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

"That can be obtained without any difficulty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nay, Ellen, that is not right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whom do you mean by 'they?' "

"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen's look answered that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He will be back," said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About what, my dear child?"

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XLVII.

The wide world grown wider.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A large family?"

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

"Mr. Lindsay that is the son?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Ellen took none of his giving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was called from her window to supper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was profoundly true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But why, Sir?"

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

"You are not in earnest, uncle?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, Sir?"

"These notions."

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

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

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

"What have you read on this subject?"

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

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

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

"What Annual Register?"

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

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

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

"No, but about other things."

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

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

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

"How was that?"

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

"What else had you to do?"

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

"Come, come! answer me."

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

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

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

"Have you never been to school, Ellen?"

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

"Would you like it?"

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

"What do you know now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I do, Sir."

"Where did you get that?"

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

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

"Yes, Sir."

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

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

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

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

"My brother."

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

Ellen coloured and was silent.

"You know nothing of music, of course?"

"I cannot play, uncle."

"Can you sing?"

"I can sing hymns."

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

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

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

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

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

"Absurd!" said Lady Keith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded.

"Whom do you mean by that?"

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

"How was she so kind to you?"

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

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

"No, Sir."

"This brother?"

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

"Who then?"

"His name was Mr. Van Brunt."

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

"He was a farmer, Sir."

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

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

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

"His sister called me her sister and that makes me his."

"It is very absurd," said Lady Keith, "when they are nothing at all to her, and ought not to be."

"It seems, then, you did not find a friend in your aunt, Ellen, eh?"

"I don't think she loved me much," said Ellen, in a low voice.

"I am very glad we are clear of obligation on her score," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Obligation! And so you had nothing else to depend on, Ellen, but this man this Van something this Dutchman! What did he do for you?"

"A great deal, Sir." Ellen would have said more, but a feeling in her throat stopped her.

"Now, just hear that, will you?" said Lady Keith. "Just think of her in that farmhouse, with that sweeping and dusting woman and a Dutch farmer, for these three years!"

"No," said Ellen, "not all the time; this last year I have been"

"Where, Ellen?"

"At the other house, Sir."

"What house is that?"

"Where that lady and gentleman lived that were my best friends."

"Well, it's all very well," said Lady Keith; "but it is past now; it is all over, you need not think of them any more. We will find you better friends than any of these Dutch Brunters or Grunters."

"Oh, aunt Keith!" said Ellen, "if you knew" But she burst into tears.

"Come, come," said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, "I will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, Ellen?"

But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or three times before in the course of the conversation, and she wept now rather violently.

"What is the matter, Ellen?"

"Because," sobbed Ellen, thoroughly roused, "I love them dearly! and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot forget them, and never shall; and I can never have better friends never! it's impossible Oh, it's impossible."

Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first, except to soothe her; but when she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast, he whispered

"It is right to love these people if they were kind to you; but, as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to it. Forget that you were American, Ellen you belong to me; your name is not Montgomery any more, it is Lindsay; and I will not have you call me 'uncle;' I am your father you are my own little daughter, and must do precisely what I tell you. Do you understand me?"

He would have a "yes" from her, and then added "Go and get yourself ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh."

Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words; with great effort she controlled herself, and obeyed him.

"I shall do precisely what he tells me, of course," she said to herself, as she went to get ready; "but there are some things he cannot command; nor I neither I am glad of that! Forget, indeed!"

She could not help loving her uncle; for the lips that kissed her were very kind as well as very peremptory; and if the hand that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no more inclined to despite his will than he to permit it, the harmony between them was perfect and unbroken.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

How old friends were invested with the regalia.

Mr. Lindsay had some reason that morning to wish that Ellen would look merrier; it was a very sober little face he saw by his side as the carriage rolled smoothly on with them towards Edinburgh; almost pale in its sadness. He lavished the tenderest kindness upon her, and without going back by so much as a hint to the subjects of the morning, he exerted himself to direct her attention to the various objects of note and interest they were passing. The day was fine, and the country, also the carriage and the horses; Ellen was dearly fond of driving; and long before they reached the city, Mr. Lindsay had the satisfaction of seeing her smile break again, her eye brighten, and her happy attention fixing on the things he pointed out to her, and many others that she found for herself on the way, his horses first of all. Mr. Lindsay might relax his efforts and look on with secret triumph; Ellen was in the full train of delighted observation.

"You are easily pleased, Ellen," he said, in answer to one of her simple remarks of observation.

"I have a great deal to please me," said Ellen.

"What would you like to see in Edinburgh?"

"I don't know, Sir; anything you please."

"Then I will show you a little of the city in the first place."

They drove through the streets of Edinburgh, both the Old and the New Town, in various directions. Mr. Lindsay was extremely pleased to see that Ellen was so, and much amused at the curiosity shown in her questions, which, however, were by no means as free and frequent as they might have been had John Humphreys filled her uncle's place.

"What large building is that over there?" said Ellen.

"That? that is Holyrood House."

"Holyrood! I have heard of that before; isn't that where Queen Mary's rooms are? where Rizzio was killed?"

"Yes; would you like to see them?"

"Oh, very much!"

"Drive to the Abbey! So you have read Scottish history, as well as American, Ellen?"

"Not very much, Sir; only the Tales of a Grandfather yet. But what made me say that, I have read an account of Holyrood House somewhere. Uncle "

"Ellen!"

"I beg your pardon, Sir; I forgot: it seems strange to me," said Ellen, looking distressed.

"It must not seem strange to you, my daughter; what were you going to say?"

"I don't know, Sir; Oh, I was going to ask if the silver cross is here now to be seen?"

"What silver cross?"

"That one from which the Abbey was named, Sir; the silver rood that was given, they pretended, to I forget now what king."

"David First, the founder of the Abbey? No, it is not here, Ellen; David the Second lost it to the English. But why do you say pretended, Ellen? It was a very real affair; kept in England for a long time with great veneration."

"Oh yes, Sir; I know the cross was real; I mean, it was pretended that an angel gave it to King David when he was hunting here."

"Well, how can you tell but that was so? King David was made a saint, you know."

"Oh, Sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I know better than that; I know it was only a monkish trick."

"Monkish trick! which do you mean? the giving of the cross, or the making the king a saint?"

"Both, Sir," said Ellen, still smiling.

"At that rate," said Mr. Lindsay, much amused, "if you are such a sceptic, you will take no comfort in anything at the Abbey; you will not believe anything is genuine."

"I will believe what you tell me, Sir."

"Will you? I must be careful what I say to you then, or I may run the risk of losing my own credit."

Mr. Lindsay spoke this half-jestingly, half in earnest. They went over to the palace.

"Is this very old, Sir?" asked Ellen.

"Not very; it has been burnt, and demolished, and rebuilt, till nothing is left of the old Abbey of King David but the ruins of the chapel, which you shall see presently. The oldest part of the House is that we are going to see now, built by James Fifth, Mary's father, where her rooms are."

At these rooms Ellen looked with intense interest. She pored over the old furniture, the needlework of which she was told was at least in part the work of the beautiful Queen's own fingers; gazed at the stains in the floor of the bed-chamber, said to be those of Rizzio's blood; meditated over the trap- door in the passage, by which the conspirators had come up; and finally sat down in the room, and tried to realize the scene which had once been acted there. She tried to imagine the poor Queen and her attendant and her favourite Rizzio, sitting there at supper, and how that door, that very door, had opened, and Ruthven's ghastly figure, pale, and weak from illness, presented itself, and then others; the alarm of the moment; how Rizzio knew they were come for him, and fled to the Queen for protection; how she was withheld from giving it, and the unhappy man pulled away from her, and stabbed with a great many wounds, before her face; and there, there! no doubt, his blood fell!

"You are tired; this doesn't please you much," said Mr. Lindsay, noticing her grave look.

"Oh, it pleases me very much?" said Ellen, starting up; "I do not wonder she swore vengeance."

"Who?" said Mr. Lindsay, laughing.

"Queen Mary, Sir."

"Were you thinking about her all this while? I am glad of it. I spoke to you once without getting a word. I was afraid this was not amusing enough to detain your thoughts."

"Oh yes, it is," said Ellen; "I have been trying to think about all that. I like to look at old things very much."

"Perhaps you would like to see the regalia."

"The what, Sir?"

"The royal things, the old diadem and sceptre, &c. of the Scottish kings. Well, come," said he, as he read the answer in Ellen's face, "we will go; but first let us see the old chapel."

With this Ellen was wonderfully pleased. This was much older still than Queen Mary's rooms. Ellen admired the wild melancholy look of the Gothic pillars and arches springing from the green turf, the large carved window, empty of glass, the broken walls; and, looking up to the blue sky, she tried to imagine the time when the Gothic roof closed overhead, and music sounded through the arches, and trains of stolid monks paced through them, where now the very pavement was not. Strange it seemed, and hard, to go back and realize it; but in the midst of this, the familiar face of the sky set Ellen's thoughts off upon a new track, and suddenly they were at home, on the lawn before the parsonage. The monks and the abbey were forgotten; she silently gave her hand to her uncle, and walked with him to the carriage.

Arrived at the Crown-room, Ellen fell into another fit of grave attention; but Mr. Lindsay, taught better, did not this time mistake rapt interest for absence of mind. He answered questions, and gave her several pieces of information, and let her take her own time to gaze and meditate.

"This beautiful sword," said he, "was a present from Pope Julius Second to James the Fourth."

"I don't know anything about the popes," said Ellen. "James the Fourth! I forget what kind of king he was."

"He was a very good king; he was the one that died at Flodden."

"Oh, and wore an iron girdle, because he had fought against his father, poor man!"

"Why 'poor man,' Ellen? he was a very royal prince; why do you say 'poor man?' "

"Because he didn't know any better, Sir."

"Didn't know any better than what?"

"Than to think an iron girdle would do him any good."

"But why wouldn't it do him any good?"

"Because you know, Sir, that is not the way we can have our sins forgiven."

"What is the way?"

Ellen looked at him, to see if he was in jest or earnest. Her look staggered him a little, but he repeated his question. She cast her eyes down, and answered

"Jesus Christ said, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me.' "

Mr. Lindsay said no more.

"I wish that was the Bruce's crown," said Ellen, after a while. "I should like to see anything that belonged to him."

"I'll take you to the field of Bannockburn some day; that belonged to him with a vengeance. It lies over yonder."

"Bannockburn! will you? and Stirling castle! Oh, how I should like that!"

"Stirling castle," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling at Ellen's clasped hands of delight; "what do you know of Stirling castle?"

"From the history, you know, Sir, and the Lord of the Isles;

" 'Old Stirling's towers arose in light ' "

"Go on," said Mr. Lindsay.

" 'And twined in links of silver bright, Her winding river lay.' "

"That's this same river Forth, Ellen. Do you know any more?"

"Oh yes, Sir."

"Go on, and tell me all you can remember."

"All! that would be a great deal, Sir."

"Go on till I tell you to stop."

Ellen gave him a good part of the battle, with the introduction to it.

"You have a good memory, Ellen," he said, looking pleased.

"Because I like it, Sir; that makes it easy to remember. I like the Scots people."

"Do you?" said Mr. Lindsay much gratified. "I did not know you liked anything on this side of the water. Why do you like them?"

"Because they never would be conquered by the English."

"So," said Mr. Lindsay, half-amused and half-disappointed, "the long and the short of it is, you like them because they fought the enemies you were so eager to have a blow at."

"Oh no, Sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I do not mean that at all; the French were England's enemies too, and helped us besides; but I like the Scots a great deal better than the French. I like them because they would be free."

"You have an extraordinary taste for freedom! And pray, are all the American children as strong republicans as yourself?"

"I don't know, Sir; I hope so."

"Pretty well, upon my word! Then I suppose even the Bruce cannot rival your favourite Washington in your esteem?"

Ellen smiled.

"Eh?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like Washington better, Sir, of course; but I like Bruce very much."

"Why do you prefer Washington?"

"I should have to think to tell you that, Sir."

"Very well, think, and answer me."

"One reason, I suppose, is because he was an American," said Ellen.

"That is not reason enough for so reasonable a person as you are, Ellen; you must try again, or give up your preference."

"I like Bruce very much indeed," said Ellen musingly; "but he did what he did for himself Washington didn't."

"Humph! I am not quite sure as to either of your positions," said Mr. Lindsay.

"And besides," said Ellen, "Bruce did one or two wrong things. Washington always did right."

"He did? eh? What do you think of the murder of Andr?"

"I think it was right," said Ellen, firmly.

"Your reasons, my little reasoner?"

"If it had not been right, Washington would not have done it."

"Ha!, ha! So at that rate you may reconcile yourself to anything that chances to be done by a favourite."

"No, Sir," said Ellen, a little confused, but standing her ground; "but when a person always does right, if he happen to do something that I don't know enough to understand, I have good reason to think it is right, even though I cannot understand it."

"Very well: but apply the same rule of judgement to the Bruce, can't you?"

"Nothing could make me think the murder of the Red Comyn right, Sir. Bruce didn't think so himself."

"But remember there is a great difference in the times; those were rude and uncivilized compared to these; you must make allowance for that."

"Yes, Sir, I do; but I like the civilized times best."

"What do you think of this fellow over here what's his name? whose monument I was showing you Nelson!"

"I used to like him very much, Sir."

"And you do not now?"

"Yes, Sir, I do; I cannot help liking him."

"That is to say, you would if you could?"

"I don't think, Sir, I ought to like a man merely for being great, unless he was good. Washington was great and good both."

"Well, what is the matter with Nelson?" said Mr. Lindsay, with an expression of intense amusement; "I 'used to think,' as you would say, that he was a very noble fellow."

"So he was, Sir; but he wasn't a good man."

"Why not?"

"Why, you know, Sir, he left his wife; and Lady Hamilton persuaded him to do one or two other very dishonourable things; it was a great pity!"

"So you will not like any great man that is not good as well. What is your definition of a good man, Ellen?"

"One who always does right because it is right, no matter whether it is convenient or not," said Ellen, after a little hesitation.

"Upon my word, you draw the line close. But opinions differ as to what is right; how shall we know?"

"From the Bible, Sir," said Ellen, quickly, with a look that half-amused and half-abashed him.

"And you, Ellen are you yourself good after this nice fashion?"

"No, Sir; but I wish to be."

"I do believe that. But after all, Ellen, you might like Nelson; those were only the spots in the sun."

"Yes, Sir; but can a man be a truly great man who is not master of himself?"

"That is an excellent remark."

"It is not mine, Sir," said Ellen, blushing; "it was told me; I did not find out all that about Nelson, myself; I did not see it all the first time I read his life; I thought he was perfect."

"I know who I think is," said Mr. Lindsay, kissing her.

They drove now to his house in George street. Mr. Lindsay had some business to attend to, and would leave her there for an hour or two. And that their fast might not be too long unbroken, Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was directed to furnish them with some biscuits in the library, whither Mr. Lindsay led Ellen.

She liked the looks of it very much. Plenty of books; old looking comfortable furniture; pleasant light; all manner of etceteras around which rejoiced Ellen's heart. Mr. Lindsay noticed her pleased glance passing from one thing to another. He placed her in a deep easy-chair, took off her bonnet and threw it on the sofa, and kissing her fondly, asked her if she felt at home. "Not yet," Ellen said; but her look said it would not take long to make her do so. She sat enjoying her rest, and munching her biscuit with great appetite and satisfaction, when Mr. Lindsay poured her out a glass of sweet wine.

That glass of wine looked to Ellen like an enemy marching up to attack her. Because Alice and John did not drink it, she had always at first, without other reason, done the same; and she was determined not to forsake their example now. She took no notice of the glass of wine, though she had ceased to see anything else in the room, and went on, seemingly as before, eating her biscuit, though she no longer knew how it tasted.

"Why don't you drink your wine, Ellen?"

"I do not wish any, Sir."

"Don't you like it?"

"I don't know, Sir; I have never drunk any."

"No! Taste it and see."

"I would rather not, Sir, if you please. I don't care for it."

"Taste it, Ellen!"

This command was not to be disobeyed. The blood rushed to Ellen's temples as she just touched the glass to her lips, and set it down again.

"Well?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, Sir?"

"How do you like it?"

"I like it very well, Sir, but I would rather not drink it."

"Why?"

Ellen coloured again at this exceedingly daring question, and answered as well as she could, that she had never been accustomed to it, and would rather not.

"It is of no sort of consequence what you have been accustomed to," said Mr. Lindsay. "You are to drink it all, Ellen."

Ellen dared not disobey. When the biscuits and wine were disposed of, Mr. Lindsay drew her close to his side, and encircling her fondly with his arms, said

"I shall leave you now for an hour or two, and you must amuse yourself as you can. The bookcases are open perhaps you can find something there; or there are prints in those portfolios; or you can go over to the house and make yourself acquainted with your new home. If you want anything, ask Mrs. Allen. Does it look pleasant to you?"

"Very," Ellen said.

"You are at home here, daughter; go where you will, and do what you will. I shall not leave you long. But before I go, Ellen, let me hear you call me father."

Ellen obeyed, trembling, for it seemed to her that it was to set her hand and seal to the deed of gift her father and mother had made. But there was no retreat it was spoken and Mr. Lindsay, folding her close in his arms kissed her again and again.

"Never let me hear you call me anything else, Ellen. You are mine own now my own child my own little daughter. You shall do just what pleases me in everything, and let by-gones be by-gones. And now lie down there and rest daughter; you are trembling from head to foot: rest and amuse yourself in any way you like till I return."

He left the room.

"I have done it now!" thought Ellen, as she sat in the corner of the sofa, where Mr. Lindsay had tenderly placed her; "I have called him my father; I am bound to obey him after this. I wonder what in the world they will make me do next. If he chooses to make me drink wine every day, I must do it! I cannot help myself. That is only a little matter. But what if they were to want me to do something wrong? they might; John never did I could not have disobeyed him, possibly! but I could them, if it was necessary and if it is necessary, I will! I should have a dreadful time I wonder if I could go through with it. Oh yes, I could, if it was right; and besides, I would rather bear anything in the world from them than have John displeased with me a great deal rather! But perhaps after all they will not want anything wrong of me. I wonder if this is really to be my home always, and if I shall never get home again! John will not leave me here! But I don't see how in the world he can help it, for my father and my mother, and I myself I know what he would tell me if he was here, and I'll try to do it. God will take care of me if I follow him: it is none of my business."

Simply and heartily commending her interests to his keeping, Ellen tried to lay aside the care of herself. She went on musing; how very different and how much greater her enjoyment would have been that day if John had been with her! Mr. Lindsay, to be sure, had answered her questions with abundant kindness and sufficient ability; but his answers did not, as those of her brother often did, skilfully draw her on from one thing to another, till a train of thought was opened, which at the setting out she never dreamed of; and along with the joy of acquiring new knowledge, she had the pleasure of discovering new fields of it to be explored, and the delight of the felt exercise and enlargement of her own powers, which were sure to be actively called into play. Mr. Lindsay told her what she asked, and there left her. Ellen found herself growing melancholy over the comparison she was drawing, and wisely went to the book-cases to divert her thoughts. Finding presently a history of Scotland, she took it down, resolving to refresh her memory on a subject which had gained such new and strange interest for her. Before long, however, fatigue and the wine she had drunk effectually got the better of studious thoughts; she stretched herself on the sofa and fell asleep.

There Mr. Lindsay found her a couple of hours afterwards, under the guard of the housekeeper.

"I cam in, Sir," she said, whispering "it's mair than an hour back, and she's been sleeping just like a babby ever syne; she hasna stirred a finger. O, Mr. Lindsay, it's a bonny bairn, and a gude. What a blessing to the house!"

"You're about right there, I believe, Maggie; but how have you learned it so fast?"

"I canna be mista'en, Mr. George; I ken it as weel as if we had a year auld acquentance; I ken it by thae sweet mouth and een, and by the look she gied me when you tauld her, Sir, I had been in the house near as lang's yoursel. An' look at her eenow. There's heaven's peace within, I'm a'maist assured."

The kiss that wakened Ellen found her in the midst of a dream. She thought that John was a king of Scotland, and standing before her in regal attire. She offered him, she thought, a glass of wine; but, raising the sword of state, silver scabbard and all, he with a tremendous swing of it, dashed the glass out of her hands; and then, as she stood abashed, he went forward with one of his old grave kind looks to kiss her. As the kiss touched her lips, Ellen opened her eyes, to find her brother transformed into Mr. Lindsay, and the empty glass standing safe and sound upon the table.

"You must have had a pleasant nap," said Mr. Lindsay; "you wake up smiling. Come make haste I have left a friend in the carriage. Bring your book along if you want it."

The presence of the stranger, who was going down to spend a day or two at "the Braes," prevented Ellen from having any talking to do. Comfortably placed in the corner of the front seat of the barouche, leaning on the elbow of the carriage, she was left to her own musings. She could hardly realize the change in her circumstances. The carriage rolling fast and smoothly on the two gentlemen opposite to her, one her father! the strange, varied, beautiful scenes they were flitting by the long shadows made by the descending sun the cool evening air Ellen, leaning back in the wide easy seat, felt as if she were in a dream. It was singularly pleasant; she could not help but enjoy it all very much; and yet it seemed to her as if she were caught in a net from which she had no power to get free; and she longed to clasp that hand that could, she thought, draw her whence and whither it pleased. "But Mr. Lindsay, opposite! I have called him my father I have given myself to him," she thought; "but I gave myself to somebody else first; I can't undo that and I never will!" Again she tried to quiet and resign the care of herself to better wisdom and greater strength than her own. "This may all be arranged easily in some way I could never dream of," she said to herself; "I have no business to be uneasy. Two months ago, and I was quietly at home, and seemed to be fixed there for ever; and now, and without anything extraordinary happening, here I am just as fixed. Yes, and before that, at Aunt Fortune's, it didn't seem possible that I could ever get away from being her child; and yet how easily all that was managed. And just so, in some way that I cannot imagine, things may open so as to let me out smoothly from this." She resolved to be patient, and take thankfully what she at present had to enjoy; and in this mood of mind, the drive home was beautiful; and the evening was happily absorbed in the history of Scotland.

It was a grave question in the family that same evening, whether Ellen should be sent to school. Lady Keith was decided in favour of it; her mother seemed doubtful; Mr. Lindsay, who had a vision of the little figure lying asleep on his library sofa, thought the room had never looked so cheerful before, and had near made up his mind that she should be its constant adornment the coming winter. Lady Keith urged the school plan.

"Not a boarding-school," said Mrs. Lindsay; "I will not hear of that."

"No, but a day-school; it would do her a vast deal of good, I am certain; her notions want shaking up very much. And I never saw a child of her age so much a child."

"I assure you I never saw one so much a woman. She has asked me to-day, I suppose," said he, smiling, "a hundred questions or less; and I assure you there was not one foolish or vain one among them; not one that was not sensible, and most of them singularly so."

"She was greatly pleased with her day," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I never saw such a baby face in my life," said Lady Keith, "in a child of her years."

"It is a face of uncommon intelligence!" said her brother.

"It is both," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I was struck with it the other day," said Lady Keith "the day she slept so long upon the sofa upstairs, after she was dressed; she had been crying about something, and her eyelashes were wet still, and she had that curious, grave, innocent look you only see in infants; you might have thought she was fourteen months instead of fourteen years old; fourteen and a half, she says she is."

"Crying?" said Mr. Lindsay, "What was the matter?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Lindsay, "but that she had been obliged to submit to me in something that did not please her."

"Did she give you any cause of displeasure?"

"No; though I can see she has strong passions. But she is the first child I ever saw, that I think I could not get angry with."

"Mother's heart half misgave her, I believe," said Lady Keith, laughing; "she sat there looking at her for an hour."

"She seems to me perfectly gentle and submissive," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, but don't trust too much to appearances," said his sister. "If she is not a true Lindsay, after all, I am mistaken. Did you see her colour once or twice this morning when something was said that did not please her?"

"You can judge nothing from that," said Mr. Lindsay; "she colours at everything. You should have seen her to-day when I told her I would take her to Bannockburn."

"Ah, she has got the right side of you, brother; you will be able to discern no faults in her presently."

"She has used no arts for it, sister; she is a straightforward little hussy, and that is one thing I like about her; though I was as near as possible being provoked with her once or twice to-day. There is only one thing I wish was altered she has her head filled with strange notions absurd for a child of her age I don't know what I shall do to get rid of them."

After some more conversation, it was decided that school would be the best thing for this end, and half decided that Ellen should go.

But this half-decision Mr. Lindsay found it very difficult to keep to, and circumstances soon destroyed it entirely. Company was constantly coming and going at "the Braes," and much of it a kind that Ellen exceedingly liked to see and hear; intelligent, cultivated, well-informed people, whose conversation was highly agreeable and always useful to her. Ellen had nothing to do with the talking, so she made good use of her ears.

One evening Mr. Lindsay, a M. Villars, and M. Muller, a Swiss gentleman and a noted man of science, very much at home in Mr. Lindsay's house, were carrying on, in French, a conversation, in which the two foreigners took part against their host. M. Villars began with talking about Lafayette; from him they went to the American revolution and Washington, and from them to other patriots and other republics, ancient and modern MM. Villars and Muller taking the side of freedom, and pressing Mr. Lindsay hard with argument, authority, example, and historical testimony. Ellen, as usual, was fast by his side, and delighted to see that he could by no means make good his ground. The ladies at the other end of the room would several times have drawn her away, but happily for her, and also, as usual, Mr. Lindsay's arm was around her shoulders, and she was left in quiet to listen. The conversation was very lively, and on a subject very interesting to her; for America had always been a darling theme; Scottish struggles for freedom were fresh in her mind; her attention had long ago been called to Switzerland and its history by Alice and Mrs. Vawse, and French history had formed a good part of her last winter's reading. She listened with the most eager delight, too much engrossed to notice the good-humoured glances that were every now and then given her by one of the speakers. Not Mr. Lindsay, though his hand was upon her shoulder, or playing with the light curls that fell over her temples; he did not see that her face was flushed with interest, or notice the quick smile and sparkle of the eye that followed every turn in the conversation that favoured her wishes, or foiled his; it was M. Muller. They came to the Swiss, and their famous struggle for freedom against Austrian oppression. M. Muller wished to speak of the noted battle in which that freedom was made sure, but for the moment its name had escaped him.

"Par ma foi," said M. Villars, "il m'a entirement pass!"

Mr. Lindsay would not or could not help him out. But M. Muller suddenly turned to Ellen, in whose face he thought he saw a look of intelligence, and begged of her the missing name.

"Est-ce, Morgarten, Monsieur?" said Ellen, blushing.

"Morgarten! c'est a!" said he with a polite pleased bow of thanks. Mr. Lindsay was little less astonished than the Duke of Argyle, when his gardener claimed to be the owner of a Latin work on mathematics.

The conversation presently took a new turn with M. Villars; and M. Muller withdrawing from it, addressed himself to Ellen. He was a pleasant-looking elderly gentleman; she had never seen him before that evening.

"You know French well, then?" said he, speaking to her in that tongue.

"I don't know, Sir," said Ellen, modestly.

"And you have heard of the Swiss mountaineers?"

"Oh yes, Sir; a great deal."

He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an exquisite little painting, asking her if she knew what it was.

"It is an Alpine chalet, is it not, Sir?"

He was pleased, and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen that Switzerland was his country; and drawing a little aside from the other talkers, he entered into a long, and to her most delightful conversation. In the pleasantest manner he gave her a vast deal of very entertaining detail about the country, and the manners and habits of the people of the Alps, especially in the Tyrol, where he had often travelled. It would have been hard to tell whether the child had most pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and science most pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He saw, he said, that she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and asked if she had ever heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese peasant, who had led on his brethren in their noble endeavours to rid themselves of French and Bavarian oppression. Ellen had never heard of him.

"You know William Tell?"

"Oh yes," Ellen said; "she knew him."

"And Bonaparte?"

"Yes, very well."

He went on then to give her, in a very interesting way the history of Hofer; how when Napoleon made over his country to the rule of the king of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose in mass, overcame army after army that were sent against them in their mountain fastnesses, and freed themselves from the hated Bavarian government; how, years after, Napoleon was at last too strong for them; Hofer and his companions defeated, hunted like wild beasts, shot down like them; how Hofer was at last betrayed by a friend, taken and executed, being only seen to weep at parting with his family. The beautiful story was well told, and the speaker was animated by the eager, deep attention and sympathy of his auditor, whose changing colour, smiles, and even tears, showed how well she entered into the feelings of the patriots in their struggle, triumph, and downfall; till, as he finished, she was left full of pity for them and hatred for Napoleon. They talked of the Alps again. M. Muller put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a little painting in mosaic to show her, which he said had been given him that day. It was a beautiful piece of pietra-dura work Mont Blanc. He assured her the mountain often looked exactly so. Ellen admired it very much. It was meant to be set for a brooch, or some such thing, he said, and he asked if she would keep it and sometimes wear it, to "remember the Swiss, and to do him a pleasure."

"Moi, Monsieur!" said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and pleasure, "je suis bien oblige; mais, Monsieur, je ne saurais vous remercier?"

He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch of her lips.

"Tenez, Monsieur!" said Ellen, blushing, but smiling, and tendering back the mosaic.

He laughed, and bowed, and begged her pardon, and said she must keep it to assure him that she had forgiven him; and then he asked by what name he might remember her.

"Monsieur, je m'appelle Ellen M "

She stopped short, in utter and blank uncertainty what to call herself; Montgomery she dared not; Lindsay stuck in her throat,

"Have you forgotten it?" said M. Muller, amused at her look, "or is it a secret?"

"Tell M. Muller your name, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, turning round from a group where he was standing at a little distance. The tone was stern and displeased. Ellen felt it keenly, and with difficulty and some hesitation still, murmured

"Ellen Lindsay."

"Lindsay! Are you the daughter of my friend Mr. Lindsay?"

Again Ellen hesitated, in great doubt how to answer, but finally, not without starting tears, said

"Oui, Monsieur."

"Your memory is bad to-night," said Mr. Lindsay, in her ear; "you had better go where you can refresh it."

Ellen took this as a hint to leave the room, which she did immediately, not a little hurt at the displeasure she did not think she had deserved; she loved Mr. Lindsay the best of all her relations, and really loved him. She went to bed and to sleep again that night with wet eyelashes.

Meanwhile M. Muller was gratifying Mr. Lindsay in a high degree by the praises he bestowed upon his daughter, her intelligence, her manners, her modesty, and her French. He asked if she was to be in Edinburgh that winter, and whether she would be at school; and Mr. Lindsay declaring himself undecided on the latter point, M. Muller said he should be pleased, if she had leisure, to have her come to his rooms two or three times a week to read with him. This offer, from a person of M. Muller's standing and studious habits, Mr. Lindsay justly took as both a great compliment and a great promise of advantage to Ellen. He at once and with much pleasure accepted it. So the qiestion of school was settled.

Ellen resolved the next morning to lose no time in making up her difference with Mr. Lindsay, and schooled herself to use a form of words that she thought would please him. Pride said, indeed, "Do no such thing; don't go to making acknowledgements when you have not been in the wrong; you are not bound to humble yourself before unjust displeasure." Pride pleaded powerfully. But neither Ellen's heart not her conscience would permit her to take this advice. "He loves me very much." she thought, "and perhaps he did not understand me last night; and besides, I owe him yes, I do! a child's obedience now. I ought not to leave him displeased with me a moment longer than I can help. And besides, I couldn't be happy so. God gives grace to the humble; I will humble myself."

To have a chance for executing this determination, she went down-stairs a good deal earlier than usual; she knew Mr. Lindsay was generally there before the rest of the family, and she hoped to see him alone. It was too soon even for him, however; the rooms were empty; so Ellen took her book from the table, and being perfectly at peace with herself, sat down in the window, and was presently lost in the interest of what she was reading. She did not know of Mr. Lindsay's approach till a little imperative tap on her shoulder startled her.

"What were you thinking of last night? what made you answer M. Muller in the way you did?"

Ellen started up, but to utter her prepared speech was no longer possible.

"I did not know what to say," she said, looking down.

"What do you mean by that?" said he, angrily. "Didn't you know what I wished you to say?"

"Yes but do not speak to me in that way!" exclaimed Ellen, covering her face with her hands. Pride struggled to keep back the tears that wanted to flow.

"I shall choose my own method of speaking. Why did you not say what you knew I wished you to say?"

"I was afraid I didn't know but he would think what wasn't true."

"That is precisely what I wish him and all the world to think. I will have no difference made, Ellen, either by them or by you. Now lift up your head and listen to me," said he, taking both her hands. "I lay my commands upon you, whenever the like questions may be asked again, that you answer simply according to what I have told you, without any explanation or addition. It is true, and if people draw conclusions that are not true, it is what I wish. Do you understand me?"

Ellen bowed.

"Will you obey me?"

She answered again in the same mute way.

He ceased to hold her at arms length, and sitting down in her chair drew her close to him, saying more kindly

"You must not displease me, Ellen."

"I had no thought of displeasing you, Sir," said Ellen, bursting into tears; "and I was very sorry for it last night. I did not mean to disobey you; I only hesitated."

"Hesitate no more. My commands may serve to remove the cause of it. You are my daughter, Ellen, and I am your father. Poor child," said he, for Ellen was violently agitated; "I don't believe I shall have much difficulty with you."

"If you will only not speak and look at me so," said Ellen; "it makes me very unhappy."

"Hush!" said he, kissing her; "do not give me occasion."

"I did not give you occasion, Sir?"

"Why, Ellen!" said Mr. Lindsay, half-displeased again, "I shall begin to think your aunt Keith is right, that you are a true Lindsay. But so am I, and I will have only obedience from you, without either answering or argumenting."

"You shall," murmured Ellen. "But do not be displeased with me, father."

Ellen had schooled herself to say that word; she knew it would greatly please him; and she was not mistaken, though it was spoken so low that his ears could but just catch it. Displeasure was entirely overcome. He pressed her to his heart, kissing her with great tenderness, and would not let her go from his arms till he had seen her smile again; and during all the day he was not willing to have her out of his sight.

It would have been easy that morning for Ellen to have made a breech between them that would not readily have been healed. One word of humility had prevented it all, and fastened her more firmly than ever in Mr. Lindsay's affection. She met with nothing from him but tokens of great and tender fondness; and Lady Keith told her mother apart that there would be no doing anything with George; she saw he was getting bewitched with that child.

CHAPTER XLIX.

Thought is free.

In a few weeks they moved to Edinburgh, where arrangements were speedily made for giving Ellen every means of improvement that masters and mistresses, books and instruments, could afford.

The house in George street was large and pleasant. To Ellen's great joy, a pretty little room opening from the first landing-place of the private staircase was assigned for her special use as a study and work-room, and fitted up nicely for her with a small bookcase, a practising piano, and various etceteras. Here her beloved desk took its place on a table in the middle of the floor, where Ellen thought she would make many a new drawing when she was by herself. Her work-box was accommodated with a smaller stand near the window. A glass door at one end of the room opened upon a small iron balcony; this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a very particular treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she arranged and arranged her little sanctum till she had all things to her mind, and it only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. "I will have that, too, some of these days," she said to herself; and resolved to deserve her pretty room by being very busy there. It was hers alone, open indeed to her friends when they chose to keep her company; but lessons were taken elsewhere in the library, or the music-room, or more frequently her grandmother's dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs. Lindsay or Lady Keith was always present.

Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole family. Not so much, however, Lady Keith's plaything as her pride; while pride had a less share in the affection of the other two, or rather, perhaps, was more over-topped by it. Ellen felt, however, that all their hearts were set upon her, felt it gratefully, and determined she would give them all the pleasure she possibly could. Her love for other friends, friends that they knew nothing of, American friends, was, she knew, the sore point with them; she resolved not to speak of any of those friends, nor allude to them, especially in any way that should show how much of her heart was out of Scotland. But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor Ellen to keep. She was unaccustomed to concealments; and in ways that she could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome truth would come up, and the sore was not healed.

One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone, and quietly stretched out on her bed, very naturally Ellen's thoughts went back to the last time she had a headache at home, as she always called it to herself. She recalled with a straitened heart the gentle and tender manner of John's care for her; how nicely he had placed her on the sofa; how he sat by her side bathing her temples, or laying his cool hand on her forehead, and once, she remembered, his lips. "I wonder," thought Ellen, "what I ever did to make him love me so much, as I know he does!" She remembered how, when she was able to listen, he still sat beside her, talking such sweet words of kindness, and comfort, and amusement, that she almost loved to be sick to have such tending, and looked up at him as at an angel. She felt it all over again. Unfortunately, after she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see how she was, and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not rest till she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to tell, she did her best to get off from it, but she did not know how to evade questions; and those that were put to her indeed admitted of no evasion.

A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was remarked one morning at breakfast that Ellen was very straight, and carried herself well.

"It is no thanks to me," said Ellen, smiling, "they never would let me hold myself ill."

"Who is 'they'?" said Lady Keith.

"My brother and sister."

"I wish, George," said Lady Keith, discontentedly, "that you would lay your commands upon Ellen to use that form of expression no more. My ears are absolutely sick of it."

"You do not hear it very often, aunt Keith," Ellen could not help saying.

"Quite often enough; and I know it is upon your lips a thousand times when you do not speak it."

"And if Ellen does, we do not," said Mrs. Lindsay, "wish to claim kindred with all the world."

"How came you to take up such an absurd habit?" said Lady Keith. "It isn't like you."

"They took it up first," said Ellen; "I was too glad "

"Yes, I dare say they had their reasons for taking it up," said her aunt; "they had acted from interested motives, I have no doubt; people always do."

"You are very much mistaken, aunt Keith," said Ellen, with uncontrollable feeling; "you do not in the least know what you are talking about!"

Instantly, Mr. Lindsay's fingers tapped her lips. Ellen coloured painfully, but after an instant's hesitation she said

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Keith, I should not have said that."

"Very well!" said Mr. Lindsay. "But understand, Ellen, however you may have taken it up this habit you will lay it down for the future. Let us hear no more of brothers and sisters. I cannot, as your Grandmother says, fraternize with all the world, especially with unknown relations."

"I am very glad you have made that regulation," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I cannot conceive how Ellen has got such a way of it," said Lady Keith.

"It is very natural," said Ellen, with some huskiness of voice, "that I should say so, because I feel so."

"You do not mean to say," said Mr. Lindsay, "that this Mr. and Miss Somebody these people I don't know their names "

"There is only one now, Sir."

"This person you call your brother do you mean to say you have the same regard for him as if he had been born so?"

"No," said Ellen, with cheek and eye suddenly firing, "but a thousand times more!"

She was exceedingly sorry the next minute after she had said this, for she knew it had given both pain and displeasure in a great degree. No answer was made. Ellen dared not look at anybody, and needed not; she wished the silence might be broken; but nothing was heard except a low "whew!" from Mr. Lindsay, till he rose up and left the room. Ellen was sure he was very much displeased. Even the ladies were too much offended to speak on the subject; and she was merely bade to go to her room. She went there, and sitting down on the floor, covered her face with her hands. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" she said to herself, "I never shall govern this tongue of mine. Oh, I wish I had not said that! they will never forgive it. What can I do to make them pleased with me again? Shall I go to my father's study and beg him but I can't ask him to forgive me I haven't done wrong I can't unsay what I said. I can do nothing. I can only go in the way of my duty, and do the best I can, and maybe they will come round again. But, oh dear!"

A flood of tears followed this resolution.

Ellen kept it; she tried to be blameless in all her work and behaviour, but she sorrowfully felt that her friends did not forgive her. There was a cool air of displeasure about all they said and did; the hand of fondness was not laid upon her shoulder, she was not wrapped in loving arms, as she used to be a dozen times a day: no kisses fell on her brow or lips. Ellen felt it, more from Mr. Lindsay than both the others; her spirits sunk; she had been forbidden to speak of her absent friends, but that was not the way to make her forget them; and there was scarce a minute in the day when her brother was not present to her thoughts.

Sunday came her first Sunday in Edinburgh. All went to church in the morning; in the afternoon Ellen found that nobody was going; her grandmother was lying down. She asked permission to go alone.

"Do you want to go because you think you must, or for pleasure?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"For pleasure," said Ellen's tongue and her opening eyes at the same time.

"You may go."

With eager delight Ellen got ready, and was hastening along the hall to the door, when she met Mr. Lindsay.

"Where are you going?"

"To church, Sir."

"Alone! what do you want to go for! No, no, I shan't let you. Come in here I want you with me; you have been once to-day already, haven't you? You do not want to go again?"

"I do indeed, Sir, very much," said Ellen, as she reluctantly followed him into the library, "if you have no objection. You know I have not seen Edinburgh yet."

"Edinburgh! that's true, so you haven't," said he, looking at her discomfited face. "Well, go, if you want to go so much."

Ellen got as far as the hall door, no further; she rushed back to the library.

"I did not say right when I said that," she burst forth; "that was not the reason I wanted to go. I will stay, if you wish me, Sir."

"I don't wish it," said, he in surprise; "I don't know what you mean; I am willing you should go, if you like it. Away with you! it is time."

Once more Ellen set out, but this time with a heart full much too full to think of anything she saw by the way. It was with a singular feeling of pleasure that she entered the church alone. It was a strange church to her never seen but once before; and as she softly passed up the broad aisle, she saw nothing in the building or the people around her that was not strange no familiar face, no familiar thing. But it was a church, and she was alone, quite alone in the midst of that crowd; and she went up to the empty pew and ensconced herself in the far corner of it, with a curious feeling of quiet and of being at home. She was no sooner seated, however, than, leaning forward as much as possible to screen herself from observation, bending her head upon her knees, she burst into an agony of tears. It was a great relief to be able to weep freely; at home she was afraid of being seen, or heard, or questioned; now she was alone and free, and she poured out her very heart in weeping, that she with difficulty kept from being loud weeping.

"Oh, how could I say that! how could I say that! Oh, what would John have thought of me if he had heard it? Am I beginning already to lose my truth? am I going backward already? Oh, what shall I do! what will become of me if I do not watch over myself; there is no one to help me or lead me right not a single one all to lead me wrong! what will become of me? But there is One who has promised to keep those who follow him he is sufficient, without any others. I have not kept near enough to him! that is it; I have not remembered nor loved him. 'If ye love me, keep my commandments' I have not! I have not! Oh, but I will! I will; and he will be with me, and help me, and bless me, and all will go right with me."

With bitter tears Ellen mingled as eager prayers for forgiveness and help to be faithful. She resolved that nothing, come what would, should tempt her to swerve one iota from the straight line of truth; she resolved to be more careful of her private hour; she thought she had scarcely had her full hour a day lately; she resolved to make the Bible her only and her constant rule of life in everything: and she prayed such prayers as a heart thoroughly in earnest can pray, for the seal to these resolutions. Not one word of the sermon did Ellen hear; but she never passed a more profitable hour in church in her life.

All her tears were not from the spring of these thoughts and feelings; some were the pouring out of gathered sadness of the week; some came from recollections, oh, how tender and strong! of lost and distant friends. Her mother, and Alice, and Mr. Humphreys, and Margery, and Mr. Van Brunt, and Mr. George Marshman; and she longed, with longing that seemed as if it would have burst her heart, to see her brother. She longed for the pleasant voice, the eye of thousand expressions, into which she always looked as if she had never seen it before, the calm look that told he was satisfied with her, the touch of his hand, which many a time had said a volume. Ellen thought she would give anything in the world to see him and hear him speak one word. As this could not be, she resolved with the greatest care to do what would please him; that when she did see him, he might find her all he wished.

She had wept herself out; she had been refreshed and strengthened herself by fleeing to the stronghold of the prisoners of hope; and when the last hymn was given out, she raised her head and took the book to find it. To her great surprise, she saw Mr. Lindsay sitting at the other end of the pew, with folded arms, like a man not thinking of what was going on around him. Ellen was startled, but obeying the instinct that told her what he would like, she immediately moved down the pew and stood beside him while the last hymn was singing; and if Ellen had joined in no other part of the service that afternoon, she at least did in that with all her heart. They walked home then without a word on either side. Mr. Lindsay did not quit her hand till he had drawn her into the library. There he threw off her bonnet and wrappers, and taking her in his arms, exclaimed

"My poor little darling! what was the matter with you this afternoon?"

There was so much kindness again in his tone, that, overjoyed, Ellen eagerly returned his caress, and assured him that there was nothing the matter with her now.

"Nothing the matter!" said he, tenderly pressing her face against his own, "nothing the matter! with these pale cheeks and wet eyes! nothing now, Ellen?"

"Only that I am so glad to hear you speak kindly to me again, Sir."

"Kindly! I will never speak any other way but kindly to you, daughter. Come! I will not have any more tears you have shed enough for to-day, I am sure; lift up your face, and I will kiss them away. What was the matter with you, my child?"

But he had to wait a little while for an answer.

"What was it, Ellen?"

"One thing," said Ellen, "I was sorry for what I had said to you, Sir, just before I went out."

"What was that? I do not remember anything that deserved to be a cause of grief."

"I told you, Sir, when I wanted you to let me go to church, that I hadn't seen Edinburgh yet."

"Well?"

"Well, Sir, that wasn't being quite true; and I was very sorry for it."

"Not true? Yes, it was; what do you mean? you had not seen Edinburgh."

"No, Sir; but I mean that was true; but I said it to make you believe what wasn't true."

"How?"

"I meant you to think, Sir, that that was the reason why I wanted to go to church to see the city and the new sights; and it wasn't at all."

"What was it then?"

Ellen hesitated.

"I always love to go, Sir; and, besides, I believe I wanted to be alone."

"And you were not, after all," said Mr. Lindsay, again pressing her cheek to his, "for I followed you there. But, Ellen, my child, you were troubled without reason; you had said nothing that was false."

"Ah, Sir, but I had made you believe what was false."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Lindsay, "you are a nice reasoner. And are you always true upon this close scale?"

"I wish I was, Sir; but you see I am not. I am sure I hate everything else!"

"Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true," said Mr. Lindsay; "I wish there was a little more of it in the world. Was this the cause of all those tears this afternoon?"

"No, Sir not all."

"What beside, Ellen?"

Ellen looked down, and was silent.

"Come, I must know."

"Must I tell you all, Sir?"

"You must, indeed," said he, smiling; "I will have the whole, daughter."

"I had been feeling very sorry all the week, because you, and grandmother, and aunt Keith, were displeased with me."

Again Mr. Lindsay's silent caress, in its tenderness, seemed to say she should never have the same complaint to make again.

"Was that all, Ellen?" as she hesitated.

"No, Sir."

"Well?"

"I wish you wouldn't ask me further; please do not. I shall displease you again."

"I will not be displeased."

"I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys," said Ellen, in a low tone.

"Who is that?"

"You know, Sir; you say I must not call him "

"What were you thinking of him?"

"I was wishing very much I could see him again."

"Well, you are a truth-teller," said Mr. Lindsay, "or bolder than I think you."

"You said you would not be displeased, Sir."

"Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you forget these people?"

"Nothing, Sir; I cannot forget them; I shouldn't deserve to have you love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, and do not be angry with me for it."

"But I am not satisfied to have your body here, and your heart somewhere else."

I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling amidst her tears, "if I had room in it for only one person."

"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, inquisitively, "did you insinuate a falsehood there?"

"No, Sir."

"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is honesty anywhere in the world. I am satisfied, that is, half satisfied. Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest," said he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look as if you needed it."

"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek upon the grateful pillow, "except one thing if grandmother would only forgive me too."