"One—two!"

Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.

It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasions of death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention; these are followed after a little pause by a single one if the knell is for a man, or two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then follows the number of years the person has lived, told in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing once more the tolling begins, and is kept up for some time; the strokes following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die quite away before another breaks upon the ear.

Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be heard at Miss Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly told out, every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her when the sound ceased.

Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not trust its higher tones, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help!"

How differently that sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she slowly rose from her seat and put both her arms round the speaker's neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen the arm that held her was more than all words; it was the dividing line between her and the world, on this side everything, on that side nothing.

No word was spoken for many minutes.

"My dear Ellen," said her brother softly, "how came you here?"

"I don't know," whispered Ellen, "there was nobody there—I couldn't stay in the house."

"Shall we go home now?"

"Oh yes—whenever you please."

But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still stood with her arm upon her brother's shoulder; the eyes of both were on the scene before them; the thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again.

"Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love in this world; that is His meaning—let sorrow but bring us closer to Him. Dear Alice is well—she is well, and if we are made to suffer, we know and we love the hand that has done it, do we not, Ellie?"

Ellen put her hands to her face; she thought her heart would break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and still keeping his arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on—

"Think that she is happy; think that she is safe; think that she is with that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance, satisfied with His likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin; think that sweetly and easily she has got home; and it is our home too. We must weep, because we are left alone; but for her 'I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord'!"

As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped; but she still kept her hands to her face.

"Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother, after another silence.

She rose up instantly and said yes. But he held her still, and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of endearment which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand they went down the mountain together.



CHAPTER XLIII

I have seen angels by the sick one's pillow; There was the soft tone and the soundless tread, Where smitten hearts were drooping like the willow, They stood "between the living and the dead."

—UNKNOWN.

The whole Marshman family arrived to-day from Ventnor, some to see Alice's lovely remains, and all to follow them to the grave. The parsonage could not hold so many; the two Mr. Marshmans, therefore, with Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made their quarters at Thirlwall. Margery's hands were full enough with those that were left.

In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the room, the room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the sweet face she loved so dearly, when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. Vawse came up for the same purpose. All three stood some time in silence.

The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. Upon the pillow, and upon and about the hands which were folded on the breast, were scattered some of the rich late roses, roses and rosebuds, strewn with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A single stem of white lilies lay on the side of the bed; the rest of the flowers, a large quantity, covered the feet, seeming to have been flung there without any attempt at arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with exquisite taste and feeling. Beside the roses, there were none that were not either white or distinguished for their fragrance. The delicate white verbena, the pure feverfew, mignonette, sweet geranium, white myrtle, the rich-scented heliotrope, were mingled with the late blossoming damask and purple roses; no yellow flowers, no purple, except those mentioned; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left out by the nice hand that had culled them. But the arranging of these beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted; though indeed it might be questioned whether the finest art could have bettered the effect of what the overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs. Chauncey, however, after a while began slowly to take a flower or two from the foot and place them on other parts of the bed.

"Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold," said Margery then, who had looked on with no pleasure while this was doing, "but if she had seen when those flowers were put there, it wouldn't be her wish, I am sure it wouldn't be her wish, to stir one of them."

Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew back.

"Why, who put them there?" she asked.

"Miss Ellen, ma'am."

"Where is Ellen?"

"I think she is sleeping, ma'am. Poor child! she's the most wearied of us all with sorrow and watching," said Margery, weeping.

"You saw her bring them up, did you?"

"I saw her, ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live!"

"Why?" said Mrs. Chauncey gently.

"It's a thing one should have seen, ma'am, to understand. I don't know as I can tell it well."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish, Margery went on, half under her breath.

"Why, ma'am, the way it was, I had come up to get some linen out of the closet, for I had watched my time; Mrs. Chauncey sees, I was afeared of finding Mr. John here, and I knew that he was lying down just then, so——"

"Lying down, was he?" said Mrs. Vawse. "I did not know he had taken any rest to-day."

"It was very little he took, ma'am, indeed, though there was need enough, I am sure; he had been up with his father the live-long blessed night. And then the first thing this morning he was away after Miss Ellen, poor child! wherever she had betaken herself to; I happened to see her before anybody was out, going round the corner of the house, and so I knew when he asked me for her."

"Was she going after flowers then?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh no, ma'am, it was a long time after; it was this morning some time. I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr. John was in his room, and I thought I was safe; and I had just taken two or three pieces on my arm, you know, ma'am, when somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I had come for, and leaving what I should ha' been adoing, I was standing there, looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to see in death—and I had entirely forgotten what I was there for, ma'am—when I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming softly upstairs. I didn't want her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me back in the closet where I was. But it had like to have got the better of me entirely, ma'am, when I see her come in with a lap full of them flowers, and looking so as she did too! but with much trouble I kept quiet. She went up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs. Chauncey is standing, with her sweet sad little face—it's the hardest thing to see a child's face look so—and the flowers all gathered up in her frock. It was odd to see her, she didn't cry—not at all—only once I saw her brow wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, for she put her hand up to her face and held it a little, and then she began to take out the flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose here and a rose-bud there, and so; and then she went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and two or three more roses there on the pillow. But I could see all the while it was getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn't get through; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there in that hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her face; she turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed up all the flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot there—that's just as they fell—and down she went on her knees, and her face in her hands on the side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen," said Margery, weeping—"I couldn't do anything but look at that child kneeling there, and her flowers—and all beside her she used to call her sister, and that couldn't be a sister to her no more; and she's without a sister now to be sure, poor child!"

"She has a brother, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.

"And that's just what I was going to tell you, ma'am. She had been there five or ten minutes without moving, or more—I am sure I don't know how long it was, I didn't think how time went—when the first thing I knew I heard another step, and Mr. John came in. I thought, and expected, he was taking some sleep; but I suppose," said Margery sighing, "he couldn't rest. I knew his step, and just drew myself back further. He came just where you are, ma'am, and stood with his arms folded a long time looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear him come in; but however she didn't; and they were both as still as death, one on one side and the other on the other side. And I wondered he didn't see her; but her white dress and all—and I suppose he had no thought but for one thing. I knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked over and spied her on the other side of the bed; I see his colour change; and then his mouth took the look it always did whenever he sets himself to do anything. He stood a minute, and then he went round and knelt down beside of her, and softly took away one of her hands from under her face, and held it in both of his own, and then he made such a prayer! Oh," said Margery, her tears falling fast at the recollection, "I never heard the like! I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Alice, and he had reason enough, to be sure, and for himself and Miss Ellen—I wondered to hear him! and he prayed for them too, and others—and—oh, I thought I couldn't stand and hear him; and I was afeared to breathe the whole time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beautifullest prayer I did ever hear, or ever shall, however."

"And how did Ellen behave?" said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.

"She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he had done, and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. John put the rest of the flowers up there round her hands and the pillow—Miss Ellen hadn't put more than half-a-dozen; I noticed how he kept hold of Miss Ellen's hand all the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't finish the flowers, and he told her, 'I saw it all, Ellie,' he said; and he said 'it didn't want finishing.' I wondered how he should see it, but I suppose he did, however. I understood it very well. They went away downstairs after that."

"He is beautifully changed," said Mrs. Vawse.

"I don't know, ma'am," said Margery, "I've heard that said afore, but I can't say as I ever could see it. He always was the same to me—always the honourablest, truest, noblest—my husband says he was a bit fiery, but I never could tell that the one temper was sweeter than the other; only everybody always did whatever Mr. John wanted, to be sure; but he was the perfectest gentleman, always."

"I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, ma'am," said Margery, "they were out reading under the trees for a long time; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way a little while ago and went to lie down."

"How is Mr. Humphreys?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, ma'am; he is worse than any one knows of, I am afraid, unless Mr. John; you will not see him, ma'am; he has not been here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will go hard with my poor master, I am afraid," said Margery, weeping; "dear Miss Alice said Miss Ellen was to take her place; but it would want an angel to do that."

"Ellen will do a great deal," said Mrs. Vawse; "Mr. Humphreys loves her well now, I know."

"So do I, ma'am, I am sure; and so does every one; but still——"

Margery broke off her sentence and sorrowfully went downstairs. Mrs. Chauncey moved no more flowers.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into Ellen's room.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you?"

"Yes, Margery," said Ellen, sitting up on the bed; "come in. What is it?"

"I came to ask Miss Ellen if she could do me a great favour; there's a strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet, and it don't seem right. He has been here this some time."

"Have you told Mr. John?"

"No, Miss Ellen; he's in the library with my master; and somehow I dursn't go to the door; mayhap they wouldn't be best pleased. Would Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentleman's being here?"

Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that; Margery could hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon herself; she did not say so.

"You are sure he is there, Margery?"

"I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you; but if you wouldn't mind—I am ashamed to have the gentleman left to himself so long."

"I'll do it, Margery."

She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing her hair, set off to the library. On the way she almost repented her willingness to oblige Margery; the errand was marvellously disagreeable to her. She had never gone to that room except with Alice; never entered it uninvited. She could hardly make up her mind to knock at the door. But she had promised; it must be done.

The first fearful tap was too light to rouse any mortal ears. At the second, though not much better, she heard some one move, and John opened the door. Without waiting to hear her speak he immediately drew her in, very unwillingly on her part, and led her silently up to his father. The old gentleman was sitting in his great study-chair with a book open at his side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his and held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared not raise her eyes.

"My little girl," said he very gravely, though not without a tone of kindness too, "are you coming here to cheer my loneliness?"

Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word; it was impossible; she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand that lay on the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon her head.

"God bless you," said he, "abundantly, for all the love you showed her. Come—if you will—and be, as far as a withered heart will let you, all that she wished. All is yours—except what will be buried with her."

Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words and manner were sad and solemn; it was the tone that distressed her. There was no tearfulness in it; it trembled a little; it seemed to come indeed from a withered heart. She shook with the effort she made to control herself. John asked her presently what she had come for.

"A gentleman," said Ellen—"there's a gentleman—a stranger——"

He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. Ellen did not know whether to go too or stay, she thought from his not taking her with him he wished her to stay; she stood doubtfully. Presently she heard steps coming back along the hall—steps of two persons—the door opened, and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen! she knew him in a moment; it was her old friend, her friend of the boat—Mr. George Marshman.

Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook hands in silence. Ellen had at first shrunk out of the way to the other side of the room, and now when she saw an opportunity she was going to make her escape, but John gently detained her; and she stood still by his side, though with a kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or time for her old friend to recognise her. He was sitting by Mr. Humphreys and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought nothing of what they were saying; with eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr. Marshman she was reading memory's long story over again. The same pleasant look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort her in her first sorrow—the old way of speaking, and even of moving an arm or hand, the familiar figure and face; how they took Ellen's thoughts back to the deck of the steamboat, the hymns, the talks; the love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and effectually to do her duty; it was all present again; and Ellen gazed at him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for the moment everything else. The same love and kindness were endeavouring now to say something for Mr. Humphreys' relief; it was a hard task. The old gentleman heard and answered, for the most part briefly, but so as to show that his friend laboured in vain; the bitterness and hardness of grief were unallayed yet. It was not till John made some slight remark that Mr. Marshman turned his head that way; he looked for a moment in some surprise, and then said, his countenance lightening, "Is that Ellen Montgomery?"

Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched hand. But as she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the whole look, the thought of which she had treasured up for years, it was too much. Back as in a flood to her heart, seemed to come at once all the thoughts and feelings of the time since then; the difference of this meeting from the joyful one she had so often pictured to herself; the sorrow of that time mixed with the sorrow now; and the sense that the very hand that had wiped those first tears away was the one now laid in the dust by death. All thronged on her heart at once; and it was too much. She had scarce touched Mr. Marshman's hand when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious. There was such an utter absence of all bitterness or hardness in the tone of this grief; there was so touching an expression of submission mingled with it, that even Mr. Humphreys was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued weeper there; not the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart. For a few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till Ellen recovered enough to make her escape; and then the colour of sorrow was lightened, in one breast at least.

"Brother," said Mr. Humphreys, "I can hear you now better than I could a little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is good. 'Light in the darkness'; I see it now. That child has given me a lesson."

Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had followed her quitting the room. But she thought when John came to the tea-table he looked relieved. If his general kindness and tenderness of manner towards herself could have been greater than usual, she might have thought it was that night; but she only thought he felt better.

Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a great comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with sorrow, he was able to make that effort for the good of the rest, which no one yet had been equal to. The whole family, except Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together at this time; and his grave, cheerful, unceasing kindness made that by far the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding grateful to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old remembrance as well as the present effect. And he had not forgotten his old kindness for her; she saw it in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every way; and the feeling that she had got her old friend again and should never lose him now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could possibly have done at that time. His own family too had not seen him in a long time, so his presence was a matter of general satisfaction.

Later in the evening Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, looking and listening—he was like a piece of old music to her—when John came to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to speak to her. She went with him to the other side of the room.

"Ellie," said he in a low voice, "I think my father would like to hear you sing a hymn, do you think you could?"

Ellen looked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resolution in her countenance, and said yes.

"Not if it will pain you too much, and not unless you think you can surely go through with it, Ellen," he said gently.

"No," said Ellen; "I will try."

"Will it not give you too much pain? do you think you can?"

"No—I will try!" she repeated.

As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself that she would do it. The library was dark; coming from the light Ellen at first could see nothing. John placed her in a chair, and went away himself to a little distance where he remained perfectly still. She covered her face with her hands for a minute, and prayed for strength; she was afraid to try.

Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and utterance. The latter Ellen had in part caught from them; in the former she thought herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she underrated herself; her voice, though not indeed powerful, was low and sweet, and very clear; and the entire simplicity and feeling with which she sang hymns was more effectual than any higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been very much accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth and simplicity of expression; listening with delight, as she had often done, and often joining with her, Ellen had caught something of her manner.

She thought nothing of all this now; she had a trying task to go through. Sing!—then, and there! And what should she sing? All that class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of their sorrow must be left on one side; she hardly dared think of them. Instinctively she took up another class, that without baring the wound would lay the balm close to it. A few minutes of deep stillness were in the dark room; then very low, and in tones that trembled a little, rose the words—

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer's ear; It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, And drives away his fear."

The tremble in her voice ceased, as she went on—-

"It makes the wounded spirit whole, And calms the troubled breast; 'Tis manna to the hungry soul, And to the weary, rest.

By him my prayers acceptance gain, Although with sin defiled; Satan accuses me in vain, And I am owned a child.

Weak is the effort of my heart, And cold my warmest thought,— But when I see thee as thou art, I'll praise thee as I ought.

Till then I would thy love proclaim With every lab'ring breath; And may the music of thy name Refresh my soul in death."

Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in the room. She thought of the hymn, "Loving Kindness;" but the tune, and the spirit of the words, was too lively. Her mother's favourite, "'Tis my happiness below," but Ellen could not venture that; she strove to forget it as fast as possible. She sang, clearly and sweetly as ever now—

"Hark, my soul, it is the Lord, 'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word; Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee, 'Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou me!

'I delivered thee when bound, And when bleeding healed thy wound; Sought thee wandering, set thee right, Turned thy darkness into light.

'Can a mother's tender care Cease toward the child she bare? Yea—she may forgetful be, Yet will I remember thee.

'Mine is an unchanging love; Higher than the heights above, Deeper than the depths beneath, Free and faithful, strong as death.

'Thou shalt see my glory soon, When the work of life is done, Partner of my throne shalt be, Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?'

Lord, it is my chief complaint That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!"

Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She hoped she was doing some good; and that hope enabled her, after the first trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She was not thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see the effect upon her auditors. Through the dark her eyes could only just discern a dark figure stretched upon the sofa and another standing by the mantelpiece. The room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The choice of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of "Jerusalem, my happy home," but it would not do; she and Alice had too often sung it in strains of joy. Happily came to her mind the beautiful,

"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord," &c.

She went through all the seven long verses. Still, when Ellen paused at the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite her to go on. She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed words had gone down into her very heart; did they ever seem half so sweet before? She was cheered and strengthened, and thought she could go through with the next hymn, though it had been much loved and often used, both by her mother and Alice.

"Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly, While the billows near me roll, While the tempest still is nigh. Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life be past:— Safe into the haven guide,— O receive my soul at last!

Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on thee— Leave, ah! leave me not alone! Still support and comfort me. All my trust on thee is stayed, All my help from thee I bring:— Cover my defenceless head, Beneath the shadow of thy wing.

Thou, O Christ, art all I want; More than all in thee I find; Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick, and lead the blind. Just and holy is thy name, I am all unrighteousness; Vile and full of sin I am, Thou art full of truth and grace."

Still silence; "silence that spoke!" Ellen did not know what it said, except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next was a favourite hymn of them all.

"What are these in bright array," &c.

Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the words, for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She was fain to make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. But in vain; the tender nerve was touched; there was no stilling its quivering.

"Ellen," said Mr. Humphreys then, after a few minutes. She rose and went to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast.

"Thank you, my child," he said presently; "you have been a comfort to me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been sweeter."

As Ellen went away back through the hall her tears almost choked her; but for all that there was a strong throb of pleasure at her heart.

"I have been a comfort to him," she repeated. "Oh, dear Alice! so I will."



CHAPTER XLIV

A child no more!—a maiden now— A graceful maiden with a gentle brow; A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye, And all hearts bless her as she passes by.

—MARY HOWITT.

The whole Marshman family returned to Ventnor immediately after the funeral, Mr. George excepted; he stayed with Mr. Humphreys over the Sabbath, and preached for him; and much to every one's pleasure lingered still a day or two longer; then he was obliged to leave them. John also must go back to Doncaster for a few weeks; he would not be able to get home again before the early part of August. For the month between, and as much longer indeed as possible, Mrs. Marshman wished to have Ellen at Ventnor; assuring her that it was to be her home always whenever she chose to make it so. At first neither Mrs. Marshman nor her daughters would take any denial; and old Mr. Marshman was fixed upon it. But Ellen begged with tears that she might stay at home, and begin at once, as far as she could, to take Alice's place. Her kind friends insisted that it would do her harm to be left alone for so long, at such a season. Mr. Humphreys at the best of times kept very much to himself, and now he would more than ever; she would be very lonely. "But how lonely he will be if I go away!" said Ellen: "I can't go." Finding that her heart was set upon it, and that it would be a real grief to her to go to Ventnor, John at last joined to excuse her; and he made an arrangement with Mrs. Vawse instead that she should come and stay with Ellen at the parsonage till he came back. This gave Ellen great satisfaction; and her kind Ventnor friends were obliged unwillingly to leave her.

The first few days after John's departure were indeed sad days—very sad to every one; it could not be otherwise. Ellen drooped miserably. She had, however, the best possible companion in her old Swiss friend. Her good sense, her steady cheerfulness, her firm principle, were always awake for Ellen's good, ever ready to comfort her, to cheer her, to prevent her from giving undue way to sorrow, to urge her to useful exertion. Affection and gratitude, to the living and the dead, gave powerful aid to these efforts. Ellen rose up in the morning and lay down at night with the present pressing wish to do and be for the ease and comfort of her adopted father and brother all that it was possible for her. Very soon, so soon as she could rouse herself to anything, she began to turn over in her mind all manner of ways and means for this end. And in general, whatever Alice would have wished, what John did wish, was law to her.

"Margery," said Ellen one day, "I wish you would tell me all the things Alice used to do; so that I may begin to do them, you know, as soon as I can."

"What things, Miss Ellen?"

"I mean, the things she used to do about the house, or to help you, don't you know? all sorts of things. I want to know them all, so that I may do them as she did. I want to very much."

"Oh, Miss Ellen, dear," said Margery tearfully, "you are too little and tender to do them things; I'd be sorry to see you, indeed!"

"Why no, I am not, Margery," said Ellen; "don't you know how I used to do at Aunt Fortune's? Now tell me—please, dear Margery. If I can't do it, I won't, you know."

"Oh, Miss Ellen, she used to see to various things about the house; I don't know as I can tell 'em all directly; some was to help me; and some to please her father or Mr. John, if he was at home; she thought of every one before herself, sure enough."

"Well, what, Margery? what are they? Tell me all you can remember?"

"Why, Miss Ellen, for one thing, she used to go into the library every morning to put it in order, and dust the books and papers and things; in fact, she took the charge of that room entirely; I never went into it at all, unless once or twice in the year, or to wash the windows."

Ellen looked grave; she thought with herself there might be a difficulty in the way of her taking this part of Alice's daily duties; she did not feel that she had the freedom of the library.

"And then," said Margery, "she used to skim the cream for me, most mornings, when I'd be busy; and wash up the breakfast things."

"Oh, I forgot all about the breakfast things!" exclaimed Ellen, "how could I? I'll do them to be sure after this. I never thought of them, Margery. And I'll skim the cream too."

"Dear Miss Ellen, I wouldn't want you to; I didn't mention it for that, but you was wishing me tell you—I don't want you to trouble your dear little head about such work. It was more the thoughtfulness that cared about me than the help of all she could do, though that wasn't a little; I'll get along well enough!"

"But I should like to, it would make me happier; and don't you think I want to help you too, Margery?"

"The Lord bless you, Miss Ellen," said Margery, in a sort of desperation, setting down one iron and taking up another, "don't talk in that way or you'll upset me entirely. I ain't a bit better than a child," said she, her tears falling fast on the sheet she was hurriedly ironing.

"What else, dear Margery?" said Ellen presently. "Tell me what else?"

"Well, Miss Ellen," said Margery, dashing away the water from either eye, "she used to look over the clothes when they went up from the wash; and put them away; and mend them if there was any places wanted mending."

"I am afraid I don't know how to manage that," said Ellen, very gravely. "There is one thing I can do, I can darn stockings very nicely; but that's only one kind of mending. I don't know much about the other kinds."

"Ah well; but she did, however," said Margery, searching in her basket of clothes for some particular pieces. "A beautiful mender she was, to be sure! Look here, Miss Ellen, just see that patch—the way it is put on—so evenly by a thread all round; and the stitches, see—and see the way this rent is darned down; oh, that was the way she did everything!"

"I can't do it so," said Ellen, sighing, "but I can learn; that I can do. You will teach me, Margery, won't you?"

"Indeed, Miss Ellen, dear, it's more than I can myself; but I will tell you who will, and that's Mrs. Vawse. I am thinking it was her she learned of in the first place—but I ain't certain. Anyhow, she's a first-rate hand."

"Then I'll get her to teach me," said Ellen; "that will do very nicely. And now, Margery, what else?"

"Oh dear, Miss Ellen—I don't know—there was a thousand little things that I'd only recollect at the minute; she'd set the table for me when my hands was uncommon full; and often she'd come out and make some little thing for the master when I wouldn't have the time to do the same myself; and I can't tell—one can't think of those things but just at the minute. Dear Miss Ellen, I'd be sorry indeed to see you atrying your little hands to do all that she done."

"Never mind, Margery," said Ellen, and she threw her arms round the kind old woman as she spoke. "I won't trouble you—and you won't be troubled if I am awkward about anything at first, will you?"

Margery could only throw down her holder to return most affectionately as well as respectfully Ellen's caress, and press a very hearty kiss upon her forehead.

Ellen next went to Mrs. Vawse to beg her help in the mending and patching line. Her old friend was very glad to see her take up anything with interest, and readily agreed to do her best in the matter. So some old clothes were looked up; pieces of linen, cotton, and flannel gathered together; a large basket found to hold all these rags of shape and no shape; and for the next week or two Ellen was indefatigable. She would sit making vain endeavours to arrange a large linen patch properly, till her cheeks were burning with excitement; and bend over a darn, doing her best to make invisible stitches, till Mrs. Vawse was obliged to assure her it was quite unnecessary to take so much pains. Taking pains, however, is the sure way to success. Ellen could not rest satisfied till she had equalled Alice's patching and darning; and though, when Mrs. Vawse left her, she had not quite reached that point, she was bidding fair to do so in a little while.

In other things she was more at home. She could skim milk well enough, and immediately began to do it for Margery. She at once also took upon herself the care of the parlour cupboard and all the things in it, which she well knew had been Alice's office; and, thanks to Miss Fortune's training, even Margery was quite satisfied with her neat and orderly manner of doing it. Ellen begged her when the clothes came up from the wash, to show her where everything went, so that for the future she might be able to put them away; and she studied the shelves of the linen closet, and the chests of drawers in Mr. Humphreys' room, till she almost knew them by heart. As to the library, she dared not venture. She saw Mr. Humphreys at meals and at prayers—only then. He had never asked her to come into his study since the night she sang to him, and as for her asking—nothing could have been more impossible. Even when he was out of the house, out by the hour, Ellen never thought of going where she had not been expressly permitted to go.

When Mr. Van Brunt informed his wife of Ellen's purpose to desert her service and make her future home at the parsonage, the lady's astonishment was only less than her indignation, the latter not at all lessened by learning that Ellen was to become the adopted child of the house. For a while her words of displeasure were poured forth in a torrent; Mr. Van Brunt meantime saying very little, and standing by like a steadfast rock that the waves dash past, not upon. She declared that this was "the cap-sheaf of Miss Humphreys' doings; she might have been wise enough to have expected as much; she wouldn't have been such a fool if she had! This was what she had let Ellen go there for! a pretty return!" But she went on. "She wondered who they thought they had to deal with; did they think she was going to let Ellen go in that way? she had the first and only right to her; and Ellen had no more business to go and give herself away than one of her oxen; they would find it out, she guessed, pretty quick; Mr. John and all; she'd have her back in no time!" What were her thoughts and feelings, when, after having spent her breath, she found her husband quietly opposed to this conclusion, words cannot tell. Her words could not; she was absolutely dumb, till he had said his say; and then, appalled by the serenity of his manner, she left indignation on one side for the present and began to argue the matter. But Mr. Van Brunt coolly said he had promised; she might get as many helps as she liked, he would pay for them and welcome; but Ellen would have to stay where she was. He had promised Miss Alice; and he wouldn't break his word "for kings, lords, and commons." A most extraordinary expletive for a good Republican—which Mr. Van Brunt had probably inherited from his father and grandfather. What can waves do against a rock? The whilome Miss Fortune disdained a struggle which must end in her own confusion, and wisely kept her chagrin to herself, never even approaching the subject afterwards, with him or any other person. Ellen had left the whole matter to Mr. Van Brunt, expecting a storm and not wishing to share it. Happily it all blew over.

As the month drew to an end, and indeed long before, Ellen's thoughts began to go forward eagerly to John coming home. She had learned by this time how to mend clothes; she had grown somewhat wonted to her new round of little household duties; in everything else the want of him was felt. Study flagged; though knowing what his wish would be, and what her duty was, she faithfully tried to go on with it. She had no heart for riding or walking by herself. She was lonely; she was sorrowful; she was weary; all Mrs. Vawse's pleasant society was not worth the mere knowledge that he was in the house; she longed for his coming.

He had written what day they might expect him. But when it came Ellen found that her feeling had changed; it did not look the bright day she had expected it would. Up to that time she had thought only of herself; now she remembered what sort of a coming home this must be to him; and she dreaded almost as much as she wished for the moment of his arrival. Mrs. Vawse was surprised to see that her face was sadder that day than it had been for many past; she could not understand it. Ellen did not explain. It was late in the day before he reached home, and her anxious watch of hope and fear for the sound of his horse's feet grew very painful. She busied herself with setting the tea-table; it was all done; and she could by no means do anything else. She could not go to the door to listen there; she remembered too well the last time; and she knew he would remember it.

He came at last. Ellen's feelings had judged rightly of his, for the greeting was without a word on either side; and when he left the room to go to his father, it was very, very long before he came back. And it seemed to Ellen for several days that he was more grave and talked less than even the last time he had been at home. She was sorry when Mrs. Vawse proposed to leave them. But the old lady wisely said they would all feel better when she was gone; and it was so. Truly as she was respected and esteemed, on all sides, it was felt a relief by every one of the family when she went back to her mountain top. They were left to themselves; they saw what their numbers were; there was no restraint upon looks, words, or silence. Ellen saw at once that the gentlemen felt easier, that was enough to make her so. The extreme oppression that had grieved and disappointed her the first few days after John's return, gave place to a softened gravity; and the household fell again into all its old ways; only that upon every brow there was a chastened air of sorrow, in everything that was said a tone of remembrance, and that a little figure was going about where Alice's used to move as mistress of the house.

Thanks to her brother, that little figure was an exceeding busy one. She had in the first place, her household duties, in discharging which she was perfectly untiring. From the cream skimmed for Margery, and the cups of coffee poured out every morning for Mr. Humphreys and her brother, to the famous mending, which took up often one half of Saturday, whatever she did was done with her best diligence and care; and from love to both the dead and the living, Ellen's zeal never slackened. These things, however, filled but a small part of her time, let her be as particular as she would; and Mr. John effectually hindered her from being too particular. He soon found plenty for both her and himself to do.

Not that they ever forgot or tried to forget Alice; on the contrary. They sought to remember her, humbly, calmly, hopefully, thankfully. By diligent performance of duty, by Christian faith, by conversation and prayer, they strove to do this; and after a time succeeded. Sober that winter was, but it was very far from being an unhappy one.

"John," said Ellen one day, some time after Mrs. Vawse had left them, "do you think Mr. Humphreys would let me go into his study every day when he is out, to put it in order and dust the books?"

"Certainly. But why does not Margery do it?"

"She does, I believe, but she never used to; and I should like to do it very much if I was sure he would not dislike it. I would be careful not to disturb anything; I would leave everything just as I found it."

"You may go when you please, and do what you please there, Ellie."

"But I don't like to—I couldn't without speaking to him first; I should be afraid he would come back, and find me there, and he might think I hadn't had leave."

"And you wish me to speak to him, is that it? Cannot you muster resolution enough for that, Ellie?"

Ellen was satisfied, for she knew by his tone he would do what she wanted.

"Father," said John, the next morning at breakfast, "Ellen wishes to take upon herself the daily care of your study, but she is afraid to venture without being assured it will please you to see her there."

The old gentleman laid his hand affectionately on Ellen's head, and told her she was welcome to come and go when she would; the whole house was hers.

The grave kindness and tenderness of the tone and action spoiled Ellen's breakfast. She could not look at anybody, nor hold up her head for the rest of the time.

As Alice had anticipated, her brother was called to take charge of a church at Randolph, and at the same time another more distant was offered him. He refused them both, rightly judging that his place for the present was at home. But the call from Randolph being pressed upon him very much, he at length agreed to preach for them during the winter; riding thither for the purpose every Saturday, and returning to Carra-carra on Monday.

As the winter wore on, a grave cheerfulness stole over the household. Ellen little thought how much she had to do with it. She never heard Margery tell her husband, which she often did with great affection, "that that blessed child was the light of the house," and those who felt it the most said nothing. Ellen was sure, indeed, from the way in which Mr. Humphreys spoke to her, looked at her, now and then laid his hand on her head, and sometimes, very rarely, kissed her forehead, that he loved her and loved to see her about; and that her wish of supplying Alice's place was in some little measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks were, they said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from other people; the least of them gladdened her heart with the feeling that she was a comfort to him. But she never knew how much. Deep as the gloom still over him was, Ellen never dreamed how much deeper it would have been but for the little figure flitting round and filling up the vacancy; how much he reposed on the gentle look of affection, the pleasant voice, the watchful thoughtfulness that never left anything undone that she could do for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it himself. She was not sure he even noticed many of the little things she daily did or tried to do for him. Always silent and reserved, he was more so now than ever; she saw him little, and very seldom long at a time, unless when they were riding to church together; he was always in his study or abroad. But the trifles she thought he did not see were noted and registered, and repaid with all the affection he had to give.

As for Mr. John, it never came into Ellen's head to think whether she was a comfort to him; he was a comfort to her; she looked at it in quite another point of view. He had gone to his old sleeping-room upstairs, which Margery had settled with herself he would make his study; and for that he had taken the sitting-room. This was Ellen's study too, so she was constantly with him; and of the quietest she thought her movements would have to be.

"What are you stepping so softly for?" said he, one day catching her hand as she was passing near him.

"You were busy—I thought you were busy," said Ellen.

"And what then?"

"I was afraid of disturbing you."

"You never disturb me," said he; "you need not fear it. Step as you please, and do not shut the doors carefully. I see you and hear you, but without any disturbance."

Ellen found it was so. But she was an exception to the general rule; other people disturbed him, as she had one or two occasions of knowing.

Of one thing she was perfectly sure, whatever he might be doing, that he saw and heard her; and equally sure that if anything were not right she should sooner or later hear of it. But this was a censorship Ellen rather loved than feared. In the first place, she was never misunderstood; in the second, however ironical and severe he might be to others, and Ellen knew he could be both when there was occasion, he never was either to her. With great plainness always, but with an equally happy choice of time and manner, he either said or looked what he wished her to understand. This happened indeed only about comparative trifles; to have seriously displeased him, Ellen would have thought the last great evil that could fall upon her in this world.

One day Margery came into the room with a paper in her hand.

"Miss Ellen," said she in a low tone, "here is Anthony Fox again—he has brought another of his curious letters that he wants to know if Miss Ellen will be so good as to write out for him once more. He says he is ashamed to trouble you so much."

Ellen was reading, comfortably ensconced in the corner of the wide sofa. She gave a glance, a most ungratified one, at the very original document in Margery's hand. Unpromising it certainly looked.

"Another! Dear me! I wonder if there isn't somebody else he could get to do it for him, Margery? I think I have had my share. You don't know what a piece of work it is to copy out one of those scrawls. It takes me ever so long in the first place to find what he has written, and then to put it so that any one else can make sense of it—I've got about enough of it. Don't you suppose he could find plenty of other people to do it for him?"

"I don't know, Miss Ellen, I suppose he could."

"Then ask him, do; won't you, Margery? I'm so tired of it! and this is the third one; and I've got something else to do. Ask him if there isn't somebody else he can get to do it; if there isn't, I will; tell him I am busy."

Margery withdrew, and Ellen buried herself again in her book. Anthony Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a letter Ellen had once offered to write out and make straight for him, upon hearing Margery tell of his lamenting that he could not make one fit to send home to his mother.

Presently Margery came in again, stopping this time at the table which Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room to get away from the fire.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "I am ashamed to be so troublesome, but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has begged me, and I didn't know how to refuse him, to come in and ask for a sheet of paper and a pen for him, sir, he wants to copy a letter, if Mr. John would be so good; a quill pen, sir, if you please; he cannot write with any other."

"No," said John coolly. "Ellen will do it."

Margery looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but Ellen instantly rose up and with a burning cheek came forward and took the paper from the hand where Margery still held it.

"Ask him to wait a little while, Margery," she said hurriedly. "I'll do it as soon as I can, tell him in half-an-hour."

It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it patiently, and finished it well by the end of the half-hour, though with a burning cheek still; and a dimness over her eyes frequently obliged her to stop till she could clear them. It was done, and she carried it out to the kitchen herself.

The poor man's thanks were very warm; but that was not what Ellen wanted. She could not rest until she had got another word from her brother. He was busy; she dared not speak to him; she sat fidgeting and uneasy in the corner of the sofa till it was time to get ready for riding. She had plenty of time to make up her mind about the right and the wrong of her own conduct.

During the ride he was just as usual, and she began to think he did not mean to say anything more on the matter. Pleasant talk and pleasant exercise had almost driven it out of her head, when, as they were walking their horses over a level place, he suddenly began—

"By-the-bye, you are too busy, Ellie," said he. "Which of your studies shall we cut off?"

"Please, Mr. John," said Ellen, blushing, "don't say anything about that! I was not studying at all—I was just amusing myself with a book—I was only selfish and lazy."

"Only—I would rather you were too busy, Ellie."

Ellen's eyes filled.

"I was wrong," she said, "I knew it at the time, at least as soon as you spoke I knew it, and a little before; I was very wrong!"

And his keen eye saw that the confession was not out of compliment to him merely; it came from the heart.

"You are right now," he said, smiling. "But how are your reins?"

Ellen's heart was at rest again.

"Oh! I forgot them," said she gaily, "I was thinking of something else."

"You must not talk when you are riding, unless you can contrive to manage two things at once; and no more lose command of your horse than you would of yourself."

Ellen's eye met his with all the contrition, affection, and ingenuousness that even he wished to see there; and they put their horses to the canter.

This winter was in many ways a very precious one to Ellen. French gave her now no trouble; she was a clever arithmetician; she knew geography admirably; and was tolerably at home in both English and American history; the way was cleared for the course of improvement in which her brother's hand led and helped her. He put her into Latin; carried on the study of natural philosophy they had begun the year before, and which with his instructions was perfectly delightful to Ellen; he gave her some works of stronger reading than she had yet tried, beside histories in French and English, and higher branches of arithmetic. These things were not crowded together so as to fatigue, nor hurried through so as to overload. Carefully and thoroughly she was obliged to put her mind through every subject they entered upon; and just at that age, opening as her understanding was, it grappled eagerly with all that he gave her, as well from love to learning as from love to him. In reading, too, she began to take new and strong delight. Especially two or three new English periodicals, which John sent for on purpose for her, were mines of pleasure to Ellen. There was no fiction in them either; they were as full of instruction as of interest. At all times of the day and night, in her intervals of business, Ellen might be seen with one of these in her hand; nestled among the cushions of the sofa, or on a little bench by the side of the fireplace in the twilight, where she could have the benefit of the blaze, which she loved to read by as well as ever. Sorrowful remembrances were then flown, all things present were out of view, and Ellen's face was dreamingly happy.

It was well there was always somebody by who, whatever he might himself be doing, never lost sight of her. If ever Ellen was in danger of bending too long over her studies or indulging herself too much in the sofa-corner, she was sure to be broken off to take an hour or two of smart exercise, riding or walking, or to recite some lesson (and their recitations were very lively things), or to read aloud or to talk. Sometimes, if he saw that she seemed to be drooping or a little sad, he would come and sit down by her side, or call her to his, find out what she was thinking about, and then, instead of slurring it over, talk of it fairly and set it before her in such a light that it was impossible to think of it again gloomily, for that day at least. Sometimes he took other ways, but never when he was present allowed her long to look weary or sorrowful. He often read to her, and every day made her read aloud to him. This Ellen disliked very much at first, and ended with as much liking it. She had an admirable teacher. He taught her how to manage her voice and how to manage the language, in both which he excelled himself, and was determined that she should; and besides this, their reading often led to talking that Ellen delighted in. Always when he was making copies for her she read to him, and once, at any rate, in the course of the day.

Every day when the weather would permit, the Black Prince and the Brownie with their respective riders might be seen abroad in the country far and wide. In the course of their rides Ellen's horsemanship was diligently perfected. Very often their turning-place was on the top of the Cat's Back, and the horses had a rest and Mrs. Vawse a visit before they went down again. They had long walks, too, by hill and dale; pleasantly silent or pleasantly talkative, all pleasant to Ellen!

Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to Randolph. It began early Saturday morning, and perhaps ended with Sunday night, for all Monday was hope and expectation. Even Saturday she had not much time to mope; that was the day for her great week's mending. When John was gone and her morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her work-basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet day's sewing, without the lest fear of interruption. But sewing did not always hinder thinking. And then certainly the room did seem very empty, and very still; and the clock, which she never heard the rest of the week, kept ticking an ungracious reminder that she was alone. Ellen would sometimes forget it in the intense interest of some nice little piece of repair which must be exquisitely done in a wristband or a glove; and then perhaps Margery would softly open the door and come in.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you're lonesome enough; isn't there something I can do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your being here all by yourself."

"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, smiling, "I am doing very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here, Margery. How will that do? Don't you think I am learning to mend?"

"It's beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can't make out how you've learned so quick. I'll tell Mr. John some time who does these things for him."

"No indeed, Margery, don't you. Please not, Margery. I like to do it very much indeed, but I don't want he should know it, nor Mr. Humphreys. Now you won't, Margery, will you?"

"Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as would be worrisome to you for the whole world. Aren't you tired sitting here all alone?"

"Oh, sometimes, a little," said Ellen, sighing. "I can't help that, you know."

"I feel it even out there in the kitchen," said Margery; "I feel it lonesome hearing the house so still; I miss the want of Mr. John's step up and down the room. How fond he is of walking so, to be sure! How do you manage, Miss Ellen, with him making his study here? Don't you have to keep uncommon quiet?"

"No," said Ellen; "no quieter than I like. I do just as I have a mind to."

"I thought, to be sure," said Margery, "he would have taken upstairs for his study, or the next room, one or t'other; he used to be mighty particular in old times; he didn't like to have anybody round when he was busy. But I am glad he is altered, however; it is better for you, Miss Ellen, dear, though I didn't know how you was ever going to make out at first."

Ellen thought for a minute, when Margery was gone, whether it could be that John was putting a force upon his liking for her sake, bearing her presence when he would rather have been without it. But she thought of it only a minute; she was sure, when she recollected herself, that however it happened, she was no hindrance to him in any kind of work; that she went out and came in, and as he had said, he saw and heard her without any disturbance. Besides, he had said so, and that was enough.

Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in her books. But when Sunday morning came with its calmness and brightness; when the business of the week was put away, and quietness abroad and at home invited to recollection, then Ellen's thoughts went back to old times, and then she missed the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with the day. She missed her in the morning when the early sun streamed in through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast-table, where John was not to take her place. On the ride to church, where Mr. Humphreys was now her silent companion, and every tree on the road and every opening in the landscape seemed to call Alice to see it with her. Very much she missed her in church. The empty seat beside her, the unused hymn-book on the shelf, the want of her sweet voice in the singing, oh, how it went to Ellen's heart. And Mr. Humphreys' grave, steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind; she saw it was in his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were bitterly sad; her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they could unseen. Time softened this feeling.

While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the village beyond, Ellen stayed at Carra-carra, and tried to teach a Sunday-school. She determined as far as she could to supply beyond the home circle the loss that was not felt only there. She was able, however, to gather together but her own four children whom she had constantly taught from the beginning, and two others. The rest were scattered. After her lunch, which, having no companion but Margery, was now a short one, Ellen went next to the two old women that Alice had been accustomed to attend for the purpose of reading, and what Ellen called preaching. These poor old people had sadly lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place they never expected to see supplied in this world, and whose kindness had constantly sweetened their lives with one great pleasure a week. Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon herself, as to try to do for them what Alice had done; however, she resolved; and at the very first attempt their gratitude and joy far overpaid her for the effort she had made. Practice and the motive she had soon enabled Ellen to remember and repeat faithfully the greater part of Mr. Humphreys' morning sermon. Reading the Bible to Mrs. Blockson was easy; she had often done that; and to repair the loss of Alice's pleasant comments and explanations she bethought her of her 'Pilgrim's Progress.' To her delight the old woman heard it greedily, and seemed to take great comfort in it; often referring to what Ellen had read before, and begging to hear such a piece over again. Ellen generally went home pretty thoroughly tired, yet feeling happy; the pleasure of doing good still far overbalanced the pains.

Sunday evening was another lonely time; Ellen spent it as best she could. Sometimes with her Bible and prayer, and then she ceased to be lonely; sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts that had sprung up out of the employments of the morning that she could not be sorrowful; sometimes she could not help being both. In any case, she was very apt when the darkness fell to take to singing hymns; and it grew to be a habit with Mr. Humphreys when he heard her to come out of his study and lie down upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room but that of the fire. Ellen never was better pleased than when her Sunday evenings were spent so. She sang with wonderful pleasure when she sang for him; and she made it her business to fill her memory with all the beautiful hymns she ever knew or could find, or that he liked particularly.

With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came the thought, "John will be at home to-day!" That was enough to carry Ellen pleasantly through whatever the day might bring. She generally kept her mending of stockings for Monday morning, because with that thought in head she did not mind anything. She had no visits from Margery on Monday; but Ellen sang over her work, sprang about with happy energy, and studied the hardest; for John in what he expected her to do made no calculations for work of which he knew nothing. He was never at home till late in the day; and when Ellen had done all she had to do, and set the supper-table with punctilious care, and a face of busy happiness, it would have been a pleasure to see, if there had been any one to look at it, she would take what happened to be the favourite book and plant herself near the glass door; like a very epicure, to enjoy both the present and the future at once. Even then the present often made her forget the future; she would be lost in her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India or fighting Nelson's battles over again, and the first news she would have of what she had set herself there to watch for would be the click of the door-lock or a tap on the glass, for the horse was almost always left at the further door. Back then she came, from India or the Nile; down went the book; Ellen had no more thought but for what was before her.

For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative or a thoughtful mood; whether he spoke to her and looked at her or not; it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there. She was perfectly satisfied merely to sit down near him, though she did not get a word by the hour together.



CHAPTER XLV

Ne in all the welkin was no cloud.

—CHAUCER.

One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen thought so, and standing near, she by-and-by put her hand gently into one of his, which he was thoughtfully passing through the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and, quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had been doing that day? Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and a long rent in her dress; she merely answered, smiling, that she had been busy.

"Too busy, I'm afraid. Come round here and sit down. What have you been busy about?"

Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She coloured and hesitated. He did not press it any further.

"Mr. John," said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in again, "there is something I have been wanting to ask you this great while——"

"Why hasn't it been asked this great while?"

"I didn't quite like to. I didn't know what you would say to it."

"I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie!"

"Why, you are not!" said Ellen, laughing; "how you talk! But I don't much like to ask people things."

"I don't know about that," said he, smiling; "my memory rather seems to say that you ask things pretty often."

"Ah yes—those things; but I mean I don't like to ask things when I am not quite sure how people will take it."

"You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful in such a matter; but it is best not to be doubtful when I am concerned."

"Well," said Ellen, "I wish very much—I was going to ask—if you would have any objection to let me read one of your sermons?"

"None in the world, Ellie," said he, smiling; "but they have never been written yet."

"Not written!"

"No; there is all I had to guide me yesterday."

"A half sheet of paper! and only written on one side! Oh, I can make nothing of this. What is this? Hebrew?"

"Shorthand."

"And is that all? I cannot understand it," said Ellen, sighing as she gave back the paper.

"What if you were to go with me next time? They want to see you very much at Ventnor."

"So do I want to see them," said Ellen; "very much indeed."

"Mrs. Marshman sent a most earnest request by me that you would come to her the next time I go to Randolph."

Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration, if one might judge by her face.

"What do you say to it?"

"I should like to go—very much," said Ellen slowly; "but——"

"But you do not think it would be pleasant?"

"No, no," said Ellen, laughing, "I don't mean that; but I think I would rather not."

"Why?"

"Oh, I have some reasons."

"You must give me very good ones, or I think I shall overrule your decision, Ellie."

"I have very good ones—plenty of them—only——"

A glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen's hesitation.

"I have indeed," said she, laughing, "only I did not want to tell you. The reason why I didn't wish to go was because I thought I should be missed. You don't know how much I miss you," said she, with tears in her eyes.

"That is what I was afraid of. Your reasons make against you, Ellie."

"I hope not. I don't think they ought."

"But, Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you once or twice than have you want what would be good for you."

"I know that! I am sure of that! but that don't alter my feeling, you know. And besides—that isn't all."

"Who else will miss you?"

Ellen's quick look seemed to say that he knew too much already, and that she did not wish him to know more. He did not repeat the question, but Ellen felt that her secret was no longer entirely her own.

"And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely?" he went on presently.

Ellen's eyes watered at the tone in which these words were spoken; she answered, "Different things."

"The best remedy for it is prayer. In seeking the face of our best Friend we forget the loss of others. That is what I try, Ellie, when I feel alone. Do you try it?" said he softly.

Ellen looked up; she could not well speak at that moment.

"There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who said, 'he that cometh to Me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst.'"

"It troubles me," said he, after a pause, "to leave you so much alone. I don't know that it were not best to take you with me every week."

"Oh no!" said Ellen; "don't think of me. I don't mind it indeed. I do not always feel so—sometimes, but I get along very well; and I would rather stay here, indeed I would. I am always happy as soon as Monday morning comes."

He rose up suddenly and began to walk up and down the room.

"Mr. John——"

"What, Ellie?"

"I do sometimes seek His face very much when I cannot find it."

She hid her face in the sofa cushion. He was silent a few minutes, and then stopped his walk.

"There is something wrong then with you, Ellie," he said gently. "How has it been through the week? If you can let day after day pass without remembering your best Friend, it may be that when you feel the want you will not readily find Him. How is it daily, Ellie? is seeking His face your first concern? do you give a sufficient time faithfully to your Bible and prayer?"

Ellen shook her head; no words were possible. He took up his walk again. The silence had lasted a length of time, and he was still walking when Ellen came to his side and laid her hand on his arm.

"Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie?"

She weepingly answered yes. They walked a few turns up and down.

"Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be possible, you will give an hour at least to this business—whatever else may be done or undone?"

Ellen promised; and then with her hand in his they continued their walk through the room till Mr. Humphreys and the servants came in. Her brother's prayer that night Ellen never forgot.

No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor; but a week or two after, John smilingly told her to get all her private affairs arranged and to let her friends know they need not expect to see her the next Sunday, for that he was going to take her with him. As she saw he had made up his mind, Ellen said nothing in the way of objecting; and now that the decision was taken from her was really very glad to go. She arranged everything, as he had said, and was ready Saturday morning to set off with a very light heart.

They went in the sleigh. In a happy quiet mood of mind, Ellen enjoyed everything exceedingly. She had not been to Ventnor in several months; the change of scene was very grateful. She could not help thinking, as they slid along smoothly and swiftly over the hard-frozen snow, that it was a good deal pleasanter, for once, than sitting alone in the parlour at home with her work-basket. Those days of solitary duty, however, had prepared her for the pleasure of this one; Ellen knew that, and was ready to be thankful for everything. Throughout the whole way, whether the eye and mind silently indulged in roving, or still better loved talk interrupted, as it often did, Ellen was in a state of most unmixed and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the slightest reason to doubt the correctness of his judgment in bringing her. He went in but a moment at Ventnor, and leaving her there, proceeded himself to Randolph.

Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken the greatest care of and enjoyed as much as possible while one has it. Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she had been their own child. Ellen Chauncey overwhelmed her with joyful caresses, and could scarcely let her out of her arms by night or by day. She was more than ever Mr. Marshman's pet; but indeed she was well petted by all the family. It was a very happy visit.

Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy not only Mrs. Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her brother (for his church was not the one the family attended), but the carriage was ordered in the afternoon also; and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter and Miss Sophia went with her again. When they returned Miss Sophia, who had taken a very great fancy to her, brought her into her own room and made her lie down with her upon the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not tired.

"Well, you ought to be, if you are not," said the lady. "I am. Keep away, Ellen Chauncey, you can't be anywhere without talking. You can live without Ellen for half-an hour, can't ye? Leave us a little while in quiet."

Ellen for her part was quite willing to be quiet. But Miss Sophia was not sleepy, and it soon appeared had no intention of being silent herself.

"Well, how do you like your brother in the pulpit?" she began.

"I like him anywhere, ma'am," said Ellen, with a very unequivocal smile.

"I thought he would have come here with you last night! it is very mean of him! He never comes near us; he always goes to some wretched little lodging or place in the town there—always; never so much as looks at Ventnor, unless sometimes he may stop for a minute at the door."

"He said he would come here to-night," said Ellen.

"Amazing condescending of him! However, he isn't like anybody else; I suppose we must not judge him by common rules. How is Mr. Humphreys, Ellen?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen, "it is hard to tell; he doesn't say much. I think he is rather more cheerful—if anything—than I expected he would be."

"And how do you get along there, poor child! with only two such grave people about you?"

"I get along very well, ma'am," said Ellen, with what Miss Sophia thought a somewhat curious smile.

"I believe you will grow to be as sober as the rest of them," said she. "How does Mr. John behave?"

Ellen turned so indubitably curious a look upon her at this that Miss Sophia half laughed and went on.

"Mr. Humphreys was not always as silent and reserved as he is now; I remember him when he was different; though I don't think he ever was much like his son. Did you ever hear about it?"

"About what, ma'am?"

"Oh, about coming to this country; what brought him to Carra-carra?"

"No, ma'am."

"My father, you see, had come out long before, but the two families had been always very intimate in England, and it was kept up after he came away. He was a particular friend of an elder brother of Mr. Humphreys; his estate and my grandfather's lay very near each other; and besides, there were other things that drew them to each other; he married my aunt, for one. My father made several journeys back and forth in the course of years, and so kept up his attachment to the whole family, you know; and he became very desirous to get Mr. Humphreys over here—this Mr. Humphreys, you know. He was the younger brother—younger brothers in England generally have little or nothing; but you don't know anything about that, Ellen. He hadn't anything then but his living, and that was a small one; he had some property left him though, just before he came to America."

"But, Miss Sophia"—Ellen hesitated—"are you sure they would like I should hear all this?"

"Why, yes, child!—of course they would; everybody knows it. Some things made Mr. Humphreys as willing to leave England about that time as my father was to have him. An excellent situation was offered him in one of the best institutions here, and he came out. That's about—let me see—I was just twelve years old and Alice was one year younger. She and I were just like sisters always from that time. We lived near together, and saw each other every day, and our two families were just like one. But they were liked by everybody. Mrs. Humphreys was a very fine person—very; oh very! I never saw any woman I admired more. Her death almost killed her husband; and I think Alice—I don't know—there isn't the least sign of delicate health about Mr. Humphreys nor Mr. John—not the slightest—nor about Mrs. Humphreys either. She was a very fine woman!"

"How long ago did she die?" said Ellen.

"Five—six, seven—seven years ago. Mr. John had been left in England till a little before. Mr. Humphreys was never the same after that. He wouldn't hold his professorship any longer; he couldn't bear society; he just went and buried himself at Carra-carra. That was a little after we came here."

How much all this interested Ellen! She was glad however when Miss Sophia seemed to have talked herself out, for she wanted very much to think over John's sermon. And as Miss Sophia happily fell into a doze soon after, she had a long quiet time for it, till it grew dark, and Ellen Chauncey, whose impatience could hold no longer, came to seek her.

John came in the evening. Ellen's patience and politeness were severely tried in the course of it; for while she longed exceedingly to hear what her brother and the older members of the family were talking about—animated, delightful conversation she was sure—Ellen Chauncey detained her in another part of the room; and for a good part of the evening she had to bridle her impatience, and attend to what she did not care about. She did it, and Ellen Chauncey did not suspect it; and at last she found means to draw both her and herself near the larger group. But they seemed to have got through what they were talking about; there was a lull. Ellen waited; and hoped they would begin again.

"You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John," said Miss Sophia.

He bowed gravely.

"Did you know whom you had among your auditors? the —— and —— were there;" naming some distinguished strangers in the neighbourhood.

"I think I saw them."

"You 'think' you did! Is that an excess of pride or an excess of modesty? Now, do be a reasonable creature, and confess that you are not insensible to the pleasure and honour of addressing such an audience!"

Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt for an instant in his face, instantly succeeded by a smile.

"Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old woman that sat at the foot of the pulpit stairs."

"That old thing!" said Miss Sophia.

"I saw her," said Mrs. Chauncey; "poor old creature! she seemed most deeply attentive when I looked at her."

"I saw her," cried Ellen Chauncey, "and the tears were running down her cheeks several times."

"I didn't see her," said Ellen Montgomery, as John's eye met hers. He smiled.

"But do you mean to say," continued Miss Sophia, "that you are absolutely careless as to who hears you?"

"I have always one hearer, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity, that it sinks the rest into great insignificance."

"That is a rebuke," said Miss Sophia; "but nevertheless I shall tell you that I liked you very much this afternoon."

He was silent.

"I suppose you will tell me next," said the young lady, laughing, "that you are sorry to hear me say so."

"I am," said he gravely.

"Why, may I ask?"

"You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at least as one of my hearers was concerned."

"How do you know that?"

"Do you remember what Louis the Fourteenth said to Massillon?—Mon père, j'ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma chapelle; j'en ai été fort content, pour vous, toutes les fois que je vous ai entendu, j'ai été très mécontent de moi-même!"

Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for an instant.

"Then you really mean to be understood, that provided you fail of your aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people think of you?"

"As I would take a bankrupt's promissory note in lieu of told gold. It gives me small gratification, Miss Sophia—very small indeed—to see the bowing head of the grain that yet my sickle cannot reach."

"I agree with you most heartily," said Mr. George Marshman. The conversation dropped; and the two gentlemen began another in an undertone, pacing up and down the floor together.

The next morning, not sorrowfully, Ellen entered the sleigh again and they set off homewards.

"What a sober little piece that is," said Mr. Howard.

"Oh! sober!" cried Ellen Chauncey. "That is because you don't know her, Uncle Howard. She is the cheerfullest, happiest girl that I ever saw always."

"Except Ellen Chauncey—always," said her uncle.

"She is a singular child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "She is grave certainly, but she don't look moped at all, and I should think she would be, to death."

"There's not a bit of moping about her," said Miss Sophia. "She can laugh and smile as well as anybody; though she has sometimes that peculiar grave look of the eyes that would make a stranger doubt it. I think John Humphreys has infected her; he has something of the same look himself."

"I am not sure whether it is the eyes or the mouth, Sophia," said Mr. Howard.

"It is both," said Miss Sophia. "Did you ever see the eyes look one way and the mouth another?"

"And besides," said Ellen Chauncey, "she has reason to look sober, I am sure."

"She is a fascinating child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "I cannot comprehend where she gets the manner she has. I never saw a more perfectly polite child; and there she has been for months with nobody to speak to her but two gentlemen and the servants. It is natural to her, I suppose; she can have nobody to teach her."

"I am not so sure as to that," said Miss Sophia; "but I have noticed the same thing often. Did you observe her last night, Matilda, when John Humphreys came in? you were talking to her at the moment; I saw her, before the door was opened, I saw the colour come and her eyes sparkle, but she did not look towards him for an instant, till you had finished what you were saying to her, and she had given, as she always does, her modest quiet answer; and then her eye went straight as an arrow to where he was standing."

"And yet," said Mrs. Chauncey, "she never moved towards him when you did, but stayed quietly on that side of the room with the young ones till he came round to them, and it was some time too."

"She is an odd child," said Miss Sophia, laughing; "what do you think she said to me yesterday? I was talking to her and getting rather communicative on the subject of my neighbours' affairs; and she asked me gravely—the little monkey—if I was sure they would like her to hear it? I felt quite rebuked; though I didn't choose to let her know as much."

"I wish Mr. John would bring her every week," said Ellen Chauncey, sighing; "it would be so pleasant to have her."

Towards the end of the winter Mr. Humphreys began to propose that his son should visit England and Scotland during the following summer. He wished him to see his family and to know his native country, as well as some of the most distinguished men and institutions in both kingdoms. Mr. George Marshman also urged upon him some business in which he thought he could be eminently useful. But Mr. John declined both propositions, still thinking he had more important duties at home. This only cloud that rose above Ellen's horizon, scattered away.

One evening, it was a Monday, in the twilight, John was as usual pacing up and down the floor. Ellen was reading in the window.

"Too late for you, Ellie."

"Yes," said Ellen, "I know—I will stop in two minutes."

But in a quarter of that time she had lost every thought of stopping, and knew no longer that it was growing dusk. Somebody else, however, had not forgotten it. The two minutes were not ended, when a hand came between her and the page and quietly drew the book away.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Ellen, starting up. "I entirely forgot all about it!"

He did not look displeased; he was smiling. He drew her arm within his.

"Come and walk with me. Have you had any exercise to-day?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I had a good deal to do, and I had fixed myself so nicely on the sofa with my books; and it looked cold and disagreeable out of doors."

"Since when have you ceased to be a fixture?"

"What! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "how shall I ever get rid of that troublesome word? What shall I say? I had arranged myself, established myself, so nicely on the sofa."

"And did you think that a sufficient reason for not going out?"

"No," said Ellen, "I did not; and I did not decide that I would not go; and yet I let it keep me at home after all; just as I did about reading a few minutes ago. I meant to stop, but I forgot, and I should have gone on I don't know how long if you had not stopped me. I very often do so."

He paused a minute and then said—

"You must not do so any more, Ellie."

The tone, in which there was a great deal both of love and decision, wound round Ellen's heart, and constrained her to answer immediately—