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

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

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

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

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

"Very," said Ellen, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

"How is Miss Fortune?"

"Oh, she is up again and well."

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

"Yes, ma'am; Aunt Fortune says perhaps he will be here in a week."

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

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

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

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

"When?"

"The 5th of April. Oh, I can't help it!" exclaimed Ellen, failing in the effort to control herself; she clasped Alice as if she feared even then the separating hand. Alice bent her head down and whispered words of comfort.

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

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

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

"I hope not; I think not."

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

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

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

This was strong consolation. Ellen looked up and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I?" said Ellen, colouring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"George Washington!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

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

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

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

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

"What is 'patriotic'?" said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen's eye turned to Alice.

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

Ellen's face shortened considerably.

"But what had the horse been doing?"

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

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

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

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

"Then he did right?" said Ellen.

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

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

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

"Has he?—from Mr. Marshman?"

"Yes."

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

"Black—perfectly black."

"Is he handsome?"

"Very."

"Is his name Black Prince?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'The Brownie?'" said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Marshman," said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXVII

Thou must run to him; for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.—SHAKESPEARE.

Captain Montgomery did not come the next week, nor the week after; and what is more, the Duck Dorleens, as his sister called the ship in which he had taken passage, was never heard of from that time. She sailed duly on the 5th of April, as they learned from the papers; but whatever became of her she never reached port. It remained a doubt whether Captain Montgomery had actually gone in her; and Ellen had many weeks of anxious watching, first for himself, and then for news of him in case he were still in France. None ever came. Anxiety gradually faded into uncertainty; and by midsummer no doubt of the truth remained in any mind. If Captain Montgomery had been alive, he would certainly have written, if not before, on learning the fate of the vessel in which he had told his friends to expect him home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A good name is better than precious ointment."

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

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

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

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

"The near ox!" said Miss Fortune, "I wish he warn't quite so near this time. Mercy! he'll be at the corn and over everything. Run and drive him into the barn-yard, can't you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goodness, Ellen! what do you want?"

"I want Mr. Van Brunt, where is he?"

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

"Used himself up! what do you mean?"

"Why, he's fixed himself in fine style; he's fell through the trap-door and broke his leg."

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

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

"How do you know his leg is broken?"

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

"Where is Mrs. Van Brunt?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What doctor?" said Ellen; "I'll find somebody to go; tell me what doctor?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must, Jenny. Never mind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long since?" said his mistress.

But Sam shuffled and shuffled, looked every way but at Ellen or Mrs. Forbes, and "didn't know."

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

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

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

"Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen. "Where is the post-office?"

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

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

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

"Is Dr. Gibson here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I don't," said he. "Who wants him?"

"I want to see him, sir."

"For yourself?"

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

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

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

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

"I came on horseback, sir."

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

"No, sir."

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

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

"Well I will say! if you ha'n't the prettiest fit-out in Thirlwall. Shall I help you? Will you have a cheer?"

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

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

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

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

"He ain't to hum."

"When will he be at home?"

"Couldn't say."

"Before dinner?"

The woman shook her head. "Guess not till late in the day."

"Where is he gone?"

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

Ellen thought a minute.

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

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

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

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

"At the inn?—the Star—yes."

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

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



CHAPTER XXXVIII

And he had ridden o'er dale and down By eight o'clock in the day, When he was ware of a bold Tanner, Came riding along the way.

—OLD BALLAD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And so is he," said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

"How soon?" said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

"Whose horse is that you're on?"

"Mine," said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You just hold fast and hold your tongue. Catch hold of his ears, and you'll stick on fast enough; if you can't you may get down, for I am going to make him take the leap whether you will or no." Ellen feared still more to get off and leave the Brownie to her tormentor's mercy than to stay where she was and take her chance. She tried in vain, as well as she could, to soothe her horse; the touches of the whip coming now in one place and now in another, and some of them pretty sharp, he began to grow very frisky indeed; and she began to be very much frightened for fear she should suddenly be jerked off. With a good deal of presence of mind, though wrought up to a terrible pitch of excitement and fear, Ellen gave her best attention to keeping her seat as the Brownie sprang and started and jumped to one side and the other; Mr. Saunders holding the bridle as loose as possible so as to give him plenty of room. For some little time he amused himself with this game, the horse growing more and more irritated. At length a smart stroke of the whip upon his haunches made the Brownie spring in a way that brought Ellen's heart into her mouth, and almost threw her off.

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

For one minute she dropped her face in her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen made no answer.

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

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

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

Ellen was silent.

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

Still she did not speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get off!" repeated Mr. Saunders.

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

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

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

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

Ellen quitted her pony's neck, and stretching out both arms towards him, exclaimed, and almost shrieked, "Oh, John, John! send him away! make him let me go!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXIX

Now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling bird; that now awake, Tunes sweetest her love-laboured song; now reigns Full orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowy, sets off the face of things.

—MILTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" said Ellen, somewhat alarmed.

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

"Well, how did he do?"

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

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

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

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

"What are you thinking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Isn't that beautiful!" said Ellen.

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

"When?" said Ellen.

"When I asked you——"

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

"Well——?"

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

"Unless you would rather not."

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

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

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

Ellen could get no further.

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

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

"Yes, very much. Why?—do you?"

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

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

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

"And in the stone a new name written——"

"Yes, that I mean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. John," Ellen began.

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