently weeping.

"Home! — then she must be better!" said Ellen, with new life; "does papa say she is better?"

"No."

"But what does he mean?" said Ellen, uneasily; "I don't see what he means; he doesn't say she is worse, and he doesn't say she is better; what does he say?"

"He don't say much about anything."

"Does he say when they are coming home?"

Miss Fortune mumbled something about "spring," and whisked off to the buttery; Ellen thought no more was to be got out of her. She felt miserable. Her father and her aunt both seemed to act strangely; and where to find comfort she scarcely knew. She had one day been telling her doubts and sorrows to John. He did not try to raise her hopes, but said —

"Troubles will come in this world, Ellie; the best is to trust them and ourselves to our dear Saviour, and let trials drive us to him. Seek to love him more, and to be patient under his will; the good Shepherd means nothing but kindness to any lamb in his flock — you may be sure of that, Ellie."

Ellen remembered his words, and tried to follow them now, but she could not be "patient under his will" yet — not quite. It was very hard to be patient in such uncertainty. With swimming eyes she turned over her Bible in search of comfort, and found it. Her eye lit upon words she knew very well, but that were like the fresh sight of a friend's face for all that, — "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions." There is no parting there, thought little Ellen. She cried a long time, but she was comforted, nevertheless. The heart that rests on the blessed One who said those words can never be quite desolate.

For several days things went on in the old train, only her aunt, she thought, was sometimes rather queer — not quite as usual in her manner towards her. Mr. Van Brunt was not rather, but very queer; he scarce spoke or looked at Ellen; bolted down his food, and was off without a word; and even stayed away entirely from two or three meals. She saw nobody else. Weather and other circumstances prevented her going to the mountain.

One afternoon, she was giving her best attention to a French lesson, when she heard herself called. Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, dipping candles. Ellen ran down.

"I don't know what's got into these candles," said Miss Fortune. — "I can't make 'em hang together; the tallow ain't good, I guess. Where's the nearest place they keep bees?"

"They have got bees at Mrs. Hitchcock's," said Ellen.

"So they have in Egypt, for anything I know," said her aunt; "one would be about as much good now as t'other. Mrs. Lowndes — that ain't far off. Put on your bonnet, Ellen, and run over there, and ask her to let me have a little bees'-wax. I'll pay her in something she likes best."

"Does Mrs. Lowndes keep bee-hives?" said Ellen, doubtfully.

"No; she makes the bees'-wax herself," said Miss Fortune, in the tone she always took when anybody presumed to suppose she might be mistaken in anything.

"How much shall I ask for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, I don't know — a pretty good piece."

Ellen was not very clear what quantity this might mean. However, she wisely asked no more questions, and set out upon her walk. It was hot and disagreeable; just the time of day when the sun had most power, and Mrs. Lowndes' house was about half-way on the road to Alice's. It was not a place where Ellen liked to go, though the people always made much of her; she did not fancy them, and regularly kept out of their way when she could. Miss Mary Lawson was sitting with Mrs. Lowndes and her daughter, when Ellen came in and briefly gave her aunt's message.

"Bees'-wax," said Mrs. Lowndes — "well, I don't know — How much does she want?"

"I don't know, Ma'am, exactly: she said a pretty good piece."

"What's it for, do you know, honey?"

"I believe it's to put in some tallow for candles," said Ellen; "the tallow was too soft, she said."

"I didn't know Miss Fortune's tallow was ever anything but the hardest," said Sarah Lowndes.

"You had better not let your aunt know you've told on her, Ellen," remarked Mary Lawson; "she won't thank you."

"Had she a good lot of taller to make up?" inquired the mother, preparing to cut her bees'-wax.

"I don't know, Ma'am; she had a big kettle, but I don't know how full it was."

"You may as well send a good piece, Ma, while you are about it," said the daughter — "and ask her to let us have a piece of her sage cheese, will you?"

"Is it worth while to weigh it?" whispered Mrs. Lowndes.

Her daughter answered in the same tone, and Miss Mary joining them, a conversation of some length went on over the bees'- wax, which Ellen could not hear. The tones of the speakers became lower and lower; till at length her own name and an incautious sentence were spoken more distinctly, and reached her.

"Shouldn't you think Miss Fortune might put a black ribbon at least on her bonnet?"

"Anybody but her would."

"Hush!" They whispered again under breath.

The words entered Ellen's heart like cold iron. She did not move hand or foot; she sat motionless with pain and fear, yet what she feared she dared not think. When the bees'-wax was given her, she rose up from her chair, and stood gazing into Mrs. Lowndes' face as if she had lost her senses.

"My goodness, child, how you look!" said that lady. "What ails you, honey?"

"Ma'am," said Ellen — "what was that you said, about —"

"About what, dear?" said Mrs. Lowndes, with a startled look at the others.

"About — a ribbon?" said Ellen, struggling to get the words out of white lips.

"My goodness!" said the other; — "did you ever hear anything like that? — I didn't say nothing about a ribbon, dear."

"Do you suppose her aunt han't told her?" said Miss Mary in an under tone.

"Told me what?" cried Ellen; — "Oh! what? — what?"

"I wish I was a thousand miles off!" said Mrs. Lowndes; — "I don't know, dear — I don't know what it is — Miss Alice knows."

"Yes, ask Miss Alice," said Mary Lawson; "she knows better than we do."

Ellen looked doubtfully from one to the other; then, as "Go ask Miss Alice," was repeated on all sides, she caught up her bonnet, and flinging the bees'-wax from her hand, darted out of the house. Those she had left, looked at each other a minute in silence.

"Ain't that too bad now!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowndes, crossing the room to shut the door. "But what could I say?"

"Which way did she go?"

"I don't know I am sure — I had no head to look, or anything else. I wonder if I had ought to ha' told her. But I couldn't ha' done it."

"Just look at her bees'-wax!" said Sarah Lowndes.

"She will kill herself if she runs up the mountain at that rate," said Mary Lawson.

They all made a rush to the door to look after her.

"She ain't in sight," said Mrs. Lowndes; — "if she's gone the way to the Nose, she's got as far as them big poplars already, or she'd be somewhere this side of 'em, where we could see her."

"You hadn't ought to ha' let her go, Ma'am, in all this sun," said Miss Lowndes.

"I declare," said Mrs. Lowndes, "she scared me so, I hadn't three idees left in my head. I wish I knew where she was, though, poor little soul!"

Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a fear that knew no stay of heat or fatigue: they were little to her that day. She saw nothing on her way; all within and without were swallowed up in that one feeling; yet she dared not think what it was she feared. She put that by. Alice knew: Alice would tell her; on that goal her heart fixed, to that she pressed on; but oh! the while, what a cloud was gathering over her spirit, and growing darker and darker! Her hurry of mind and hurry of body made each other worse; it must be so; and when she at last ran round the corner of the house and burst in at the glass door, she was in a frightful state.

Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look that stopped Ellen short. She stood still; the colour in her cheeks, as her eyes read Alice's, faded quite away; words, and the power to speak them were gone together. Alas! the need to utter them was gone too. Alice burst into tears, and held out her arms, saying only, "My poor child!" Ellen reached her arms, and strength and spirit seemed to fail there. Alice thought she had fainted; she laid her on the sofa, called Margery, and tried the usual things, weeping bitterly herself as she did so. It was not fainting, however; Ellen's senses soon came back; but she seemed like a person stunned with a great blow, and Alice wished grief had had any other effect upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung over her; tears did not come; the violent strain of every nerve and feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep long, heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to have no power to do anything else.

Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the parsonage — one on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own — to ask about her; and she dreaded that a violent fit of illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She was mistaken, however. Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As the first stupor wore off, there were, indeed, more lively signs of grief; she would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often, but it was very quietly; no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too strong hold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it. Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let her go back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise; yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. The busy industry to which she would have been forced at home might have roused her; as it was, nothing drew her, and nothing could be found to draw her from her own thoughts. Her interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their charm. Walks and drives and staying at home were all one — except, indeed, that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed; her cheek grew colourless; and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not soon put to this gradual sinking, it would at last end with her life. But all her efforts were without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to Ellen alone.

As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone or into a corner with it, and turn the leaves over and over; looking out its gentle promises, and sweet comforting words to the weak and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ — all he said and did; all his kindness to his people, and tender care of them; the love shown them here and the joys prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that one unchangeable Friend from whose love neither life nor death can sever those that believe in him; and her heart, tossed and shaken as it had been, began to take rest again in that happy resting-place with stronger affection, and even with greater joy, than ever before. Yet for all that, this joy often kept company with bitter weeping; the stirring of anything like pleasure roused sorrow up afresh, and though Ellen's look of sadness grew less dark, Alice could not see that her face was at all less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother, after once hearing when and where she had died; she never hinted at her loss, except exclaiming in an agony, "I shall get no more letters!" and Alice dared not touch upon what the child seemed to avoid so carefully: though Ellen sometimes wept on her bosom, and often sat for hours still and silent, with her head in her lap.

The time drew nigh when John was expected home for the holidays. In the meanwhile they had had many visits from other friends. Mr. Van Brunt had come several times, enough to set the whole neighbourhood a-wondering, if they had only known it; his good old mother oftener still; Mrs. Vawse as often as possible; Miss Fortune once; and that because, as she said to herself, "Everybody would be talking about what was none of their business if she didn't." As neither she nor Ellen knew in the least what to say to each other, the visit was rather a dull one, spite of all Alice could do. Jenny Hitchcock, and the Huffs, and the Dennisons and others, came now and then; but Ellen did not like to see any of them all but Mrs. Vawse. Alice longed for her brother.

He came at last, just before New Year. It was the middle of a fine afternoon, and Alice and her father had gone in the sleigh to Carra-carra. Ellen had chosen to stay behind, but Margery did not know this, and of course did not tell John. After paying a visit to her in the kitchen, he had come back to the empty sitting-room, and was thoughtfully walking up and down the floor, when the door of Alice's room slowly opened, and Ellen appeared. It was never her way, when she could help it, to show violent feeling before other people; so she had been trying to steel herself to meet John without crying, and now came in with her little grave face, prepared not to give way. His first look had like to overset it all.

"Ellie!" said he; "I thought everybody was gone. My dear Ellie!"

Ellen could hardly stand the tone of these three words, and she bore with the greatest difficulty the kiss that followed them; it took but a word or two more, and a glance at the old look and smile, to break down entirely all her guard. According to her usual fashion, she was rushing away; but John held her fast, and, though gently, drew her close to him.

"I will not let you forget that I am your brother, Ellie," said he.

Ellen hid her face on his shoulder, and cried as if she had never cried before.

"Ellie," said he after a while, speaking low and tenderly, "the Bible says, 'We have known and believed the love that God hath towards us;' — have you remembered and believed this lately?"

Ellen did not answer.

"Have you remembered that God loves every sinner that has believed in his dear Son? — and loves them so well, that He will let nothing come near them to harm them? — and loves them never better than when He sends bitter trouble on them? It is wonderful! but it is true. Have you thought of this, Ellie?"

She shook her head.

"It is not in anger He does it; it is not that He has forgotten you: it is not that He is careless of your trembling little heart — never, never! If you are his child, all is done in love, and shall work good for you; and if we often cannot see how, it is because we are weak and foolish, and can see but a very little way."

Ellen listened with her face hid on his shoulder.

"Do you love Christ, Ellen?"

She nodded, weeping afresh.

"Do you love him less since he has brought you into this great sorrow?"

"No," sobbed Ellen, "more!"

He drew her closer to his breast, and was silent a little while.

"I am very glad to hear you say that! — then all will be well. And haven't you the best reason to think that all is well with your dear mother?"

Ellen almost shrieked. Her mother's name had not been spoken before her in a great while, and she could hardly bear to hear it now. Her whole frame quivered with hysterical sobs.

"Hush, Ellie!" said John, in a tone that, low as it was, somehow found its way through all her agitation, and calmed her like a spell; — "have you not good reason to believe that all is well with her?"

"Oh, yes! — oh, yes!"

"She loved and trusted Him, too; and now she is with Him — she has reached that bright home where there is no more sin, nor sorrow, nor death."

"Nor parting either," sobbed Ellen, whose agitation was excessive.

"Nor parting! — and though we are parted from them, it is but for a little; let us watch, and keep our garments clean, and soon we shall be all together, and have done with tears for ever. She has done with them now. — Did you hear from her again?"

"Oh, no! — not a word!"

"That is a hard trial. — But, in it all, believe, dear Ellie, the love that God hath towards us; — remember that our dear Saviour is near us, and feels for us, and is the same at all times. — And don't cry so, Ellie!"

He kissed her once or twice, and begged her to calm herself. For it seemed as if Ellen's very heart was flowing away in her tears; yet they were gentler and softer far than at the beginning. The conversation had been a great relief. The silence between her and Alice on the thing always in her mind — a silence neither of them dared to break — had grown painful. The spell was taken off; and though, at first, Ellen's tears knew no measure, she was easier even then; as John soothed her, and went on with his kind talk, gradually leading it away from their first subject to other things, she grew not only calm, but more peaceful at heart than months had seen her. She was quite herself again before Alice came home.

"You have done her good already," exclaimed Alice, as soon as Ellen was out of the room; — "I knew you would; I saw it in her face as soon as I came in."

"It is time," said her brother. "She is a dear little thing!"

The next day, in the middle of the morning, Ellen, to her great surprise, saw Sharp brought before the door, with the side-saddle on, and Mr. John carefully looking to the girth, and shortening the stirrup.

"Why, Alice," she exclaimed, "what is Mr. John going to do?"

"I don't know, Ellie, I am sure; he does queer things sometimes. What makes you ask?"

Before she could answer, he opened the door.

"Come, Ellen, go and get ready. Bundle up well, for it is rather frosty. Alice, has she a pair of gloves that are warm enough? Lend her yours, and I'll see if I can find some at Thirlwall."

Ellen thought she would rather not go; to anybody else she would have said so. Half a minute she stood still — then went to put on her things.

"Alice, you will be ready by the time we get back? — in half an hour."

Ellen had an excellent lesson, and her master took care it should not be an easy one. She came back, looking as she had not done all winter. Alice was not quite ready; while waiting for her, John went to the book-case and took down the first volume of Rollin's Ancient History; and giving it to Ellen, he said he would talk with her to-morrow about the first twenty pages. The consequence was, the hour and a half of their absence, instead of being moped away, was spent in hard study. A pair of gloves was bought at Thirlwall; Jenny Hitchcock's pony was sent for; and, after that, every day, when the weather would at all do, they took a long ride. By degrees, reading, and drawing, and all her studies, were added to the history, till Ellen's time was well filled with business again. Alice had endeavoured to bring this about before, but fruitlessly. What she asked of her, Ellen indeed tried to do; what John told her, was done. She grew a different creature. Appetite came back; the colour sprang again to her cheek; hope — meek and sober as it was — re-lighted her eye. In her eagerness to please and satisfy her teacher, her whole soul was given to the performance of whatever he wished her to do. The effect was all that he looked for.

The second evening after he came, John called Ellen to his side, saying he had something he wanted to read to her. It was before candles were brought, but the room was full of light from the blazing wood fire. Ellen glanced at his book as she came to the sofa; it was a largish volume, in a black leather cover, a good deal worn; it did not look at all interesting.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It is called," said John, "The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to a better."

Ellen thought it did not sound at all interesting. She had never been more mistaken in her life, and that she found almost as soon as he begun. Her attention was nailed; the listless, careless mood in which she sat down was changed for one of rapt delight; she devoured every word that fell from the reader's lips; indeed they were given their fullest effect by a very fine voice and singularly fine reading. Whenever anything might not be quite clear to Ellen, John stopped to make it so; and with his help, and without it, many a lesson went home. Next day she looked a long time for the book; it could not be found; she was forced to wait until evening. Then, to her great joy, it was brought out again, and John asked her if she wished to hear some more of it. After that, every evening while he was at home, they spent an hour with the "Pilgrim." Alice would leave her work and come to the sofa, too; and with her head on her brother's shoulder, her hand in his, and Ellen's face leaning against his other arm, that was the common way they placed themselves to see and hear. No words can tell Ellen's enjoyment of those readings. They made her sometimes laugh and sometimes cry; they had much to do in carrying on the cure which John's wisdom and kindness had begun.

They came to the place where Christian loses his burden at the cross; and as he stood looking and weeping, three shining ones came to him. "The first said to him, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee;' the second stripped him of his rags, and clothed him with a change of raiment; the third also set a mark on his forehead."

John explained what was meant by the rags and the change of raiment.

"And the mark in his forehead?" said Ellen.

"That is the mark of God's children — the change wrought in them by the Holy Spirit — the change that makes them different from others, and different from their old selves."

"Do all Christians have it?"

"Certainly. None can be a Christian without it."

"But how can one tell whether one has it or no?" said Ellen, very gravely.

"Carry your heart and life to the Bible, and see how they agree. The Bible gives a great many signs and descriptions, by which Christians may know themselves — know both what they are and what they ought to be. If you find your own feelings and manner of life at one with these Bible words, you may hope that the Holy Spirit has changed you, and set his mark upon you."

"I wish you would tell me of one of those places," said Ellen.

"The Bible is full of them. 'To them that believe Christ is precious,' — there is one. 'If ye love me, keep my commandments;' — 'He that saith he abideth in him, ought himself also so to walk even as he walked' — 'O how love I thy law!' The Bible is full of them, Ellie; but you have need to ask for great help when you go to try yourself by them; the heart is deceitful."

Ellen looked sober all the rest of the evening, and the next day she pondered the matter a good deal.

"I think I am changed," she said to herself, at last. "I didn't use to like to read the Bible, and now I do very much; — I never liked praying in old times, and now, oh! what should I do without it! I didn't love Jesus at all, but I am sure I do now. I don't keep his commandments, but I do try to keep them; — I must be changed a little. Oh! I wish Mamma had known it before!"

Weeping with mixed sorrow and thankful joy, Ellen bent her head upon her little Bible to pray that she might be more changed; and then, as she often did, raised the cover to look at the texts in the beloved handwriting.

"I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me."

Ellen's tears were blinding her. "That has come true," she thought.

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

"That has come true, too!" she said, almost in surprise — "and Mamma believed it would." — And then, as by a flash, came back to her mind the time it was written; she remembered how, when it was done, her mother's head had sunk upon the open page — she seemed to see again the thin fingers tightly clasped — she had not understood it then — she did now. "She was praying for me," thought Ellen — "she was praying for me; she believed that would come true."

The book was dashed down, and Ellen fell upon her knees, in a perfect agony of weeping.

Even this, when she was calm again, served to steady her mind. There seemed to be a link of communion between her mother and her that was wanting before. The promise, written and believed in by the one, realized and rejoiced in by the other, was a dear something in common, though one had in the meanwhile removed to heaven, and the other was still a lingerer on the earth. Ellen bound the words upon her heart.

Another time, when they came to the last scene of Christian's journey, Ellen's tears ran very fast. John asked if he should pass it over, if it distressed her? She said, "Oh, no, it did not distress her;" she wanted him to go on, and he went on, though himself much distressed, and Alice was near as bad as Ellen. But the next evening, to his surprise, Ellen begged that before he went on to the second part, he would read that piece over again. And when he lent her the book, with only the charge that she should not go further than he had been, she pored over that scene with untiring pleasure, till she almost had it by heart. In short, never was a child more comforted and contented with a book than Ellen was with the Pilgrim's Progress. That was a blessed visit of John's. Alice said he had come like a sunbeam into the house; she dreaded to think what would be when he went away.

She wrote, him, however, when he had been gone a few weeks, that his will seemed to carry all before it, present or absent. Ellen went on steadily mending — at least she did not go back any. They were keeping up their rides, also their studies, most diligently; Ellen was untiring in her efforts to do whatever he had wished her, and was springing forward, Alice said, in her improvement.

Chapter XXXV

"This working-day world."

The spring had come; and Alice and Ellen were looking forward to pleasanter rides and walks, after the sun should have got a little warmth, and the snow should be gone; when one morning, in the early part of March, Mr. Van Brunt made his appearance. Miss Fortune was not well, and had sent him to beg that Ellen would come back to her. He was sorry, he said; — he knew Ellen was in the best place; but her aunt wanted her, and "he s'posed she'd have to go." He did not know what was the matter with Miss Fortune; it was a little of one thing and a little of another; "he s'posed she'd overdid, and it was a wonder, for he didn't know she could do it. She thought she was as tough as a piece of shoe-leather, but even that could be wore out."

Ellen looked blank. However, she hurriedly set herself to get her things together; and, with Alice's help, in half an hour she was ready to go. The parting was hard. They held each other fast a good while, and kissed each other many times, without speaking.

"Good-bye, dear Ellie," whispered Alice at last — "I'll come and see you soon. Remember what John said when he went away."

Ellen did not trust herself to speak. She pulled herself away from Alice, and turned to Mr. Van Brunt, saying, by her manner, that she was ready. He took her bundle, and they went out of the house together.

Ellen made a manful effort, all the way down the hill, to stifle the tears that were choking her. She knew they would greatly disturb her companion, and she did succeed, though with great difficulty, in keeping them back. Luckily for her, he said hardly anything during the whole walk; she could not have borne to answer a question. It was no fault of Mr. Van Brunt's that he was so silent — he was beating his brains the whole way to think of something it would do to say, and could not suit himself. His single remark was, "that it was like to be a fine spring for the maple, and he guessed they'd make a heap of sugar."

When they reached the door, he told her she would find her aunt upstairs, and himself turned off to the barn. Ellen stopped a minute upon the threshold to remember the last time she had crossed it — and the first time: how changed everything now! — and the thought came, was this now to be her home for ever? She had need again to remember John's words. When bidding her good-bye, he had said, "My little pilgrim, I hope you will keep the straight road, and win the praise of the servant who was faithful over a few things." "I will try!" thought poor Ellen; and then she passed through the kitchen, and went up to her own room. Here, without stopping to think, she took off her things, gave one strange look at the old familiar place, and her trunk in the corner, fell on her knees for one minute, and then went to her aunt's room.

"Come in," cried Miss Fortune when Ellen had knocked. "Well, Ellen, there you are. I am thankful it is you; I was afraid it might be Mimy Lawson, or Sarah Lowndes, or some of the rest of the set; I know they'll all come scampering here as soon as they hear I'm laid up."

"Are you very sick, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen.

"La! no, child — I shall be up again to-morrow; but I felt queer this morning, somehow, and I thought I'd try lying down. I expect I've caught some cold."

There was no doubt of this; but this was not all. Besides catching cold, and doing her best to bring it about, Miss Fortune had overtasked her strength, and by dint of economy, housewifery, and smartness, had brought on herself the severe punishment of lying idle and helpless for a much longer time than she at first reckoned on.

"What can I do for you, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen.

"Oh, nothing as I know," said Miss Fortune — "only let me alone, and don't ask me anything, and keep people out of the house. Mercy! my head feels as if it would go crazy! Ellen, look here," said she, raising herself on her elbow — "I won't have anybody come into this house — if I lie here till doomsday, I won't! Now, you mind me. I ain't agoing to have Mimy Lawson, nor nobody else, poking all round into every hole and corner, and turning every cheese upside down to see what's under it. There ain't one of 'em too good for it, and they shan't have a chance. They'll be streaking here, a dozen of 'em, to help take care of the house; but I don't care what becomes of the house; I won't have anybody in it. Promise me you won't let Mr. Van Brunt bring any one here to help; I know I can trust you to do what I tell you; promise me!"

Ellen promised, a good deal gratified at her aunt's last words; and once more asked if she could do anything for her.

"Oh, I don't know!" said Miss Fortune, flinging herself back on her pillow; — "I don't care what you do, if you only keep the house clear. There's the clothes in the basket under the table downstairs — you might begin to iron 'em; they're only rough dry. But don't come asking me about anything; I can't bear it. — Ellen, don't let a soul go into the buttery except yourself. — And, Ellen! I don't care if you make me a little catnip-tea: the catnip's up in the store-room — the furthest door in the back attic — here's the keys. Don't go to fussing with anything else there."

Ellen thought the prospect before her rather doleful when she reached the kitchen. It was in order, to be sure, and clean; but it looked as if the mistress was away. The fire had gone out, the room was cold; even so little a matter as catnip-tea seemed a thing far off and hard to come by. While she stood looking at the great logs in the fireplace, which she could hardly move, and thinking it was rather a dismal state of things, in came Mr. Van Brunt with his good-natured face, and wanted to know if he could do anything for her. The very room seemed more comfortable as soon as his big figure was in it. He set about kindling the fire forthwith, while Ellen went up to the store-room. A well-filled store-room! Among other things, there hung at least a dozen bunches of dried herbs from one of the rafters. Ellen thought she knew catnip, but after smelling of two or three, she became utterly puzzled, and was fain to carry a leaf of several kinds down to Mr. Van Brunt to find out which was which. When she came down again, she found he had hung on the kettle for her, and swept up the hearth; so Ellen, wisely thinking it best to keep busy, put the ironing blanket on the table, and folded the clothes, and set the irons to the fire. By this time the kettle boiled. How to make catnip-tea Ellen did not exactly know, but supposed it must follow the same rules as black tea, in the making of which she felt herself very much at home. So she put a pinch or two of catnip leaves into the pot, poured a little water on them, and left it to draw. Meanwhile came in kind Mr. Van Brunt with an armful or two of small short sticks for the fire, which Ellen could manage.

"I wish I could stay here and take care of you all the while," said he; "but I'll be round. If you want anything, you must come to the door and holler."

Ellen began to thank him.

"Just don't say anything about that," said he, moving his hands as if he were shaking her thanks out of them; "I'd back all the wood you could burn every day for the pleasure of having you hum again, if I didn't know you was better where you was; but I can't help that. Now, who am I going to get to stay with you? Who would you like to have."

"Nobody, if you please, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen; "Aunt Fortune don't wish it, and I had rather not, indeed."

He stood up and looked at her in amazement.

"Why, you don't mean to say," said he, "that you are thinking, or she is thinking, you can get along here without help?"

"I'll get along somehow," said Ellen. "Never mind, please let me, Mr. Van Brunt; it would worry Aunt Fortune very much to have anybody; don't say anything about it."

"Worry her!" said he; and he muttered something Ellen did not quite understand, about "bringing the old woman to reason."

However, he went off for the present; and Ellen filled up her teapot and carried it upstairs. Her old grandmother was awake; before, when Ellen was in the room, she had been napping; now she showed the greatest delight at seeing her — fondled her, kissed her, cried over her, and finally insisted on getting up directly and going downstairs. Ellen received and returned her caresses with great tenderness, and then began to help her rise and dress.

"Yes, do," said Miss Fortune; "I shall have a little better chance of sleeping. My stars! Ellen, what do you call this?"

"Isn't it catnip?" said Ellen, alarmed.

"Catnip! it tastes of nothing but the tea-kettle. It's as weak as dishwater. Take it down and make some more. How much did you put in? — you want a good double-handful, stalks and all; make it strong. I can't drink such stuff as that. I think if I could get into a sweat I should be better."

Ellen went down, established her grandmother in her old corner, and made some more tea. Then her irons being hot, she began to iron; doing double duty at the same time, for Mrs. Montgomery had one of her talking fits on, and it was necessary to hear and answer a great many things. Presently the first visitor appeared in the shape of Nancy.

"Well, Ellen!" said she, "so Miss Fortune is really sick for once, and you are keeping house. Ain't you grand?"

"I don't feel very grand," said Ellen. "I don't know what is the matter with these clothes; I cannot make 'em look smooth."

"Irons ain't hot," said Nancy.

"Yes they are — too hot; I've scorched a towel already."

"My goodness, Ellen! I guess you have. If Miss Fortune was down, you'd get it. Why, they're bone dry!" said Nancy, plunging her hand into the basket: "you haven't sprinkled 'em, have you?"

"To be sure," said Ellen, with an awakened face, "I forgot it!"

"Here, get out of the way, I'll do it for you," said Nancy, rolling up her sleeves, and pushing Ellen from the table; "you just get me a bowl of water, will you? and we'll have 'em done in no time. Who's a-coming to help you?"

"Nobody."

"Nobody! you poor chicken; do you think you're a-going to do all the work of the house yourself?"

"No," said Ellen, "but I can do a good deal, and the rest will have to go."

"You ain't going to do no such thing; I'll stay myself."

"No, you can't, Nancy," said Ellen, quietly.

"I guess I will, if I've a mind to. I should like to know how you'd help it: Miss Fortune's a-bed."

"I could help it, though," said Ellen; "but I am sure you won't, when I ask you not."

"I'll do anything you please," said Nancy, "if you'll get Miss Fortune to let me stay. Come do, Ellen! It will be splendid! and I'll help you finely, and I won't bother you neither. Come, go ask her; if you don't, I will."

"I can't, Nancy; she don't want anybody; and it worries her to talk to her. I can't go and ask her."

Nancy impatiently flung down the cloth she was sprinkling, and ran up stairs. In a few minutes she came down with a triumphant face, and bade Ellen go up to her aunt.

"Ellen," said Miss Fortune, "if I let Nancy stay will you take care of the keys, and keep her out of the buttery?"

"I'll try to, Ma'am, as well as I can."

"I'd as lief have her as anybody," said Miss Fortune, "if she'd behave. She was with me a little in the winter. She is smart, and knows the ways. If I was sure she would behave herself — but I am afraid she will go rampaging about the house like a wild cat."

"I think I could prevent that," said Ellen; who, to say truth, was willing to have anybody come to share what she felt would be a very great burden. "She knows I could tell Mr. Van Brunt if she didn't do right, and she would be afraid of that."

"Well," said Miss Fortune, disconsolately, "let her stay, then. O, dear, to lie here! — but tell her if she don't do just what you tell her, I'll have Mr. Van Brunt turn her out by the ears. And don't let her come near me, for she drives me mad. And, Ellen, put the keys in your pocket. Have you got a pocket in that dress?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Put 'em in there, and don't take 'em out. Now, go."

Nancy agreed to the conditions with great glee; and the little housekeeper felt her mind a good deal easier; for though Nancy herself was somewhat of a charge, she was strong, and willing, and ready, and, if she liked anybody, liked Ellen. Mr. Van Brunt privately asked Ellen if she chose to have Nancy stay; and told her, if she gave her any trouble, to let him know, and he would make short work with her. The young lady herself also had a hint on the subject.

"I'll tell you what," said Nancy, when this business was settled, — "we'll let the men go off to Mrs. Van Brunt's to meals; we'll have enough to do without 'em. That's how Miss Fortune has fixed herself— she would have Sam and Johnny in to board; they never used to, you know, afore this winter."

"The men may go," said Ellen, "but I had a great deal rather Mr. Van Brunt would stay than not — if we can only manage to cook things for him; we should have to do it, at any rate, for ourselves, and for grandma."

"Well — I ain't as fond of him as all that," said Nancy, "but it'll have to be as you like, I suppose. We'll feed him somehow."

Mr. Van Brunt came in to ask if they had anything in the house for supper. Ellen told him "plenty," and would have him come in just as usual. There was nothing to do but to make tea; cold meat and bread and butter and cheese were all in the buttery; so that evening went off very quietly.

When she came down the next morning, the fire was burning nicely, and the kettle on and singing. Not Nancy's work; Mr. Van Brunt had slept in the kitchen; whether on the table, the floor, or the chairs, was best known to himself; and before going to his work, had left everything he could think of ready done to her hand; — wood for the fire, pails of water brought from the spout, and some matters in the lower kitchen got out of the way. Ellen stood warming herself at the blaze, when it suddenly darted into her head that it was milking time. In another minute she had thrown open the door and was running across the chip-yard to the barn. There, in the old place, were all her old friends, both four-legged and two-legged; and with great delight she found Dolly had a fine calf, and Streaky another superb one, brindled just like herself. Ellen longed to get near enough to touch their little innocent heads, but it was impossible; and recollecting the business on her hands, she too danced away.

"Whew!" said Nancy, when Ellen told her of the new inmates of the barn-yard; — "there'll be work to do! Get your milk-pans ready, Ellen; in a couple of weeks we'll be making butter."

"Aunt Fortune will be well by that time, I hope," said Ellen.

"She won't, then, so you may just make up your mind to it. Dr. Gibson was to see her yesterday forenoon, and he stopped at Miss Lowndes' on his way back; and he said it was a chance if she got up again in a month and more. So, that's what it is, you see."

"A month, and more." It was all that. Miss Fortune was not dangerously ill; but part of the time in a low nervous fever, part of the time encumbered with other ailments, she lay from week to week, bearing her confinement very ill, and making it as disagreeable and burdensome as possible for Ellen to attend upon her. Those were weeks of trial. Ellen's patience and principle and temper were all put to the proof. She had no love, in the first place, for household work, and now her whole time was filled up with it. Studies could not be thought of. Reading was only to be had by mere snatches. Walks and rides were at an end. Often, when already very tired, she had to run up and down stairs for her aunt, or stand and bathe her face and hands with vinegar, or read the paper to her, when Miss Fortune declared she was so nervous she should fly out of her skin if she didn't hear something besides the wind. And very often, when she was not wanted upstairs, her old grandmother would beg her to come and read to her — perhaps at the very moment when Ellen was busiest. Ellen did her best. Miss Fortune never could be put off; her old mother sometimes could, with a kiss and a promise — but not always; and then, rather than she should fret, Ellen would leave everything, and give half an hour to soothing and satisfying her. She loved to do this at other times; now it was sometimes burdensome. Nancy could not help her at all in these matters, for neither Miss Fortune nor the old lady would let her come near them. Besides all this, there was a measure of care constantly upon Ellen's mind; she felt charged with the welfare of all about the house; and under the effort to meet the charge, joined to the unceasing bodily exertion, she grew thin and pale. She was tired with Nancy's talk; she longed to be reading and studying again; she longed — oh! how she longed! — for Alice's and John's company again; and it was no wonder if she sometimes cast very sad, longing looks further back still. Now and then an old fit of weeping would come. But Ellen remembered John's words; and often in the midst of her work, stopping short with a sort of pang of sorrow and weariness, and the difficulty of doing right, she would press her hands together and say to herself, "I will try to be a good pilgrim!" Her morning hour of prayer was very precious now; and her Bible grew more and more dear. Little Ellen found its words a mighty refreshment; and often when reading it she loved to recall what Alice had said at this and the other place, and John, and Mr. Marshman, and before them her mother. The passages about heaven, which she well remembered reading to her one particular morning, became great favourites; they were joined with her mother in Ellen's thoughts; and she used to go over and over them till she nearly knew them by heart.

"What do you keep reading that for, the whole time?" said Nancy, one day.

"Because I like to," said Ellen.

"Well, if you do, you're the first one ever I saw that did."

"Oh, Nancy!" said Ellen, — "your grandma?"

"Well, she does, I believe," said Nancy; "for she's always at it; but all the rest of the folks that ever I saw are happy to get it out of their hands, I know. They think they must read a little, and so they do, and they are too glad if something happens to break 'em off. You needn't tell me — I've seen 'em."

"I wish you loved it, Nancy," said Ellen.

"Well, what do you love it for? Come, let's hear; maybe you'll convert me."

"I love it for a great many reasons," said Ellen, who had some difficulty in speaking of what she felt Nancy could not understand.

"Well — I ain't any wiser yet."

"I like to read it because I want to go to heaven, and it tells me how."

"But what's the use?" said Nancy — "you ain't going to die yet — you are too young — you've time enough."

"Oh, Nancy! — little John Dolan, and Eleanor Parsons, and Mary Huff — all younger than you and I; how can you say so?"

"Well," said Nancy — "at any rate, that ain't reading it because you love it — it's because you must, like other folks."

"That's only one of my reasons," said Ellen, hesitating, and speaking gravely; — "I like to read about the Saviour, and what he has done for me, and what a friend he will be to me, and how he forgives me. I had rather have the Bible, Nancy, than all the other books in the world."

"That ain't saying much," said Nancy — "but how come you to be so sure you are forgiven?"

"Because the Bible says, 'He that believeth on him shall not be ashamed,' and I believe in him — and that he will not cast out any one that comes to him, and I have come to him — and that he loves those that love him, and I love him. If it did not speak so very plainly, I should be afraid, but it makes me happy to read such verses as these. I wish you knew, Nancy, how happy it makes me."

This profession of faith was not spoken without starting tears. Nancy made no reply.

As Miss Fortune had foretold, plenty of people came to the house with proffers of service. Nancy's being there made it easy for Ellen to get rid of them all. Many were the marvels that Miss Fortune should trust her house to "two girls like that," and many the guesses that she would rue it when she got up again. People were wrong. Things went on very steadily, and in an orderly manner; and Nancy kept the peace as she would have done in few houses. Bold and insolent as she sometimes was to others, she regarded Ellen with a mixed notion of respect and protection, which led her at once to shun doing anything that would grieve her, and to thrust her aside from every heavy or difficult job, taking the brunt herself. Nancy might well do this, for she was at least twice as strong as Ellen; but she would not have done it for everybody.

There were visits of kindness as well as visits of officiousness. Alice and Mrs. Van Brunt and Margery, one or the other every day. Margery would come in and mix up a batch of bread; Alice would bring a bowl of butter or a basket of cake; and Mrs. Van Brunt sent whole dinners. Mr. Van Brunt was there always at night, and about the place as much as possible during the day; when obliged to be absent, he stationed Sam Larkens to guard the house, also to bring wood and water, and do whatever he was bid. All the help, however, that was given from abroad could not make Ellen's life an easy one; Mr. Van Brunt's wishes that Miss Fortune would get up again began to come very often. The history of one day may serve for the history of all those weeks.

It was in the beginning of April. Ellen came downstairs early, but come when she would, she found the fire made and the kettle on. Ellen felt a little as if she had not quite slept off the remembrance of yesterday's fatigue; however, that was no matter, she set to work. She swept up the kitchen, got her milk-strainer and pans ready upon the buttery shelf, and began to set the table. By the time this was half done, in came Sam Larkens with two great pails of milk, and Johnny Low followed with another. They were much too heavy for Ellen to lift, but true to her charge, she let no one come into the buttery but herself; she brought the pans to the door, where Sam filled them for her, and as each was done she set it in its place on the shelf. This took some time, for there were eight of them. She had scarce wiped up the spilt milk and finished setting the table, when Mr. Van Brunt came in.

"Good morning!" said he. "How d'ye do to-day?"

"Very well, Mr. Van Brunt."

"I wish you'd look a little redder in the face. Don't you be too busy. Where's Nancy?"

"Oh, she's busy, out with the clothes."

"Same as ever upstairs? — What are you going to do for breakfast, Ellen?"

"I don't know, Mr. Van Brunt; there isn't anything cooked in the house; we have eaten everything up."

"Cleaned out, eh? Bread and all?"

"Oh, no, not bread; there's plenty of that, but there's nothing else."

"Well never mind; — you bring me a ham and a dozen of eggs, and I'll make you a first-rate breakfast."

Ellen laughed, for this was not the first time Mr. Van Brunt had acted as cook for the family. While she got what he had asked for, and bared a place on the table for his operations, he went to the spout and washed his hands.

"Now, a sharp knife, Ellen, and the frying-pan and a dish — and that's all I want of you."

Ellen brought them, and while he was busy with the ham, she made the coffee, and set it by the side of the fire to boil; got the cream and butter, and set the bread on the table; and then set herself down to rest, and amuse herself with Mr. Van Brunt's cookery. He was no mean hand: his slices of ham were very artist-like, and frying away in the most unexceptionable manner. Ellen watched him, and laughed at him, till the ham was taken out and all the eggs broke in; then, after seeing that the coffee was right, she went upstairs to dress her grandmother — always the last thing before breakfast.

"Who's frying ham and eggs downstairs?" inquired Miss Fortune.

"Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen.

This answer was unexpected. Miss Fortune tossed her head over in a dissatisfied kind of way, and told Ellen to "tell him to be careful."

"Of what?" thought Ellen; and wisely concluded with herself not to deliver the message, very certain she should laugh if she did, and she had running in her head an indistinct notion of the command, "Honour thy father and thy mother."

Breakfast was ready, but no one there when she got down- stairs. She placed her grandmother at table, and called Nancy, who all this time had been getting the clothes out of the rinsing water and hanging them out on the line to dry; said clothes having been washed the day before by Miss Sarah Lowndes, who came there for the purpose. Ellen poured out the coffee, and then in came Mr. Van Brunt with a head of early lettuce, which he had pulled in the garden and washed at the spout. Ellen had to jump up again to get the salt and pepper and vinegar; but she always jumped willingly for Mr. Van Brunt. The meals were pleasanter during those weeks than in all the time Ellen had been in Thirlwall before; or she thought so. That sharp eye at the head of the table was pleasantly missed. They with one accord sat longer at meals; more talking and laughing went on; nobody felt afraid of being snapped up. Mr. Van Brunt praised Ellen's coffee (he had taught her how to make it), and she praised his ham and eggs. Old Mrs. Montgomery praised everything, and seemed to be in particular comfort; talked as much as she had a mind, and was respectfully attended to. Nancy was in high feather; and the clatter of knives and forks and tea-cups went on very pleasantly. But at last, chairs were pushed from the table, and work began again.

Nancy went back to her tubs. Ellen supplied her grandmother with her knitting, and filled her snuff-box; cleared the table, and put up the dishes ready for washing. Then she went into the buttery to skim the cream. This was a part of the work she liked. It was heavy lifting the pans of milk to the skimming shelf before the window, but as Ellen drew her spoon round the edge of the cream, she liked to see it wrinkle up in thick, yellow, leathery folds, showing how deep and rich it was — it looked half butter already. She knew how to take it off now, very nicely. The cream was set by in a vessel for future churning, and the milk, as each pan was skimmed, was poured down the wooden trough, at the left of the window, through which it went into a great hogshead at the lower kitchen door.

This done, Ellen went up stairs to her aunt. Dr. Gibson always came early, and she and her room must be put in apple-pie order first. It was a long, wearisome job. Ellen brought the basin for her, to wash her face and hands; then combed her hair, and put on her clean cap. That was always the first thing. The next was to make the bed; and for this Miss Fortune, weak or strong, wrapped herself up and tumbled out upon the floor. When she was comfortably placed again, Ellen had to go through a laborious dusting of the room and all the things in it, even taking a dustpan and brush to the floor, if any speck of dust or crumbs could be seen there. Every rung of every chair must be gone over, though never so clean; every article put up or put out of the way; Miss Fortune made the most of the little province of housekeeping that was left her; and a fluttering tape, escaping through the crack of the door, would have put her whole spirit topsy-turvy. When all was to her mind, and not before, she would have her breakfast, — only gruel and biscuit, or toast and tea, or some such trifle, but Ellen must prepare it, and bring it up stairs, and wait till it was eaten. And very particularly it must be prepared, and very faultlessly it must be served, or, with an impatient expression of disgust, Miss Fortune would send it down again. On the whole, Ellen always thought herself happy when this part of her day was well over.

When she got down this morning she found the kitchen in nice order, and Nancy standing by the fire in a little sort of pause, having just done the breakfast dishes.

"Well!" said Nancy — "what are you going to do now?"

"Put away these dishes, and then churn," said Ellen.

"My goodness! so you are. What's going to be for dinner, Ellen?"

"That's more than I know," said Ellen, laughing. "We have eaten up Mrs. Van Brunt's pie, and washed the dish — there's nothing but some cold potatoes."

"That won't do," said Nancy. "I tell you what, Ellen — we'll just boil pot for to-day; somebody else will send us something by to-morrow most likely."

"I don't know what you mean by 'boil pot,' " said Ellen.

"Oh, you don't know everything yet, by half. I know — I'll fix it. You just give me the things, Miss Housekeeper, that's all you've got to do; I want a piece of pork and a piece of beef, and all the vegetables you've got."

"All?" said Ellen.

"Every soul on 'em. Don't be scared, Ellen; you shall see what I can do in the way of cookery — if you don't like it you needn't eat it. What have you got in the cellar?"

"Come and see, and take what you want, Nancy; there is plenty of potatoes and carrots and onions, and beets, I believe — the turnips are all gone."

"Parsnips out in the yard, ain't there?"

"Yes, but you'll have to do with a piece of pork, Nancy; I don't know anything about beef."

While Nancy went round the cellar, gathering in her apron the various roots she wanted, Ellen uncovered the pork barrel, and, after looking a minute at the dark pickle she never loved to plunge into, bravely bared her arm, and fished up a piece of pork.

"Now, Nancy, just help me with this churn out of the cellar, will you? and then you may go."

"My goodness! it is heavy," said Nancy. "You'll have a time of it, Ellen; but I can't help you."

She went off to the garden for parsnips, and Ellen quietly put in the dasher and the cover, and began to churn. It was tiresome work. The churn was pretty full, as Nancy had said; the cream was rich and cold, and at the end of half an hour grew very stiff. It splattered and sputtered up on Ellen's face and hands, and frock and apron, and over the floor; legs and arms were both weary; but still that pitiless dasher must go up and down, hard as it might be to force it either way — she must not stop. In this state of matters she heard a pair of thick shoes come clumping down the stairs, and beheld Mr. Van Brunt.

"Here you are!" said he. "Churning! — Been long at it?"

"A good while," said Ellen, with a sigh.

"Coming?"

"I don't know when."

Mr. Van Brunt stepped to the door, and shouted for Sam Larkens. He was ordered to take the churn and bring the butter; and Ellen, very glad of a rest, went out to amuse herself with feeding the chickens, and then up stairs to see what Nancy was doing.

"Butter come?" said Nancy.

"No, Sam has taken it. How are you getting on? Oh, I am tired!"

"I'm getting on first-rate; I've got all the things in."

"In what?"

"Why, in the pot! — in a pot of water, boiling away as fast as they can; we'll have dinner directly. Hurra! who comes there?"

She jumped to the door. It was Thomas, bringing Margery's respects, and a custard-pie for Ellen.

"I declare," said Nancy, "it's a good thing to have friends, ain't it? I'll try and get some. Hollo? what's wanting? — Mr. Van Brunt's calling you, Ellen."

Ellen ran down.

"The butter's come," said he. "Now, do you know what to do with it?"

"Oh, yes," said Ellen, smiling; "Margery showed me nicely."

He brought her a pail of water from the spout, and stood by with a pleased kind of look, while she carefully lifted the cover and rinsed down the little bits of butter which stuck to it and the dasher; took out the butter with her ladle into a large wooden bowl, washed it, and finally salted it.

"Don't take too much pains," said he; "the less of the hand it gets, the better. That will do very well."

"Now, are you ready?" said Nancy, coming down stairs, — "cause dinner is. My goodness! ain't that a fine lot of butter? there's four pounds, ain't there?"

"Five," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"And as sweet as it can be," said Ellen. "Beautiful, isn't it? Yes, I'm ready as soon as I set this in the cellar and cover it up."

Nancy's dish — the pork, potatoes, carrots, beets, and cabbage, all boiled in the same pot together — was found very much to everybody's taste, except Ellen's. She made her dinner off potatoes and bread, the former of which she declared, laughing, were very porky and cabbagy; her meal would have been an extremely light one, had it not been for the custard- pie.

After dinner, new labours began. Nancy had forgotten to hang on a pot of water for the dishes; so, after putting away the eatables in the buttery, while the water was heating, Ellen warmed some gruel, and carried it, with a plate of biscuit, upstairs to her aunt. But Miss Fortune said she was tired of gruel, and couldn't eat it; she must have some milk porridge; and she gave Ellen very particular directions how to make it. Ellen sighed only once as she went down with her despised dish of gruel, and set about doing her best to fulfil her aunt's wishes. The first dish of milk she burnt; — another sigh and another trial; — better care this time had better success, and Ellen had the satisfaction to see her aunt perfectly suited with her dinner.

When she came down with the empty bowl, Nancy had a pile of dishes ready washed, and Ellen took the towel to dry them. Mrs. Montgomery, who had been in an uncommonly quiet fit all day, now laid down her knitting, and asked if Ellen would not come and read to her.

"Presently, Grandma, — as soon as I have done here."

"I know somebody that's tired," said Nancy. "I tell you what, Ellen, — you had better take to liking pork; you can't work on potatoes. I ain't tired a bit. There's somebody coming to the door again! Do run and open it, will you? my hands are wet. I wonder why folks can't come in without giving so much trouble."

It was Thomas again, with a package for Ellen, which had just come, he said, and Miss Alice thought she would like to have it directly. Ellen thanked her, and thanked him, with a face from which all signs of weariness had fled away. The parcel was sealed up, and directed in a hand she was pretty sure she knew. Her fingers burned to break the seal; but she would not open it there, neither leave her work unfinished; she went on wiping the dishes, with trembling hands and a beating heart.

"What's that?" said Nancy; "what did Thomas Grimes want? — what have you got there?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling; "something good, I guess."

"Something good? is it something to eat?"

"No," said Ellen — "I didn't mean anything to eat when I said something good; I don't think those are the best things."

To Ellen's delight, she saw that her grandmother had forgotten about the reading, and was quietly taking short naps, with her head against the chimney. So she put away the last dish, and then seized her package and flew up-stairs. She was sure it had come from Doncaster; she was right. It was a beautiful copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, — on the first leaf written, "To my little sister Ellen Montgomery, from J. H.;" and within the cover lay a letter. This letter Ellen read in the course of the next six days, at least twice as many times; and never without crying over it.

"Alice has told me," said John, "about your new troubles. There is said to be a time 'when the clouds return after the rain.' I am sorry, my little sister, this time should come to you so early. I often think of you, and wish I could be near you. Still, dear Ellie, the good Husbandman knows what his plants want; do you believe that, and can you trust him? They would have nothing but sunshine if that was good for them. He knows it is not; so there come clouds and rains, and 'stormy wind fulfilling his will.' And what is it all for? — 'Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit;' do not disappoint his purpose, Ellie. We shall have sunshine enough by-and-by — but I know it is hard for so young a one as my little sister to look much forward; so do not look forward, Ellie; look up! look off unto Jesus from all your duties, troubles, and wants; he will help you in them all. The more you look up to him, the more he will look down to you; and he especially said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me;' you see you are particularly invited."

Ellen was a long time upstairs, and when she came down, it was with red eyes.

Mrs. Montgomery was now awake, and asked for the reading again; and for three-quarters of an hour Ellen and she were quietly busy with the Bible. Nancy, meanwhile, was downstairs washing the dairy things. When her grandmother released her, Ellen had to go up to wait upon her aunt; after which, she went into the buttery, and skimmed the cream, and got the pans ready for the evening milk. By this time it was five o'clock, and Nancy came in with the basket of dry clothes; at which Ellen looked with the sorrowful consciousness that they must be sprinkled and folded by-and-by, and ironed to-morrow. It happened, however, that Jane Huff came in just then, with a quantity of hot short-cake for tea; and seeing the basket, she very kindly took the business of sprinkling and folding upon herself. This gave Ellen spirits to carry out a plan she had long had, to delight the whole family with some eggs, scrambled in Margery's fashion; after the milk was strained and put away, she went about it, while Nancy set the table. A nice bed of coals was prepared; the spider set over them; the eggs broken in, peppered and salted; and she began carefully to stir them as she had seen Margery do. But instead of acting right, the eggs maliciously stuck fast to the spider and burned. Ellen was confounded.

"How much butter did you put in?" said Mr. Van Brunt, who had come in, and stood looking on.

"Butter!" said Ellen, looking up; "oh, I forgot all about it — I ought to have put that in, oughtn't I? — I'm sorry!"

"Never mind," said Mr. Van Brunt— " 'tain't worth your being sorry about. Here Nancy — clean us off this spider, and we'll try again."

At this moment Miss Fortune was heard screaming; Ellen ran up.

"What did she want?" said Mr. Van Brunt, when she came down again.

"She wanted to know what was burning."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes."

"Well, what did she say?"

"Said I mustn't use any more eggs without asking her."

"That ain't fair play," said Mr. Van Brunt; "you and I are the head of the house now, I take it. You just use as many on 'em as you've a mind; and all you spile, I'll fetch you again from hum. That's you, Nancy! Now, Ellen, here's the spider; try it again; let's have plenty of butter in this time, and plenty of eggs, too."

This time the eggs were scrambled to a nicety, and the supper met with great favour from all parties.

Ellen's day was done when the dishes were. The whole family went early to bed. She was weary — but she could rest well. She had made her old grandmother comfortable; she had kept the peace with Nancy; she had pleased Mr. Van Brunt; she had faithfully served her aunt. Her sleep was uncrossed by a dream, untroubled by a single jar of conscience. And her awaking to another day of labour, though by no means joyful, was yet not unhopeful or unhappy.

She had a hard trial a day or two after. It was in the end of the afternoon; she had her big apron on, and was in the buttery skimming the milk, when she heard the kitchen door open, and footsteps enter the kitchen. Out went little Ellen to see who it was, and there stood Alice and old Mr. Marshman! He was going to take Alice home with him the next morning, and wanted Ellen to go too; and they had come to ask her. Ellen knew it was impossible — that is, that it would not be right, and she said so; and in spite of Alice's wistful look, and Mr. Marshman's insisting, she stood her ground. Not without some difficulty, and some glistening of the eyes. They had to give it up. Mr. Marshman then wanted to know what she meant by swallowing herself up in an apron in that sort of way? so Ellen had him into the buttery, and showed him what she had been about. He would see her skim several pans, and laughed at her prodigiously; though there was a queer look about his eyes, too, all the time. And when he went away, he held her in his arms, and kissed her again and again; and said that "some of these days he would take her away from her aunt, and she should have her no more." Ellen stood and looked after them till they were out of sight, and then went upstairs and had a good cry.

The butter-making soon became quite too much for Ellen to manage; so Jane Huff and Jenny Hitchcock were engaged to come by turns, and do the heavy part of it; all within the buttery being still left to Ellen, for Miss Fortune would have no one else go there. It was a great help to have them take even so much off her hands; and they often did some other little odd jobs for her. The milk, however, seemed to increase as fast as the days grew longer, and Ellen could not find that she was much less busy. The days were growing pleasant, too; soft airs began to come; the grass was of a beautiful green; the buds on the branches began to swell, and on some trees to put out. When Ellen had a moment of time she used to run across the chip-yard to the barn, or round the garden, or down to the brook, and drink in the sweet air, and the lovely sights, which never had seemed quite so lovely before. If once in a while she could get half an hour before tea, she used to take her book and sit down on the threshold of the front door, or on the big log under the apple-tree, in the chip-yard. In those minutes the reading was doubly sweet; or else, the loveliness of earth and sky was such, that Ellen could not take her eyes from them, till she saw Sam or Johnny coming out of the cow-house door with the pails of milk, or heard their heavy tramp over the chips — then she had to jump and run. Those were sweet half-hours. Ellen did not at first know how much reason she had to be delighted with her Pilgrim's Progress: she saw, to be sure, that it was a fine copy, well- bound, with beautiful cuts. But when she came to look further, she found all through the book, on the margin, or at the bottom of the leaves, in John's beautiful hand-writing, a great many notes; simple, short, plain, exactly what was needed to open the whole book to her, and make it of the greatest possible use and pleasure. Many things she remembered hearing from his lips when they were reading it together; there was a large part of the book where all was new; the part he had not had time to finish. How Ellen loved the book and the giver, when she found these beautiful notes, it is impossible to tell. She counted it her greatest treasure, next to her little red Bible.

XXXVI. The Brownie

In the course of time Miss Fortune showed signs of mending; and at last, towards the latter end of April, she was able to come downstairs. All parties hailed this event, for different reasons; even Nancy was growing tired of her regular life, and willing to have a change. Ellen's joy was, however, soon diminished by the terrible rummaging which took place. Miss Fortune's hands were yet obliged to lie still, but her eyes did double duty; they were never known to be idle in the best of times, and it seemed to Ellen now as if they were taking amends for all their weeks of forced rest. Oh, those eyes! Dust was found where Ellen never dreamed of looking for any — things were said to be dreadfully "in the way" where she had never found it out — disorder and dirt were groaned over, where Ellen did not know the fact, or was utterly ignorant how to help it — waste was suspected where none had been, and carelessness charged where rather praise was due. Impatient to have things to her mind, and as yet unable to do anything herself, Miss Fortune kept Nancy and Ellen running, till both wished her back in bed; and even Mr. Van Brunt grumbled, that "to pay Ellen for having grown white and poor, her aunt was going to work the little flesh she had left off her bones." It was rather hard to bear, just when she was looking for ease, too — her patience and temper were more tried than in all those weeks before. But if there was small pleasure in pleasing her aunt, Ellen did earnestly wish to please God: she struggled against ill-temper, prayed against it, and, though she often blamed herself in secret, she did so go through that week as to call forth Mr. Van Brunt's admiration, and even to stir a little the conscience of her aunt. Mr. Van Brunt comforted her with the remark, that "it is darkest just before day;" and so it proved. Before the week was at an end, Miss Fortune began, as she expressed it, to "take hold:" Jenny Hitchcock and Jane Huff were excused from any more butter- making; Nancy was sent away; Ellen's labours were much lightened; and the house was itself again.

The third of May came. For the first time in near two months, Ellen found in the afternoon she could be spared awhile; there was no need to think twice what she would do with her leisure. Perhaps Margery could tell her something of Alice! Hastily and joyfully she exchanged her working frock for a merino, put on nice shoes and stockings, and ruffle again, and taking her bonnet and gloves to put on out of doors, away she ran. Who can tell how pleasant it seemed, after so many weeks, to be able to walk abroad again, and to walk to the mountain! Ellen snuffed the sweet air, skipped on the green sward, picked nosegays of grass and dandelions, and at last, unable to contain herself, set off to run. Fatigue soon brought this to a stop; then she walked more leisurely on, enjoying. It was a lovely spring day. Ellen's eyes were gladdened by it; she felt thankful in her heart that God had made everything so beautiful; she thought it was pleasant to think He had made them, pleasant to see in them everywhere so much of the wisdom, and power, and goodness, of Him she looked up to with joy as her best friend. She felt quietly happy, and sure He would take care of her. Then a thought of Alice came into her head; she set off to run again, and kept it up this time till she got to the old house and ran round the corner. She stopped at the shed door, and went through into the lower kitchen.

"Why, Miss Ellen, dear!" exclaimed Margery — "if that isn't you! Aren't you come in the very nick of time! How do you do? I am very glad to see you — uncommon glad, to be sure. What witch told you to come here just now? Run in; run into the parlour, and see what you'll find there."

"Has Alice come back?" cried Ellen. But Margery only laughed and said — "Run in!"

Up the steps, through the kitchen, and across the hall, Ellen ran — burst open the parlour door — and was in Alice's arms. There were others in the room, but Ellen did not seem to know it, clinging to her, and holding her in a fast, glad embrace, till Alice bade her look up, and attend to somebody else. And then she was seized round the neck by little Ellen Chauncey! and then came her mother, and then Miss Sophia. The two children were overjoyed to see each other, while their joy was touching to see, from the shade of sorrow in the one, and of sympathy in the other. Ellen was scarcely less glad to see kind Mrs. Chauncey; Miss Sophia's greeting, too, was very affectionate. But Ellen returned to Alice, and rested herself in her lap, with one arm round her neck, the other hand being in little Ellen's grasp.

"And now you are happy, I suppose?" said Miss Sophia, when they were thus placed.

"Very," said Ellen, smiling.

"Ah, but you'll be happier by-and-by," said Ellen Chauncey.

"Hush, Ellen!" said Miss Sophia; — "what curious things children are! — You didn't expect to find us all here, did you, Ellen Montgomery?"

"No, indeed, Ma'am," said Ellen, drawing Alice's cheek nearer for another kiss.

"We have but just come, Ellie," said her sister. "I should not have been long in finding you out. My child, how thin you have got."

"Oh, I'll grow fat again now," said Ellen.

"How is Miss Fortune?"

"Oh, she is up again and well."

"Have you any reason to expect your father home, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, Ma'am; — aunt Fortune says perhaps he will be here in a week."

"Then you are very happy in looking forward, aren't you?" said Miss Sophia, not noticing the cloud that had come over Ellen's brow.

Ellen hesitated— coloured — coloured more — and finally, with a sudden motion, hid her face against Alice.

"When did he sail, Ellie?" said Alice, gravely.

"In the Duc d'Orleans — he said he would —"

"When?"

"The fifth of April. — Oh, I can't help it!" exclaimed Ellen, failing in the effort to control herself; she clasped Alice as if she feared even then the separating hand. Alice bent her head down, and whispered words of comfort.

"Mamma!" said little Ellen Chauncey, under her breath, and looking solemn to the last degree — "don't Ellen want to see her father?"

"She's afraid that he may take her away where she will not be with Alice any more; and you know she has no mother to go to."

"Oh!" said Ellen, with a very enlightened face; — "but he won't, will he?"

"I hope not; I think not."

Cheered again, the little girl drew near, and silently took one of Ellen's hands.

"We shall not be parted, Ellie," said Alice — "you need not fear. If your father takes you away from your aunt Fortune, I think it will be only to give you to me. You need not fear yet."

"Mamma says so too, Ellen," said her little friend.

This was strong consolation. Ellen looked up and smiled.

"Now come with me," said Ellen Chauncey, pulling her hand — "I want you to show me something; let's go down to the garden— come, exercise is good for you."

"No, no," said her mother smiling — "Ellen has had exercise enough lately; you mustn't take her down to the garden now; you would find nothing there. Come here!"

A long whisper followed, which seemed to satisfy little Ellen, and she ran out of the room. Some time passed in pleasant talk and telling all that had happened since they had seen each other; then little Ellen came back and called Ellen Montgomery to the glass door, saying she wanted her to look at something.

"It is only a horse we brought with us," said Miss Sophia. "Ellen thinks it is a great beauty, and can't rest till you have seen it."

Ellen went accordingly to the door. There, to be sure, was Thomas before it, holding a pony bridled and saddled. He was certainly a very pretty, little creature; brown all over except one white forefoot; his coat shone, it was so glossy; his limbs were fine; his eye gentle and bright; his tail long enough to please the children. He stood as quiet as a lamb, whether Thomas held him or not.

"Oh, what a beauty!" said Ellen — "what a lovely little horse!"

"Ain't he!" said Ellen Chauncey — "and he goes so beautifully besides, and never starts nor nothing; and he is as good- natured as a little dog."

"As a good-natured little dog, she means, Ellen," said Miss Sophia — "there are little dogs of very various character."

"Well, he looks good-natured," said Ellen. "What a pretty head! — and what a beautiful new side-saddle, and all! I never saw such a dear little horse in my life. Is it yours, Alice?"

"No," said Alice, "it is a present to a friend of Mr. Marshman's."

"She'll be a very happy friend, I should think," said Ellen.

"That's what I said," said Ellen Chauncey, dancing up and down — "that's what I said. I said you'd be happier by-and-by, didn't I?"

"I?" said Ellen, colouring.

"Yes, you — you are the friend it is for; it's for you, it's for you! You are Grandpa's friend, aren't you?" she repeated, springing upon Ellen, and hugging her up in an ecstasy of delight.

"But it isn't really for me, is it?" said Ellen, now looking almost pale — "oh, Alice!"

"Come, come," said Miss Sophia — "what will Papa say if I tell him you received his present so? — come, hold up your head! Put on your bonnet and try him — come, Ellen! let's see you."

Ellen did not know whether to cry or laugh — till she mounted the pretty pony; that settled the matter. Not Ellen Chauncey's unspeakable delight was as great as her own. She rode slowly up and down before the house, and once a-going would not have known how to stop if she had not recollected that the pony had travelled thirty miles that day, and must be tired. Ellen took not another turn after that. She jumped down, and begged Thomas to take the tenderest care of him; patted his neck; ran into the kitchen to beg of Margery a piece of bread to give him from her hand; examined the new stirrup and housings, and the pony all over a dozen times; and after watching him as Thomas led him off, till he was out of sight, finally came back into the house with a face of marvellous contentment. She tried to fashion some message of thanks for the kind giver of the pony; but she wanted to express so much that no words would do. Mrs. Chauncey, however, smiled, and assured her she knew exactly what to say.

"That pony has been destined for you, Ellen," she said, "this year and more; but my father waited to have him thoroughly well broken. You need not be afraid of him! he is perfectly gentle and well-trained; if he had not been sure of that, my father would never have sent him — though Mr. John is making such a horsewoman of you."

"I wish I could thank him," said Ellen, "but I don't know how."

"What will you call him, Ellen," said Miss Sophia. "My father has dubbed him 'George Marshman;' — he says you will like that, as my brother is such a favourite of yours."

"He didn't really, did he?" said Ellen, looking from Sophia to Alice. "I needn't call him that, need I?"

"Not unless you like," said Miss Sophia, laughing — "you may change it, but what will you call him?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, very gravely — "he must have a name, to be sure."

"But why don't you call him that?" said Ellen Chauncey; "George is a very pretty name — I like that. I should call him 'Uncle George.' "

"Oh, I couldn't!" said Ellen — "I couldn't call him so; I shouldn't like it at all."

"George Washington?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I guess I wouldn't!"

"Why, is it too good, or not good enough?" said Miss Sophia.

"Too good! A great deal too good for a horse. I wouldn't for anything."

"How would Brandywine do, then, since you are so patriotic?" said Miss Sophia, looking amused.

"What is 'patriotic?' " said Ellen.

"A patriot, Ellen," said Alice, smiling — "is one who has a strong and true love for his country."

"I don't know whether I am patriotic," said Ellen, "but I won't call him Brandywine. Why, Miss Sophia?"

"No, I wouldn't either," said Ellen Chauncey; — "it isn't a pretty name. Call him Seraphine! — like Miss Angell's pony — that's pretty."

"No, no — 'Seraphine!' nonsense!" said Miss Sophia; — "call him Benedict Arnold, Ellen; and then it will be a relief to your mind to whip him."

"Whip him!" said Ellen; "I don't want to whip him, I am sure; and I should be afraid too, besides."

"Hasn't John taught you that lesson, yet?" said the young lady; "he is perfect in it himself. Do you remember, Alice, the chastising he gave that fine black horse of ours we called the 'Black Prince' — a beautiful creature he was — more that a year ago? My conscience! he frightened me to death."

"I remember," said Alice; "I remember I could not look on."

"What did he do that for?" said Ellen.

"What's the matter, Ellen Montgomery?" said Miss Sophia, laughing; "where did you get that long face? Are you thinking of John or the horse?"

Ellen's eyes turned to Alice.

"My dear Ellen," said Alice, smiling, though she spoke seriously — "it was necessary; it sometimes is necessary to do such things. You do not suppose John would do it cruelly or unnecessarily?"

Ellen's face shortened considerably.

"But what had the horse been doing?"

"He had not been doing anything; he would not do — that was the trouble; he was as obstinate as a mule."

"My dear Ellen," said Alice, "it was no such terrible matter as Sophia's words have made you believe. It was a clear case of obstinacy. The horse was resolved to have his own way, and not do what his rider required of him; it was necessary that either the horse or the man should give up; and as John has no fancy for giving up, he carried his point — partly by management, partly, I confess, by a judicious use of the whip and spur; but there was no such furious flagellation as Sophia seems to mean, and which a good horse-man would scarce be guilty of."

"A very determined 'use,' " said Miss Sophia. "I advise you, Ellen, not to trust your pony to Mr. John; he will have no mercy on him."

"Sophia is laughing, Ellen," said Alice. "You and I know John, do we not?"

"Then he did right?" said Ellen.

"Perfectly right — except in mounting the horse at all, which I never wished him to do. No one on the place would ride him."

"He carried John beautifully all the day after that though," said Miss Sophia, "and I dare say he might have ridden him to the end of the chapter if you would have let papa give him to him. But he was of no use to anybody else. Howard couldn't manage him — I suppose he was too lazy. Papa was delighted enough that day to have given John anything. And I can tell you, Black Prince the second is spirited enough; I am afraid you won't like him."

"John has a present of a horse, too, Ellen," said Alice.

"Has he? — from Mr. Marshman?"

"Yes."

"I'm very glad! Oh, what rides we can take now, can't we, Alice? We shan't want to borrow Jenny's pony any more. What kind of a horse is Mr. John's?"

"Black — perfectly black."

"Is he handsome?"

"Very."

"Is his name Black Prince?"

"Yes."

Ellen began to consider the possibility of calling her pony the Brown Princess, or by some similar title — the name of John's two chargers seeming the very most striking a horse could be known by.

"Don't forget, Alice," said Mrs. Chauncey, "to tell John to stop for him on his way home. It will give us a chance of seeing him, which is not a common pleasure, in any sense of the term."

They went back to the subject of the name, which Ellen pondered with uneasy visions of John and her poor pony flitting through her head. The little horse was very hard to fit, or else Ellen's taste was very hard to suit; a great many names were proposed, none of which were to her mind, Charley, and Cherry, and Brown, and Dash, and Jumper — but she said they had "John" and "Jenny" already in Thirlwall, and she didn't want a "Charley." "Brown" was not pretty, and she hoped he wouldn't "dash" at anything, nor be a "jumper" when she was on his back. "Cherry" she mused awhile about, but it wouldn't do.

"Call him Fairy," said Ellen Chauncey — "that's a pretty name. Mamma says she used to have a horse called Fairy. Do, Ellen! call him Fairy."

"No," said Ellen; "he can't have a lady's name — that's the trouble."

"I have it, Ellen!" said Alice — "I have a name for you — call him the Brownie."

" 'The Brownie?' " said Ellen.

"Yes — brownies are male fairies; and brown is his colour; so how will that do?"

It was soon decided that it would do very well. It was simple, descriptive, and not common: Ellen made up her mind that 'The Brownie' should be his name. No sooner given, it began to grow dear. Ellen's face quitted its look of anxious gravity, and came out into the broadest and fullest satisfaction. She never showed joy boisterously; but there was a light in her eye which brought many a smile into those of her friends as they sat round the tea-table.

After tea it was necessary to go home, much to the sorrow of all parties. Ellen knew, however, it would not do to stay; Miss Fortune was but just got well, and perhaps already thinking herself ill-used. She put on her things.

"Are you going to take your pony home with you?" said Miss Sophia.

"Oh, no, Ma'am, not to-night. I must see about a place for him; and, besides, poor fellow, he is tired, I dare say."

"I do believe you would take more care of his legs than of your own," said Miss Sophia.

"But you'll be here to-morrow early, Ellie?"

"Oh, won't I?" exclaimed Ellen, as she sprang to Alice's neck — "as early as I can, at least; I don't know when Aunt Fortune will have done with me."

The way home seemed as nothing. If she was tired, she did not know it. The Brownie! the Brownie! — the thought of him carried her as cleverly over the ground as his very back would have done. She came running into the chip-yard.

"Hollo!" cried Mr. Van Brunt, who was standing under the apple-tree, cutting a piece of wood for the tongue of the ox- cart, which had been broken — "I'm glad to see you can run. I was afeard you'd hardly be able to stand by this time; but there you come like a young deer!"

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, coming close up to him, and speaking in an undertone— "you don't know what a present I have had! What do you think, Mr. Marshman has sent me from Ventnor?"

"Couldn't guess," said Mr. Van Brunt, resting the end of his pole on the log, and chipping at it with his hatchet — "never guessed anything in my life — what is it?"

"He has sent me the most beautiful little horse you ever saw! — for my own — for me to ride; and a beautiful saddle and bridle; you never saw anything so beautiful, Mr. Van Brunt; he is all brown, with one white fore-foot, and I've named him the 'Brownie;' and oh, Mr. Van Brunt! Do you think Aunt Fortune will let him come here?"

Mr. Van Brunt chipped away at his pole, looking very good- humoured.

"Because you know I couldn't have half the good of him if he had to stay away from me up on the mountain. I shall want to ride him every day. Do you think aunt Fortune will let him be kept here, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I guess she will," said Mr. Van Brunt, soberly, and his tone said to Ellen, "I will, if she don't."

"Then will you ask her and see about it, if you please, Mr. Van Brunt! I'd rather you would. And you won't have him put to plough or anything, will you, Mr. Van Brunt? Miss Sophia says it would spoil him."

"I'll plough myself first," said Mr. Van Brunt, with his half- smile; — "there shan't be a hair of his coat turned the wrong way. I'll see to him — as if he was a prince."

"Oh, thank you, dear Mr. Van Brunt! How good you are! Then I shall not speak about him at all till you do, remember. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt!"

Ellen ran in. She got a chiding for her long stay, but it fell upon ears that could not hear. The Brownie came like a shield between her and all trouble. She smiled at her aunt's hard words as if they had been sugar-plums. And her sleep that night might have been prairie land, for the multitude of horses of all sorts that chased through it.

"Have you heerd the news?" said Mr. Van Brunt, when he had got his second cup of coffee at breakfast next morning.

"No," said Miss Fortune. "What news?"

"There ain't as much news as there used to be when I was young," said the old lady; "seems to me I don't hear nothing now-a-days."

"You might if you'd keep your ears open, mother. What news, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Why, here's Ellen's got a splendid little horse sent her a present from some of her great friends — Mr. Marshchalk—"

"Mr. Marshman," said Ellen.

"Mr. Marshman. There ain't the like in the country, as I've heerd tell; and I expect next thing she'll be flying over all the fields and fences like smoke."

There was a meaning silence. Ellen's heart beat.

"What's going to be done with him, do you suppose?" said Miss Fortune. Her look said, "If you think I am coming round, you are mistaken."

"Humph!" said Mr. Van Brunt, slowly — "I s'pose he'll eat grass in the meadow, and there'll be a place fixed for him in the stables."

"Not in my stables," said the lady, shortly.

"No — in mine," said Mr. Van Brunt, half-smiling; "and I'll settle with you about it by-and-by — when we square up our accounts."

Miss Fortune was very much vexed, Ellen could see that; but she said no more, good or bad, about the matter; so the Brownie was allowed to take quiet possession of meadow and stables, to his mistress's unbounded joy.

Anybody that knew Mr. Van Brunt would have been surprised to hear what he said that morning; for he was thought to be quite as keen a looker after the main chance as Miss Fortune herself, only somehow it was never laid against him as it was against her. However that might be, it was plain he took pleasure in keeping his word about the pony. Ellen herself couldn't have asked more careful kindness for her favourite than the Brownie had from every man and boy about the farm.

Chapter XXXVII

Timothy and his master.

Captain Montgomery did not come the next week, nor the week after; and what is more, the Duck Dorleens, as his sister called the ship in which he had taken passage, was never heard of from that time. She sailed duly on the fifth of April, as they learnt from the papers; but whatever became of her, she never reached port. It remained a doubt whether Captain Montgomery had actually gone in her; and Ellen had many weeks of anxious watching, first for herself and then for news of him, in case he were still in France. None ever came. Anxiety gradually faded into uncertainty; and by midsummer, no doubt of the truth remained in any mind. If Captain Montgomery had been alive, he would certainly have written, if not before, on learning the fate of the vessel in which he had told his friends to expect him home.

Ellen rather felt that she was an orphan, than that she had lost her father. She had never learned to love him, he had never given her much cause. Comparatively a small portion of her life had been passed in his society, and she looked back to it as the least agreeable of all; and it had not been possible for her to expect with pleasure his return to America, and visit to Thirlwall — she dreaded it. Life had nothing now worse for her than a separation from Alice and John Humphreys; she feared her father might take her away, and put her in some dreadful boarding-school, or carry her about the world wherever he went, a wretched wanderer from everything good and pleasant. The knowledge of his death had less pain for her than the removal of this fear brought relief.

Ellen felt sometimes, soberly and sadly, that she was thrown upon the wide world now. To all intents and purposes so she had been a year and three-quarters before; but it was something to have a father and mother living, even on the other side of the world. Now, Miss Fortune was her sole guardian and owner. However, she could hardly realize that, with Alice and John so near at hand. Without reasoning much about it, she felt tolerably secure that they would take care of her interests, and make good their claim to interfere if ever need were.

Ellen and her little horse grew more and more fond of each other. This friendship, no doubt, was a comfort to the Brownie; but to his mistress it made a large part of the pleasure of her every-day life. To visit him was her delight, at all hours, early and late; and it is to the Brownie's credit that he always seemed as glad to see her as she was to see him. At any time Ellen's voice would bring him from the far end of the meadow where he was allowed to run. He would come trotting up at her call, and stand to have her scratch his forehead or pat him and talk to him; and though the Brownie could not answer her speeches, he certainly seemed to hear them with pleasure. Then throwing up his head he would bound off, take a turn in the field, and come back again to stand as still as a lamb as long as she stayed there herself. Now and then, when she had a little more time, she would cross the fence and take a walk with him; and there, with his nose just at her elbow, wherever she went the Brownie went after her. After a while there was no need that she should call him; if he saw or heard her at a distance it was enough; he would come running up directly. Ellen loved him dearly.

She gave him more proof of it than words and caresses. Many were the apples and scraps of bread hoarded up for him; and if these failed, Ellen sometimes took him a little salt, to show him that he was not forgotten. There were not, certainly, many scraps left at Miss Fortune's table; nor apples to be had at home for such a purpose, except what she gathered up from the poor ones that were left under the trees for the hogs; but Ellen had other sources of supply. Once she had begged from Jenny Hitchcook a waste bit that she was going to throw away; Jenny found what she wanted to do with it, and after that, many a basket of apples and many a piece of cold short-cake was set by for her. Margery, too, remembered the Brownie when disposing of her odds and ends; likewise did Mrs. Van Brunt; so that among them all, Ellen seldom wanted something to give him. Mr. Marshman did not know what happiness he was bestowing when he sent her that little horse. Many, many were the hours of enjoyment she had upon his back. Ellen went nowhere but upon the Brownie. Alice made her a riding-dress of dark gingham; and it was the admiration of the country to see her trotting or cantering by, all alone, and always looking happy. Ellen soon found that if the Brownie was to do her much good, she must learn to saddle and bridle him herself. This was very awkward at first, but there was no help for it. Mr. Van Brunt showed her how to manage, and after a while it became quite easy. She used to call the Brownie to the bar-place, put the bridle on, and let him out; and then he would stand motionless before her while she fastened the saddle on; looking round sometimes, as if to make sure that it was herself, and giving a little kind of satisfied neigh when he saw that it was. Ellen's heart began to dance as soon as she felt him moving under her; and once off and away on the docile and spirited little animal, over the roads, through the lanes, up and down the hills, her horse her only companion, but having the most perfect understanding with him, both Ellen and the Brownie cast care to the winds. "I do believe," said Mr. Van Brunt, "that critter would a leetle rather have Ellen on his back than not." He was the Brownie's next best friend. Miss Fortune never said anything to him or of him.

Ellen, however, reaped a reward for her faithful steadiness to duty while her aunt was ill. Things were never after that as they had been before. She was looked on with a different eye. To be sure, Miss Fortune tasked her as much as ever, spoke as sharply, was as ready to scold if anything went wrong; — all that was just as it used to be; but beneath all that, Ellen felt with great satisfaction that she was trusted and believed. She was no longer an interloper, in everybody's way; she was not watched and suspected; her aunt treated her as one of the family, and a person to be depended on. It was a very great comfort to little Ellen's life. Miss Fortune even owned that "she believed she was an honest child, and meant to do right" — a great deal from her; Miss Fortune was never over forward to give any one the praise of honesty. Ellen now went out and came in without feeling she was an alien. And though her aunt was always bent on keeping herself and everybody else at work, she did not now show any particular desire for breaking off Ellen from her studies; and was generally willing, when the work was pretty well done up, that she should saddle the Brownie, and be off to Alice or Mrs. Vawse.

Though Ellen was happy, it was a sober kind of happiness — the sun shining behind a cloud. And if others thought her so, it was not because she laughed loudly or wore a merry face.

"I can't help but think," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "that that child has something more to make her happy that what she gets in this world."

There was a quilting party gathered that afternoon at Mrs. Van Brunt's house.

"There is no doubt of that, neighbour," said Mrs. Vawse; "nobody ever found enough here to make him happy yet."

"Well, I don't want to see a prettier girl that that," said Mrs. Lowndes; "you'll never catch her, working at home or riding along on that handsome little critter of her'n, that she han't a pleasant look and a smile for you, and as pretty behaved as can be. I never see her look sorrowful but once."

"Ain't that a pretty horse?" said Mimy Lawson.

"I've seen her look sorrowful, though," said Sarah Lowndes; "I've been up at the house when Miss Fortune was hustling everybody round, and as sharp as vinegar, and you'd think it would take Job's patience to stand it — and for all there wouldn't be a bit of crossness in that child's face — she'd go round, and not say a word that wasn't just so; you'd a thought her bread was all spread with honey, and everybody knows it ain't. I don't see how she could do it, for my part: I know I couldn't."

"Ah, neighbour," said Mrs.Vawse, "Ellen looks higher than to please her aunt; she tries to please her God; and one can bear people's words or looks, when one is pleasing Him. She is a dear child!"

"And there's 'Brahm," said Mrs. Van Brunt; "he thinks the hull world of her. I never see him take so to any one. There ain't an airthly thing he wouldn't do to please her. If she was his own child, I've no idee he could set her up more than he does."

"Very well!" said Nancy, coming up — "good reason! Ellen don't set him up any, does she? I wish you'd just seen her once, the time when Miss Fortune was a-bed — the way she'd look out for him! Mr. Van Brunt's as good as at home in that house, sure enough; whoever's down-stairs."

"Bless her dear little heart!" said his mother.

"A good name is better than precious ointment."

August had come, and John was daily expected home. One morning Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, up to the elbows in making a rich fall cheese; Ellen was busy upstairs, when her aunt shouted to her to "come and see what was all that splashing and crashing in the garden." Ellen ran out.

"Oh, Aunt Fortune," said she — "Timothy has broken down the fence, and got in."

"Timothy!" said Miss Fortune — "what Timothy?"

"Why, Timothy, the near ox," said Ellen, laughing; "he has knocked down the fence over there where it was low, you know."

"The near ox?" said Miss Fortune — "I wish he warn't quite, so near this time. Look! he'll be at the corn, and over every thing. Run and drive him into the barnyard, can't you?"

But Ellen stood still, and shook her head. "He wouldn't stir for me," she said; "and besides, I am as afraid of that ox as can be. If it was Clover, I wouldn't mind."

"But he'll have every bit of the corn eaten up in five minutes! Where's Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I heard him say he was going home till noon," said Ellen.

"And Sam Larkens is gone to the mill — and Johnny Low is laid up with the shakes. Very careless of Mr. Van Brunt!" said Miss Fortune, drawing her arms out of the cheese-tub, and wringing off the whey — "I wish he'd mind his own oxen. There was no business to be a low place in the fence! Well come along! you ain't afraid with me, I suppose."

Ellen followed, at a respectful distance. Miss Fortune, however, feared the face of neither man nor beast; she pulled up a bean pole, and made such a show of fight, that Timothy, after looking at her a little, fairly turned tail, and marched out at the breach he had made. Miss Fortune went after, and rested not till she had driven him quite into the meadow; — get him into the barnyard she could not.

"You ain't worth a straw, Ellen!" said she, when she came back; "couldn't you ha' headed him, and driv' him into the barnyard? Now that plaguy beast will just be back again by the time I get well to work. He han't done much mischief yet — there's Mr. Van Brunt's salary he's made a pretty mess of — I'm glad on't! He should ha' put potatoes, as I told him. I don't know what's to be done — I can't be leaving my cheese to run and mind the garden every minute, if it was full of Timothys; and you'd be scared if a mosquito flew at you; you had better go right off for Mr. Van Brunt, and fetch him straight home — serve him right! he has no business to leave things so. Run along, and don't let the grass grow under your feet!"

Ellen wisely thought her pony's feet would do the business quicker. She ran and put on her gingham dress, and saddled and bridled the Brownie in three minutes; but, before setting off, she had to scream to her aunt that Timothy was just coming round the corner of the barn again; and Miss Fortune rushed out to the garden as Ellen and the Brownie walked down to the gate.

The weather was fine, and Ellen thought with herself, it was an ill wind that blew no good. She was getting a nice ride in the early morning, that she would not have had but for Timothy's lawless behaviour. To ride at that time was particularly pleasant and rare; and, forgetting how she had left poor Miss Fortune, between the ox and the cheese-tub, Ellen and the Brownie cantered on in excellent spirits.

She looked in vain, as she passed his grounds, to see Mr. Van Brunt in the garden or about the barn. She went on to the little gate of the courtyard, dismounted, and led the Brownie in. Here she was met by Nancy, who came running from the way of the barnyard.

"How d'ye do, Nancy?" said Ellen; — "where's Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Goodness, Ellen! — what do you want?"

"I want Mr. Van Brunt — where is he?"

"Mr. Van Brunt! he's out in the barn; but he's used himself up."

"Used himself up; what do you mean?"

"Why, he's fixed himself in fine style — he's fell though the trapdoor, and broke his leg."

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen — "he hasn't! How could he?"

"Why, easy enough, if he didn't look where he was going — there's so much hay on the floor. But it's a pretty bad place to fall."

"How do you know his leg is broken?"

" 'Cause he says so, and anybody with eyes can see it must be. I'm going over to Hitchcock's to get somebody to come and help in with him; for you know me and Mrs. Van Brunt ain't Samsons."

"Where is Mrs. Van Brunt?"

"She 's out there, in a terrible to-do."

Nancy sped on to the Hitchcock's; and, greatly frightened and distressed, Ellen ran over to the barn, trembling like an aspen. Mr. Van Brunt was lying in the lower floor, just where he had fallen, one leg doubled under him in such a way as left no doubt it must be broken. He had lain there some time before any one found him; and on trying to change his position, when he saw his mother's distress, he had fainted from pain. She sat by, weeping most bitterly. Ellen could bear but one look at Mr. Van Brunt — that one sickened her. She went up to his poor mother, and, getting down on her knees by her side, put both arms round her neck.

"Don't cry so, dear Mrs. Van Brunt" (Ellen was crying so she could hardly speak herself), — "pray don't do so! — he'll be better — oh, what shall we do?"

"Oh, ain't it dreadful!" said poor Mrs. Van Brunt; — "oh,'Brahm, 'Brahm! My son, my son! — the best son that ever was to me — oh, to see him there; ain't it dreadful? he's dying!"

"Oh, no, he isn't," said Ellen — "oh, no, he isn't! what shall we do, Mrs. Van Brunt? — what shall we do?"

"The doctor!" said Mrs. Van Brunt — "he said 'send for the doctor;' — but I can't go, and there's nobody to send. Oh, he'll die! Oh, my dear 'Brahm! I wish it was me!"

"What doctor?" said Ellen — "I'll find somebody to go — what doctor?"

"Dr. Gibson, he said; but he's away off to Thirlwall; and he's been lying here all the morning a'ready! — nobody found him — he couldn't make us hear. Oh, isn't it dreadful!"

"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Van Brunt," said Ellen, pressing her cheek to the poor old lady's; — "he'll be better — he will! I've got the Brownie here and I'll ride over to Mrs. Hitchcock's and get somebody to go right away for the doctor. I won't be long — we'll have him here in a little while! don't feel so bad!"

"You're a dear blessed darling!" said the old lady, hugging and kissing her — "if ever there was one. Make haste, dear, if you love him! — he loves you."

Ellen stayed but to give another kiss. Trembling so that she could hardly stand, she made her way back to the house, led out the Brownie again, and set off, full speed for Mrs. Hitchcock's. It was well her pony was sure-footed, for, letting the reins hang, Ellen bent over his neck, crying bitterly, only urging him now and then to greater speed; till at length the feeling that she had something to do came to her help. She straightened herself, gathered up her reins, and by the time she reached Mrs. Hitchcock's, was looking calm again, though very sad and very earnest. She did not alight, but stopped before the door, and called Jenny. Jenny came out, expressing her pleasure.

"Dear Jenny," said Ellen — "isn't there somebody here that will go right off to Thirlwall for Dr. Gibson? Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg, I am afraid, and wants the doctor directly."

"Why, dear Ellen," said Jenny, "the men have just gone off this minute to Mrs. Van Brunt's. Nancy was here for them to come and help move him in a great hurry. How did it happen? I couldn't get anything out of Nancy."

"He fell down through the trap-door. But, dear Jenny, isn't there anybody about? Oh," said Ellen, clasping her hands — "I want somebody to go for the doctor so much!"

"There ain't a living soul!" said Jenny; "two of the men and all the teams are 'way on the other side of the hill, ploughing, and pa, and June, and Black Bill have gone over, as I told you; but I don't believe they'll be enough. Where's his leg broke?"

"I didn't meet them," said Ellen; "I came away only a little while after Nancy."

"They went 'cross lots, I guess — that's how it was; and that's the way Nancy got the start of you."

"What shall I do?" said Ellen. She could not bear to wait till they returned; if she rode back she might miss them again, besides the delay; and then a man on foot would make a long journey of it. Jenny told her of a house or two where she might try for a messenger; but they were strangers to her — she could not make up her mind to ask such a favour of them. Her friends were too far out of the way.

"I'll go myself!" she said, suddenly. "Tell 'em, dear Jenny, will you, that I have gone for Dr. Gibson, and that I'll bring him back as quick as ever I can. I know the road to Thirlwall."

"But Ellen! you mustn't," said Jenny; "I am afraid to have you go all that way alone. Wait till the men come back — they won't be long."

"No, I can't, Jenny," said Ellen, — "I can't wait; I must go. You needn't be afraid. Tell 'em I'll be as quick as I can."

"But see, Ellen!" cried Jenny as she was moving off, — "I don't like to have you!"

"I must, Jenny. Never mind."

"But see, Ellen!" cried Jenny again, — "if you will go — if you don't find Dr. Gibson, just get Dr. Marshchalk — he's every bit as good, and some folks think he's better; — he'll do just as well. Good-bye!"

Ellen nodded and rode off. There was a little fluttering of the heart at taking so much upon herself; she had never been to Thirlwall but once since the first time she saw it. But she thought of Mr. Van Brunt, suffering for help which could not be obtained, and it was impossible for her to hesitate. "I am sure I am doing right," she thought; "and what is there to be afraid of? If I ride two miles alone, why shouldn't I four? And I am doing right — God will take care of me." Ellen earnestly asked him to do so; and after that she felt pretty easy. "Now, dear Brownie," said she, patting his neck, — "you and I have work to do to-day; behave like a good little horse as you are." The Brownie answered with a little cheerful kind of neigh, as much as to say, Never fear me! — They trotted on nicely.

But nothing could help that's being a disagreeable ride. Do what she would, Ellen felt a little afraid when she found herself on a long piece of road where she had never been alone before. There were not many houses on the way; the few there were looked strange. Ellen did not know exactly where she was, or how near the end of her journey; it seemed a long one. She felt rather lonely; a little shy of meeting people, and yet a little unwilling to have the intervals between them so very long. She repeated to herself, "I am doing right — God will take care of me." Still there was a nervous trembling at heart. Sometimes she would pat her pony's neck, and say, "Trot on, dear Brownie, we'll soon be there!" — by way of cheering herself: for certainly the Brownie needed no cheering, and was trotting on bravely. Then the thought of Mr. Van Brunt, as she had seen him lying on the barn floor, made her feel sick and miserable; many tears fell during her ride, when she remembered him. "Heaven will be a good place," thought little Ellen, as she went; "there will be no sickness, no pain, no sorrow; but Mr. Van Brunt — I wonder if he is fit to go to heaven?" This was a new matter of thought and uneasiness, not now for the first time, in Ellen's mind; and so the time passed, till she crossed the bridge over the little river, and saw the houses of Thirlwall stretching away in the distance. Then she felt comfortable.

Long before, she had bethought her that she did not know where to find Dr. Gibson, and had forgotten to ask Jenny. For one instant Ellen drew bridle, but it was too far to go back, and she recollected anybody could tell her where the doctor lived. When she got to Thirlwall, however, Ellen found that she did not like to ask anybody. She remembered her old friend Mrs. Forbes, of the Star inn, and resolved she would go there, in the first place. She rode slowly up the street, looking carefully till she came to the house. There was no mistaking it; there was the very same big star over the front door, that had caught her eye from the coach-window, and there was the very same boy or man, Sam, lounging on the sidewalk. Ellen reigned up, and asked him to ask Mrs. Forbes if she would be so good as to come out to her for one minute. Sam gave her a long Yankee look and disappeared, coming back again directly with the landlady.

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Forbes?" said Ellen, holding out her hand; "don't you know me? I am Ellen Montgomery — that you were so kind to, and gave me bread and milk when I first came here — Miss Fortune's —"

"Oh, bless your dear little heart!" cried the landlady; "don't I know you! and ain't I glad to see you! I must have a kiss. Bless you! I couldn't mistake you in Jerusalem; but the sun was in my eyes, in that way I was a'most blind. But ain't you grown, though! Forget you? I guess I han't! There's one o' your friends wouldn't let me do that in a hurry. If I han't seen you, I've heered on you. But what are you sitting there in the sun for? Come in — come in — and I'll give you something better than bread and milk this time. Come! jump down."

"Oh, I can't, Mrs. Forbes," said Ellen, "I am in a great hurry; Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg, and I want to find the doctor."

"Mr. Van Brunt!" cried the landlady. "Broken his leg! The land's sakes! how did he do that? he, too!"

"He fell down through the trap-door in the barn; and I want to get Dr. Gibson, as soon as I can, come to him. Where does he live, Mrs. Forbes?"

"Dr. Gibson? you won't catch him to hum, dear; he's flying round somewheres. But how come the trap-door to be open? and how happened Mr. Van Brunt not to see it afore he put his foot in it? Dear! I declare I'm real sorry to hear you tell. How happened it, darlin'? I'm cur'ous to hear."

"I don't know, Mrs. Forbes," said Ellen, "but oh, where shall I find Dr. Gibson? Do tell me! — he ought to be there now; — oh, help me! where shall I go for him?"

"Well, I declare," said the landlady, stepping back a pace, "I don't know as I can tell — there ain't no sort o' likelihood that he's to hum this time o' day. Sam! you lazy feller, you han't got nothing to do but gape at folks — ha' you seen the doctor go by this forenoon?"

"I seen him go down to Mis' Perriman's," said Sam, — "Mis' Perriman was a-dyin', Jim Barstow said."

"How long since?" said his mistress.

But Sam shuffled and shuffled, looked every way but at Ellen or Mrs. Forbes, and "didn' know."

"Well, then," said Mrs. Forbes, turning to Ellen, "I don' know but you might about as well go down to the post-office; but, if I was you, I'd just get Dr. Marshchalk instead. He's a smarter man than Dr. Gibson any day in the year; and he ain't quite so awful high neither, and that's something. I'd get Dr. Marshchalk; they say there ain't the like o' him in the country for settin' bones; it's quite a gift; he takes to it natural like."

But Ellen said Mr. Van Brunt wanted Dr. Gibson, and if she could she must find him.

"Well," said Mrs. Forbes, "every one has their fancies; I wouldn't let Dr. Gibson come near me with a pair of tongs; but anyhow, if you must have him, your best way is to go right straight down to the post-office, and ask for him there, maybe you'll catch him."

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Ellen; "where is the post-office?"

"It's that white-faced house down street," said the landlady, pointing with her finger where Ellen saw no lack of white- faced houses; "you see that big red store, with the man standing out in front? — the next white house below that is Mis' Perriman's; just run right in and ask for Dr. Gibson. Good-bye, dear — I'm real sorry you can't come in — that first white house."

Glad to get free, Ellen rode smartly down to the post-office. Nobody before the door; there was nothing for it but to get off here and go in; she did not know the people either. "Never mind, wait for me a minute, dear Brownie, like a good little horse as you are!"

No fear of the Brownie. He stood as if he did not mean to budge again in a century. At first going in, Ellen saw nobody in the post-office; presently, at an opening in a kind of boxed-up place in one corner, a face looked out and asked what she wanted.

"Is Dr. Gibson here?"

"No," said the owner of the face, with a disagreeable kind of smile.

"Isn't this Miss Perriman's house?"

"You are in the right box, my dear, and no mistake," said the young man; "but then it ain't Dr. Gibson's house, you know."

"Can you tell me, Sir, where I can find him?"

"Can't indeed; the doctor never tells me where he is going, and I never ask him. I am sorry I didn't this morning, for your sake."

The way, and the look, made the words extremely disagreeable; and, furthermore, Ellen had an uncomfortable feeling that neither was new to her. Where had she seen the man before? she puzzled herself to think. Where but in a dream had she seen that bold, ill-favoured face, that horrible smile, that sandy hair? She knew! It was Mr. Saunders, the man who had sold her the merino at St. Clair and Fleury's. She knew him; and she was very sorry to see that he knew her. All she desired now, was to get out of the house and away; but on turning she saw another man, older and respectable-looking, whose face encouraged her to ask again if Dr. Gibson was there. He was not, the man said; he had been there and gone.

"Do you know where I should be likely to find him, Sir?"

"No, I don't," said he; "who wants him?"

"I want to see him, Sir."

"For yourself?"

"No, Sir; Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg, and wants Dr. Gibson to come directly and set it."

"Mr. Van Brunt!" said he — "Farmer Van Brunt that lives down towards the Cat's Back? I'm very sorry! How did it happen?"

Ellen told as shortly as possible, and again begged to know where she might look for Dr. Gibson.

"Well," said he, "the best plan I can think of, will be for you — how did you come here?"

"I came on horseback, Sir."

"Ah — well — the best plan will be for you to ride up to his house; maybe he'll have left word there, and anyhow you can leave word for him to come down as soon as he gets home. Do you know where the doctor lives?"

"No, Sir."

"Come here," said he, pulling her to the door — "you can't see it from here; but you must ride up the street till you have passed two churches, one on the right hand first, and then, a good piece beyond, you'll come to another red brick one on the left hand — and Dr. Gibson lives in the next block but one after that, on the other side — anybody will tell you the house. Is that your horse?"

"Yes, Sir. I'm very much obliged to you."

"Well, I will say! — if you han't the prettiest fit out in Thirlwall — shall I help you? will you have a cheer?"

"No, I thank you Sir; I'll bring him up to this step; it will do just as well. I am very much obliged to you, Sir."

He did not seem to hear her thanks; he was all eyes; and, with his clerk, stood looking after her till she was out of sight.

Poor Ellen found it a long way up to the doctor's. The post- office was near the lower end of the town, and the doctor's house was near the upper; she passed one church, and then the other, but there was a long distance between, or what she thought so. Happily, the Brownie did not seem tired at all; his little mistress was tired, and disheartened too. And there, all this time, was poor Mr. Van Brunt, lying without a doctor! She could not bear to think of it.

She jumped down when she came to the block she had been told of, and easily found the house where Dr. Gibson lived. She knocked at the door. A grayhaired woman with a very ill- favoured countenance presented herself. Ellen asked for the doctor.

"He ain't to hum."

"When will he be at home?"

"Couldn't say."

"Before dinner?"

The woman shook her head.

"Guess not till late in the day."

"Where is he gone?"

"He is gone to Babcock — gone to attend a 'consummation,' I guess, he told me — Babcock is a considerable long way."

Ellen thought a minute.

"Can you tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives?"

"I guess you'd better wait till Dr. Gibson comes back, han't you?" said the woman coaxingly; — "he'll be along by-and-by. If you'll leave your name I'll give it to him."

"I cannot wait," said Ellen, — "I am in a dreadful hurry. Will you be so good as to tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives?"

"Well — if so be you're in such a takin' you can't wait — you know where Mis' Forbes lives?"

"At the inn? — the Star! — yes."

"He lives a few doors this side o' her'n; you'll know it the first minute you set your eyes on it — it's painted a bright yaller."

Ellen thanked her, once more mounted, and rode down the street.

Chapter XXXVIII

Wherein the black Prince arrives opportunely.

The yellow door, as the old woman had said, was not to be mistaken. Again Ellen dismounted and knocked; then she heard a slow step coming along the entry, and the pleasant, kind face of Miss Janet appeared at the open door. It was a real refreshment, and Ellen wanted one.

"Why, it's dear little — ain't it? — her that lives down to Miss Fortune Emerson's? — yes, it is; — come in, dear; I'm very glad to see you. How's all at your house?"

"Is the doctor at home, Ma'am?"

"No, dear, he ain't to home just this minute, but he'll be in directly; Come in; — is that your horse? — just hitch him to the post there, so he won't run away, and come right in. Who did you come along with?"

"Nobody, Ma'am — I came alone," said Ellen, while she obeyed Miss Janet's directions.

"Alone! — on that 'ere little skittish creeter? — he's as handsome as a picture, too — why, do tell if you warn't afraid? it a'most scares me to think of it."

"I was a little afraid," said Ellen, as she followed Miss Janet along the entry — "but I couldn't help that. You think the doctor will soon be in, Ma'am?"

"Yes, dear, sure of it," said Miss Janet, kissing Ellen and taking off her bonnet; — "he won't be five minutes, for it's a'most dinner time. What's the matter, dear? is Miss Fortune sick again?"

"No, Ma'am," said Ellen, sadly, "Mr. Van Brunt has fallen through the trap-door in the barn and broken his leg."

"Oh!" cried the old lady, with a face of real horror — "you don't tell me! Fell through the trap-door! and he ain't a light weight neither; — oh, that is a lamentable event! And how is the poor old mother, dear?"

"She is very much troubled, Ma'am," said Ellen, crying at the remembrance; — "and he has been lying ever since early this morning without anybody to set it; I have been going round and round for a doctor this ever so long."

"Why, warn't there nobody to come but you, you poor lamb?" said Miss Janet.

"No, Ma'am; nobody quick enough; and I had the Brownie there, and so I came."

"Well, cheer up, dear! the doctor will be here now, and we'll send him right off; he won't be long about his dinner, I'll engage. Come and set in this big cheer — do! — it'll rest you; I see you're a'most tired out, and it ain't a wonder. There — don't that feel better? now I'll give you a little sup of dinner, for you won't want to swallow it at the rate Leander will his'n. Dear! dear! — to think of poor Mr. Van Brunt! He's a likely man, too; I'm very sorry for him and his poor mother. A kind body she is, as ever the sun shined upon."

"And so is he," said Ellen.

"Well, so I dare say," said Miss Janet; "but I don't know so much about him; — hows'ever, he's got everybody's good word as far as I know; — he's a likely man."

The little room in which Miss Janet had brought Ellen was very plainly furnished indeed, but as neat as hands could make it. The carpet was as crumbless and lintless as if meals were never taken there, nor work seen; and yet a little table ready set for dinner forbade the one conclusion, and a huge basket of naperies in one corner showed that Miss Janet's industry did not spend itself in housework alone. Before the fire stood a pretty good-sized kettle, and a very appetizing smell came from it to Ellen's nose. In spite of sorrow and anxiety, her ride had made her hungry. It was not without pleasure that she saw her kind hostess arm herself with a deep plate and a tin dipper, and carefully taking off the pot cover, so that no drops might fall on the hearth, proceed to ladle out a goodly supply of what Ellen knew was that excellent country dish called pot-pie. Excellent it is when well made, and that was Miss Janet's. The pieces of crust were white and light like new bread; the very tit-bits of the meat she culled out for Ellen; and the soup-gravy, poured over all, would have met even Miss Fortune's wishes, from its just degree of richness and exact seasoning. Smoking hot, it was placed before Ellen, on a little stand by her easy-chair, with some nice bread and butter; and presently Miss Janet poured her out a cup of tea; "for," she said, "Leander never could take his dinner without it." Ellen's appetite needed no silver fork. Tea and pot-pie were never better liked; yet Miss Janet's enjoyment was perhaps greater still. She sat talking and looking at her little visitor with secret but immense satisfaction.

"Have you heard what fine doings we're a going to have here by-and-by?" said she. "The doctor's tired of me; he's going to get a new housekeeper; he's going to get married some of these days."

"Is he?" said Ellen. "Not to Jenny?"

"Yes, indeed he is — to Jenny — Jenny Hitchcock; and a nice little wife she'll make him. You're a great friend of Jenny, I know."

"How soon?" said Ellen.

"Oh, not just yet — by-and-by — after we get a little smarted up, I guess; — before a great while. Don't you think he'll be a happy man?"

Ellen could not help wondering, as the doctor just then came in and she looked up at his unfortunate three-cornered face, whether Jenny would be a happy woman. But as people often do, she only judged from the outside; Jenny had not made such a bad choice after all.

The doctor said he would go directly to Mr. Van Brunt after he had been over to Mrs. Sibnorth's; it wouldn't be a minute. Ellen meant to ride back in his company; and having finished her dinner, waited now only for him. But the one minute passed — two minutes — ten — twenty — she waited impatiently, but he came not.

"I'll tell you how it must be," said his sister, — "he's gone off without his dinner calculating to get it at Miss Hitchcock's — he'd be glad of the chance. That's how it is, dear; and you'll have to ride home alone; I'm real sorry. S'pose you stop till evening, and I'll make the doctor go along with you. But, oh dear! maybe he wouldn't be able to neither; he's got to go up to that tiresome Mrs. Robin's; it's too bad. Well, take good care of yourself, darling; — couldn't you stop till it's cooler? — well, come and see me as soon as you can again, but don't come without some one else along! Good-bye! I wish I could keep you."

She went to the door to see her mount, and smiled and nodded her off.

Ellen was greatly refreshed with her rest and her dinner; it grieved her that the Brownie had not fared as well. All the refreshment that kind words and patting could give him, she gave; promised him the freshest of water, and the sweetest of hay, when he should reach home; and begged him to keep up his spirits and hold on for a little longer. It may be doubted whether the Brownie understood the full sense of her words, but he probably knew what the kind tones and gentle hand meant. He answered cheerfully; threw up his head and gave a little neigh, as much as to say, he wasn't going to mind a few hours of sunshine; and trotted on as if he knew his face was towards home — which no doubt he did. Luckily it was not a very hot day; for August, it was remarkably cool and beautiful; indeed, there was little very hot weather ever known in Thirlwall. Ellen's heart felt easier, now that her business was done; and when she had left the town behind her, and was again in the fields, she was less timid than she had been before; she was going towards home; that makes a great difference; and every step was bringing her nearer. "I am glad I came, after all," she thought; — "but I hope I shall never have to do such a thing again. But I am glad I came."

She had no more than crossed the little bridge, however, when she saw what brought her heart into her mouth. It was Mr. Saunders, lolling under a tree. What could he have come there for, at that time of day? A vague feeling crossed her mind, that if she could only get past him she should pass a danger; she thought to ride by without seeming to see him, and quietly gave the Brownie a pat to make him go faster. But as she drew near, Mr. Saunders rose up, came to the middle of the road, and taking hold of her bridle, checked her pony's pace so that he could walk alongside — to Ellen's unspeakable dismay.

"What's kept you so long?" said he — "I've been looking out for you this great while. Had hard work to find the doctor?"

"Won't you please to let go of my horse," said Ellen, her heart beating very fast — "I am in a great hurry to get home — please don't keep me."

"Oh, I want to see you a little," said Mr. Saunders — "you ain't in such a hurry to get away from me as that comes to, are you?"

Ellen was silent.

"It's quite a long time since I saw you last," said he — "how have the merinoes worn?"

Ellen could not bear to look at his face, and did not see the expression which went with these words; yet she felt it.

"They have worn very well," said she; "but I want to get home very much — please let me go."

"Not yet, not yet," said he — "oh no, not yet. I want to talk to you; why, what are you in such a devil of a hurry for? I came out on purpose; do you think I am going to have all my long waiting for nothing?"

Ellen did not know what to say, her heart sprang with a nameless pang to the thought, if she ever got free from this! Meanwhile she was not free.

"Whose horse is that you're on?"

"Mine," said Ellen.

"Your'n! that's a likely story. I guess he ain't your'n, and so you won't mind if I touch him up a little; I want to see how well you can sit on a horse."

Passing his arm through the bridle as he said these words, Mr. Saunders led the pony down to the side of the road where grew a clump of high bushes, and, with some trouble, cut off a long, stout sapling. Ellen looked in every direction while he was doing this, despairing, as she looked, of aid from any quarter of the broad, quiet, open country. Oh, for wings! But she could not leave the Brownie if she had them.

Returning to the middle of the road, Mr. Saunders amused himself, as they walked along, with stripping off all the leaves and little twigs from his sapling, leaving it, when done, a very good imitation of an ox-whip in size and length, with a fine lash-like point. Ellen watched him in an ecstasy of apprehension, afraid alike to speak or to be silent.

"There! what do you think of that?" said he, giving it two or three switches in the air to try its suppleness and toughness; — "don't that look like a whip? Now we'll see how he'll go!"

"Please don't do anything with it," said Ellen, earnestly — "I never touch him with the whip — he doesn't need it — he isn't used to it — pray, pray do not!"

"Oh, we'll just tickle him a little with it," said Mr. Saunders, coolly — "I want to see how well you'll sit him — just make him caper a little bit."

He accordingly applied the switch lightly to the Brownie's heels, enough to annoy, without hurting him. The Brownie showed signs of uneasiness, quitted his quiet pace, and look to little starts and springs, and whisking motions, most unpleasing to his rider.

"Oh, do not!" cried Ellen, almost beside herself — "he's very spirited, and I don't know what he will do if you trouble him."

"You let me take care of that," said Mr. Saunders; "if he troubles me, I'll give it to him! If he rears up, only you catch hold of his mane and hold on tight, and you won't fall off; — I want to see him rear."

"But you'll give him bad tricks!" said Ellen. "Oh, pray, don't do so! It's very bad for him to be teased. I am afraid he will kick if you do so, and he'd be ruined if he got a habit of kicking. Oh, please let us go!" said she, with the most acute accent of entreaty — "I want to be home."

"You keep quiet," said Mr. Saunders, coolly; "if he kicks, I'll give him such a lathering as he never had yet; he won't do it but once. I ain't agoing to hurt him, but I am agoing to make him rear — no, I won't — I'll make him leap over a rail, the first bar-place we come to — that'll be prettier."

"Oh, you mustn't do that." said Ellen — "I have not learned to leap yet — I couldn't keep on — you musn't do that if you please."

"You just hold fast, and hold your tongue. Catch hold of his ears, and you'll stick on fast enough; if you can't, you may get down, for I am going to make him take the leap, whether you will or no."

Ellen feared still more to get off and leave the Brownie to her tormentor's mercy, than to stay where she was, and take her chance. She tried in vain, as well as she could, to soothe her horse; the touches of the whip coming now in one place, and now in another, and some of them pretty sharp, he began to grow very frisky indeed; and she began to be very much frightened, for fear she should suddenly be jerked off. With a good deal of presence of mind, though wrought up to a terrible pitch of excitement and fear, Ellen gave her best attention to keeping her seat as the Brownie sprang, and started, and jumped, to one side and the other; Mr. Saunders holding the bridle as loose as possible, so as give him plenty of room. For some little time he amused himself with this game, the horse growing more and more irritated. At length a smart stroke of the whip upon his haunches, made the Brownie spring in a way that brought Ellen's heart into her mouth and almost threw her off.

"Oh, don't!" cried Ellen, bursting into tears for the first time — she had with great effort commanded them back until now; — "poor Brownie! — How can you! Oh, please let us go! — please let us go!"

For one minute she dropped her face in her hands.

"Be quiet!" said Mr. Saunders. "Here's a bar-place — now for the leap!"

Ellen wiped away her tears, forced back those that were coming, and began the most earnest remonstrance and pleading with Mr. Saunders that she knew how to make. He paid her no sort of attention. He led the Brownie to the side of the road, let down all the bars but the lower two, let go the bridle, and stood a little off, prepared with his whip to force the horse to take the spring.

"I tell you I shall fall," said Ellen, reining him back. "How can you be so cruel! — I want to go home!"

"Well, you ain't agoing home yet. Get off, if you are afraid."

But, though trembling in every nerve from head to foot, Ellen fancied the Brownie was safer so long as he had her on his back; she would not leave him. She pleaded her best, which Mr. Saunders heard as if it was amusing, and without making any answer, kept the horse capering in front of the bars, pretending every minute he was going to whip him up to take the leap. His object, however, was merely to gratify the smallest of minds by teasing a child he had a spite against; he had no intention to risk breaking her bones by a fall from her horse; so in time he had enough of the bar-place; took the bridle again, and walked on. Ellen drew breath a little more freely.

"Did you hear how I handled your old gentleman after that time?" said Mr. Saunders.

Ellen made no answer.

"No one ever affronts me that don't hear news of it afterwards, and so he found to his cost. I paid him off, to my heart's content. I gave the old fellow a lesson to behave in future. I forgive him now entirely. By the way, I've a little account to settle with you — didn't you ask Mr. Perriman this morning if Dr. Gibson was in the house?"

"I don't know who it was," said Ellen.

"Well, hadn't I told you just before he warn't there?"

Ellen was silent.

"What did you do that for, eh? Didn't you believe me?"

Still she did not speak.

"I say!" said Mr. Saunders, touching the Brownie as he spoke — "did you think I told you a lie about it? — eh?"

"I didn't know but he might be there," Ellen forced herself to say.

"Then you didn't believe me?" said he, always with that same smile upon his face; Ellen knew that.

"Now that warn't handsome of you — and I'm agoing to punish you for it, somehow or 'nother; but it ain't pretty to quarrel with ladies, so Brownie and me'll settle it together. You won't mind that, I dare say."

"What are you going to do?" said Ellen, as he once more drew her down to the side of the fence.

"Get off and you'll see," said he, laughing — "get off and you'll see."

"What do you want to do?" repeated Ellen, though scarce able to speak the words.

"I'm just going to tickle Brownie a little, to teach you to believe honest folks when they speak the truth; get off!"

"No, I won't," said Ellen, throwing both arms round the neck of her pony; — "poor Brownie! — you shan't do it. He hasn't done any harm, nor I either; you are a bad man!"

"Get off!" repeated Mr. Saunders.

"I will not!" said Ellen, still clinging fast.

"Very well," said he, coolly — "then I will take you off; it don't make much difference. We'll go along a little further till I find a nice stone for you to sit down upon. If you had got off then, I wouldn't ha' done much to him, but I'll give it to him now! If he hasn't been used to a whip he'll know pretty well what it means by the time I have done with him; and then you may go home as fast as you can."

It is very likely Mr. Saunders would have been as good, or as bad, as his word. His behaviour to Ellen in the store at New York, and the measures taken by the old gentleman who had befriended her, had been the cause of his dismissal from the employ of Messrs. St. Clair and Fleury. Two or three other attempts to get into business had come to nothing, and he had been obliged to return to his native town. Ever since, Ellen and the old gentleman had lived in his memory as objects of the deepest spite, — the one for interfering, the other for having been the innocent cause; and he no sooner saw her in the post-office, than he promised himself revenge, such revenge as only the meanest and most cowardly spirit could have taken pleasure in. His best way of distressing Ellen, he found, was through her horse; he had almost satisfied himself; but very naturally his feeling of spite had grown stronger and blunter with indulgence, and he meant to wind up with such a treatment of her pony, real or seeming, as he knew would give great pain to the pony's mistress. He was prevented.

As they went slowly along, Ellen still clasping the Brownie's neck, and resolved to cling to him to the last, Mr. Saunders making him caper in a way very uncomfortable to her, one was too busy, and the other too deafened by fear, to notice the sound of fast-approaching hoofs behind them. It happened that John Humphreys had passed the night at Ventnor; and having an errand to do for a friend at Thirlwall, had taken that road, which led him but a few miles out of his way, and was now at full speed on his way home. He had never made the Brownie's acquaintance, and did not recognise Ellen as he came up; but in passing them, some strange notion crossing his mind he wheeled his horse round directly in front of the astonished pair. Ellen quitted her pony's neck, and stretching out both arms towards him, exclaimed, almost shrieked, "Oh, John! John! send him away! make him let me go!"

"What are you about, Sir?" said the new-comer, sternly.

"It's none of your business!" answered Mr. Saunders, in whom rage for the time overcame cowardice.

"Take your hand off the bridle!" — with a slight touch of the riding-whip upon the hand in question.

"Not for you, brother," said Mr. Saunders, sneeringly; — "I'll walk with any lady I've a mind to. Look out for yourself!"

"We will dispense with your further attendance," said John, coolly. "Do you hear me? do as I order you!"

The speaker did not put himself in a passion, and Mr. Saunders, accustomed for his own part to make bluster serve instead of prowess, despised a command so calmly given. Ellen, who knew the voice, and still better could read the eye, drew conclusions very different. She was almost breathless with terror. Saunders was enraged and mortified at an interference that promised to baffle him; he was a stout young man, and judged himself the stronger of the two, and took notice, besides, that the stranger had nothing in his hand but a slight riding-whip. He answered very insolently, and with an oath; and John saw that he was taking the bridle in his left hand and shifting his sapling whip so as to bring the club end of it uppermost. The next instant he aimed a furious blow at his adversary's horse. The quick eye and hand of the rider disappointed that with a sudden swerve. In another moment — and Ellen hardly saw how, it was so quick — John had dismounted, taken Mr. Saunders by the collar, and hurled him quite over into the gulley at the side of the road, where he lay at full length without stirring.

"Ride on, Ellen!" said her deliverer.

She obeyed. He stayed a moment to say to his fallen adversary a few words of pointed warning as to ever repeating his offence; then remounted and spurred forward to join Ellen. All her power of keeping up was gone, now that the necessity was over. Her head was once more bowed on her pony's neck, her whole frame shaking with convulsive sobs; she could scarce with great effort keep from crying out aloud.

"Ellie!" said her adopted brother, in a voice that could hardly be known for the one that had last spoken. She had no words, but as he gently took one of her hands, the convulsive squeeze it gave him showed the state of nervous excitement she was in. It was very long before his utmost efforts could soothe her, or she could command herself enough to tell him her story. When at last told, it was with many tears.

"Oh, how could he! how could he!" said poor Ellen — "how could he do so! — it was very hard!"

An involuntary touch of the spurs made John's horse start.

"But what took you to Thirlwall alone?" said he — "you have not told me that yet."

Ellen went back to Timothy's invasion of the cabbages, and gave him the whole story of the morning.

"I thought when I was going for the doctor, at first," said she, "and then afterwards when I had found him, what a good thing it was that Timothy broke down the garden fence and got in this morning; for if it had not been for that, I should not have gone to Mr. Van Brunt's — and then again, after that I thought, if he only hadn't!"

"Little things often draw after them long trains of circumstances," said John — "and that shows the folly of those people who think that God does not stoop to concern himself about trifles; — life, and much more than life, may hang upon the turn of a hand. But, Ellen, you must ride no more alone. Promise me that you will not."

"I will not to Thirlwall, certainly," said Ellen — "but mayn't I to Alice's? — how can I help it?"

"Well — to Alice's — that is a safe part of the country; but I should like to know a little more of your horse before trusting you even there."

"Of the Brownie?" said Ellen — "oh, he is as good as he can be; you need not be afraid of him; he has no trick at all; there never was such a good little horse."

John smiled. "How do you like mine?" said he.

"Is that your new one? Oh, what a beauty! — Oh me, what a beauty! I didn't look at him before. Oh, I like him very much! he's handsomer than the Brownie — do you like him?"

"Very well! — this is the first trial I have made of him. I was at Mr. Marshman's last night, and they detained me this morning, or I should have been here much earlier. I am very well satisfied with him, so far."

"And if you had not been detained!" said Ellen.

"Yes, Ellie — I should not have fretted at my late breakfast and having to try Mr. Marshman's favourite mare, if I had known what good purpose the delay was to serve. I wish I could have been here half an hour sooner, though."

"Is his name the Black Prince?" said Ellen, returning to the horse.

"Yes, I believe so; but you shall change it, Ellie, if you can find one you like better."

"Oh, I cannot! — I like that very much. How beautiful he is! Is he good?"

"I hope so," said John, smiling — "if he is not, I shall be at the pains to make him so. We are hardly acquainted yet."

Ellen looked doubtfully at the black horse and his rider, and patting the Brownie's neck, observed with great satisfaction that he was very good.

John had been riding very slowly on Ellen's account; they now mended their pace. He saw, however, that she still looked miserably, and exerted himself to turn her thoughts from everything disagreeable. Much to her amusement, he rode round her two or three times, to view her horse and show her his own; commended the Brownie; praised her bridle hand; corrected several things about her riding; and by degrees engaged her in a very animated conversation. Ellen roused up; the colour came back to her cheeks; and when they reached home, and rode round to the glass door, she looked almost like herself.

She sprang off as usual without waiting for any help. John scarce saw that she had done so, when Alice's cry of joy brought him to the door, and from that together they went in to their father's study. Ellen was left alone on the lawn. Something was the matter; for she stood with swimming eyes and a trembling lip, rubbing her stirrup, which really needed no polishing, and forgetting the tired horses, which would have had her sympathy at any other time. What was the matter? Only — that Mr. John had forgotten the kiss he always gave her on going or coming. Ellen was jealous of it as a pledge of sistership, and could not want it; and though she tried as hard as she could to get her face in order, so that she might go in and meet them, somehow it seemed to take a great while. She was still busy with her stirrup, when she suddenly felt two hands on her shoulders, and looking up, received the very kiss the want of which she had been lamenting. But John saw the tears in her eyes, and asked her, she thought with somewhat a comical look, what the matter was. Ellen was ashamed to tell, but he had her there by the shoulders, and besides, whatever that eye demanded, she never knew how to keep back; so with some difficulty she told him.

"You are very foolish child, Ellie," said he, gently, and kissing her again. "Run in out of the sun, while I see to the horses."

Ellen ran in, and told her long story to Alice; and then, feeling very weary and weak, she sat on the sofa, and lay resting in her arms in a state of the most entire and unruffled happiness. Alice, however, after a while, transferred her to bed, thinking, with good reason, that a long sleep would be the best thing for her.

Chapter XXXIX

Halcyon days.

When Ellen came out of Alice's room again, it was late in the afternoon. The sun was so low that the shadow of the house had crossed the narrow lawn and mounted up near to the top of the trees; but on them he was still shining brightly, and on the broad landscape beyond, which lay open to view through the gap in the trees. The glass door was open; the sweet summer air and the sound of birds and insects and fluttering leaves floated into the room, making the stillness musical. On the threshold pussy sat crouched, with his forefeet doubled under his breast, watching, with intense gravity, the operations of Margery, who was setting the table on the lawn, just before his eyes. Alice was paring peaches.

"Oh, we are going to have tea out of doors, aren't we!" said Ellen. "I'm very glad. What a lovely evening! isn't it? Just look at pussy, will you, Alice? don't you believe he knows what Margery is doing? Why didn't you call me to go along with you after peaches?"

"I thought you were doing the very best thing you possibly could, Ellie, my dear. How do you do?"

"Oh, nicely now! where's Mr. John? I hope he won't ask for my last drawing to-night; I want to fix the top of that tree before he sees it."

"Fix the top of your tree, you little Yankee!" said Alice; — "what do you think John would say to that? — _un_fix it, you mean; it is too stiff already, isn't it?"

"Well, what shall I say?" said Ellen, laughing. "I am sorry that is Yankee, for I suppose one must speak English. — I want to do something to my tree, then. Where is he, Alice?"

"He is gone down to Mr. Van Brunt's, to see how he is, and to speak to Miss Fortune about you on his way back."

"Oh, how kind of him! — he's very good; that is just what I want to know; but I am sorry, after this long ride —"

"He don't mind that, Ellie. He'll be home presently."

"How nice those peaches look! they are as good as strawberries — don't you think so? — better— I don't know which is best — but Mr. John likes these best, don't he? Now you've done — shall I set them on the table? — and here's a pitcher of splendid cream, Alice!"

"You had better not tell John so, or he will make you define splendid."

John came back in good time, and brought word that Mr. Van Brunt was doing very well, so far as could be known; also, that Miss Fortune consented to Ellen's remaining where she was. He wisely did not say, however, that her consent had been slow to gain, till he had hinted at his readiness to provide a substitute for Ellen's services; on which Miss Fortune had instantly declared she did not want her, and she might stay as long as she pleased. This was all that was needed to complete Ellen's felicity.

"Wasn't your poor horse too tired to go out again this afternoon, Mr. John?"

"I did not ride him, Ellie; I took yours."

"The Brownie! — did you? — I'm very glad! How did you like him? But perhaps he was tired a little, and you couldn't tell so well to-day."

"He was not tired with any work you had given him, Ellie — perhaps he may be a little, now."

"Why?" said Ellen, somewhat alarmed.

"I have been trying him; and instead of going quietly along the road, we have been taking some of the fences in our way. As I intend practising you at the bar, I wished to make sure, in the first place, that he knew his lesson."

"Well, how did he do?"

"Perfectly well — I believe he is a good little fellow. I wanted to satisfy myself if he was fit to be trusted with you; and I rather think Mr. Marshman has taken care of that."

The whole wall of trees was in shadow when the little family sat down to table; but there was still the sunlit picture behind; and there was another kind of sunshine in every face at the table. Quietly happy the whole four, or at least the whole three, were — first, in being together — after that, in all things beside. Never was tea so refreshing, or bread and butter so sweet, or the song of birds so delightsome. When the birds were gone to their nests, the cricket and grasshopper, and tree-toad and katydid, and nameless other songsters, kept up a concert — nature's own — in delicious harmony with woods and flowers, and summer breezes and evening light. Ellen's cup of enjoyment was running over. From one beautiful thing to another her eye wandered — from one joy to another her thoughts went — till her full heart fixed on the God who had made and given them all, and that Redeemer whose blood had been their purchase-money. From the dear friends beside her, the best loved she had in the world, she thought of the one dearer, yet from whom death had separated her; — yet living still — and to whom death would restore her, thanks to Him who had burst the bonds of death, and broken the gates of the grave, and made a way for his ransomed to pass over. And the thought of Him was the joyfullest of all.

"You look happy, Ellie," said her adopted brother.

"So I am," said Ellen, smiling a very bright smile.

"What are you thinking about?"

But John saw it would not do to press his question.

"You remind me," said he, "of some old fairy story that my childish ears received, in which the fountains of the sweet and bitter waters of life were said to stand very near each other, and to mingle their streams but a little way from their source. Your tears and smiles seem to be brothers and sisters; whenever we see one we may be sure the other is not far off."

"My dear Jack," said Alice, laughing — "what an unhappy simile! Are brothers and sisters always found like that?"

"I wish they were," said John, sighing and smiling; "but my last words had nothing to do with my simile, as you call it."

When tea was over, and Margery had withdrawn the things, and taken away the table, they still lingered in their places. It was far too pleasant to go in. Mr. Humphreys moved his chair to the side of the house, and throwing a handkerchief over his head to defend him from the mosquitoes, a few of which were buzzing about, he either listened, meditated, or slept; most probably one of the two latter, for the conversation was not very loud nor very lively; it was happiness enough merely to breathe so near each other. The sun left the distant fields and hills; soft twilight stole through the woods, down the gap, and over the plain; the grass lost its green; the wall of trees grew dark and dusky; and very faint and dim showed the picture that was so bright a little while ago. As they sat quite silent, listening to what nature had to say to them, or letting fancy and memory take their way, the silence was broken — hardly broken — by the distinct far-off cry of a whip-poor-will. Alice grasped her brother's arm, and they remained motionless, while it came nearer, nearer, then quite near, with its clear, wild, shrill, melancholy note sounding close by them again and again — strangely, plaintively — then leaving the lawn, it was heard further and further off, till the last faint "whip-poor-will," in the far distance, ended its pretty interlude. It was almost too dark to read faces, but the eyes of the brother and sister had sought each other, remained fixed till the bird was out of hearing; then Alice's hand was removed to his, and her head found its old place on her brother's shoulder.

"Sometimes, John," said Alice, "I am afraid I have one tie too strong to this world. I cannot bear — as I ought — to have you away from me."

Her brother's lips were instantly pressed to her forehead.

"I may say to you, Alice, as Colonel Gardiner said to his wife, 'we have an eternity to spend together!' "

"I wonder," said Alice, after a pause, "how those can bear to love or be loved, whose affection can see nothing but a blank beyond the grave."

"Few people, I believe," said her brother, "would come exactly under that description; most flatter themselves with a vague hope of reunion after death."

"But that is a miserable hope — very different from ours."

"Very different indeed! and miserable; for it can only deceive; but ours is sure. 'Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.' "

"Precious!" said Alice. "How exactly fitted to every want and mood of the mind are the sweet Bible words!"

"Well!" said Mr. Humphreys, rousing himself — "I am going in! These musquitoes have half eaten me up. Are you going to sit there all night?"

"We are thinking of it, Papa," said Alice, cheerfully.

He went in, and was heard calling Margery for a liglit.

They had better lights on the lawn. The stars began to peep out through the soft blue, and as the blue grew deeper, they came out more and brighter, till all heaven was hung with lamps. But that was not all. In the eastern horizon, just above the low hills that bordered the far side of the plain, a white light, spreading, and growing, and brightening, promised the moon, and promised that she would rise very splendid; and even before she came, began to throw a faint lustre over the landscape. All eyes were fastened and exclamations burst, as the first silver edge showed itself, and the moon, rapidly rising, looked on them with her whole, broad, bright face: lighting up not only their faces and figures, but the wide country view that was spread out below, and touching most beautifully the trees in the edge of the gap, and faintly the lawn; while the wall of wood stood in deeper and blacker shadow than ever.

"Isn't that beautiful!" said Ellen.

"Come round here, Ellie," said John; "Alice may have you all the rest of the year, but when I am at home you belong to me. What was your little head busied upon a while ago?"

"When?" said Ellen.

"When I asked you —"

"Oh, I know — I remember. I was thinking —"

"Well?"

"I was thinking — do you want me to tell you?"

"Unless you would rather not."

"I was thinking about Jesus Christ," said Ellen, in a low tone.

"What about him, dear Ellie?" said her brother, drawing her closer to his side.

"Different things; — I was thinking of what he said about little children; and about what he said, you know — 'In my Father's house are many mansions;' — and I was thinking that Mamma was there: and I thought — that we all —"

Ellen could get no further.

" 'He that believeth in him shall not be ashamed,' " said John, softly. " 'This is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life; and who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Not death, nor things present, nor things to come. But he that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself, even as he is pure;' — let us remember that too."

"Mr. John," said Ellen, presently — "don't you like some of the chapters in the Revelation very much?"

"Yes — very much. Why? — do you?"

"Yes. I remember reading parts of them to Mamma, and that is one reason, I suppose; but I like them very much. There is a great deal I can't understand, though."

"There is nothing finer in the Bible than parts of that book," said Alice.

"Mr. John," said Ellen — "what is meant by the 'white stone?' "

" 'And in the stone a new name written?' "

"Yes — that I mean."

"Mr. Baxter says it is the sense of God's love in the heart; and, indeed, that is it 'which no man knoweth saving him that receiveth it.' This, I take it, Ellen, was Christian's certificate, which he used to comfort himself with reading in, you remember?"

"Can a child have it?" said Ellen, thoughtfully.

"Certainly — many children have had it — you may have it. Only seek it faithfully. 'Thou meetest him that rejoiceth and worketh righteousness, those that remember thee in thy ways.' — And Christ said, 'He that loveth me shall be loved of my Father, and I will love him, and I will manifest myself to him.' There is no failure in these promises, Ellie; he that made them is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."

For a little while each was busy with his own meditations. The moon, meanwhile, rising higher and higher, poured a flood of light through the gap in the woods before them, and stealing among the trees, here and there, lit up a spot of ground under their deep shadow. The distant picture lay in mazy brightness. All was still, but the ceaseless chirrup of insects, and gentle flapping of leaves; the summer air just touched their cheeks with the lightest breath of a kiss, sweet from distant hayfields, and nearer pines and hemlocks, and other of nature's numberless perfume boxes. The hay harvest had been remarkably late this year.

"This is higher enjoyment," said John, "than half those who make their homes in rich houses and mighty palaces have any notion of."

"But can not rich people look at the moon?" said Ellen.

"Yes, but the taste for pure pleasures is commonly gone, when people make a trade of pleasure."

"Mr. John" — Ellen began.

"I will forewarn you," said he, "that Mr. John has made up his mind he will do nothing more for you. So if you have anything to ask, it must lie still — unless you will begin again."

Ellen drew back. He looked grave, but she saw Alice smiling.

"But what shall I do?" said she, a little perplexed, and half- laughing. "What do you mean, Mr. John? What does he mean, Alice?"

"You could speak without a 'Mr.' to me this morning, when you were in trouble."

"Oh," said Ellen laughing, "I forgot myself then."

"Have the goodness to forget yourself permanently for the future."

"Was that man hurt this morning, John?" said his sister.

"What man?"

"That man you delivered Ellen from."

"Hurt? no — nothing material; I did not wish to hurt him. He richly deserved punishment, but it was not for me to give it."

"He was in no hurry to get up," said Ellen.

"I do not think he ventured upon that till we were well out of the way. He lifted his head and looked after us as we rode off."

"But I wanted to ask something," said Ellen — "oh — what is the reason the moon looks so much larger when she first gets up, than she does afterwards?"

"Whom are you asking?"

"You."

"And who is you? Here are two people in the moonlight."

"Mr. John Humphreys, Alice's brother, and that Thomas calls 'the young master,' " said Ellen, laughing.

"You are more shy of taking a leap than your little horse is," said John, smiling; "but I shall bring you up to it yet. What is the cause of the sudden enlargement of my thumb?"

He had drawn a small magnifying-glass from his pocket, and held it between his hand and Ellen.

"Why, it is not enlarged," said Ellen — "it is only magnified."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, the glass makes it look larger."

"Do you know how, or why?"

"No."

He put up the glass again.

"But what do you mean by that?" said Ellen, "there is no magnifying-glass between us and the moon to make her look larger."

"You are sure of that?"

"Why, yes," said Ellen, "I am perfectly sure; there is nothing in the world. There she is, right up there, looking straight down upon us, and there is nothing between."

"What is it that keeps up that pleasant fluttering of leaves in the wood?"

"Why, the wind."

"And what is the wind?"

"It is air — air moving, I suppose."

"Exactly. Then there is something between us and the moon?"

"The air? But, Mr. John, one can see quite clearly through the air; it doesn't make things look larger or smaller."

"How far do you suppose the air reaches from us towards the moon?"

"Why, all the way — don't it?"

"No — only about forty miles. If it reached all the way, there would indeed be no magnifying-glass in the case."

"But how is it?" said Ellen. "I don't understand."

"I cannot tell you to-night, Ellie. There is a long ladder of knowledge to go up before we can get to the moon, but we will begin to mount to-morrow, if nothing happens. Alice, you have that little book of Conversations on Natural Philosophy, which you and I used to delight ourselves with in old time."

"Safe and sound in the book-case," said Alice. "I have thought of giving it to Ellen before, but she has been busy enough with what she had already."

"I have done Rollin, now, though," said Ellen; "that is lucky, I am ready for the moon."

This new study was begun the next day, and Ellen took great delight in it. She would have run on too fast in her eagerness, but for the steady hand of her teacher; he obliged her to be very thorough. This was only one of her items of business. The weeks of John's stay were, as usual, not merely weeks of constant and varied delight, but of constant and swift improvement too.

A good deal of time was given to the riding-lessons. John busied himself one morning in preparing a bar for her on the lawn, so placed that it might fall if the horse's heels touched it. Here Ellen learned to take first standing, and then running leaps. She was afraid at first, but habit wore that off; and the bar was raised higher and higher, till Margery declared she "couldn't stand and look at her going over it." Then John made her ride without the stirrup, and with her hands behind her, while he, holding the horse by a long halter, made him go round in a circle, slowly at first, and afterwards trotting and cantering, till Ellen felt almost as secure on his back as in a chair. It took a good many lessons, however, to bring her to this, and she trembled very much at the beginning. Her teacher was careful and gentle, but determined; and whatever he said she did, tremble or no tremble; and, in general, loved her riding lessons dearly.

Drawing, too, went on finely. He began to let her draw things from nature; and many a pleasant morning the three went out together with pencils and books and work, and spent hours in the open air. They would find a pretty point of view, or a nice shady place where the breeze came, and where there was some good old rock with a tree beside it, or a piece of fence, or the house or barn in the distance, for Ellen to sketch; and while she drew and Alice worked, John read aloud to them. Sometimes he took a pencil too, and Alice read; and often, often, pencils, books, and work were all laid down; and talk — lively, serious, earnest, always delightful — took the place of them. When Ellen could not understand the words, at least she could read the faces; and that was a study she was never weary of. At home there were other studies and much reading; many tea-drinkings on the lawn, and even breakfastings, which she thought pleasanter still.

As soon as it was decided that Mr. Van Brunt's leg was doing well, and in a fair way to be sound again, Ellen went to see him; and after that rarely let two days pass without going again. John and Alice used to ride with her so far, and taking a turn beyond while she made her visit, call for her on their way back. She had a strong motive for going in the pleasure her presence always gave, both to Mr. Van Brunt and his mother. Sam Larkens had been to Thirlwall and seen Mrs. Forbes, and from him they had heard the story of her riding up and down the town in search of the doctor; neither of them could forget it. Mrs. Van Brunt poured out her affection in all sorts of expressions whenever she had Ellen's ear; her son was not a man of many words; but Ellen knew his face and manner well enough without them, and read there, whenever she went into his room, what gave her great pleasure.

"How do you do, Mr. Van Brunt?" she said, on one of these occasions.

"Oh, I'm getting along, I s'pose," said he — "getting along as well as a man can that's lying on his back from morning to night; — prostrated, as Squire Dennison said his corn was t'other day."

"It is very tiresome, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"It's the tiresomest work that ever was, for a man that has two arms to be a-doing nothing, day after day. And what bothers me is the wheat in the ten-acre lot, that ought to be prostrated too, and ain't, nor ain't like to be, as I know, unless the rain comes and does it. Sam and Johnny'll make no headway at all with it — I can tell as well as if I see 'em."

"But Sam is good, isn't he?" said Ellen.

"Sam's as good a boy as ever was; but then Johnny Low is mischievous, you see, and he gets Sam out of his tracks once in a while. I never see a finer growth of wheat. I had a sight rather cut and harvest the hull of it than to lie here and think of it getting spoiled. I'm a'most out o' conceit o' trap-doors, Ellen."

Ellen could not help smiling.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"There ain't nothing," said he; — "I wish there was. How are you coming along at home?"

"I don't know," said Ellen — "I am not there just now, you know; I am staying up with Miss Alice again."

"Oh, ay! while her brother's at home. He's a splendid man, that young Mr. Humphreys, ain't he?"

"Oh, I knew that a great while ago," said Ellen, the bright colour of pleasure overspreading her face.

"Well, I didn't, you see, till the other day, when he came here, very kindly, to see how I was getting on. I wish something would bring him again. I never heerd a man talk I liked to hear so much."

Ellen secretly resolved something should bring him; and went on with a purpose she had had for some time in her mind.

"Wouldn't it be pleasant, while you are lying there and can do nothing — wouldn't you like to have me read something to you, Mr. Van Brunt? I should like to, very much."

"It's just like you," said he, gratefully — "to think of that; but I wouldn't have you be bothered with it."

"It wouldn't, indeed. I should like it very much."

"Well, if you've a mind," said he — "I can't say but it would be a kind o' comfort to keep that grain out o' my head a while. Seems to me I have cut and housed it all three times over already. Read just whatever you have a mind to. If you was to go over a last year's almanac it would be as good as a fiddle to me."

"I'll do better for you than that, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, laughing in high glee at having gained her point. She had secretly brought her Pilgrim's Progress with her, and now with marvellous satisfaction drew it forth.

"I han't been as much of a reader as I had ought to," said Mr. Van Brunt, as she opened the book and turned to the first page; "but, however, I understand my business pretty well; and a man can't be everything to once. Now let's hear what you've got there."

With a throbbing heart, Ellen began; and read, notes and all, till the sound of tramping hoofs and Alice's voice made her break off. It encouraged and delighted her to see that Mr. Van Brunt's attention was perfectly fixed. He lay still, without moving his eyes from her face, till she stopped; then thanking her, he declared that was a "first-rate book," and he "should like mainly to hear the hull on it."

From that time Ellen was diligent in her attendance on him. That she might have more time for reading than the old plan gave her, she set off by herself alone some time before the others, of course riding home with them. It cost her a little, sometimes, to forego so much of their company; but she never saw the look of grateful pleasure with which she was welcomed without ceasing to regret her self-denial. How Ellen blessed those notes as she went on with her reading! They said exactly what she wanted Mr. Van Brunt to hear, and in the best way, and were too short and simple to interrupt the interest of the story. After a while she ventured to ask if she might read him a chapter in the Bible. He agreed very readily; owning "he hadn't ought to be so long without reading one as he had been." Ellen then made it a rule to herself, without asking any more questions, to end every reading with a chapter in the Bible; and she carefully sought out those that might be most likely to take hold of his judgment or feelings. They took hold of her own very deeply, by the means; what was strong or tender, before, now seemed to her too mighty to be withstood; and Ellen read not only with her lips, but with her whole heart, the precious words, longing that they might come with their just effect upon Mr. Van Brunt's mind.

Once as she finished reading the tenth chapter of John, a favourite chapter, which, between her own feeling of it, and her strong wish for him, had moved her even to tears, she cast a glance at his face to see how he took it. His head was a little turned to one side, and his eyes closed; she thought he was asleep. Ellen was very much disappointed. She sank her head upon her book, and prayed that a time might come when he would know the worth of those words. The touch of his hand startled her.

"What is the matter?" said he. "Are you tired?"

"No," said Ellen, looking hastily up; — "oh, no — I'm not tired."

"But what ails you?" said the astonished Mr. Van Brunt; "what have you been a-crying for? what's the matter?"

"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, brushing her hand over her eyes — "it's no matter."

"Yes, but I want to know," said Mr. Van Brunt; — "you shan't have anything to vex you that I can help; what is it?"

"It is nothing, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, bursting into tears again — "only I thought you were asleep — I — I thought you didn't care enough about the Bible to keep awake — I want so much that you should be a Christian!"

He half groaned, and turned his head away.

"What makes you wish that so much?" said he, after a minute or two.

"Because I want you to be happy," said Ellen — "and I know you can't without."

"Well, I am pretty tolerable happy," said he; — "as happy as most folks, I guess."

"But I want you to be happy when you die, too," said Ellen — "I want to meet you in heaven"

"I hope I will go there, surely," said he, gravely — "when the time comes."

Ellen was uneasily silent, not knowing what to say.

"I ain't as good as I ought to be," said he presently, with a half sigh: — "I ain't good enough to go to heaven — I wish I was. You are, I do believe."

"I! Oh no, Mr. Van Brunt, do not say that; I am not good at all — I am full of wrong things."

"Well, I wish I was full of wrong things, too, in the same way," said he.

"But I am," said Ellen — "whether you will believe it or not. Nobody is good, Mr. Van Brunt. But Jesus Christ has died for us, and if we ask him, he will forgive us, and wash away our sins, and teach us to love him, and make us good, and take us to be with him in heaven. Oh! I wish you would ask him!" she repeated, with an earnestness that went to his heart. "I don't believe any one can be very happy that doesn't love him."

"Is that what makes you happy?" said he.

"I have a great many things to make me happy," said Ellen, soberly — "but that is the greatest of all. It always makes me happy to think of him, and it makes everything else a thousand times pleasanter. I wish you knew how it is, Mr. Van Brunt!"

He was silent for a little, and disturbed, Ellen thought.

"Well!" said he at length — " 'taint the folks that thinks themselves the best that is the best always — if you ain't good, I should like to know what goodness is. There's somebody that thinks you be," said he, a minute or two afterwards, as the horses were heard coming to the gate,

"No, she knows me better than that," said Ellen.

"It isn't any she that I mean," said Mr. Van Brunt. "There's somebody else out there, ain't there?"

"Who?" said Ellen — "Mr. John? Oh no, indeed he don't. It was only this morning he was telling me of something I did that was wrong." Her eyes watered as she spoke.

"He must have mighty sharp eyes, then," said Mr. Van Brunt — "for it beats all my powers of seeing things."

"And so he has," said Ellen, putting on her bonnet; "he always knows what I am thinking of just as well as if I told him. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," said he — "I han't forgotten what you've been saying, and I don't mean to."

How full of sweet pleasure was the ride home!

The "something wrong," of which Ellen had spoken, was this. The day before, it happened that Mr. John had broken her off from a very engaging book to take her drawing lesson; and as he stooped down to give a touch or two to the piece she was to copy, he said, "I don't want you to read any more of that, Ellie; it is not a good book for you." Ellen did not for a moment question that he was right, nor wish to disobey; but she had become very much interested, and was a good deal annoyed at having such a sudden stop put to her pleasure. She said nothing, and went on with her work. In a little while Alice asked her to hold a skein of cotton for her while she wound it. Ellen was annoyed again at the interruption; the harpstrings were jarring yet, and gave fresh discord to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her vexation be seen; she went immediately and held the cotton, and, as soon as it was done, set down again to her drawing. Before ten minutes had passed, Margery came to set the table for dinner; Ellen's papers and desk must move.

"Why, it is not dinner-time yet, this great while, Margery," said she — "it isn't much after twelve."

"No, Miss Ellen," said Margery, under her breath, for John was in one corner of the room reading— "but by-and-by I'll be busy with the chops and frying the salsify, and I couldn't leave the kitchen — if you'll let me have the table now."

Ellen said no more, and moved her things to a stand before the window, where she went on with her copying till dinner was ready. Whatever the reason was, however, her pencil did not work smoothly; her eye did not see true; and she lacked her usual steady patience. The next morning, after an hour and more's work and much painstaking, the drawing was finished. Ellen had quite forgotten her yesterday's trouble. But when John came to review her drawing, he found several faults with it; pointed out two or three places in which it had suffered from haste and want of care; and asked her how it had happened. Ellen knew it happened yesterday. She was vexed again, though she did her best not to show it; she stood quietly and heard what he had to say. He then told her to get ready for her riding lesson.

"Mayn't I just make this right first?" said Ellen — "it won't take me long."

"No," said he; "you have been sitting long enough; I must break you off. The Brownie will be here in ten minutes."

Ellen was impatiently eager to mend the bad places in her drawing, and impatiently displeased at being obliged to ride first. Slowly and reluctantly she went to get ready; John was already gone; she would not have moved so leisurely if he had been anywhere within seeing distance. As it was, she found it convenient to quicken her movements, and was at the door ready as soon as he and the Brownie. She was soon thoroughly engaged in the management of herself and her horse; a little smart riding shook all the ill-humour out of her, and she was entirely herself again. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes they drew up under the shade of a tree to let the Brownie rest a little. It was a warm day, and John had taken off his hat and stood resting too, with his arm leaning on the neck of the horse. Presently he looked round to Ellen, and asked her, with a smile, if she felt right again.

"Why?" said Ellen, the crimson of her cheeks mounting to her forehead. But her eye sunk immediately at the answering glance of his. He then, in a very few words, set the matter before her, with such a happy mixture of pointedness and kindness, that while the reproof coming from him went to the quick, Ellen yet joined with it no thought of harshness or severity. She was completely subdued, however; the rest of the riding lesson had to be given up, and for an hour Ellen's tears could not be stayed. But it was, and John had meant it should be, a strong check given to her besetting sin. It had a long and lasting effect.

Chapter XL

"Prodigious!"

In due time, Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must "spring to," as their leader said; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a long breath again, for, do what she would, she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone again.

"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone, "before he will be through that — before he will be able to leave Doncaster?"

"Next summer."

"And what will he do then?"

"Then he will be ordained."

"Ordained! what is that?"

"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and appointed to it by a number of clergymen."

"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"

"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he may for a little; but Papa wishes very much that before he is settled anywhere, he should visit England and Scotland, and see our friends there; though I hardly think John will do it, unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will probably soon he called somewhere; Mr. Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."

"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, — "at any rate now we must wait until next Christmas."

The winter passed with little to mark it except the usual visits to Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed should not be when John was at home. At all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter; and it was bargained for, that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom; she, too, had become quite domesticated at Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the times she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the boat again; but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter; the latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than any one else of her age.

"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice — I should think anybody would learn well with her; and Mr. John — I suppose he's as good, though I don't know so much about him; but he must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, Mamma, for Ellen draws ten times as well as I do!"

"Perhaps that is your fault, and not Mr. Sandford's," said her mother; "though I rather think you overrate the difference."

"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the little girl; "what more can I do, Mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always; she never seems to think she does better than I; and she is always ready to help me, and take ever so much time to show me how to do things; — she is so pleasant, isn't she, Mamma? I know I have heard you say she is very polite."

"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "and there is a grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in the society of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.

"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't say two dozen words a day."

"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is with them a great deal, aunt Matilda," said Ellen Chauncey, "and they teach her everything, and she does learn! She must be very clever; don't you think she is, Mamma? Mamma, she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about English history; and arithmetic! — and did you ever hear her sing, Mamma?"

"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation of others," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling, and bending forward to kiss her daughter; "but what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in history than you?"

"I don't know, Mamma, unless — I wish I wasn't so fond of reading stories."

"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said Miss Sophia.

"Yes — oh, I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr. John don't let her read them, except now and then one."

"I fancy she does it, though, when their backs are turned," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She! oh, aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first."

"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is a good child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, Mamma, and that is what I wanted to say. I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could help being polite."

"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved child."

"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."

"That's exactly what I think, Mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.

Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline had not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the house-work grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head, that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her down-stairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing, and studying; her very heart sunk with her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning- wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! — and spin nobody knows how much yarn — and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading!" — Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do; she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might shine bright;" — and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if over-pressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such things; Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was held the more precious, and used the more carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.

John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The only other event that broke the quiet course of things (besides the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry, both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was sure felt much, though, according to his general custom, he said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.

The winter passed and the spring came. One fine, mild, pleasant afternoon, early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans, which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.

"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't. All these to do!"

"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth. "Where's your aunt?"

"Here, Ma'am!" said he — "can't you let this child go with me? I want her along to help feed the sheep."

To Ellen's astonishment, her aunt called to her through the closed door to "go along, and leave the beans till she came back." Joyfully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap which would still be there to pick over when she returned, and ran to get her bonnet. In all the time she had been at Thirlwall, something had always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.

They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn, to a low rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this, they came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky woodland, that lay on the far side of the wheat-field. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the trees were beginning to show their leaves; the air was soft and spring-like. In great glee Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow, with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly told him, she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were; and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again, by laughing at his wastefulness; and so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and wait for her.

"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen, as she came up with her hands full of anemones — "and look — there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out before now — the dear little thing! — but I can't find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt."

"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago, when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of my not having been to look for flowers before, this spring."

"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr. Van Brunt; "I don't know how it has."

"Oh! there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen — "oh, you beauties! Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer," said he, with his half smile.

"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! How can you? — but an ear of wheat's pretty, too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what is that? Do you get me some of it, will you, please? Oh, how beautiful! — what is it?"

"That's black birch," said he; " 'tis kind o' handsome; — stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon's seal — do you want some of that?"

Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and, before she could rise from her stooping posture, discovered some cowslips to be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail.

"Now, I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she, when her hands were as full as they could hold; — "I have kept you a great while; you are very good to wait for me."

They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last piece of rocky woodland, came to an open hill-side, sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones.

"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.

"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause they don't know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the fence. — Ca-nan! ca-nan! ca-nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan!"

This was the sheep-call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it sounded; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep, at the edge of the woods, on the top of the hill. On the call's sounding again, the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running along a narrow footpath, down towards where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light hoofs in another direction, turned Ellen's eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near; then the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt, and the strange little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt, every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt were not a traitor, who had put on a friend's voice, and lured them down there with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt, gently repeating his call, went quietly up to the nearest stone, and began to scatter the salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had hung out the white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt; the rocks where it was strewn were covered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice, heaped up with snow, or queen-cakes with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one scene of pushing and crowding — those which had not had their share of the feast forcing themselves up to get at it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, — the busy hustling crowd of gentle creatures, with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening, and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part, still lingered upon the stones, in the vain hope of yet licking a little saltness from them.

"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before. How they do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Good for them!" said he — "to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a critter that walks, as I know, that it ain't good for— 'cept chickens, and, it's very queer, it kills them."

They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her hand; and, greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible, she was going home very happy, yet she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking-sticks. He did not want to make any use of them — that was certain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields where there were none to be found.

"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness."

"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; — "something is always happening most years."

Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.

"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly."

"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I s'pose — mightn't it?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly. "Why, Mr. Van Brunt, what is going to happen?"

"I declare," said he, half-laughing, "you're as 'cute as a razor; I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I?"

"But is there?" said Ellen.

"Han't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen — "she never tells me anything; what is it?"

"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt — "at least I know, for I've understood as much from herself, that — I believe she's going to be married before long."

"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married! — Aunt Fortune!"

"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft of tall grass, and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he carried to his mouth.

There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time.

"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Why pretty soon — as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, in a low voice; — "I couldn't help guessing."

"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without looking at her.

There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such confusion.

"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded the corner of the barn — "we have made up our minds to draw in the same yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead folks, so I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lief tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back — afore ever you came to Thirlwall; but I was never a-going to leave my old mother without a home, so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted you should."

With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barnyard, leaving Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the chip-yard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the beans might have been flowers, and the flowers beans, for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's faces most carefully for a long time — Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes; and it is a matter of great uncertainty which, in fact, did first look at the other. Other than this there was no manner of difference in anything without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely speechless was not a very uncommon thing.