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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's I, grandma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Maam a whole parcel of people."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But does Aunt Fortune want me too?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen nodded, smilingly.

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

"I know it," said Ellen.

"Why, didn't you like it?"

"Yes very much."

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

"How did you know I did?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ellen, will you kiss me?"

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

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

CHAPTER XXVI.

Sundry things round a pot of chocolate.

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

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

So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But about the apples?" said Alice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Margery departed.

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

"It is, Maam a bitter storm."

"Have you come far?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Myself doesn't know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Had you? what about?"

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

"Yes, I remember."

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

Ellen stopped to laugh.

"And what did you tell him?"

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

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

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

"Had what? kept close to the truth?"

"No, no been what he said."

"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.

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

"How so, my dear?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your letter!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.

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

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

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

"What could you make for him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sure he will very much."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it done now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Talking, Sir," said Ellen, doubtfully.

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

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

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

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

"And how came you upon Mr. Cowper?"

"Sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But"

"But what?"

"There won't be room."

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

"But Mr. Humphreys?"

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

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

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

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

"Very good, my daughter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nor I," said his son.

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

Alice said no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen did not speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXVII.

The jingling of sleigh-bells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is a beautiful world, John!"

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

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

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

"But there are bright exceptions," said Alice.

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

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

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

Alice turned her head quick away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.

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

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much! oh, very much!"

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

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

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

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

Marianne shook hands with Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.

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

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

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

"Is he coming back soon?"

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Scraps of Morocco and talk.

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

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

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

"No," said Ellen.

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

"He's nobody," said Ellen.

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

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

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

"Who is it for?" said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girls started there was Mrs. Chauncey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Humphreys brought her."

"Who's Miss Humphreys?"

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

"Whose brother? hers or Miss Humphreys'?"

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

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

"What do you know of her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen's colour changed.

"Well, choose, Margaret," said Marianne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"An uncommon instance," said Mrs. Chauncey.

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

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

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

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

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

"And didn't you like her?"

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

"No, indeed," said Isabel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In years perhaps."

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

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

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

Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With your eyes open?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But how shall we know which is which?"

"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well!"

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

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

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

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

She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes.

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

It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.

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