Chapter XLI…

Chapter XLI

"The clouds return after the rain."

As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, and eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and all. She was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her hearer.

"But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I thought you would be so much surprised."

"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."

"Not! aren't you? why, did you know anything of this before?"

"I did not know, but I suspected. I thought it was very likely. I am very glad it is so."

"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry. Why are you glad, Alice?"

"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"

"Oh because — I don't know — it seems so queer! — I don't like it at all. I am very sorry, indeed."

"For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the bargain?"

"Why, he to be sure — I think he will — I don't think she will. I think he is a great deal too good. And, besides — I wonder if he wants to, really — it was settled so long ago — maybe he has changed his mind since."

"Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?" said Alice, smiling.

"I don't know — I don't think he seemed particularly glad."

"It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his own mind, my dear; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope so."

"But then, besides," said Ellen, with a face of great perplexity and vexation — "I don't know — it don't seem right! How can I ever — must I — do you think I shall have to call him anything but Mr. Van Brunt?"

Alice could not help smiling again.

"What is your objection, Ellie?"

"Why, because I can't! — I couldn't do it, somehow. It would seem so strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad, dear Alice?"

"It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head; you will know by-and-by why I am glad, Ellie."

"Well, I am glad if you are glad," said Ellen, sighing; "I don't know why I was so sorry, but I couldn't help it. I suppose I shan't mind it after a while."

She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or impossibility of ever forming her lips to the words "Uncle Abraham," "Uncle Van Brunt," or barely "uncle;" her soul rebelled against all three. "Yet, if he should think me unkind, then I must — oh! rather fifty times over than that!" Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and tenderly asked —

"What is the matter, dear Alice? what are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will give you pain."

"Pain! you needn't be afraid of giving me pain," said Ellen, fondly, throwing her arms around her. "Tell me, dear Alice; is it something I have done that is wrong? what is it?"

Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.

"What is the matter; oh, dear Alice!" said Ellen, encircling Alice's head with both her arms, "oh, don't cry! do tell me what it is!"

"It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie."

"But why?" said Ellen, in some alarm; "why are you sorry for me? I don't care if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't? Never mind me; is it something that troubles you, dear Alice?"

"No, except for the effect it may have on others."

"Then I can bear it," said Ellen; "you need not be afraid to tell me, dear Alice; — what is it? don't be sorry for me!"

But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not help being afraid to hear: she anxiously repeated, "what is it?"

Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the uplifted face.

"Suppose Ellie," she, said at length, "that you and I were taking a journey together — a troublesome, dangerous journey — and that I had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it; — would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for the rest of the way?"

"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a kind of maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going, Alice?"

"I think I am going home, Ellie — before you."

"Home?" said Ellen.

"Yes, home, I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank God it is my home I am going to."

Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.

"It is your home, too, love, I trust, and believe," said Alice tenderly; "we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself; I only grieve to leave you alone — and others — but God knows best. We must both look to Him."

"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly; "what do you mean? what do you mean? — I don't understand you — what do you mean?"

"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"

"But, Alice! — but Alice — dear Alice! — what makes you say so? is there anything the matter with you?"

"Do I look well, Ellie?"

With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in Alice's face for the tokens of what she wished and what she feared. It had once or twice lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding or walking or any other exertion; and it had struck her that the bright spots of colour in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now, as she recalled them, and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew— hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to her lips.

"My poor Ellie! my poor Ellie!" said Alice, pressing her little sister to her bosom — "it must be! We must say 'the Lord's will be done;' — we must not forget he does all things well."

But Ellen rallied; she raised her head again: she could not believe what Alice had told her. To her mind, it seemed an evil too great to happen; it could not be! Alice saw this in her look, and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. "It must be, Ellie," she repeated.

"But have you seen somebody? — have you asked somebody?" said Ellen — "some doctor?"

"I have seen, and I have asked," said Alice; — "it was not necessary, but I have done both. They think as I do."

"But these Thirlwall doctors —"

"Not them; I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent physician at Randolph, the last time I went to Ventnor."

"And he said —"

"As I have told you."

Ellen's countenance fell — fell.

"It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left — I know that, my dear little Ellie! You have no reason to be sorry for me — I am sorry for you; but the hand that is taking me away is one that will touch neither of us but to do us good; — I know that, too. We must both look away to our dear Saviour, and not for a moment doubt his love. I do not — you must not. Is it not said that 'he loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus?' "

"Yes," said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice's.

"And might he not — did it not rest with a word of his lips, to keep Lazarus from dying, and save his sisters from all the bitter sorrow his death caused them?"

Again Ellen said, "Yes," or her lips seemed to say it.

"And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why he should not, little as poor Martha and Mary could understand it. — But had he at all ceased to love them when he bade all that trouble come? Do you remember, Ellie — oh, how beautiful those words are! — when at last he arrived near the place, and first one sister came to him with the touching reminder that he might have saved them from this, and then the other, weeping, and falling at his feet, and repeating 'Lord, if thou hadst been here!' — when he saw their tears, and more, saw the torn hearts that tears could not ease — he even wept with them too! Oh, I thank God for those words! He saw reason to strike, and his hand did not spare; but his love shed tears for them! and he is just the same now."

Some drops fell from Alice's eyes, not sorrowful ones; Ellen had hid her face.

'Let us never doubt His love, dear Ellie, and surely then we can bear whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it. I do believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I believe it will be well for me when I die — well for you, my dear, dear Ellie — well even for my father —"

She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But oh! Ellen knew what it would have been; and it suddenly startled into life all the load of grief that had been settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts had not looked that way before; now, when they did, this new vision of misery was too much to bear. Quite unable to contain herself, and unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help, with a smothered burst of feeling she sprang away, out of the door, into the woods, where she would be unseen and unheard.

And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost thought she should die. Her grief had not now, indeed, the goading sting of impatience: she knew the hand that gave the blow, and did not raise her own against it; she believed, too, what Alice had been saying, and the sense of it was, in a manner, present with her in her darkest time. But her spirit died within her; she bowed her head as if she were never to lift it up again; and she was ready to say with Job, "What good is my life to me?"

It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she came in again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt's. She would have done it hurriedly and turned away; but Alice held her, and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-begone little face, then clasped her close, and kissed her again and again.

"Oh! Alice," sobbed Ellen, on her neck, "aren't you mistaken? maybe you are mistaken!"

"I am not mistaken, my dear Ellie — my own Ellie," said Alice's clear, sweet voice; — "nor sorry, except for others. I will talk with you more about this. You will be sorry for me at first, and then I hope you will be glad. It is only that I am going home a little before you. Remember what I was saying to you a while ago. Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I should like to see him for a few minutes, some time when he has leisure? — And come to me early to-morrow, love."

Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see where she was stepping; and again and again her fulness of heart got the better of everything else, and, unmindful of the growing twilight, she sat down on a stone by the wayside, or flung herself on the ground, to let sorrows have full sway. In one of these fits of bitter struggling with pain, there came on her mind, like a sunbeam across a cloud, the thought of Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus. It came with singular power. Did He love them so well? thought Ellen, and is He looking down upon us with the same tenderness even now? — She felt that the sun was shining still, though the cloud might be between; her broken heart crept to His feet, and laid its burden there, and after a few minutes she rose up and went on her way, keeping that thought still close to her heart. The unspeakable tears that were shed during those few minutes were that softened out-pouring of the heart that leaves it eased. Very, very sorrowful as she was, she went on calmly now, and stopped no more.

It was getting dark, and a little way from the gate, on the road, she met Mr. Van Brunt.

"Why, I was beginning to get scared about you," said he. "I was coming to see where you was. How come you so late?"

Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer, and he could see more distinctly, his tone changed.

"What's the matter?" said he; "you han't been well! what has happened? what ails you, Ellen?"

In astonishment, and then in alarm, he saw that she was unable to speak, and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know what was the matter, and if he could do anything. Ellen shook her head.

"Ain't Miss Alice well?" said he; "you han't heerd no bad news up there on the hill, have you?"

Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yea or nay. She recovered herself enough to give him Alice's message.

"I'll be sure and go," said he; "but you han't told me yet what's the matter. Has anything happened?"

"No," said Ellen; "don't ask me — she'll tell you — don't ask me."

"I guess I'll go up the first thing in the morning then," said he — "before breakfast."

"No," said Ellen — "better not; perhaps she wouldn't be up so early."

"After breakfast, then; I'll go up right after breakfast. I was a-going with the boys up into that 'ere wheat lot, but anyhow I'll do that first. They won't have a chance to do much bad or good before I get back to them, I reckon."

As soon as possible, she made her escape from Miss Fortune's eye and questions of curiosity, which she could not bear to answer, and got to her own room. There, the first thing she did was to find the eleventh chapter of John. She read it as she never had read it before; she found in it what she never had found before; one of those cordials that none but the sorrowing drink. On the love of Christ, as there shown, little Ellen's heart fastened; and with that one sweetening thought, amid all its deep sadness, her sleep that night might have been envied by many a luxurious roller in pleasure.

At Alice's wish, she immediately took up her quarters at the parsonage, to leave her no more. But she could not see much difference in her from what she had been for several weeks past; and with the natural hopefulness of childhood, her mind presently almost refused to believe the extremity of the evil which had been threatened. Alice herself was constantly cheerful, and sought by all means to further Ellen's cheerfulness; though careful, at the same time, to forbid, as far as she could, the rising of the hope she saw Ellen was inclined to cherish.

One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking out upon the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all the fresh greenness of the young spring. The woods were not yet in full leaf; and the light of the setting sun upon the trees bordering the other side of the lawn, showed them in the most exquisite and varied shades of colour. Some had the tender green of the new leaf, some were in the red or yellow browns of the half-opened bud; others in various stages of forwardness, mixing all the tints between, and the evergreens standing dark as ever, setting off the delicate hues of the surrounding foliage. This was all softened off in the distance; the very light of the spring was mild and tender compared with that of other seasons; and the air that stole round the corner of the house and came in at the open window was laden with aromatic fragrance. Alice and Ellen had been for some time silently breathing it, and gazing thoughtfully on the loveliness that was abroad.

"I used to think," said Alice, "that it must be a very hard thing to leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so, Ellie?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, faintly — "I don't remember."

"I used to think so," said Alice, "but I do not now, Ellie; my feeling has changed. Do you feel so now, Ellie?"

"Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?"

"For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap again."

"I am afraid you cannot bear it."

"Yes, I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used to;" and Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead; "you are a great comfort to me, dear Ellie."

"Oh, Alice, don't say so — you'll kill me!" exclaimed Ellen, in great distress.

"Why should I not say so, love?" said Alice, soothingly. "I like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by-and-by. You are a great comfort to me."

"And what have you been to me?" said Ellen, weeping bitterly.

"What I cannot be much longer; and I want to accustom you to think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know that, if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me in a little while; you will not wish me back."

Ellen shook her head.

"I know you will not, after a while; — and I shall leave you in good hands — I have arranged for that, my dear little sister!"

The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but a mute caress answered the spirit of Alice's words.

"Look up, Ellie — look out again. Lovely, lovely! all that is; but I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our eyes are with beauty, I believe that eye has not seen nor heart imagined the things that God has prepared for them that love him. You believe that, Ellie; you must not be so very sorry that I have gone to see it a little before you."

Ellen could say nothing.

"After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful world that make people happy — it is loving and being loved; and that is the reason why I am happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if he receives me, I shall be with my Saviour; I shall see him and know him, without any of the clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and displeasing him now— never serving him well nor loving him right. I shall be glad to find myself where all that will be done with for ever. I shall be like him! — Why do you cry so, Ellie?" said Alice, tenderly.

"I can't help it, Alice."

"It is only my love for you — and for two more — that could make me wish to stay here— nothing else; — and I give all that up, because I do not know what is best for you or myself. And I look to meet you all again before long. Try to think of it as I do, Ellie."

"But what shall I do without you?" said poor Ellen.

"I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place, and take care of those I leave behind; will you? — and they will take care of you."

"But," said Ellen, looking up eagerly — "Aunt Fortune" —

"I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about my father, if I leave you established here, to be to him, as far as you can, what I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie?"

In words it was not possible; but what silent kisses and the close pressure of the arms round Alice's neck could say, was said.

"I am satisfied, then," said Alice, presently. "My father will be your father — think him so, dear Ellie — and I know John will take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am very, very glad."

Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not say so.

"It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage, Ellie," Alice soon went on. "I foresaw she might raise some difficulties in my way — hard to remove, perhaps; — but now I have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing shall hinder your taking up your abode, and making your home entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have loved to have you in his own house."

"I am sure he would," said Ellen — "but oh, how much rather!"

"He behaved very well about it the other morning — in a very manly, frank, kind way — showed a good deal of feeling, I think, too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he should be extremely sorry to let you go; but he assured me that nothing over which he had any control should stand in the way of your good."

"He is very kind — he is very good — he is always so," said Ellen. "I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind to me as he could be."

They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out of the window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the sun went down.

"You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all — but I can leave it and can leave you — yes, both — for I would see Jesus! He who has taught me to love him, will not forsake me now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I thank him! Oh, I thank him!"

Alice's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone through tears.

"Ellie, dear — you must love Him with all your heart, and live constantly in his presence. I know if you do, he will make you happy, in any event. He can always give more than he takes away. Oh, how good he is! — and what wretched returns we make him! I was miserable when John first went away to Doncaster; I did not know how to bear it. But now, Ellie, I think I can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All things are ours — all things — the world, and life, and death too."

"Alice," said Ellen, as well as she could — "you know what you were saying to me the other day?"

"About what, love?"

"That about — you know — that chapter."

"About the death of Lazarus?"

"Yes. It has comforted me very much."

"So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at different times. Come, sing to me — 'How firm a foundation.' "

From time to time, Alice led to this kind of conversation, both for Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her go on with her usual studies and duties; and but for these talks Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it could be true which she feared.

The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet one. It happened at far too busy a time of the year, and they were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much too business-like a point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a wedding-tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a wedding-party. Miss Fortune would not have left her cheese and butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Bostons that ever were built; and she would have scorned a trip to Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished himself all the while back among his furrows and crops. So one day they were quietly married at home, the Rev. Mr. Clark having been fetched from Thirlwall for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have preferred that Mr. Humphreys should perform the ceremony; but Miss Fortune was quite decided in favour of the Thirlwall gentleman, and of course he it was.

The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this marriage, and opinions were greatly divided; some congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the richest landholders "in town," by the junction of another fat farm to his own; some pitying him for having got more than his match within doors, and "guessing he'd missed his reckoning for once."

"If he has, then," said Sam Larkens, who heard some of these condoling remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can tell you. If she ain't a little mistaken, I wish I mayn't get a month's wages in a year to come. I tell you, you don't know Van Brunt; he's as easy as anybody as long as he don't care about what you're doing; but if he once takes a notion, you can't make him gee nor haw no more than you can our near ox Timothy when he's out o' yoke — and he's as ugly a beast to manage as ever I see when he ain't yoked up. Why, bless you! there han't been a thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked — she don't know it. I've heerd her," said Sam chucking — "I've heerd her a-telling him how she wanted this thing done and t'other, and he'd just not say a word, and go and do it right t'other way. It'll be a wonder if somebody ain't considerably startled in her calculations afore summer's out."

Chapter XLII

One less in the wide, wide world.

It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that Alice was right in her notion about her health. The greatness of the evil was such that his mind refused to receive it, much as Ellen's had done. His unbelief, however, lasted longer than hers. Constantly with Alice as she was, and talking to her on the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope she had clung to; though, still, bending all her energies to the present pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice said she was, a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly Alice's look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It was Ellen's precious reward, and in seeking to earn it, she half the time earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with Mr. Humphreys. He saw much less of his daughter; and when he was with her, it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to speak to him as freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speaking to Ellen. The consequences were such as grieved her, but could not be helped.

As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia Marshman came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen was almost sorry; it broke up in a measure the sweet and peaceful way of life she and Alice had held together ever since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make a third in their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less, and she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friend's being there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in manner and temper; a very useful person in a house where one was ailing. Mrs. Vawse was often there, too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever she came, as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help her; Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal.

Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. She said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster; she would not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from home. In August he would be quite through; the first of August he would be home.

Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail much more rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too likely that, if she waited for his regular return at the first of August, she would see but little of her brother. She at last reluctantly consented that Mrs. Chauncey should write to him; and from that moment counted the days.

Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence respecting her. He came into her room one morning when just about to set out for Carra-carra to visit one or two of his poor parishioners.

"How are you to day, my daughter?" he asked, tenderly.

"Easy, Papa — and happy," said Alice.

"You are looking better," said he. "We shall have you well again among us yet."

There was some sorrow for him in Alice's smile, as she looked up at him and answered, "Yes, Papa — in the land where the inhabitant shall no more say, 'I am sick.' "

He kissed her hastily, and went out.

"I almost wish I was in your place, Alice," said Miss Sophia. "I hope I may be half as happy when my time comes."

"What right have you to hope so, Sophia?" said Alice, rather sadly.

"To be sure," said the other, after a pause, "you have been ten times as good as I. I don't wonder you feel easy when you look back and think how blameless your life has been."

"Sophia, Sophia!" said Alice — "you know it is not that. I never did a good thing in all my life that was not mixed and spoiled with evil. I never came up to the full measure of duty in any matter."

"But surely," said Miss Sophia, "if one does the best one can, it will be accepted?"

"It won't do to trust to that, Sophia. God's law requires perfection; and nothing less than perfection will be received as payment of its demand. If you owe a hundred dollars, and your creditor will not hold you quit for anything less than the whole sum, it is of no consequence whether you offer him ten or twenty."

"Why, according to that," said Miss Sophia. "it makes no difference what kind of life one leads."

Alice sighed, and shook her head.

"The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God will strive to please him — always."

"And is it of no use to strive to please him?"

"Of no manner of use, if you make that your trust."

"Well, I don't see what one is to trust to," said Miss Sophia, "if it isn't a good life."

"I will answer you," said Alice, with a smile in which there was no sorrow, "in some words that I love very much, of an old Scotchman, I think; — 'I have taken all my good deeds and all my bad, and have cast them together in a heap before the Lord; and from them all I have fled to Jesus Christ, and in him alone I have sweet peace.' "

Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look.

"Well," said she, "I don't understand it; that is what George is always talking about; but I can't understand him."

"I am very sorry you cannot," said Alice, gravely.

They were both silent for a little while.

"If all Christians were like you," said Miss Sophia, "I might think more about it; but they are such a dull set; there seems to be no life nor pleasure among them."

Alice thought of these lines, —

"Their pleasures rise to things unseen, Beyond the bounds of time: Where neither eyes nor ears have been, Nor thoughts of mortals climb."

"You judge," said she, "like the rest of the world, of that which they see not. After all, they know best whether they are happy. What do you think of Mrs. Vawse?

"I don't know what to think of her; she is wonderful to me; she is past my comprehension entirely. Don't make her an example."

"No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your brother?"

"George? He is happy, there is no doubt of that; he is the happiest person in the family, by all odds; but then — I think he has a natural knack at being happy; — it is impossible for anything to put him out."

Alice smiled, and shook her head again.

"Sophistry, Sophia. What do you think of me?"

"I don't see what reason you have to be anything but happy."

"What have I to make me so?"

Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers.

"I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I were not going to somewhat I love better? Should I be happy if I had no secure prospect of meeting with them again? — or if I were doubtful of my reception in that place whither I hope to go?"

Sophia burst into tears.

"Well, I don't know," said she; "I suppose you are right; but I don't understand it."

Alice drew her face down to hers, and whispered something in her ear.

Undoubtedly Alice had much around, as well as within her, to make a declining life happy. Mrs. Vawse and Miss Marshman were two friends and nurses not to be surpassed in their different ways. Margery's motherly affection, her zeal, and her skill, left nothing for heart to wish in her line of duty. And all that affection, taste, and kindness, which abundant means, could supply, was at Alice's command. Still her greatest comfort was Ellen; her constant, thoughtful care; the thousand tender attentions, from the roses daily gathered for her table, to the chapters she read and the hymns she sung to her; the smile that often covered a pang; the pleasant words and tone that many a time came from a sinking heart; they were Alice's daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had learned self- command in more than one school; affection, as once before, was her powerful teacher now, and taught her well. Sophia openly confessed that Ellen was the best nurse; and Margery, when nobody heard her, muttered blessings on the child's head.

Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never stayed long. It was plain he could not bear it. It might have been difficult, too, for Alice to bear, but she wished for her brother. She reckoned the time from Mrs. Chauncey's letter to that when he might be looked for; but some irregularities in the course of the post-office made it impossible to count with certainty upon the exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile, her failure was very rapid. Mrs. Vawse began to fear he would not arrive in time.

The weeks of June ran out; the roses, all but a few late kinds, blossomed and died; July came.

One morning, when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her close to her and said —

"You remember, Ellie, in the Pilgrim's Progress, when Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river? — I think the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry, love; — listen — this is the token he seems to bring me — 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.' I am sure of it, Ellie; I have no doubt of it; — so don't cry for me. You have been my dear comfort, my blessing — we shall love each other in heaven, Ellie."

Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped from her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come back again. But she came at last, and went on through all that day as she had done for weeks before. The day seemed long, for every member of the family was on the watch for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would not live to see another. It wore away; hour after hour passed without his coming, and the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she evidently wished and watched for him; and Ellen — whose affection read her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening door, the eye turned towards the window, the attitude of listening — grew feverish with her intense desire that she should be gratified.

From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that John generally occupied when he was at home, directly over the sitting-room, and with pleasant windows towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse, were all there. Alice was lying quietly on the bed, and seemed to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were brought, that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it; slipping softly out, she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer the knowledge of what she wished for.

It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly on the little lawn, and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to it. How like and how unlike! All around was just the same as it had been then; the cool moonlight upon the distant fields — the trees in the gap lit up, as then — the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy party gathered there now; — they were scattered. One was away; one a sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight; — one waiting to be gone where there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoice in them; she thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her distress. She remembered the whip-poor-will; none was heard to-night, near or far; she was glad of it; it would have been too much; — and there were no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still gazed up towards them in their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her head of that which was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long they have been shining! thought Ellen; — going on just the same, from night to night, and from year to year — as if they never would come to an end. But they will come to an end — the time will come when they stop shining, bright as they are; and then, when all they are swept away, then heaven will be only begun; that will never end! — never! And in a few years, we who were so happy a year ago, and are so sorry now, shall be all glad together there— this will be all over! And then as she looked, and the tears sprang to her thoughts, a favourite hymn of Alice's came to her remembrance: —

"Ye stars are but the shining dust Of my divine abode; The pavements of those heavenly courts Where I shall see my God.

"The Father of eternal lights Shall there his beams display; And not one moment's darkness mix With that unvaried day.

" 'Not one moment's darkness?' Oh," thought little Ellen, "there are a great many here!" — Still gazing up at the bright, calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face, and fell into her lap, there came trooping through Ellen's mind many of those words she had been in the habit of reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.

"And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away."

"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, with a strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing grief, there came to her ear, through the perfect stillness of the night, the faint, far-off, not to be mistaken sound of quick-coming horses' feet — nearer and nearer every second. It came with a mingled pang of pain and pleasure, both very acute; she rose instantly to her feet, and stood pressing her hand to her heart, while the quick-measured beat of hoofs grew louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The minutes were few; but they were moments of intense bitterness. The tired horse stooped his head, as the rider flung himself from the saddle, and came to the door, where Ellen stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered, the question that lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way and uttered the words, "upstairs," and John rushed thither. He checked himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it, and went in as calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution was very needless. Alice knew his step, she knew his horse's step too well; she had raised herself up, and stretched out both arms towards him before he entered. In another moment they were round his neck, and she was supported in his. There was a long, long silence.

"Are you happy, Alice?" whispered her brother.

"Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John!"

As he did so again and again, she felt his tears on her cheek, and put up her hands to his face to wipe them away; kissed him then, and then once again laid her head on his breast. They remained so a little while without stirring; except that some whispers were exchanged too low for others to hear, and once more she raised her face to kiss him. A few minutes after, those who could look saw his colour change; he felt the arms unclasp their hold, and, as he laid her gently back on the pillow, they fell languidly down — the will and the power that had sustained them were gone. Alice was gone; but the departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house; there was a half-smile on the sweet face, of most entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a moment — closed the eyes — kissed once and again the sweet lips— and left the room.

Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it. For her, wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in long, heavy slumber. From the pitch to which her spirits had been wrought by care, sorrow, and self-restraint, they now suddenly and completely sank down; naturally, and happily, she lost all sense of trouble in sleep.

When sleep at last left her, and she stole downstairs into the sitting-room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was stirring about the house but herself. It seemed deserted; the old sitting-room looked empty and forlorn — the stillness was oppressive. Ellen could not bear it. Softly opening the glass door, she went out upon the lawn, where everything was sparkling in the early freshness of the summer morning. How could it look so pleasant without, when all pleasantness was gone within? It pressed upon Ellen's heart. With a restless feeling of pain, she went on, round the corner of the house, and paced slowly along the road till she came to the footpath that led up to the place on the mountain John had called the Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that path, often travelled and much loved by her; and slowly, with slow-dripping tears, made her way up over moss wet with the dew, and the stones and rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She passed the place where Alice had first found her — she remembered it well; — there was the very stone beside which they had kneeled together, and where Alice's folded hands were laid. Ellen knelt down beside it again, and for a moment laid her cheek to the cold stone, while her arms embraced it, and a second time it was watered with tears. She rose up again quickly, and went on her way, toiling up the steep path beyond, till she turned the edge of the mountain, and stood on the old place, where she and Alice that evening had watched the setting sun. Many a setting sun they had watched from thence; it had been a favourite pleasure of them both to run up there for a few minutes, before or after tea, and see the sun go down at the far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one of Alice's haunts — she missed her there — and the thought went keenly home that there she would come with her no more. She sat down on the stone she called her own, and leaning her head on Alice's, which was close by, she wept bitterly. Yet not very long — she was too tired and subdued for bitter weeping; she raised her head again, and wiping away her tears, looked abroad over the beautiful landscape — never more beautiful than then.

The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. The sides and tops of the hills looking towards the east were bright with the cool brightness of the morning; beyond and between them deep shadows lay. The sun could not yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen sat, nor at the long reach of ground it screened from his view, stretching from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley; but to the left, between that and the Cat's Back, the rays of the sun streamed through, touching the houses of the village, showing the lake, and making every tree and barn and clump of wood in the distance stand out in bright relief. Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a warm day was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of yesterday. Now, the air was fresh with the dew, and sweet from hayfield and meadow; and the birds were singing merrily all around. There was no answering echo in the little human heart that looked and listened. Ellen loved all things too well not to notice them even now; she felt their full beauty, but she felt it sadly. "She will look at it no more!" she said to herself. But instantly came an answer to her thought — "Behold I create new heavens, and a new earth; and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."

"She is there now," thought Ellen; "she is happy; why should I be sorry for her? I am not; but oh! I must be sorry for myself — Oh! Alice! — dear Alice!"

She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with which she was so familiar, "the days of thy mourning shall be ended;" and again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for herself, — "Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?" she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down into the brightening valley, or off to the hills that stretched away on either hand of it; when up through the still air the sound of the little Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then stopped.

It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had entirely forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness, the sound came pealing up.

"One — two!"

Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.

It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasion of the death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention; these are followed, after a little pause, by a single one, if the knell is for man, or two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then follows the number of the years the person has lived, told in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing once more, the tolling begins, and is kept up for some time; the strokes following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die quite away before another breaks upon the ear.

Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be heard at Miss Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly tolled out, every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap, and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her when the sound ceased.

Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not trust its higher tones — "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."

How differently that sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she slowly rose from her seat, and put both her arms round the speaker's neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen the arm that held her was more than all words; it was the dividing line between her and the world — on this side everything, on that side nothing.

No word was spoken for many minutes.

"My dear, Ellen," said her brother, softly, "how came you here?"

"I don't know," whispered Ellen; "there was nobody there — I couldn't stay in the house."

"Shall we go home now?"

"Oh, yes— whenever you please."

But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still stood with her arm upon her brother's shoulder; the eyes of both were on the scene before them — the thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again.

"Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love in this world; — that is His meaning — let sorrow but bring us closer to him. Dear Alice is well — she is well, — and if we are made to suffer, we know and we love the hand that has done it; do we not, Ellen?"

Ellen put her hand to her face; she thought her heart would break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and still keeping his arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on —

"Think that she is happy; — think that she is safe; — think that she is with that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance — satisfied with His likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin; think that sweetly and easily she has got home; and it is our home, too. We must weep, because we are left alone; but for her — 'I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!' "

As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped; but she still kept her hands to her face.

"Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother, after another silence. She rose up instantly, and said, "Yes." But he held her still, and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of endearment, which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand, they went down the mountain together.

Chapter XLIII

Those that were left.

The whole Marshman family arrived to-day from Ventnor; some to see Alice's loved remains, and all to follow them to the grave. The parsonage could not hold so many; the two Mr. Marshmans, therefore, with Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made their quarters at Thirlwall. Margery's hands were full enough with those that were left.

In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the room — the room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the sweet face she loved so dearly, when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. Vawse came up for the same purpose. All three stood some time in silence.

The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. Upon the pillow, and upon and about the hands, which were on the breast, were scattered some of the rich late roses — roses and rose-buds, strewn with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A single stem of white lilies lay on the side of the bed; the rest of the flowers, a large quantity, covered the feet, seeming to have been flung there without any attempt at arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with exquisite taste and feeling. Besides the roses, there were none that were not either white or distinguished for their fragrance. The delicate white verbena, the pure feverfew, mignonette, sweet geranium, white myrtle, the rich-scented heliotrope, were mingled with the late-blossoming damask and purple roses; no yellow flowers, no purple, except those mentioned; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left out by the nice hand that had culled them. But the arranging of these beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted; though indeed it might be questioned whether the finest heart could have bettered the effect of what the overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs. Chauncey, however, after a while, began slowly to take a flower or two from the foot, and place them on other parts of the bed.

"Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold," said Margery then, who had looked on with no pleasure while this was doing, "but if she had seen when those flowers had been put there, it wouldn't be her wish, I am sure it wouldn't be her wish, to stir one of them."

Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew back.

"Why, who put them there?" she asked.

"Miss Ellen, Ma'am."

"Where is Ellen?"

"I think she is sleeping, Ma'am. Poor child! she's the most wearied of us all, with sorrow and watching," said Margery, weeping.

"You saw her bring them up, did you?"

"I saw her, Ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live!"

"Why?" said Mrs. Chauncey, gently.

"It's a thing one should have seen, Ma'am, to understand. I don't know as I can tell in well."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish, Margery went on half under her breath —

"Why, Ma'am, the way it was — I had come up to get some linen out of the closet, for I had watched my time; Mrs. Chauncey sees, I was afeard of finding Mr. John here, and I knew he was lying down just then, so —"

"Lying down was he?" said Mrs. Vawse. "I did not know he had taken any rest to-day."

"It was very little he took, Ma'am, indeed — though there was need enough I am sure; — he had been up with his father the live-long blessed night. And then the first thing this morning he was away after Miss Ellen, poor child! wherever she had betaken herself to; I happened to see her before anybody was out, going round the corner of the house, and so I knew when he asked me for her."

"Was she going after flowers then?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, no, Ma'am — it was a long time after; it was this morning some time. — I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr. John was in his room, and I thought I was safe; and I had just taken two or three pieces on my arm, you know, Ma'am, when somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I had come for; and leaving what I should ha' been a-doing, I was standing there, looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to see in death — and I had entirely forgotten what I was there for, Ma'am — when I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming softly upstairs. I didn't want her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me — back in the closet where I was. But it had like to have got the better of me entirely, Ma'am, when I see her come in with a lapful of them flowers, and looking so as she did too! but with much trouble I kept quiet. She went up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs. Chauncey is standing, with her sweet, sad, little face — it's the hardest thing to see a child's face look so — and the flowers all gathered up in her frock. It was odd to see her, she didn't cry — not at all — only once I saw her brow wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, for she put her hand up to her face and held it a little, and then she began to take out the flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose here and a rosebud there, and so; and then she went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and two or three more roses on the pillow. But I could see all the while it was getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn't get through; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there in that hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her face; she turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed all the flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot there — that's just as they fell — and down she went on her knees, and her face in her hands on the side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen," said Margery, weeping — "I couldn't do anything but look at that child kneeling there, and her flowers — and all beside her she used to call her sister, and that couldn't be a sister to her no more; and she's without a sister now, to be sure, poor child!"

"She has a brother, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.

"And that's just what I was trying to tell you, Ma'am. She had been there five or ten minutes without moving, or more — I am sure I don't know how long it was, I didn't think how time went — when the first thing I knew I heard another step, and Mr. John came in. I thought, and expected, he was taking some sleep; but I suppose," said Margery, sighing, "he couldn't rest. I knew his step, and just drew myself back further. He came just where you are, Ma'am, and stood with his arms folded a long time, looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear him come in; but, however, she didn't; — and they were both as still as death, one on one side, and the other on the other side. And I wondered he didn't see her; but her white dress and all — and I suppose he had no thought but for one thing. I knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked over and spied her on the other side of the bed. I see his colour change; and then his mouth took the look it always did whenever he sets himself to do anything. He stood a minute, and then he went round, and knelt down beside her, and softly took away one of her hands from under her face, and held it in both of his own, and then he made such a prayer! Oh," said Margery, her tears falling fast at the recollection, "I never heard the like! I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Alice — and he had reason enough, to be sure — and for himself and Miss Ellen — I wondered to hear him — and he prayed for them too, and others — and — oh! I thought I couldn't stand and hear him; and I was afeard to breathe the whole time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beautifullest prayer I did ever hear."

"And how did Ellen behave?" said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.

"She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he had done, and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. John put the rest of the flowers up there round her hands and the pillow — Miss Ellen hadn't put more than half a dozen; — I noticed how he kept hold of Miss Ellen's hand all the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't finish the flowers, and he told her — 'I saw it all, Ellie,' he said; and he said, 'it didn't want finishing.' I wondered how he should see it, but I suppose he did, however. I understood it very well. They went away downstairs after that."

"He is beautifully changed," said Mrs. Vawse.

"I don't know, Ma'am," said Margery; "I've heard that said afore, but I can't say as I ever could see it. He always was the same to me — always the honourablest, truest, noblest — my husband says he was a bit fiery, but I never could tell that the one temper was sweeter than the other; only everybody always did whatever Mr. John wanted, to be sure; but he was the perfectest gentleman always."

"I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, Ma'am," said Margery, "they were out reading under the trees for a long time; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way a little while ago, and went to lie down."

"How is Mr. Humphreys?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, Ma'am — he is worse than any one knows of, I am afraid, unless Mr. John; you will not see him, Ma'am; he has not been here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will go hard with my poor master, I am afraid," said Margery, weeping; "dear Miss Alice said Miss Ellen was to take her place; but it would want an angel to do that."

"Ellen will do a great deal," said Mrs. Vawse; "Mr. Humphreys loves her well now, I know."

"So do I, Ma'am, I am sure; and so does every one; but still — "

Margery broke off her sentence, and sorrowfully went downstairs. Mrs. Chauncey moved no more flowers.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into Ellen's room.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you?"

"Yes, Margery," said Ellen, sitting up in bed; "come in. What is it?"

"I came to ask Miss Ellen if she could do me a great favour? There's a strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet, and it don't seem right. He has been here this some time."

"Have you told Mr. John?"

"No, Miss Ellen; he's in the library with my master; and somehow I durstn't go to the door; mayhap they wouldn't be best pleased. Would Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentleman's being here?"

Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that; Margery could hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon herself; she did not say so.

"You are sure he is there, Margery?"

"I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you; but if you wouldn't mind — I am ashamed to have the gentleman left to himself so long."

"I'll do it, Margery."

She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing her hair, set off to the library. On the way, she almost repented her willingness to oblige Margery; the errand was marvellously disagreeable to her. She had never gone to that room except with Alice — never entered it uninvited. She could hardly make up her mind to knock at the door. But she had promised; it must be done.

The first fearful tap was too light to arouse any mortal ears. At the second, though not much better, she heard some one move, and John opened the door. Without waiting to hear her speak, he immediately drew her in, very unwillingly on her part, and led her silently up to his father. The old gentleman was sitting in his great study-chair, with a book open at his side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his, and held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared not raise her eyes.

"My little girl," said he, very gravely, though not without a tone of kindness, too — "are you coming here to cheer my loneliness?"

Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word; it was impossible; she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand that lay on the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon her head.

"God bless you," said he, "abundantly, for all the love you showed her. Come— if you will — and be, as far as a withered heart will let you, all that she wished. All is yours — except what will be buried with her."

Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words and manner were sad and solemn; it was the tone that distressed her. There was no tearfulness in it; it trembled a little; it seemed to come indeed from a withered heart. She shook with the effort she made to control herself. John asked her presently what she had come for.

"A gentleman," said Ellen — "there's a gentleman, a stranger."

He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. Ellen did not know whether to go too, or stay; she thought, from his not taking her with him, he wished her to stay; she stood doubtfully. Presently she heard steps coming back along the hall — steps of two persons — the door opened, and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen! she knew him in a moment — it was her old friend, her friend of the boat — Mr. George Marshman.

Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook hands in silence. Ellen at first had shrunk out of the way, to the other side of the room, and now, when she saw her opportunity, she was going to make her escape; but John gently detained her; and she stood still by his side, though with a kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or time for her old friend to recognise her. He was sitting by Mr. Humphreys, and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought nothing of what they were saying; with her eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr. Marshman, she was reading memory's long story over again. The same pleasant look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort her in her first sorrow — the old way of speaking, and even of moving an arm or hand — the familiar figure and face; how they took Ellen's thoughts back to the deck of that steamboat, the hymns, the talks! the love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and eventually to do her duty — it was all present again; and Ellen gazed at him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for the moment everything else. The same love and kindness were endeavouring now to say something for Mr. Humphreys' relief; it was a hard task. The old gentleman heard and answered, for the most part briefly, but so as to show that his friend laboured in vain; the bitterness and hardness of grief were unallayed yet. It was not till John made some slight remark, that Mr. Marshman turned his head that way; he looked for a moment in some surprise, and then said, his countenance lightening, "Is that Ellen Montgomery?"

Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched hand. But as she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the old look, the thought of which she had treasured up for years — it was too much. Back as in a flood to her heart seemed to come at once all the thoughts and feelings of the time since then; — the difference of this meeting from the joyful one she had so often pictured to herself; the sorrow of that time mixed with the sorrow now; and the sense that the very hand that had wiped those first tears away, was the one now laid in the dust by death. All thronged on her heart at once; and it was too much. She had scarce touched Mr. Marshman's hand when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious. There was such an utter absence of all bitterness or hardness in the tone of this grief; there was so touching an expression of submission mingled with it, that even Mr. Humphreys was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued weeper there — not the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart. For a few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till Ellen recovered enough to make her escape, and then the colour of sorrow was lightened, in one breast at least.

"Brother," said Mr. Humphreys, "I can hear you now better than I could a little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is good. 'Light in the darkness,' — I see it now. That child has given me a lesson."

Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had followed her quitting the room. But she thought when John came to the tea-table he looked relieved. If his general kindness and tenderness of manner towards herself could have been greater than usual, she might have thought it was that night; but she only thought he felt better.

Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a great comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with sorrow, he was able to make that effort for the good of the rest which no one yet had been equal to. The whole family, except Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together at this time; and his grave, cheerful, and unceasing kindness, made that by far the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding grateful to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old remembrance as well as the present effect. And he had not forgotten his old kindness for her; she saw it in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every way; and the feeling that she had got her old friend again, and should never lose him, now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could possibly have done at that time. His own family, too, had not seen him in a long time, so his presence was matter of general satisfaction.

Later in the evening, Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, looking and listening — he was like a piece of old music to her — when John came to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to speak to her. She went with him to the other side of the room.

"Ellie," he said, in a low voice, "I think my father would like to hear you sing a hymn — do you think you could?"

Ellen looked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resolution in her countenance, and said, "Yes."

"Not if it will pain you too much — and not unless you think you can surely go through with it, Ellen," he said, gently.

"No," said Ellen — "I will try."

"Will it not give you too much pain? do you think you can?"

"No — I will try," she repeated.

As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself that she would do it. The library was dark; coming from the light, Ellen at first could see nothing. John placed her in a chair and went away himself to a little distance, where he remained perfectly still. She covered her face with her hands for a minute, and prayed for strength; she was afraid to try.

Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and utterance. The latter, Ellen in part caught from them; in the former she thought herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she underrated herself: her voice, though not indeed powerful, was low and sweet, and very clear; and the entire simplicity and feeling with which she sang hymns, was more effectual than any higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been very much accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth and simplicity of expression; listening with delight, as she often had done, and often joining with her, Ellen had caught something of her manner.

She thought nothing of all this now; she had a trying task to go through. Sing! — then and there! And what should she sing? All that class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of their sorrow must be left on one side; she hardly dared think of them. Instinctively she took up another class, that without baring the wound would lay the balm close to it. A few minutes of deep stillness were in the dark room; then very low, and in tones that trembled a little, rose the words —

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer's ear! It smoothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, And drives away his fear."

The tremble in her voice ceased, and she went on —

"It makes the wounded spirit whole, And calms the troubled beast; 'T is manna to the hungry soul, And to the weary, rest.

"By Him my prayers acceptance gain, Although with sin defiled; Satan accuses me in vain, And I am own'd a child.

Weak is the effort of my heart, And cold my warmest thought — But when I see thee as thou art, I'll praise thee as I ought.

Till then, I would thy love proclaim With every lab'ring breath; And may the music of thy name Refresh my soul in death."

Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in the room. She thought of the hymn, "Loving Kindness;" but the tune, and the spirit of the words was too lively. Her mother's favourite, " 'T is my happiness below," but Ellen could not venture that; she strove to forget it as fast as possible. She sang clearly and sweetly as ever now —

"Hark, my soul, it is the Lord, 'T is thy Saviour, hear his word, — Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee: 'Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?

" 'I deliver'd thee when bound, And when bleeding heal'd thy wound; Sought thee wandering, set thee right Turn'd thy darkness into light.

" 'Can a mother's tender care Cease toward the child she bare? Yea — she may forgetful be, Yet will I remember thee.

" 'Mine is an unchanging love; Higher than the heights above, Deeper than the depths beneath, Free and faithful, strong as death.

" 'Thou shalt see my glory soon, When the work of life is done, Partner of my throne shalt be — Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?

"Lord, it is my chief complaint That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore — Oh for grace to love thee more!"

Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She hoped she was doing some good; and that hope enabled her, after the first trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She was not thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see the effect upon her auditors. Through the dark, her eyes could only just discern a dark figure stretched upon the sofa, and another standing by the mantle-piece. The room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The choice of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of "Jerusalem, my happy home;" but it would not do; she and Alice had too often sung it in strains of joy. Happily came to her mind the beautiful —

"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord," &c.

She went through all seven long verses. Still when Ellen paused at the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite her to go on. She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed words had gone down into her very heart; did they ever seem half so sweet before? She was cheered and strengthened, and thought she could go through with the next hymn, though it had been much loved and often used, both by her mother and Alice: —

"Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly, While the billows near me roll, While the tempest still is nigh. Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life be past — Safe into the haven guide, Oh, receive my soul at last!

"Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on thee — Leave, ah! leave me not alone! Still support and comfort me. All my trust on thee is stay'd, All my help from thee I bring; — Cover my defenceless head Beneath the shadow of thy wing.

"Thou, O Christ, art all I want; More than all in thee I find; Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick, and lead the blind. Just and holy is thy name, I am all unrighteousness; Vile and full of sin I am, Thou art full of truth and grace."

Still silence; — "silence that spoke!" Ellen did not know what it said, except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next was a favourite hymn of them all —

"What are these in bright array?" &c.

Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the words, for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She was fain to make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. But in vain; the tender nerve was touched; there was no stilling its quivering.

"Ellen!" said Mr. Humphreys then, after a few minutes. She rose and went to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast.

"Thank you, my child," he said, presently — "you have been a comfort to me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been sweeter."

As Ellen went away back through the hall, her tears almost choked her; but for all that there was a strong throb of pleasure at her heart.

"I have been a comfort to him," she repeated. "Oh, dear Alice! — so I will."

Chapter XLIV

The little spirit that haunted the big house.

The whole Marshman family returned to Ventnor immediately after the funeral, Mr. George excepted; he stayed with Mr. Humphreys over the Sabbath, and preached for him, and, much to every one's pleasure, lingered still a day or two longer; then he was obliged to leave them. John also must go back to Doncaster for a few weeks; he would not be able to get home again before the early part of August. For the month between, and as much longer, indeed, as possible, Mrs. Marshman wished to have Ellen at Ventnor; assuring her that it was to be her home always whenever she chose to make it so. At first, neither Mrs. Marshman nor her daughters would take any denial; and old Mr. Marshman was fixed upon it. But Ellen begged with tears that she might stay at home and begin at once, as far as she could, to take Alice's place. Her kind friends insisted that it would do her harm to be left alone for so long at such a season. Mr. Humphreys at the best of times kept very much to himself, and now he would more than ever; she would be very lonely. "But how lonely he will be if I go away!" said Ellen — "I can't go." Finding that her heart was set upon it, and that it would be a real grief to her to go to Ventnor, John at last joined to excuse her; and he made an arrangement with Mrs. Vawse instead, that she should come and stay with Ellen at the parsonage till he came back. This gave Ellen great satisfaction; and her kind Ventnor friends were obliged unwillingly to leave her.

The first few days after John's departure were indeed sad days — very sad to every one; it could not be otherwise. Ellen drooped miserably. She had, however, the best possible companion in her old Swiss friend. Her good sense, her steady cheerfulness, her firm principle, were always awake for Ellen's good — ever ready to comfort her, to cheer her, to prevent her from giving undue way to sorrow, to urge her to useful exertion. Affection and gratitude to the living and the dead, gave powerful aid to these efforts. Ellen rose up in the morning, and lay down at night, with the present pressing wish to do and be, for the ease and comfort of her adopted father and brother, all that it was possible for her. Very soon, so soon as she could rouse herself to anything, she began to turn over in her mind all manner of ways and means for this end. And in general, whatever Alice would have wished, what John did wish, was law to her.

"Margery," said Ellen, one day, "I wish you would tell me all the things Alice used to do; so that I may begin to do them, you know, as soon as I can."

"What things, Miss Ellen?"

"I mean the things she used to do about the house, or to help you — don't you know? — all sorts of things. I want to know them all, so that I may do them as she did. I want to very much."

"Oh, Miss Ellen, dear," said Margery, tearfully, "you are too little and tender to do them things — I'd be sorry to see you, indeed!"

"Why, no, I am not, Margery," said Ellen; "don't you know how I used to do at Aunt Fortune's? Now, tell me, please, dear Margery! If I can't do it, I won't, you know."

"Oh, Miss Ellen, she used to see to various things about the house — I don't know as I can tell 'em all directly; some was to help me; and some to please her father, or Mr. John, if he was at home; she thought of every one before herself, sure enough."

"Well, what, Margery? what are they? Tell me all you can remember."

"Why, Miss Ellen — for one thing — she used to go into the library every morning, to put it in order, and dust the books and papers and things; in fact, she took the charge of that room entirely: I never went into it at all, unless once or twice in the year, or to wash the windows."

Ellen looked grave; she thought with herself there might be a difficulty in the way of her taking this part of Alice's daily duties; she did not feel that she had the freedom of the library.

"And then," said Margery, "she used to skim the cream for me, most mornings, when I'd be busy; and wash up the breakfast things —"

"Oh, I forgot all about the breakfast things!" exclaimed Ellen — "how could I! I'll do them to be sure, after this. I never thought of them, Margery. And I'll skim the cream too."

"Dear Miss Ellen, I wouldn't want you to: I didn't mention it for that, but you was wishing me to tell you — I don't want you to trouble your dear little head about such work. It was more the thoughtfulness that cared about me than the help of all she could do, though that wasn't a little — I'll get along well enough."

"But I should like to — it would make me happier; and don't you think I want to help you too, Margery?"

"The Lord bless you, Miss Ellen," said Margery, in a sort of desperation, setting down one iron and taking up another; "don't talk in that way, or you'll upset me entirely. I ain't a bit better than a child," said she, her tears falling fast on the sheet she was hurriedly ironing.

"What else, dear Margery?" said Ellen presently. "Tell me what else?"

"Well, Miss Ellen," said Margery, dashing away the water from either eye, "she used to look over the clothes when they went up from the wash; and put them away; and mend them if there was any places wanted mending."

"I am afraid I don't know how to manage that," said Ellen, very gravely. "There is one thing I can do — I can darn stockings very nicely: but that's only one kind of mending. I don't know much about the other kinds."

"Ah, well, but she did, however," said Margery, searching in her basket of clothes for some particular pieces. "A beautiful mender she was, to be sure! look here, Miss Ellen — just see that patch — the way it is put on — so evenly by a thread all round; and the stitches, see — and see the way this rent is darned down — oh, that was the way she did everything!"

"I can't do it so," said Ellen, sighing — "but I can learn — that I can do. You will teach me, Margery — won't you?"

"Indeed, Miss Ellen, dear, it's more than I can myself; but I will tell you who will, and that's Mrs. Vawse. I am thinking it was her she learned of in the first place, but I ain't certain. Anyhow, she's a first-rate hand."

"Then I'll get her to teach me," said Ellen: "that will do very nicely. And now Margery, what else?"

"Oh, dear, Miss Ellen, I don't know; there was a thousand little things that I'd only recollect at the minute; she'd set the table for me when my hands was uncommon full: and often she'd come out and make some little thing for the master when I wouldn't have the time to do the same myself; and I can't tell — one can't think of those things but just at the minute. Dear Miss Ellen, I'd be sorry, indeed, to see you a-trying your little hands to do all that she done."

"Never mind, Margery," said Ellen — and she threw her arms round the kind old woman as she spoke — "I won't trouble you — and you won't be troubled if I am awkward about anything at first, will you?"

Margery could only throw down her holder to return most affectionately as well as respectfully Ellen's caress, and press a very hearty kiss upon her forehead.

Ellen next went to Mrs. Vawse, to beg her help in the mending and patching line. Her old friend was very glad to see her take up anything with interest, and readily agreed to do her best in the matter. So some old clothes were looked up; pieces of linen, cotton, and flannel gathered together: a large basket found to hold all these rags of shape and no shape; and for the next week or two Ellen was indefatigable. She would sit making vain endeavours to arrange a large linen patch properly, till her cheeks were burning with excitement; and bend over a darn, doing her best to make invisible stitches, till Mrs. Vawse was obliged to assure her it was quite unnecessary to take so much pains. Taking pains, however, is the sure way to success. Ellen could not rest satisfied till she had equalled Alice's patching and darning; and though when Mrs. Vawse left her she had not quite reached that point, she was bidding fair to do so in a little while.

In other things she was more at home. She could skim milk well enough, and immediately began to do it for Margery. She at once also took upon herself the care of the parlour cupboard and all the things in it, which she well knew had been Alice's office; and thanks to Miss Fortune's training, even Margery was quite satisfied with her neat and orderly manner of doing it. Ellen begged her, when the clothes came up from the wash, to show her where everything went, so that for the future she might be able to put them away; and she studied the shelves of the linen closet, and the chests of drawers in Mr. Humphreys' room, till she almost knew them by heart. As to the library, she dared not venture. She saw Mr. Humphreys at meals and at prayers — only then. He had never asked her to come into his study since the night she sang to him; and as for her asking, nothing could have been more impossible. Even when he was out of the house, out by the hour, Ellen never thought of going where she had not been expressly permitted to go.

When Mr. Van Brunt informed his wife of Ellen's purpose to desert her service, and make her future home at the parsonage, the lady's astonishment was only less than her indignation; the latter not at all lessened by learning that Ellen was to become the adopted child of the house. For a while her words of displeasure were poured forth in a torrent; Mr. Van Brunt meantime saying very little, and standing by like a steadfast rock that the waves dash past, not upon. She declared this was "the cap-sheaf of Miss Humphreys' doings; she might have been wise enough to have expected as much; she wouldn't have been such a fool if she had! This was what she had let Ellen go there for! — a pretty return!" But she went on. "She wondered who they thought they had to deal with: did they think she was going to let Ellen go in that way? she had the first and only right to her; and Ellen had no more business to go and give herself away than one of her oxen; they would find it out, she guessed, pretty quick; Mr. John and all; she'd have her back in no time!" What were her thoughts and feelings, when, after having spent her breath, she found her husband quietly opposed to this conclusion, words cannot tell. Her words could not; she was absolutely dumb, till he had said his say; and then, appalled by the serenity of his manner, she left indignation on one side for the present, and began to argue the matter. But Mr. Van Brunt coolly said he had promised: she might get as many help as she liked — he would pay for them, and welcome; but Ellen would have to stay where she was. He had promised Miss Alice; and he wouldn't break his word "for king, lords, and commons." A most extraordinary expletive for a good republican — which Mr. Van Brunt had probably inherited from his father and grandfather. What can waves do against a rock? Miss Fortune disdained a struggle which must end in her own confusion, and wisely kept her chagrin to herself; never even approaching the subject afterwards, with him or any other person. Ellen had left the whole matter to Mr. Van Brunt, expecting a storm, and not wishing to share it. Happily it all blew over.

As the month drew to an end, and indeed long before, Ellen's thoughts began to go forward eagerly to John coming home. She had learned by this time how to mend clothes; she had grown somewhat wonted to her new round of little household duties; in everything else the want of him was felt. Study flagged; though, knowing what his wish would be, and what her duty was, she faithfully tried to go on with it. She had no heart for riding or walking by herself. She was lonely; she was sorrowful; she was weary; all Mrs. Vawse's pleasant society was not worth the mere knowledge that he was in the house; she longed for his coming.

He had written what day they might expect him. But when it came, Ellen found that her feeling had changed; it did not look the bright day she had expected it would. Up to that time she had thought only of herself; now she remembered what sort of a coming home this must be to him; and she dreaded almost as much as she wished for the moment of his arrival. Mrs. Vawse was surprised to see that her face was sadder that day than it had been for many past; she could not understand it. Ellen did not explain. It was late in the day before he reached home, and her anxious watch of hope and fear for the sound of his horse's feet grew very painful. She busied herself with setting the tea-table; it was all done; and she could by no means do anything else. She could not go to the door to listen there; she remembered too well the last time; and she knew he would remember it.

He came at last. Ellen's feeling had judged rightly of his, for the greeting was without a word on either side; and when he left the room to go to his father, it was very, very long before he came back. And it seemed to Ellen for several days that he was more grave, and talked less, than even the last time he had been at home. She was sorry when Mrs. Vawse proposed to leave them. But the old lady wisely said they would all feel better when she was gone; and it was so. Truly as she was respected and esteemed on all sides, it was felt a relief by every one of the family when she went back to her mountain top. They were left to themselves; they saw what their numbers were; there was no restraint upon looks, words, or silence. Ellen saw at once that the gentlemen felt easier — that was enough to make her so. The extreme oppression that had grieved and disappointed her the first few days after John's return, gave place to a softened gravity; and the household fell again into its old ways; only that upon every brow there was a chastened air of sorrow, in everything that was said a tone of remembrance, and that a little figure was going about where Alice's used to move as mistress of the house.

Thanks to her brother, that little figure was an exceeding busy one. She had in the first place her household duties, in discharging which she was perfectly untiring. From the cream skimmed for Margery, and the cups of coffee poured out every morning for Mr. Humphreys and her brother, to the famous mending, which took up often one half of Saturday, whatever she did was done with her best diligence and care; and from love to both the dead and the living, Ellen's zeal never slackened. These things, however, filled but a small part of her time, let her be as particular as she would; and Mr. John effectually hindered her from being too particular. He soon found a plenty for both her and himself to do.

Not that they ever forgot, or tried to forget Alice; on the contrary, they sought to remember her, humbly, calmly, hopefully, thankfully! By diligent performance of duty, by Christian faith, by conversation and prayer, they strove to do this; and after a time succeeded. Sober that winter was, but it was very far from being an unhappy one.

"John," said Ellen, one day, some time after Mrs. Vawse had left them, "do you think Mr. Humphreys would let me go into his study every day when he is out, to put it in order and dust the books?"

"Certainly. But why does not Margery do it?"

"She does, I believe, but she never used to; and I should like to do it very much if I was sure he would not dislike it. I would be careful not to disturb anything; I would leave everything just as I found it."

"You may go when you please, and do what you please there, Ellie."

"But I don't like to — I couldn't without speaking to him first; I should be afraid he might come back and find me there, and he would think I hadn't had leave."

"And you wish me to speak to him — is that it? Cannot you muster resolution enough for that, Ellie?"

Ellen was satisfied, for she knew by his tone he would do what she wanted.

"Father," said John, the next morning at breakfast, "Ellen wishes to take upon herself the daily care of your study, but she is afraid to venture there without being assured it will please you to see her there."

The old gentleman laid his hand affectionately on Ellen's head, and told her she was welcome to come and go when she would — the whole house was hers.

The grave kindness and tenderness of the tone and action spoiled Ellen's breakfast. She could not look at anybody nor hold up her head for the rest of the time.

As Alice had anticipated, her brother was called to take the charge of a church at Randolph, and at the same time another more distant was offered him. He refused them both, rightly judging that his place for the present was at home. But the call from Randolph being pressed upon him very much, he at length agreed to preach for them during the winter; riding thither for the purpose every Saturday, and returning to Carra-carra on Monday.

As the winter wore one, a grave cheerfulness stole over the household. Ellen little thought how much she had to do with it. She never heard Margery tell her husband, which she often did with great affection, that "that blessed child was the light of the house." And those who felt it the most said nothing. Ellen was sure, indeed, from the way in which Mr. Humphreys spoke to her, looked at her, now and then laid his hand on her head, and sometimes, very rarely, kissed her forehead, that he loved her and loved to see her about; and that her wish of supplying Alice's place was in some little measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks were, they said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from other people: the least of them gladdened her heart with the feeling that she was a comfort to him. But she never knew how much. Deep as the gloom still over him was, Ellen never dreamed how much deeper it would have been but for the little figure flitting round and filling up the vacancy; how much he reposed on the gentle look of affection, the pleasant voice, the watchful thoughtfulness that never left anything undone that she could do for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it himself. She was not sure he even noticed many of the little things she daily did or tried to do for him. Always silent and reserved, he was more so now than ever; she saw him little, and very seldom long at a time, unless when they were riding to church together; he was always in his study or abroad. But the trifles she thought he did not see were noted and registered, and repaid with all the affection he had to give.

As for Mr. John, it never came into Ellen's head to think whether she was a comfort to him; he was a comfort to her; she looked at it in quite another point of view. He had gone to his old sleeping-room upstairs, which Margery had settled with herself he would make his study; and for that he had taken the sitting-room. This was Ellen's study too, so she was constantly with him; and of the quietest she thought her movements would have to be.

"What are you stepping so softly for?" said he, one day, catching her hand as she was passing near him.

"You were busy — I thought you were busy," said Ellen.

"And what then?"

"I was afraid of disturbing you."

"You never disturb me," said he; — "you need not fear it. Step as you please, and do not shut the doors carefully. I see you and hear you; but without any disturbance."

Ellen found it was so. But she was an exception to the general rule; other people disturbed him, as she had one or two occasions of knowing.

Of one thing she was perfectly sure, whatever he might be doing — that he saw and heard her; and equally sure, that if anything were not right, she should sooner or later hear of it. But this was a censorship Ellen rather loved than feared. In the first place, she was never misunderstood; in the second, however ironical and severe he might be to others — and Ellen knew he could be both when there was occasion — he never was either to her. With great plainness always, but with an equally happy choice of time and manner, he either said or looked what he wished her to understand. This happened, indeed, only about comparative trifles; to have seriously displeased him Ellen would have thought the last great evil that could fall upon her in the world.

One day Margery came into the room with a paper in her hand.

"Miss Ellen," said she in a low tone — "here is Anthony Fox again — he has brought another of his curious letters, that he wants to know if Miss Ellen will be so good as to write out for him once more. He says he is ashamed to trouble you so much."

Ellen was reading, comfortably ensconced in the corner of the wide sofa. She gave a glance, a most ungratified one, at the very original document in Margery's hand. Unpromising it certainly looked.

"Another! Dear me! — I wonder if there isn't somebody else he could get to do it for him, Margery? I think I have had my share. You don't know what a piece of work it is to copy out one of those scrawls. It takes me ever so long, in the first place, to find out what he has written, and then to put it so that any one else can make sense of it — I've got about enough of it. Don't you suppose he could find plenty of other people to do it for him?"

"I don't know, Miss Ellen; I suppose he could."

"Then ask him, do; won't you, Margery? I'm so tired of it! and this is the third one; and I've got something else to do. Ask him if there isn't somebody else he can get to do it; if there isn't, I will; — tell him I am busy."

Margery withdrew, and Ellen buried herself again in her book. Anthony Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a letter Ellen had once offered to write out and make straight for him, upon hearing Margery tell of his lamenting that he could not make one fit to send home to his mother.

Presently Margery came in again, stopping this time at the table, which Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room, to get away from the fire.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," she said; "I am ashamed to be so troublesome — but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has begged me, and I didn't know how to refuse him, to come in and ask for a sheet of paper and a pen for him, Sir — he wants to copy a letter — if Mr. John would be so good; a quill pen, Sir, if you please; he cannot write with any other."

"No," said John, coolly. "Ellen will do it."

Margery looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but Ellen instantly rose up, and with a burning cheek came forward and took the paper from the hand where Margery still held it.

"Ask him to wait a little while, Margery," she, said hurriedly; "I'll do it as soon as I can — tell him in half an hour."

It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it patiently, and finished it well by the end of the half-hour; though with a burning cheek still; and a dimness over her eyes frequently obliged her to stop till she could clear them. It was done, and she carried it out to the kitchen herself.

The poor man's thanks were very warm; but that was not what Ellen wanted. She could not rest till she had got another word from her brother. He was busy; she dared not speak to him; she sat fidgeting and uneasy in the corner of the sofa till it was time to get ready for riding. She had plenty of time to make up her mind about the right and the wrong of her own conduct.

During the ride he was just as usual, and she began to think he did not mean to say anything more on the matter. Pleasant talk and pleasant exercise had almost driven it out of her head, when as they were walking their horses over a level place, he suddenly began —

"By-the-bye, you are too busy, Ellie," said he. "Which of your studies shall we cut off?"

"Please, Mr. John," said Ellen, blushing, "don't say anything about that! I was not studying at all — I was just amusing myself with a book — I was only selfish and lazy."

"Only — I would rather you were too busy, Ellie."

Ellen's eyes filled.

"I was wrong," she said — "I knew it at the time — at least, as soon as you spoke I knew it; and a little before; — I was very wrong!"

And his keen eye saw that the confession was not out of compliment to him merely; it came from the heart.

"You are right now," he said, smiling. "But how are your reins?"

Ellen's heart was at rest again.

"Oh, I forgot them," said she, gaily: "I was thinking of something else."

"You must not talk when you are riding, unless you can contrive to manage two things at once; and no more lose command of your horse than you would of yourself."

Ellen's eye met his, with all the contrition, affection, and ingenuousness that even he wished to see there; and they put their horses to the canter.

This winter was in many ways a very precious one to Ellen. French gave her now no trouble; she was a clever arithmetician; she knew geography admirably, and was tolerably at home in both English and American history; the way was cleared for the course of improvement in which her brother's hand led and helped her. He put her into Latin; carried on the study of natural philosophy they had begun the year before, and which with his instructions was perfectly delightful to Ellen; he gave her some works of stronger reading than she had yet tried, besides histories in French and English, and higher branches of arithmetic. These things were not crowded together so as to fatigue, nor hurried through so as to overload. Carefully and thoroughly she was obliged to put her mind through every subject they entered upon; and just at that age, opening as her understanding was, it grappled eagerly with all that he gave her, as well from love to learning as from love to him. In reading, too, she began to take new and strong delight. Especially two or three new English periodicals, which John sent for on purpose for her, were mines of pleasure to Ellen. There was no fiction in them, either; they were as full of instruction as of interest. At all times of the day and night, in her intervals of business, Ellen might be seen with one of these in her hand, nestled among the cushions of the sofa, or on a little bench by the side of the fireplace in the twilight, where she could have the benefit of the blaze, which she loved to read by as well as ever. Sorrowful remembrances were then flown, all things present were out of view, and Ellen's face was dreamingly happy.

It was well there was always somebody by, who whatever he might himself be doing, never lost sight of her. If ever Ellen was in danger of bending too long over her studies, or indulging herself too much in the sofa-corner, she was sure to be broken off to take an hour or two of smart exercise, riding or walking, or to recite some lesson (and their recitations were very lively things), or to read aloud, or to talk. Sometimes, if he saw that she seemed to be drooping or a little sad, he would come and sit down by her side, or call her to his, find out what she was thinking about, and then, instead of slurring it over, talk of it fairly, and set it before her in such a light that it was impossible to think of it again gloomily, for that day at least. Sometimes he took other ways, but never, when he was present, allowed her long to look weary or sorrowful. He often read to her, and every day made her read aloud to him. This Ellen disliked very much at first, and ended with as much liking it. She had an admirable teacher. He taught her how to manage her voice, and how to manage the language, in both which he excelled himself, and was determined that she should; and, besides this, their reading often led to talking that Ellen delighted in. Always when he was making copies for her she read to him, and once at any rate in the course of the day.

Every day, when the weather would permit, the Black Prince and the Brownie, with their respective riders, might be seen abroad in the country, far and wide. In the course of their rides, Ellen's horsemanship was diligently perfected. Very often their turning-place was on the top of the Cat's Back, and the horses had a rest and Mrs. Vawse a visit before they went down again. They had long walks, too, by hill and dale; pleasantly silent or pleasantly talkative — all pleasant to Ellen!

Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to Randolph. It began early Saturday morning, and perhaps ended with Sunday night; for all Monday was hope and expectation. Even Saturday she had not much time to mope; that was the day for her great week's mending. When John was gone, and her morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her work-basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet day's sewing without the least fear of interruption. But sewing did not always hinder thinking. And then, certainly, the room did seem very empty, and very still; and the clock, which she never heard the rest of the week, kept ticking an ungracious reminder that she was alone. Ellen would sometimes forget it, in the intense interest of some nice little piece of repair which must be exquisitely done in a wrist-band or a glove; and then perhaps Margery would softly open the door and come in.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you're lonesome enough; isn't there something I can do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your being here all by yourself."

"Oh, never mind, Margery," said Ellen, smiling — "I am doing very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here, Margery — how will that do? — don't you think I am learning to mend?"

"It's beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can't make out how you've learned so quick. I'll tell Mr. John some time who does these things for him."

"No, indeed, Margery! don't you. Please not, Margery. I like to do it very much, indeed, but I don't want he should know it, nor Mr. Humphreys. Now you won't, Margery, will you?"

"Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as would be worrisome to you, for the whole world. Aren't you tired sitting here all alone?"

"Oh, sometimes a little," said Ellen, sighing. "I can't help that, you know."

"I feel it even out there in the kitchen," said Margery; — "I feel it lonesome hearing the house so still — I miss the want of Mr. John's step up and down the room. How fond he is of walking so, to be sure! How do you manage, Miss Ellen, with him making his study here? don't you have to keep uncommon quiet?"

"No," said Ellen — "no quieter than I like. I do just as I have a mind to."

"I thought, to be sure," said Margery, "he would have taken upstairs for his study, or the next room, one or t'other; he used to be mighty particular in old times; he didn't like to have anybody round when he was busy; but I am glad he is altered, however; it is better for you, Miss Ellen, dear, though I didn't know how you was ever going to make out at first."

Ellen thought for a minute, when Margery was gone, whether it could be that John was putting a force upon his liking for her sake, bearing her presence when he would rather have been without it. But she thought of it only a minute; she was sure, when she recollected herself, that however it happened, she was no hinderance to him in any kind of work; that she went out and came in, and, as he had said, he saw and heard her without any disturbance. Besides, he had said so; and that was enough.

Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in her books. But when Sunday morning came, with its calmness and brightness — when the business of the week was put away, and quietness, abroad and at home, invited to recollection — then Ellen's thoughts went back to old times, and then she missed the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with the day. She missed her in the morning, when the early sun streamed in through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast-table, where John was not to take her place. On the ride to church, where Mr. Humphreys was now her silent companion, and every tree in the road, and every opening in the landscape, seemed to call for Alice to see it with her. Very much she missed her in church. The empty seat beside her — the unused hymn-book on the shelf— the want of her sweet voice in the singing — oh! how it went to Ellen's heart! And Mr. Humphreys' grave, steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind; she saw it was in his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were bitterly sad — her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they could, unseen. Time softened this feeling.

While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the village beyond, Ellen stayed at Carra-carra, and tried to teach a Sunday-school. She determined, as far as she could, to supply beyond the home circle the loss that was not felt only there. She was able, however, to gather together but her own four children, whom she had constantly taught from the beginning, and two others. The rest were scattered. After her lunch, which, having no companion but Margery, was now a short one, Ellen went next to the two old women that Alice had been accustomed to attend for the purpose of reading, and what Ellen called preaching. These poor old people had sadly lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place they never expected to see supplied in this world, and whose kindness had constantly sweetened their lives with one great pleasure a week. Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon herself as to try to do for them what Alice had done; however, she resolved; and at the very first attempt their gratitude and joy far overpaid her for the effort she had made. Practice, and the motive she had, soon enabled Ellen to remember and repeat faithfully the greater part of Mr. Humphreys' morning sermon. Reading the Bible to Mrs. Blockson was easy — she had often done that; and to repair the loss of Alice's pleasant comments and explanations, she bethought her of her Pilgrim's Progress. To her delight the old woman heard it greedily, and seemed to take great comfort in it; often referring to what Ellen had read before, and begging to hear such a piece over again. Ellen generally went home pretty thoroughly tired, yet feeling happy; the pleasure of doing good still far overbalanced the pains.

Sunday evening was another lonely time; Ellen spent it as best she could. Sometimes with her Bible and prayer, and then she ceased to be lonely; sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts that had sprung up out of the employments of the morning, that she could not be sorrowful; sometimes she could not help being both. In any case, she was very apt, when the darkness fell, to take to singing hymns; and it grew to be a habit with Mr. Humphreys, when he heard her, to come out of his study and lie down upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room but that of the fire. Ellen never was better pleased than when her Sunday evenings were spent so. She sung with wonderful pleasure when she sang for him; and she made it her business to fill her memory with all the beautiful hymns she ever knew or could find, or that he liked particularly.

With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came the thought, "John will be at home to-day!" That was enough to carry Ellen pleasantly through whatever the day might bring. She generally kept her mending of stockings for Monday morning, because with that thought in her head she did not mind anything. She had no visits from Margery on Monday; but Ellen sang over her work, sprang about with happy energy, and studied her hardest; for John, in what he expected her to do, made no calculations for work of which he knew nothing. He was never at home till late in the day; and when Ellen had done all she had to do, and set the supper-table with punctilious care, and a face of busy happiness it would have been a pleasure to see if there had been any one to look at it, she would take what happened to be the favourite book, and plant herself near the glass door, like a very epicure, to enjoy both the present and the future at once. Even then, the present often made her forget the future; she would be lost in her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India, or fighting Nelson's battles over again; and the first news she would have of what she had set herself there to watch for, would be the click of the door-lock or a tap on the glass, — for the horse was almost always left at the further door. Back then she came from India or the Nile; down went the book; Ellen had no more thought but for what was before her.

For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative or a thoughtful mood; whether he spoke to her and looked at her or not; it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there. She was perfectly satisfied merely to sit down near him, though she did not get a word by the hour together.

XLV. The Guardian Angel

One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen thought so; and standing near, she by-and-by put her hand gently into one of his, which was thoughtfully passing through the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and, quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had been doing that day. Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and a long rent in her dress; she merely answered, smiling, that she had been busy.

"Too busy, I'm afraid. Come round here, and sit down. What have you been busy about?"

Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She coloured and hesitated. He did not press it any further.

"Mr. John," said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in again — "there is something I have been wanting to ask you this great while —"

"Why hasn't it been asked this great while?"

"I didn't quite like to; I didn't know what you would say to it."

"I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie."

"Why, you are not!" said Ellen, laughing — "how you talk! but I don't much like to ask people things."

"I don't know about that," said he, smiling; "my memory rather seems to say that you ask things pretty often."

"Ah, yes — those things; but I mean, I don't; like to ask things when I am not quite sure how people will like it."

"You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful in such a matter; but it is best not to be doubtful when I am concerned."

"Well," said Ellen, "I wished very much — I was going to ask — if you would have any objection to let me read one of your sermons."

"None in the world, Ellie," said he, smiling; "but they have never been written yet."

"Not written!"

"No — there is all I had to guide me yesterday."

"A half-sheet of paper! — and only written on one side! Oh, I can make nothing of this. What is this? Hebrew?"

"Short-hand."

"And is that all? I cannot understand it," said Ellen, sighing as she gave back the paper.

"What if you were to go with me next time? They want to see you very much at Ventnor."

"So do I want to see them," said Ellen, "very much indeed."

"Mrs. Marshman sent a most earnest request by me that you would come to her the next time I go to Randolph."

Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration — if one might judge by her face.

"What do you say to it?"

"I should like to go, very much," said Ellen, slowly — "but —"

"But you do not think it would be pleasant?"

"No, no," said Ellen, laughing, "I don't mean that; but I think I would rather not."

"Why?"

"Oh — I have some reasons."

"You must give me very good ones, or I think I shall overrule your decision, Ellie."

"I have very good ones; plenty of them; only —"

A glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen's hesitation.

"I have, indeed," said she, laughing; "only I did not want to tell you. The reason why I didn't wish to go was because I thought I should be missed. You don't know how much I miss you," said she, with tears in her eyes.

"That is what I was afraid of! Your reasons make against you, Ellie."

"I hope not; I don't think they ought."

"But, Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you once or twice than have you want what would be good for you."

"I know that! I am sure of that; but that don't alter my feeling, you know. And besides, that isn't all."

"Who else will miss you?"

Ellen's quick look seemed to say that he knew too much already, and that she did not wish him to know more. He did not repeat the question, but Ellen felt that her secret was no longer entirely her own.

"And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely?" he went on presently.

Ellen's eyes watered at the tone in which these words were spoken; she answered — "Different things."

"The best remedy for it is prayer. In seeking the face of our best Friend we forget the loss of others. That is what I try, Ellie, when I feel alone; do you try it?" said he, softly.

Ellen looked up; she could not well speak at that moment.

"There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who said, 'He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.' "

"It troubles me," said he, after a pause, "to leave you so much alone. I don't know that it were not best to take you with me every week."

"Oh, no!" said Ellen, "don't think of me. I don't mind it, indeed. I do not always feel so — sometimes— but I get along very well; and I would rather stay here, indeed I would. I am always happy as soon as Monday morning comes."

He rose up suddenly, and began to walk up and down the room.

"Mr. John —"

"What Ellie?"

"I do sometimes seek His face very much when I cannot find it."

She hid her face in the sofa cushion. He was silent a few minutes, and then stopped his walk.

"There is something wrong, then, with you, Ellie," he said, gently. "How has it been through the week? If you can let day after day pass without remembering your best Friend, it may be that when you feel the want you will not readily find Him. How is it daily, Ellie? is seeking his face your first concern? do you give sufficient time faithfully to your Bible and prayer?"

Ellen shook her head; no words were possible. He took up his walk again. The silence lasted a length of time, and he was still walking, when Ellen came to his side and laid her hand on his arm.

"Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie?"

She weepingly answered, "Yes.". They walked a few turns up and down.

"Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be possible, you will give an hour at least to this business, whatever else may be done or undone?"

Ellen promised; and then with her hand in his they continued their walk through the room till Mr. Humphreys and the servants came in. Her brother's prayer that night Ellen never forgot.

No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor. But a week or two after, John smilingly told her to get all her private affairs arranged, and to let her friends know they need not expect to see her the next Sunday, for that he was going to take her with him. As she saw he had made up his mind, Ellen said nothing in the way of objecting, and, now that the decision was taken from her, was really very glad to go. She arranged everything, as he had said; and was ready Saturday morning to set off with a very light heart.

They went in the sleigh. In a happy, quiet mood of mind, Ellen enjoyed everything exceedingly. She had not been to Ventnor in several months; the change of scene was very grateful. She could not help thinking, as they slid along smoothly and swiftly over the hard-frozen snow, that it was a good deal pleasanter, for once, than sitting alone in the parlour at home with her work-basket. Those days of solitary duty, however, had prepared her for the pleasure of this one; Ellen knew that, and was ready to be thankful for everything. Throughout the whole way, whether the eye and mind silently indulged in roving, or still better-loved talk interrupted that, as it often did, Ellen was in a state of most unmixed and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the slightest reason to doubt the correctness of his judgment in bringing her. He went in but a moment at Ventnor, and leaving her there, proceeded himself to Randolph.

Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken the greatest care of and enjoyed as much as possible while one has it. Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she had been their own child. Ellen Chauncey overwhelmed her with joyful caresses, and could scarcely let her out of her arms by night or by day. She was more than ever Mr. Marshman's pet; but, indeed, she was well petted by the family. It was a very happy visit.

Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy, not only Mrs. Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her brother (for his church was not the one the family attended), but the carriage was ordered in the afternoon also; and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter and Miss Sophia went with her again. When they returned, Miss Sophia, who had taken a very great fancy to her, brought her into her own room and made her lie down with her upon the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not tired.

"Well, you ought to be, if you are not," said the lady. "I am. Keep away, Ellen Chauncey — you can't be anywhere without talking. You can live without Ellen for half an hour, can't ye? Leave us a little while in quiet."

Ellen for her part was quite willing to be quiet. But Miss Sophia was not sleepy, and it soon appeared had no intention of being silent herself.

"Well, how do you like your brother in the pulpit?" she began.

"I like him anywhere, Ma'am," said Ellen, smiling a very unequivocal smile.

"I thought he would have come here with you last night; it is very mean of him! He never comes near us; he always goes to some wretched little lodging or place in the town there — always; never so much as looks at Ventnor, unless sometimes he may stop for a minute at the door."

"He said he would come here to-night," said Ellen.

"Amazing condescending of him! However, he isn't like anybody else; I suppose we must not judge him by common rules. How is Mr. Humphreys, Ellen?"

"I don't know Ma'am," said Ellen; "it is hard to tell; he doesn't say much. I think he is rather more cheerful, if anything, than I expected he would be."

"And how do you get along there, poor child! with only two such grave people about you?"

"I get along very well, Ma'am," said Ellen, with what Miss Sophia thought a somewhat curious smile.

"I believe you will grow to be as sober as the rest of them," said she. "How does Mr. John behave?"

Ellen turned so indubitably curious a look upon her at this, that Miss Sophia half-laughed and went on —

"Mr. Humphreys was not always as silent and reserved as he is now; I remember him when he was different, though I don't think he was ever much like his son. Do you ever hear about it?"

"About what, Ma'am?"

"Oh, all about his coming to this country, and what brought him to Carra-carra?"

"No, Ma'am."

"My father, you see, had come out long before, but the two families had always been very intimate in England, and it was kept up after he came away. He was a particular friend of an elder brother of Mr. Humphreys; his estate and my grandfather's lay very near each other; and besides, there were other things that drew them to each other — he married my aunt, for one. My father made several journeys back and forth in the course of years, and so kept up his attachment to the whole family, you know; and he became very desirous to get Mr. Humphreys over here — this Mr. Humphreys, you know. He was the younger brother — younger brothers in England have generally little or nothing; but you don't know anything about that, Ellen. He hadn't anything then but his living, and that was a small one; he had some property left him, though, just before he came to America."

"But, Miss Sophia," — Ellen hesitated, — "are you sure they would like I should hear all this?"

"Why, yes, child! of course they would; everybody knows it. Some things made Mr. Humphreys as willing to leave England about that time as my father was to have him. An excellent situation was offered him in one of the best institutions here, and he came out. That's about — let me see — I was just twelve years old, and Alice was one year younger. She and I were just like sisters always from that time. We lived near together, and saw each other every day, and our two families were just like one. But they were liked by everybody. Mrs. Humphreys was a very fine person — very; oh, very! I never saw any woman I admired more. Her death almost killed her husband: and I think Alice — I don't know; there isn't the least sign of delicate health about Mr. Humphreys nor Mr. John — not the slightest — nor about Mrs. Humphreys either. She was a very fine woman!"

"How long ago did she die?" said Ellen.

"Five — six, seven — seven years ago. Mr. John had been left in England till a little before. Mr. Humphreys was never the same after that. He wouldn't hold his professorship any longer; he couldn't bear society; he just went and buried himself at Carra-carra. That was a little after we came here."

How much all this interested Ellen! She was glad, however, when Miss Sophia seemed to have talked herself out, for she wanted very much to think over John's sermon. And as Miss Sophia happily fell into a doze soon after, she had a long quiet time for it, till it grew dark, and Ellen Chauncey, whose impatience could hold no longer, came to seek her.

John came in the evening. Ellen's patience and politeness were severely tried in the course of it; for while she longed exceedingly to hear what her brother and the older members of the family were talking about — animated, delightful conversation she was sure — Ellen Chauncey detained her in another part of the room; and for a good part of the evening she had to bridle her impatience, and attend to what she did not care about. She did it, and Ellen Chauncey did not suspect it; and at last she found means to draw both her and herself near the larger group. But they seemed to have got through what they were talking about; there was a lull. Ellen waited and hoped they would begin again.

"You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John," said Miss Sophia.

He bowed gravely.

"Did you know whom you had among your auditors? the — and — were there;" naming some distinguished strangers in the neighbourhood.

"I think I saw them."

"You 'think' you did! Is that an excess of pride or an excess of modesty? Now, do be a reasonable creature, and confess that you are not insensible to the pleasure and honour of addressing such an audience!"

Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt for an instant in his face, instantly succeeded by a smile.

"Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old woman that sat at the foot of the pulpit-stairs."

"That old thing!" said Miss Sophia.

"I saw her," said Mrs. Chauncey; — "poor old creature! she seemed most deeply attentive when I looked at her."

"I saw her!" cried Ellen Chauncey — "and the tears were running down her cheeks several times."

"I didn't see her," said Ellen Montgomery, as John's eye met hers. He smiled.

"But do you mean to say," continued Miss Sophia, "that you are absolutely careless as to who hears you?"

"I have always one hearer, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity, that it sinks the rest into great insignificance."

"That is a rebuke," said Miss Sophia; — "but nevertheless, I shall tell you that I liked you very much this afternoon."

He was silent.

"I suppose you will tell me next," said the young lady, laughing, "that you are sorry to hear me say so."

"I am," said he, gravely.

"Why? — may I ask?"

"You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at least as one of my hearers was concerned."

"How do you know that?"

"Do you remember what Louis the Fourteenth said to Massillon? — 'Mon père, j'ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma chapelle; j'en ai été fort content: pour vous, toutes les fois que je vous ai entendu, j'ai été très mécontent de moi-même!' "

Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for a moment.

"Then you really mean to be understood, that provided you fail of your aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people think of you?"

"As I would take a bankrupt's promissory note in lieu of told gold. It gives me small gratification, Miss Sophia — very small indeed — to see the bowing heads of the grain that yet my sickle cannot reach."

"I agree with you most heartily," said Mr. George Marshman. The conversation dropped; and the two gentlemen began another in an undertone, pacing up and down the floor together.

The next morning, not sorrowfully, Ellen entered the sleigh again, and they set off homewards.

"What a sober little piece that is!" said Mr. Howard.

"Oh! — sober!" cried Ellen Chauncey; — "that is because you don't know her, Uncle Howard. She is the cheerfullest, happiest girl that I ever saw — always."

"Except Ellen Chauncey — always," said her uncle.

"She is a singular child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "She is grave, certainly, but she don't look moped at all, and I should think she would be, to death."

"There's not a bit of moping about her," said Miss Sophia. "She can laugh and smile as well as anybody; though she has sometimes that peculiar grave look of the eyes that would make a stranger doubt it. I think John Humphreys has infected; he has something of the same look himself."

"I am not sure whether it is the eyes or the mouth, Sophia," said Mr. Howard.

"It is both," said Miss Sophia. "Did you ever see the eyes look one way and the mouth another?"

"And besides," said Ellen Chauncey, "she has reason to look sober, I am sure."

"She is a fascinating child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "I cannot comprehend where she gets the manner she has. I never saw a more perfectly polite child, and there she has been for months, with nobody to speak to her but two gentlemen and the servants. It is natural to her, I suppose; she can have nobody to teach her."

"I am not so sure as to that," said Miss Sophia; "but I have noticed the same thing often. Did you observe her last night, Matilda, when John Humphreys came in? you were talking to her at the moment; I saw her before the door was opened; I saw the colour come, and her eyes sparkle, but she did not look towards him for an instant, till you had finished what you were saying to her, and she had given, as she always does, her modest, quiet answer; and then her eye went straight as an arrow to where he was standing."

"And yet," said Mrs. Chauncey, "she never moved towards him when you did, but stayed quietly on that side of the room with the young ones, till he came round to them; and it was some time too."

"She is an odd child," said Miss Sophia, laughing. "What do you think she said to me yesterday? I was talking to her, and getting rather communicative on the subject of my neighbours' affairs; and she asked me gravely — the little monkey! if I was sure they would like her to hear it? I felt quite rebuked, though I didn't choose to let her know as much."

"I wish Mr. John would bring her every week," said Ellen Chauncey, sighing; "it would be so pleasant to have her."

Towards the end of the winter, Mr. Humphreys began to propose that his son should visit England and Scotland during the following summer. He wished him to see his family and to know his native country, as well as some of the most distinguished men and institutions in both kingdoms. Mr. George Marshman also urged upon him some business in which he thought he could be eminently useful. But Mr. John declined both propositions, still thinking he had more important duties at home. This only cloud that rose above Ellen's horizon scattered away.

One evening — it was a Monday — in the twilight, John was as usual pacing up and down the floor. Ellen was reading in the window.

"Too late for you, Ellie."

"Yes," said Ellen; "I know; I will stop in two minutes."

But in a quarter of that time she had lost every thought of stopping, and knew no longer that it was growing dusk. Somebody else, however, had not forgotten it. The two minutes were not ended, when a hand came between her and the page, and quietly drew the book away.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Ellen, starting up. "I entirely forgot about it!"

He did not look displeased; he was smiling. He drew her arm within his.

"Come and walk with me. Have you had any exercise to-day?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I had a good deal to do, and I had fixed myself so nicely on the sofa with my books; and it looked cold and disagreeable out of doors."

"Since when have you ceased to be a fixture?"

"What! — oh," said Ellen, laughing, "how shall I ever get rid of that troublesome word? What shall I say? — I had arranged myself, established myself, so nicely on the sofa."

"And did you think that a sufficient reason for not going out?"

"No," said Ellen, "I did not; and I did not decide that I would not go; and yet I let it keep me at home after all; — just as I did about reading a few minutes ago. I meant to stop, but I forgot it, and I should have gone on I don't know how long if you had not stopped me. I very often do so."

He paused a minute, and then said —

"You must not do so any more, Ellie."

The tone, in which there was a great deal of love and decision, wound round Ellen's heart, and constrained her to answer immediately —

"I will not — I will not."

"Never parley with conscience; it is a dangerous habit."

"But then — it was only —"

"About trifles; I grant you; but the habit is no trifle. There will not be a just firmness of mind and steadfastness of action where tampering with duty is permitted even in little things."

"I will try not to do it," Ellen repeated.

"No," said he, smiling — "let it stand as at first. 'I will not' means something; 'I will try' is very apt to come to nothing, 'I will keep thy precepts with my whole heart! — not 'I will try. ' Your reliance is precisely the same in either case."

"I will not, John," said Ellen, smiling.

"What were you poring over so intently a while ago?"

"It was an old magazine — Blackwood's Magazine, I believe, is the name of it; I found two great piles of them in a closet upstairs the other day; and I brought this one down."

"This is the first that you have read?"

"Yes; I got very much interested in a curious story there; — why?"

"What will you say, Ellie, if I ask you to leave the rest of the two piles unopened?"

"Why, I will say that I will do it, of course," said Ellen — with a little smothered sigh of regret, however — "if you wish it."

"I do wish it, Ellie."

"Very well — I'll let them alone, then. I have enough other reading; I don't know how I happened to take that one up; because I saw it there, I suppose."

"Have you finished Nelson yet?"

"Oh, yes! — I finished it Saturday night. Oh, I like it very much! I am going all over it again, though. I like Nelson very much; don't you?"

"Yes — as well as I can like a man of very fine qualities without principle."

"Was he that?" said Ellen.

"Yes; did you not find it out? I am afraid your eyes were blinded by admiration."

"Were they?" said Ellen. "I thought he was so very fine in everything; and I should be sorry to think he was not."

"Look over the book again by all means, with a more critical eye; and when you have done so, you shall give me your cool estimate of his character."

"O me!" said Ellen. "Well — but I don't know whether I can give you a cool estimate of him — however, I'll try. I cannot think coolly of him now, just after Trafalgar. I think it was a shame that Collingwood did not anchor as Nelson told him to; don't you? I think he might have been obeyed while he was living at least."

"It is difficult," said John, smiling, "to judge correctly of many actions without having been on the spot, and in the circumstances of the actors. I believe you and I must leave the question of Trafalgar to more nautical heads."

"How pleasant this moonlight is!" said Ellen.

"What makes it pleasant?"

"What makes it pleasant! — I don't know; I never thought of such a thing. It is made to be pleasant — I can't tell why; can anybody?"

"The eye loves light for many reasons; but all kinds of light are not equally agreeable. What makes the peculiar charm of these long streams of pale light across the floor? and the shadowy brightness without?"

"You must tell," said Ellen; "I cannot."

"You know we enjoy anything much more by contrast; I think that is one reason. Night is the reign of darkness, which we do not love; and here is light struggling with the darkness, not enough to overcome it entirely, but yet banishing it to nooks and corners, and distant parts, by the side of which it shows itself in contrasted beauty. Our eyes bless the unwonted victory."

"Yes," said Ellen; "we only have moonlight nights once in a while."

"But that is only one reason out of many, and not the greatest. It is a very refined pleasure, and to resolve it into its elements, is something like trying to divide one of these same white rays of light into the many various-coloured ones that go to form it; — and not by any means so easy a task."

"Then it was no wonder I couldn't answer," said Ellen.

"No; you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie."

"The moonlight is so calm and quiet," Ellen observed, admiringly.

"And why is it calm and quiet? — I must have an answer to that."

"Because we are generally calm and quiet at such times?" Ellen ventured, after a little thought.

"Precisely! — we and the world. And association has given the moon herself the same character. Besides that, her mild, sober light is not fitted for the purposes of active employment, and therefore the more graciously invites us to the pleasures of thought and fancy."

"I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it," said Ellen, laughing.

"And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the pleasure we have, not only in moonlight, but in most other things. When two things have been in the mind together, and made any impression, the mind associates them; and you cannot see or think of the one, without bringing back the remembrance of the feeling of the other. If we have enjoyed the moonlight in pleasant scenes, in happy hours, with friends that we loved — though the sight of it may not always make us directly remember them, yet it brings with it a waft from the feeling of the old times— sweet as long as life lasts!"

"And sorrowful things may be associated too?" said Ellen.

"Yes, and sorrowful things. But this power of association is the cause of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my mother used to sing — I cannot hear it now without being carried swiftly back to my boyish days — to the very spirit of the time; I feel myself spring over the green sward as I did then."

"Oh, I know that is true," said Ellen. "The camellia — the white camellia, you know — I like it so much ever since what you said about it one day. I never see it without thinking of it; and it would not seem half so beautiful but for that."

"What did I say about it?"

"Don't you remember? you said it was like what you ought to be, and what you should be, if you ever reached heaven; and you repeated that verse in the Revelation about 'those that have not defiled their garments.' I always think of it. It seems to give me a lesson."

"How eloquent of beautiful lessons all nature would be to us," said John, musingly, "if we had but the eye and the ear to take them in!"

"And in that way you would heap associations upon associations?"

"Yes; till our storehouse of pleasure was very full."

"You do that now," said Ellen. "I wish you would teach me."

"I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of flowers you are so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you?"

"I don't know; I only think of themselves; except — sometimes they make me think of Alice."

"You know, from any works we may form some judgment of the mind and character of their author?"

"From their writings, I know you can," said Ellen; "from what other works?"

"From any which are not mechanical; from any in which the mind, not the hand, has been the creating power. I saw you very much interested the other day in the Eddystone lighthouse; did it help you to form no opinion of Mr. Smeaton?"

"Why, yes, certainly," said Ellen; "I admired him exceedingly for his cleverness and perseverance; but what other works? I can't think of any."

"There is the lighthouse, — that is one thing. What do you think of the ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it?"

Ellen half-shuddered. "I shouldn't like to go to sea, John! But you were speaking of men's works and women's works?"

"Well, women's works; I cannot help forming some notion of a lady's mind and character from the way she dresses herself."

"Can you? do you?"

"I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a lady's dress that she never dreams of; the style of her thoughts, among others."

"It is a pity ladies didn't know that," said Ellen, laughing; "they would be very careful."

"It wouldn't mend the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things in which people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so it will show itself."

"But we have got a great way from the flowers," said Ellen.

"You shall bring me some to-morrow, Ellie, and we will read them together."

"There are plenty over there now," said Ellen, looking towards the little flower-stand, which was as full and flourishing as ever; "but we can't see them well by this light."

"A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that made them. They are the work of His fingers; and I cannot consider them without being joyfully assured of the glory and loveliness of their Creator. It is written as plainly to me in their delicate painting, and sweet breath, and curious structure, as in the very pages of the Bible; though, no doubt, without the Bible I could not read the flowers."

"I never thought much of that," said Ellen. "And then, you find particular lessons in particular flowers?"

"Sometimes."

"Oh, come here!" said Ellen, pulling him towards the flower- stand, "and tell me what this daphne is like, — you need not see that, only smell it, that's enough; — do, John, and tell me what it is like!"

He smiled as he complied with her request, and walked away again.

"Well, what is it?" said Ellen; "I know you have thought of something."

"It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes leaves upon the spirit; when it is just what it ought to be."

"My Mr. Marshman!" exclaimed Ellen.

John smiled again. "I thought of him, Ellie. And I thought, also, of Cowper's lines: —

'When one who holds communion with the skies Has filled his urn where those pure waters rise, Descends and dwells among us meaner things, — It is as if an angel shook his wings!' "

Ellen was silent a moment from pleasure.

"Well, I have got an association now with the daphne!" she said, joyously; and presently added, sighing, "How much you see in everything, that I do not see at all."

"Time, Ellie, said John; "there must be time for that. It will come. Time is cried out upon as a great thief; it is people's own fault. Use him but well, and you will get from his hand more than he will ever take from you."

Ellen's thoughts travelled on a little way from this speech, and then came a sigh, of some burden, as it seemed; and her face was softly laid against the arm she held.

"Let us leave all that to God," said John, gently.

Ellen started. "How did you know, how could you know what I was thinking of?"

"Perhaps my thoughts took the same road," said he, smiling. "But, Ellie, dear, let us look to that one source of happiness that can never be dried up; it is not safe to count upon anything else."

"It is not wonderful," said Ellen, in a tremulous voice, "if I —"

"It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up to God as our Father — who rejoice in Christ our Saviour— we are happy, whatever beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust Him, and never doubt that, Ellie."

"But still —" said Ellen.

"But, still, we will hope and pray alike in that matter; and while we do, and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave ourselves in our Father's hand. The joy of the knowledge of Christ — the joy the world cannot intermeddle with, the peace it cannot take away! Let us make that our own, Ellie; and, for the rest, put away all anxious care about what we cannot control."

Ellen's hand, however, did not just then lie quite so lightly on his arm as it did a few minutes ago — he could feel that — and could see the glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight as they fell. The hand was fondly taken in his; and, as they slowly paced up and down, he went on, in low tones of kindness and cheerfulness, with his pleasant talk, till she was too happy in the present to be anxious about the future — looked up again and brightly into his face, and questions and answers came as gaily as ever.

Chapter XLVI

"Something turns up."

The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, passed happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more to belong to the former than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest; April and May brought warm days and wild flowers. Ellen refreshed herself and adorned the room with quantities of them; and, as soon as might be, she set about restoring the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening; he provided her with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted to be done for her, supplied her with new plants and seeds, and roots, and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or press of business that called for it. But, for the most part, Ellen hoed and raked and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked or read; often giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and always coming in between her and any difficult or heavy job. The hours thus spent were to Ellen hours of unmixed delight. When he did not choose to go himself, he sent Thomas with her, as the garden was some little distance down the mountain, away from the house and from everybody — he never allowed her to go there alone.

As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is always happening most years," about the middle of May there came letters that, after all, determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr. Humphreys; it required the personal attendance either of himself or his son; he could not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side of the Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all the ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it; this would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably more. And he must set off without delay.

In the midst, not of his hurry — for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be in a hurry about anything — but in the midst of his business, he took special care of everything that concerned, or could possibly concern, Ellen. He arranged what books she should read, what studies she should carry on; and directed that about these matters, as well as about all others, she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter. He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked him for most of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring, as he well knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in view of his long absence. The memory of those hours never went from her.

The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one of them during all the time John should be gone; they urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish it; and finally compounded the matter by arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up; and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstatics. And it was further promised that the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could well be brought about.

Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she had behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult for her to behave well at all. That was a comfort, from him, whose notions of unexceptionable behaviour, she knew, were remarkably high. But the parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter; though softened as much as it could be at the time, and rendered very sweet to Ellen's memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness with which her brother, without checking, soothed her grief. He was to go early in the morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before; but he was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he told her it was very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of her room, and there bade her good night.

How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were unspeakably long.

Not a week after, one morning, Nancy Vawse came into the kitchen, and asked in her blunt fashion —

"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"

"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery, drily.

"I want to speak to her."

Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.

"Miss Ellen, dear," she said, softly, "here is that Nancy girl wanting to speak with you — will you please to see her?"

Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in; by no means displeased to have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she could not banish. She received Nancy very kindly.

"Well, I declare, Ellen!" said that young lady, whose wandering eye was upon everything but Ellen herself — "ain't you as fine as a fiddle! I guess you never touch your fingers to a file now-a-days — do you?"

"A file!" said Ellen.

"You han't forgot what it means, I s'pose," said Nancy, somewhat scornfully — " 'cause if you think I'm a-going to swallow that, you're mistaken. I've seen you file off tables down yonder a few times, han't I?"

"Oh, I remember now," said Ellen, smiling; — "it is so long since I heard the word that I didn't know what you meant. Margery calls it a dish-cloth, or a floor-cloth, or something else."

"Well, you don't touch one now-a-days, do you?"

"No," said Ellen, "I have other things to do."

"Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now, for once, han't you? What a lot! — I say, Ellen, have you got to read all these?"

"I hope so, in time," said Ellen, smiling. "Why haven't you been to see me before?"

"Oh — I don't know," said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a little as if she felt herself out of her sphere. "I didn't know as you would care to see me now."

"I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as glad to see you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness to me when Aunt Fortune was sick."

"You've forgotten all that went before that, I 'spose," said Nancy, with a half-laugh. "You beat all! Most folks remember and forget just t'other way exactly. But, besides, I didn't know but I should catch myself in queer company."

"Well — I am all alone now," said Ellen, with a sigh.

"Yes, if you warn't I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What do you think I have come for to-day, Ellen?"

"For anything but to see me?"

Nancy nodded very decisively.

"What?"

"Guess."

"How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your apron there?"

"Ah! — that's the very thing," said Nancy. "What have I got, sure enough?"

"Well, I can't tell through your apron," said Ellen, smiling.

"And I can't tell either — that's more, ain't it? Now listen, and I'll tell you where I got it, and then you may find out what it is, for I don't know. Promise you won't tell anybody."

"I don't like to promise that, Nancy."

"Why?"

"Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody about."

"But it ain't."

"If it isn't I won't tell. Can't you leave it so?"

"But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just for you, and now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would it do you to promise? — it's nobody's business but yours and mine, and somebody else's that won't make any talk about it, I promise you."

"I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought; can't you trust me?"

"I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say so," said Nancy; — "but as you're as stiff as the mischief, I s'pose I'll have to let it go. I'll trust you! Now listen. It don't look like anything, does it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, laughing; "you hold your apron so loose, that I cannot see anything."

"Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your aunt's — did you?"

"No."

"Well, I have — these six weeks. You never see anything go on quieter than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune never was so good in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly as ever, you know, but she has to keep it in. All I have to do, if I think anything is going wrong, I just let her think I am going to speak to him about it; only I have to do it very cunning, for fear she would guess what I am up to; and the next thing I know, it's all straight. He is about the coolest shaver," said Nancy, "I ever did see. The way he walks through her notions once in a while — not very often, mind you, but when he takes a fancy — it's fun to see! O, I can get along there first-rate, now. You'd have a royal time, Ellen."

"Well, Nancy — your story?"

"Don't you be in a hurry. I am going to take my time. Well, I've been there this six weeks, doing all sorts of things, you know — taking your place, Ellen — don't you wish you was back in it? Well, a couple of weeks since, Mrs. Van took it into her head she would have up the waggon, and go to Thirlwall, to get herself some things — a queer start for her; but, at any rate, Van Brunt brought up the waggon, and in she got, and off they went. Now, she meant, you must know, that I should be fast in the cellar-kitchen all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given me enough to keep me busy there; but I was up to her. I was as spry as a cricket, and flew round, and got things put up; and then I thought I'd have some fun. What do you think I did? Mrs. Montgomery was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How Van Brunt looks out for her, Ellen! he won't let her be put out for anything or anybody."

"I am glad of it," said Ellen, her face flushing, and her eyes watering — "it is just like him. I love him for it."

"The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great rate because she hadn't you to read to her; and what do you think he does, but goes and takes the book, and sits down and reads to her himself! You should have seen Mrs. Van's face!"

"What book?" said Ellen.

"What book? why your book — the Bible — there ain't any other book in the house, as I know. What on earth are you crying for, Ellen? He's fetched over his mother's old Bible, and there it lays on a shelf in the cupboard; and he has it out every once in a while. Maybe he's coming round, Ellen. But do hold up your head and listen to me! I can't talk to you while you lie with your head in the cushion like that. I han't more than begun my story yet."

"Well, go on," said Ellen.

"You see, I ain't in any hurry," said Nancy — "because as soon as I've finished I shall have to be off; and it's fun to talk to you. What do you think I did, when I had done up all my chores? — where do you think I found this, eh? you'd never guess."

"What is it?" said Ellen.

"No matter what it is — I don't know; — where do you think I found it?"

"How can I tell? I don't know."

"You'll be angry with me when I tell you."

Ellen was silent.

"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot afore I'd ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't like anybody else. Look here!" said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger, and slowly marking off each word — "this — come— out — of — your — aunt's — box — in — the — closet — upstairs — in — her — room."

"Nancy!"

"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look! 'Twon't alter it, Ellen; that's where it was, if you look till tea-time."

"But how came you there?"

" 'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it."

"Oh, Nancy!"

"Well — I don't say it was right — but, anyhow, I did it; you han't heard what I found yet."

"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have a chance."

"Put it back again! — I'll give it to you, and then you may put it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you! Why, you don't know what I found."

"Well, what did you find?"

"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a mind to see what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the other till I got to the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and papers, and there — staring right in my face — the first thing I see was 'Miss Ellen Montgomery.' "

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen — "a letter for me?"

"Hush! — and sit down, will you? — yes, a whole package of letters for you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that, anyhow, and she ain't agoing to take the care of it any more; so I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any more for you, but there warn't. There it is!"

And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam.

"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; — "I may go now, I suppose, and no thanks to me."

"Yes, I do — I do thank you very much, Nancy!" cried Ellen, starting up and taking her by the hand — "I do thank you — though it wasn't right; — but oh! how could she! how could she!"

"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do anything. Why she did it ain't so easy to tell."

Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only felt, that Nancy had gone. The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father's hand, the third to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction; she threw it down and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings; thankfulness, tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present — that letter was not thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when she had fairly begun it she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly, to the end.

"MY DEAR, DEAR LITTLE ELLEN,

"I am scarcely able — but I must write to you once more. Once more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me, and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!

"Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never spoke to you of her. After your aunt Bessy married and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who had always been her favourite child, should leave her for an American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all that entreaties and authority could urge, she said she forgave me for destroying all her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and gone, she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to her after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did not deserve it.

"But I have written to her lately, and she has written to me. She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in the further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left is done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have you as entirely her own, in all respects; and to this, in consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will lead, I am willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you on the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper persons going to Scotland, who will be willing to take charge of you. Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say, help you in this.

"To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot —"

The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter had evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic, and repair to No. —, Georgestreet, Edinburgh; said that Miss Fortune would give her the money she would need, which he had written to her to do, and that the accompanying letter Ellen was to carry with her, and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother.

Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, gazed at the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling interest for her, wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open it, or whether it would ever be opened; and finally, in a perfect maze, unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the bed, and them beside her, and fell into a deep sleep.

She woke up towards evening, with the pressure of a mountain weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze still; and not Mr. Humphreys himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many points were to be settled, so many questions answered to herself, it was a good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do.

She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject — she would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But must she obey them?

"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen — "I have promised Mr. Humphreys; I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay — my grandmother! — she cannot be nice, or she wouldn't have treated my mother so. She cannot be a nice person; — hard — she must be hard; — I never want to see her. My mother! But then my mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to her. Oh! oh! how could she! — how could they do so! — when they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then they did not know, that is the very thing — they thought I would have nobody but Aunt Fortune, and so it's no wonder — oh, what shall I do! What ought I to do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's — let me see — it's just about three years now — a little less — since these letters were written. I am older now, and circumstances are changed; I have a home, and a father, and a brother; may I not judge for myself? But my mother and my father have ordered me — what shall I do! If John were only here — but perhaps he would make me go — he might think it right. And to leave him, and maybe never to see him again! — and Mr. Humphreys! and how lonely he would be without me! — I cannot! — I will not! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!"

Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for she could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could not get rid of the feeling, that perhaps it might come to that. She wept bitterly — it didn't mend the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully, long — and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the matter to Mr. Humphreys; she feared his decision; and she feared also that he would give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for the journey; how much it might be, Ellen had no idea. She could not dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked her with the fifth commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred to her, at last, to take counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done, she knew, without betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was no help for that. So it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of care for that time; she had leisure to think of some other things.

Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of its being sent, Captain Montgomery's movements were extremely uncertain; and, in obedience to the earnest request of his wife, he directed that, without waiting for his own return, Ellen should immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he sent; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious doubts of ever being repaid: she instantly determined that if she had once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter on a wild-goose-chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it; it was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy found them.

Early next morning, after breakfast, Ellen came into the kitchen, and begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery gave the message, and added, that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away.

The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, who had dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone; there was old John saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in waiting.

"It's not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas," said Ellen; "I don't mind going alone at all."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen — (Thomas touched his hat) — but Mr. John left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen whenever it pleased her to ride; never failing."

"Did he?" said Ellen; "but is it convenient for you now, Thomas? I want to go as far as Mrs. Vawse's."

"It's always convenient, Miss Ellen — always; Miss Ellen need not think of that at all, I am always ready."

Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the hand that used to lift her to the saddle; and spurred by this recollection, set off at a round pace.

Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse's; and soon, finding her alone, Ellen had spread out all her difficulties before her and given her the letters to read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak on the subject to no one without Ellen's leave; her suspicions fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her grand-daughter. She heard all the story and read the letters before making any remark.

"Now, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen, anxiously, when the last one was folded up and laid on the table, "what do you think?"

"I think, my child, you must go," said the old lady, steadily.

Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her face; her own changing more and more for a minute, till she sunk it in her hands.

"Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin — je le vois bien," said the old lady, tenderly. (Their conversations were always in Mrs. Vawse's tongue.)

"But," said Ellen, presently, lifting her head again (there were no tears) — "I cannot go without money."

"That can be obtained without any difficulty."

"From whom? I cannot ask Aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Vawse; I could not do it."

"There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to Mr. Humphreys."

"Oh, I cannot!" said Ellen, covering her face again.

"Will you let me do it? I will speak to him if you permit me."

"But what use? He ought not to give me the money, Mrs. Vawse. It would not be right; and to show him the letters would be like asking him for it. Oh, I can't bear to do that!"

"He would give it you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Vawse!" said Ellen, bursting into tears; "he would never be pleased to send me away from him! I know — I know — he would miss me. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Not that, my dear Ellen," said the old lady, coming to her, and gently stroking her head with both hands. "You must do what is right; and you know it cannot be but that will be the best and happiest for you in the end."

"Oh! I wish — I wish," exclaimed Ellen from the bottom of her heart, "those letters had never been found!"

"Nay, Ellen, that is not right."

"But I promised Alice, Mrs. Vawse; ought I go away and leave him? Oh, Mrs. Vawse, it is very hard! Ought I?"

"Your father and your mother have said it, my child."

"But they never would have said it if they had known!"

"But they did not know, Ellen; and here it is."

Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing words which her old friend lavished upon her.

"There is one thing," said she at last, raising her head; "I don't know of anybody going to Scotland, and I am not likely to; and if I only do not before autumn — that is not a good time to go, and then comes winter."

"My dear Ellen!" said Mrs. Vawse, sorrowfully, "I must drive you from your last hope. Don't you know that Mrs. Gillespie is going abroad with all her family? — next month, I think."

Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel with her own heart. Mrs. Vawse hardly knew what to say next.

"You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses," she remarked, after a pause; "you can easily repay them if you wish, when you reach your friends in Scotland."

Ellen did not hear her. She looked up with an odd expression of determination in her face, — determination taking its stand upon difficulties.

"I shan't stay there, Mrs. Vawse, if I go! — I shall go, I suppose, if I must; but do you think anything will keep me there? Never!"

"You will stay for the same reason that you go for, Ellen, — to do your duty."

"Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Vawse, and then I shall come back — if they will let me."

"Whom do you mean by 'they?' "

"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."

"My dear Ellen," said the old lady, kindly, "be satisfied with doing your duty now; leave the future. While you follow him, God will be your friend — is not that enough? — and all things shall work for your good. You do not know what you will wish when the time comes you speak of. You do not know what new friends you may find to love."

Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for what she had said, and what she saw by her smile Mrs. Vawse doubted; but she disdained to assert what she could bring nothing to prove. She took a sorrowful leave of her old friend, and returned home.

After dinner, when Mr. Humphreys was about going back to his study, Ellen timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and asked him to look at them some time when he had leisure. She told him also where they were found and how long they had lain there, and that Mrs. Vawse had said she ought to show them to him.

She guessed he would read them at once — and she waited with a beating heart. In a little while she heard his step coming back along the hall. He came and sat down by her on the sofa, and took her hand.

"What is your wish in this matter, my child?" he said, gravely and cheerfully.

Ellen's look answered that.

"I will do whatever you say I must, Sir," she said, faintly.

"I dare not ask myself what I would wish, Ellen; the matter is taken out of our hands. You must do your parents' will, my child. I will try to hope that you will gain more than I lose. As the Lord pleases! If I am bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

"Mrs. Gillespie," he said, after a pause, "is about going to England — I know not how soon. It will be best for you to see her at once, and make all arrangements that may be necessary. I will go with you tomorrow to Ventnor, if the day be a good one."

There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible to get it out — she could not utter a word. She had pressed her hands upon her face to try to keep herself quiet; but Mr. Humphreys could see the deep crimson flushing to the very roots of her hair. He drew her close within his arms for a moment, kissed her forehead, Ellen felt it was sadly, and went away. It was well she did not hear him sigh as he went back along the hall — it was well she did not see the face of more settled gravity with which he sat down to his writing — she had enough of her own.

They went to Ventnor. Mrs. Gillespie with great pleasure undertook the charge of her, and promised to deliver her safely to her friends in Scotland. It was arranged that she should go back to Thirlwall to make her adieus; and that, in a week or two, a carriage should be sent to bring her to Ventnor, where her preparations for the journey should be made, and whence the whole party would set off.

"So you are going to be a Scotchwoman, after all, Ellen," said Miss Sophia.

"I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia."

"Why, Hutchinson will tell you," said the young lady, "that it is infinitely more desirable to be a Scotchwoman than that."

Ellen's face, however, looked so little inclined to be merry, that she took up the subject in another tone.

"Seriously, do you know," said she, "I have been thinking it is a very happy thing for you. I don't know what would become of you alone in that great parsonage-house. You would mope yourself to death in a little while, especially now that Mr. John is gone."

"He will be back," said Ellen.

"Yes; but what if he is? he can't stay at Thirlwall, child — he can't live thirty miles from his church, you know — did you think he would? They think all the world of him already. I expect they'll barely put up with Mr. George while he is gone; they will want Mr. John all to themselves when he comes back, you may rely on that. What are you thinking of, child?"

For Ellen's eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts, which Miss Sophia could not read.

"I should like to know what you are smiling at," she said, with some curiosity; but the smile was almost immediately quenched in tears.

Notwithstanding Miss Sophia's discouraging talk, Ellen privately agreed with Ellen Chauncey that the Brownie should be sent to her to keep and use as her own, till his mistress should come back — both children being entirely of opinion that the arrangement was a most unexceptionable one.

It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the date of the letters, left some uncertainty as to the present state of affairs among Ellen's friends in Scotland; but this doubt was not thought sufficient to justify her letting pass so excellent an opportunity of making the journey; especially as Captain Montgomery's letter spoke of an uncle, to whom, equally with her grandmother, Ellen was to be consigned. In case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. Gillespie engaged to keep Ellen with her, and bring her home to America when she herself should return.

And in little more than a month they were gone; adieus and preparations and all were over. Ellen's parting with Mrs. Vawse was very tender and very sad; — with Mr. Van Brunt, extremely and gratefully affectionate on both sides; — with her aunt, constrained and brief; — with Margery very sorrowful indeed. But Ellen's longest and most lingering adieu was to Captain Parry, the old gray cat. For one whole evening she sat with him in her arms; and over poor pussy were shed the tears that fell for many better loved and better deserving personages, as well as those not a few that were wept for him. Since Alice's death Parry had transferred his entire confidence and esteem to Ellen; whether from feeling a want, or because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and the tone that were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared it. Ellen was his chief favourite and almost constant companion. And bitterer tears Ellen shed at no time than that evening before she went away, over the old cat. She could not distress kitty with her distress, nor weary him with the calls upon his sympathy, though, indeed, it is true that he sundry times poked his nose up wonderingly and caressingly in her face. She had no remonstrance or interruption to fear: and taking pussy as the emblem and representative of the whole household, Ellen wept them all over him; with a tenderness and a bitterness that were somehow intensified by the sight of the gray coat and white paws, and kindly face of her unconscious old brute friend.

The old people at Carra-carra were taken leave of; the Brownie too with great difficulty. And Nancy.

"I am real sorry you are going, Ellen," said she — "you're the only soul in town I care about. I wish I'd thrown them letters in the fire after all! Who'd ha' thought it?"

Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.

"I'm real sorry, Ellen," she repeated. "Ain't there something I can do for you when you are gone?"

"Oh, yes, dear Nancy," said Ellen, weeping — "if you would only take care of your dear grandmother. She is left alone now. If you would only take care of her, and read your Bible, and be good, Nancy — oh, Nancy, Nancy! do, do!"

They kissed each other, and Nancy went away fairly crying.

Mrs. Marshman's own woman, a steady, excellent person, had come in the carriage for Ellen. And the next morning, early after breakfast, when everything else was ready, she went into Mr. Humphrey's study to bid the last dreaded good-bye. She thought her obedience was costing her dear.

It was nearly a silent parting. He held her a long time in his arms; and there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be. "What have I to do to seek new relations?" she said to herself. But she was speechless; till gently relaxing his hold, he tenderly smoothed back her disordered hair, and kissing her, said a very few grave words of blessing and counsel. Ellen gathered all her strength together then, for she had something that must be spoken.

"Sir," said she, falling on her knees before him, and looking up in his face — "this don't alter — you do not take back what you said, do you?"

"What's that I said, my child?"

"That," said Ellen, hiding her face in her hands on his knee, and scarce able to speak with great effort — "that which you said when I first came — that which you said — about —"

"About what, my dear child?"

"My going away don't change anything, does it, Sir? Mayn't I come back, if ever I can?"

He raised her up and drew her close to his bosom again.

"My dear little daughter," said he, "you cannot be so glad to come back as my arms and my heart will be to receive you. I scarce dare hope to see that day, but all in this house is yours, dear Ellen, as well when in Scotland as here. I take back nothing, my daughter. Nothing is changed."

A word or two more of affection and blessing, which Ellen was utterly unable to answer in any way— and she went to the carriage; with one drop of cordial in her heart, that she fed upon a long while. "He called me his daughter! — he never said that before, since Alice died! Oh! so I will be as long as I live, if I find fifty new relations. But what good will a daughter three thousand miles off do him?"

Chapter XLVII

The wide world grown wider.

The voyage was peaceful and prosperous; in due time the whole party found themselves safe in London. Ever since they set out, Ellen had been constantly gaining on Mrs. Gillespie's good-will; the Major hardly saw her but she had something to say about that "best-bred child in the world." "Best-hearted, too, I think," said the Major; and even Mrs. Gillespie owned that there was something more than good-breeding in Ellen's politeness. She had good trial of it; Mrs. Gillespie was much longer ailing than any of the party; and when Ellen got well, it was her great pleasure to devote herself to the service of the only member of the Marshman family now within her reach. She could never do too much. She watched by her, read to her, was quick to see and perform all the little offices of attention and kindness where a servant's hand is not so acceptable; and withal never was in the way nor put herself forward. Mrs. Gillespie's own daughter was much less helpful. Both she and William, however, had long since forgotten the old grudge, and treated Ellen as well as they did anybody — rather better. Major Gillespie was attentive and kind as possible to the gentle, well-behaved little body that was always at his wife's pillow; and even Lester, the maid, told one of her friends "she was such a sweet little lady, that it was a pleasure and gratification to do anything for her." Lester acted this out; and in her kindly disposition Ellen found very substantial comfort and benefit throughout the voyage.

Mrs. Gillespie told her husband she should be rejoiced if it turned out that they might keep Ellen with them and carry her back to America; she only wished it were not for Mr. Humphreys, but herself. As their destination was not now Scotland, but Paris, it was proposed to write to Ellen's friends to ascertain whether any change had occurred, or whether they still wished to receive her. This, however, was rendered unnecessary. They were scarcely established in their hotel, when a gentleman from Edinburgh, an intimate friend of the Ventnor family, and whom Ellen herself had more than once met there, came to see them. Mrs. Gillespie bethought herself to make inquiries of him.

"Do you happen to know a family of Lindsays, in Georgestreet, Mr. Dundas?"

"Lindsays? yes, perfectly well. Do you know them?"

"No; but I am very much interested in one of the family. Is the old lady living?"

"Yes, certainly; — not very old, either — not above sixty, or sixty-five; and as hale and alert as at forty. A very fine old lady."

"A large family?"

"Oh, no; Mr. Lindsay is a widower this some years, with no children; and there is a widowed daughter lately come home — Lady Keith; — that's all."

"Mr. Lindsay — that is the son?"

"Yes. You would like them. They are excellent people — excellent family — wealthy — beautiful country-seat on the south bank of the Esk, some miles out of Edinburgh; I was down there two weeks ago — entertain most handsomely and agreeably, two things that do not always go together. You meet a pleasanter circle nowhere than at Lindsay's."

"And that is the whole family?" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"That is all. There were two daughters married to Americans some dozen or so years ago. Mrs. Lindsay took it very hard, I believe, but she bore up, and bears up now, as if misfortune had never crossed her path, though the death of Mr. Lindsay's wife and son was another great blow. I don't believe there is a gray hair on her head at this moment. There is some peculiarity about them, perhaps — some pride, too; but that is an amiable weakness," he added, laughing, as he rose to go: "Mrs. Gillespie, I am sure will not find fault with them for it."

"That's an insinuation, Mr. Dundas; but look here, what I am bringing to Mrs. Lindsay in the shape of a grand-daughter."

"What, my old acquaintance, Miss Ellen! is it possible! — My dear madam, if you had such a treasure for sale, they would pour half their fortune into your lap to purchase it, and the other half at her feet."

"I would not take it, Mr. Dundas."

"It would be no mean price, I assure you, in itself, however it might be comparatively. I give Miss Ellen joy."

Miss Ellen took none of his giving.

"Ah, Ellen, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, when he was gone — "we shall never have you back in America again. I give up all hopes of it. Why do you look so solemn, my love? You are a strange child; most girls would be delighted at such a prospect opening before them."

"You forget what I leave, Mrs. Gillespie."

"So will you, my love, in a few days; though I love you for remembering so well those that have been kind to you. But you don't realize yet what is before you."

"Why, you'll have a good time, Ellen," said Marianne; "I wonder you are not out of your wits with joy. I should be."

"You may as well make over the Brownie to me, Ellen," said William; "I expect you'll never want him again."

"I cannot, you know, William; I lent him to Ellen Chauncey."

"Lent him! — that's a good one. For how long?"

Ellen smiled, though sighing inwardly to see how very much narrowed was her prospect of ever mounting him again. She did not care to explain herself to those around her. Still, at the very bottom of her heart lay two thoughts, in which her hope refuged itself. One was a peculiar assurance that whatever her brother pleased, nothing could hinder him from accomplishing; the other, a like confidence that it would not please him to leave his little sister unlooked after. But all began to grow misty, and it seemed now as if Scotland must henceforth be the limit of her horizon.

Leaving their children at a relation's house, Major and Mrs. Gillespie accompanied her to the north. They travelled post, and arriving in the evening at Edinburgh, put up at a hotel in Princes-street. It was agreed that Ellen should not seek her new home till the morrow; she should eat one more supper and breakfast with her old friends, and have a night's rest first. She was very glad of it. The Major and Mrs. Gillespie were enchanted with the noble view from their parlour windows; while they were eagerly conversing together, Ellen sat alone at the other window, looking out upon the curious Old Town. There was all the fascination of novelty and beauty about that singular picturesque mass of buildings, in its sober colouring, growing more sober as the twilight fell; and just before outlines were lost in the dusk, lights began feebly to twinkle here and there, and grew brighter and more as the night came on, till their brilliant multitude were all that could be seen, where the curious jumble of chimneys and house- tops and crooked ways had shown a little before. Ellen sat watching this lighting up of the Old Town, feeling strangely that she was in the midst of new scenes, indeed, entering upon a new stage of life; and having some difficulty to persuade herself that she was really Ellen Montgomery. The scene of extreme beauty before her seemed rather to increase the confusion and sadness of her mind. Happily, joyfully, Ellen remembered, as she sat gazing over the darkening city and its brightening lights, that there was One near her who could not change; that Scotland was no remove from him; that His providence as well as His heaven was over her there; that there, not less than in America, she was His child. She rejoiced, as she sat in her dusky window, over his words of assurance, "I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine;" and she looked up into the clear sky (that at least was home like) in tearful thankfulness, and with earnest prayer that she might be kept from evil. Ellen guessed she might have special need to offer that prayer. And as again her eye wandered over the singular bright spectacle, that kept reminding her she was a stranger in a strange place, her heart joyfully leaned upon another loved sentence — "This God is our God for ever and ever, He will be our guide even unto death."

She was called from her window to supper.

"Why, how well you look!" said Mrs. Gillespie; "I expected you would have been half tired to death. Doesn't she look well?"

"As if she was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy," said Major Gillespie kindly; "and yet she must be all three."

Ellen was all three. But she had the rest of a quiet mind.

In the same quiet mind, a little fluttered and anxious now, she set out in the carriage the next morning with her kind friends to No. —, George-street. It was their intention, after leaving her, to go straight on to England. They were in a hurry to be there; and Mrs. Gillespie judged that the presence of a stranger at the meeting between Ellen and her relations would be desired by none of the parties. But when they reached the house, they found the family were not at home; they were in the country, at their place on the Tyne. The direction was obtained, and the horses' heads turned that way. After a drive of some length, through what kind of a country Ellen could hardly have told, they arrived at the place.

It was beautifully situated; and through well-kept grounds they drove up to a large, rather old-fashioned, substantial- looking house. "The ladies were at home;" and that ascertained, Ellen took a kind leave of Mrs. Gillespie, shook hands with the Major at the door, and was left alone, for the second time in her life, to make her acquaintance with new and untried friends. She stood for one second looking after the retreating carriage — one swift thought went to her adopted father and brother far away— one to her Friend in heaven — and Ellen quietly turned to the servant and asked for Mrs. Lindsay.

She was shown into a large room, where nobody was, and sat down, with a beating heart, while the servant went upstairs; looking with a strange feeling upon what was to be her future home. The house was handsome, comfortably, luxuriously furnished, but without any attempt at display. Things rather old-fashioned than otherwise; plain, even homely, in some instances; yet evidently there was no sparing of money in any line of use or comfort; nor were reading and writing, painting and music, strangers there. Unconsciously acting upon her brother's principle of judging of people from their works, Ellen, from what she saw gathered around her, formed a favourable opinion of her relations, without thinking of it, for indeed she was thinking of something else.

A lady presently entered, and said that Mrs. Lindsay was not very well. Seeing Ellen's very hesitating look, she added, "Shall I carry her any message from you?"

This lady was well-looking and well-dressed; but somehow there was something in her face or manner that encouraged Ellen to an explanation; she could make none. She silently gave her her father's letter, with which the lady left the room.

In a minute or two she returned, and said her mother would see Ellen upstairs, and asked her to come with her. This, then, must be Lady Keith, — but no sign of recognition. Ellen wondered, as her trembling feet carried her upstairs, and to the door of a room where the lady motioned her to enter; she did not follow herself.

A large pleasant dressing-room — but Ellen saw nothing but the dignified figure and searching glance of a lady in black, standing in the middle of the floor. At the look which instantly followed her entering, however, Ellen sprang forward, and was received in arms that folded her as fondly and as closely as ever those of her own mother had done. Without releasing her from their clasp, Mrs. Lindsay presently sat down, and placing Ellen on her lap, and for a long time without speaking a word, she overwhelmed her with caresses — caresses often interrupted with passionate bursts of tears. Ellen herself cried heartily for company, though Mrs. Lindsay little guessed why. Along with the joy and tenderness arising from the finding a relation that so much loved and valued her, and along with the sympathy that entered into Mrs. Lindsay's thoughts, there mixed other feelings. She began to know, as if by instinct, what kind of a person her grandmother was. The clasp of the arms that were about her said as plainly as possible, "I will never let you go!" Ellen felt it. She did not know, in her confusion, whether she was most glad or most sorry; and this uncertainty mightily helped the flow of her tears.

When this scene had lasted some time, Mrs. Lindsay began with the utmost tenderness to take off Ellen's gloves, her cape (her bonnet had been hastily thrown off long before); and smoothing back her hair, and taking the fair little face in both her hands, she looked at it and pressed it to her own, as indeed something most dearly prized and valued. Then saying, "I must lie down; come in here, love," she led her into the next room, locked the door, made Ellen stretch herself on the bed, and placing herself beside her, drew her close to her bosom again, murmuring, "My own child — my precious child — my Ellen — my own darling! — why did you stay away so long from me, tell me?"

It was necessary to tell; and this could not be done without revealing Miss Fortune's disgraceful conduct. Ellen was sorry for that. She knew her mother's American match had been unpopular with her friends, and now what notions this must give them of one at least of the near connections to whom it had introduced her! She winced under what might be her grandmother's thoughts. Mrs. Lindsay heard her in absolute silence, and made no comment, and at the end again kissed her lips and cheeks, embracing her, Ellen felt, as a recovered treasure that would not be parted with. She was not satisfied till she had drawn Ellen's head fairly to rest on her breast, and then her caressing hand often touched her cheek, or smoothed back her hair, softly now and then asking slight questions about her voyage and journey, till, exhausted from excitement more than fatigue, Ellen fell asleep.

Her grandmother was beside her when she awoke, and busied herself, with evident delight, in helping her to get off her travelling clothes, and put on others, and then she took her down stairs, and presented her to her aunt.

Lady Keith had not been at home, nor in Scotland, at the time the letters passed between Mrs. Montgomery and her mother, and the result of that correspondence respecting Ellen had been known to no one except Mrs. Lindsay and her son. They had long given her up, the rather as they had seen in the papers the name of Captain Montgomery among those lost in the ill-fated Duc d'Orleans. Lady Keith, therefore, had no suspicion who Ellen might be. She received her affectionately, but Ellen did not get rid of her first impression.

Her uncle she did not see until late in the day, when he came home. The evening was extremely fair, and having obtained permission, Ellen wandered out into the shrubbery, glad to be alone, and glad, for a moment, to exchange new faces for old; the flowers were old friends to her, and never had looked more friendly than then. New and old, both were there. Ellen went on softly from flower-bed to flower-bed, soothed and rested, stopping here to smell one, or there to gaze at some old favourite or new beauty, thinking curious thoughts of the past and the future, and through it all taking a quiet lesson from the flowers, when a servant came after her with a request from Mrs. Lindsay that she would return to the house. Ellen hurried in — she guessed for what — and was sure as soon as she opened the door, and saw the figure of a gentleman sitting before Mrs. Lindsay. Ellen remembered well she was sent to her uncle as well as her grandmother, and she came forward with a beating heart to Mrs. Lindsay's outstretched hand, which presented her to this other ruler of her destiny. He was very different from Lady Keith — her anxious glance saw that at once — more like his mother. A man not far from fifty years old, fine-looking and stately, like her. Ellen was not left long in suspense — his look instantly softened, as his mother's had done; he drew her to his arms with great affection, and evidently with very great pleasure; then held her off for a moment, while he looked at her changing colour and downcast eye, and folded her close in his arms again, from which he seemed hardly willing to let her go, whispering, as he kissed her, "you are my own child now — you are my little daughter: do you know that, Ellen? I am your father henceforth — you belong to me entirely, and I belong to you, my own little daughter!"

"I wonder how many times one may be adopted," thought Ellen that evening; "but, to be sure, my father and my mother have quite given me up here — that makes a difference; they had a right to give me away if they pleased. I suppose I do belong to my uncle and grandmother in good earnest, and I cannot help myself. Well, but Mr. Humphreys seems a great deal more like my father than my uncle Lindsay. I cannot help that, but how they would be vexed if they knew it?"

That was profoundly true.

Ellen was in a few days the dear pet and darling of the whole household, without exception, and almost without limit. At first, for a day or two, there was a little lurking doubt, a little anxiety, a constant watch, on the part of all her friends, whether they were not going to find something in their newly acquired treasure to disappoint them; whether it could be that there was nothing behind to belie the first promise. Less keen observers, however, could not have failed to see very soon that there was no disappointment to be looked for: Ellen was just what she seemed, without the shadow of a cloak in anything. Doubts vanished, and Ellen had not been three days in the house when she was taken home to two hearts, at least, in unbounded love and tenderness. When Mr. Lindsay was present, he was not satisfied without having Ellen in his arms, or close beside him; and if not there, she was at the side of her grandmother.

There was nothing, however, in the character of this fondness, great as it was, that would have inclined any child to presume upon it. Ellen was least of all likely to try; but if her will, by any chance, had run counter to theirs, she would have found it impossible to maintain her ground. She understood this from the first with her grandmother; and in one or two trifles since had been more and more confirmed in the feeling that they would do with her, and make of her precisely what they pleased, without the smallest regard to her fancy. If it jumped with theirs, very well; if not, it must yield. In one matter, Ellen had been roused to plead very hard, and even with tears, to have her wish, which she verily thought she ought to have had. Mrs. Lindsay smiled and kissed her, and went on with the utmost coolness in what she was doing, which she carried through without in the least regarding Ellen's distress, or showing the slightest discomposure, and the same thing was repeated every day till Ellen got used to it. Her uncle she had never seen tried, but she knew it would be the same with him. When Mr. Lindsay clasped her to his bosom, Ellen felt it was as his own; his eye always seemed to repeat, "my own little daughter;" and in his whole manner, love was mingled with as much authority. Perhaps Ellen did not like them much the worse for this, as she had no sort of disposition to displease them in anything; but it gave rise to sundry thoughts, however, which she kept to herself — thoughts that went both to the future and the past.

Lady Keith, it may be, had less heart to give than her mother and brother, but pride took up the matter instead; and according to her measure, Ellen held with her the same place she held with Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay, being the great delight and darling of all three, and with all three seemingly the great object in life.

A few days after her arrival, a week or more, she underwent one evening a kind of catechizing from her aunt, as to her former manner of life; where she had been, and with whom, since her mother left her; what she had been doing; whether she had been to school, and how her time was spent at home, &c. &c. No comments whatever were made on her answers, but a something in her aunt's face and manner induced Ellen to make her replies as brief, and to give her as little information in them as she could. She did not feel inclined to enlarge upon anything, or to go at all further than the questions obliged her; and Lady Keith ended without having more than a very general notion of Ellen's way of life for three or four years past. This conversation was repeated to her grandmother and uncle.

"To think," said the latter the next morning at breakfast, — "to think that the backwoods of America should have turned us out such a little specimen of —"

"Of what, uncle?" said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, I shall not tell you that," said he.

"But it is extraordinary," said Lady Keith, "how after living among a parcel of thick-headed, and thicker-tongued Yankees, she could come out and speak pure English in a clear voice; it is an enigma to me."

"Take care, Catherine," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, "you are touching Ellen's nationality; look here," said he, drawing his fingers down her cheek.

"She must learn to have no nationality but yours," said Lady Keith, somewhat shortly.

Ellen's lips were open, but she spoke not.

"It is well you have come out from the Americans, you see, Ellen," pursued Mr. Lindsay; "your aunt does not like them."

"But why, Sir?"

"Why," said he, gravely, "don't you know that they are a parcel of rebels who have broken loose from all loyalty and fealty, that no good Briton has any business to like?"

"You are not in earnest, uncle?"

"You are, I see," said he, looking amused. "Are you one of those that make a saint of George Washington?"

"No," said Ellen, "I think he was a great deal better than some saints. But I don't think the Americans were rebels."

"You are a little rebel yourself. Do you mean to say you think the Americans were right?"

"Do you mean to say you think they were wrong, uncle?"

"I assure you," said he, "if I had been in the English army, I would have fought them with all my heart."

"And if I had been in the American army, I would have fought you with all my heart, Uncle Lindsay."

"Come, come," said he laughing; "you fight! you don't look as if you would do battle with a good-sized mosquito."

"Ah, but I mean, if I had been a man," said Ellen.

"You had better put in that qualification. After all, I am inclined to think it may be as well for you on the whole that we did not meet. I don't know but we might have had a pretty stiff encounter, though."

"A good cause is stronger than a bad one, uncle."

"But, Ellen, these Americans forfeited entirely the character of good friends to England and good subjects to King George."

"Yes, but it was King George's fault, uncle; he and the English forfeited their characters first."

"I declare," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing. "if your sword had been as stout as your tongue, I don't know how I might have come off in that same encounter."

"I hope Ellen will get rid of these strange notions about the Americans," said Lady Keith, discontentedly.

"I hope not, Aunt Keith," said Ellen.

"Where did you get them?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, Sir?"

"These notions."

"In reading, Sir; reading different books; and talking."

"Reading! so you did read in the backwoods?"

"Sir!" said Ellen, with a look of surprise.

"What have you read on this subject?"

"Two lives of Washington, and some in the Annual Register, and part of Graham's United State; and one or two other little things."

"But those gave you only one side, Ellen; you should read the English account of the matter."

"So I did, Sir; the Annual Register gave me both sides; the bills and messages were enough."

"What Annual Register?"

"I don't know, Sir; it is English; written by Burke, I believe."

"Upon my word! And what else have you read?"

"I think that's all, about America," said Ellen.

"No, but about other things."

"Oh, I don't know, Sir," said Ellen, smiling; "a great many books; I can't tell them all."

"Did you spend all your time over your books?"

"A good deal, Sir, lately; not so much before."

"How was that?"

"I couldn't, Sir. I had a great many other things to do."

"What else had you to do?"

"Different things," said Ellen, hesitating, from the remembrance of her aunt's manner the night before.

"Come, come! answer me."

"I had to sweep and dust," said Ellen, colouring, "and set tables — and wash and wipe dishes — and churn — and spin — and —"

Ellen heard Lady Keith's look in her, "Could you have conceived it!"

"What shall we do with her?" said Mrs. Lindsay; "send her to school, or keep her at home?"

"Have you never been to school, Ellen?"

"No, Sir; except for a very little while, more than three years ago."

"Would you like it?"

"I would a great deal rather study at home, Sir, if you will let me."

"What do you know now?"

"Oh, I can't tell, Sir," said Ellen; "I don't know anything very well, unless —"

"Unless what?" said her uncle, laughing; "come! now for your accomplishments."

"I had rather not say what I was going to, uncle; please don't ask me."

"Yes, yes," said he; "I shan't let you off. Unless what?"

"I was going to say, unless riding," said Ellen, colouring.

"Riding! and pray how did you learn to ride? Catch a horse by the mane, and mount him by the fence, and canter off bare- backed? was that it — eh?"

"Not exactly, Sir," said Ellen, laughing.

"Well, but about your other accomplishments. You do not know anything of French, I suppose?"

"Yes, I do, Sir."

"Where did you get that?"

"An old Swiss lady in the mountains taught me."

"Country riding and Swiss French," muttered her uncle. "Did she teach you to speak it?"

"Yes, Sir."

Mr. Lindsay and his mother exchanged glances, which Ellen interpreted, "Worse and worse."

"One thing at least can be mended," observed Mr. Lindsay. "She shall go to De Courcy's riding-school as soon as we get to Edinburgh."

"Indeed, uncle, I don't think that will be necessary."

"Who taught you to ride, Ellen?" asked Lady Keith.

"My brother."

"Humph! I fancy a few lessons will do you no harm," she remarked.

Ellen coloured and was silent.

"You know nothing of music, of course?"

"I cannot play, uncle."

"Can you sing?"

"I can sing hymns."

"Sing hymns! That's the only fault I find with you, Ellen; you are too sober. I should like to see you a little more gay, like other children."

"But, uncle, I am not unhappy because I am sober."

"But I am," said he. "I do not know precisely what I shall do with you; I must do something!"

"Can you sing nothing but hymns?" asked Lady Keith.

"Yes, Ma'am," said Ellen, with some humour twinkling about her eyes and mouth, — "I can sing 'Hail Columbia!' "

"Absurd!" said Lady Keith.

"Why, Ellen," said her uncle, laughing, "I did not know you could be so stubborn; I thought you were made up of gentleness and mildness. Let me have a good look at you — there's not much stubbornness in those eyes," he said, fondly.

"I hope you will never salute my ears with your American ditty," said Lady Keith.

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Lindsay, "she shall sing what she pleases, and the more the better."

"She has a very sweet voice," said her grandmother.

"Yes, in speaking, I know; I have not heard it tried otherwise; and very nice English it turns out. Where did you get your English, Ellen?"

"From my brother," said Ellen, with a smile of pleasure.

Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded.

"Whom do you mean by that?"

"The brother of the lady that was so kind to me." Ellen disliked to speak the loved names in the hearing of ears to which she knew they would be unlovely.

"How was she so kind to you?"

"Oh, Sir! in everything — I cannot tell you; she was my friend when I had only one beside; she did everything for me."

"And who was the other friend? your aunt?"

"No, Sir."

"This brother?"

"No, Sir; that was before I knew him."

"Who then?"

"His name was Mr. Van Brunt."

"Van Brunt! Humph! And what was he?"

"He was a farmer, Sir."

"A Dutch farmer, eh? How came you to have anything to do with him?"

"He managed my aunt's farm, and was a great deal in the house."

"He was? And what makes you call this other your brother?"

"His sister called me her sister — and that makes me his."

"It is very absurd," said Lady Keith, "when they are nothing at all to her, and ought not to be."

"It seems, then, you did not find a friend in your aunt, Ellen, eh?"

"I don't think she loved me much," said Ellen, in a low voice.

"I am very glad we are clear of obligation on her score," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Obligation! — And so you had nothing else to depend on, Ellen, but this man — this Van something — this Dutchman! What did he do for you?"

"A great deal, Sir." Ellen would have said more, but a feeling in her throat stopped her.

"Now, just hear that, will you?" said Lady Keith. "Just think of her in that farmhouse, with that sweeping and dusting woman and a Dutch farmer, for these three years!"

"No," said Ellen, "not all the time; this last year I have been—"

"Where, Ellen?"

"At the other house, Sir."

"What house is that?"

"Where that lady and gentleman lived that were my best friends."

"Well, it's all very well," said Lady Keith; "but it is past now; it is all over, you need not think of them any more. We will find you better friends than any of these Dutch Brunters or Grunters."

"Oh, aunt Keith!" said Ellen, "if you knew" — But she burst into tears.

"Come, come," said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, "I will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, Ellen?"

But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or three times before in the course of the conversation, and she wept now rather violently.

"What is the matter, Ellen?"

"Because," sobbed Ellen, thoroughly roused, "I love them dearly! and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot forget them, and never shall; and I can never have better friends — never! it's impossible — Oh, it's impossible."

Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first, except to soothe her; but when she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast, he whispered —

"It is right to love these people if they were kind to you; but, as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to it. Forget that you were American, Ellen — you belong to me; your name is not Montgomery any more, it is Lindsay; and I will not have you call me 'uncle;' I am your father — you are my own little daughter, and must do precisely what I tell you. Do you understand me?"

He would have a "yes" from her, and then added — "Go and get yourself ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh."

Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words; with great effort she controlled herself, and obeyed him.

"I shall do precisely what he tells me, of course," she said to herself, as she went to get ready; "but there are some things he cannot command; nor I neither — I am glad of that! Forget, indeed!"

She could not help loving her uncle; for the lips that kissed her were very kind as well as very peremptory; and if the hand that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no more inclined to despite his will than he to permit it, the harmony between them was perfect and unbroken.