"Then shall I go right away, mamma?"

"As well now as ever. You are not afraid of the wind?"

"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered upstairs to get ready. With eager haste she dressed herself; then with great care and particularity took her mother's instructions as to the article wanted; and finally set out, sensible that a great trust was reposed in her, and feeling busy and important accordingly. But at the very bottom of Ellen's heart there was a little secret doubtfulness respecting her undertaking. She hardly knew it was there, but then she couldn't tell what it was that made her fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she was dressing, and that made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or than was pleasant, and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other. However, she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she kept up till on turning a corner she came in sight of the place she was going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed her steps to St. Clair & Fleury's. It was one of the largest and best stores in the city, and the one she knew where her mother generally made her purchases; and it did not occur to her that it might not be the best for her purpose on this occasion. But her steps slackened as soon as she came in sight of it, and continued to slacken as she drew nearer, and she went up the broad flight of marble steps in front of the store very slowly indeed, though they were exceedingly low and easy. Pleasure was not certainly the uppermost feeling in her mind now; yet she never thought of turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the object of her mission her mother would be relieved from some anxiety; that was enough; she was bent on accomplishing it.

Timidly she entered the large hall of the entrance. It was full of people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had for some time past seldom gone a shopping with her mother, and had never been in this store but once or twice before. She had not the remotest idea where, or in what apartment of the building, the merino counter was situated, and she could see no one to speak to. She stood irresolute in the middle of the floor. Everybody seemed to be busily engaged with somebody else; and whenever an opening on one side or another appeared to promise her an opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she could reach it, and disappointed and abashed she would return to her old station in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her, crossing the store in all directions, but they were always bustling along in a great hurry of business; they did not seem to notice her at all, and were gone before poor Ellen could speak to them. She knew well enough now, poor child, what it was that made her cheeks burn as they did, and her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. She felt confused, and almost confounded, by the incessant hum of voices, and moving crowd of strange people all around her, while her little figure stood alone and unnoticed in the midst of them; and there seemed no prospect that she would be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single person. Once she determined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her from a distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a hurried bow, and "I beg your pardon, miss!" he brushed past. Ellen almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of the store, but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give up her undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks at the desk observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair who stood by, "There is a little girl, sir, who seems to be looking for something, or waiting for somebody; she has been standing there a good while." Mr. St. Clair upon this advanced, to poor Ellen's relief.

"What do you wish, miss?" he said.

But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter them and failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to speak and be heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to be gone.

"Do you wish anything, miss?" inquired Mr. St. Clair again.

"Mother sent me," stammered Ellen—"I wish, if you please, sir—mamma wished me to look at merinoes, sir, if you please."

"Is your mamma in the store?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "she is ill and cannot come out, and she sent me to look at merinoes for her, if you please, sir."

"Here, Saunders," said Mr. St. Clair, "show this young lady the merinoes."

Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of clerks with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way of relief from the tedium of business. "Come this way," he said to Ellen; and sauntering before her, with a rather dissatisfied air, led the way out of the entrance hall into another and much larger apartment. There were plenty of people here too, and just as busy as those they had quitted. Mr. Saunders having brought Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself behind it; and leaning over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her, asked what she wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most unpleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He was a tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed down on each side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most disagreeable pair of eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. She could not bear to meet them, and cast down her own. Their look was bold, ill-bred, and ill-humoured; and Ellen felt, though she couldn't have told why, that she need not expect either kindness or politeness from him.

"What do you want to see, little one?" inquired this gentleman, as if he had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen heartily wished he was rid of it, and she too. "Merinoes, if you please," she answered, without looking up.

"Well, what kind of merinoes? Here are all sorts and descriptions of merinoes, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for you to look at. What kind do you want?"

"I don't know without looking," said Ellen, "won't you please to show me some?"

He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled them about before her.

"There," said he, "is that anything like what you want? There's a pink one, and there's a blue one, and there's a green one. Is that the kind?"

"This is the kind," said Ellen; "but this isn't the colour I want."

"What colour do you want?"

"Something dark, if you please."

"Well, there, that green's dark; won't that do? See, that would make up very pretty for you."

"No," said Ellen; "mamma don't like green."

"Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What colour does she like?"

"Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice grey would do," said Ellen, "if it is fine enough."

"'Dark blue,' or 'dark brown,' or a 'nice grey,' eh! Well, she's pretty easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already; what's the matter with that?"

"It isn't dark enough," said Ellen.

"Well," said he discontentedly, pulling down another piece, "how'll that do? That's dark enough."

It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed perfectly as to fineness.

"What is the price of this?" she asked, with trembling hope that she was going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise.

"Two dollars a yard."

Her hopes and countenance fell together. "That's too high," she said with a sigh.

"Then take this other blue; come—it's a great deal prettier than that dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will like it better."

Ellen's cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she couldn't bear to give up.

"Would you be so good as to show me some grey?"

He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an excellent piece of dark grey, which Ellen fell in love with at once; but she was again disappointed; it was fourteen shillings.

"Well, if you won't take that, take something else," said the man; "you can't have everything at once; if you will have cheap goods, of course you can't have the same quality that you like; but now here's this other blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you have it for ten if you'll take it."

"No, it is too light and too coarse," said Ellen; "mamma wouldn't like it."

"Let me see," said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to compare it; "it's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want."

"Could you," said Ellen timidly, "give me a little bit of this grey to show mamma?"

"Oh no!" said he impatiently, tossing over the cloths and throwing Ellen's pattern on the floor, "we can't cut up our goods; if people don't choose to buy of us they may go somewhere else, and if you cannot decide upon anything I must go and attend to those that can. I can't wait here all day."

"What's the matter, Saunders?" said one of his brother clerks passing him.

"Why, I've been here this half-hour showing cloths to a child that doesn't know merino from a sheep's back," said he, laughing. And some other customers coming up at the moment, he was as good as his word, and left Ellen, to attend to them.

Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, struggling with her feelings of mortification; she could not endure to let them be seen. Her face was on fire; her head was dizzy. She could not stir at first, and, in spite of her utmost efforts, she could not command back one or two rebel tears that forced their way; she lifted her hand to her face to remove them as quickly as possible. "What is all this about, my little girl?" said a strange voice at her side. Ellen started, and turned her face, with the tears but half wiped away, toward the speaker. It was an old gentleman, an odd old gentleman too, she thought; one she certainly would have been rather shy of if she had seen him under other circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her, and it was a kind tone of voice in which this question had been put; so he seemed to her like a friend. "What is all this?" repeated the old gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was, but the pride which had forbidden her to weep before strangers gave way at one touch of sympathy, and she poured out tears much faster than words as she related her story, so that it was some little time before the old gentleman could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she had finished; but then he set himself in good earnest about righting the wrong. "Hallo! you, sir!" he shouted, in a voice that made everybody look round; "you merino man! come and show your goods: why aren't you at your post, sir?"—as Mr. Saunders came up with an altered countenance—"here's a young lady you've left standing unattended to I don't know how long; are these your manners?"

"The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, sir," returned Mr. Saunders softly.

"You know better, you scoundrel," retorted the old gentleman, who was in a great passion; "I saw the whole matter with my own eyes. You are a disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be sent out of it, which you are like enough to be."

"I really thought, sir," said Mr. Saunders smoothly,—for he knew the old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that must not be offended,—"I really thought—I was not aware, sir, that the young lady had any occasion for my services."

"Well, show your wares, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my dear, what did you want?"

"I wanted a little bit of this grey merino, sir, to show to mamma. I couldn't buy it, you know, sir, until I found out whether she would like it."

"Cut a piece, sir, without any words," said the old gentleman. Mr. Saunders obeyed.

"Did you like this best?" pursued the old gentleman.

"I like this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mamma would; but it's too high."

"How much is it?" inquired he.

"Fourteen shillings," replied Mr. Saunders.

"He said it was two dollars!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I beg pardon," said the crestfallen Mr. Saunders, "the young lady mistook me; I was speaking of another piece when I said two dollars."

"He said this was two dollars and the grey fourteen shillings," said Ellen.

"Is the grey fourteen shillings?" inquired the old gentleman.

"I think not, sir," answered Mr. Saunders; "I believe not, sir—I think it's only twelve—I'll inquire, if you please, sir."

"No, no," said the old gentleman, "I know it was only twelve—I know your tricks, sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, are there any more pieces of which you would like to take patterns to show your mother?"

"No, sir," said the overjoyed Ellen; "I am sure she will like one of these."

"Now shall we go, then?"

"If you please, sir," said Ellen, "I should like to have my bit of merino that I brought from home; mamma wanted me to bring it back again."

"Where is it?"

"That gentleman threw it on the floor."

"Do you hear, sir?" said the old gentleman; "find it directly."

Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of it till he was very red in the face; and he was left, wishing heartily that he had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the conclusion that none was within his reach, and that he must stomach his dignity in the best manner he could. But Ellen and her protector went forth most joyously together from the store.

"Do you live far from here?" asked the old gentleman.

"Oh no, sir," said Ellen, "not very; it's only at Green's Hotel in Southing Street."

"I'll go with you," said he, "and when your mother has decided which merino she will have, we'll come right back and get it. I do not want to trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Ellen, "that is just what I was afraid of. But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, sir," she added in another tone.

"No, you won't," said the old gentleman; "I can't be troubled, so you needn't say anything about that."

They went gaily along—Ellen's heart about five times as light as the one with which she had travelled that very road a little while before. Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood too, for he assured Ellen, laughingly, that it was of no manner of use for her to be in a hurry, for he could not possibly set off and skip to Green's Hotel, as she seemed inclined to do. They got there at last. Ellen showed the old gentleman into the parlour, and ran upstairs in great haste to her mother. But in a few minutes she came down again, with a very April face, for smiles were playing in every feature, while the tears were yet wet upon her cheeks.

"Mamma hopes you'll take the trouble, sir, to come upstairs," she said, seizing his hand; "she wants to thank you yourself, sir."

"It is not necessary," said the old gentleman, "it is not necessary at all;" but he followed his little conductor, nevertheless, to the door of her mother's room, into which she ushered him with great satisfaction.

Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill—he saw that at a glance. She rose from her sofa, and extending her hand, thanked him with glistening eyes for his kindness to her child.

"I don't deserve any thanks, ma'am," said the old gentleman; "I suppose my little friend has told you what made us acquainted?"

"She gave me a very short account of it," said Mrs. Montgomery.

"She was very disagreeably tried," said the old gentleman. "I presume you do not need to be told, ma'am, that her behaviour was such as would have become any years. I assure you, ma'am, if I had no kindness in my composition to feel for the child, my honour as a gentleman would have made me interfere for the lady."

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on Ellen. "I am very glad to hear it," she replied. "I was very far from thinking, when I permitted her to go on this errand, that I was exposing her to anything more serious than the annoyance a timid child would feel at having to transact business with strangers."

"I suppose not," said the old gentleman; "but it isn't a sort of thing that should be often done. There are all sorts of people in this world, and a little one alone in a crowd is in danger of being trampled upon."

Mrs. Montgomery's heart answered this with an involuntary pang. He saw the shade that passed over her face as she said sadly—

"I know it, sir; and it was with strong unwillingness that I allowed Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed; but in truth I was making a choice between difficulties. I am very sorry I chose as I did. If you are a father, sir, you know better than I can tell you how grateful I am for your kind interference."

"Say nothing about that, ma'am; the less the better. I am an old man, and not good for much now, except to please young people. I think myself best off when I have the best chance to do that, so if you will be so good as to choose that merino, and let Miss Ellen and me go and despatch our business, you will be conferring and not receiving a favour. And any other errand that you please to entrust her with I'll undertake to see her safe through."

His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at his word. A very short examination of Ellen's patterns ended in favour of the grey merino; and Ellen was commissioned not only to get and pay for this, but also to choose a dark dress of the same stuff, and enough of a certain article for a nankeen coat; Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old gentleman's care would do more than see her scathless,—that it would have some regard to the justness and prudence of her purchases.

In great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her hand was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely, for her heart was completely opened to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as she was to talk; and by little and little Ellen told him all her history; the troubles that had come upon her in consequence of her mother's illness, and her intended journey and prospects.

That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and Fleury's; bought the grey merino, and the nankeen, and a dark brown merino for a dress. "Do you want only one of these?" asked the old gentleman.

"Mamma said only one," said Ellen; "that will last me all the winter."

"Well," said he, "I think two will be better. Let us have another off the same piece, Mr. Shopman."

"But I am afraid mamma won't like it, sir," said Ellen gently.

"Pho, pho," said he, "your mother has nothing to do with this; this is my affair." He paid for it accordingly. "Now, Miss Ellen," said he, when they left the store, "have you got anything in the shape of a good warm winter bonnet? For it's as cold as the mischief up there in Thirlwall; your pasteboard things won't do; if you don't take good care of your ears you will lose them some fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad, and all sorts of things, to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven't a hood, eh? Do you think you and I could make out to choose one that your mother would think wasn't quite a fright? Come this way, and let us see. If she don't like it she can give it away, you know."

He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner's shop, and after turning over a great many different articles, chose her a nice warm hood, or quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well made and pretty. He saw with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well, and would protect her ears nicely; and having paid for it and ordered it home, he and Ellen sallied forth into the street again. But he wouldn't let her thank him. "It is just the very thing I wanted, sir," said Ellen; "mamma was speaking about it the other day, and she did not see how I was ever to get one, because she did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not get one myself; I know she'll like it very much."

"Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother, Ellen, if you could choose, and have but one?"

"Oh, for mamma, sir," said Ellen—"a great deal!"

"Come in here," said he; "let us see if we can find anything she would like."

It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old gentleman ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be packed up in papers; and being now very near home he took one parcel and Ellen the other till they came to the door of Green's Hotel, where he committed both to her care.

"Won't you come in, sir?" said Ellen.

"No," said he, "I can't this time—I must go home to dinner."

"And shan't I see you any more, sir?" said Ellen, a shade coming over her face, which a minute before had been quite joyous.

"Well, I don't know," said he kindly; "I hope you will. You shall hear from me again, at any rate, I promise you. We've spent one pleasant morning together, haven't we? Good-bye, good-bye."

Ellen's hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in both his, packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and again bidding her good-bye, walked away down the street.

The next morning Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly together, and Ellen had not finished her accustomed reading, when there came a knock at the door. "My old gentleman?" cried Ellen, as she sprang to open it. No—there was no old gentleman, but a black man with a brace of beautiful woodcocks in his hand. He bowed very civilly, and said he had been ordered to leave the birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in surprise, took them from him, and likewise a note which he delivered into her hand. Ellen asked from whom the birds came, but with another polite bow the man said the note would inform her, and went away. In great curiosity she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom the letter was directed. It read thus:—

"Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in his own way, by showing his regard for her little daughter, and not feel that he is taking a liberty? The birds are for Miss Ellen."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight, "did you ever see such a dear old gentleman? Now I know what he meant yesterday, when he asked me if I would rather have something for myself or for you. How kind he is! to do just the very thing for me that he knows would give me the most pleasure. Now, mamma, these birds are mine, you know, and I give them to you. You must pay me a kiss for them, mamma; they are worth that. Aren't they beauties?"

"They are very fine indeed," said Mrs. Montgomery; "this is just the season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition."

"Do you like woodcocks, mamma?"

"Yes, very much."

"Oh, how glad I am!" said Ellen. "I'll ask Sam to have them done very nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much."

The waiter was called, and instructed accordingly, and to him the birds were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook.

"Now, mamma," said Ellen, "I think these birds have made me happy for all day."

"Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. You have ruffles to hem, and the skirts of your dresses to make, we need not wait for Miss Rice to do that; and when she comes you will have to help her, for I can do little. You can't be too industrious."

"Well, mamma, I am as willing as can be."

This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen; weeks to which she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled away in busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother. The passions which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasion were for the present kept effectually in check. She could not forget that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long time at least; and this consciousness, always present to her mind, forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her. Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power to overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise, so that in spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and daughter enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew that sorrow was at hand.

All this while there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman's servant did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time he came with some fine larks; next was a superb grouse; then woodcock again. Curiosity strove with astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind. "Mamma," she said, after she had admired the grouse for five minutes, "I cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is."

"I am sorry for that," replied Mrs. Montgomery gravely, "for I see no possible way of your doing it."

"Why, mamma, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name is? He must know it."

"Certainly not; it would be very dishonourable."

"Would it, mamma?—why?"

"This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name; he wrote his note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not to disclose it; don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked him the first time he came. Now this shows that the old gentleman wishes to keep it secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very unworthy return for his kindness."

"Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; but would it be dishonourable, mamma?"

"Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about other people which does not concern you, and which they wish to keep from you. Remember that, my dear daughter."

"I will, mamma. I'll never do it, I promise you."

"Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that some higher interest does not oblige you to go on. That is true politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the same; and not to do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour."

"Well, mamma, I don't care what his name is,—at least I won't try to find out,—but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew how much I feel obliged to him."

"Very well; write and tell him so."

"Mamma!" said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide, "can I—would you?"

"Certainly,—if you like. It would be very proper."

"Then I will! I declare that is a good notion. I'll do it the first thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes to-morrow, as I suppose he will. Mamma," said she, on opening her desk, "how funny! don't you remember you wondered who I was going to write notes to? here is one now, mamma; it is very lucky I have got note-paper."

More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied herself with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time she began when she brought the following note for her mother's inspection:—

"Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gentleman who is so kind to her. Mamma enjoys the birds very much, and I think I do more; for I have the double pleasure of giving them to mamma, and of eating them afterwards; but your kindness is the best of all. I can't tell you how much I am obliged to you, sir, but I will always love you for all you have done for me.

"ELLEN MONTGOMERY."



This note Mrs. Montgomery approved; and Ellen having with great care and great satisfaction enclosed it in an envelope, succeeded in sealing it according to rule, and very well. Mrs. Montgomery laughed when she saw the direction, but let it go. Without consulting her, Ellen had written on the outside, "To the old gentleman." She sent it the next morning by the hands of the same servant, who this time was the bearer of a plump partridge "To Miss Montgomery;" and her mind was a great deal easier on this subject from that time.



CHAPTER VI

Mac. What is the night?

Lady Mac. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

—MACBETH.

October was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of the last Sunday in the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone. Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and now in the stillness of the Sabbath evening the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was abroad; and he had been so—according to custom—or in bed, the whole day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves; and most quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed together, talked together a great deal, and the evening had been spent in singing hymns; but Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen sang alone. She was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn with fresh and varied pleasure, and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet words, and the sweet airs—which were all old friends, and brought of themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of association—needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice in which they were sung, which was of all things the sweetest to Mrs. Montgomery's ear. She listened, till she almost felt as if earth were left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of that city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely while she heard it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter—

God in Israel sows the seeds Of affliction, pain, and toil; These spring up and choke the weeds Which would else o'erspread the soil.

Trials make the promise sweet— Trials give new life to prayer— Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.

"It is so indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, when she had finished, and holding the little singer to her breast; "I have always found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank Him for all the evils He has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify Him in the fires, my daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to Him—He can and He will in that case make up to us more than all we have lost."

Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of confidence and hope; to her there was no brightness on the cloud that hung over them—it was all dark. She could only press her lips in tearful silence to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such embrace! This one, for particular reasons, was often and long remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs. Montgomery remembered that Ellen's bedtime was already past, and dismissed her.

For a while after Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things in the far past, and the sad present, and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the passage of time, and did not notice how the silence deepened as the night drew on, till scarce a footfall was heard in the street, and the ticking of the clock sounded with that sad distinctness, which seems to say, "Time is going on—time is going on—and you are going with it,—do what you will you can't help that." It was just upon the stroke of ten, and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp, brisk footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching; and she knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, before she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a kind of startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably caused her; the thought always darted through her head, "perhaps he brings news of Ellen's going." Something, it would have been impossible to say what, in his appearance or manner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion. Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would say. He seemed very well pleased; sat down before the fire rubbing his hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and his first words were, "Well, we have got a fine opportunity for her at last."

How little he was capable of understanding the pang this announcement gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly quiet, and he never suspected it.

He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand began to mend the fire, talking the while.

"I am very glad of it, indeed," said he; "it's quite a load off my mind. Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is—I'll take passage in the England the first thing to-morrow. And this is the best possible chance for Ellen—everything we could have desired. I began to feel very uneasy about it, it was getting so late, but I am quite relieved now."

"Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak.

"Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his poker by way of illustration; "you know her, don't you? Captain Dunscombe's wife; she going right through Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far as that, and there my sister will meet her with a waggon and take her straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I'll write to let Fortune know when to expect her. Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of the first family and fashion—in the highest degree respectable; she is going on to Fort Jameson, with her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow her in a few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her as far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me. I'm a very good friend of his, and he knows it."

"How soon does she go?"

"Why, that's the only part of the business I am afraid you won't like, but there is no help for it; and after all it is a great deal better so than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning—better and easier too in the end."

"How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonised accent.

"Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you—Dunscombe's wife must go, he told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that she should call in the carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen."

Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the sofa.

"I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband, "but I don't think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is—a great deal better than if she had a long warning. You would fairly wear yourself out if you had time enough, and you haven't any strength to spare."

It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, though, knowing the necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained quite silent and quiet, endeavouring to collect her scattered forces; then, sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed, "I must waken Ellen immediately!"

"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband in his turn; "what on earth for? That's the very last thing to be done."

"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said Mrs. Montgomery.

"Certainly I would—that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless grieving?—unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no; just let her sleep quietly, and you go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I thought you were wiser."

"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"

"Not one bit more than she would be to-night, and she won't have so much time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way she will do well enough,—children always do."

Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.

"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking the fire very energetically; "it would not do at all,—I cannot allow it."

Mrs. Montgomery silently rose and lit a lamp.

"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.

"I must—I must put her things together."

"But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that required a promise.

"Not if I can help it."

Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the door of Ellen's room, for her heart failed her. But she must go on, and the necessary preparations for the morrow must be made;—she knew it; and repeating this to herself, she gently turned the handle of the door and pushed it open, and guarding the light with her hand from Ellen's eyes, she set it where it would not shine upon her. Having done this, she set herself, without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all things in order for her early departure on the following morning. But it was a bitter piece of work for her. She first laid out all that Ellen would need to wear, the dark merino, the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness of love; but it went through and through her heart that it was the very last time a mother's fingers would ever be busy in arranging or preparing Ellen's attire; the very last time she would ever see or touch even the little inanimate things that belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she was loth to have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering unwillingness to quit her hold of them that one thing after another was stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She felt it was love's last act; words might indeed a few times yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper;—but sight, and hearing, and touch must all have done henceforth for ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on busily with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her task, she went to the bedside; she had not looked that way before.

Ellen was lying in the deep sweet sleep of childhood; the easy position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the cheek showed that all causes of sorrow were for the present far removed. Yet not so far either; for once when Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her, light as the touch of that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to awaken a train of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind. A shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the word "Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment,—and the shade passed away, and the expression of peace settled again upon her brow; but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she stood looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last; then she knelt by the bedside and hid her face in the coverings,—but no tears came; the struggle in her mind and her anxious fear for the morning's trial made weeping impossible. Her husband at length came to seek her, and it was well he did; she would have remained there on her knees all night. He feared something of the kind, and came to prevent it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered herself to be led away without making any opposition, and went to bed as usual, but sleep was far from her. The fear of Ellen's distress when she would be awakened and suddenly told the truth kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness she tossed and turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn, and dreading unspeakably to see it. The captain, in happy unconsciousness of his wife's distress and utter inability to sympathise with it, was soon in a sound sleep, and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble; it kept repeating, what indeed she knew already, that the only one in the world who ought to have shared and soothed her grief was not capable of doing either. Wearied with watching and tossing to and fro, she at length lost herself a moment in uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly started in terror, and seizing her husband's arm to arouse him, exclaimed, "It is time to wake Ellen!" but she had to repeat her efforts two or three times before she succeeded in making herself heard.

"What is the matter?" said he heavily, and not over well pleased at the interruption.

"It is time to wake Ellen."

"No, it isn't," said he, relapsing; "it isn't time yet this great while."

"Oh, yes it is," said Mrs. Montgomery; "I am sure it is. I see the beginning of dawn in the east."

"Nonsense; it's no such thing—it's the glimmer of the lamplight. What is the use of your exciting yourself so for nothing; it won't be dawn these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, and I'll convince you." He found and struck it. "There! I told you so—only one quarter after four; it would be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to me; I'll take care it is done in proper time."

Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to watch the eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direction, for she could see nothing. But more quietly now she lay gazing into the darkness which it was in vain to try to penetrate, and thoughts succeeding thoughts in a more regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep, much as she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for nearly an hour, and when she awoke the dawn had really begun to break in the eastern sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it might be as well to get up; but it was with unutterable impatience that she saw him lighting a lamp and moving about as leisurely as if he had nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock.

"Oh, do speak to Ellen!" she said, unable to control herself. "Never mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have no time for anything. Oh, do not wait any longer! What are you thinking of?"

"What are you thinking of?" said the captain; "there's plenty of time. Do quiet yourself; you're getting as nervous as possible. I'm going immediately."

Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience and an agonising dread of what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen; but her husband coolly went on with his preparations, which indeed were not long in finishing, and then taking the lamp, he at last went. He had in truth delayed on purpose, wishing the final leave-taking to be as brief as possible, and the grey streaks of light in the east were plainly showing themselves when he opened the door of his little daughter's room. He found her lying very much as her mother had left her—in the same quiet sleep and with the same expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole face and person. It touched even him, and he was not readily touched by anything; it made him loth to say the word that would drive all that sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be said, however; the increasing light warned him he must not tarry, but it was with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that he said "Ellen!"

She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face again.

"Ellen! Ellen!"

She started up, broad awake now, and both the shadow and the peaceful expression were gone from her face. It was a look of blank astonishment at first with which she regarded her father, but very soon indeed that changed into one of blank despair. He saw that she understood perfectly what he was there for, and that there was no need at all for him to trouble himself with making painful explanations.

"Come, Ellen," he said; "that's a good child, make haste and dress. There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be at the door; and your mother wants to see you, you know."

Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings and shoes.

"That's right; now you'll be ready directly. You are going with Mrs. Dunscombe; I have engaged her to take charge of you all the way quite to Thirlwall. She's the wife of Captain Dunscombe, whom you saw here the other day, you know; and her daughter is going with her, so you will have charming company. I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much, and your aunt will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste; I expect the carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I overslept myself. Don't be long."

And nodding encouragement, her father left her.

"How did she bear it?" asked Mrs. Montgomery when he returned.

"Like a little hero; she didn't say a word or shed a tear. I expected nothing but that she would made a great fuss; but she has all the old spirit that you need to have—and have yet, for anything I know. She behaved admirably."

Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than her husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret much more truly than he the signs of them; the conclusions she drew from Ellen's silent and tearless reception of the news differed widely from his. She now waited anxiously and almost fearfully for her appearance, which did not come as soon as she expected it.

It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking and left her to herself, for she felt she could not dress herself so quick with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire that she should be speedy in what she had to do could not be greater than her own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could, with every joint trembling. But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's heart, she could not cry and she could not pray, though true to her constant habit she fell on her knees by her bedside as she always did. It was in vain; all was in a whirl in her heart and head, and after a minute she rose again, clasping her little hands together with an expression of sorrow that it was well her mother could not see. She was dressed very soon, but she shrank from going to her mother's room while her father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and everything but her bonnet and gloves, and then stood leaning against the bed-post, for she could not sit down, watching with most intense anxiety to hear her father's step come out of the room and go downstairs. Every minute seemed too long to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could not contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard the roll of carriage-wheels which came to the door and then stopped, and immediately her father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any longer Ellen opened her own, and brushed past him into the room he had quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her husband had insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable expression Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them. But then neither of them spoke or wept. What could words say? Heart met heart in that agony, for each knew all that was in the other. No,—not quite all. Ellen did not know that the whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was tasting then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her pain after this parting should be over. His afterwork—the parting between soul and body—would be welcome rather; yes, very welcome. Mrs. Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was the last embrace between them. She knew it was the very last time that dear little form would ever lie on her bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed to her that soul and body must part company too when they should be rent asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this;—she did not think it was the last time;—but she was a child of very high spirit and violent passions, untamed at all by sorrow's discipline; and in proportion violent was the tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too, her sorrow was sharpened by a sense of wrong and a feeling of indignation at her father's cruelty in not waking her earlier.

Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word had yet been spoken, no sound uttered, except Ellen's first inarticulate cry of mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery's step was again heard slowly ascending the stairs. "He is coming to take me away!" thought Ellen; and in terror lest she should go without a word from her mother she burst forth with "Mamma! speak!"

A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. But she could now; and as clearly and calmly the words were uttered as if nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell a little towards the last—"God bless my darling child; and make her His own,—and bring her to that home where parting cannot be."

Ellen's eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the sweet sound of her mother's voice, it opened all the fountains of tenderness within her. She burst into uncontrollable weeping; it seemed as if she would pour out her very heart in tears; and she clung to her mother with a force that made it a difficult task for her father to remove her. He could not do it at first; and Ellen seemed not to hear anything that was said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness; and after a little, though she had paid no attention to his entreaties or commands, yet sensible of the necessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold and suffered him to draw her away from her mother's arms. He carried her downstairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs. Dunscombe's maid,—but Ellen could never recollect how she got there, and she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him when he bid her good-bye; and she did not know that he put a large paper of candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew nothing but that she had lost her mother.

"It will not be so long," said the captain, in a kind of apologising way; "she will soon get over it, and you will not have any trouble with her."

"I hope so," returned the lady, rather shortly; and then, as the captain was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased tone of voice, "Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to travel without a bonnet?"

"Bless me! no," said the captain. "How is this? Hasn't she a bonnet? I beg a thousand pardons, ma'am,—I'll bring it on the instant."

After a little delay the bonnet was found, but the captain overlooked the gloves in his hurry.

"I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma'am," said he.

"I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet," replied the lady; "drive on as fast as you can."

A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery—a very slight one from the lady—and off they drove.

"Proud enough," thought the captain, as he went upstairs again. "I reckon she don't thank me for her travelling companion. But Ellen's off—that's one good thing; and now I'll go and engage berths in the England."



CHAPTER VII

So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

—MACBETH.

The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to Ellen's recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her companions on her account. She did not know that her white bonnet was such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscombe and the maid, that they could hardly contain themselves. She did not find out that Miss Margaret's fingers were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good string and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It mattered nothing; she wept on in her loneliness, and knew nothing that happened, till the carriage stopped on the wharf; even then she did not raise her head. Mrs. Dunscombe got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the same; then, after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to Ellen.

"Will you get out, Miss Montgomery? or would you prefer to remain in the carriage? We must go on board directly."

There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that struck Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears stopped instantly, and wiping away quick the traces of them as well as she could, she got out of the carriage without a word, aided by Mrs. Dunscombe's hand. The party was presently joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised as Captain Dunscombe.

"Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you, and then come back to me; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go along and look after them."

Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret Dunscombe and the maid Timmins went straight to the cabin. Not feeling at all drawn towards their company, as indeed they had given her no reason, Ellen planted herself by the guards of the boat, not far from the gangway, to watch the busy scene that at another time would have had a great deal of interest and amusement for her. And interest it had now; but it was with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but she felt this was not the time or the place to let it be seen; so for the present she occupied herself with what was passing before her, though it did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow.

At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his wife on board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great loops of ropes that held the boat to enormous wooden posts on the wharf, and they were off!

At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon it were sailing away from them backwards; but she presently forgot to think of them at all. She was gone!—she felt the bitterness of the whole truth; the blue water already lay between her and the shore, where she so much longed to be. In that confused mass of buildings at which she was gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing distance, was the only spot she cared for in the world; her heart was there. She could not see the place, to be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all that wide-spread city; but it was there somewhere, and every minute was making it farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing that sailing away from all one loves; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning both her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, and blinding her so that she could not see the place toward which her straining eyes were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve,—it was Timmins.

"Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come into the cabin, miss."

Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed Timmins into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, and nurses,—bustling and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might have stayed outside; she wanted to be by herself; but as the next best thing, she mounted upon the bench which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on the cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of her bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a bit of her face, while she could look out near by as well as from the deck. Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the voice of Mrs. Dunscombe, saying in rather an undertone, but laughing too, "What a figure she does cut in that outlandish bonnet!"

Ellen had no particular reason to think she was meant, and yet she did think so. She remained quite still, but with raised colour and quickened breathing waited to hear what would come next. Nothing came at first, and she was beginning to think she had perhaps been mistaken, when she plainly heard Margaret Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper, "Mamma, I wish you could contrive some way to keep her in the cabin—can't you? she looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet kind of a thing, that anybody would think she had come out of the woods, and no gloves too; I shouldn't like to have the Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to us;—can't you, mamma?"

If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would hardly have been greater. The lightning of passion shot through every vein. And it was not passion only; there was hurt feeling and wounded pride, and the sorrow of which her heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh. The child was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the most pressing thought,—to be where tears could burst and her heart could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd to the red curtain that cut off the far end of the saloon; and from there down to the cabin below,—people were everywhere. At last she spied a nook where she could be completely hidden. It was in the far-back end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she had come down. Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that ran round that end of the cabin and sloped up to the little cabin window; and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened and out of sight of every human creature. It was time indeed; her heart had been almost bursting with passion and pain, and now the pent-up tempest broke forth with a fury that racked her little frame from head to foot; and the more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more bitter by mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and wrong. And through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor child was reaching forth longing arms towards her far-off mother, and calling in secret on her beloved name. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" was repeated numberless times, with the unspeakable bitterness of knowing that she would have been a sure refuge and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she could neither reach nor hear her. Alas! how soon and how sadly missed.

Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a moment, it was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad to sit still and rest herself.

Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid upstairs, at a distance at first, and coming nearer and nearer. "Breakfast ready, ladies—Ladies, breakfast ready!" and then came all the people in a rush, pouring down the stairs over Ellen's head. She kept quite still and close, for she did not want to see anybody, and could not bear that anybody should see her. Nobody did see her; they all went off into the next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her hiding-place, and to feel restless in her confinement; she thought this would be a good time to get away; so she crept from her station under the stairs, and mounted them as quickly and as quietly as she could. She found almost nobody left in the saloon, and, breathing more freely, she possessed herself of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her head in the first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at the door, went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck; she felt as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe.

The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning sun; and nobody was there except a few gentlemen. Ellen sat down on one of the settees that were ranged along the middle of it, and much pleased at having found herself such a nice place of retreat, she once more took up her interrupted amusement of watching the banks of the river.

It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not fairly enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart to put a veil over all nature's brightness. The thought did pass through her mind when she first went up, how very fair everything was;—but she soon forgot to think about it all. They were now in a wide part of the river; and the shore towards which she was looking was low and distant, and offered nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and presently lost all sense of everything around and before her, for her thoughts went home. She remembered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her mother's arms, after she had stopped singing: could it be only last night? it seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again in imagination her shocked waking up that very morning,—how cruel that was!—her hurried dressing,—the miserable parting,—and those last words of her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet. "That home where parting cannot be." "Oh," thought Ellen, "how shall I ever get there? who is there to teach me now? Oh, what shall I do without you? Oh, mamma! how much I want you already!"

While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was perfectly calm; her violent excitement had all left her; her lip quivered a very little sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman who had been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending down his face towards hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my little friend?"

Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted, this in some little measure relieved her.

"What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and perhaps we can find some help for it."

"Oh no, you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly.

"Well, let us see," said he, "perhaps I can. What is it that has troubled you so much?"

"I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen.

"Your mother! Lost her!—how?"

"She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Have you left your mother in the city?"

"Oh yes, sir! I left her this morning."

"What is your name?"

"Ellen Montgomery."

"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"

"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."

"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"

"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to me as if it was for ever."

"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"

"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."

"Do you know why He sends it? He is the God of love,—He does not trouble us willingly,—He has said so;—why does He ever make us suffer? do you know?"

"No, sir."

"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it away,—perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter,—or else He hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.

"How do you know that you are not?"

"Because I do not love the Saviour."

"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"

"I am afraid not, sir."

"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"

"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."

"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"

"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared or thought about Him?"

Ellen was silent.

"Is it so?—would you, do you think?"

"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help it?"

"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to you, 'My daughter, give Me thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"

Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words, clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone—

"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"

"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."

"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."

"You pray to Him, don't you?"

"Yes, sir; but not so."

"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;—we are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what He should do for him?—he answered, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"

A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.

"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought to make you love Him with all your heart?"

"Oh yes, sir! if you please."

"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, sir;—everything, I think."

"I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.

"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"

Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.

"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was careless about them?"

"No indeed, sir."

"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or pain where your good was concerned;—she would sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours!"

Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said nothing.

"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could? And in all the times you have seen her tired, no fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of bearing with you when you forgot your duty,—more ready always to receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and love—many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right way—all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world, and in the next?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my mother, sir?"

"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you. Have I described her right?"

"Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen, "exactly."

"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have, sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her words.

"You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother—to give her all possible duty and affection; she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all these very things I have been mentioning Jesus Christ has shown that He deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a child to your mother—if you had never made her the least return of love or regard—that she would have continued to love you as she does?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "I do not think she would."

"Have you ever made any fit return to God for His goodness to you?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, in a low tone.

"And yet there has been no change in His kindness. Just look at it, and see what He has done and is doing for you. In the first place, it is not your mother, but He, who has given you every good and pleasant thing you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is so careful to provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials to work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which He supplied you. And who gave you such a mother?—there are many mothers not like her;—who put into her heart the truth and love that have been blessing you ever since you were born? It is all—all God's doing, from first to last; but His child has forgotten Him in the very gifts of His mercy."

Ellen was silent, but looked very grave.

"Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was concerned. Did Christ mind His? You know what He did to save sinners, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I know; mamma often told me."

"'Though He was rich, yet for our sake He became poor, that we through His poverty might be rich.' He took our burden of sin upon Himself, and suffered that terrible punishment—all to save you and such as you. And now He asks His children to leave off sinning and come back to Him who has bought them with His own blood. He did this because He loved you; does He not deserve to be loved in return?"

Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and further.

"And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved or obeyed Him; and yet He loves you, and is ready to be your friend. Is He not even to-day taking away your dear mother for the very purpose that He may draw you gently to Himself and fold you in His arms, as He has promised to do with His lambs? He knows you can never be happy anywhere else."

The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind was full.

"Has not Christ shown that He loves you better even than your mother does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these?—

"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'

"'I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth His life for the sheep.'

"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee.'"

He waited a minute, and then added gently, "Will you come to Him, Ellen?"

Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears there too, and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed out in broken words, "Oh, if I could—but I don't know how."

"Do you wish to be His child, Ellen?"

"Oh yes, sir—if I could."

"I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to Him. He is looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little heart of yours to Him, that He may make it holy and fill it with blessing. He says, you know, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Do not grieve Him away, Ellen."

Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone. Her heart was completely melted.

"If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you doubt her love to do it? would you have any difficulty in asking her?"

"Oh no!"

"Then do not doubt His love who loves you better still. Come to Jesus. Do not fancy He is away up in heaven out of reach of hearing—He is here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think you are in His presence and at His feet,—even now,—and say to Him in your heart, 'Lord, look upon me—I am not fit to come to Thee, but Thou hast bid me come—take me and make me Thine own—take this hard heart that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with Thy love—I give it and myself into Thy hands, O dear Saviour!'"

These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no more for some time; waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and appearance, and then said—

"Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?"

"I did, sir,—I couldn't help it, all but the last."

"All but the last?"

"Yes, sir."

"But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too,—do you believe that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard and answered?"

"Yes, sir."

And he thought he saw that she was in earnest.

"Perhaps the answer may not come at once,—it does not always; but it will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 'Then shall we know, if we follow on to know the Lord.' But then you must be in earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do besides praying?"

Ellen looked at him without making any answer.

"When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?"

"By doing everything he possibly can to get what he wants."

"Quite right," said her friend, smiling; "and has God bidden us to do nothing besides pray for a new heart?"

"Oh yes, sir; He has told us to do a great many things."

"And will He be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if He sees that you do not care about displeasing Him in those 'great many things'?—will He judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help will come; and from this good day you will seek to know and to do the will of God, trusting in His dear Son to perfect that which concerneth you. My little child," said the gentleman, softly and kindly, "are you ready to say you will do this?"

As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning over the leaves said, "I am going to leave you for a little while—I have a few moments' business downstairs to attend to; and I want you to look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will you?—and resolve what you will do."

Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, and silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind as her eyes went over and over the words to which he had pointed:—

"Behold the Saviour at the door, He gently knocks,—has knocked before,— Has waited long,—is waiting still,— You treat no other friend so ill.

Oh lovely attitude!—He stands With open heart and outstretched hands. Oh matchless kindness!—and He shows This matchless kindness to His foes.

Admit Him—for the human breast Ne'er entertained so kind a guest. Admit Him—for the hour's at hand When at His door, denied you'll stand.

Open my heart, Lord, enter in; Slay every foe, and conquer sin. Here now to Thee I all resign,— My body, soul, and all are Thine."

The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding were the very speech of her heart.

Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor.

"Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?" Ellen looked up.

"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?"

"Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again.

"And how have you decided, my child?"

"I will try to do as you said, sir."

"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please Him, from this day forward?"

"I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently.

"God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his hand over her head; "but do not cry any more—you have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now."

And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her: and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely by.



CHAPTER VIII

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

—SHAKESPEARE.

The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost forgotten.

"What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the whole; "would you like to go to your friends?"

"I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling heart.

"Haven't any friends on board! What do you mean? Are you alone?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "not exactly alone; my father put me in the care of a lady that is going to Thirlwall; but they are strangers and not friends."

"Are they unfriends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers cannot be friends too?"

"No indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir."

"Well then," he said, smiling, "will you come with me?"

"Oh yes, sir! if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you, sir."

"Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place to sit down, where no one will trouble us."

Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though the gentleman had done no more than merely to permit her to remain there by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way could be thought of.

When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of quietude, then her thoughts grew misty, and the end of it was, she dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head to a better resting-place than it had chosen.

And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of her.

After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again, and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air and the quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side.

"How do you like my little book?" said he.

"Oh, very much indeed, sir."

"Then you love hymns, do you?"

"Yes, I do, sir, dearly."

"Do you sometimes learn them by heart?"

"Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have been sitting here."

"Have you?" said he. "Which are they?"

"One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir."

"And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?"

Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a low tone, "Just what it was then, sir."

"Have you been thinking of it since?"

"I have thought of it the whole time, sir."

"And you are resolved you will obey Christ henceforth?"

"I am resolved to try, sir."

"My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. He never yet failed any that sincerely sought Him. Have you a Bible?"

"Oh yes, sir! a beautiful one. Mamma gave it to me the other day."

He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the leaves, marked several places in pencil.

"I am going to give you this," he said, "that it may serve to remind you of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolution."

Ellen flushed high with pleasure.

"I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other marks here too, but they are mine. These are for you."

"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."

He knew from her face what she meant—not the marks.

The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were resting from a long walk up and down the deck.

"What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he, smiling.

"Oh, candies," said Ellen. "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask you to take some. Will you have some, sir?"

"Thank you. What are they?"

"Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best."

He took one.

"Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen. "I don't care for them in the least."

"Then I am more of a child than you—in this, at any rate—for I do care for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with sweets."