"I will not—I will not."

"Never parley with conscience; it's a dangerous habit."

"But then—it was only——"

"About trifles; I grant you; but the habit is no trifle. There will not be a just firmness of mind and steadfastness of action, where tampering with duty is permitted even in little things."

"I will try not to do it," Ellen repeated.

"No," said he, smiling, "let it stand as at first. 'I will not,' means something; 'I will try,' is very apt to come to nothing. 'I will keep thy precepts with my whole heart!' not 'I will try.' Your reliance is precisely the same in either case."

"I will not, John," said Ellen, smiling.

"What were you poring over so intently a while ago?"

"It was an old magazine—Blackwood's Magazine, I believe, is the name of it. I found two great piles of them in a closet upstairs the other day; and I brought this one down."

"This is the first that you have read?"

"Yes; I got very much interested in a curious story there; why?"

"What will you say, Ellie, if I ask you to leave the rest of the two piles unopened?"

"Why, I will say that I will do it, of course," said Ellen, with a little smothered sigh of regret, however; "if you wish it."

"I do wish it, Ellie."

"Very well, I'll let them alone then. I have enough other reading; I don't know how I happened to take that one up; because I saw it there, I suppose."

"Have you finished Nelson yet?"

"Oh yes! I finished it Saturday night. Oh, I like it very much? I am going all over it again, though. I like Nelson very much; don't you?"

"Yes; as well as I can like a man of very fine qualities without principle."

"Was he that?" said Ellen.

"Yes; did you not find it out? I am afraid your eyes were blinded by admiration."

"Were they?" said Ellen. "I thought he was so very fine in everything; and I should be sorry to think he was not."

"Look over the book again by all means, with a more critical eye; and when you have done so you shall give me your cool estimate of his character."

"Oh, me?" said Ellen. "Well, but I don't know whether I can give you a cool estimate of him; however, I'll try. I cannot think coolly of him now, just after Trafalgar. I think it was a shame that Collingwood did not anchor as Nelson told him to; don't you? I think he might have been obeyed while he was living, at least."

"It is difficult," said John, smiling, "to judge correctly of many actions without having been on the spot and in the circumstances of the actors. I believe you and I must leave the question of Trafalgar to more nautical heads."

"How pleasant this moonlight is!" said Ellen.

"What makes it pleasant?"

"What makes it pleasant! I don't know! I never thought of such a thing. It is made to be pleasant. I can't tell why; can anybody?"

"The eye loves light for many reasons, but all kinds of light are not equally agreeable. What makes the peculiar charm of those long streams of pale light across the floor? and the shadowy brightness without?"

"You must tell," said Ellen; "I cannot."

"You know we enjoy anything much more by contrast; I think that is one reason. Night is the reign of darkness which we do not love; and here is light struggling with the darkness, not enough to overcome it entirely, but yet banishing it to nooks and corners and distant parts, by the side of which it shows itself in contrasted beauty. Our eyes bless the unwonted victory."

"Yes," said Ellen, "we only have moonlight nights once in a while."

"But that is only one reason out of many, and not the greatest. It is a very refined pleasure, and to resolve it into its elements is something like trying to divide one of these same white rays of light into the many various coloured ones that go to form it; and not by any means so easy a task."

"Then it is no wonder I couldn't answer," said Ellen.

"No, you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie."

"The moonlight is so calm and quiet," Ellen observed admiringly.

"And why is it calm and quiet? I must have an answer to that."

"Because we are generally calm and quiet at such times!" Ellen ventured after a little thought.

"Precisely! we and the world. And association has given the moon herself the same character. Besides that her mild sober light is not fitted for the purposes of active employment, and therefore the more graciously invites us to the pleasures of thought and fancy."

"I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it," said Ellen.

"And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the pleasure we have, not only in moonlight, but in most other things. When two things have been in the mind together, and made any impression, the mind associates them; and you cannot see or think of the one without bringing back the remembrance or the feeling of the other. If we have enjoyed the moonlight in pleasant scenes, in happy hours, with friends that we loved—though the sight of it may not always make us directly remember them, it yet brings with it a waft from the feeling of the old times, sweet as long as life lasts!"

"And sorrowful things may be associated too?" said Ellen.

"Yes, and sorrowful things. But this power of association is the cause of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my mother used to sing—I cannot hear it now without being carried swiftly back to my boyish days, to the very spirit of the time; I feel myself spring over the green sward as I did then."

"Oh, I know that is true," said Ellen. "The camellia, the white camellia, you know, I like it so much ever since what you said about it one day. I never see it without thinking of it; and it would not seem half so beautiful but for that."

"What did I say about it?"

"Don't you remember? you said it was like what you ought to be, and what you should be if you ever reached heaven; and you repeated that verse in the Revelation about 'those that have not defiled their garments.' I always think of it. It seems to give me a lesson."

"How eloquent of beautiful lessons all nature would be to us," said John musingly, "if we had but the eye and ear to take them in."

"And in that way you would heap associations upon associations?"

"Yes; till our storehouse of pleasure was very full."

"You do that now," said Ellen. "I wish you would teach me."

"I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of flowers you are so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you?"

"I don't know—I only think of themselves, except sometimes they make me think of Alice."

"You know from any works we may form some judgment of the mind and character of their author?"

"From their writings, I know you can," said Ellen; "from what other works?"

"From any which are not mechanical; from any in which the mind, not the hand, has been the creating power. I saw you very much interested the other day in the Eddystone lighthouse; did it help you to form no opinion of Mr. Smeaton?"

"Why, yes, certainly," said Ellen, "I admired him exceedingly for his cleverness and perseverance; but what other works? I can't think of any."

"There is the lighthouse, that is one thing. What do you think of the ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it?"

Ellen half shuddered. "I shouldn't like to go to sea, John! But you were speaking of men's works and women's works?"

"Well, women's works; I cannot help forming some notion of a lady's mind and character from the way she dresses herself."

"Can you? do you?"

"I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a lady's dress that she never dreams of; the style of her thoughts among others."

"It is a pity ladies didn't know that," said Ellen, laughing; "they would be very careful."

"It wouldn't mend the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things in which people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so it will show itself."

"But we have got a great way from the flowers," said Ellen.

"You shall bring me some to-morrow, Ellie, and we will read them together."

"There are plenty over there now," said Ellen, looking towards the little flower-stand, which was as full and as flourishing as ever, "but we can't see them well by this light."

"A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that made them. They are the work of His fingers; and I cannot consider them without being joyfully assured of the glory and loveliness of their Creator. It is written as plainly to me in their delicate painting and sweet breath and curious structure, as in the very pages of the Bible; though no doubt without the Bible I could not read the flowers."

"I never thought much of that," said Ellen. "And then you find particular lessons in particular flowers?"

"Sometimes."

"Oh, come here!" said Ellen, pulling him towards the flower-stand, "and tell me what this daphne is like—you need not see that, only smell it, that's enough; do, John, and tell me what it is like!"

He smiled as he complied with her request, and walked away again.

"Well, what is it?" said Ellen; "I know you have thought of something."

"It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes leaves upon the spirit; when it is just what it ought to be."

"My Mr. Marshman!" exclaimed Ellen.

John smiled again. "I thought of him, Ellie. And I thought also of Cowper's lines—

"'When one who holds communion with the skies, Has filled his urn where those pure waters rise, Descends and dwells among us meaner things, It is as if an angel shook his wings!'"

Ellie was silent a moment from pleasure.

"Well, I have got an association now with the daphne!" she said joyously; and presently added, sighing, "How much you see in everything that I do not see at all."

"Time, Ellie," said John; "there must be time for that. It will come. Time is cried out upon as a great thief; it is people's own fault. Use him but well, and you will get from his hand more than he will ever take from you."

Ellen's thoughts travelled on a little way from this speech, and then came a sigh, of some burden, as it seemed; and her face was softly laid against the arm she held.

"Let us leave all that to God," said John gently.

Ellen started. "How did you know—how could you know what I was thinking of?"

"Perhaps my thoughts took the same road," said he, smiling. "But, Ellie, dear, let us look to that one source of happiness that can never be dried up; it is not safe to count upon anything else."

"It is not wonderful," said Ellen in a tremulous voice, "if I——"

"It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up to God as our Father, who rejoice in Christ our Saviour, we are happy, whatever beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust Him, and never doubt that, Ellie."

"But still——" said Ellen.

"But still, we will hope and pray alike in that matter. And while we do, and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave ourselves in our Father's hand. The joy of the knowledge of Christ! the joy the world cannot intermeddle with, the peace it cannot take away! Let us make that our own, Ellie; and for the rest put away all anxious care about what we cannot control."

Ellen's hand, however, did not just then lie quite so lightly on his arm as it did a few minutes ago; he could feel that; and could see the glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight as they fell. The hand was fondly taken in his; and as they slowly paced up and down, he went on in low tones of kindness and cheerfulness with his pleasant talk, till she was too happy in the present to be anxious about the future; looked up again and brightly into his face, and questions and answers came as gaily as ever.



CHAPTER XLVI

Who knows what may happen? Patience and shuffle the cards!... Perhaps after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back St. Peter.

—LONGFELLOW.

The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, passed happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more to belong to the former than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest; April and May brought warm days and wild flowers. Ellen refreshed herself and adorned the room with quantities of them; and as soon as might be she set about restoring the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening; he provided her with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted to be done for her, supplied her with new plants, and seeds, and roots, and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or press of business that called for it. But for the most part Ellen hoed, and raked, and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked or read; often giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and always coming in between her and any difficult or heavy job. The hours thus spent were to Ellen hours of unmixed delight. When he did not choose to go himself he sent Thomas with her, as the garden was some little distance down the mountain, away from the house and from everybody; he never allowed her to go there alone.

As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is always happening most years," about the middle of May there came letters that after all determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr. Humphreys; it required the personal attendance either of himself or his son; he could not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side the Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all the ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it; this would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably more. And he must set off without delay.

In the midst, not of his hurry, for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be in a hurry about anything; but in the midst of his business, he took special care of everything that concerned or could possibly concern Ellen. He arranged what books she could read, what studies she could carry on; and directed that about these matters as well as about all others she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter. He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked him for most of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring as he well knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in view of his long absence. The memory of those hours never went from her.

The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one of them during all the time John should be gone; they urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish it; and finally compounded the matter by arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up; and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstasies. And it was further promised that the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could well be brought about.

Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she had behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult for her to behave well at all. That was a comfort from him, whose notions of unexceptionable behaviour she knew were remarkably high. But the parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter; though softened as much as it could be at the time and rendered very sweet to Ellen's memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness, with which her brother without checking soothed her grief. He was to go early in the morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before; but he was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he told her it was very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of her room and there bade her good-night.

How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were unspeakably long.

Not a week after, one morning Nancy Vawse came into the kitchen, and asked in her blunt fashion—

"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"

"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery dryly.

"I want to speak to her."

Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.

"Miss Ellen, dear," she said softly, "here is that Nancy girl wanting to speak with you—will you please to see her?"

Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in, by no means displeased to have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she could not banish. She received Nancy very kindly.

"Well, I declare, Ellen!" said that young lady, whose wandering eye was upon everything but Ellen herself, "ain't you as fine as a fiddle? I guess you never touch your fingers to a file nowadays, do you?"

"A file!" said Ellen.

"You ha'n't forgot what it means, I suppose," said Nancy, somewhat scornfully, "'cause if you think I'm agoing to swallow that, you're mistaken. I've seen you file off tables down yonder a few times, ha'n't I?"

"Oh, I remember now," said Ellen, smiling; "it is so long since I heard the word that I didn't know what you meant. Margery calls it a dish-cloth, or a floor-cloth, or something else."

"Well, you don't touch one nowadays, do you?"

"No," said Ellen, "I have other things to do."

"Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now, for once, ha'n't you? What a lot! I say, Ellen, have you got to read all these?"

"I hope so, in time," said Ellen, smiling. "Why haven't you been to see me before?"

"Oh, I don't know!" said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a little as if she felt herself out of her sphere. "I didn't know as you would care to see me now."

"I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as glad to see you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness to me when Aunt Fortune was sick."

"You've forgotten all that went before that, I s'pose," said Nancy, with a half laugh. "You beat all! Most folks remember and forget just t'other way exactly. But besides, I didn't know but I should catch myself in queer company."

"Well, I am all alone now," said Ellen, with a sigh.

"Yes, if you warn't I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What do you think I have come for to-day, Ellen?"

"For anything but to see me?"

Nancy nodded very decisively.

"What?"

"Guess."

"How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your apron there?"

"Ah! that's the very thing," said Nancy. "What have I got, sure enough?"

"Well, I can't tell through your apron," said Ellen, smiling.

"And I can't tell either; that's more, ain't it. Now listen, and I'll tell you where I got it, and then you may find out what it is, for I don't know. Promise me you won't tell anybody."

"I don't like to promise that, Nancy."

"Why?"

"Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody about."

"But it ain't."

"If it isn't I won't tell. Can't you leave it so?"

"But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just for you, and now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would it do you to promise? it's nobody's business but yours and mine, and somebody else's that won't make any talk about it, I promise you."

"I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought; can't you trust me?"

"I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say so," said Nancy; "but as you're as stiff as the mischief, I s'pose I'll have to let it go. I'll trust you! Now listen. It don't look like anything, does it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, laughing; "you hold your apron so loose that I cannot see anything."

"Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your aunt's—did you?"

"No."

"Well, I have, these six weeks. You never see anything go on quieter than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune never was so good in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly as ever, you know, but she has to keep it in. All I have to do if I think anything is going wrong, I just let her think I am going to speak to him about it; only I have to do it very cunning for fear she should guess what I am up to; and the next thing I know it's all straight. He is about the coolest shaver," said Nancy, "I ever did see. The way he walks through her notions once in a while—not very often, mind you, but when he takes a fancy—it's fun to see! Oh, I can get along there first-rate, now. You'd have a royal time, Ellen."

"Well, Nancy—your story?"

"Don't you be in a hurry! I am going to take my time. Well, I've been there this six weeks; doing all sorts of things, you know, taking your place, Ellen; don't you wish you was back in it? Well, a couple of weeks since Mrs. Van took it into her head she would have up the waggon and go to Thirlwall to get herself some things; a queer start for her; but at any rate Van Brunt brought up the waggon, and in she got and off they went. Now she meant, you must know, that I should be fast in the cellar-kitchen all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given me enough to keep me busy there; but I was up to her! I was as spry as a cricket, and flew round, and got things put up; and then I thought I'd have some fun. What do you think I did? Mrs. Montgomery was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How Van Brunt looks out for her, Ellen; he won't let her be put out for anything or anybody."

"I am glad of it," said Ellen, her face flushing and her eyes watering; "it is just like him. I love him for it."

"The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great rate because she hadn't you to read to her; and what do you think he does but goes and takes the book and sits down and reads to her himself. You should have seen Mrs. Van's face!"

"What book?" said Ellen.

"What book?—why, your book—the Bible. There ain't any other book in the house as I know. What on earth are you crying for, Ellen? He's fetched over his mother's old Bible, and there it lays on a shelf in the cupboard; and he has it out every once in a while. Maybe he's coming round, Ellen. But do hold up your head and listen to me! I can't talk to you while you lie with your head in the cushion like that. I ha'n't more than begun my story yet."

"Well, go on," said Ellen.

"You see, I ain't in any hurry," said Nancy, "because as soon as I've finished I shall have to be off; and it's fun to talk to you. What do you think I did when I had done up all my chores?—where do you think I found this, eh? you'd never guess."

"What is it?" said Ellen.

"No matter what it is; I don't know; where do you think I found it?"

"How can I tell? I don't know."

"You'll be angry with me when I tell you."

Ellen was silent.

"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot afore I'd ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't like anybody else. Look here!" said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger and slowly marking off each word, "this—came out of—your—aunt's—box—in—the closet upstairs—in—her room."

"Nancy!"

"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look. 'Twon't alter it, Ellen; that's where it was, if you look till tea-time."

"But how came you there?"

"'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it."

"Oh, Nancy!"

"Well, I don't say it was right, but anyhow I did it; you ha'n't heard what I found yet."

"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have a chance."

"Put it back again!—I'll give it to you, and then you may put it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you! Why, you don't know what I found."

"Well, what did you find?"

"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a mind to see what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the other till I got to the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and papers, and there—staring right in my face—the first thing I see was, 'Miss Ellen Montgomery.'"

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen, "a letter for me?"

"Hush!—and sit down, will you?—yes, a whole package of letters for you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that anyhow, and she ain't agoing to take the care of it any more; so I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any more for you, but there warn't. There it is."

And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam.

"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; "I may go now, I suppose, and no thanks to me."

"Yes, I do—I do thank you very much, Nancy," cried Ellen, starting up and taking her by the hand—"I do thank you, though it wasn't right; but oh, how could she! how could she!"

"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do anything. Why she did it, ain't so easy to tell."

Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only felt, that Nancy had gone. The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father's hand, the third to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction; she threw it down and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings; thankfulness, tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present; that letter was not thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when she had fairly begun it, she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly, to the end.

"MY DEAR, DEAR LITTLE ELLEN,—I am scarcely able—but I must write to you once more. Once more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!

"Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never spoke to you of her. After your Aunt Bessy married and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who had always been her favourite child, should leave her for an American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all that entreaties and authority could urge, she said she forgave me for destroying all her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and gone she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to her after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did not deserve it.

"But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in the further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left is done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have you as entirely her own, in all respects; and to this, in consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will lead, I am willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you on the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper persons going to Scotland who will be willing to take charge of you. Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say, help you in this.

"To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot——"

The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter had evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic and repair to No.—George Street, Edinburgh; and that Miss Fortune would give her the money she would need, which he had written to her to do, and that the accompanying letter Ellen was to carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother.

Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, gazed at the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling interest for her, wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open it, or whether it would ever be opened; and finally in a perfect maze, unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the bed, and them beside her; and fell into a deep sleep.

She woke up towards evening with the pressure of a mountain weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze still; and not Mr. Humphreys himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many points were to be settled—so many questions answered to herself—it was a good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do.

She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject—she would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But must she obey them?

"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen; "I have promised Mr. Humphreys—I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, my grandmother! she cannot be nice or she wouldn't have treated my mother so. She cannot be a nice person; hard, she must be hard; I never want to see her. My mother! But then my mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to her. Oh! oh! how could she! how could they do so! when they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then they did not know, that is the very thing—they thought I would have nobody but Aunt Fortune, and so it's no wonder—Oh, what shall I do! What ought I to do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's, let me see—it's just about three years now, a little less, since these letters were written, and circumstances are changed; I have a home and a father and a brother; may I not judge for myself? But my mother and my father have ordered me, what shall I do! If John were only here—but perhaps he would make me go, he might think it right. And to leave him, and maybe never to see him again! and Mr. Humphreys! and how lonely he would be without me. I cannot! I will not! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for she could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could not get rid of the feeling that perhaps it might come to that. She wept bitterly; it didn't mend the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully, long; and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the matter to Mr. Humphreys; she feared his decision; and she feared also that he would give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for the journey; how much it might be Ellen had no idea. She could not dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked her with the fifth commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred to her at last to take counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done she knew without betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was no help for that. So it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of care for that time; she had leisure to think of some other things.

Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of its being sent Captain Montgomery's movements were extremely uncertain; and in obedience to the earnest request of his wife he directed that without waiting for his own return Ellen should immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he sent; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious doubts of ever being repaid; she instantly determined that if she had once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter on a wild-goose chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it; it was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy found them.

Early next morning after breakfast Ellen came into the kitchen, and begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery gave the message, and added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away.

The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, who had dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone; there was old John saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in waiting.

"It's not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas," said Ellen; "I don't mind going alone at all."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen (Thomas touched his hat)—but Mr. John left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen whenever it pleased her to ride; never failing."

"Did he?" said Ellen; "but is it convenient for you now, Thomas? I want to go as far as Mrs. Vawse's."

"It's always convenient, Miss Ellen, always; Miss Ellen need not think of that at all, I am always ready."

Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the hand that used to lift her to the saddle; and, spurred by this recollection, set off at a round pace.

Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse's; and soon finding her alone, Ellen had spread out all her difficulties before her and given her the letters to read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak on the subject to no one without Ellen's leave; her suspicions fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her grand-daughter. She heard all the story, and read the letters before making any remark.

"Now, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen anxiously, when the last one was folded up and laid on the table, "what do you think?"

"I think, my child, you must go," said the old lady steadily.

Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her face; her own changing more and more for a minute till she sunk it in her hands.

"Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin, je le vois bien," said the old lady tenderly. (Their conversations were always in Mrs. Vawse's tongue.)

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

"That can be obtained without any difficulty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nay, Ellen, that is not right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"

"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen's look answered that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He will be back," said Ellen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What that I said, my child?"

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

"About what, my dear child?"

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XLVII

Speed. Item. She is proud.

Laun. Out with that;—it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her.

—SHAKESPEARE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A very large family?"

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

"Mr. Lindsay—that is the son?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Ellen took none of his giving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was called from her window to supper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was profoundly true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But why, sir?"

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

"You are not in earnest, uncle?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, sir?"

"These notions?"

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

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

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

"What have you read on this subject?"

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

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

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

"What Annual Register?"

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

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

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

"No, but about other things?"

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

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

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

"How was that?"

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

"What else had you to do?"

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

"Come, come! answer me."

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

Ellen heard Lady Keith's look in her "could you have conceived it?"

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

"Have you never been to school, Ellen?"

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

"Would you like it?"

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

"What do you know now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I do, sir."

"Where did you get that?"

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

"Country riding and Swiss French," muttered her uncle.

"Did she teach you to speak it?"

"Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

"My brother."

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

Ellen coloured and was silent.

"You know nothing of music, of course?"

"I cannot play, uncle."

"Can you sing?"

"I can sing hymns."

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

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

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

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

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

"Absurd," said Lady Keith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded. "Whom do you mean by that?"

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

"How was she so kind to you?"

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

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

"No, sir."

"This brother?"

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

"Who then?"

"His name was Mr. Van Brunt."

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

"He was a farmer, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where, Ellen?"

"At the other house, sir."

"What house is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What is the matter, Ellen?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XLVIII

Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.

—LONGFELLOW.

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

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

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

"What would you like to see in Edinburgh?"

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

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

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

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

"That? that is Holyrood House."

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

"Yes; would you like to see them?"

"Oh very much!"

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

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

"Ellen!"

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

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

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

"What silver cross?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"Queen Mary, sir."

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

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

"Perhaps you would like to see the regalia."

"The what, sir?"

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

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

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

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

"I don't know anything about the Popes," said Ellen. "James Fourth?—I forget what kind of a king he was."

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

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

"Why 'poor man,' Ellen? He was a very royal prince. Why do you say 'poor man'?"

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

"Didn't know any better than what?"

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

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

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

"What is the way?"

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

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

Mr. Lindsay said no more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go on," said Mr. Lindsay.

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

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

"Oh yes, sir."

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

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

"Go on till I tell you to stop."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellen smiled.

"Eh?" said Mr. Lindsay.

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

"Why do you prefer Washington?"

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

"Very well, think, and answer me."

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

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

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

"Humph! I am not quite sure as to either of your positions."

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

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

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

"Your reasons, my little reasoner?" asked Mr. Lindsay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir, I do! but I like the civilised times best."

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

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

"And you do not now?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is an excellent remark."

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

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

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

She liked the looks of it very much. Plenty of books, old-looking comfortable furniture, pleasant light; all manner of et ceteras around, which rejoiced Ellen's heart. Mr. Lindsay noticed her pleased glance passing from one thing to another. He placed her in a deep easy-chair, took off her bonnet and threw it on the sofa, and kissing her fondly, asked her if she felt at home.

"Not yet," Ellen said; but her look said it would not take long to make her do so. She sat enjoying her rest, and munching her biscuit with great appetite and satisfaction, when Mr. Lindsay poured her out a glass of sweet wine.

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

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

"I do not wish any, sir."

"Don't you like it?"

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

"No! Taste it and see."

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

"Taste it, Ellen!"

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

"Well?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, sir?"

"How do you like it?"

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

"Very," Ellen said.

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

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

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

He left the room.

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

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