"Two of them," said Alice faintly; "and hardly that now."

"I have not one," said the old woman, "I have not one; but my home is in heaven, and my Saviour is there preparing a place for me. I know it—I am sure of it—and I can wait a little while, and rejoice all the while I am waiting. Dearest Miss Alice—'none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate;' don't you believe that?"

"I do surely, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, wiping away a tear or two, "but I forget it sometimes; or the pressure of present pain is too much for all that faith and hope can do."

"It hinders faith and hope from acting—that is the trouble. 'They that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.' I know that is true, of my own experience; so will you, dear."

"I know it, Mrs. Vawse—I know it all; but it does me good to hear you say it. I thought I should become accustomed to John's absence, but I do not at all; the autumn winds all the while seem to sing to me that he is away."

"My dear love," said the old lady, "it sorrows me much to hear you speak so; I would take away this trial from you if I could; but He knows best. Seek to live nearer to the Lord, dear Miss Alice, and He will give you much more than He has taken away."

Alice again brushed away some tears.

"I felt I must come and see you to-day," said she, "and you have comforted me already. The sound of your voice always does me good. I catch courage and patience from you, I believe."

"'As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.' How did you leave Mr. and Mrs. Marshman? and has Mr. George returned yet?"

Drawing their chairs together, a close conversation began. Ellen had been painfully interested and surprised by what went before, but the low tone of voice now seemed to be not meant for her ear, and turning away her attention, she amused herself with taking a general survey.

It was easy to see that Mrs. Vawse lived in this room, and probably had no other to live in. Her bed was in one corner; cupboards filled the deep recesses on each side of the chimney, and in the wide fireplace the crane and the hooks and trammels hanging upon it showed that the bedroom and sitting-room was the kitchen too. Most of the floor was covered with a thick rag carpet; where the boards could be seen they were beautifully clean and white, and everything else in the room in this respect matched with the boards. The panes of glass in the little windows were clean and bright as panes of glass could be made; the hearth was clean swept up; the cupboard doors were unstained and unsoiled, though fingers had worn the paint off; dust was nowhere. On a little stand by the chimney corner lay a large Bible and another book, close beside stood a cushioned arm-chair. Some other apartment there probably was where wood and stores were kept; nothing was to be seen here that did not agree with a very comfortable face of the whole. It looked as if one might be happy there; it looked as if somebody was happy there; and a glance at the old lady of the house would not alter the opinion. Many a glance Ellen gave her as she sat talking with Alice; and with every one she felt more and more drawn towards her. She was somewhat under the common size, and rather stout; her countenance most agreeable; there was sense, character, sweetness in it. Some wrinkles no doubt were there too; lines deep-marked that spoke of sorrows once known. Those storms had all passed away; the last shadow of a cloud had departed; her evening sun was shining clear and bright towards the setting; and her brow was beautifully placid, not as though it never had been, but as if it never could be ruffled again. Respect no one could help feeling for her; and more than respect one felt would grow with acquaintance. Her dress was very odd, Ellen thought. It was not American, and what it was she did not know, but supposed Mrs. Vawse must have a lingering fancy for the costume as well as for the roofs of her fatherland. More than all her eye turned again and again to the face, which seemed to her in its changing expression winning and pleasant exceedingly. The mouth had not forgotten to smile, nor the eye to laugh; and though this was not often seen, the constant play of feature showed a deep and lively sympathy in all Alice was saying, and held Ellen's charmed gaze; and when the old lady's looks and words were at length turned to herself she blushed to think how long she had been looking steadily at a stranger.

"Little Miss Ellen, how do you like my house on the rock here?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen; "I like it very much, only I don't think I should like it so well in winter."

"I am not certain that I don't like it then best of all. Why would you not like it in winter?"

"I shouldn't like the cold, ma'am, and to be alone."

"I like to be alone: but cold? I am in no danger of freezing, Miss Ellen. I make myself very warm—keep good fires—and my house is too strong for the wind to blow it away. Don't you want to go out and see my cow? I have one of the best cows that ever you saw; her name is Snow; there is not a black hair upon her; she is all white. Come, Miss Alice; Mr. Marshman sent her to me a month ago; she's a great treasure, and worth looking at."

They went across the yard to the tiny barn or outhouse, where they found Snow nicely cared for. She was in a warm stable, a nice bedding of straw upon the floor, and plenty of hay laid up for her. Snow deserved it, for she was a beauty, and a very well-behaved cow, letting Alice and Ellen stroke her and pat her and feel of her thick hide, with the most perfect placidity. Mrs. Vawse meanwhile went to the door to look out.

"Nancy ought to be home to milk her," she said; "I must give you supper and send you off. I've no feeling nor smell if snow isn't thick in the air somewhere; we shall see it here soon."

"I'll milk her," said Alice.

"I'll milk her!" said Ellen; "I'll milk her! Ah, do let me; I know how to milk; Mr. Van Brunt taught me, and I have done it several times. May I? I should like it dearly."

"You shall do it surely, my child," said Mrs. Vawse. "Come with me, and I'll give you the pail and the milking-stool."

When Alice and Ellen came in with the milk they found the kettle on, the little table set, and Mrs. Vawse very busy at another table.

"What are you doing, Mrs. Vawse, may I ask?" said Alice.

"I'm just stirring up some Indian meal for you; I find I have not but a crust left."

"Please to put that away, ma'am, for another time. Do you think I didn't know better than to come up to this mountain-top without bringing along something to live upon while I am here? Here's a basket, ma'am, and in it are divers things; I believe Margery and I between us have packed up enough for two or three suppers, to say nothing of Miss Fortune's pie. There it is—sure to be good, you know; and here are some of my cakes that you like so much, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, as she went on pulling the things out of the basket; "there is a bowl of butter—that's not wanted, I see—and here is a loaf of bread; and that's all. Ellen, my dear, this basket will be lighter to carry down than it was to bring up."

"I am glad of it, I am sure," said Ellen; "my arm hasn't done aching yet, though I had it so little while."

"Ah, I am glad to hear that kettle singing," said their hostess. "I can give you good tea, Miss Alice; you'll think so, I know, for it's the same Mr. John sent me. It is very fine tea; and he sent me a noble supply, like himself," continued Mrs. Vawse, taking some out of her little caddy. "I ought not to say I have no friends left; I cannot eat a meal that I am not reminded of two good ones. Mr. John knew one of my weak points when he sent me that box of Souchong."

The supper was ready, and the little party gathered round the table. The tea did credit to the judgment of the giver and the skill of the maker, but they were no critics that drank it. Alice and Ellen were much too hungry and too happy to be particular. Miss Fortune's pumpkin pie was declared to be very fine, and so were Mrs. Vawse's cheese and butter. Eating and talking went on with great spirit, their old friend seeming scarce less pleased or less lively than themselves. Alice proposed the French plan, and Mrs. Vawse entered into it very frankly; it was easy to see that the style of building and of dress to which she had been accustomed in early life were not the only things remembered kindly for old time's sake. It was settled they should meet as frequently as might be, either here or at the parsonage, and become good Frenchwomen with all convenient speed.

"Will you wish to walk so far to see me again, little Miss Ellen?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!"

"You won't fear the deep snow, and the wind and cold, and the steep hill?"

"Oh no, ma'am, I won't mind them a bit; but, ma'am, Miss Alice told me to ask you why you loved better to live up here than down where it is warmer. I shouldn't ask if she hadn't said I might."

"Ellen has a great fancy for getting at the reason of everything, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, smiling.

"You wonder anybody should choose it, don't you, Miss Ellen?" said the old lady.

"Yes, ma'am, a little."

"I'll tell you the reason, my child. It is for the love of my old home and the memory of my young days. Till I was as old as you are, and a little older, I lived among the mountains and upon them; and after that for many a year they were just before my eyes every day, stretching away for more than one hundred miles, and piled up one above another, fifty times as big as any you ever saw; these are only molehills to them. I loved them—oh, how I love them still! If I have one unsatisfied wish," said the old lady, turning to Alice, "it is to see my Alps again; but that will never be. Now, Miss Ellen, it is not that I fancy, when I get to the top of this hill, that I am among my own mountains, but I can breathe better here than down in the plain. I feel more free; and in the village I would not live for gold, unless that duty bade me."

"But all alone, so far from everybody?" said Ellen.

"I am never lonely; and, old as I am, I don't mind a long walk or a rough road any more than your young feet do."

"But isn't it very cold?" said Ellen.

"Yes, it is very cold; what of that? I make a good blazing fire, and then I like to hear the wind whistle."

"Yes, but you wouldn't like to have it whistling inside as well as out," said Alice. "I will come and do the listing and caulking for you in a day or two. Oh, you have it done without me. I am sorry."

"No need to be sorry, dear; I am glad—you don't look fit for any troublesome jobs."

"I am fit enough," said Alice. "Don't put up the curtains; I'll come and do it."

"You must come with a stronger face, then," said her old friend; "have you wearied yourself with walking all this way?"

"I was a little weary," said Alice, "but your nice tea has made me up again."

"I wish I could keep you all night," said Mrs. Vawse, looking out, "but your father would be uneasy. I am afraid the storm will catch you before you get home; and you aren't fit to breast it. Little Ellen, too, don't look as if she was made of iron. Can't you stay with me?"

"I must not—it wouldn't do," said Alice, who was hastily putting on her things; "we'll soon run down the hill. But we are leaving you alone. Where's Nancy?"

"She'll not come if there's a promise of a storm," said Mrs. Vawse; "she often stays out all night."

"And leaves you alone!"

"I am never alone," said the old lady quietly; "I have nothing to fear; but I am uneasy about you, dear. Mind my words; don't try to go back the way you came; take the other road; it's easier; and stop when you get to Mrs. Van Brunt's; Mr. Van Brunt will take you the rest of the way in his little waggon."

"Do you think it is needful?" said Alice doubtfully.

"I am sure it is best. Hasten down. Adieu, mon enfant."

They kissed and embraced her and hurried out.



CHAPTER XIX

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough; The shortening winter day is near a close.

—BURNS.

The clouds hung thick and low; the wind was less than it had been. They took the path Mrs. Vawse had spoken of; it was broader and easier than the other, winding more gently down the mountain; it was sometimes, indeed, travelled by horses, though far too steep for any kind of carriage. Alice and Ellen ran along without giving much heed to anything but their footing, down, down, running and bounding, hand in hand, till want of breath obliged them to slacken their pace.

"Do you think it will snow?—soon?" asked Ellen.

"I think it will snow, how soon I cannot tell. Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"

"Oh, very."

"I always have when I go there. Now, Ellen, there is an example of contentment for you. If ever a woman loved husband and children and friends Mrs. Vawse loved hers; I know this from those who knew her long ago; and now look at her. Of them all she has none left but the orphan daughter of her youngest son, and you know a little what sort of a child that is."

"She must be a very bad girl," said Ellen; "you can't think what stories she told me about her grandmother."

"Poor Nancy," said Alice. "Mrs. Vawse has no money nor property of any kind, except what is in her house; but there is not a more independent woman breathing. She does all sorts of things to support herself. Now, for instance, Ellen, if anybody is sick within ten miles round, the family are too happy to get Mrs. Vawse for a nurse. She is an admirable one. Then she goes out tailoring at the farmers' houses; she brings home wool and returns it spun into yarn; she brings home yarn and knits it up into stockings and socks; all sorts of odd jobs. I have seen her picking hops; she isn't above doing anything, and yet she never forgets her own dignity. I think wherever she goes and whatever she is about she is at all times one of the most truly ladylike persons I have ever seen. And everybody respects her; everybody likes to gain her goodwill; she is known all over the country; and all the country are her friends."

"They pay her for doing these things, don't they?"

"Certainly; not often in money; more commonly in various kinds of matters that she wants—flour, and sugar, and Indian meal, and pork, and ham, and vegetables, and wool—anything; it is but a little of each that she wants. She has friends that would not permit her to earn another sixpence it they could help it, but she likes better to live as she does. And she is always as you saw her to-day—cheerful and happy as a little girl."

Ellen was turning over Alice's last words and thinking that little girls were not always the cheerfullest and happiest creatures in the world, when Alice suddenly exclaimed, "It is snowing! Come, Ellen, we must make haste now!" and set off at a quickened pace. Quick as they might, they had gone not a hundred yards when the whole air was filled with the falling flakes, and the wind which had lulled for a little now rose with greater violence and swept round the mountain furiously. The storm had come in good earnest, and promised to be no trifling one. Alice and Ellen ran on, holding each other's hands and strengthening themselves against the blast, but their journey became every moment more difficult. The air was dark with the thick-falling snow; the wind seemed to blow in every direction by turns, but chiefly against them, blinding their eyes with the snow, and making it necessary to use no small effort to keep on their way. Ellen hardly knew where she went, but allowed herself to be pulled along by Alice, or as well pulled her along; it was hard to say which hurried most. In the midst of this dashing on down the hill Alice all at once came to a sudden stop.

"Where's the Captain?" said she.

"I don't know," said Ellen. "I haven't thought of him since we left Mrs. Vawse's."

Alice turned her back to the wind and looked up the road they had come—there was nothing but wind and snow there; how furiously it blew! Alice called, "Pussy!"

"Shall we walk up the road a little way, or shall we stand and wait for him here?" said Ellen, trembling half from exertion and half from a vague fear of she knew not what.

Alice called again;—no answer, but a wild gust of wind and snow that drove past.

"I can't go on and leave him," said Alice; "he might perish in the storm." And she began to walk slowly back, calling at intervals, "Pussy!—kitty!—pussy!"—and listening for an answer that came not. Ellen was very unwilling to tarry, and nowise inclined to prolong their journey by going backwards. She thought the storm grew darker and wilder every moment.

"Perhaps Captain stayed up at Mrs. Vawse's," she said, "and, didn't follow us down."

"No," said Alice, "I am sure he did. Hark!—wasn't that he?"

"I don't hear anything," said Ellen, after a pause of anxious listening.

Alice went a few steps further.

"I hear him!" she said; "I hear him! poor kitty!"—and she set off at a quick pace up the hill. Ellen followed, but presently a burst of wind and snow brought them both to a stand. Alice faltered a little at this, in doubt whether to go up or down. But then to their great joy Captain's far-off cry was heard, and both Alice and Ellen strained their voices to cheer and direct him. In a few minutes he came in sight, trotting hurriedly along through the snow, and on reaching his mistress he sat down immediately on the ground without offering any caress; a sure sign that he was tired. Alice stooped down and took him up in her arms.

"Poor Kitty!" she said, "you've done your part for to-day, I think; I'll do the rest. Ellen, dear, it's of no use to tire ourselves out at once; we will go moderately. Keep hold of my cloak, my child; it takes both of my arms to hold this big cat. Now, never mind the snow; we can bear being blown about a little. Are you very tired?"

"No," said Ellen, "not very; I am a little tired; but I don't care for that if we can only get home safe."

"There's no difficulty about that, I hope. Nay, there may be some difficulty, but we shall get there I think in good safety after a while. I wish we were there now, for your sake, my child."

"Oh, never mind me," said Ellen gratefully; "I am sorry for you, Miss Alice; you have the hardest time of it with that heavy load to carry; I wish I could help you."

"Thank you, my dear, but nobody could do that; I doubt if Captain would lie in any arms but mine."

"Let me carry the basket, then," said Ellen; "do, Miss Alice."

"No, my dear, it hangs very well on my arm. Take it gently; Mrs. Van Brunt's isn't very far off; we shall feel the wind less when we turn."

But the road seemed long. The storm did not increase in violence, truly there was no need of that, but the looked-for turning was not soon found, and the gathering darkness warned them day was drawing towards a close. As they neared the bottom of the hill Alice made a pause.

"There's a path that turns off from this and makes a shorter cut to Mrs. Van Brunt's, but it must be above here; I must have missed it, though I have been on the watch constantly."

She looked up and down. It would have been a sharp eye indeed that had detected any slight opening in the woods on either side of the path, which the driving snowstorm blended into one continuous wall of trees. They could be seen stretching darkly before and behind them; but more than that—where they stood near together and where scattered apart—was all confusion, through that fast-falling shower of flakes.

"Shall we go back and look for the path?" said Ellen.

"I am afraid we shouldn't find it if we did," said Alice; "we should only lose our time, and we have none to lose. I think we had better go straight forward."

"Is it much further this way than the other path we have missed?"

"A good deal—all of half a mile. I am sorry; but courage, my child! we shall know better than to go out in snowy weather next time—on long expeditions at least."

They had to shout to make each other hear, so drove the snow and wind through the trees and into their very faces and ears. They plodded on. It was plodding; the snow lay thick enough now to make their footing uneasy, and grew deeper every moment; their shoes were full; their feet and ankles were wet, and their steps began to drag heavily over the ground. Ellen clung as close to Alice's cloak as their hurried travelling would permit; sometimes one of Alice's hands was loosened for a moment to be passed round Ellen's shoulders, and a word of courage or comfort in the clear calm tone cheered her to renewed exertion. The night fell fast; it was very darkling by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, and the road did not yet allow them to turn their faces towards Mrs. Van Brunt's. A wearisome piece of the way this was, leading them from the place they wished to reach. They could not go fast either; they were too weary, and the walking too heavy. Captain had the best of it; snug and quiet he lay wrapped in Alice's cloak and fast asleep, little wotting how tired his mistress's arms were.

The path at length brought them to the long-desired turning; but it was by this time so dark that the fences on each side of the road showed but dimly. They had not spoken for a while; as they turned the corner a sigh of mingled weariness and satisfaction escaped from Ellen's lips. It reached Alice's ear.

"What's the matter, love?" said the sweet voice. No trace of weariness was allowed to come into it.

"I am so glad we have got here at last," said Ellen, looking up with another sigh, and removing her hand for an instant from its grasp on the cloak to Alice's arm.

"My poor child! I wish I could carry you too. Can you hold on a little longer?"

"Oh yes, dear Miss Alice, I can hold on."

But Ellen's voice was not so well guarded. It was like her steps, a little unsteady. She presently spoke again.

"Miss Alice—are you afraid?"

"I am afraid of your getting sick, my child, and a little afraid of it for myself;—of nothing else. What is there to be afraid of?"

"It is very dark," said Ellen; "and the storm is so thick—do you think you can find the way?"

"I know it perfectly; it is nothing but to keep straight on; and the fences would prevent us from getting out of the road. It is hard walking, I know, but we shall get there by-and-by; bear up as well as you can, dear. I am sorry I can give you no help but words. Don't you think a nice bright fire will look comfortable after all this?"

"Oh dear, yes!" answered Ellen rather sadly.

"Are you afraid, Ellen?"

"No, Miss Alice—not much—I don't like it's being so dark, I can't see where I am going."

"The darkness makes our way longer and more tedious; it will do us no other harm, love. I wish I had a hand to give you, but this great cat must have both of mine. The darkness and the light are both alike to our Father; we are in His hands; we are safe enough, dear Ellen."

Ellen's hand left the cloak again for an instant to press Alice's arm in answer; her voice failed at the minute. Then clinging anew as close to her side as she could get, they toiled patiently on. The wind had somewhat lessened of its violence, and besides it blew not now in their faces, but against their backs, helping them on. Still the snow continued to fall very fast, and already lay thick upon the ground; every half-hour increased the heaviness and painfulness of their march; and darkness gathered till the very fences could no longer be seen. It was pitch dark; to hold the middle of the road was impossible; their only way was to keep along by one of the fences; and for fear of hurting themselves against some outstanding post or stone it was necessary to travel quite gently. They were indeed in no condition to travel otherwise if light had not been wanting. Slowly and patiently, with painful care groping their way, they pushed on through the snow and the thick night. Alice could feel the earnestness of Ellen's grasp upon her clothes; and her close pressing up to her made their progress still slower and more difficult than it would otherwise have been.

"Miss Alice," said Ellen.

"What, my child?"

"I wish you would speak to me once in a while."

Alice freed one of her hands and took hold of Ellen's.

"I have been so busy picking my way along, I have neglected you, haven't I?"

"Oh no, ma'am. But I like to hear the sound of your voice sometimes, it makes me feel better."

"This is an odd kind of travelling, isn't it?" said Alice cheerfully; "in the dark, and feeling our way along? This will be quite an adventure to talk about, won't it?"

"Quite," said Ellen.

"It is easier going this way, don't you find it so? The wind helps us forward."

"It helps me too much," said Ellen; "I wish it wouldn't be quite so very kind. Why, Miss Alice, I have enough to do to hold myself together sometimes. It almost makes me run, though I am so very tired."

"Well, it is better than having it in our faces, at any rate. Tired you are, I know, and must be. We shall want to rest all day to-morrow, shan't we?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Ellen, sighing; "I shall be glad when we begin. How long do you think it will be, Miss Alice, before we get to Mrs. Van Brunt's?"

"My dear child, I cannot tell you. I have not the least notion whereabouts we are. I can see no waymarks, and I cannot judge at all of the rate at which we have come."

"But what if we should have passed it in this darkness?" said Ellen.

"No, I don't think that," said Alice, though a cold doubt struck her mind at Ellen's words; "I think we shall see the glimmer of Mrs. Van Brunt's family candle by-and-by."

But more uneasily and more keenly now she strove to see that glimmer through the darkness; strove till the darkness seemed to press painfully upon her eyeballs, and she almost doubted her being able to see any light, if light there were; it was all blank, thick darkness still. She began to question anxiously with herself which side of the house was Mrs. Van Brunt's ordinary sitting-room—whether she should see the light from it before or after passing the house; and now her glance was directed often behind her, that they might be sure in any case of not missing their desired haven. In vain she looked forward or back; it was all one; no cheering glimmer of lamp or candle greeted her straining eyes. Hurriedly now from time to time the comforting words were spoken to Ellen, for to pursue the long stretch of way that led onward from Mr. Van Brunt's to Miss Fortune's would be a very serious matter; Alice wanted comfort herself.

"Shall we get there soon, do you think, Miss Alice?" said poor Ellen, whose wearied feet carried her painfully over the deepening snow. The tone of voice went to Alice's heart.

"I don't know, my darling; I hope so," she answered; but it was spoken rather patiently than cheerfully. "Fear nothing, dear Ellen; remember Who has the care of us; darkness and light are both alike to Him! nothing will do us any real harm."

"How tired you must be, dear Miss Alice, carrying pussy!" Ellen said with a sigh.

For the first time Alice echoed the sigh; but almost immediately Ellen exclaimed in a totally different tone, "There's a light! but it isn't a candle, it is moving about. What is it? What is it, Miss Alice?"

They stopped and looked. A light there certainly was, dimly seen, moving at some little distance from the fence on the opposite side of the road. All of a sudden it disappeared.

"What is it?" whispered Ellen fearfully.

"I don't know, my love, yet; wait——"

They waited several minutes.

"What could it be?" said Ellen. "It was certainly a light; I saw it as plainly as ever I saw anything. What can it have done with itself? There it is again! going the other way!"

Alice waited no longer, but screamed out, "Who's there?"

But the light paid no attention to her cry; it travelled on.

"Halloo!" called Alice again, as loud as she could.

"Halloo!" answered a rough, deep voice. The light suddenly stopped.

"That's he! that's he!" exclaimed Ellen, in an ecstasy, and almost dancing. "I know it; it's Mr. Van Brunt! it's Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, Miss Alice——!"

Struggling between crying and laughing, Ellen could not stand it, but gave way to a good fit of crying. Alice felt the infection, but controlled herself, though her eyes watered as her heart sent up its grateful tribute; as well as she could, she answered the halloo.

The light was seen advancing towards them. Presently it glimmered faintly behind the fence, showing a bit of the dark rails covered with snow, and they could dimly see the figure of a man getting over them. He crossed the road to where they stood. It was Mr. Van Brunt.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Van Brunt," said Alice's sweet voice, but it trembled a little.

That gentleman, at first dumb with astonishment, lifted his lantern to survey them, and assure his eyes that his ears had not been mistaken.

"Miss Alice!—My goodness alive!—How in the name of wonder!—And my poor little lamb!—But what on 'arth, ma'am! you must be half dead. Come this way; just come back a little bit. Why, where were you going, ma'am?"

"To your house, Mr. Van Brunt; I have been looking for it with no little anxiety, I assure you."

"Looking for it! Why, how on 'arth! you wouldn't see the biggest house ever was built half a yard off such a plaguy night as this."

"I thought I should see the light from the windows, Mr. Van Brunt."

"The light from the windows! Bless my soul! the storm rattled so again the windows that mother made me pull the great shutters to. I won't have 'em shut again of a stormy night, that's a fact; you'd ha' gone far enough afore you'd ha' seen the light through them shutters."

"Then we had passed the house already, hadn't we?"

"Indeed had you, ma'am. I guess you saw my light, ha'n't you?"

"Yes, and glad enough we were to see it, too."

"I suppose so. It happened so to-night—now that is a queer thing—I minded that I hadn't untied my horse. He's a trick of being untied at night, and won't sleep well if he ain't; and mother wanted me to let him alone 'cause of the awful storm, but I couldn't go to my bed in peace till I had seen him to his'n. So that's how my lantern came to be going to the barn in such an awk'ard night as this."

They had reached the little gate, and Mr. Van Brunt with some difficulty pulled it open. The snow lay thick upon the neat brick walk which Ellen had trod the first time with wet feet and dripping garments. A few steps farther and they came to the same door that had opened then so hospitably to receive her. As the faint light of the lantern was thrown upon the old latch and door-posts, Ellen felt at home, and a sense of comfort sank down into her heart which she had not known for some time.



CHAPTER XX

True is, that whilome that good poet said, The gentle minde by gentle deeds is knowne: For a man by nothing is so well bewrayed As by his manners, in which plaine is showne Of what degree and what race he is growne.

—FAERIE QUEENE.

Mr. Van Brunt flung open the door, and the two wet and weary travellers stepped after him into the same cheerful, comfortable-looking kitchen that had received Ellen once before. Just the same—tidy, clean-swept up, a good fire, and the same old red-backed chairs standing round on the hearth in most cosy fashion. It seemed to Ellen a perfect storehouse of comfort; the very walls had a kind face for her. There were no other faces, however; the chairs were all empty. Mr. Van Brunt put Alice in one and Ellen in another, and shouted, "Mother! here!" muttering that she had taken herself off with the light somewhere. Not very far; for in half a minute, answering the call, Mrs. Van Brunt and the light came hurriedly in.

"What's the matter, 'Brahm? who's this? why, 'taint Miss Alice! My gracious me! and all wet! oh dear, dear! poor lamb! Why, Miss Alice, dear, where have you been?—and if that ain't my little Ellen! oh dear! what a fix you are in;—well, darling, I'm glad to see you again, a'most any way."

She crossed over to kiss Ellen as she said this; but surprise was not more quickly alive than kindness and hospitality. She fell to work immediately to remove Alice's wet things, and to do whatever their joint prudence and experience might suggest to ward off any ill effects from the fatigue and exposure the wanderers had suffered; and while she was thus employed, Mr. Van Brunt busied himself with Ellen, who was really in no condition to help herself. It was curious to see him carefully taking off Ellen's wet hood (not the blue one), and knocking it gently to get rid of the snow; evidently thinking that ladies' things must have delicate handling. He tried the cloak next, but boggled sadly at the fastening of that, and at last was fain to call in help.

"Here, Nancy! where are you? step here and see if you can undo this here thing, whatever you call it; I believe my fingers are too big for it."

It was Ellen's former acquaintance who came forward in obedience to this call. Ellen had not seen before that she was in the room. Nancy grinned a mischievous smile of recognition as she stooped to Ellen's throat, and undid the fastening of the cloak, and then shortly enough bade her "get up, that she might take it off." Ellen obeyed, but was very glad to sit down again. While Nancy went to the door to shake the cloak, Mr. Van Brunt was gently pulling off Ellen's wet gloves, and on Nancy's return, he directed her to take off the shoes, which were filled with snow. Nancy sat down on the floor before Ellen to obey this order; and, tired and exhausted as she was, Ellen felt the different manner in which her hands and feet were waited upon.

"How did you get into this scrape?" said Nancy; "this was none of my doings, anyhow. It'll never be dry weather, Ellen, where you are. I won't put on my Sunday go-to-meeting clothes when I go a-walking with you. You had ought to ha' been a duck or a goose, or something like that. What's that for, Mr. Van Brunt?"

This last query, pretty sharply spoken, was in answer to a light touch of that gentleman's hand upon Miss Nancy's ear, which came rather as a surprise. He deigned no reply.

"You're a fine gentleman!" said Nancy tartly.

"Have you done what I gave you to do?" said Mr. Van Brunt coolly.

"Yes—there!" said Nancy, holding up Ellen's bare feet on one hand, while the fingers of the other, secretly applied in ticklish fashion to the soles of them, caused Ellen suddenly to start and scream.

"Get up!" said Mr. Van Brunt; Nancy didn't think best to disobey. "Mother, ha'n't you got nothing you want Nancy to do?"

"Sally," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "you and Nancy go and fetch here a couple of pails of hot water, right away."

"Go, and mind what you are about," said Mr. Van Brunt, "and after that keep out of this room, and don't whisper again till I give you leave. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, how do you feel?"

Ellen said in words that she felt "nicely." But the eyes and the smile said a great deal more; Ellen's heart was running over.

"Oh, she'll feel nicely, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Van Brunt; "wait till she gets her feet soaked, and then——!"

"I do feel nicely now," said Ellen. And Alice smiled in answer to their inquiries, and said if she only knew her father was easy there would be nothing wanting to her happiness.

The bathing of their feet was a great refreshment, and their kind hostess had got ready a plentiful supply of hot herb tea, with which both Alice and Ellen were well dosed. While they sat sipping this, toasting their feet before the fire, Mrs. Van Brunt and the girls meanwhile preparing their room, Mr. Van Brunt suddenly entered. He was cloaked and hatted, and had a riding whip in his hand.

"Is there any word you'd like to get home, Miss Alice? I'm going to ride a good piece that way, and I can stop as good as not."

"To-night, Mr. Van Brunt!" exclaimed Alice in astonishment.

Mr. Van Brunt's silence seemed to say that to-night was the time and no other.

"But the storm is too bad," urged Alice. "Pray don't go till to-morrow."

"Pray don't, Mr. Van Brunt!" said Ellen.

"Can't help it—I've got business; must go. What shall I say, ma'am?"

"I should be very glad," said Alice, "to have my father know where I am. Are you going very near the Nose?"

"Very near."

"Then I shall be greatly obliged if you will be so kind as to stop and relieve my father's anxiety. But how can you go in such weather? and so dark as it is."

"Never fear," said Mr. Van Brunt. "We'll be back in half-an-hour, if 'Brahm and me don't come across a snow-drift a leetle too deep. Good-night, ma'am." And out he went.

"'Back in half-an-hour,'" said Alice, musing. "Why, he said he had been to untie his horse for the night! He must be going on our account, I am sure, Ellen!"

"On your account," said Ellen, smiling. "Oh, I knew that all the time, Miss Alice. I don't think he'll stop to relieve Aunt Fortune's anxiety."

Alice sprang to call him back, but Mrs. Van Brunt assured her it was too late, and that she need not be uneasy, for her son "didn't mind the storm no more than a weather-board." 'Brahm and 'Brahm could go anywhere in any sort of a time. "He was agoing without speaking to you, but I told him he had better, for maybe you wanted to send some word particular. And your room's ready now, dear, and you'd better go to bed and sleep as long as you can."

They went thankfully. "Isn't this a pleasant room?" said Ellen, who saw everything in rose-colour; "and a nice bed. But I feel as if I could sleep on the floor to-night. Isn't it a'most worth while to have such a time, Miss Alice, for the sake of the pleasure afterwards?"

"I don't know, Ellen," said Alice, smiling; "I won't say that; though it is worth paying a price for to find how much kindness there is in some people's hearts. As to sleeping on the floor, I must say I never felt less inclined to it."

"Well, I am tired enough too," said Ellen, as they laid themselves down. "Two nights with you in a week! Oh those weeks before I saw you, Miss Alice!"

One earnest kiss for good night; and Ellen's sigh of pleasure on touching the pillow was scarcely breathed when sleep deep and sound fell upon her eyelids.

It was very late next morning when they awoke, having slept rather heavily than well. They crawled out of bed feeling stiff and sore in every limb; each confessing to more evil effects from their adventure than she had been aware of the evening before. All the rubbing and bathing and drinking that Mrs. Van Brunt had administered had been too little to undo what wet and cold and fatigue had done. But Mrs. Van Brunt had set her breakfast-table with everything her house could furnish that was nice; a bountifully-spread board it was. Mr. Humphreys was there too; and no bad feelings of two of the party could prevent that from being a most cheerful and pleasant meal. Even Mr Humphreys and Mr. Van Brunt, two persons not usually given to many words, came out wonderfully on this occasion; gratitude and pleasure in the one, and generous feeling on the part of the other, untied their tongues; and Ellen looked from one to the other in some amazement to see how agreeable they could be. Kindness and hospitality always kept Mrs. Van Brunt in full flow; and Alice, whatever she felt, exerted herself, and supplied what was wanting everywhere; like the transparent glazing which painters use to spread over the dead colour of their pictures; unknown, it was she gave her life and harmony to the whole. And Ellen in her enjoyment of everything and everybody, forgot or despised aches and pains, and even whispered to Alice that coffee was making her well again.

But happily breakfasts must come to an end, and so did this, prolonged though it was. Immediately after, the party, whom circumstances had gathered for the first and probably the last time, scattered again; but the meeting had left pleasant effects on all minds. Mrs. Van Brunt was in general delight that she had entertained so many people she thought a great deal of, and particularly glad of the chance of showing her kind feelings towards two of the number. Mr. Humphreys remarked upon "that very sensible, good-hearted man, Mr. Van Brunt, towards whom he felt himself under great obligation." Mr. Van Brunt said, "the minister warn't such a grum man as people called him;" and moreover said, "it was a good thing to have an education, and he had a notion to read more." As for Alice and Ellen, they went away full of kind feeling for every one, and much love to each other. This was true of them before; but their late troubles had drawn them closer together and given them fresh occasion to value their friends.

Mr. Humphreys had brought the little one-horse sleigh for his daughter, and soon after breakfast Ellen saw it drive off with her. Mr. Van Brunt then harnessed his own and carried Ellen home. Ill though she felt, the poor child made an effort and spent part of the morning in finishing the long letter to her mother which had been on the stocks since Monday. The effort became painful towards the last; and the aching limbs and trembling hand of which she complained were the first beginnings of a serious fit of illness. She went to bed that same afternoon, and did not leave it again for two weeks. Cold had taken violent hold of her system; fever set in and ran high; and half the time little Ellen's wits were roving in delirium. Nothing however could be too much for Miss Fortune's energies; she was as much at home in a sick room as in a well one. She flew about with increased agility; was upstairs and downstairs twenty times in the course of the day, and kept all straight everywhere. Ellen's room was always the picture of neatness; the fire, the wood-fire, was taken care of; Miss Fortune seemed to know by instinct when it wanted a fresh supply, and to be on the spot by magic to give it. Ellen's medicines were dealt out in proper time; her gruels and drinks perfectly well made and arranged with appetising nicety on a little table by the bedside where she could reach them herself; and Miss Fortune was generally at hand when she was wanted. But in spite of all this there was something missing in that sick room—there was a great want; and whenever the delirium was upon her Ellen made no secret of it. She was never violent; but she moaned, sometimes impatiently and sometimes plaintively, for her mother. It was a vexation to Miss Fortune to hear her. The name of her mother was all the time on her lips; if by chance her aunt's name came in, it was spoken in a way that generally sent her bouncing out of the room.

"Mamma," poor Ellen would say, "just lay your hand on my forehead, will you? it's so hot. Oh do, mamma!—where are you? Do put your hand on my forehead, won't you? Oh, do speak to me, why don't you, mamma? Oh, why don't she come to me?"

Once when Ellen was uneasily calling in this fashion for her mother's hand, Miss Fortune softly laid her own upon the child's brow; but the quick sudden jerk of the head from under it told her how well Ellen knew the one from the other; and little as she cared for Ellen it was wormwood to her.

Miss Fortune was not without offers of help during this sick time. Mrs. Van Brunt, and afterwards Mrs. Vawse, asked leave to come and nurse Ellen; but Miss Fortune declared it was more plague than profit to her, and she couldn't be bothered with having strangers about. Mrs. Van Brunt she suffered much against her will to come for a day or two; at the end of that Miss Fortune found means to get rid of her civilly. Mrs. Vawse she would not allow to stay an hour. The old lady got leave however to go up to the sick-room for a few minutes. Ellen, who was then in a high fever, informed her that her mother was downstairs, and her Aunt Fortune would not let her come up; she pleaded with tears that she might come, and entreated Mrs. Vawse to take her aunt away and send her mother. Mrs. Vawse tried to soothe her. Miss Fortune grew impatient.

"What on earth's the use," said she, "of talking to a child that's out of her head? She can't hear reason; that's the way she gets into whenever the fever's on her. I have the pleasure of hearing that sort of thing all the time. Come away, Mrs. Vawse, and leave her; she can't be better any way than alone, and I am in the room every other thing; she's just as well quiet. Nobody knows," said Miss Fortune, on her way downstairs, "nobody knows the blessing of taking care of other people's children that ha'n't tried it. I've tried it, to my heart's content."

Mrs. Vawse sighed, but departed in silence.

It was not when the fever was on her and delirium high that Ellen most felt the want she then so pitifully made known. There were other times, when her head was aching, and weary and weak she lay still there, oh, how she longed then for the dear wonted face; the old quiet smile that carried so much of comfort and assurance with it; the voice that was like heaven's music; the touch of that loved hand to which she had clung for so many years! She could scarcely bear to think of it sometimes. In the still wakeful hours of night, when the only sound to be heard was the heavy breathing of her aunt asleep on the floor by her side, and in the long solitary day, when the only variety to be looked for was Miss Fortune's flitting in and out, and there came to be a sameness about that, Ellen mourned her loss bitterly. Many and many were the silent tears that rolled down and wet her pillow; many a long-drawn sigh came from the very bottom of Ellen's heart; she was too weak and subdued now for violent weeping. She wondered sadly why Alice did not come to see her; it was another great grief added to the former. She never chose, however, to mention her name to her aunt. She kept her wonder and her sorrow to herself—all the harder to bear for that. After two weeks Ellen began to mend, and then she became exceeding weary of being alone and shut up to her room. It was a pleasure to have her Bible and hymn-book lying upon the bed, and a great comfort when she was able to look at a few words; but that was not very often, and she longed to see somebody and hear something besides her aunt's dry questions and answers.

One afternoon Ellen was sitting, alone as usual, bolstered up in bed. Her little hymn-book was clasped in her hand; though not equal to reading, she felt the touch of it a solace. Half dozing, half waking, she had been perfectly quiet for some time, when the sudden and not very gentle opening of the room door caused her to start and open her eyes. They opened wider than usual, for instead of her Aunt Fortune it was the figure of Miss Nancy Vawse that presented itself. She came in briskly, and shutting the door behind her advanced to the bedside.

"Well," said she, "there you are! Why, you look smart enough. I've come to see you."

"Have you?" said Ellen uneasily.

"Miss Fortune's gone out, and she told me to come and take care of you; so I'm going to spend the afternoon."

"Are you?" said Ellen again.

"Yes—ain't you glad? I knew you must be lonely, so I thought I'd come."

There was a mischievous twinkle in Nancy's eyes. Ellen for once in her life wished for her aunt's presence.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," said Ellen.

"Nothing indeed? It's a fine thing to lie there and do nothing. You won't get well in a hurry, I guess, will you? You look as well as I do this minute. Oh, I always knew you was a sham."

"You are very much mistaken," said Ellen indignantly; "I have been very sick, and I am not at all well yet."

"Fiddle-dee-dee! it's very nice to think so; I guess you're lazy. How soft and good those pillows do look, to be sure. Come, Ellen, try getting up a little. I believe you hurt yourself with sleeping. It'll do you good to be out of bed awhile; come, get up."

She pulled Ellen's arm as she spoke.

"Stop, Nancy, let me alone!" cried Ellen, struggling with all her force; "I mustn't—I can't! I mustn't get up; what do you mean? I'm not able to sit up at all; let me go!"

She succeeded in freeing herself from Nancy's grasp.

"Well, you're an obstinate piece," said the other; "have your own way. But mind, I'm left in charge of you; is it time for you to take your physic?"

"I am not taking any," said Ellen.

"What are you taking?"

"Nothing but gruel and little things."

"'Gruel and little things;' little things means something good, I s'pose. Well, is it time for you to take some gruel or one of the little things?"

"No, I don't want any."

"Oh, that's nothing; people never know what's good for them; I'm your nurse now, and I'm going to give it to you when I think you want it. Let me feel your pulse—yes, your pulse says gruel is wanting. I shall put some down to warm right away."

"I shan't take it," said Ellen.

"That's a likely story! You'd better not say so. I rather s'pose you will if I give it to you. Look here, Ellen, you'd better mind how you behave; you're going to do just what I tell you. I know how to manage you; if you make any fuss I shall just tickle you finely," said Nancy, as she prepared a bed of coals, and set the cup of gruel on it to get hot; "I'll do it in no time at all, my young lady, so you'd better mind."

Poor Ellen involuntarily curled up her feet under the bedclothes so as to get them as far as possible out of harm's way She judged the best thing was to keep quiet if she could, so she said nothing. Nancy was in great glee; with something of the same spirit of mischief that a cat shows when she has a captured mouse at the end of her paws. While the gruel was heating she spun round the room in quest of amusement; and her sudden jerks and flings from one place and thing to another had so much of lawlessness that Ellen was in perpetual terror as to what she might take it into her head to do next.

"Where does that door lead to?"

"I believe that one leads to the garret," said Ellen.

"You believe so? why don't you say it does, at once?"

"I haven't been up to see."

"You haven't! you expect me to believe that, I s'pose? I am not quite such a gull as you take me for. What's up there?"

"I don't know, of course."

"Of course! I declare I don't know what you are up to exactly; but if you won't tell me I'll find out for myself pretty quick, that's one thing."

She flung open the door and ran up; and Ellen heard her feet trampling overhead from one end of the house to the other; and sounds too of pushing and pulling things over the floor; it was plain Nancy was rummaging.

"Well," said Ellen, as she turned uneasily upon her bed, "it's no affair of mine; I can't help it, whatever she does. But oh, won't Aunt Fortune be angry!"

Nancy presently came down with her frock gathered up into a bag before her.

"What do you think I have got here?" said she. "I s'pose you didn't know there was a basket of fine hickory nuts up there in the corner? Was it you or Miss Fortune that hid them away so nicely? I s'pose she thought nobody would ever think of looking behind the great blue chest and under the feather bed, but it takes me! Miss Fortune was afraid of your stealing 'em I guess, Ellen?"

"She needn't have been," said Ellen indignantly.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't take 'em if you saw 'em; you wouldn't eat 'em if they were cracked for you, would you?"

She flung some on Ellen's bed as she spoke. Nancy had seated herself on the floor, and using for a hammer a piece of old iron she had brought down with her from the garret, she was cracking the nuts on the clean white hearth.

"Indeed I wouldn't!" said Ellen, throwing them back; "and you oughtn't to crack them there, Nancy; you'll make a dreadful muss."

"What do you think I care?" said the other scornfully. She leisurely cracked and eat as many as she pleased of the nuts, bestowing the rest in the bosom of her frock. Ellen watched fearfully for her next move. If she should open the little door and get among her books and boxes!

Nancy's first care, however, was the cup of gruel. It was found too hot for any mortal lips to bear, so it was set on one side to cool. Then, taking up her rambling examination of the room, she went from window to window.

"What fine big windows! one might get in here easy enough. I declare, Ellen, some night I'll set the ladder up against here, and the first thing you'll see will be me coming in. You'll have me to sleep with you before you think."

"I'll fasten my windows," said Ellen.

"No, you won't. You'll do it a night or two, may be, but then you'll forget it. I shall find them open when I come. Oh, I'll come!"

"But I could call Aunt Fortune," said Ellen.

"No, you couldn't, 'cause if you spoke a word I'd tickle you to death; that's what I'd do. I know how to fix you off. And if you did call her I'd just whap out of the window and run off with my ladder, and then you'd get a fine combing for disturbing the house. What's in this trunk?"

"Only my clothes and things," said Ellen.

"Oh goody! that's fine; now I'll have a look at 'em. That's just what I wanted, only I didn't know it. Where's the key? Oh, here it is sticking in—that's good!"

"Oh, please don't!" said Ellen, raising herself on her elbows, "they're all in nice order, and you'll get them all in confusion. Oh, do let them alone!"

"You'd best be quiet or I'll come and see you," said Nancy; "I'm just going to look at everything in it, and if I find any thing out of sorts, you'll get it. What's this? ruffles, I declare! ain't you fine! I'll see how they look on me. What a plague! you haven't a glass in the room. Never mind—I am used to dressing without a glass."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," said Ellen, who was worried to the last degree at seeing her nicely done-up ruffles round Nancy's neck; "they're so nice, and you'll muss them all up."

"Don't cry about it," said Nancy coolly, "I ain't agoing to eat 'm. My goodness! what a fine hood! ain't that pretty?"

The nice blue hood was turned about in Nancy's fingers, and well looked at inside and out. Ellen was in distress for fear it would go on Nancy's head, as well as the ruffles round her neck; but it didn't; she flung it at length on one side, and went on pulling out one thing after another, strewing them very carelessly about the floor.

"What's here? a pair of dirty stockings, as I am alive. Ain't you ashamed to put dirty stockings in your trunk?"

"They are no such thing," said Ellen, who in her vexation was in danger of forgetting her fear—"I've worn them but once."

"They've no business in here anyhow," said Nancy, rolling them up in a hard ball and giving them a sudden fling at Ellen. They just missed her face and struck the wall beyond. Ellen seized them to throw back, but her weakness warned her she was not able, and a moment reminded her of the folly of doing anything to rouse Nancy, who for the present was pretty quiet. Ellen lay upon her pillow and looked on, ready to cry with vexation. All her nicely-stowed piles of white clothes were ruthlessly hurled out and tumbled about; her capes tried on; her summer dresses unfolded, displayed, criticised. Nancy decided one was too short; another very ugly; a third horribly ill-made; and when she had done with each it was cast out of her way on one side or the other as the case might be.

The floor was littered with clothes in various states of disarrangement and confusion. The bottom of the trunk was reached at last, and then Nancy suddenly recollected her gruel, and sprang to it. But it had grown cold again.

"This won't do," said Nancy, as she put it on the coals again, "it must be just right; it'll warm soon, and then, Miss Ellen, you're agoing to take it whether or no. I hope you won't give me the pleasure of pouring it down."

Meanwhile she opened the little door of Ellen's study closet and went in there, though Ellen begged her not. She pulled the door to, and stayed some time perfectly quiet. Not able to see or hear what she was doing, and fretted beyond measure that her workbox and writing-desk should be at Nancy's mercy, or even feel the touch of her fingers, Ellen at last could stand it no longer, but threw herself out of the bed, weak as she was, and went to see what was going on. Nancy was seated quietly on the floor, examining with much seeming interest the contents of the workbox, trying on the thimble, cutting bits of thread with the scissors, and marking the ends of the spools, with whatever like pieces of mischief her restless spirit could devise; but when Ellen opened the door she put the box from her and started up.

"My goodness me!" said she, "this'll never do. What are you out here for? You'll catch your death with those dear little bare feet, and we shall have the mischief to pay."

As she said this she caught up Ellen in her arms as if she had been a baby and carried her back to the bed, where she laid her with two or three little shakes, and then proceeded to spread up the clothes and tuck her in all round. She then ran for the gruel. Ellen was in great question whether to give way to tears or vexation; but with some difficulty determined upon vexation as the best plan. Nancy prepared the gruel to her liking, and brought it to the bedside; but to get it swallowed was another matter. Nancy was resolved Ellen should take it. Ellen had less strength but quite as much obstinacy as her enemy, and she was equally resolved not to drink a drop. Between laughing on Nancy's part and very serious anger on Ellen's a struggle ensued. Nancy tried to force it down, but Ellen's shut teeth were as firm as a vice, and the end was that two-thirds were bestowed on the sheet. Ellen burst into tears; Nancy laughed.

"Well, I do think," said she, "you are one of the hardest customers ever I came across. I shouldn't want to have the managing of you when you get a little bigger. Oh, the way Miss Fortune will look when she comes in here will be a caution! Oh, what fun!"

Nancy shouted and clapped her hands. "Come, stop crying!" said she; "what a baby you are! What are you crying for? Come, stop. I'll make you laugh if you don't."

Two or three little applications of Nancy's fingers made her words good, but laughing was mixed with crying, and Ellen writhed in hysterics. Just then came a little knock at the door. Ellen did not hear it, but it quieted Nancy. She stood still a moment, and then as the knock was repeated she called out boldly, "Come in!" Ellen raised her head "to see who there might be," and great was the surprise of both and the joy of one as the tall form and broad shoulders of Mr. Van Brunt presented themselves.

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," sobbed Ellen, "I am so glad to see you! Won't you please send Nancy away!"

"What are you doing here?" said the astonished Dutchman.

"Look and see, Mr. Van Brunt," said Nancy, with a smile of mischief's own curling; "you won't be long finding out, I guess."

"Take yourself off, and don't let me hear of your being caught here again."

"I'll go when I'm ready, thank you," said Nancy; "and as to the rest I haven't been caught the first time yet; I don't know what you mean."

She sprang as she finished her sentence, for Mr. Van Brunt made a sudden movement to catch her then and there. He was foiled, and then began a running chase round the room, in the course of which Nancy dodged, pushed, and sprang with the power of squeezing by impassables and overleaping impossibilities, that, to say the least of it, was remarkable. The room was too small for her, and she was caught at last.

"I vow," said Mr. Van Brunt, as he pinioned her hands, "I should like to see you play blind-man's-buff for once, if I waren't the blind man."

"How'd you see me if you was?" said Nancy scornfully.

"Now, Miss Ellen," said Mr. Van Brunt, as he brought her to Ellen's bedside, "here she is safe; what shall I do with her?"

"If you will only send her away and not let her come back, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, "I'll be so much obliged to you."

"Let me go," said Nancy. "I declare you are a real mean Dutchman, Mr. Van Brunt."

He took both her hands in one and laid the other lightly over her ears.

"I'll let you go," said he. "Now, don't you be caught here again if you know what is good for yourself."

He saw Miss Nancy out of the door and then came back to Ellen, who was crying heartily again from nervous vexation.

"She's gone," said he. "What has that wicked thing been doing, Miss Ellen? What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, "you can't think how she has worried me; she has been here this great while. Just look at all my things on the floor, and that isn't the half."

Mr. Van Brunt gave a long whistle as his eye surveyed the tokens of Miss Nancy's mischief-making, over and through which both she and himself had been chasing at full speed, making the state of matters rather worse than it was before.

"I do say," said he slowly, "that is too bad. I'd fix them up again for you, Miss Ellen, if I knew how; but my hands are almost as clumsy as my feet, and I see the marks of them there. It's too bad, I declare. I didn't know what I was going on."

"Never mind, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen; "I don't mind what you have done a bit. I'm so glad to see you!"

She put out her little hand to him as she spoke. He took it in his now silently, but though he said and showed nothing of it, Ellen's look and tone of affection thrilled his heart with pleasure.

"How do you do?" said he kindly.

"I am a great deal better," said Ellen. "Sit down, won't you, Mr. Van Brunt? I want to see you a little."

Horses wouldn't have drawn him away after that. He sat down.

"Ain't you going to be up again some of these days?" said he.

"Oh yes, I hope so," said Ellen, sighing; "I am very tired of lying here."

He looked round the room; got up and mended the fire; then came and sat down again.

"I was up yesterday for a minute," said Ellen, "but the chair tired me so, I was glad to get back to bed again."

It was no wonder! harder and straighter-backed chairs never were invented. Probably Mr. Van Brunt thought so.

"Wouldn't you like to have a rocking-cheer?" said he suddenly, as if a bright thought had struck him.

"Oh yes, how much I should!" said Ellen, with another long-drawn breath; "but there isn't such a thing in the house that ever I saw."

"Aye, but there is in other houses, though," said Mr. Van Brunt, with as near an approach to a smile as his lips commonly made; "we'll see!"

Ellen smiled more broadly. "But don't you give yourself any trouble for me," said she.

"Trouble, indeed!" said Mr. Van Brunt; "I don't know anything about that. How came that wicked thing up here to plague you?"

"She said Aunt Fortune left her to take care of me."

"That's one of her lies. Your aunt's gone out, I know; but she's a trifle wiser than to do such a thing as that. She has plagued you badly, ha'n't she?"

He might have thought so. The colour which excitement brought into Ellen's face had faded away, and she had settled herself back against her pillow with an expression of weakness and weariness that the strong man saw and felt.

"What is there I can do for you?" said he, with a gentleness that seemed almost strange from such lips.

"If you would," said Ellen faintly, "if you could be so kind as to read me a hymn, I should be so glad. I've had nobody to read to me."

Her hand put the little book towards him as she said so.

Mr. Van Brunt would vastly rather any one had asked him to plough an acre. He was to the full as much confounded as poor Ellen had once been at a request of his. He hesitated and looked towards Ellen, wishing for an excuse. But the pale little face that lay there against the pillow, the drooping eyelids, the meek, helpless look of the little child put all excuses out of his head; and though he would have chosen to do almost anything else, he took the book, and asked her "Where?" She said anywhere; and he took the first he saw.

"Poor, weak, and worthless though I am, I have a rich, almighty friend; Jesus the Saviour is His name, He freely loves, and without end."

"Oh," said Ellen, with a sigh of pleasure, and folding her hands on her breast—"how lovely that is!"

He stopped and looked at her a moment, and then went on with increased gravity.

"He ransomed me from hell with blood, And by His pow'r my foes controlled; He found me wand'ring far from God, And brought me to His chosen fold."

"Fold!" said Ellen, opening her eyes; "what is that?"

"It's where sheep are penned, ain't it?" said Mr. Van Brunt, after a pause.

"Oh yes," said Ellen, "that's it; I remember; that's like what he said, 'I am the good shepherd,' and 'the Lord is my shepherd;' I know now. Go on, please."

He finished the hymn without more interruption. Looking again towards Ellen, he was surprised to see several large tears finding their way down her cheeks from under the wet eyelashes. But she quickly wiped them away.

"What do you read them things for," said he, "if they make you feel bad?"

"Feel bad!" said Ellen. "Oh, they don't; they make me happy; I love them dearly. I never read that one before. You can't think how much I am obliged to you for reading it to me. Will you let me see where it is?"

He gave it her.

"Yes, there's his mark!" said Ellen, with sparkling eyes. "Now, Mr. Van Brunt, would you be so very good as to read it once more?"

He obeyed. It was easier this time. She listened as before with closed eyes, but the colour came and went once or twice.

"Thank you very much," she said, when he had done. "Are you going?"

"I must; I have some things to look after."

She held his hand still.

"Mr. Van Brunt, don't you love hymns?"

"I don't know much about 'em, Miss Ellen."

"Mr. Van Brunt, are you one of that fold?"

"What fold?"

"The fold of Christ's people."

"I'm afeard not, Miss Ellen," said he soberly, after a minute's pause.

"Because," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "I wish you were, very much."

She carried the great brown hand to her lips before she let it go. He went without saying a word. But when he got out, he stopped and looked at a little tear she had left on the back of it. And he looked till one of his own fell there to keep it company.



CHAPTER XXI

Oh, that had, how sad a passage 'tis!

—SHAKESPEARE.

The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, a light step crossed the shed, and the great door opening gently, in walked Miss Alice Humphreys. The room was all "redd up," and Miss Fortune and her mother sat there at work, one picking over white beans at the table, the other in her usual seat by the fire, and at her usual employment, which was knitting. Alice came forward, and asked the old lady how she did.

"Pretty well. Oh, pretty well!" she answered, with the look of bland good-humour her face almost always wore; "and glad to see you, dear. Take a chair."

Alice did so, quite aware that the other person in the room was not glad to see her.

"And how goes the world with you, Miss Fortune?"

"Humph! It's a queer kind of world, I think," answered that lady dryly, sweeping some of the picked beans into her pan. "I get a'most sick of it sometimes."

"Why, what's the matter?" said Alice pleasantly. "May I ask, has anything happened to trouble you?"

"Oh no," said the other somewhat impatiently. "Nothing that's any matter to any one but myself. It's no use speaking about it."

"Ah! Fortune never would take the world easy," said the old woman, shaking her head from side to side. "Never would; I never could get her."

"Now, do hush, mother, will you?" said the daughter, turning round upon her with startling sharpness of look and tone. "Take the world easy! You always did. I'm glad I ain't like you."

"I don't think it's a bad way, after all," said Alice. "What's the use of taking it hard, Miss Fortune?"

"The way one goes on!" said that lady, picking away at her beans very fast, and not answering Alice's question. "I'm tired of it. Toil, toil, and drive, drive, from morning to night; and what's the end of it all?"

"Not much," said Alice gravely, "if our toiling looks no further than this world. When we go we shall carry nothing away with us. I should think it would be very wearisome to toil only for what we cannot keep nor stay long to enjoy."

"It's a pity you warn't a minister, Miss Alice," said Miss Fortune dryly.

"Oh no, Miss Fortune," said Alice, smiling. "The family would be overstocked. My father is one, and my brother will be another. A third would be too much. You must be so good as to let me preach without taking orders."

"Well, I wish every minister was as good a one as you'd make," said Miss Fortune, her hard face giving way a little. "At any rate, nobody'd mind anything you'd say, Miss Alice."

"That would be unlucky, in one sense," said Alice, "but I believe I know what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would dream the world went very hard with you. I don't know anybody, I think, lives in more independent comfort and plenty, and has things more to her mind. I never come to the house that I am not struck with the fine look of the farm and all that belongs to it."

"Yes," said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times, "Mr. Van Brunt is a good farmer—very good. There's no doubt about that."

"I wonder what he'd do," said Miss Fortune, quickly and sharply as before, "if there warn't a head to manage for him! Oh, the farm's well enough, Miss Alice. 'Tain't that. Every one knows where his own shoe pinches."

"I wish you'd let me into the secret, then, Miss Fortune. I'm a cobbler by profession."

Miss Fortune's ill-humour was giving way, but something disagreeable seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow darkened.

"I say it's a poor kind of world, and I'm sick of it! One may slave and slave one's life out for other people, and what thanks do you get? I'm sick of it."

"There's a little body upstairs, or I'm much mistaken, who will give you very sincere thanks for every kindness shown her."

Miss Fortune tossed her head, and brushing the refuse beans into her lap, she pushed back her chair with a jerk to go to the fire with them.

"Much you know about her, Miss Alice! Thanks, indeed! I haven't seen the sign of such a thing since she's been here, for all I have worked and worked and had plague enough with her, I am sure. Deliver me from other people's children, say I!"

"After all, Miss Fortune," said Alice soberly, "it is not what we do for people that makes them love us; or at least, everything depends on the way things are done. A look of love, a word of kindness, goes further towards winning the heart than years of service or benefactions mountain-high without them."

"Does she say I am unkind to her?" asked Miss Fortune fiercely.

"Pardon me," said Alice. "Words on her part are unnecessary. It is easy to see from your own that there is no love lost between you, and I am very sorry it is so."

"Love, indeed!" said Miss Fortune, with great indignation. "There never was any to lose, I can assure you. She plagues the very life out of me. Why, she hadn't been here three days before she went off with that girl Nancy Vawse, that I had told her never to go near, and was gone all night. That's the time she got in the brook. And if you'd seen her face when I was scolding her about it! It was like seven thunder-clouds. Much you know about it! I dare say she's very sweet to you; that's the way she is to everybody beside me. They all think she's too good to live, and it just makes me mad!"

"She told me herself," said Alice, "of her behaving ill another time about her mother's letter."

"Yes, that was another time. I wish you'd seen her."

"I believe she saw and felt her fault in that case. Didn't she ask your pardon? She said she would."

"Yes," said Miss Fortune dryly, "after a fashion."

"Has she had her letter yet?"

"No."

"How is she to-day?"

"Oh, she's well enough—she's sitting up. You can go up and see her."

"I will directly," said Alice. "But now, Miss Fortune, I am going to ask a favour of you. Will you do me a great pleasure?"

"Certainly, Miss Alice, if I can."

"If you think Ellen has been sufficiently punished for her ill-behaviour—if you do not think it right to withhold her letter still—will you let me have the pleasure of giving it to her? I should take it as a great favour to myself."

Miss Fortune made no kind of reply to this, but stalked out of the room, and in a few minutes stalked in again with the letter, which she gave to Alice, only saying shortly, "It came to me in a letter from her father."

"You are willing she should have it?" said Alice.

"Oh yes; do what you like with it."

Alice now went softly upstairs. She found Ellen's door a little ajar, and looking in, could see Ellen seated in a rocking-chair between the door and the fire, in her double gown, and with her hymn-book in her hand. It happened that Ellen had spent a good part of that afternoon in crying for her lost letter; and the face that she turned to the door on hearing some slight noise outside was very white and thin indeed; and though it was placid too, her eye searched the crack of the door with a keen wistfulness that went to Alice's heart. But as the door was gently pushed open, and the eye caught the figure that stood behind it, the sudden and entire change of expression took away all her powers of speech. Ellen's face became radiant; she rose from her chair, and as Alice came silently in and kneeling down to be near her, took her in her arms, Ellen put both hers round Alice's neck and laid her face there; one was too happy and the other too touched to say a word.

"My poor child!" was Alice's first expression.

"No, I ain't," said Ellen, tightening the squeeze of her arms round Alice's neck; "I am not poor at all now."

Alice presently rose, sat down in the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her lap; and Ellen rested her head on her bosom, as she had been wont to do of old time on her mother's.

"I am too happy," she murmured. But she was weeping, and the current of tears seemed to gather force as it flowed. What was little Ellen thinking of just then? Oh! those times gone by, when she had sat just so; her head pillowed on another as gentle a breast; kind arms wrapped round her, just as now; the same little old double-gown; the same weak, helpless feeling; the same committing herself to the strength and care of another; how much the same, and oh! how much not the same! And Ellen knew both. Blessing as she did the breast on which she leaned and the arms whose pressure she felt, they yet reminded her sadly of those most loved and so very far away; and it was an odd mixture of relief and regret, joy and sorrow, gratified and ungratified affection, that opened the sluices of her eyes. Tears poured.

"What is the matter, my love?" said Alice softly.

"I don't know," whispered Ellen.

"Are you so glad to see me? or so sorry? or what is it?"

"Oh, glad and sorry both, I think," said Ellen, with a long breath, and sitting up.

"Have you wanted me so much, my poor child?"

"I cannot tell you how much," said Ellen, her words cut short.

"And didn't you know that I have been sick too? What did you think had become of me? Why, Mrs. Vawse was with me a whole week, and this is the very first day I have been able to go out. It is so fine to-day I was permitted to ride sharp down."

"Was that it?" said Ellen. "I did wonder, Miss Alice; I did wonder very much why you did not come to see me; but I never liked to ask Aunt Fortune, because——"

"Because what?"

"I don't know as I ought to say what I was going to. I had a feeling she would be glad about what I was sorry about."

"Don't know that you ought to say," said Alice. "Remember, you are to study English with me."

Ellen smiled a glad smile.

"And you have had a weary two weeks of it, haven't you, dear?"

"Oh," said Ellen, with another long-drawn sigh, "how weary! Part of that time, to be sure, I was out of my head; but I have got so tired lying here all alone; Aunt Fortune coming in and out was just as good as nobody."

"Poor child!" said Alice, "you have had a worse time than I."

"I used to lie and watch that crack in the door at the foot of my bed," said Ellen, "and I got so tired of it I hated to see it, but when I opened my eyes I couldn't help looking at it, and watching all the little ins and outs in the crack till I was as sick of it as could be. And that button, too, that fastens the door, and the little round mark the button has made, and thinking how far the button went round. And then if I looked towards the windows I would go right to counting the panes, first up and down and then across; and I didn't want to count them, but I couldn't help it; and watching to see through which pane the sky looked brightest. Oh, I got so sick of it all! There was only the fire that I didn't get tired of looking at; I always liked to lie and look at that, except when it hurt my eyes. And, oh, how I wanted to see you, Miss Alice! You can't think how sad I felt that you didn't come to see me. I couldn't think what could be the matter."

"I should have been with you, dear, and not have left you, if I had not been tied at home myself."

"So I thought; and that made it seem so very strange. But, oh! don't you think," said Ellen, her face suddenly brightening, "don't you think, Mr. Van Brunt came up to see me last night? Wasn't it good of him? He even sat down and read to me; only think of that. And isn't he kind? he asked if I would like a rocking-chair; and of course I said yes, for these other chairs are dreadful, they break my back; and there wasn't such a thing as a rocking-chair in Aunt Fortune's house, she hates 'em, she says; and this morning, the first thing I knew, in walked Mr. Van Brunt with this nice rocking-chair. Just get up and see how nice it is; you see the back is cushioned, and the elbows, as well as the seat; it's queer looking, ain't it? but it's very comfortable. Wasn't it good of him?"

"It was very kind, I think. But do you know, Ellen, I am going to have a quarrel with you?"

"What about?" said Ellen. "I don't believe it's anything very bad, for you look pretty good-humoured, considering."

"Nothing very bad," said Alice, "but still enough to quarrel about. You have twice said 'ain't' since I have been here."

"Oh," said Ellen laughing, "is that all?"

"Yes," said Alice, "and my English ears don't like it at all."

"Then they shan't hear it," said Ellen, kissing her. "I don't know what makes me say it; I never used to. But I've got more to tell you; I've had more visitors. Who do you think came to see me?—you'd never guess—Nancy Vawse!—Mr. Van Brunt came in the very nick of time, when I was almost worried to death with her. Only think of her coming up here! unknown to everybody. And she stayed an age, and how she did go on. She cracked nuts on the hearth; she got every stitch of my clothes out of my trunk and scattered them over the floor; she tried to make me drink gruel till between us we spilled a great parcel on the bed; and she had begun to tickle me when Mr. Van Brunt came. Oh, wasn't I glad to see him! And when Aunt Fortune came up and saw it all she was as angry as she could be; and she scolded and scolded, till at last I told her it was none of my doing—I couldn't help it at all—and she needn't talk so to me about it; and then she said it was my fault the whole of it! that if I hadn't scraped acquaintance with Nancy when she had forbidden me, all this would never have happened."

"There is some truth in that, isn't there, Ellen?"

"Perhaps so; but I think it might all have happened whether or no; and at any rate it is a little hard to talk so to me about it now when it's all over and can't be helped. Oh, I have been so tired to-day, Miss Alice! Aunt Fortune has been in such a bad humour."

"What put her in a bad humour?"

"Why, all this about Nancy, in the first place; and then I know she didn't like Mr. Van Brunt's bringing the rocking-chair for me; she couldn't say much, but I could see by her face. And then Mrs. Van Brunt's coming—I don't think she liked that. Oh, Mrs. Van Brunt came to see me this morning, and brought me a custard. How many people are kind to me!—everywhere I go."

"I hope, dear Ellen, you don't forget whose kindness sends them all."

"I don't, Miss Alice; I always think of that now; and it seems you can't think how pleasant to me sometimes."

"Then I hope you can bear unkindness from one poor woman—who, after all, isn't as happy as you are—without feeling any ill-will towards her in return."

"I don't think I feel ill-will towards her," said Ellen; "I always try as hard as I can not to; but I can't like her, Miss Alice; and I do get out of patience. It's very easy to put me out of patience, I think; it takes almost nothing sometimes."

"But remember, 'charity suffereth long and is kind.'"

"And I try all the while, dear Miss Alice, to keep down my bad feelings," said Ellen, her eyes watering as she spoke; "I try and pray to get rid of them, and I hope I shall by-and-by; I believe I am very bad."

Alice drew her closer.

"I have felt very sad part of to-day," said Ellen presently; "Aunt Fortune, and my being so lonely, and my poor letter, altogether; but part of the time I felt a great deal better. I was learning that lovely hymn—do you know it, Miss Alice? 'Poor, weak, and worthless though I am'?——"

Alice went on:—

"'I have a rich almighty friend, Jesus the Saviour is His name, He freely loves and without end.'

"Oh, dear Ellen, whoever can say that has no right to be unhappy. No matter what happens, we have enough to be glad of."

"And then I was thinking of those words in the Psalms—'Blessed is the man'—stop, I'll find it; I don't know exactly how it goes;—'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven; whose sin is covered.'"

"Oh yes, indeed!" said Alice. "It is a shame that any trifles should worry much those whose sins are forgiven them, and who are the children of the great King. Poor Miss Fortune never knew the sweetness of those words. We ought to be sorry for her, and pray for her, Ellen; and never, never, even in thought, return evil for evil. It is not like Christ to do so."

"I will not, I will not, if I can help it," said Ellen.

"You can help it; but there is only one way. Now, Ellen dear, I have three pieces of news for you that I think you will like. One concerns you, another myself, and the third concerns both you and myself. Which will you have first?"

"Three pieces of good news!" said Ellen, with opening eyes; "I think I'll have my part first."

Directing Ellen's eyes to her pocket, Alice slowly made the corner of the letter show itself. Ellen's colour came and went quick as it was drawn forth; but when it was fairly out, and she knew it again, she flung herself upon it with a desperate eagerness Alice had not looked for; she was startled at the half-frantic way in which the child clasped and kissed it, weeping bitterly at the same time. Her transport was almost hysterical. She had opened the letter, but she was not able to read a word; and quitting Alice's arms she threw herself upon the bed, sobbing in a mixture of joy and sorrow that seemed to take away her reason. Alice looked on surprised a moment, but only a moment, and turned away.

When Ellen was able to begin her letter, the reading of it served to throw her back into fresh fits of tears. Many a word of Mrs. Montgomery's went so to her little daughter's heart that its very inmost cords of love and tenderness were wrung. It is true the letter was short and very simple, but it came from her mother's heart; it was written by her mother's hand, and the very old-remembered handwriting had mighty power to move her. She was so wrapped up in her own feelings that through it all she never noticed that Alice was not near her, that Alice did not speak to comfort her. When the letter had been read time after time, and wept over again and again, and Ellen at last was folding it up for the present, she bethought herself of her friend, and turned to look after her. Alice was sitting by the window, her face hid in her hands, and as Ellen drew near she was surprised to see that her tears were flowing, and her breast heaving. Ellen came quite close, and softly laid her hand on Alice's shoulder. But it drew no attention.

"Miss Alice," said Ellen, almost fearfully, "dear Miss Alice," and her own eyes filled fast again, "what is the matter? won't you tell me? Oh, don't do so! please don't!"

"I will not," said Alice, lifting her head; "I am sorry I have troubled you, dear; I am sorry I could not help it."

She kissed Ellen, who stood anxious and sorrowful by her side, and brushed away her tears. But Ellen saw she had been shedding a great many.

"What is the matter, dear Miss Alice? what has happened to trouble you? won't you tell me?" Ellen was almost crying herself.

Alice came back to the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her arms again; but she did not answer her. Leaning her face against Ellen's forehead she remained silent. Ellen ventured to ask no more questions; but lifting her hand once or twice caressingly to Alice's face, she was distressed to find her cheek wet still. Alice spoke at last.

"It isn't fair not to tell you what is the matter, dear Ellen, since I have let you see me sorrowing. It is nothing new, nor anything I would have otherwise if I could. It is only that I have had a mother once, and have lost her; and you brought back the old time so strongly, that I could not command myself."

Ellen felt a hot tear drop upon her forehead, and again ventured to speak her sympathy only by silently stroking Alice's cheek.

"It's all past now," said Alice; "it is all well. I would not have her back again. I shall go to her, I hope, by-and-by."

"Oh no! you must stay with me," said Ellen, clasping both arms round her.

There was a long silence, during which they remained locked in each other's arms.

"Ellen dear," said Alice, at length, "we are both motherless, for the present at least—both of us almost alone; I think God has brought us together to be a comfort to each other. We will be sisters while He permits us to be so. Don't call me Miss Alice any more. You shall be my little sister and I will be your elder sister, and my home shall be your home as well."

Ellen's arms were drawn very close round her companion at this, but she said nothing, and her face was laid in Alice's bosom. There was another very long pause. Then Alice spoke in a livelier tone.

"Come, Ellen! look up; you and I have forgotten ourselves; it isn't good for sick people to get down in the dumps. Look up and let me see these pale cheeks. Don't you want something to eat?"

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

"What would you say to a cup of chicken broth?"

"Oh, I should like it very much!" said Ellen, with new energy.

"Margery made me some particularly nice, as she always does; and I took it into my head a little might not come amiss to you; so I resolved to stand the chance of Sharp's jolting it all over me, and I rode down with a little pail of it on my arm. Let me rake open these coals and you shall have some directly."

"And did you come without being spattered?" said Ellen.

"Not a drop. Is this what you use to warm things in? Never mind, it has had gruel in it; I'll set the tin pail on the fire; it won't hurt it."

"I am so much obliged to you," said Ellen, "for do you know, I have got quite tired of gruel, and panada I can't bear."