It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.

"So far, so good," said she. "Now for the next."

The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar-plums.

"Well, that's fine, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey; "yours is tied with white ribbon and mine with blue; that's all the difference. Oh, and your paper's red and mine is purple."

"Yes, and the pictures are different," said Ellen.

"Well, I had rather they would be different, wouldn't you? I think it's just as pleasant. One's as big as the other, at any rate. Come—what's next!"

Ellen drew out a little bundle, which being opened proved to be a nice little pair of dark kid gloves.

"Oh, I wonder who gave me this," she said; "it's just what I wanted. How pretty! Oh, I am so glad. I guess who it was."

"Oh, look here," said the other Ellen, who had been diving into her stocking, "I've got a ball—this is just what I wanted too; George told me if I'd get one he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice ball. I'm glad I have got it. Why, here is another great round thing in my stocking! what can it be? they wouldn't give me two balls," said she, chuckling.

"So there is in mine!" said Ellen. "Maybe they're apples."

"They aren't! they wouldn't give us apples; besides, it is soft. Pull it out and see."

"Then they are oranges," said Ellen, laughing.

"I never felt such a soft orange," said little Ellen Chauncey. "Come, Ellen! stop laughing, and let's see."

They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and E. M. very neatly stuck in pins.

"Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we?" said Ellen. "Who gave us these?"

"I know," said little Ellen Chauncey; "Mrs. Bland."

"She was very kind to make one for me," said Ellen. "Now for the next!"

The next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water.

"I can tell who put that in," said her friend; "Aunt Sophia. I know her little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love Cologne water? Aunt Sophia's is delicious."

Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction.

"Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with," said she; "raisins and almonds, I declare! and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good Christmas?"

"What are you about, you monkeys?" cried the voice of Aunt Sophia from the dressing-room door. "Alice, Alice! do look at them. Come right back to bed, both of you. Crazy pates! It is lucky it is Christmas day—if it was any other in the year we should have you both sick in bed; as it is, I suppose you will go scot free."

Laughing and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed together; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the painted needle-book was entirely decided upon in this consultation; also two or three other matters; and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since daybreak by the time they came down to breakfast.

After breakfast Ellen applied secretly to Alice to know if she could write very beautifully; she exceedingly wanted something done.

"I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine; but John can do it for you."

"Can he? Do you think he would?"

"I am sure he will if you ask him."

"But I don't like to ask him," said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at the window.

"Nonsense! he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him."

"Well, you won't say anything about it?"

"Certainly not."

Ellen accordingly went near and said gently, "Mr. Humphreys," but he did not seem to hear her. "Mr. Humphreys!"—a little louder.

"He has not arrived yet," said John, looking round gravely.

He spoke so gravely that Ellen could not tell whether he was joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of countenance. "Whom do you want to speak to?" said he, smiling.

"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said Ellen, "if you are not now too busy."

"Mr. Humphreys is always busy," said he, shaking his head, "but Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for you whatever you please to ask him."

"Then, Mr. John," said Ellen, laughing, "if you please, I wanted to ask you to do something for me very much indeed, if you are not too busy; Alice said I shouldn't disturb you."

"Not at all; I've been long enough over this stupid newspaper. What is it?"

"I want you, if you will be so good," said Ellen, "to write a little bit for me on something, very beautifully."

"'Very beautifully!' Well—come to the library; we will see."

"But it is a great secret," said Ellen; "you won't tell anybody?"

"Tortures shan't draw it from me—when I know what it is," said he, with one of his comical looks.

In high glee Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to form the backs of the needle-book, and brought them to the library; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer should choose.

"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needle-books?" said John, as he carefully mended his pen.

"Stop!" said Ellen, "I'll tell you in a minute—on this one, the front, you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;'—and on this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know," she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's day; nor anybody else."

"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions they shall find me as obscure as an oracle."

"What is an oracle, sir?"

"Why," said John, smiling, "this pen won't do yet—the old heathens believed there were certain spots of earth to which some of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."

"And they did?" said Ellen.

"Did they what?"

"Did they answer their questions?"

"Did who answer their questions?"

"The—oh! to be sure," said Ellen, "there were no such gods. But what made people think they answered them? and how could they ask questions?"

"I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests to increase their power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and priestesses; the questions were put through them; and they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence who could pay them well by making splendid gifts to the god."

"But I should think the people would have thought the priests or priestesses had made up the answer themselves."

"Perhaps they did sometimes. But people had not the Bible then, and did not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural to think the gods would take care a little for the poor people that lived on the earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the answers of the oracle that helped to deceive."

"How was it?" said Ellen; "how could they manage? and what was the oracle?"

"The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was supposed to give it, or the place where it was given; and there were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak tree, and the people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman who pretended to be put into a kind of fit—tearing her hair and beating her breast."

"But suppose the oracle made a mistake?—what would the people think then?"

"The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come true in any event."

"I don't see how they could do that," said Ellen.

"Very well—just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some question; I'll answer you."

"But you can't tell what's going to happen?"

"No matter—you ask me truly and I'll answer you oracularly."

"That means, like an oracle, I suppose!" said Ellen. "Well—Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her for her New Year?"

"She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day."

"Ah, but," said Ellen, laughing, "that isn't fair; you haven't answered me; perhaps somebody else will give her something, and then she might be pleased with that and not with mine."

"Exactly—but the oracle never means to be understood."

"Well, I won't come to you," said Ellen. "I don't like such answers. Now for the needle-book!"

Breathlessly she looked on while the skilful pen did its work; and her exclamations of delight and admiration when the first cover was handed to her were not loud but deep.

"It will do, then, will it? Now, let us see—'From her dear little daughter,' there—now 'Ellen Chauncey' I suppose must be in hieroglyphics."

"In what?" said Ellen.

"I mean written in some difficult character."

"Yes," said Ellen. "But what was that you said?"

"Hieroglyphics!"

Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked up and smiled.

"Do you want to know what that means?"

"Yes, if you please," said Ellen.

The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. From hieroglyphics they went to the pyramids; and Ellen had got to the top of one and was enjoying the prospect (in imagination), when she suddenly came down to tell John of her stuffed stocking and its contents. The pen went on again, and came to the end of the writing by the time Ellen had got to the toe of the stocking.

"Wasn't it very strange they should give me so many things?" said she; "people that don't know me?"

"Why, no," said John, smiling, "I cannot say I think it was very strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands?"

"This is all; and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. John."

Her grateful affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid.

Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rose and the butterfly, which, finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very ready to do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery of the leaves, which was by no means the business of an hour.

A very happy Christmas day was that. With their needles and thimbles, and rose-coloured silk, they kept by themselves in a corner, or in the library, out of the way; and sweetening their talk with a sugar-plum now and then, neither tongues nor needles knew any flagging. It was wonderful how they found so much to say, but there was no lack. Ellen Chauncey especially was inexhaustible. Several times too that day the Cologne bottle was handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball tried, and the new scissors extolled as "just the thing for their work." Ellen attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and hieroglyphics, but was fain to give it up; little Ellen showed a decided preference for American, not to say Ventnor, subjects, where she felt more at home.

Then came Mr. Humphreys; and Ellen was glad, both for her own sake and because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came the great merry Christmas dinner, when the girls had, not talked themselves out, but tired themselves with working. Young and old dined together to-day, and the children not set by themselves, but scattered among the grown-up people; and as Ellen was nicely placed between Alice and little Ellen Chauncey, she enjoyed it all very much. The large long table surrounded with happy faces; tones of cheerfulness and looks of kindness, and lively talk; the superb display of plate and glass and china; the stately dinner; and last but not least, the plum-pudding. There was sparkling wine too, and a great deal of drinking of healths; but Ellen noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in water; so when old Mr. Marshman called to her to "hold out her glass," she held it out to be sure and let him fill it, but she lifted her tumbler of water to her lips instead, after making him a very low bow. Mr. Marshman laughed at her a great deal, and asked her if she was "a proselyte to the new notions;" and Ellen laughed with him, without having the least idea what he meant, and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant too when they went into the drawing-room to take coffee. The young ones were permitted to have coffee to-night as a great favour. Old Mrs. Marshman had the two little ones on either side of her; and was so kind, and held Ellen's hand in her own, and talked to her about her mother, till Ellen loved her.

After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old joined in them. They played the Old Curiosity Shop; and Ellen thought Mr. John's curiosities could not be matched. They played the Old Family Coach, Mr. Howard Marshman being the manager, and Ellen laughed till she was tired; she was the coach door, and he kept her opening and shutting and swinging and breaking, it seemed all the while, though most of the rest were worked just as hard. When they were well tired they sat down to rest and hear music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and Mrs. Gillespie, and Miss Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard; sometimes alone, sometimes three or four or altogether.

At last came ten o'clock and the young ones were sent off; and from beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken and unclouded pleasure. Ellen's last act was to take another look at her Cologne bottle, gloves, pin-cushion, grapes, and paper of sugar-plums, which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer.



CHAPTER XXX

But though life's valley be a vale of tears, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, Whose glory, with a light that never fades, Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades.

—COWPER.

Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor; and it was also settled that his children should not leave it till after New Year. This was less their own wish than his; he said Alice wanted the change, and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides the earnest pleading of the whole family was not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this, though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor—she could not feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She tried to think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to prevent her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow wider.

About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole family; but the hour of dinner and the distance prevented any one from going in the afternoon. The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the house, most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look in the library for her friends. They were there, and alone; Alice half reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms; he was reading or talking to her; there was a book in his hand.

"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near; "aren't you well, dear Alice?—Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I know——"

She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a pleased face, her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of Cologne water in the other.

"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; "I can't open it; I guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's delicious. Mamma used to have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, dear Alice, won't you eat these?—do!—try one."

"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she smilingly took a grape.

"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till I wanted it. Eat them all, dear Alice, please do!"

"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."

"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"

Ellen took, however, as precious payment Alice's look and kiss; and then with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother and sister might like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go, for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not want any company. At last with her little Bible she placed herself on the old sofa in the hall above stairs, which was perfectly well warmed, and for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed like Sunday; and the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half-an-hour or so, to her dismay she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children came trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading or thinking was out of the question.

"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!" said Marianne Gillespie.

"One can play games on a Sunday," answered her brother, "Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, I think."

"William! William!" sounded the shocked voice of little Ellen Chauncey, "you're a real wicked boy!"

"Well now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say, I should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie abed and sleep, or for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for grandpa to talk politics, or for mother to talk about the fashions?—there was she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this morning doing everything but make a dress. Now, which is the worst?"

"Oh, William! William! for shame! for shame!" said little Ellen again.

"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey! will you?" said Marianne sharply; "and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is good for yourself. I don't care whether it's right or wrong, I do get dolefully tired with doing nothing."

"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep all Sunday."

"I'll tell you what," said George, "I know a game we can play, and no harm, either, for it's all out of the Bible."

"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.

"I don't believe it's good for anything if it is out of the Bible," said Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"

"I ain't staring," said Ellen indignantly, "but I don't believe it is right to play it, if it is out of the Bible."

"Well, it is though," said George. "Now listen; I'll think of somebody in the Bible, some man or woman, you know; and you may all ask me twenty questions about him to see if you can find out who it is."

"What kind of questions?"

"Any kind of questions, whatever you like."

"That will improve your knowledge of Scripture history," said Gilbert.

"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the time," said little Ellen.

"Or bad people and what they did," said William.

"But I don't know enough about people and things in the Bible," said Margaret; "I couldn't guess."

"Oh, never mind; it will be all the more fun," said George. "Come! let's begin. Who'll take somebody?"

"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey; "but Ellen—where's Ellen? we want her."

"No, we don't want her! we've enough without her; she won't play!" shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered, however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could she withstood her little friend's entreaties, and very unwillingly at last yielded and went with her downstairs.

"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told Ellen what the game is; who's going to begin?"

"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of somebody. Man or woman?"

"Man."

"Young or old?"

"Why, he was young first and old afterwards."

"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister. "Besides, you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert?"

"Humph! why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."

"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"

"Upon my honour!"

"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss Hawthorn.

"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder—a very respectable person indeed."

"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you he wasn't anything in particular; what kind of a person was he, Gilbert?"

"A very good man."

"Handsome or ugly?"

"History don't say."

"Well, what does it say?" said George; "what did he do?"

"He took a journey once upon a time."

"What for?"

"Do you mean why he went, or what was the object of his going?"

"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Well, what was the object of his going?"

"He went after a wife."

"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen Chauncey.

"No, it wasn't Samson either."

"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said George. "That king—what's his name?—that married Esther?"

The children screamed. "He didn't go after a wife, George; his wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"

"No, he didn't go after a wife either," said Gilbert; "he married two of them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find them. You had better go on with your questions. You have had eight already. If you don't look out you won't catch me. Come!"

"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen Chauncey.

"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.

"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.

"He did not fail."

"Did he bring home his wife, then? You said he wasn't married."

"He never was that I know of; but he brought home a wife notwithstanding."

"But how funny you are, Gilbert," said little Ellen. "He had a wife and he hadn't a wife; what became of her?"

"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions; take care."

"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret; "what was he, Gilbert?"

"He was a Damascene."

"A what?"

"Of Damascus—of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you?"

"Fiddle!" said Marianne; "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or after the Flood?"

"After. I should think you might have known that."

"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne. "We shall have to give it up."

"No, no, not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his wife?"

"Too close a question."

"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"

"Never."

"Was she willing to go with him?"

"Very willing. Ladies always are when they go to be married."

"And what became of her?"

"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."

"But you said he wasn't married."

"Well, what then? I didn't say she married him."

"Whom did she marry?"

"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."

"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.

"Several days' journey; I don't know how far."

"How did they travel?"

"On camels."

"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.

There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels in the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her.

The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert at last told them his thought. It was Eleazar, Abraham's steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.

"Why haven't you guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to Ellen Montgomery.

"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was some time ago."

"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single question," said George.

"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen Chauncey.

"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice proper-behaved boys and girls to be playing on Sunday; she is very sorry she could not help being amused."

"Do you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.

"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.

Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she would say. She coloured, and looked down at her little Bible which was still in her hand. It encouraged her.

"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think it is quite right to play such plays, or any plays."

She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not? Why not?"

"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things; and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that; and I have a kind of feeling that I ought not to do it."

"Well, I hope you'll act according to your feelings then," said William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had better go somewhere else though, for we are going on; we have been learning to be good long enough for one day. Come! I have thought of somebody."

Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half sneer she saw in the look and manner of the others as well as in William's words. She wished for no better than to go away, but as she did so her bosom swelled and the tears started and her breath came quicker. She found Alice lying down and asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out again and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession of the sofa and tried to read again; reading somehow did not go well, and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the unkindness of the children; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any part of Sunday in such games; what Alice would think of it, and John, and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that dear mother was with her; and then she wondered how she was passing this very one—while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what she was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there only were such things as oracles that could tell truly, how much she would like to ask about her.

"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.

She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he was lying in the window seat.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," said Ellen.

"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my little sister?"

He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about different things; nothing is the matter," said Ellen.

"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"

"I don't know," said she, laughing; "there weren't any till I came here. I was thinking just now about mamma."

He said no more, still, however, keeping her beside him.

"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes' musing look out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if there were such things as oracles—don't you, Mr. John?"

"No."

"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen?"

"I do know a great deal about it."

"About what is going to happen?"

He smiled.

"Yes, a great deal, Ellie, enough to give me work for all the rest of my life."

"Oh, you mean from the Bible!—I was thinking of other things."

"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie; I am very glad to know those the Bible teaches us."

"But it doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"

"Go to the window and tell me what you see."

"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking a grave look out.

"Well, what in general?"

"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes; and the sun is shining on everything just as it did the day we came; and there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue sky."

"Now, look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll—they shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment; and it and all the works that are therein shall be burned up."

As he spoke Ellen's fancy tried to follow, to picture the ruin and desolation of all that stood so fair and seemed to stand so firm before her; but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the window.

"Do you believe it?" said John.

"Yes," said Ellen, "I know it; but I think it is very disagreeable to think about it."

"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side, "very disagreeable—very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But we know more—read here."

Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.

"'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, neither come into mind.'"

"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen; "shall we forget all about them?"

"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall not want to think of these."

Ellen's eyes sought the window again.

"You are thinking that it is hardly possible," said John, with a smile.

"I suppose it is possible," said Ellen, "but——"

"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, and sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin there; sorrow and sighing shall flee away; love to each other and love to their blessed King will fill all hearts, and His presence will be with them. Don't you see that even if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be far, far more lovely than this can ever be with the shadow of sin upon it?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen. "I know whenever I feel wrong in any way nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much."

"Very well," said John. "I see you understand me. I like to think of that land, Ellen—very much."

"Mr. John," said Ellen, "don't you think people will know each other again?"

"Those that love each other here? I have no doubt of it."

Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better; and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother and sister now; Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of His service, even here—till thoughts grew too strong for words, and silence again stole upon the group. The short winter day came to an end; the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn; and from where she sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered with the moonlight which began to steal in at the window. It was very, very beautiful: yet she could think now without sorrow that all this should come to an end, because of that new heaven and new earth wherein righteousness should dwell.

"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice, "or rather I have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes in my life. John said the reason was because every one tasted of you."

"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.

"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on; "except for my headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did; and you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! there has been many a day lately when I would gladly have had a headache for the power of laying my head on your shoulder."

"And if mamma had not gone away I should never have known you," said Ellen. "I wish she never had gone, but I am very, very glad for this."

She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for Marianne. It was done with the gracefulness that could only come from a spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.



CHAPTER XXXI

The ancient heroes were illustrious, For being benign, and not blustrous.

—HUDIBRAS.

The next day it happened that the young people were amusing themselves with talking in a room where John Humphreys, walking up and down, was amusing himself with thinking. In the course of his walk, he began to find their amusement rather disturbing to his. The children were all grouped closely around Margaret Dunscombe, who was entertaining them with a long and very detailed account of a wedding and great party at Randolph which she had had the happiness of attending. Eagerly fighting her battles over again, and pleased with the rapt attention of her hearers, the speaker forgot herself, and raised her voice much more than she meant to do. As every turn of his walk brought John near, there came to his ears sufficient bits and scraps of Margaret's story to give him a very fair sample of the whole; and he was sorry to see Ellen among the rest, and as the rest, hanging upon her lips and drinking in what seemed to him to be very poor nonsense. "Her gown was all blue satin, trimmed here—and so—you know, with the most exquisite lace, as deep as that—and on the shoulders and here—you know, it was looped up with the most lovely bunches of"—here John lost the sense. When he came near again she had got upon a different topic—"'Miss Simmons,' says I, 'what did you do that for?' 'Why,' says she, 'how could I help it? I saw Mr. Payne coming, and I thought I'd get behind you, and so——.'" The next time the speaker was saying with great animation, "And lo, and behold, when I was in the midst of all my pleasure, up comes a little gentleman of about his dimensions——." He had not taken many turns when he saw that Margaret's nonsense was branching out right and left into worse than nonsense.

"Ellen," said he suddenly, "I want you in the library."

"My conscience!" said Margaret as he left the room, "King John the Second, and no less."

"Don't go on till I come back," said Ellen. "I won't be three minutes. Just wait for me."

She found John seated at one of the tables in the library, sharpening a pencil.

"Ellen," said he, in his usual manner, "I want you to do something for me."

She waited eagerly to hear what, but instead of telling her he took a piece of drawing-paper and began to sketch something. Ellen stood by, wondering and impatient, to the last degree; not caring, however, to show her impatience, though her very feet were twitching to run back to her companions.

"Ellen," said John, as he finished the old stump of a tree with one branch left on it, and a little bit of ground at the bottom, "did you ever try your hand at drawing?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Then sit down here," said he, rising from his chair, "and let me see what you can make of that."

"But I don't know how," said Ellen.

"I will teach you. There is a piece of paper, and this pencil is sharp enough. Is that chair too low for you?"

He placed another, and with extreme unwillingness and some displeasure Ellen sat down. It was on her tongue to ask if another time would not do, but somehow she could not get the words out. John showed her how to hold her pencil, how to place her paper, where to begin, and how to go on; and then went to the other end of the room and took up his walk again. Ellen at first felt more inclined to drive her pencil through the paper than to make quiet marks upon it. However necessity was upon her. She began her work, and once fairly begun, it grew delightfully interesting. Her vexation went off entirely; she forgot Margaret and her story; the wrinkles on the old trunk smoothed those on her brow, and those troublesome leaves at the branch end brushed away all thoughts of everything else. Her cheeks were burning with intense interest, when the library door burst open and the whole troop of children rushed in; they wanted Ellen for a round game in which all their number were needed; and she must come directly.

"I can't come just yet," said she; "I must finish this first."

"Afterwards will just do as well," said George; "come, Ellen, do! you can finish it afterwards."

"No, I can't," said Ellen; "I can't leave it till it's done. Why, I thought Mr. John was here! I didn't see him go out. I'll come in a little while."

"Did he set you about that precious piece of business?" said William.

"Yes."

"I declare," said Margaret, "he's fitter to be the Grand Turk than any one else I know of."

"I'll tell you," said William, putting his mouth close to her ear, and speaking in a disagreeable loud whisper, "it's the biggest gobbler in the yard."

"Ain't you ashamed, William?" cried little Ellen Chauncey.

"That's it exactly," said Margaret; "always strutting about."

"He isn't a bit," said Ellen, very angry; "I've seen people a great deal more like gobblers than he is."

"Well," said William, reddening in his turn, "I had rather, at any rate, be a good turkey gobbler than one of those outlandish birds that have an appetite for stones and glass and bits of morocco, and such things. Come, let us leave her to do the Grand Turk's bidding. Come, Ellen Chauncey, you mustn't stay to interrupt her; we want you!"

They left her alone. Ellen had coloured, but William's words did not hit very sore. Since John's talk with her about the matter referred to she had thought of it humbly and wisely; it is only pride that makes such fault-finding very hard to bear. She was very sorry, however, that they had fallen out again, and that her own passion, as she feared, had been the cause. A few tears had to be wiped away before she could see exactly how the old tree stood; then, taking up her pencil, she soon forgot everything in her work. It was finished, and with head now on one side, now on the other, she was looking at her picture with very great satisfaction, when her eye caught the figure of John standing before her.

"Is it done?" said he.

"It is done," said Ellen, smiling, as she rose up to let him come. He sat down to look at it.

"It is very well," he said; "better than I expected. It is very well indeed. Is this your first trial, Ellen?"

"Yes, the first."

"You found it pleasant work?"

"Oh, very! very pleasant. I like it dearly."

"Then I will teach you. This shows you have a taste for it, and that is precisely what I wanted to find out. I will give you an easier copy next time. I rather expected when you sat down," said he, smiling a little, "that the old tree would grow a good deal more crooked under your hands than I meant it to be."

Ellen blushed exceedingly. "I do believe, Mr. John," she said, stammering, "that you know everything I am thinking about."

"I might do that, Ellen, without being as wise as an oracle. But I do not expect to make any very painful discoveries in that line," answered John Humphreys.

Ellen thought, if he did not, it would not be her fault. She truly repented her momentary anger and hasty speech to William. Not that he did not deserve it, or that it was not true; but it was unwise, and had done mischief, and "it was not a bit like peacemaking, nor meek at all," Ellen said to herself. She had been reading that morning the fifth chapter of Matthew, and it ran in her head, "Blessed are the meek;" "Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God." She strove to get back a pleasant feeling toward her young companions, and prayed that she might not be angry at anything they should say. She was tried again at tea-time.

Miss Sophia had quitted the table, bidding William hand the dough-nuts to those who could not reach them. Marianne took a great while to make her choice. Her brother grew impatient.

"Well, I hope you have suited yourself," said he. "Come, Miss Montgomery, don't you be as long; my arm is tired. Shut your eyes, and then you'll be sure to get the biggest one in the basket."

"No, Ellen," said John, who none of the children thought was near, "it would be ungenerous; I wouldn't deprive Master William of his best arguments."

"What do you mean by my arguments?" said William sharply.

"Generally, those which are the most difficult to take in," answered his tormentor, with perfect gravity.

Ellen tried to keep from smiling, but could not; and others of the party did not try. William and his sister were enraged, the more because John had said nothing they could take hold of, or even repeat. Gilbert made common cause with them.

"I wish I was grown up for once," said William.

"Will you fight me, sir?" asked Gilbert, who was a matter of three years older, and well grown enough.

His question received no answer, and was repeated.

"No, sir."

"Why not, sir?"

"I am afraid you'd lay me up with a sprained ankle," said John, "and I should not get back to Doncaster as quickly as I must."

"It is very mean of him," said Gilbert, as John walked away; "I could whip him, I know."

"Who's that?" said Mr. Howard Marshman.

"John Humphreys."

"John Humphreys! You had better not meddle with him, my dear fellow. It would be no particular proof of wisdom."

"Why, he's no such great affair," said Gilbert; "he is tall enough, to be sure, but I don't believe he is heavier than I am."

"You don't know, in the first place, how to judge of the size of a perfectly well-made man; and in the second place, I was not a match for him a year ago; so you may judge. I do not know precisely," he went on to the lady he was walking with, "what it takes to rouse John Humphreys, but when he is roused, he seems to me to have strength enough for twice his bone and muscle. I have seen him do curious things once or twice!"

"That quiet Mr. Humphreys?"

"Humph!" said Mr. Howard; "gunpowder is pretty quiet stuff so long as it keeps cool."

The next day another matter happened to disturb Ellen. Margaret had received an elegant pair of ear-rings as a Christmas present, and was showing them for the admiration of her young friends. Ellen's did not satisfy her.

"Ain't they splendid?" said she. "Tell the truth now, Ellen Montgomery, wouldn't you give a great deal if somebody would send you such a pair?"

"They are very pretty," said Ellen, "but I don't think I care much for such things; I would rather have the money."

"Oh, you avaricious! Mr. Marshman!" cried Margaret, as the old gentleman was just then passing through the room, "here's Ellen Montgomery says she'd rather have money than anything else for her present."

He did not seem to hear her, and went out without making any reply.

"O Margaret!" said Ellen, shocked and distressed, "how could you! how could you! What will Mr. Marshman think?"

Margaret answered she didn't care what he thought. Ellen could only hope he had not heard.

But a day or two after, when neither Ellen nor her friends were present, Mr. Marshman asked who it was that had told him Ellen Montgomery would like money better than anything else for her New Year's present.

"It was I, sir," said Margaret.

"It sounds very unlike her to say so," remarked Mrs. Chauncey.

"Did she say so?" inquired Mr. Marshman.

"I understood her so," said Margaret; "I understood her to say she wouldn't care for anything else."

"I am disappointed in her," said the old gentleman; "I wouldn't have believed it."

"I do not believe it," said Mrs. Chauncey quietly; "there has been some mistake."

It was hard for Ellen now to keep to what she thought right. Disagreeable feelings would rise when she remembered the impoliteness, the half-sneer, the whole taunt, and the real unkindness of several of the young party. She found herself ready to be irritated, inclined to dislike the sight of those, even wishing to visit some sort of punishment upon them. But Christian principle had taken strong hold in little Ellen's heart; she fought her evil tempers manfully. It was not an easy battle to gain. Ellen found that resentment and pride had roots deep enough to keep her pulling up the shoots for a good while. She used to get alone when she could, to read a verse, if no more, of her Bible, and pray; she could forgive William and Margaret more easily then. Solitude and darkness saw many a prayer and tear of hers that week. As she struggled thus to get rid of sin, and to be more like what would please God, she grew humble and happy. Never was such a struggle carried on by faith in Him without success. And after a time, though a twinge of the old feeling might come, it was very slight; she would bid William and Margaret good-morning, and join them in any enterprise of pleasure or business, with a brow as unclouded as the sun. They, however, were too conscious of having behaved unbecomingly towards their little strange guest to be over fond of her company. For the most part she and Ellen Chauncey were left to each other.

Meanwhile the famous needle-book was in a fair way to be finished. Great dismay had at first been excited in the breast of the intended giver by the discovery that Gilbert had consulted what seemed to be a very extraordinary fancy, in making the rose a yellow one. Ellen did her best to comfort her. She asked Alice, and found there were such things as yellow roses, and they were very beautiful too; and, besides, it would match so nicely the yellow butterfly on the other leaf.

"I had rather it wouldn't match!" said Ellen Chauncey; "and it don't match the rose-coloured silk besides. Are the yellow roses sweet?"

"No," said Ellen; "but this couldn't have been a sweet rose at any rate, you know."

"Oh, but," said the other, bursting out into a fresh passion of inconsolable tears, "I wanted it should be the picture of a sweet rose! And I think he might have put a purple butterfly; yellow butterflies are so common! I had a great deal rather had a purple butterfly and a red rose!"

What cannot be cured, however, must be endured. The tears were dried in course of time, and the needle-book with its yellow pictures and pink edges was very neatly finished. Ellen had been busy too on her own account. Alice had got a piece of fine linen for her from Miss Sophia; the collar for Mr. Van Brunt had been cut out, and Ellen with great pleasure had made it. The stitching, the strings, and the very button-holes, after infinite pains, were all finished by Thursday night. She had also made a needle-case for Alice, not of so much pretension as the other one; this was green morocco lined with crimson satin; no leaves, but ribbon stitched in to hold papers of needles, and a place for a bodkin. Ellen worked very hard at this; it was made with the extremest care, and made beautifully. Ellen Chauncey admired it very much, and anew lamented the uncouth variety of colours in her own. It was a grave question whether pink or yellow ribbon should be used for the latter; Ellen Montgomery recommended pink, she herself inclined to yellow; and tired of doubting, at last resolved to split the difference, and put one string of each colour. Ellen thought that did not mend matters, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Besides the needle-case for Alice, she had snatched the time whenever she could get away from Ellen Chauncey to work at something for her. She had begged Alice's advice and help; and between them, out of Ellen's scraps of morocco and silk, they had manufactured a little bag of all the colours of the rainbow, and very pretty and tasteful withal. Ellen thought it a chef-d'[oe]uvre, and was unbounded in her admiration. It lay folded up in white paper in a locked drawer ready for New Year's day. In addition to all these pieces of business, John had begun to give her drawing lessons, according to his promise. These became Ellen's delight. She would willingly have spent much more time upon them than he would allow her. It was the most loved employment of the day. Her teacher's skill was not greater than the perfect gentleness and kindness with which he taught. Ellen thought of Mr. Howard's speech about gunpowder; she could not understand it.

"What is your conclusion on the whole?" asked John one day, as he stood beside her mending a pencil.

"Why," said Ellen, laughing and blushing, "how could you guess what I was thinking about, Mr. John?"

"Not very difficult when you are eyeing me so hard."

"I was thinking," said Ellen; "I don't know whether it is right in me to tell it, because somebody said you——"

"Well?"

"Were like gunpowder."

"Very kind of somebody! And so you have been in doubt of an explosion?"

"No; I don't know; I wondered what he meant."

"Never believe what you hear said of people, Ellen; judge for yourself. Look here; that house has suffered from a severe gale of wind, I should think; all the uprights are slanting off to the right; can't you set it up straight?"

Ellen laughed at the tumble-down condition of the house as thus pointed out to her, and set about reforming it.

It was Thursday afternoon that Alice and Ellen were left alone in the library, several of the family having been called out to receive some visitors; Alice had excused herself, and Ellen, as soon as they were gone, nestled up to her side.

"How pleasant it is to be alone together, dear Alice! I don't have you even at night now."

"It is very pleasant, dear Ellie! Home will not look disagreeable again, will it? even after all our gaiety here."

"No, indeed! at least your home won't; I don't know what mine will. Oh me! I had almost forgotten Aunt Fortune!"

"Never mind, dear Ellie! You and I have each something to bear; we must be brave and bear it manfully. There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, you know. We shan't be unhappy if we do our duty and love Him."

"How soon is Mr. John going away?"

"Not for all next week. And so long as he stays, I do not mean that you shall leave me."

Ellen cried for joy.

"I can manage it with Miss Fortune, I know," said Alice. "These fine drawing lessons must not be interrupted. John is very much pleased with your performances."

"Is he?" said Ellen, delighted; "I have taken all the pains I could."

"That is the sure way to success, Ellie. But, Ellie, I want to ask you about something. What was that you said to Margaret Dunscombe about wanting money for a New Year's present?"

"You know it, then!" cried Ellen, starting up. "Oh, I am so glad! I wanted to speak to you about it so, I didn't know what to do, and I thought I oughtn't to. What shall I do about it, dear Alice? How did you know? George said you were not there."

"Mrs. Chauncey told me; she thought there had been some mistake, or something wrong; how was it, Ellen?"

"Why," said Ellen, "she was showing us her ear-rings, and asking us what we thought of them, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have such a pair; and I thought I would a great deal rather have the money they cost, to buy other things with, you know, that I would like better; and I said so; and just then Mr. Marshman came in, and she called out to him, loud, that I wanted money for a present, or would like it better than anything else, or something like that. O Alice, how I felt! I was frightened; but then I hoped Mr. Marshman did not hear her, for he did not say anything; but the next day George told me all about what she had been saying in there, and oh, it made me so unhappy!" said poor Ellen, looking very dismal. "What will Mr. Marshman think of me? he will think I expected a present, and I never dreamed of such a thing; it makes me ashamed to speak of it, even; and I can't bear he should think so; I can't bear it. What shall I do, dear Alice?"

"I don't know what you can do, dear Ellie, but be patient. Mr. Marshman will not think anything very hard of you, I dare say."

"But I think he does already; he hasn't kissed me since that as he did before; I know he does, and I don't know what to do. How could Margaret say that! oh, how could she! it was very unkind. What can I do?" said Ellen again, after a pause, and wiping away a few tears. "Couldn't Mrs. Chauncey tell Mr. Marshman not to give me anything, for that I never expected it, and would a great deal rather not?"

"Why, no, Ellie, I do not think that would be exactly the best or most dignified way."

"What, then, dear Alice? I'll do just as you say."

"I would just remain quiet."

"But Ellen says the things are all put on the plates in the morning; and if there should be money on mine—I don't know what I should do, I should feel so badly. I couldn't keep it, Alice!—I couldn't!"

"Very well—you need not!—but remain quiet in the meanwhile; and if it should be so, then say what you please, only take care that you say it in a right spirit and in a right manner. Nobody can hurt you much, my child, while you keep the even path of duty; poor Margaret is her own worst enemy."

"Then if there should be money in the morning, I may tell Mr. Marshman the truth about it?"

"Certainly—only do not be in haste; speak gently."

"Oh, I wish everybody would be kind and pleasant always!" said poor Ellen, but half comforted.

"What a sigh was there!" said John, coming in. "What is the matter with my little sister?"

"Some of the minor trials of life, John," said Alice, with a smile.

"What is the matter, Ellie?"

"Oh, something you can't help," said Ellen.

"And something I mustn't know. Well, to change the scene—suppose you go with me to visit the greenhouse and hothouses. Have you seen them yet?"

"No," said Ellen, as she eagerly sprang forward to take his hand; "Ellen promised to go with me, but we have been so busy."

"Will you come, Alice?"

"Not I," said Alice, "I wish I could, but I shall be wanted elsewhere."

"By whom, I wonder, so much as by me," said her brother. "However, after to-morrow I will have you all to myself."

As he and Ellen were crossing the hall they met Mrs. Marshman.

"Where are you going, John?" said she.

"Where I ought to have been before, ma'am—to pay my respects to Mr. Hutchinson."

"You've not seen him yet? that is very ungrateful of you. Hutchinson is one of your warmest friends and admirers. There are few people he mentions with so much respect, or that he is so glad to see, as Mr. John Humphreys."

"A distinction I owe, I fear, principally to my English blood," said John, shaking his head.

"It is not altogether that," said Mrs. Marshman, laughing; "though I do believe I am the only Yankee good Hutchinson has ever made up his mind entirely to like. But go and see him, do, he will be very much pleased."

"Who is Mr. Hutchinson?" said Ellen, as they went on.

"He is the gardener, or rather the head-gardener. He came out with his master some thirty or forty years ago, but his old English prejudice will go to the grave with him, I believe."

"But why don't he like the Americans?"

John laughed. "It would never do for me to attempt to answer that question, Ellie, fond of going to the bottom of things as you are. We should just get to hard fighting about tea-time, and should barely make peace by mid-day to-morrow at the most moderate calculation. You shall have an answer to your question, however."

Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait for his promised answer.

As they entered the large and beautifully-kept greenhouse, Hutchinson came from the farther end of it to meet them—an old man of most respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and then slipped his priming-knife into his left hand to leave the right at liberty for John, who shook it cordially.

"And why 'aven't you been to see me before, Mr. John? I have thought it rather 'ard of you; Miss h'Alice has come several times."

"The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. You look flourishing here."

"Why, yes, sir, pretty middling within doors; but I don't like the climate, Mr. John, I don't like the climate, sir. There's no country like h'England, I believe, for my business. 'Ere's a fine rose, sir—if you'll step a bit this way—quite a new kind—I got it over last h'autumn—the Palmerston it is. Those are fine buds, sir."

The old man was evidently much pleased to see his visitor, and presently plunged him deep into English politics, for which he seemed to have lost no interest by forty years' life in America. As Ellen could not understand what they were talking about, she quitted John's side, and went wandering about by herself. From the moment the sweet aromatic smell of the plants had greeted her she had been in a high state of delight; and now, lost to all the world beside, from the mystery of one beautiful and strange green thing to another, she went wandering and admiring, and now and then timidly advancing her nose to see if something glorious was something sweet too. She could hardly leave a superb cactus, in the petals of which there was such a singular blending of scarlet and crimson as almost to dazzle her sight; and if the pleasure of smell could intoxicate she would have reeled away from a luxuriant daphne odorata in full flower, over which she feasted for a long time. The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her; some rough and brown-streaked, some shining as if they were varnished, others of hair-like delicacy of structure—all lovely. At last she stood still with admiration and almost held her breath before a white camellia.

"What does that flower make you think of, Ellen?" said John, coming up; his friend the gardener had left him to seek a newspaper in which he wished to show him a paragraph.

"I don't know," said Ellen—"I couldn't think of anything but itself."

"It reminds me of what I ought to be—and of what I shall be if I ever see heaven; it seems to me the emblem of a sinless pure spirit, looking up in fearless spotlessness. Do you remember what was said to the old Church of Sardis? 'Thou hast a few names that have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.'"

The tears rushed to Ellen's eyes, she felt she was so very unlike this; but Mr. Hutchinson coming back prevented anything more from being said. She looked at the white camellia; it seemed to speak to her.

"That's the paragraph, sir," said the old gardener, giving the paper to John. "'Ere's a little lady that is fond of flowers, if I don't make a mistake; this is somebody I've not seen before. Is this the little lady Miss h'Ellen was telling me about?"

"I presume so," said John; "she is Miss Ellen Montgomery, a sister of mine, Mr. Hutchinson, and Mr. Marshman's guest."

"By both names h'entitled to my greatest respect," said the old man, stepping back and making a very low bow to Ellen, with his hand upon his heart, at which she could not help laughing. "I am very glad to see Miss h'Ellen. What can I do to make her remember old 'Utchinson? Would Miss h'Ellen like a bouquet?"

Ellen did not venture to say yes, but her blush and sparkling eyes answered him. The old gardener understood her, and was as good as his word. He began with cutting a beautiful sprig of a large purple geranium, then a slip of lemon myrtle. Ellen watched him as the bunch grew in his hand, and could hardly believe her eyes as one beauty after another was added to what became a most elegant bouquet. And most sweet too; to her joy the delicious daphne and fragrant lemon blossom went to make part of it. Her thanks, when it was given her, were made with few words but with all her face; the old gardener smiled, and was quite satisfied that his gift was not thrown away. He afterwards showed them his hothouses, where Ellen was astonished and very much interested to see ripe oranges and lemons in abundance, and pines too, such as she had been eating since she came to Ventnor, thinking nothing less than that they grew so near home. The grapes had all been cut.

There was to be quite a party at Ventnor in the evening of New Year's day. Ellen knew this, and destined her precious flowers for Alice's adornment. How to keep them in the meanwhile? She consulted Mr. John, and, according to his advice, took them to Mrs. Bland, the housekeeper, to be put in water and kept in a safe place for her till the time. She knew Mrs. Bland, for Ellen Chauncey and she had often gone to her room to work where none of the children would find and trouble them. Mrs. Bland promised to take famous care of the flowers, and said she would do it with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Marshman's guests, she added smilingly, must have everything they wanted.

"What does that mean, Mrs. Bland?" said Ellen.

"Why, you see, Miss Ellen, there's a deal of company always coming, and some is Mrs. Gillespie's friends, and some Mr. Howard's, and some to see Miss Sophia more particularly, and some belong to Mrs. Marshman, or the whole family maybe; but now and then Mr. Marshman has an old English friend or so, that he sets the greatest store by; and them he calls his guests, and the best in the house is hardly good enough for them, or the country either."

"And so I am one of Mr. Marshman's guests!" said Ellen; "I didn't know what it meant."

She saved but one little piece of rose-geranium from her flowers, for the gratification of her own nose, and skipped away through the hall to rejoin her companions, very light-hearted indeed.



CHAPTER XXXII

This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy-land, Where pleasure is the magic wand That, wielded right, Makes hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance in fu' light.

—BURNS.

New Year's morning dawned.

"How I wish breakfast was over!" thought Ellen as she was dressing. However, there is no way of getting over this life but by going through it; so when the bell rang she went down as usual. Mr. Marshman had decreed that he would not have a confusion of gifts at the breakfast-table; other people might make presents in their own way; they must not interfere with his. Needle-cases, bags, and so forth, must therefore wait another opportunity; and Ellen Chauncey decided it would just make the pleasure so much longer, and was a great improvement on the old plan. "Happy New Years" and pleasant greetings were exchanged as the party gathered in the breakfast-room; pleasure sat on all faces except Ellen's, and many a one wore a broad smile as they sat down to table. For the napkins were in singular disarrangement this morning; instead of being neatly folded up on the plates, in their usual fashion, they were in all sorts of disorder, sticking up in curious angles, some high, some low, some half folded, some quite unfolded, according to the size and shape of that which they covered. It was worth while to see that long tableful, and the faces of the company, before yet a napkin was touched. An anxious glance at her own showed Ellen that it lay quite flat; Alice's, which was next, had an odd little rising in the middle, as if there were a small dumpling under it. Ellen was in an agony for this pause to come to an end. It was broken by some of the older persons, and then in a trice every plate was uncovered. And then what a buzz! pleasure and thanks and admiration, and even laughter. Ellen dreaded at first to look at her plate; she bethought her, however, that if she waited long she would have to do it with all eyes upon her; she lifted the napkin slowly—yes—just as she feared—there lay a clean bank-note—of what value she could not see, for confusion covered her; the blood rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She could not have spoken, and happily it was no time then; everybody else was speaking; she could not have been heard. She had time to cool and recollect herself: but she sat with her eyes cast down, fastened upon her plate and the unfortunate bank-bill, which she detested with all her heart. She did not know what Alice had received; she understood nothing that was going on, till Alice touched her, and said gently, "Mr. Marshman is speaking to you, Ellen."

"Sir!" said Ellen, starting.

"You need not look so terrified," said Mr. Marshman, smiling; "I only asked you if your bill was a counterfeit—something seems to be wrong about it."

Ellen looked at her plate and hesitated. Her lip trembled.

"What is it?" continued the old gentleman. "Is anything the matter?"

Ellen desperately took up the bill, and with burning cheeks marched to his end of the table.

"I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I had a great deal rather not; if you please—if you will please to be so good as to let me give it back to you—I should be very glad."

"Why, hoity toity!" said the old gentleman, "what's all this? what's the matter? don't you like it? I thought I was doing the very thing that would please you best of all."

"I am very sorry you should think so, sir," said Ellen, who had recovered a little breath, but had the greatest difficulty to keep back her tears; "I never thought of such a thing as your giving me anything, sir, till somebody spoke of it, and I had rather never have anything in the world than that you should think what you thought about me."

"What did I think about you?"

"George told me that somebody told you, sir, I wanted money for my present."

"And didn't you say so?"

"Indeed I didn't, sir!" said Ellen, with sudden fire. "I never thought of such a thing!"

"What did you say then?"

"Margaret was showing us her ear-rings, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have some like them; and I couldn't help thinking I would a great deal rather have the money they would cost to buy something for Alice; and just when I said so you came in, sir, and she said what she did. I was very much ashamed. I wasn't thinking of you, sir, at all, nor of New Year."

"Then you would like something else better than money."

"No, sir, nothing at all, if you please. If you'll only be so good as not to give me this I will be very much obliged to you indeed; and please not to think I could be so shameful as you thought I was."

Ellen's face was not to be withstood. The old gentleman took the bill from her hand.

"I will never think anything of you," said he, "but what is the very tip-top of honourable propriety. But you make me ashamed now—what am I going to do with this? Here have you come and made me a present, and I feel very awkward indeed."

"I don't care what you do with it, sir," said Ellen, laughing, though in imminent danger of bursting into tears—"I am very glad it is out of my hands."

"But you needn't think I am going to let you off so," said he; "you must give me half-a-dozen kisses at least to prove that you have forgiven me for making so great a blunder."

"Half-a-dozen is too many at once," said Ellen gaily, "three now and three to-night."

So she gave the old gentleman three kisses, but he caught her in his arms and gave her a dozen at least; after which he found out that the waiter was holding a cup of coffee at his elbow, and Ellen went back to her place with a very good appetite for her breakfast.

After breakfast the needle-cases were delivered. Both gave the most entire satisfaction. Mrs. Chauncey assured her daughter that she would quite as lief have a yellow as a red rose on the cover, and that she liked the inscription extremely, which the little girl acknowledged to have been a joint device of her own and Ellen's. Ellen's bag gave great delight, and was paraded all over the house.

After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and when she had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not give her for a good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers—a sweet gift still to be made. Why not make it now? why should not Alice have the pleasure of them all day? A bright thought! Ellen ran forthwith to the housekeeper's room, and after a long admiring look at her treasures, carried them glass and all to the library, where Alice and John often were in the morning alone. Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the flowers were smelled and admired afresh.

"Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Ellie, except Mr. Marshman's gift."

"And what was that, Alice? I haven't seen it yet."

Alice pulled out of her pocket a small round morocco case, the very thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under the napkin, and opened it.

"It's Mr. John!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, how beautiful!"

Neither of her hearers could help laughing.

"It is very fine, Ellie," said Alice; "you are quite right. Now I know what was the business that took John to Randolph every day, and kept him there so long, while I was wondering at him unspeakably. Kind, kind Mr. Marshman."

"Did Mr. John get anything?"

"Ask him, Ellie."

"Did you get anything, Mr. John?" said Ellen, going up to him where he was reading on the sofa.

"I got this," said John, handing her a little book which lay beside him.

"What is this? Wime's—Wiem's—Life of Washington—Washington? he was—may I look at it?"

"Certainly!"

She opened the book, and presently sat down on the floor where she was by the side of the sofa. Whatever she had found within the leaves of the book, she had certainly lost herself. An hour passed. Ellen had not spoken or moved except to turn over leaves.

"Ellen!" said John.

She looked up, her cheeks coloured high.

"What have you found there?" said he, smiling.

"Oh, a great deal! But—did Mr. Marshman give you this?"

"No."

"Oh!" said Ellen, looking puzzled, "I thought you said you got this this morning."

"No, I got it last night. I got it for you, Ellie."

"For me!" said Ellen, her colour deepening very much—"for me! did you? Oh, thank you!—oh, I'm so very much obliged to you, Mr. John."

"It is only an answer to one of your questions."

"This! is it?—I don't know what, I am sure. Oh, I wish I could do something to please you, Mr. John!"

"You shall, Ellie; you shall give me a brother's right again."

Blushingly Ellen approached her lips to receive one of his grave kisses; and then, not at all displeased, went down on the floor and was lost in her book.

Oh, the long joy of that New Year's day! how shall it be told? The pleasure of that delightful book, in which she was wrapped the whole day; even when called off, as she often was, by Ellen Chauncey to help her in fifty little matters of business or pleasure. These were attended to, and faithfully and cheerfully, but the book was in her head all the while. And this pleasure was mixed with Alice's pleasure, the flowers and the miniature, and Mr. Marshman's restored kindness. She never met John's or Alice's eye that day without a smile. Even when she went to be dressed her book went with her, and was laid on the bed within sight, ready to be taken up the moment she was at liberty. Ellen Chauncey lent her a white frock, which was found to answer very well with a tuck let out; and Alice herself dressed her. While this was doing, Margaret Dunscombe put her head in at the door to ask Anne, Miss Sophia's maid, if she was almost ready to come and curl her hair.

"Indeed I can't say that I am, Miss Margaret," said Anne. "I've something to do for Miss Humphreys, and Miss Sophia hasn't so much as done the first thing towards beginning to get ready yet. It'll be a good hour and more."

Margaret went away exclaiming impatiently that she could get nobody to help her, and would have to wait till everybody was downstairs.

A few minutes after she heard Ellen's voice at the door of her room asking if she might come in.

"Yes—what's that? what do you want?"

"I'll fix your hair if you'll let me," said Ellen.

"You? I don't believe you can."

"Oh yes, I can; I used to do mamma's very often; I am not afraid if you'll trust me."

"Well, thank you, I don't care if you try then," said Margaret, seating herself, "it won't do any harm, at any rate; and I want to be downstairs before anybody gets here; I think it's half the fun to see them come in. Bless me! you're dressed and all ready."

Margaret's hair was in long thick curls; it was not a trifling matter to dress them. Ellen plodded through it patiently and faithfully, taking great pains, and doing the work well; and then went back to Alice. Margaret's thanks, not very gracefully given, would have been a poor reward for the loss of three-quarters of an hour of pleasure. But Ellen was very happy in having done right. It was no longer time to read; they must go downstairs.

The New Year's party was a nondescript, young and old together; a goodly number of both were gathered from Randolph and the neighbouring country. There were games for the young, dancing for the gay, and a superb supper for all; and the big bright rooms were full of bright faces. It was a very happy evening to Ellen. For a good part of it Mr. Marshman took possession of her, or kept her near him; and his extreme kindness would alone have made the evening pass pleasantly; she was sure he was her firm friend again.

In the course of the evening Mrs. Chauncey found occasion to ask her about her journey up the river, without at all mentioning Margaret or what she had said.

Ellen answered that she had come with Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter.

"Did you have a pleasant time?" asked Mrs. Chauncey.

"Why, no, ma'am," said Ellen, "I don't know—it was partly pleasant and partly unpleasant."

"What made it so, love?"

"I had left mamma that morning, and that made me unhappy."

"But you said it was partly pleasant?"

"Oh, that was because I had such a good friend on board," said Ellen, her face lighting up as his image came before her.

"Who was that?"

"I don't know, ma'am, who he was."

"A stranger to you?"

"Yes, ma'am—I never saw him before—I wish I could see him again."

"Where did you find him?"

"I didn't find him—he found me, when I was sitting up on the highest part of the boat."

"And your friends with you?"

"What friends?"

"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter."

"No, ma'am; they were down in the cabin."

"And what business had you to be walking about the boat alone?" said Mr. Marshman good-humouredly.

"They were strangers, sir," said Ellen, colouring a little.

"Well, so was this man—your friend—a stranger too, wasn't he?"

"Oh, he was a very different stranger," said Ellen, smiling; "and he wasn't a stranger long, besides."

"Well, you must tell me more about him; come, I'm curious. What sort of a strange friend was this?"

"He wasn't a strange friend," said Ellen, laughing; "he was a very, very good friend; he took care of me the whole day; he was very good and very kind."

"What kind of a man?" said Mrs. Chauncey; "a gentleman?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!" said Ellen, looking surprised at the question. "I am sure he was."

"What did he look like?"

Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct.

"What did he wear? Coat or cloak?"

"Coat—dark brown, I think."

"This was in the end of October, wasn't it?"

Ellen thought a moment and answered "Yes."

"And you don't know his name?"

"No, ma'am; I wish I did."

"I can tell you," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "he is one of my best friends too, Ellen; it is my brother, Mr. George Marshman."

How Ellen's face crimsoned! Mr. Marshman asked how she knew.

"It was then he came up the river, you know, sir; and don't you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat who was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavoured to befriend? I had forgotten it entirely till a minute or two ago."

"Miss Margaret Dunscombe!" cried George Walsh, "what kind of a person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up the river?"

"I don't know, nor care," said Margaret. "Somebody she picked up somewhere."

"It was Mr. George Marshman!"

"It wasn't."

"Uncle George!" exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the group her cousin had quitted; "My Uncle George? Do you know Uncle George, Ellen?"

"Very much—I mean—yes," said Ellen.

Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It seemed to bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it too. Mrs. Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remembered very well her son's speaking of her, and was very glad to find who it was. And now, Ellen thought, she would surely see him again some time.

The next day they left Ventnor. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry to lose her new friend, and begged she would come again "as soon as she could." All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told her she must give him a large place in her heart, or he should be jealous of her "strange friend;" and Alice was charged to bring her whenever she came to see them.

The drive back to Carra-carra was scarcely less pleasant than the drive out had been; and home, Ellen said, looked lovely. That is, Alice's home, which she began to think more her own than any other. The pleasure of the past ten days, though great, had not been unmixed; the week that followed was one of perfect enjoyment. In Mr. Humphrey's household there was an atmosphere of peace and purity that even a child could feel, and in which such a child as Ellen throve exceedingly. The drawing lessons went on with great success; other lessons were begun; there were fine long walks, and charming sleigh-rides, and more than one visit to Mrs. Vawse; and what Ellen perhaps liked best of all, the long evenings of conversation and reading aloud, and bright firelights, and brighter sympathy and intelligence and affection. That week did them all good, and no one more than Ellen.

It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune's and begin her old life there. She went on the evening of the day John had departed. They were at supper.

"Well!" said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, "have you got enough of visiting? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn't wanted, for my part."

"I haven't, Aunt Fortune," said Ellen.

"She's been nowhere but what's done her good," said Mr. Van Brunt; "she's reely growed handsome since she's been away."

"Grown a fiddlestick!" said Miss Fortune.

"She couldn't grow handsomer than she was before," said the old grandmother, hugging and kissing her little granddaughter with great delight; "the sweetest posie in the garden she always was!"

Mr. Van Brunt looked as if he entirely agreed with the old lady. That, while it made some amends for Miss Fortune's dryness, perhaps increased it. She remarked, that "she thanked Heaven she could always make herself contented at home;" which Ellen could not help thinking was a happiness for the rest of the world.

In the matter of the collar, it was hard to say whether the giver or receiver had the most satisfaction. Ellen had begged him not to speak of it to her aunt; and accordingly one Sunday when he came there with it on, both he and she were in a state of exquisite delight. Miss Fortune's attention was at last aroused; she made a particular review of him, and ended it by declaring that "he looked uncommonly dandified, but she could not make out what he had done to himself;" a remark which transported Mr. Van Brunt and Ellen beyond all bounds of prudence.

Nancy's Bible, which had been purchased for her at Randolph, was given to her the first opportunity. Ellen anxiously watched her as she slowly turned it over, her face showing, however, very decided approbation of the style of the gift. She shook her head once or twice, and then said—

"What did you give this to me for, Ellen?"

"Because I wanted to give you something for New Year," said Ellen, "and I thought that would be the best thing—if you would only read it, it would make you so happy and good."

"You are good, I believe," said Nancy, "but I don't expect ever to be myself—I don't think I could be. You might as well teach a snake not to wriggle."

"I am not good at all," said Ellen, "we're none of us good"—and the tears rose to her eyes—"but the Bible will teach us how to be. If you'll only read it! please Nancy, do! say you will read a little every day."

"You don't want me to make a promise I shouldn't keep, I guess, do you?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Well, I shouldn't keep that, so I won't promise it; but I tell you what I will do, I'll take precious fine care of it, and keep it always for your sake."

"Well," said Ellen, sighing, "I am glad you will even do so much as that. But Nancy—before you begin to read the Bible you may have to go where you never can read it, nor be happy nor good neither."

Nancy made no answer, but walked away, Ellen thought, rather more soberly than usual.

This conversation had cost Ellen some effort. It had not been made without a good deal of thought and some prayer. She could not hope she had done much good, but she had done her duty. And it happened that Mr. Van Brunt, standing behind the angle of the wall, had heard every word.



CHAPTER XXXIII

If erst he wished, now he longed sore.

—FAIRFAX.

Ellen's life had nothing to mark it for many months. The rest of the winter passed quietly away, every day being full of employment. At home the state of matters was rather bettered. Either Miss Fortune was softened by Ellen's gentle inoffensive ways and obedient usefulness, or she had resolved to bear what could not be helped, and make the best of the little inmate she could not get rid of. She was certainly resolved to make the most of her. Ellen was kept on the jump a great deal of the time; she was runner of errands and maid-of-all-work; to set the table and clear it was only a trifle in the list of her everyday duties; and they were not ended till the last supper dish was put away and the hearth swept up. Miss Fortune never spared herself, and never spared Ellen, so long as she had any occasion for her.

There were, however, long pieces of time that were left free; these Ellen seized for her studies and used most diligently, urged on by a three or fourfold motive. For the love of them, and for her own sake—that John might think she had done well—that she might presently please and satisfy Alice—above all, that her mother's wishes might be answered. This thought, whenever it came, was a spur to her efforts; so was each of the others; and Christian feeling added another and kept all the rest in force. Without this, indolence might have weakened, or temptation surprised her resolution; little Ellen was open to both; but if ever she found herself growing careless, from either cause, conscience was sure to smite her, and then would rush in all the motives that called upon her to persevere. Soon faithfulness began to bring its reward. With delight she found herself getting the better of difficulties, beginning to see a little through the mists of ignorance, making some sensible progress on the long road of learning. Study grew delightful; her lessons with Alice one of her greatest enjoyments. And as they were a labour of love to both teacher and scholar, and as it was the aim of each to see quite to the bottom of every matter, where it was possible, and to leave no difficulties behind them on the road which they had not cleared away, no wonder Ellen went forward steadily and rapidly. Reading also became a wonderful pleasure. Wiem's Life of Washington was read, and read, and read over again, till she almost knew it by heart; and from that she went to Alice's library, and ransacked it for what would suit her. Happily it was a well-picked one, and Ellen could not light upon many books that would do her mischief. For those, Alice's wish was enough; she never opened them. Furthermore, Alice insisted that when Ellen had only fairly begun a book she should go through with it; not capriciously leave it for another, nor have half-a-dozen about at one time. But when Ellen had read it once she commonly wanted to go over it again, and seldom laid it aside until she had sucked the sweetness all out of it.

As for drawing, it could not go on very fast while the cold weather lasted. Ellen had no place at home where she could spread out her paper and copies without danger of being disturbed. Her only chance was at the parsonage. John had put all her pencils in order before he went, and had left her an abundance of copies, marked as she was to take them. They, or some of them, were bestowed in Alice's desk; and whenever Ellen had a spare hour or two, of a fine morning or afternoon, she made the best of her way to the mountain; it made no difference whether Alice were at home or not; she went in, coaxed up the fire, and began her work. It happened many a time that Alice, coming home from a walk or a run in the woods, saw the little hood and cloak on the settee before she opened the glass door, and knew very well how she should find Ellen, bending intently over her desk. These runs to the mountain were very frequent; sometimes to draw, sometimes to recite, always to see Alice and be happy. Ellen grew rosy and hardy, and in spite of her separation from her mother, she was very happy too. Her extreme and varied occupation made this possible. She had no time to indulge useless sorrow; on the contrary, her thoughts were taken up with agreeable matters, either doing or to be done; and at night she was far too tired and sleepy to lie awake musing. And besides, she hoped that her mother would come back in the spring, or the summer at farthest. It is true Ellen had no liking for the kind of business her aunt gave her; it was oftentimes a trial of temper and patience. Miss Fortune was not the pleasantest work-mistress in the world, and Ellen was apt to wish to be doing something else; but, after all, this was not amiss. Besides the discipline of character, these trials made the pleasant things with which they were mixed up seem doubly pleasant, the disagreeable parts of her life relished the agreeable wonderfully. After spending the whole morning with Miss Fortune in the depths of housework, how delightful it was to forget all in drawing some nice little cottage with a bit of stone wall and a barrel in front; or to go with Alice, in thought, to the south of France, and learn how the peasants manage their vines and make the wine from them; or run over the Rock of Gibraltar with the monkeys; or at another time, seated on a little bench in the chimney corner, when the fire blazed up well, before the candles were lighted, to forget the kitchen and the supper and her bustling aunt, and sail round the world with Captain Cook. Yes—these things were all the sweeter for being tasted by snatches.

Spring brought new occupation; household labours began to increase in number and measure; her leisure times were shortened. But pleasures were increased too. When the snow went off, and spring-like days began to come, and birds' notes were heard again, and the trees put out their young leaves, and the brown mountains were looking soft and green, Ellen's heart bounded at the sight. The springing grass was lovely to see; dandelions were marvels of beauty; to her each wild wood flower was a never-to-be-enough admired and loved wonder. She used to take long rambles with Mr. Van Brunt when business led him to the woods, sometimes riding part of the way on the ox-sled. Always a basket for flowers went along; and when the sled stopped, she would wander all around seeking among the piled-up dead leaves for the white wind-flower, and pretty little hang-head uvularia, and delicate blood-root, and the wild geranium and columbine; and many others the names of which she did not know. They were like friends to Ellen; she gathered them affectionately as well as admiringly into her little basket, and seemed to purify herself in their pure companionship. Even Mr. Van Brunt came to have an indistinct notion that Ellen and flowers were made to be together. After he found what a pleasure it was to her to go on these expeditions, he made it a point, whenever he was bound to the woods of a fine day, to come to the house for her. Miss Fortune might object as she pleased; he always found an answer; and at last Ellen, to her great joy, would be told, "Well! go get your bonnet and be off with yourself." Once under the shadow of the big trees, the dried leaves crackling beneath her feet, and alone with her kind conductor, and Miss Fortune and all in the world that was disagreeable was forgotten—forgotten, no more to be remembered till the walk should come to an end. And it would have surprised anybody to hear the long conversations she and Mr. Van Brunt kept up, he, the silentest man in Thirlwall! Their talk often ran upon trees, among which Mr. Van Brunt was at home. Ellen wanted to become acquainted with them, as well as with the little flowers that grew at their feet; and he tried to teach her how to know each separate kind by the bark, and leaf, and manner of growth. The pine and hemlock and fir were easily learnt; the white birch too; beyond those at first she was perpetually confounding one with another. Mr. Van Brunt had to go over and over his instructions; never weary, always vastly amused. Pleasant lessons these were! Ellen thought so, and Mr. Van Brunt thought so too.