Ellen drew back. He looked grave, but she saw Alice smiling.

"But what shall I do?" said she, a little perplexed and half laughing. "What do you mean, Mr. John? What does he mean, Alice?"

"You could speak without a 'Mr.' to me this morning when you were in trouble."

"Oh!" said Ellen, laughing, "I forgot myself then."

"Have the goodness to forget yourself permanently for the future."

"Was that man hurt this morning, John?" said his sister.

"What man?"

"That man you delivered Ellen from."

"Hurt? no—nothing material; I did not wish to hurt him. He richly deserved punishment, but it was not for me to give it."

"He was in no hurry to get up," said Ellen.

"I do not think he ventured upon that till we were well out of the way. He lifted his head and looked after us as we rode off."

"But I wanted to ask something," said Ellen. "Oh! what is the reason the moon looks so much larger when she first gets up than she does afterwards?"

"Whom are you asking?"

"You."

"And who is you? Here are two people in the moonlight."

"Mr. John Humphreys, Alice's brother, and that Thomas calls 'the young master,'" said Ellen, laughing.

"You are more shy of taking a leap than your little horse is," said John, smiling, "but I shall bring you up to it yet. What is the cause of the sudden enlargement of my thumb?"

He had drawn a small magnifying glass from his pocket and held it between his hand and Ellen.

"Why, it is not enlarged," said Ellen, "it is only magnified."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, the glass makes it look larger."

"Do you know how, or why?"

"No."

He put up the glass again.

"But what do you mean by that?" said Ellen; "there is no magnifying glass between us and the moon to make her look larger."

"You are sure of that?"

"Why, yes!" said Ellen; "I am perfectly sure; there is nothing in the world. There she is, right up there, looking straight down upon us, and there is nothing between."

"What is it that keeps up that pleasant fluttering of leaves in the wood?"

"Why, the wind."

"And what is the wind?"

"It is air—air moving, I suppose."

"Exactly. Then there is something between us and the moon."

"The air? But, Mr. John, one can see quite clearly through the air; it doesn't make things look larger or smaller."

"How far do you suppose the air reaches from us towards the moon?"

"Why, all the way, don't it?"

"No—only about forty miles. If it reached all the way there would indeed be no magnifying glass in the case."

"But how is it?" said Ellen. "I don't understand."

"I cannot tell you to-night, Ellie. There is a long ladder of knowledge to go up before we can get to the moon, but we will begin to mount to-morrow, if nothing happens. Alice, you have that little book of Conversations on Natural Philosophy, which you and I used to delight ourselves with in old time?"

"Safe and sound in the bookcase," said Alice. "I have thought of giving it to Ellen before, but she has been busy enough with what she had already."

"I have done Rollin now, though," said Ellen; "that is lucky. I am ready for the moon."

This new study was begun the next day, and Ellen took great delight in it. She would have run on too fast in her eagerness but for the steady hand of her teacher; he obliged her to be very thorough. This was only one of her items of business. The weeks of John's stay were as usual not merely weeks of constant and varied delight, but of constant and swift improvement too.

A good deal of time was given to the riding-lessons. John busied himself one morning in preparing a bar for her on the lawn; so placed that it might fall if the horse's heels touched it. Here Ellen learned to take first standing, and then running, leaps. She was afraid at first, but habit wore that off; and the bar was raised higher and higher, till Margery declared she "couldn't stand and look at her going over it." Then John made her ride without the stirrup, and with her hands behind her, while he, holding the horse by a long halter, made him go round in a circle, slowly at first, and afterwards trotting and cantering, till Ellen felt almost as secure on his back as in a chair. It took a good many lessons, however, to bring her to this, and she trembled very much at the beginning. Her teacher was careful and gentle, but determined; and whatever he said she did, tremble or no tremble; and in general loved her riding lessons dearly.

Drawing too went on finely. He began to let her draw things from nature; and many a pleasant morning the three went out together with pencils and hooks and work, and spent hours in the open air. They would find a pretty point of view, or a nice shady place where the breeze came, and where there was some good old rock with a tree beside it, or a piece of fence, or the house or barn in the distance, for Ellen to sketch; and while she drew and Alice worked, John read aloud to them. Sometimes he took a pencil too, and Alice read; and often, often pencils, books, and work were all laid down; and talk, lively, serious, earnest, always delightful, took the place of them. When Ellen could not understand the words, at least she could read the faces; and that was a study she was never weary of. At home there were other studies and much reading; many tea-drinkings on the lawn, and even breakfastings, which she thought pleasanter still.

As soon as it was decided that Mr. Van Brunt's leg was doing well, and in a fair way to be sound again, Ellen went to see him; and after that rarely let two days pass without going again. John and Alice used to ride with her so far, and taking a turn beyond while she made her visit, call for her on their way back. She had a strong motive for going in the pleasure her presence always gave, both to Mr. Van Brunt and his mother. Sam Larkens had been to Thirlwall and seen Mrs. Forbes, and from him they had heard the story of her riding up and down the town in search of the doctor; neither of them could forget it. Mrs. Van Brunt poured out her affection in all sorts of expressions whenever she had Ellen's ear; her son was not a man of many words; but Ellen knew his face and manner well enough without them, and read there whenever she went into his room what gave her great pleasure.

"How do you do, Mr. Van Brunt?" she said on one of these occasions.

"Oh, I'm getting along, I s'pose," said he; "getting along as well as a man can that's lying on his back from morning to night; prostrated, as 'Squire Dennison said his corn was t'other day."

"It is very tiresome, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"It's the tiresomest work that ever was, for a man that has two arms to be adoing nothing, day after day. And what bothers me is the wheat in that ten-acre lot, that ought to be prostrated too, and ain't, nor ain't like to be, as I know, unless the rain comes and does it. Sam and Johnny 'll make no headway at all with it—I can tell as well as if I see 'em."

"But Sam is good, isn't he?" said Ellen.

"Sam's as good a boy as ever was; but then Johnny Low is mischievous, you see, and he gets Sam out of his tracks once in a while. I never see a finer growth of wheat. I had a sight rather cut and harvest the hull of it than to lie here and think of it getting spoiled. I'm a'most out o' conceit o' trap-doors, Ellen."

Ellen could not help smiling.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"There ain't nothing," said he; "I wish there was. How are you coming along at home?"

"I don't know," said Ellen; "I am not there just now, you know; I am staying up with Miss Alice again."

"Oh ay! while her brother's at home. He's a splendid man, that young Mr. Humphreys, ain't he?"

"Oh, I knew that a great while ago," said Ellen, the bright colour of pleasure overspreading her face.

"Well, I didn't, you see, till the other day, when he came here, very kindly, to see how I was getting on. I wish something would bring him again. I never heerd a man talk I liked to hear so much."

Ellen secretly resolved something should bring him; and went on with a purpose she had had for some time in her mind.

"Wouldn't it be pleasant, while you are lying there and can do nothing—wouldn't you like to have me read something to you, Mr. Van Brunt? I should like to, very much."

"It's just like you," said he gratefully, "to think of that; but I wouldn't have you be bothered with it."

"It wouldn't indeed. I should like it very much."

"Well, if you've a mind," said he; "I can't say but it would be a kind o' comfort to keep that grain out o' my head a while. Seems to me I have cut and housed it all three times over already. Read just whatever you have a mind to. If you was to go over a last year's almanac, it would be as good as a fiddle to me."

"I'll do better for you than that, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, laughing in high glee at having gained her point. She had secretly brought her "Pilgrim's Progress" with her, and now with marvellous satisfaction drew it forth.

"I ha'n't been as much of a reader as I had ought to," said Mr. Van Brunt, as she opened the book and turned to the first page; "but, however, I understand my business pretty well; and a man can't be everything to once. Now let's hear what you've got there."

With a throbbing heart Ellen began, and read, notes and all, till the sound of trampling hoofs and Alice's voice made her break off. It encouraged and delighted her to see that Mr. Van Brunt's attention was perfectly fixed. He lay still, without moving his eyes from her face, till she stopped; then thanking her, he declared that was a "first-rate book," and he "should like mainly to hear the hull on it."

From that time Ellen was diligent in her attendance on him. That she might have more time for reading than the old plan gave her, she set off by herself alone some time before the others, of course riding home with them. It cost her a little sometimes to forego so much of their company; but she never saw the look of grateful pleasure with which she was welcomed without ceasing to regret her self-denial. How Ellen blessed those notes as she went on with her reading! They said exactly what she wanted Mr. Van Brunt to hear, and in the best way, and were too short and simple to interrupt the interest of the story. After a while she ventured to ask if she might read him a chapter in the Bible. He agreed very readily; owning "he hadn't ought to be so long without reading one as he had been." Ellen then made it a rule to herself, without asking any more questions, to end every reading with a chapter in the Bible; and she carefully sought out those that might be most likely to take hold of his judgment or feelings. They took hold of her own very deeply, by the means; what was strong or tender before, now seemed to her too mighty to be withstood; and Ellen read not only with her lips but with her whole heart the precious words, longing that they might come with their just effect upon Mr. Van Brunt's mind.

Once as she finished reading the tenth chapter of John, a favourite chapter, which between her own feeling of it and her strong wish for him had moved her even to tears, she cast a glance at his face to see how he took it. His head was a little turned to one side, and his eyes closed; she thought he was asleep. Ellen was very much disappointed. She sank her head upon her book and prayed that a time might come when he would know the worth of those words. The touch of his hand startled her.

"What is the matter?" said he. "Are you tired?"

"No," said Ellen, looking hastily up; "oh no! I'm not tired."

"But what ails you?" said the astonished Mr. Van Brunt; "what have you been a crying for? what's the matter?"

"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, brushing her hand over her eyes, "it's no matter."

"Yes, but I want to know," said Mr. Van Brunt; "you shan't have anything to vex you that I can help; what is it?"

"It is nothing, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, bursting into tears again, "only I thought you were asleep; I—I thought you didn't care enough about the Bible to keep awake; I want so much that you should be a Christian!"

He half groaned and turned his head away.

"What makes you wish that so much?" said he, after a minute or two.

"Because I want you to be happy," said Ellen, "and I know you can't without."

"Well, I am pretty tolerable happy," said he; "as happy as most folks, I guess."

"But I want you to be happy when you die, too," said Ellen; "I want to meet you in heaven."

"I hope I will go there, surely," said he gravely, "when the time comes."

Ellen was uneasily silent, not knowing what to say.

"I ain't as good as I ought to be," said he presently, with a half sigh; "I ain't good enough to go to heaven; I wish I was. You are, I do believe."

"I! Oh no, Mr. Van Brunt, do not say that; I am not good at all; I am full of wrong things."

"Well, I wish I was full of wrong things too, in the same way," said he.

"But I am," said Ellen, "whether you will believe it or not. Nobody is good, Mr. Van Brunt. But Jesus Christ has died for us, and if we ask Him, He will forgive us, and wash away our sins, and teach us to love Him, and make us good, and take us to be with Him in heaven. Oh, I wish you would ask Him!" she repeated with an earnestness that went to his heart. "I don't believe any one can be very happy that doesn't love Him."

"Is that what makes you happy?" said he.

"I have a great many things to make me happy," said Ellen, soberly, "but that is the greatest of all. It always makes me happy to think of Him, and it makes everything else a thousand times pleasanter. I wish you knew how it is, Mr. Van Brunt."

He was silent for a little, and disturbed, Ellen thought.

"Well!" said he at length, "'taint the folks that thinks themselves the best that is the best always; if you ain't good I should like to know what goodness is. There's somebody that thinks you be," said he a minute or two afterwards, as the horses were heard coming to the gate.

"No, she knows me better than that," said Ellen.

"It isn't any she that I mean," said Mr. Van Brunt. "There's somebody else out there, ain't there?"

"Who?" said Ellen, "Mr. John? Oh no, indeed he don't. It was only this morning he was telling me of something I did that was wrong." Her eyes watered as she spoke.

"He must have mighty sharp eyes, then," said Mr. Van Brunt, "for it beats all my powers of seeing things."

"And so he has," said Ellen, putting on her bonnet, "he always knows what I am thinking of just as well as if I told him. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," said he; "I ha'n't forgotten what you've been saying, and I don't mean to."

How full of sweet pleasure was the ride home!

The "something wrong," of which Ellen had spoken, was this. The day before, it happened that Mr. John had broken her off from a very engaging book to take her drawing-lesson; and as he stooped down to give a touch or two to the piece she was to copy, he said, "I don't want you to read any more of that, Ellie; it is not a good book for you." Ellen did not for a moment question that he was right, nor wish to disobey; but she had become very much interested, and was a good deal annoyed at having such a sudden stop put to her pleasure. She said nothing, and went on with her work. In a little while Alice asked her to hold a skein of cotton for her while she wound it. Ellen was annoyed again at the interruption; the harp-strings were jarring yet, and gave fresh discord to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her vexation be seen; she went immediately and held the cotton, and as soon as it was done sat down again to her drawing. Before ten minutes had passed Margery came to set the table for dinner; Ellen's papers and desk must move.

"Why, it is not dinner-time yet this great while, Margery," said she; "it isn't much after twelve."

"No, Miss Ellen," said Margery under her breath, for John was in one corner of the room reading, "but by-and-by I'll be busy with the chops and frying the salsify, and I couldn't leave the kitchen; if you'll let me have the table now."

Ellen said no more, and moved her things to a stand before the window, where she went on with her copying till dinner was ready. Whatever the reason was, however, her pencil did not work smoothly; her eye did not see true; and she lacked her usual steady patience. The next morning, after an hour and more's work and much painstaking, the drawing was finished. Ellen had quite forgotten her yesterday's trouble. But when John came to review her drawing, he found several faults with it; pointed out two or three places in which it had suffered from haste and want of care; and asked her how it had happened. Ellen knew it happened yesterday. She was vexed again, though she did her best not to show it; she stood quietly and heard what he had to say. He then told her to get ready for her riding lesson.

"Mayn't I just make this right first?" said Ellen; "it won't take me long."

"No," said he, "you have been sitting long enough; I must break you off. The Brownie will be here in ten minutes."

Ellen was impatiently eager to mend the bad places in her drawing, and impatiently displeased at being obliged to ride first. Slowly and reluctantly she went to get ready; John was already gone; she would not have moved so leisurely if he had been anywhere within seeing distance. As it was, she found it convenient to quicken her movements; and was at the door ready as soon as he and the Brownie. She was soon thoroughly engaged in the management of herself and her horse; a little smart riding shook all the ill humour out of her, and she was entirely herself again. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes they drew up under the shade of a tree to let the Brownie rest a little. It was a warm day, and John had taken off his hat and stood resting too, with his arm leaning on the neck of the horse. Presently he looked round to Ellen, and asked her with a smile if she felt right again.

"Why?" said Ellen, the crimson of her cheeks mounting to her forehead. But her eye sank immediately at the answering glance of his. He then, in very few words, set the matter before her, with such a happy mixture of pointedness and kindness, that while the reproof, coming from him, went to the quick, Ellen yet joined with it no thought of harshness or severity. She was completely subdued, however; the rest of the lesson had to be given up, and for an hour Ellen's tears could not be stayed. But it was, and John had meant it should be, a strong check given to her besetting sin. It had a long and lasting effect.



CHAPTER XL

Speed. But tell me true, will't be a match?

Laun. Ask my dog; if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

—TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

In due time Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must "spring to," as their leader said; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a long breath again, for do what she would she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone again.

"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone, "before he will be through that—before he will be able to leave Doncaster?"

"Next summer."

"And what will he do then?"

"Then he will be ordained."

"Ordained?—what is that?"

"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and appointed to it by a number of clergymen."

"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"

"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he may for a little; but papa wishes very much that before he is settled anywhere he should visit England and Scotland and see our friends there, though I hardly think John will do it unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will probably soon be called somewhere—Mr. Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."

"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, "at any rate now we must wait until next Christmas."

The winter passed away with little to mark it except the usual visits to Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed should not be when John was at home. At all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter; and it was bargained that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom; she too had become quite domesticated at Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the times she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the boat again; but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter, the latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than any one else of her age.

"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice—- I should think anybody would learn well with her; and Mr. John—I suppose he's as good, though I don't know so much about him; but he must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, mamma, for Ellen draws ten times as well as I do!"

"Perhaps that is your fault and not Mr. Sandford's," said her mother, "though I rather think you overrate the difference."

"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the little girl; "what more can I do, mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always; she never seems to think she does better than I; and she is always ready to help me and take ever so much time to show me how to do things; she is so pleasant; isn't she, mamma? I know I have heard you say she is very polite."

"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie, "and there is a grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in the society of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.

"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't say two dozen words a day."

"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is with them a great deal. Aunt Matilda," said Ellen Chauncey, "and they teach her everything, and she does learn! She must be very clever; don't you think she is, mamma? Mamma, she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about English history and arithmetic!—and did you ever hear her sing, mamma?"

"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation of others," said Mrs. Chauncey smiling, and bending forward to kiss her daughter; "but what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in history than you?"

"I don't know, mamma, unless—I wish I wasn't so fond of reading stories."

"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said Miss Sophia.

"Yes. Oh I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr. John don't let her read them, except now and then one."

"I fancy she does it though when their backs are turned," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She! Oh, Aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first."

"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is a good child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, mamma, and that is what I wanted to say; I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could help being polite."

"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved child."

"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."

"That's exactly what I think, mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.

Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline has not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the housework grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her downstairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing and studying; her very heart sank within her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning-wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how much yarn—and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do: she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might shine bright;" and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if overpressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such things. Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was held the more precious and used the more carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.

John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The sole other event that broke the quiet course of things (beside the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry; both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was sure felt much, though according to his general custom he said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.

The winter passed and the spring came. One fine mild pleasant afternoon early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.

"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't. All these to do!"

"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth. "Where's your aunt?"

Ellen pointed to the buttery. He immediately went to the door and rapped on it with his knuckles.

"Here, ma'am!" said he, "can't you let this child go with me? I want her along to help feed the sheep."

To Ellen's astonishment her aunt called to her through the closed door to "go along and leave the beans till she came back." Joyfully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap which would still be there to pick over when she returned; and ran to get her bonnet. In all the time she had been at Thirlwall something had always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.

They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn to a low rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this they came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky woodland that lay on the far side of the wheatfield. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the trees were beginning to show their leaves; the air was soft and spring-like. In great glee Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly told him she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were; and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again by laughing at his wastefulness; and so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and wait for her.

"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen as she came up with her hands full of anemones, "and look—there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out before now—the dear little thing! but I can't find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt."

"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of my not having been to look for flowers before this spring."

"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr. Van Brunt. "I don't know how it has."

"Oh, there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, you beauties! Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer," said he, with his half smile.

"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! how can you? but an ear of wheat's pretty too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what is that? Do you get me some of it, will you, please? Oh, how beautiful! what is it?"

"That's black birch," said he; "'tis kind o' handsome; stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon's seal—do you want some of that?"

Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and before she could rise from her stooping posture discovered some cowslips to be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail.

"Now I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she, when her hands were as full as they could hold; "I have kept you a great while; you are very good to wait for me."

They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last piece of rocky woodland came to an open hillside, sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones.

"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.

"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause they don't know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the fence. Ca-nan! ca-nan! Ca-nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan!"

This was the sheep call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it sounded; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep at the edge of the woods on the top of the hill. On the call's sounding again the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running along a narrow footpath down towards where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light hoofs in another direction turned Ellen's eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near; then the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt and the strange little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt, every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt was not a traitor, who had put on a friend's voice and lured them down there with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt gently repeating his call, went quietly up to the nearest stone and began to scatter the salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had hung out the white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt; the rocks where it was strewn were covered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice heaped up with snow, or queen cakes with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one scene of pushing and crowding; those which had not had their share of the feast forcing themselves to get at it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, the busy hustling crowd of gentle creatures; with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening; and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part still lingered upon the stones in the vain hope of yet licking a little saltness from them.

"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before. How they do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Good for them?" said he, "to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a critter that walks as I know, that it ain't good for—'cept chickens, and it's very queer it kills them."

They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her hand; and greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible, she was going home very happy! yet she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking sticks. He did not want to make any use of them, that was certain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields where there were none to be found.

"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness."

"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; "something is always happening most years."

Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.

"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly."

"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I s'pose—mightn't it?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly; "why, Mr. Van Brunt, what is going to happen?"

"I declare," said he, half laughing, "you're as cute as a razor; I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I?"

"But is there?" said Ellen.

"Ha'n't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, "she never tells me anything; what is it?"

"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt, "at least I know, for I've understood as much from herself, that—I believe she is going to be married before long."

"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married!—Aunt Fortune!"

"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft of tall grass and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he carried to his mouth.

There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time.

"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Why, pretty soon, as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"

"I don't know" said Ellen in a low voice; "I couldn't help guessing."

"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without looking at her.

There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such confusion.

"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded the corner of the barn, "we have made up our minds to draw in the same yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead folks, so I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lief tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back—'afore ever you came to Thirlwall; but I was never agoing to leave my old mother without a home; so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted you should."

With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barn-yard, leaving Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the chip-yard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the beans might have been flowers and the flowers beans for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's faces most carefully for a long time; Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes; and it is a matter of great uncertainty which in fact did first look at the other. Other than this there was no manner of difference in anything without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely speechless was not a very uncommon thing.



CHAPTER XLI

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing To take thy flight thou knowest not whither?

—PRIOR.

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

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

"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."

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

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

"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry;—why are you glad, Alice?"

"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alice could not help smiling again.

"What is your objection, Ellie?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Home?" said Ellen.

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

Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.

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

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

"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"

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

"Do I look well, Ellie?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But these Thirlwall doctors——"

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

"And he said——"

"As I have told you." Ellen's countenance fell—fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am afraid you cannot bear it."

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen shook her head.

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

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

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

Ellen could say nothing.

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

"I can't help it, Alice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About what, love?"

"That about—you know—that chapter——"

"About the death of Lazarus?"

"Yes. It has comforted me very much."

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XLII

She enjoys sure peace for evermore. As weather-beaten ship arrived on happy shore.

—SPENSER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Easy, papa, and happy," said Alice.

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

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

He kissed her hastily and went out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alice sighed and shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look.

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

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

They were both silent for a little while.

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

Alice thought of these lines—

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

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

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

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

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

Alice smiled and shook her head again.

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

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

"What have I to make me so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with which she was so familiar, "the days of thy mourning shall be ended;" and again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for herself, "Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?" she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down into the brightening valley or off to the hills that stretched away on either hand of it; when up through the still air the sound of the little Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then stopped. It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had entirely forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness, the sound came pealing up.