There Mr. Lindsay found her a couple of hours afterwards under the guard of the housekeeper.

"I cam in, sir," she said, whispering; "it's mair than an hour back, and she's been sleeping just like a baby ever syne; she hasna stirred a finger. Oh, Mr. Lindsay, it's a bonny bairn, and a gude. What a blessing to the house!"

"You're about right there, I believe, Maggie; but how have you learned it so fast?"

"I canna be mista'en, Mr. George; I ken it as weel as if we had had a year auld acquentance; I ken it by thae sweet mouth and een, and by the look she gied me when you tauld her, sir, I had been in the house near as long's yoursel. And look at her eenow. There's heaven's peace within, I'm a'maist assured."

The kiss that wakened Ellen found her in the midst of a dream. She thought that John was a king of Scotland, and standing before her in regal attire. She offered him, she thought, a glass of wine, but raising the sword of state, silver scabbard and all, he with a tremendous swing of it dashed the glass out of her hands; and then as she stood abashed, he went forward with one of his old grave kind looks to kiss her. As the kiss touched her lips Ellen opened her eyes to find her brother transformed into Mr. Lindsay, and the empty glass standing safe and sound upon the table.

"You must have had a pleasant nap," said Mr. Lindsay, "you wake up smiling. Come, make haste, I have left a friend in the carriage. Bring your book along if you want it."

The presence of the stranger, who was going down to spend a day or two at "The Braes," prevented Ellen from having any talking to do. Comfortably placed in the corner of the front seat of the barouche, leaning on the elbow of the carriage, she was left to her own musings. She could hardly realise the change in her circumstances. The carriage rolling fast and smoothly on—the two gentlemen opposite to her, one her father—the strange, varied, beautiful scenes they were flitting by; the long shadows made by the descending sun; the cool evening air; Ellen, leaning back in the wide easy seat, felt as if she were in a dream. It was singularly pleasant; she could not help but enjoy it all very much; and yet it seemed to her as if she were caught in a net from which she had no power to get free, and she longed to clasp that hand that could, she thought, draw her whence and whither it pleased. "But Mr. Lindsay opposite? I have called him my father; I have given myself to him," she thought; "but I gave myself to somebody else first; I can't undo that, and I never will!" Again she tried to quiet and resign the care of herself to better wisdom and greater strength than her own. "This may all be arranged, easily, in some way I could never dream of," she said to herself; "I have no business to be uneasy. Two months ago, and I was quietly at home, and seemed to be fixed there for ever; and now, without anything extraordinary happening, here I am, just as fixed. Yes, and before that at Aunt Fortune's it didn't seem possible that I could ever get away from being her child, and yet how easily all that was managed. And just so in some way that I cannot imagine, things may open so as to let me out smoothly from this." She resolved to be patient, and take thankfully what she at present had to enjoy; and in this mood of mind the drive home was beautiful; and the evening was happily absorbed in the history of Scotland.

It was a grave question in the family that same evening whether Ellen should be sent to school. Lady Keith was decided in favour of it; her mother seemed doubtful; Mr. Lindsay, who had a vision of the little figure lying asleep on his library sofa, thought the room had never looked so cheerful before, and had near made up his mind that she should be its constant adornment the coming winter. Lady Keith urged the school plan.

"Not a boarding-school," said Mrs. Lindsay; "I will not hear of that."

"No, but a day-school; it would do her a vast deal of good, I am certain; her notions want shaking up very much. And I never saw a child of her age so much a child."

"I assure you I never saw one so much a woman. She has asked me to-day, I suppose," said he, smiling, "a hundred questions or less; and I assure you there was not one foolish or vain one among them; not one that was not sensible, and most of them singularly so."

"She was greatly pleased with her day," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I never saw such a baby-face in my life," said Lady Keith, "in a child of her years."

"It is a face of uncommon intelligence," said her brother.

"It is both," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I was struck with it the other day," said Lady Keith—"the day she slept so long upon the sofa upstairs after she was dressed; she had been crying about something, and her eyelashes were wet still, and she had that curious grave innocent look you only see in infants; you might have thought she was fourteen months, instead of fourteen years, old; fourteen and a half she says she is."

"Crying!" said Mr. Lindsay; "what was the matter?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Lindsay, "but that she had been obliged to submit to me in something that did not please her."

"Did she give you any cause of displeasure?"

"No, though I can see she has strong passions. But she is the first child I ever saw that I think I could not get angry with."

"Mother's heart half misgave her, I believe," said Lady Keith, laughing; "she sat there looking at her for an hour."

"She seems to be perfectly gentle and submissive," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, but don't trust too much to appearances," said his sister. "If she is not a true Lindsay after all, I am mistaken. Did you see her colour once or twice this morning, when something was said that did not please her?"

"You can judge nothing from that," said Mr. Lindsay; "she colours at everything. You should have seen her to-day when I told her I would take her to Bannockburn."

"Ah! she has got the right side of you; you will be able to discern no faults in her presently."

"She has used no arts for it, sister; she is a straightforward little hussy, and that is one thing I like about her, though I was as near as possible being provoked with her once or twice to-day. There is only one thing I wish was altered;—she has her head filled with strange notions—absurd for a child of her age; I don't know what to do to get rid of them."

After some more conversation, it was decided that school would be the best thing for this end, and half decided that Ellen should go.

But this half decision Mr. Lindsay found it very difficult to keep to, and circumstances soon destroyed it entirely. Company was constantly coming and going at "The Braes," and much of it of a kind that Ellen exceedingly liked to see and hear; intelligent, cultivated, well-informed people, whose conversation was highly agreeable and always useful to her. Ellen had nothing to do with the talking, so she made good use of her ears.

One evening Mr. Lindsay, a M. Villars, and M. Muller, a Swiss gentleman and a noted man of science, very much at home in Mr. Lindsay's house, were carrying on, in French, a conversation in which the two foreigners took part against their host. M. Villars began with talking about Lafayette; from him they went to the American Revolution and Washington, from them to other patriots and other republics, ancient and modern—MM. Villars and Muller taking the side of freedom, and pressing Mr. Lindsay hard with argument, authority, example, and historical testimony. Ellen as usual was fast by his side, and delighted to see that he could by no means make good his ground. The ladies at the other end of the room would several times have drawn her away, but happily for her, and also as usual, Mr. Lindsay's arm was around her shoulders, and she was left in quiet to listen. The conversation was very lively, and on a subject very interesting to her; for America had been always a darling theme; Scottish struggles for freedom were fresh in her mind; her attention had long ago been called to Switzerland and its history by Alice and Mrs. Vawse, and French history had formed a good part of her last winter's reading. She listened with the most eager delight, too much engrossed to notice the good-humoured glances that were every now and then given her by one of the speakers. Not Mr. Lindsay; though his hand was upon her shoulder or playing with the light curls that fell over her temples, he did not see that her face was flushed with interest, or notice the quick smile and sparkle of the eye that followed every turn in the conversation that favoured her wishes or foiled his—it was M. Muller. They came to the Swiss, and their famous struggle for freedom against Austrian oppression. M. Muller wished to speak of the noted battle in which that freedom was made sure, but for the moment its name had escaped him.

"Par ma foi," said M. Villars, "il m'a entièrement passé!"

Mr. Lindsay could not or would not help him out. But M. Muller suddenly turned to Ellen, in whose face he thought he saw a look of intelligence, and begged of her the missing name.

"Est-ce Morgarten, monsieur?" said Ellen, blushing.

"Morgarten! c'est ça!" said he with a polite, pleased bow of thanks. Mr. Lindsay was little less astonished than the Duke of Argyle when his gardener claimed to be the owner of a Latin work on mathematics.

The conversation presently took a new turn with M. Villars; and M. Muller withdrawing from it addressed himself to Ellen. He was a pleasant-looking elderly gentleman; she had never seen him before that evening.

"You know French well, then?" said he, speaking to her in that tongue.

"I don't know, sir," said Ellen modestly.

"And you have heard of the Swiss mountaineers?"

"Oh yes, sir; a great deal."

He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an exquisite little painting, asking her if she knew what it was.

"It is an Alpine châlet, is it not, sir?"

He was pleased, and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen that Switzerland was his country; and drawing a little aside from the other talkers, he entered into a long and, to her, most delightful conversation. In the pleasantest manner, he gave her a vast deal of very entertaining detail about the country and the manners and the habits of the people of the Alps, especially in the Tyrol, where he had often travelled. It would have been hard to tell whether the child had most pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and science most pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He saw, he said, that she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and asked if she had ever heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese peasant who led on his brethren in their noble endeavours to rid themselves of French and Bavarian oppression. Ellen had never heard of him.

"You know William Tell?"

"Oh yes," Ellen said, she knew him.

"And Bonaparte?"

"Yes, very well."

He went on then to give her in a very interesting way the history of Hofer; how when Napoleon made over his country to the rule of the King of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose in mass; overcame army after army that was sent against them in their mountain fastnesses, and freed themselves from the hated Bavarian government; how, years after, Napoleon was at last too strong for them; Hofer and his companions defeated, hunted like wild beasts, shot down like them; how Hofer was at last betrayed by a friend, taken, and executed, being only seen to weep at parting with his family. The beautiful story was well told, and the speaker was animated by the eager, deep attention and sympathy of his auditor, whose changing colour, smiles, and even tears, showed how well she entered into the feelings of the patriots in their struggle, triumph, and downfall; till, as he finished, she was left full of pity for them and hatred of Napoleon. They talked of the Alps again. M. Muller put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a little painting in mosaic to show her, which he said had been given him that day. It was a beautiful piece of pietra dura work—Mont Blanc. He assured her the mountain often looked exactly so. Ellen admired it very much. It was meant to be set for a brooch or some such thing, he said, and he asked if she would keep it and sometimes wear it, to "remember the Swiss, and to do him a pleasure."

"Moi, monsieur!" said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and pleasure, "je suis bien obligée, mais, monsieur, je ne saurais vous remercier!"

He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch of her lips.

"Tenez, monsieur!" said Ellen, blushing, but smiling, and tendering back the mosaic.

He laughed and bowed and begged her pardon, and said she must keep it to assure him she had forgiven him; and then he asked by what name he might remember her.

"Monsieur, je m'appelle Ellen M——"

She stopped short in utter and blank uncertainty what to call herself; Montgomery she dared not; Lindsay stuck in her throat.

"Have you forgotten it?" said M. Muller, amused at her look, "or is it a secret?"

"Tell M. Muller your name, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, turning round from a group where he was standing at a little distance. The tone was stern and displeased. Ellen felt it keenly, and with difficulty, and some hesitation still, murmured—"Ellen Lindsay."

"Lindsay? Are you the daughter of my friend Mr. Lindsay?"

Again Ellen hesitated, in great doubt how to answer, but finally, not without starting tears, said—

"Oui, monsieur."

"Your memory is bad to-night," said Mr. Lindsay in her ear; "you had better go where you can refresh it."

Ellen took this as a hint to leave the room, which she did immediately, not a little hurt at the displeasure she did not think she had deserved; she loved Mr. Lindsay the best of all her relations, and really loved him. She went to bed and to sleep again that night with wet eyelashes.

Meanwhile, M. Muller was gratifying Mr. Lindsay in a high degree by the praises he bestowed upon his daughter, her intelligence, her manners, her modesty, and her French. He asked if she was to be in Edinburgh that winter, and whether she would be at school; and Mr. Lindsay declaring himself undecided on the latter point, M. Muller said he should be pleased, if she had leisure, to have her come to his rooms two or three times a week to read with him. This offer, from a person of M. Muller's standing and studious habits, Mr. Lindsay justly took as both a great compliment and a great promise of advantage to Ellen. He at once, and with much pleasure, accepted it. So the question of school was settled.

Ellen resolved the next morning to lose no time in making up her difference with Mr. Lindsay, and schooled herself to use a form of words that she thought would please him. Pride said indeed, "Do no such thing; don't go to making acknowledgments when you have not been in the wrong; you are not bound to humble yourself before unjust displeasure." Pride pleaded powerfully. But neither Ellen's heart nor her conscience would permit her to take this advice. "He loves me very much," she thought, "and perhaps he did not understand me last night; and besides, I owe him—yes, I do!—a child's obedience now. I ought not to leave him displeased with me a moment longer than I can help. And besides, I couldn't be happy so. God gives grace to the humble. I will humble myself."

To have a chance for executing this determination she went downstairs a good deal earlier than usual; she knew Mr. Lindsay was generally there before the rest of the family, and she hoped to see him alone. It was too soon even for him, however; the rooms were empty. So Ellen took her book from the table, and being perfectly at peace with herself, sat down in the window and was presently lost in the interest of what she was reading. She did not know of Mr. Lindsay's approach till a little imperative tap on her shoulder startled her.

"What were you thinking of last night? what made you answer M. Muller in the way you did?"

Ellen started up, but to utter her prepared speech was no longer possible.

"I did not know what to say," she said, looking down.

"What do you mean by that?" said he angrily. "Didn't you know what I wished you to say?"

"Yes—but—do not speak to me in that way!" exclaimed Ellen, covering her face with her hands. Pride struggled to keep back the tears that wanted to flow.

"I shall choose my own method of speaking. Why did you not say what you knew I wished you to say?"

"I was afraid—I didn't know—but he would think what wasn't true."

"That is precisely what I wish him and all the world to think. I will have no difference made, Ellen, either by them or you. Now lift up your head and listen to me," said he, taking both her hands. "I lay my commands upon you, whenever the like questions may be asked again, that you answer simply according to what I have told you, without any explanation or addition. It is true, and if people draw conclusions that are not true, it is what I wish. Do you understand me?" Ellen bowed.

"Will you obey me?" She answered again in the same mute way.

He ceased to hold her at arm's length, and sitting down in her chair drew her close to him, saying more kindly—

"You must not displease me, Ellen."

"I had no thought of displeasing you, sir," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "and I was very sorry for it last night. I did not mean to disobey you—I only hesitated——"

"Hesitate no more. My commands may serve to remove the cause of it. You are my daughter, Ellen, and I am your father. Poor child!" said he, for Ellen was violently agitated, "I don't believe I shall have much difficulty with you."

"If you will only not speak and look at me so," said Ellen; "it makes me very unhappy——"

"Hush!" said he, kissing her; "do not give me occasion."

"I did not give you occasion, sir."

"Why, Ellen!" said Mr. Lindsay, half displeased again, "I shall begin to think your Aunt Keith is right, that you are a true Lindsay. But so am I, and I will have only obedience from you—without either answering or argument."

"You shall," murmured Ellen. "But do not be displeased with me, father."

Ellen had schooled herself to say that word; she knew it would greatly please him; and she was not mistaken; though it was spoken so low that his ears could but just catch it. Displeasure was entirely overcome. He pressed her to his heart, kissing her with great tenderness, and would not let her go from his arms till he had seen her smile again; and during all the day he was not willing to have her out of his sight.

It would have been easy that morning for Ellen to have made a breach between them that would not readily have been healed. One word of humility had prevented it all, and fastened her more firmly than ever in Mr. Lindsay's affection. She met with nothing from him but tokens of great and tender fondness; and Lady Keith told her mother apart that there would be no doing anything with George; she saw he was getting bewitched with that child.



CHAPTER XLIX

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell. My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh hey! for somebody! I wad do—what wad I not, For the sake of somebody.

—SCOTCH SONG.

In a few weeks they moved to Edinburgh, where arrangements were speedily made for giving Ellen every means of improvement that masters and mistresses, books and instruments, could afford.

The house in George Street was large and pleasant. To Ellen's great joy a pretty little room opening from the first landing-place of the private staircase was assigned for her special use as a study and work-room; and fitted up nicely for her with a small book-case, a practising piano, and various et ceteras. Here her beloved desk took its place on a table in the middle of the floor, where Ellen thought she would make many a new drawing when she was by herself. Her work-box was accommodated with a smaller stand near the window. A glass door at one end of the room opened upon a small iron balcony; this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a very particular treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she arranged and arranged her little sanctum till she had all things to her mind, and it only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. "I will have that, too, some of these days," she said to herself; and resolved to deserve her pretty room by being very busy there. It was hers alone, open indeed to her friends when they chose to keep her company; but lessons were taken elsewhere; in the library or the music-room, or more frequently her grandmother's dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs. Lindsay or Lady Keith was always present.

Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole family. Not so much, however, Lady Keith's plaything as her pride; while pride had a less share in the affection of the other two, or rather perhaps was more overtopped by it. Ellen felt, however, that all their hearts were set upon her: felt it gratefully, and determined she would give them all the pleasure she possibly could. Her love for other friends, friends that they knew nothing of, American friends, was, she knew, the sore point with them; she resolved not to speak of those friends, nor allude to them, especially in any way that would show how much of her heart was out of Scotland. But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor Ellen to keep. She was unaccustomed to concealments; and in ways that she could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome truth would come up, and the sore was not healed.

One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone, and quietly stretched on her bed, very naturally Ellen's thoughts went back to the last time she had had a headache, at home, as she always called it to herself. She recalled with a straitened heart the gentle and tender manner of John's care for her; how nicely he had placed her on the sofa; how he sat by her side bathing her temples, or laying his cool hand on her forehead, and once, she remembered, his lips. "I wonder," thought Ellen, "what I ever did to make him love me so much, as I know he does?" She remembered how, when she was able to listen, he still sat beside her, talking such sweet words of kindness and comfort and amusement, that she almost loved to be sick to have such tending, and looked up at him as at an angel. She felt it all over again. Unfortunately, after she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see how she was, and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not rest till she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to tell, she did her best to get off from it, but she did not know how to evade questions; and those that were put to her indeed admitted of no evasion.

A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was remarked one morning at breakfast that Ellen was very straight and carried herself well.

"It is no thanks to me," said Ellen, smiling, "they never would let me hold myself ill."

"Who is 'they'?" said Lady Keith.

"My brother and sister."

"I wish, George," said Lady Keith, discontentedly, "that you would lay your commands upon Ellen to use that form of expression no more. My ears are absolutely sick of it."

"You do not hear it very often, Aunt Keith," Ellen could not help saying.

"Quite often enough; and I know it is upon your lips a thousand times when you do not speak it."

"And if Ellen does, we do not," said Mrs. Lindsay, "wish to claim kindred with all the world."

"How came you to take up such an absurd habit?" said Lady Keith. "It isn't like you."

"They took it up first," said Ellen; "I was too glad——"

"Yes, I daresay they had their reasons for taking it up," said her aunt; "they had acted from interested motives, no doubt; people always do."

"You are very much mistaken, Aunt Keith," said Ellen, with uncontrollable feeling; "you do not in the least know what you are talking about!"

Instantly Mr. Lindsay's fingers tapped her lips. Ellen coloured painfully, but after an instant's hesitation she said—

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Keith, I should not have said that."

"Very well," said Mr. Lindsay. "But understand, Ellen, however you may have taken it up—this habit—you will lay it down for the future. Let us hear no more of brothers and sisters. I cannot, as your grandmother says, fraternise with all the world, especially with unknown relations."

"I am very glad you have made that regulation," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I cannot conceive how Ellen has got such a way of it," said Lady Keith.

"It is very natural," said Ellen, with some huskiness of voice, "that I should say so, because I feel so."

"You do not mean to say," said Mr. Lindsay, "that this Mr. and Miss somebody—these people—I don't know their names——"

"There is only one now, sir."

"This person you call your brother—do you mean to say you have the same regard for him as if he had been born so?"

"No," said Ellen, cheek and eye suddenly firing, "but a thousand times more!"

She was exceedingly sorry the next minute after she had said this! for she knew it had given both pain and displeasure in a great degree. No answer was made. Ellen dared not look at anybody, and needed not; she wished the silence might be broken; but nothing was heard except a low "whew!" from Mr. Lindsay, till he rose up and left the room. Ellen was sure he was very much displeased. Even the ladies were too much offended to speak on the subject; and she was merely bade to go to her room. She went there, and sitting down on the floor, covered her face with her hands. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" she said to herself. "I never shall govern this tongue of mine. Oh, I wish I had not said that! they never will forgive it. What can I do to make them pleased with me again? Shall I go to my father's study and beg him—but I can't ask him to forgive me—I haven't done wrong—I can't unsay what I said. I can do nothing. I can only go in the way of my duty and do the best I can—and maybe they will come round again. But, oh, dear!"

A flood of tears followed this resolution.

Ellen kept it; she tried to be blameless in all her work and behaviour, but she sorrowfully felt that her friends did not forgive her. There was a cool air of displeasure about all they said and did; the hand of fondness was not laid upon her shoulder, she was not wrapped in loving arms, as she used to be a dozen times a day; no kisses fell on her brow or lips. Ellen felt it, more from Mr. Lindsay than both the others; her spirits sank; she had been forbidden to speak of her absent friends, but that was not the way to make her forget them; and there was scarce a minute in the day when her brother was not present to her thoughts.

Sunday came; her first Sunday in Edinburgh. All went to church in the morning; in the afternoon Ellen found that nobody was going; her grandmother was lying down. She asked permission to go alone.

"Do you want to go because you think you must? or for pleasure?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"For pleasure!" said Ellen's tongue, her eyes opening at the same time.

"You may go."

With eager delight Ellen got ready, and was hastening along the hall to the door, when she met Mr. Lindsay.

"Where are you going?"

"To church, sir."

"Alone! What do you want to go for? No, no, I shan't let you. Come in here—I want you with me; you have been once to-day already, haven't you? You do not want to go again?"

"I do indeed, sir, very much," said Ellen, as she reluctantly followed him into the library, "if you have no objection. You know I have not seen Edinburgh yet."

"Edinburgh! that's true, so you haven't," said he, looking at her discomfited face. "Well, go, if you want to go so much."

Ellen got to the hall door, no further; she rushed back to the library.

"I did not say right when I said that," she burst forth; "that was not the reason I wanted to go. I will stay, if you wish me, sir."

"I don't wish it," said he in surprise; "I don't know what you mean—I am willing you should go if you like it. Away with you! it is time."

Once more Ellen set out, but this time with a heart full; much too full to think of anything she saw by the way. It was with a singular feeling of pleasure that she entered the church alone. It was a strange church to her, never seen but once before, and as she softly passed up the broad aisle she saw nothing in the building or the people around her that was not strange, no familiar face, no familiar thing. But it was a church, and she was alone; quite alone in the midst of that crowd; and she went up to the empty pew and ensconced herself in the far corner of it, with a curious feeling of quiet and of being at home. She was no sooner seated, however, than leaning forward as much as possible to screen herself from observation, bending her head upon her knees, she burst into an agony of tears. It was a great relief to be able to weep freely; at home she was afraid of being seen or heard or questioned; now she was alone and free, and she poured out her very heart in weeping that she with difficulty kept from being loud weeping.

"Oh how could I say that! how could I say that! Oh what would John have thought of me if he had heard it. Am I beginning already to lose my truth? am I going backward already? Oh what shall I do! what will become of me if I do not watch over myself—there is no one to help me or lead me right—not a single one—all to lead me wrong! what will become of me? But there is One who has promised to keep those that follow Him—He is sufficient, without any others—I have not kept near enough to Him! that is it; I have not remembered nor loved Him. 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' I have not! I have not! Oh, but I will! I will; and He will be with me, and help me and bless me, and all will go right with me."

With bitter tears Ellen mingled as eager prayers for forgiveness and help to be faithful. She resolved that nothing, come what would, should tempt her to swerve one iota from the straight line of truth; she resolved to be more careful of her private hour; she thought she had scarcely had her full hour a day lately; she resolved to make the Bible her only and her constant rule of life in everything; and she prayed, such prayers as a heart thoroughly in earnest can pray, for the seal to these resolutions. Not one word of the sermon did Ellen hear; but she never passed a more profitable hour in church in her life.

All her tears were not from the spring of these thoughts and feelings; some were the pouring out of the gathered sadness of the week; some came from recollections, oh, how tender and strong! of lost and distant friends. Her mother—and Alice—and Mr. Humphreys—and Margery—and Mr. Van Brunt—and Mr. George Marshman; and she longed, with longing that seemed as if it would have burst her heart, to see her brother. She longed for the pleasant voice, the eye of thousand expressions, into which she always looked as if she had never seen it before, the calm look that told he was satisfied with her, the touch of his hand, which many a time had said a volume. Ellen thought she would give anything in the world to see him and hear him speak one word. As this could not be, she resolved with the greatest care to do what would please him; that when she did see him he might find her all he wished.

She had wept herself out; she had refreshed and strengthened herself by fleeing to the stronghold of the prisoners of hope; and when the last hymn was given out she raised her head and took the book to find it. To her great surprise, she saw Mr. Lindsay sitting at the other end of the pew, with folded arms, like a man not thinking of what was going on around him. Ellen was startled, but obeying the instinct that told her what he would like, she immediately moved down the pew and stood beside him while the last hymn was singing; and if Ellen had joined in no other part of the service that afternoon, she at least did in that with all her heart. They walked home then without a word on either side. Mr. Lindsay did not quit her hand till he had drawn her into the library. There he threw off her bonnet and wrappers, and taking her in his arms, exclaimed—

"My poor little darling! what was the matter with you this afternoon?"

There was so much of kindness again in his tone, that overjoyed, Ellen eagerly returned his caress, and assured him that there was nothing the matter with her now.

"Nothing the matter!" said he, tenderly pressing her face against his own, "nothing the matter! with these pale cheeks and wet eyes? nothing now, Ellen?"

"Only that I am so glad to hear you speak kindly to me again, sir."

"Kindly? I will never speak any way but kindly to you, daughter. Come! I will not have any more tears; you have shed enough for to-day, I am sure; lift up your face and I will kiss them away. What was the matter with you, my child?"

But he had to wait a little while for an answer. "What was it, Ellen?"

"One thing," said Ellen, "I was sorry for what I had said to you, sir, just before I went out."

"What was that? I do not remember anything that deserved to be a cause of grief."

"I told you, sir, when I wanted you to let me go to church, that I hadn't seen Edinburgh yet."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, that wasn't being quite true; and I was very sorry for it!"

"Not true? yes it was; what do you mean? you had not seen Edinburgh."

"No, sir, but I mean—that was true, but I said it to make you believe what wasn't true."

"How?"

"I meant you to think, sir, that that was the reason why I wanted to go to church—to see the city and the new sights; and it wasn't at all."

"What was it then?" Ellen hesitated.

"I always love to go, sir; and besides, I believe I wanted to be alone."

"And you were not, after all," said Mr. Lindsay, again pressing her cheek to his, "for I followed you there. But, Ellen, my child, you were troubled without reason; you had said nothing that was false."

"Ah, sir, but I had made you believe what was false."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Lindsay, "you are a nice reasoner. And are you always true upon this close scale?"

"I wish I was, sir, but you see I am not. I am sure I hate everything else!"

"Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true," said Mr. Lindsay. "I wish there was a little more of it in the world. Was this the cause of all those tears this afternoon?"

"No, sir; not all."

"What beside, Ellen?" Ellen looked down, and was silent.

"Come—I must know."

"Must I tell you all, sir?"

"You must, indeed," said he, smiling; "I will have the whole, daughter."

"I had been feeling sorry all the week because you and grandmother and Aunt Keith were displeased with me."

Again Mr. Lindsay's silent caress in its tenderness seemed to say that she should never have the same complaint to make again.

"Was that all, Ellen?" as she hesitated.

"No, sir."

"Well?"

"I wish you wouldn't ask me further; please do not! I shall displease you again."

"I will not be displeased."

"I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys," said Ellen in a low tone.

"Who is that?"

"You know, sir; you say I must not call him——"

"What were you thinking of him?"

"I was wishing very much I could see him again."

"Well, you are a truth-teller," said Mr. Lindsay, "or bolder than I think you."

"You said you would not be displeased, sir."

"Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you forget these people?"

"Nothing, sir; I cannot forget them; I shouldn't deserve to have you love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, and do not be angry with me for it."

"But I am not satisfied to have your body here and your heart somewhere else."

"I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling amidst her tears, "if it had room in it for only one person."

"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay inquisitively, "did you insinuate a falsehood there?"

"No, sir!"

"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is honesty anywhere in the world. I am satisfied—that is, half-satisfied. Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest," said he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look as if you needed it."

"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek upon the grateful pillow, "except one thing—if grandmother would only forgive me too."

"You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she does not very readily forgive; but I think we can arrange this matter. Go you to sleep."

"I wonder," said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, "why everybody calls me 'little'; I don't think I am very little. Everybody says 'little.'"

Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it when, a few minutes after, he sat watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The innocent brow, the perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to belong to much younger years. Even Mr. Lindsay could not help recollecting the house-keeper's comment, "Heaven's peace within;" scarcely Ellen's own mother ever watched over her with more fond tenderness than her adopted father did now.

For several days after this he would hardly permit her to leave him. He made her bring her books and study where he was; he went out and came in with her; and kept her by his side whenever they joined the rest of the family at meals or in the evening. Whether Mr. Lindsay intended it or not, this had soon the effect to abate the displeasure of his mother and sister. Ellen was almost taken out of their hands, and they thought it expedient not to let him have the whole of her. And though Ellen could better bear their cold looks and words since she had Mr. Lindsay's favour again, she was very glad when they smiled upon her too, and went dancing about with quite a happy face.

She was now very busy. She had masters for the piano, and singing, and different branches of knowledge; she went to M. Muller regularly twice a week; and soon her riding-attendance began. She had said no more on the subject, but went quietly, hoping they would find out their mistake before long. Lady Keith always accompanied her.

One day Ellen had ridden near her usual time, when a young lady with whom she attended a German class came up to where she was resting. This lady was several years older than Ellen, but had taken a fancy to her.

"How finely you got on yesterday," said she, "making us all ashamed. Ah, I guess M. Muller helped you."

"Yes," said Ellen, smiling, "he did help me a little; he helped me with some troublesome pronunciations."

"With nothing else, I suppose? Ah, well, we must submit to be stupid. How do you do to-day?"

"I am very tired, Miss Gordon."

"Tired? Oh, you're not used to it."

"No, it isn't that," said Ellen; "I am used to it, that is the reason I am tired. I am accustomed to ride up and down the country at any pace I like; and it is very tiresome to walk stupidly round and round for an hour."

"But do you know how to manage a horse? I thought you were only just beginning to learn."

"Oh no, I have been learning this great while; only they don't think I know how, and they have never seen me. Are you just come, Miss Gordon?"

"Yes, and they are bringing out Sophronisbe for me; do you know Sophronisbe? look, that light grey, isn't she beautiful? she's the loveliest creature in the whole stud."

"Oh, I know!" said Ellen; "I saw you on her the other day; she went charmingly. How long shall I be kept walking here, Miss Gordon?"

"Why, I don't know; I should think they would find out; what does De Courcy say to you?"

"Oh, he comes and looks at me and says, 'Très bien, très bien,' and 'Allez comme ça,' and then he walks off."

"Well, I declare that is too bad," said Miss Gordon, laughing. "Look here, I've got a good thought in my head; suppose you mount Sophronisbe in my place, without saying anything to anybody, and let them see what you are up to. Can you trust yourself? she's very spirited."

"I could trust myself," said Ellen; "but, thank you, I think I had better not."

"Afraid?"

"No, not at all: but my aunt and father would not like it."

"Nonsense! how should they dislike it; there's no sort of danger, you know. Come! I thought you sat wonderfully for a beginner. I am surprised De Courcy hadn't better eyes. I guess you have learned German before, Ellen? Come, will you?"

But Ellen declined, preferring her plodding walk round the ring to any putting of herself forward. Presently Mr. Lindsay came in. It was the first time he had been there. His eyes soon singled out Ellen.

"My daughter sits well," he remarked to the riding-master.

"A merveille! Mademoiselle Lindsay does ride remarquablement pour une beginner; qui ne fait que commencer. Would it be possible that she has had no lessons before?"

"Why, yes; she has had lessons—of what sort I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, going up to Ellen. "How do you like it, Ellen?"

"I don't like it at all, sir."

"I thought you were so fond of riding."

"I don't call this riding, sir."

"Ha! what do you call riding? Here, M. de Courcy, won't you have the goodness to put this young lady on another horse, and see if she knows anything about handling him?"

"With great pleasure!" M. de Courcy would do anything that was requested of him. Ellen was taken out of the ring of walkers, and mounted on a fine animal, and set by herself to have her skill tried in as many various ways as M. de Courcy's ingenuity could point out. Never did she bear herself more erectly; never were her hand and her horse's mouth on nicer terms of acquaintanceship; never, even to please her master, had she so given her whole soul to the single business of managing her horse and herself perfectly well. She knew as little as she cared that a number of persons besides her friends were standing to look at her; she thought of only two people there; Mr. Lindsay and her aunt; and the riding-master, as his opinion might affect theirs.

"C'est très bien—c'est très bien," he muttered—"c'est parfaitement—Monsieur, mademoiselle votre fille has had good lessons—voilà qui est entièrement comme il faut."

"Assez bien," said Mr. Lindsay smiling. "The little gipsy!"

"Mademoiselle," said the riding-master, as she paused before them, "pourquoi, wherefore have you stopped in your canter tantôt—a little while ago—et puis récommencé?"

"Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot."

"C'est ça—justement!" he exclaimed.

"Have you practised leaping, Ellen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Try her, M. de Courcy. How high will you go, Ellen?"

"As high as you please, sir," said Ellen, leaning over and patting her horse's neck to hide her smile.

"How you look, child!" said Mr. Lindsay in a pleased tone. "So this is what you call riding?"

"It is a little more like it, sir."

Ellen was tried with standing and running leaps, higher and higher, till Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. de Courcy assured him that his daughter had been taught by a very accomplished rider, and there was little or nothing left for him to do; il n'y pouvait plus; but he should be very happy to have her come there to practise, and show an example to his pupils.

The very bright colour in Ellen's face as she heard this might have been mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity, it was nothing less. Not one word of this praise did she take to herself, nor had she sought for herself; it was all for somebody else; and perhaps so Lady Keith understood it, for she looked rather discomfited. But Mr. Lindsay was exceedingly pleased, and promised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather came she should have a horse and rides to her heart's content.



CHAPTER L

She was his care, his hope, and his delight, Most in his thought, and ever in his sight.

—DRYDEN.

Ellen might now have been in some danger of being spoiled, not indeed with over-indulgence, for that was not the temper of the family, but from finding herself a person of so much consequence. She could not but feel that in the minds of every one of her three friends she was the object of greatest importance; their thoughts and care were principally occupied with her. Even Lady Keith was perpetually watching, superintending, and admonishing; though she every now and then remarked with a kind of surprise, that "really she scarcely ever had to say anything to Ellen; she thought she must know things by instinct." To Mr. Lindsay and his mother she was the idol of life; and except when by chance her will might cross theirs, she had what she wished and did what she pleased.

But Ellen happily had two safeguards which effectually kept her from pride or presumption.

One was her love for her brother and longing remembrance of him. There was no one to take his place, not indeed in her affections, for that would have been impossible, but in the daily course of her life. She missed him in everything. She had abundance of kindness and fondness shown her, but the sympathy was wanting. She was talked to, but not with. No one now knew always what she was thinking of, nor if they did would patiently draw out her thoughts, canvass them, set them right, or show them wrong. No one now could tell what she was feeling, nor had the art sweetly, in a way she scarce knew how, to do away with sadness, or dulness, or perverseness, and leave her spirits clear and bright as the noonday. With all the petting and fondness she had from her new friends, Ellen felt alone. She was petted and fondled as a darling possession—a dear plaything—a thing to be cared for, taught, governed, disposed of, with the greatest affection and delight; but John's was a higher style of kindness, that entered into all her innermost feelings and wants; and his was a higher style of authority too, that reached where theirs could never attain; an authority Ellen always felt it utterly impossible to dispute; it was sure to be exerted on the side of what was right, and she could better have borne hard words from Mr. Lindsay than a glance of her brother's eye. Ellen made no objection to the imperativeness of her new guardians; it seldom was called up so as to trouble her, and she was not of late particularly fond of having her own way; but she sometimes drew comparisons.

"I could not any sooner—I could not as soon—have disobeyed John; and yet he never would have spoken to me as they do if I had."

"Some pride, perhaps," she said, remembering Mr. Dundas's words; "I should say a great deal—John isn't proud; and yet—I don't know—he isn't proud as they are; I wish I knew what kinds of pride are right and what wrong—he would tell me if he was here."

"What are you in a 'brown study' about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I was thinking, sir, about different kinds of pride—I wish I knew the right from the wrong—or is there any good kind?"

"All good, Ellen—all good," said Mr. Lindsay, "provided you do not have too much of it."

"Would you like me to be proud, sir?"

"Yes," said he, laughing and pinching her cheek, "as proud as you like; if you only don't let me see any of it."

Not very satisfactory; but that was the way with the few questions of any magnitude Ellen ventured to ask; she was kissed and laughed at, called metaphysical or philosophical, and dismissed with no light on the subject. She sighed for her brother. The hours with M. Muller were the best substitute she had; they were dearly prized by her, and, to say truth, by him. He had no family, he lived alone, and the visits of his docile and intelligent little pupil became very pleasant breaks in the monotony of his home life. Truly kind-hearted and benevolent, and a true lover of knowledge, he delighted to impart it. Ellen soon found she might ask him as many questions as she pleased, that were at all proper to the subject they were upon; and he, amused and interested, was equally able and willing to answer her. Often, when not particularly busy, he allowed her hour to become two. Excellent hours for Ellen. M. Muller had made his proposition to Mr. Lindsay, partly from grateful regard for him, and partly to gratify the fancy he had taken to Ellen on account of her simplicity, intelligence, and good manners. This latter motive did not disappoint him. He grew very much attached to his little pupil; an attachment which Ellen faithfully returned, both in kind, and by every trifling service that it could fall in her way to render him. Fine flowers and fruit, that it was her special delight to carry to M. Muller; little jobs of copying, or setting in order some disorderly matters in his rooms, where he soon would trust her to do anything; or a book from her father's library; and once or twice, when he was indisposed, reading to him as she did by the hour patiently, matters that could neither interest nor concern her. On the whole, and with good reason, the days when they were to meet were hailed with as much pleasure perhaps by M. Muller as by Ellen herself.

Her other safeguard was the precious hour alone which she had promised John never to lose when she could help it. The only time she could have was the early morning before the rest of the family were up. To this hour, and it was often more than an hour, Ellen was faithful. Her little Bible was extremely precious now; Ellen had never gone to it with a deeper sense of need; and never did she find more comfort in being able to disburden her heart in prayer of its load of cares and wishes. Never more than now had she felt the preciousness of that Friend who draws closer to His children the closer they draw to Him; she had never realised more the joy of having Him to go to. It was her special delight to pray for those loved ones she could do nothing else for; it was a joy to think that He who hears prayer is equally present with all His people, and that though thousands of miles lie between the petitioner and the petitioned for, the breath of prayer may span the distance and pour blessings on the far-off head. The burden of thoughts and affections gathered during the twenty-three hours, was laid down in the twenty-fourth; and Ellen could meet her friends at the breakfast-table with a sunshiny face. Little they thought where her heart had been, or where it had got its sunshine.

But notwithstanding this, Ellen had too much to remember and regret than to be otherwise than sober—soberer than her friends liked. They noticed with sorrow that the sunshine wore off as the day rolled on; that though ready to smile upon occasion, her face always settled again into a gravity they thought altogether unsuitable. Mrs. Lindsay fancied she knew the cause, and resolved to break it up.

From the first of Ellen's coming her grandmother had taken the entire charge of her toilet. Whatever Mrs. Lindsay's notions in general might be as to the propriety of young girls learning to take care of themselves, Ellen was much too precious a plaything to be trusted to any other hands, even her own. At eleven o'clock regularly every day she went to her grandmother's dressing-room for a very elaborate bathing and dressing; though not a very long one, for all Mrs. Lindsay's acts were energetic. Now, without any hint as to the reason, she was directed to come to her grandmother an hour before the breakfast time, to go through then the course of cold-water sponging and hair-gloving that Mrs. Lindsay was accustomed to administer at eleven. Ellen heard in silence, and obeyed, but made up her hour by rising earlier than usual, so as to have it before going to her grandmother. It was a little difficult at first, but she soon got into the habit of it, though the mornings were dark and cold. After a while it chanced that this came to Mrs. Lindsay's ears, and Ellen was told to come to her as soon as she was out of bed in the morning.

"But, grandmother," said Ellen, "I am up a great while before you; I should find you asleep; don't I come soon enough?"

"What do you get up so early for?"

"You know, ma'am, I told you some time ago. I want some time to myself."

"It is not good for you to be up so long before breakfast, and in these cold mornings. Do not rise in future till I send for you."

"But, grandmother, that is the only time for me, there isn't as hour after breakfast that I can have regularly to myself; and I cannot be happy if I do not have some time."

"Let it be as I said," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Couldn't you let me come to you at eleven o'clock again, ma'am? do, grandmother!"

Mrs. Lindsay touched her lips; a way of silencing her that Ellen particularly disliked, and which both Mr. Lindsay and his mother were accustomed to use.

She thought a great deal on the subject, and came soberly to the conclusion that it was her duty to disobey. "I promised John," she said to herself, "I will never break that promise! I'll do anything rather. And besides, if I had not, it is just as much my duty—a duty that no one here has a right to command me against. I will do what I think right, come what may."

She could not without its coming to the knowledge of her grandmother. A week, or rather two, after the former conversation, Mrs. Lindsay made inquiries of Mason, her woman, who was obliged to confess that Miss Ellen's light was always burning when she went to call her.

"Ellen," said Mrs. Lindsay the same day, "have you obeyed me in what I told you the other morning about lying in bed till you are sent for?"

"No, ma'am."

"You are frank, to venture to tell me so. Why have you disobeyed me?"

"Because, grandmother, I thought it was right."

"You think it is right to disobey, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am, if——"

"If what?"

"I mean, grandmother, there is One I must obey even before you."

"If what?" repeated Mrs. Lindsay.

"Please do not ask me, grandmother; I don't want to say that."

"Say it at once, Ellen!"

"I think it is right to disobey if I am told to do what is wrong," said Ellen in a low voice.

"Are you to be the judge of right and wrong?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who, then?"

"The Bible."

"I do not know what is the reason," said Mrs. Lindsay, "that I cannot be very angry with you. Ellen, I repeat the order I gave you the other day. Promise me to obey."

"I cannot, grandmother; I must have that hour; I cannot do without it."

"So must I be obeyed, I assure you, Ellen. You will sleep in my room henceforth."

Ellen heard her in despair; she did not know what to do. Appealing was not to be thought of. There was, as she said, no time she could count upon after breakfast. During the whole day and evening she was either busy with her studies or masters, or in the company of her grandmother or Mr. Lindsay; and if not there, liable to be called to them at any moment. Her grandmother's expedient for increasing her cheerfulness had marvellous ill-success. Ellen drooped under the sense of wrong, as well as the loss of her greatest comfort. For two days she felt and looked forlorn, and smiling now seemed to be a difficult matter. Mr. Lindsay happened to be remarkably busy those two days, so that he did not notice what was going on. At the end of them, however, in the evening, he called Ellen to him, and whisperingly asked what was the matter.

"Nothing, sir," said Ellen, "only grandmother will not let me do something I cannot be happy without doing."

"Is it one of the things you want to do because it is right, whether it is convenient or not?" he asked, smiling. Ellen could not smile.

"Oh, father," she whispered, putting her face close to his, "if you would only get grandmother to let me do it!"

The words were spoken with a sob, and Mr. Lindsay felt her warm tears upon his neck. He had, however, far too much respect for his mother to say anything against her proceedings while Ellen was present; he simply answered that she must do whatever her grandmother said. But when Ellen had left the room, which she did immediately, he took the matter up. Mrs. Lindsay explained and insisted that Ellen was spoiling herself for life and the world by a set of dull religious notions that were utterly unfit for a child; that she would very soon get over thinking about her habit of morning prayer, and would then do much better. Mr. Lindsay looked grave; but with Ellen's tears yet wet upon his cheek, he could not dismiss the matter so lightly, and persisted in desiring that his mother should give up the point, which she utterly refused to do.

Ellen meanwhile had fled to her own room. The moonlight was quietly streaming in through the casement; it looked to her like an old friend. She threw herself down on the floor, close by the glass, and after some tears which she could not help shedding, she raised her head and looked thoughtfully out. It was very seldom now that she had a chance of the kind; she was rarely alone but when she was busy.

"I wonder if that same moon is this minute shining in at the glass door at home?—no, to be sure it can't this minute—what am I thinking of?—but it was there or will be there, let me see, east, west, it was there some time this morning, I suppose; looking right into our old sitting-room. Oh, moon, I wish I was in your place for once, to look in there too! But it is all empty now, there's nobody there, Mr. Humphreys would be in his study, how lonely, how lonely he must be! Oh, I wish I was back there with him!—John isn't there though—no matter—he will be, and I could do so much for Mr. Humphreys in the meanwhile. He must miss me. I wonder where John is—nobody writes to me; I should think some one might. I wonder if I am ever to see them again. Oh, he will come to see me surely before he goes home! but then he will have to go away without me again—I am fast now—fast enough—but oh! am I to be separated from them for ever? Well! I shall see them in heaven!"

It was a "Well" of bitter acquiescence, and washed down with bitter tears.

"Is it my bonny Miss Ellen?" said the voice of the housekeeper, coming softly in; "is my bairn sitting a' her lane in the dark? Why are ye no wi' the rest o' the folk, Miss Ellen?"

"I like to be alone, Mrs. Allen, and the moon shines in here nicely?"

"Greeting!" exclaimed the old lady, drawing nearer; "I ken it by the sound o' your voice; greeting eenow! Are ye no weel, Miss Ellen? What vexes my bairn? Oh, but your father would be vexed an' he kenned it!"

"Never mind, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen; "I shall get over it directly; don't say anything about it."

"But I'm wae to see ye," said the kind old woman, stooping down and stroking the head that again Ellen had bowed on her knees. "Will ye no tell me what vexes ye? Ye suld be as blithe as a bird the lang day."

"I can't, Mrs. Allen, while I am away from my friends."

"Frinds! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel', Miss Ellen, or better frinds?—father and mither and a'; where wad ye find thae that will love ye mair?"

"Ah, but I haven't my brother!" sobbed Ellen.

"Your brither, Miss Ellen? An' wha's he?"

"He's everything, Mrs. Allen! he's everything! I shall never be happy without him!—never! never!"

"Hush, dear Miss Ellen! for the love of a' that's gude; dinna talk that gate! and dinna greet sae! your father wad be sair vexed to hear ye or to see ye."

"I cannot help it," said Ellen; "it is true."

"It may be sae; but dear Miss Ellen, dinna let it come to your father's ken; ye're his very heart's idol; he disna merit aught but gude frae ye."

"I know it, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen, weeping, "and so I do love him—better than anybody in the world, except two. But oh, I want my brother!—I don't know how to be happy or good either without him. I want him all the while."

"Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for mony a day. Will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn?"

"No, dear Mrs. Allen; I'll thank you. Did you know my mother!"

"Wha suld if I didna? She was brought up in my arms, and a dear lassie. Ye're no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; ye're mair bonny than her; and no a'thegither sae frack; though she was douce and kind too."

"I wish——" Ellen began, and stopped.

"My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve wha disposes a' things for us; and He isna weel pleased when His children fash themselves wi' His dispensations. He has ta'en and placed you here, for your ain gude I trust,—I'm sure it's for the gude of us a',—and if ye haena a' things ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him; dinna forget that, my ain bairn."

Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old Scotchwoman, and when she left her, set herself to follow her advice. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts and smooth her ruffled feelings, in using this quiet time to the best advantage. At the end of half-an-hour she felt like another creature; and began to refresh herself with softly singing some of her old hymns.

The argument which was carried on in the parlour sank at length into silence without coming to any conclusion.

"Where is Miss Ellen?" Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that came in.

"She is up in her room, ma'am, singing."

"Tell her I want her."

"No, stop," said Mr. Lindsay; "I'll go myself."

Her door was a little ajar, and he softly opened it without disturbing her. Ellen was still sitting on the floor before the window, looking out through it, and in rather a low tone singing the last verse of the hymn "Rock of Ages:"—

"While I draw this fleeting breath,— When my eyelids close in death,— When I rise to worlds unknown, And behold Thee on Thy throne,— Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee."

Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door. Ellen paused a minute, and then sang "Jerusalem, my happy home." Her utterance was so distinct that he heard every word. He did not move till she had finished, and then he came softly in.

"Singing songs to the moon, Ellen?"

Ellen started and got up from the floor.

"No, sir; I was singing them to myself."

"Not entirely, for I heard the last one. Why do you make yourself sober singing such sad things?"

"I don't, sir; they are not sad to me; they are delightful. I love them dearly."

"How came you to love them? it is not natural for a child of your age. What do you love them for, my little daughter?"

"Oh, sir, there are a great many reasons, I don't know how many."

"I will have patience, Ellen; I want to hear them all."

"I love them because I love to think of the things the hymns are about; I love the tunes, dearly; and I like both the words and the tunes better, I believe, because I have sung them so often with friends."

"Humph! I guessed as much. Isn't that the strongest reason of the three?"

"I don't know, sir; I don't think it is."

"Is all your heart in America, Ellen, or have you any left to bestow on us?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not very much?"

"I love you, father," said Ellen, laying her cheek gently alongside of his.

"And your grandmother, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, clasping his arms around her.

"Yes, sir."

But he well understood that the "yes" was fainter.

"And your aunt?—speak, Ellen."

"I don't love her as much as I wish I did," said Ellen; "I love her a little, I suppose. Oh, why do you ask me such a hard question, father?"

"That is something you have nothing to do with," said Mr. Lindsay, half laughing. "Sit down here," he added, placing her on his knee, "and sing to me again."

Ellen was heartened by the tone of his voice, and pleased with the request. She immediately sang with great spirit a little Methodist hymn she had learned when a mere child. The wild air and simple words singularly suited each other.

"O Canaan—bright Canaan— I am bound for the land of Canaan. O Canaan! it is my happy, happy home— I am bound for the land of Canaan."

"Does that sound sad, sir?"

"Why, yes, I think it does, rather, Ellen. Does it make you feel merry?"

"Not merry, sir, it isn't merry; but I like it very much."

"The tune or the words?"

"Both, sir."

"What do you mean by the land of Canaan?"

"Heaven, sir."

"And do you like to think about that? at your age?"

"Why, certainly, sir! Why not?"

"Why do you!"

"Because it is a bright and happy place," said Ellen gravely; "where there is no darkness, nor sorrow, nor death, neither pain nor crying; and my mother is there, and my dear Alice, and my Saviour is there; and I hope I shall be there too."

"You are shedding tears now, Ellen."

"And if I am, sir, it is not because I am unhappy. It doesn't make me unhappy to think of these things—it makes me glad; and the more I think of them the happier I am."

"You are a strange child. I am afraid your grandmother is right, and that you are hurting yourself with poring over serious matters that you are too young for."

"She would not think so if she knew," said Ellen, sighing. "I should not be happy at all without that, and you would not love me half so well, nor she either. Oh, father," she exclaimed, pressing his hand in both her own and laying her face upon it, "do not let me be hindered in that! forbid me anything you please, but not that! the better I learn to please my best Friend, the better I shall please you."

"Whom do you mean by 'your best friend'?"

"The Lord my Redeemer."

"Where did you get these notions?" said Mr. Lindsay after a short pause.

"From my mother, first, sir."

"She had none of them when I knew her."

"She had afterwards, then, sir; and oh!" Ellen hesitated, "I wish everybody had them too!"

"My little daughter," said Mr. Lindsay, affectionately kissing the cheeks and eyes which were moist again, "I shall indulge you in this matter. But you must keep your brow clear, or I shall revoke my grant. And you belong to me now; and there are some things I want you to forget, and not remember, you understand? Now don't sing songs to the moon any more to-night—good-night, my daughter."

"They think religion is a strange melancholy thing," said Ellen to herself as she went to bed; "I must not give them reason to think so—I must let my rushlight burn bright—I must take care—I never had more need!"

And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her head on the pillow.

Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let Ellen have her way for a while, and begged that she might return to her old room and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not hear of it. Ellen had disobeyed her orders, she said; she must take the consequences.

"She is a bold little hussy to venture it," said Mr. Lindsay, "but I do not think there is any naughtiness in her heart."

"No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only those preposterous notions she has got from somebody or other."

Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen privately what she did the first thing after breakfast. "Practise on the piano for an hour," she said.

"Couldn't you do it at any other time?"

"Yes, sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother likes to have me with her."

"Let it be done then, Ellen, in future."

"And what shall I do with the hour after breakfast, sir?"

"Whatever you please," said he, smiling.

Ellen thanked him in the way she knew he best liked, and gratefully resolved he should have as little cause as possible to complain of her. Very little cause indeed did he or any one else have. No fault could be found with her performance of duty; and her cheerfulness was constant and unvarying. She remembered her brother's recipe against loneliness, and made use of it; she remembered Mrs. Allen's advice, and followed it; she grasped the promises, "he that cometh to Me shall never hunger," and "seek and ye shall find," precious words that never yet disappointed any one; and though tears might often fall that nobody knew of, and she might not be so merry as her friends would have liked to see her; though her cheerfulness was touched with sobriety, they could not complain; for her brow was always unruffled, her voice clear, her smile ready.

After a while she was restored to her own sleeping-room again, and permitted to take up her former habits.



CHAPTER LI

Other days come back on me With recollected music.

—BYRON.

Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of her life, Ellen's principles were still now and then severely tried.

Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the company of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded Christian, a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal sensible and respectable, person, devotedly attached to the family, and very fond of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved, when she could, to get alone with her, and hear her talk of her mother's young days; and she loved furthermore, and almost as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no one else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling directly on those that she loved, she delighted to tell over to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, and felt, with them.

"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said Lady Keith one evening in the latter end of the winter.

"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment any one that I think she could resemble without losing more than she gained."

"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you never will see with other people's eyes."

"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"

"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a baby."

"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling; "you should ask M. Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She will go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her."

"Oh yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not wanting; that is not what I mean."

"She is perfectly ladylike always," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Yes, I know that, and perfectly childlike too."

"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay; "I have no fancy for your grown-up little girls."

"Well!" said Lady Keith in despair, "you may like it; but I tell you she is too much of a child nevertheless in other ways. She hasn't an idea of a thousand things. It was only the other day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, through the streets with a basket on her arm, with some of that fruit for M. Muller, I believe."

"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride; but I don't know, I can't say I wish she had more of it."

"Oh no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take anything at all to make the tears come in her eyes; the other day I didn't know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she went on with a kitten for half-an-hour or more. I wish you had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over that. Now I suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a present of one."

"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "I'll take breath and think about it."

"But she isn't like anybody else; she don't care for young companions; she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her I know every day regularly; and there are the Gordons and Carpenters and Murrays and Mackintoshes, she sees them continually, but I don't think she takes a great deal of pleasure in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."

"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay, "and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of your gigglers."

"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is most merriment around her."

"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such a low sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring of enjoyment. Yet I must say I think Catherine is half right."

"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect much."

Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.

"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, holding out his hand; "here's your aunt says you don't like anybody. How is it? are you of an unsociable disposition?"

Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for a much graver fault.

"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.

"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I like a great many people very much."

"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith; "that is what I complain of, and it's unnatural. Now there's the other day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother, and Miss MacPherson and her brother, I heard you say you were not sorry to get home. Now where will you find pleasanter young people?"

"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I do like them, ma'am, tolerably."

"What does 'tolerably' mean?"

"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said Ellen, "if they had talked about sensible things."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M. Mullers."

"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who seemed amused.

"About partners in dancing, at least the ladies did, and dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and the other one said; it wasn't very amusing to me."

Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen, how did you like them?"

"I didn't like them particularly, sir."

"What have you against them, Ellen?"

"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."

"Come, come—speak out."

"I didn't like their talking, sir, any better than the ladies'; and besides that, I don't think they were very polite."

"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.

"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to sit still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby help me to mount. They took me up at M. Muller's, you know, sir; M. Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me."

Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister which she rather resented.

"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a mere child; do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"

"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt Keith."

But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been before the door on horseback, and she had run out to give him a message, his instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was more a child then," she thought, "and he wasn't a stranger."

"Whom do you like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked extremely satisfied with the result of the examination.

"I like M. Muller, sir."

"Nobody else?"

"Mrs. Allen."

"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.

"Have you come from her room just now?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's your fancy for going there?"

"I like to hear her talk, sir, and to read to her; it gives her a great deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."

"What do you talk about?"

"She talks to me about my mother——"

"And you?"

"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing colour.

"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay.

In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held.

"Is this what you have been reading to her?"

Ellen bowed in answer.

"Who wrote all this?"

Before she could speak he had turned to the front leaf and read, "To my little sister." He quietly put the book in his pocket; and Ellen as quietly left the room.

"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are quick enough when you see anything for yourself, but you never will believe other people."

"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay, "only I will not have her going back to those old recollections she is so fond of. I wish I could make her drink Lethe!"

"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I hardly know," said he, turning it over, "except it is from that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency over her—it is full of his notes—it is a religious work."

"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said Mrs. Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it. You can do it better than any one else; she is very fond of you."

That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in Ellen's room, and to certain other things; and perhaps he was thinking that if religion had much to do with making her what she was, it was a tree that bore good fruits.

"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit perfectly grave when they were all laughing and talking around her—it really looks singular—I don't like it—I presume she would have thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the other night, I missed her from the younger part of the company, where she should have been, and there she was in the other room with M. Muller and somebody else, gravely listening to their conversation!"

"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "and she looked anything but dull or sober; I would rather have her gravity, after all, Catherine, than anybody else's merriment, I know."

"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time when she should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the letters," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, indeed," said his sister, "and I have been in continual fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen the book."

"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I don't know where he is; but he was on this side of the water at the time Ellen came on; so she told me."

"I wish he was in Egypt!"

"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady Keith, "if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield orders, if any one asked for her, to tell me immediately, and not her upon any account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I am in hopes none will."

Mr. Lindsay rose and walked up and down the room with folded arms in a very thoughtful style.

Ellen with some difficulty bore herself as usual throughout the next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get possession of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted at. When another morning came she could stand it no longer; she went soon after breakfast into Mr. Lindsay's study, where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and laying both her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear—

"Will you let me have my book again, father?"

A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.

"Go to the book-case," said Mr. Lindsay presently, "or to the book-store, and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."

"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing.

"At any rate," whispered Ellen after a minute, "you will not destroy it, or do anything to it?—you will take care of it, and let me have it again, won't you, sir?"

"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."

Again Ellen paused; and then came round in front of him to plead to more purpose.

"I will do anything in the world for you, sir," she said earnestly, "if you will give me my book again."

"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling and pinching her cheek, "without that."

"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.

"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing; "and you are mine, you must understand."

Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings of passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last the wave rolled too high and broke. Clasping her hands to her face, she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient energy of expression, "Oh, it's not right! it's not right!"

"Go to your room and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen."

Ellen was wretched. Not for grief at her loss merely; that she could have borne; that had not even the greatest share in her distress; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a perfect turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier days; under religion's happy reign that had long ceased to be true of her; it was only very rarely that she or those around her were led to remember or suspect that it had once been the case. She was surprised and half-frightened at herself now, to find the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She was utterly and exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay, and consequently with everybody and everything else; consequently conscience would not give her a moment's peace; consequently that day was a long and bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties were neglected, because she could not give her mind to them; then they crowded upon her notice at undue times; all was miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and school herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost treasure passion would come flooding up and drown all her reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely weary.

But the day passed and the night came, and she went to bed without being able to make up her mind; and she arose in the morning to renew the battle.

"How long is this miserable condition to last!" she said to herself. "'Till you can entirely give up your feeling of resentment, and apologise to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience. "Apologise! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said conscience; "you spoke improperly; he is justly displeased; and you must make an apology before there can be any peace." "But I said the truth—it is not right—it is not right! it is wrong; and am I to go and make an apology? I can't do it." "Yes, for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is all your concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases with you and yours, and he may have his own reasons for what he has done; and he loves you very much, and you ought not to let him remain displeased with you one moment longer than you can help—he is in the place of a father to you, and you owe him a child's duty."

But pride and passion still fought against reason and conscience, and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.

"There, I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and they will see how I look, they will see I am angry and ill-humoured. Well, I ought to be angry. But what will they think then of my religion? is my rushlight burning bright? am I honouring Christ now? is this the way to make His name and His truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I have enough to humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I was angry."

Ellen threw herself upon her knees; and when she rose up the spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died with self-justification.

The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the table. "But it shall make no difference," she said to herself, "they know I have offended him, it is right they should hear what I have to say."

They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in his, and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and frankly confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day before, and that she was very sorry she had displeased him, and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly granted.

"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, as he fondly embraced her.

"Oh no, sir! don't call me so, I am everything in the world but that."

"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't you come to me before?"

"Because I couldn't, sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."

Mr. Lindsay laughed and kissed her, and bade her sit down and eat her breakfast.

It was about a month after this that he made her a present of a beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great delight; the second was one of curious doubtful expression, directed to his face, half tendering the watch back to him as she saw that he understood her.

"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather have that than this?"

"A great deal!"

"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall not have it; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it safe and it shall come back to you again some time or other."

With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.

The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth, of purse and of affection both, could bestow upon their darling. Early in the season the family returned to "The Braes." Ellen liked it there much better than in the city; there was more that reminded her of old times. The sky and the land, though different from those she best loved, were yet but another expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and on many a sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.[1] She was sorry to lose M. Muller, but she could not have kept him in Edinburgh; he quitted Scotland about that time.

[Footnote 1: "Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee."—GEORGE HERBERT.]

Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to Edinburgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he was often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have her with him in the library and at dinner and during the drive home. Ellen liked it because it was so pleasant to him; and besides, there was a variety about it, and the drives were always her delight, and she chose his company at any time rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy day that summer had she and Mr. Lindsay together; and many an odd pleasure in the course of them did he find or make for her. Sometimes it was a new book, sometimes a new sight, sometimes a new trinket. According to his promise, he had purchased her a fine horse; and almost daily Ellen was upon his back, and with Mr. Lindsay in the course of the summer scoured the country far and near. Every scene of any historic interest within a good distance of "The Braes" was visited, and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were at Ellen's disposal; and to her father and grandmother she was truly the light of their eyes.

And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her calm and sunshiny face and busy, happy demeanour, and fancied, though he sometimes had doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself much with old recollections, or would in time get over them. It was so. Ellen never forgot; and sometimes when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was the thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her energies and giving colour to her cheeks. Still, as at first, it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up submission; it was that calmed her brow and brightened her smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, and repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I will see him in heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.

Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker and her smile less bright as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her no letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day, mourning over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her if her friends knew her address? Ellen at first said, "to be sure," but after a few minutes' reflection was obliged to confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a matter, and very natural for her, in her grief and confusion of mind and inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote immediately to Mr. Humphreys and supplied the defect; and hope brightened again. Once before she had written, on the occasion of the refunding her expenses. Mr. Lindsay and his mother were very prompt to do this, though Ellen could not tell what the exact amount might be; they took care to be on the safe side, and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since she came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she understood the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt her.

Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she received at length one from Mr. Humphreys—a long, very kind, and very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr. Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his own child up to the time that her friends took her out of his hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave the money—she dared not give the whole message—to Mr. Lindsay. The bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed and sent back to America.

Still nothing was heard from Mr. John. Ellen wondered, waited, wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went on, clung faster and faster to her Bible and the refuge she found there.



CHAPTER LII

Hon.—Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?

Butler.—Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir, Up or down, all's one to me.

—GOOD-NATURED MAN.

One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected at Mr. Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they had company. Generally Ellen liked it very much; not called upon to take any active part herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet; and often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to conversation, in which she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things; and Mrs. Lindsay's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied with her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what was going on.