"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.

CHAPTER 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 pre, j'ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma chapelle; j'en ai t fort content: pour vous, toutes les fois que je vous ai entendu, j'ai t trs mcontent de moi-mme!' "

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.)