 CHAPTER 24 SWEEPING AND DUSTING Great preparations were making all Saturday and Monday for the expected gathering. For morning till night misfortune was in a perpetual bustle. The great oven was heated no less than three several times on Saturday alone. Ellen could hear the breaking of eggs in the buttery and the sound of beating or whisking for a long time together, and then misfortune would come out with flowery hands and plates of empty eggshells made their appearance, but Ellen saw no more. Whenever the coals were swept out of the oven and misfortune had made sure that the heat was just right for her purposes, Ellen was sent out of the way, and when she had got back there was nothing to be seen but the fast shut oven door. It was just the same when the dishes and all the perfection were to come out of the oven again. The utmost Ellen was permitted to see was the napkin covering some stray cake or pie that by chance had to pass through the kitchen where she was. As she could neither help nor look on, the day passed rather wearily. She tried studying. A little she found was enough to satisfy both mind and body in the present state. She longed to go out again and see how the snow looked, but a fierce wind all the four part of the day made it unfit for her. Towards the middle of the afternoon she saw with joy that it had lulled, and, though very cold, was so bright and calm that she might venture. She had eagerly opened the kitchen door to go up and get ready, when a long, weary yawn from her old grandmother made her look back. The old lady had laid her knitting and her lap and bent her face down to her hand, which she was rubbing across her brow, as if to clear away the tired feeling that had settled there. Ellen's conscience immediately brought up Ellis's words. Can't you do something to pass away a tedious hour now and then? The first feeling was a vexed regret that they should have come into her head at that moment. Then conscience said that was very selfish. There was a struggle. Ellen stood with the door in her hand, unable to go out or come in, but not long. As the words came back upon her memory, a charge to keep I have, her mind was made up. After one moment's prayer for help and forgiveness, she shut the door, came back to the fireplace, and spoke in a cheerful tone. Grandma, wouldn't you like to have me read something to you? Read, answered the old lady. Law's a me. I don't read nothing, dearie. But wouldn't you like to have me read to you, grandma? The old lady, in answer to this, laid down her knitting, folded both arms around Ellen, and kissing her a great many times, declared she should like anything that came out of that sweet little mouth. As soon as she was set free, Ellen brought her Bible, set down close beside her, and read chapter after chapter, rewarded even then by seeing that, though her grandmother said nothing, she was listening with fixed attention, bending down over her knitting as if in earnest care to catch every word. And when at last she stopped, mourned by certain noises downstairs that her aunt would presently be bustling in, the old lady again hugged her close to her bosom, kissing her foreheads and cheeks and lips, and declaring that she was a great deal sweeter than any sugar plums. And Ellen was very much surprised to feel her face wet with a tear from her grandmother's cheek. Hastily kissing her again, for the first time in her life, she ran out of the room, her own tears starting, and her heart swelling big. Oh, how much pleasure she thought I might have given my poor grandma, and how I have left her alone all this while, how wrong I have been, but it shan't be so in future. It was not quite sundown, and Ellen thought she might yet have two or three minutes in the open air. So she wrapped up very warm and went out to the chip yard. Ellen's heart was very light. She had just been fulfilling a duty that cost her a little self-denial, and the reward had already come. And now it seemed to her that she had never seen anything so perfectly beautiful as the scene before her. The brilliant snow that lay in a thick carpet over all the fields and hills, and the pale streaks of sunlight stretching across it between the long shadows that reach now from the barn to the house. One moment the light tinted the snow-capped fences and weighten barn roofs, then the lights and the shadows vanished together, and it was all one cold, dazzling white. Oh, how glorious Ellen almost shouted to herself. It was too cold to stand still. She ran to the barnyard to see the cows milked. There they were, all her old friends, streaky and dolly, and Jane and Suki, and Betty Flynn, sleek and contented, winter and summer were all the same to them. And Mr. Van Brunt was very glad to see her there again, and Sam Larkins and Johnny Lowe looked as if they were too. And Ellen told them with great truth she was very glad indeed to be there. And then she went into supper with Mr. Van Brunt and an amazing appetite. That was Saturday. Sunday passed quietly, though Ellen could not help suspecting it was not entirely a day of rest to her aunt. There was a savory smell of cooking in the morning, which nothing that came on the table by any means accounted for, and misfortune was scarcely to be seen the whole day. With Monday morning began a great bustle, and Ellen was well enough now to come in for her share. The kitchen, parlor, hall, shed, and lower kitchen must all be thoroughly swept and dusted. This was given to her, and a morning's work pretty near she found it. Then she had to rub bright all the brice handles of the doors, and the big brass andirons in the parlor, and the brass candlesticks on the parlor mantelpiece. When at last she got through and came to the fire to warm herself, she found her grandmother lamenting that her snuff box was empty, and asking her daughter to fill it for her. Oh, I can't be bothered to be running upstairs to fill snuff boxes, answered that lady. You will have to wait. I'll get it, Grandma, said Ellen, if you'll tell me where. Sit down and be quiet, said misfortune. You go into my room just when I bid you, and not till then. Ellen sat down, but no sooner was misfortune hit in the buttery. Then the old lady beckoned her to her side, and nodding her head a great many times, gave her the box, saying softly, You can run up now. She won't see you, dearie. It's in a jar in the closet. Now's the time. Ellen could not bear to say no. She hesitated a minute, and then boldly opened the buttery door. Keep out. What do you want? She wanted me to go for the snuffs, said Ellen, in a whisper. Please do let me. I won't look at anything, nor touch anything, but just get the snuff. With an impatient gesture, her aunt snatched the box from her hand, pushed Ellen out of the buttery, and shut the door. The old lady kissed and fondled her, as if she had done what she had only tried to do, and smoothed down her hair, praising its beauty and whispering. Never mind, dearie. You'll read to Grandma, won't you? It cost Ellen no effort now, with the beginning of kind offices to her poor old parent, kind feeling had sprung up fast. Instead of disliking and shunning, she had begun to love her. There was no dinner for anyone this day. Mr. and Mrs. Van Brunt came to an early tea, after which Ellen was sent to dress herself, and Mr. Van Brunt to get some pieces of board for the meat-choppers. He came back presently with an armful of square bits of wood, and sitting down before the fire, began to whittle the rough-sonde ends over the hearth. His mother grew nervous. Miss Fortune bore it as she would have borne it from no one else, but vexation was gathering in her breast for the first occasion. Presently Ellen's voice was heard singing down the stairs. I'd give something to stop that child's pipe, said Miss Fortune. She's eternally singing the same thing over and over, something about a charge to keep. I had a good notion to give her a charge to keep this morning. It would have been to hold her tongue. That would have been a public loss, I think, said Mr. Van Brunt. Well you are making a precious litter, said the lady, turning short upon him. Never mind, said he, in the same tone. It's nothing but what the fire will burn up, anyhow. Don't worry yourself about it. Just as Ellen came in, so did Nancy by the other door. What are you here for, said Miss Fortune, with an ireful face? Oh, come to see the folks, and get some peaches, said Nancy. Come to help along, to be sure. Ain't your grandma coming? No, ma'am, she ain't. I knew she wouldn't be of much use, so I thought I wouldn't ask her. Miss Fortune immediately ordered her out. Half laughing, half serious, Nancy tried to keep her ground. But Miss Fortune was in no mood to hear paroling. She laid violent hands on the pass of Nancy, and between polling and pushing, at last got her out and shut the door. Her next sudden move was to haul off her mother to bed. Ellen looked her sorrow at this, and Mr. Van Brunt whistled his thoughts, but that either made nothing, or made Miss Fortune more determined. Off she went, with her old mother under her arm. While she was gone, Ellen brought the broom to sweep up the hearth, but Mr. Van Brunt would not let her. No, said he. It's more than you nor I can do. You know, said he, with a sly look. We might sweep the shavings into this wrong corner. This entirely overset Ellen's gravity, and, unluckily, she could not get it back again, even though warned by Mrs. Van Brunt that her aunt was coming. Trying only made it worse. Miss Fortune's entrance was but the signal for a fresh burst of hearty merriment. What she was laughing at was, of course, instantly asked, in no pleased tone of voice. Ellen could not tell, and her silence and blushing only made her aunt more curious. Come, leave bothering her, said Mr. Van Brunt at last. She was only laughing at some of my nonsense, and she won't tell on me. Will you swear to that? said the lady sharply. Humpf! No, I won't swear, unless you go before a magistrate with me. But it is true. I wonder if you think I am as easy-blinded as all that comes to, said Miss Fortune scornfully. And Ellen saw that her aunts' displeasure was all gathered upon her for the evening. She was thinking of Alice's words, and trying to arm herself with patience and gentleness, when the door opened, and in-walked Nancy as demirally as if nobody had ever seen her before. Miss Fortune, Granny sent me to tell you she is sorry she can't come to-night. She don't think it would do for her to be out so late. She's a little touch of the rheumatics, she says. Very well, said Miss Fortune. Now clear out. You had better not say so, Miss Fortune. I'll do as much for you as any two of the rest. See if I don't. I don't care if you did as much as fifty, said Miss Fortune impatiently. I won't have you here, so go, or I'll give you something to help you along. Nancy saw she had no chance with Miss Fortune in her present humor, and went quickly out. A little while after, Ellen was standing at the window, from which, through the shed window, she had a view of the chipyard, and there she saw Nancy, lingering still, walking round and round in a circle, and kicking the snow with her feet in a discontented fashion. I am very glad she isn't going to be here, thought Ellen. But, poor thing, I daresay she is very much disappointed, and how sorry she will feel going back all that long, long way home. What if I should get her leave to stay? Wouldn't it be a fine way of returning good for evil? But, oh dear, I don't want her here. But that's no matter. The next minute, Mr. Van Brunt was half startled by Ellen's hand on his shoulder, and the softest of whispers in his ear. He looked up very much surprised. Why, do you want her? said he, likewise in a low tone. No, said Ellen, but I know I should feel very sorry if I was in her place. Mr. Van Brunt whistled quietly to himself. Well, said he, you are a good-natured piece. Miss Fortune said he presently. If that Mr. Viscurl comes in again, I recommend you to let her stay. Why? Because it's true what she said. She'll do you as much good as half a dozen. She'll behave herself this evening. I'll engage. Or if she don't, I'll make her. She's too impudent to live. But I don't care. Her grandmother is another sort. But I guess she is gone by this time. Ellen waited only till her aunt's back was turned. She slipped downstairs and out of the kitchen door, and ran up the slope to the fence at the chipyard. Nancy, Nancy! What? said Nancy, wheeling about. If you go in now, I guess Aunt Fortune will let you stay. What makes you think so? said the other serolally. Because Mr. Van Brunt was speaking to her about it. Go in and you'll see. Nancy looked doubtfully at Ellen's face and then ran hastily in. More slowly, Ellen went back by the way she came. When she reached the upper kitchen, she found Nancy as busy as possible, as much at home already as if she had been there all day. Helping to set the table in the hall, and going to and fro between that and the buttery with an important face. Ellen was not suffered to help, nor even to stand and see what was doing. So she sat down in the corner by her old friend Mrs. Van Brunt, and with her head and her lap watched by the firelight, the busy figures that went back when forward, and Mr. Van Brunt, who still sat working at his bits of board. There were pleasant thoughts in Ellen's head that kept the dancing blaze company. Mr. Van Brunt once looked up and asked her what she was smiling at. The smile brightened at his question. But he got no more answer. At last the supper was all set out in the hall, so that it could very easily be brought into the parlor when the time came. The waiter with the best cups and saucers, which always stood covered with a napkin on the table in the front room, was carried away. The great pile of wood in the parlor fireplace, built ever since morning, was kindled. All was in apple-pie order, and nothing was left but to sweep up the shavings that Mr. Van Brunt had made. This was done, and then Nancy sees told of Ellen. "'Come along,' said she, pulling her to the window. "'Come along, and let us watch the folks come in.' "'But it isn't time for them to be here yet,' said Ellen. "'The fire is only just burning.' "'Fiddle, D.D., they won't wait for the fire to burn, I can tell you. They'll be along directly, some of them. I wonder what misfortune is thinking of. That fire had ought to have been burning this long time ago. But they won't set to work till they all get here, that's one thing. Do you know what's going to be for supper?' "'No. Not a bit?' "'No. Ain't that funny, that I'm better off than you.' "'I say, Ellen. Anyone would think I was Miss Fortune's niece, and you was somebody else, wouldn't they?' "'Goodness, I'm glad I ain't. I'm going to make part of the supper myself. What do you think of that?' "'Miss Fortune always has grand suppers, when she has them at all. Taint very often, that's one thing. I wish she'd have a bee every week, I know, and let me come and help. "'Hark! Didn't I tell you? There's somebody coming this minute. Don't you hear the sleigh bells? I'll tell you who it is now. It's the Lawson's. You see if it ain't. It's good at such a bright night. We can see him for straight. There, here they come, just as I told you. Here's Mimey Lawson, the first one. If there's anybody I do despise, it's Mimey Lawson.' "'Hush!' said Ellen. The door opened, and the lady herself walked in, followed by three others. Large, tall woman, muffled from head to foot against the cold. The quiet kitchen was speedily changed into a scene of bustle, loud talking and laughing, a vast deal of unrobing, pushing back and pulling up chairs on the hearth, and Nancy and Ellen running in and out of the room with countless wrappers, cloaks, shawls, comforters, hoods, mittens, and moccasins. What a precious mess it will be to get them all their own things when they come to go away against it, Nancy. Throw them all down there, Ellen, in that heap. Now come quick, somebody else will be here directly.' "'Which is Miss Mimey?' said Ellen. That big, ugly woman and a purple frock. The one next to her is Kitty. The black-haired one is Mary, and to others, Fanny. Ugh, don't look at them. I can't bear them.' "'Why?' "'Cause I don't, I can tell you. Reason good. They are as stingy as they can live. Their way is to get as much as they can out of other folks, and let other folks get as little as they can out of them. I know them. Just watch that purple frock when it comes to the eating. There's Mr. Bob.' "'Mr. Who?' "'Bob, Bob Lawson. He's a precious, small, young man for such a big one. There, go take his hat. Miss Fortune, said Nancy, coming forward. May the gentlemen take care of their own things in the stoop? Or must the young ladies wait upon them, too? The other room wouldn't hold everything neither.' This speech raised a general laugh, in the midst of which Mr. Bob carried his own hat and cloak into the shed, as desired. Before Nancy had done chuckling came another arrival, a tall, linked gentleman, with one of those unhappy shaped faces that are very broad at the eyes and very narrow across the chops, and having a particularly grave and dull expression. He was welcomed with such a shout of mingled laughter, greeting and jesting, that the room was in a complete hurly-burly, and a plain-looking, stout, elderly lady, who had come in just behind him, was suffered to stand unnoticed. "'It's Miss Janet,' whispered Nancy. "'Mr. Marsh-trock's aunt. Nobody wants to see her here. She's one of your pious kind. And that's a kind your aunt don't take to.' Instantly Ellen was at her side, offering gently to relieve her of her hood and cloak, and with a tap on his arm, drawing Mr. Van Brunt's attention to the neglected person. Quite touched by the respectful politeness of her manner, the old lady inquired of Miss Fortune, as Ellen went off with a load of mufflers. "'Who was that sweet little thing?' "'It's a kind of sweetmeats that has cupped for company, Miss Janet,' replied Miss Fortune, with a darkened brow. "'She's too good for everyday use. That's a fact,' remarked Mr. Van Brunt. Miss Fortune colored and tossed her head, and the company were for a moment still with surprise. Another arrival set them a-going again. "'Here come the Hitchcock's, Ellen,' said Nancy. "'Walk in, Miss Mary. Walk in, Miss Jenny. Mr. Marsh-trock has been here this great while.' Miss Mary Hitchcock was in nothing remarkable. Miss Jenny, when her wrappers were taken off, showed a neat little round figure, and a round face, a very bright and good-humored expression. It fastened Ellen's eye, till Nancy whispered her to look at Mr. Juniper Hitchcock, and that young gentleman entered, dressed in the latest style of elegance. His hair was arranged in a faultless manner, unless perhaps it had a little too much of the talocandal. For when he sat for a while before the fire, it had somewhat the look of being excessively wet with perspiration. His boots were as shiny as his hair. His waistcoat was of a startling pattern. His pantaloons were very tightly strapped down, and at the end of a showy watchreband hung some showy seals. The kitchen was now one buzz of talk and good humor. Ellen stood half-smiling to herself to see that universal smile when Nancy twitched her. "'Here's more coming, silly Denison, I guess. No, it's too tall. Who is it?' But Ellen flung open the door with a half-uttered scream and threw herself into the arms of Alice and then let her in. Her face full of such extreme joy that it was perhaps one reason why her ants were a very doubtful air as she came forward. That could not stand, however, against the graceful politeness and pleasantness of Alice's greeting. Miss Fortune's brow smoothed. Her voice cleared, and she told Miss Humphries she was very welcome, and she meant it. Clinging close to her friend as she went from one to another, Ellen was delighted to see that everyone echoed the welcome. Every face brightened at meeting hers, every eye softened, and Jenny Hitchcock even threw her arms round Alice and kissed her. Ellen left now the window to Nancy and stood fast by her adopted sister. With a face of satisfaction it was pleasant to see, watching her very lips as they moved. Soon the door opened again, and various voices held the newcomer as Jane, Janey, and Jane Huff. She was a decidedly plain-looking country girl, but when she came near, Ellen saw a sober, sensible face, and a look of thorough good-nature, which immediately ranked her next to Jenny Hitchcock in her fancy. Mr. Bill Huff followed, a sturdy young man, quite as plain and hardly so sensible-looking. He was still more shining with good nature. He made no pretentions to the elegance of Mr. Juniper Hitchcock, but before the evening was over, Ellen had a vastly greater respect for him. Last, not least, came the denizens. It took Ellen some time to make up her mind about them. Miss Sealy or Cecilia was certainly very elegant indeed. Her hair was in the extremest state of nicety, with a little round curl plastered in front of each ear. How she coaxed them to stay there Ellen could not conceive. She wore a real watch. There was no doubt of that. And there was even a ring on one of her fingers, with two or three blue or red stones in it. Her dress was smart and so was her figure, and her face was pretty. And Ellen overheard one of the Lawson's whisper to Jenny Hitchcock that there wasn't a greater lady in the land than Sealy Denison. Her brother was very different, tall and athletic, and rather handsome. He made no pretentions to be a gentleman. He valued his fine farming and fine cattle a great deal higher than Juniper Hitchcock's gentility. CHAPTER XXV Shows what noise a bee can make when it gets into the house. As the party were all gathered, it was time to set to work. The fire in the front room was burning up finally now. But misfortune had no idea of having pork chopping or apple-paring down there. One party was dispatched downstairs into the lower kitchen. The others made a circle round the fire. Everyone was furnished with a sharp knife, and a basket of apples was given to each two or three. Now it would be hard to say whether talking or working went on best. Not faster moved the tongues than the fingers. Not smoother went the knives than the flow of talk. While there was a constant leaping of quarters of apples from the hands that had prepared them into the bowls, trays, or what-not that stood on the hearth to receive them. Ellen had nothing to do. Her aunt had managed it so, though she would gladly have shared the work that looked so pretty and pleasant in other people's hands. Misfortune would not let her, so she watched to the rest and amused herself as well as she could, with hearing and seeing, and standing between Alice and Jenny Hitchcock. She handed them the apples out of the basket as fast as they were ready for them. It was a pleasant evening that. Talking and talking went on merrily. Stories were told. Anecdotes, gossip, jokes, passed from mouth to mouth, and not one made himself so agreeable, or had so much to do with the life and pleasure of the party, as Alice. Ellen saw it, delighted. The paired apples kept dancing into the bowls and trays. The baskets got empty surprisingly fast. Nancy and Ellen had to run to the barrels in the shed again for fresh supplies. Do they mean to do all these to-night, said Ellen to Nancy, on one of these occasions? I don't know what they mean, I am sure, replied Nancy, diving down into the barrel to reach the apples. If you had asked me what Misfortune meant, I might have given an answer. But only looks at Ellen, only so many done, and all these to do. Well, I know what busy as a bee means now, if I never did before. You'll know it better tomorrow, I can tell you. Why? Oh, wait till you see. I wouldn't be you tomorrow for something, though. Do you like sewing? Sewing, said Ellen. But girls, girls, what are you leaving the door open for? Sounded from the kitchen, and they hurried in. Most got through, Nancy, inquired Bob Lawson. Misfortune had gone downstairs. Hands begun to, Mr. Varson, there's every bit as many to do as there was at your house to other night. What on earth does she want with such a sight of them, inquired Dan Denison? Live on pies and apples asked till next summer, suggested Mimey Lawson. That's the stuff for my money, replied her brother. Tatars and applesass is my sass in the winter. It's good those as easy got, said his sister Mary. The sass is most of the dinner to Bob, most commonly. Are they fixing for more applesass downstairs, Mr. Denison went on rather dryly? No, hush, said Juniper Hitchcock. Sassages. Hmpf! said Dan, as he speared up an apple out of the basket, on the point of his knife. Ain't that something like what you can call killing too? Just that exactly, said Jenny Hitchcock, as Dan broke off short and the mistress of the house walked in. Ellen, she whispered, don't you want to go downstairs and see when the folks are coming up to help us, and tell the doctor he must be spry, for we ain't going to get through in a hurry, she added, laughing. Which is the doctor, ma'am? The doctor, Dr. Marschock, don't you know? Is he a doctor, said Ellis? No, not exactly, I suppose, but he's just as good as the real. There was a man broke his leg horribly at Thurowall the other day, and Gibson was out of the way, and Marschock said it, and did it famously, they said. So go, Ellen, and bring us word what they are all about. Mr. Van Brunt was head of the party in the lower kitchen. He stood at one end of the table cutting, with his huge knife, the hard frozen pork, into very thin slices, which the rest of the company took, and before they had time to thaw, caught up into small dice on the little boards Mr. Van Brunt had prepared. As large a fire as the chimney could hold was built up and blazing finely, the room looked as cozy and bright as the one upstairs, and the people as busy and talkative. They had less to do, however, or they had been more smart, for they were drawing to the end of their chopping, of which Miss Janet declared herself very glad, for, she said, the wind came sweeping in under the doors and freezing her feet the whole time, and she was sure that the biggest fire ever was built couldn't warm that room. An opinion in which Mrs. Van Brunt agreed perfectly. Miss Janet no sooner spied Ellen standing in the chimney corner than she called her to her side, kissed her, and talked to her for a long time. And finally, fumbling in her pocket, brought forth an old little three-cornered pin cushion, which she gave her for a keepsake. Jane Huff and her brother also took kind notice of her, and Ellen began to think the world was full of nice people. About half past eight, the choppers went up and joined the company, who were pairing apples. The circle was a very large one now, and the buzz of the tongues grew quite furious. What are you smiling at? asked Ellis of Ellen, who stood at her elbow. Oh, I don't know, said Ellen, smiling more broadly and presently added. They're all so kind to me. Who? Oh, everybody, Miss Jenny, and Miss Jane Huff, and Miss Janet, and Mrs. Van Brunt, and Mr. Huff, they all speak so kindly and look so kindly at me. But it's very funny what a notion people have for kissing. I wish they hadn't. I've run away from three kisses already, and I'm so afraid somebody else will try next. You don't seem very bitterly displeased, said Ellis, smiling. I am, though. I can't bear it, said Ellen, laughing and blushing. There's Mr. Denison caught me in the first place, and tried to kiss me. But I tried so hard to get away. I believe he saw I was really in good earnest, and let me go. And just now, only think of it, while I was standing talking to Miss Jane Huff downstairs, her brother caught me and kissed me before I knew what he was going to do. I declare it's too bad, said Ellen, rubbing her cheek very hard, as if she would rub off the affront. You must let it pass, my dear. It is one way of expressing kindness. They feel kindly toward you, or they would not do it. Then I wish they wouldn't feel quite so kindly, said Ellen. That's all. Hark! What was that? What is that, said somebody else? And instantly there was silence broken again, after a minute or two, by the faint blast of a horn. It's old father's sway, I reckon, said Mr. Van Brunt. I'll go fetch him in. Oh, yes, bring him in, bring him in, was heard on all sides. That horn makes me think of what happened to me once, said Jenny Hitchcock to Ellen. I was a little girl at school, not so big as you are. And one afternoon, when we were all as still as mice, and studying away, we heard father swam's horn. What does he blow at force, said Ellen, as Jenny stooped for her knife, which she had let it fall. Oh, to let people know he's there, you know. Did you never see father swam? No. La, he is the funniest old fellow. He goes round and round the country, carrying the newspapers, and we get him to bring our letters from the post office when there are any. He carries them in a pair of saddle bags, hanging across that old white horse of his. I don't think that horse will ever grow old, no more than his master. And in summer he has a stick, so long with a horse's tail tied to the end of it, to brush away the flies. For the poor horse has had his tail cut off pretty short. I wonder if it isn't the very same, said Jenny, laughing heartily. Father swam thought he could manage it best, I guess. But what was it that happened to you that time at school, said Ellen? Why, when we heard the horn blow, our master, the schoolmaster, you know, went out to get a paper, and I was tired with sitting still, so I jumped up and ran across the room and then back again, and over and back again, five or six times. And when he came in, one of the girls up and told of it. It was Fanny Lawson, said Jenny, in a whisper to Alice, and I think she ain't much different now from what she was then. I can hear her now. Mr. Starks, Jenny Hitchcock's been running all around the room. Well, what do you think he did to me? He took hold of my two hands and swung me round and round by the arms, till I didn't know which was head and which was feet. What a queer schoolmaster, said Ellen. Queer enough, you may say that. His name was Starks. The boys used to call him Starksification. We did hate him, that's a fact. I'll tell you what he did to a black boy of ours. You know our black Sam Ellis? I forget what he had been doing, but Starks took him so, by the rims of the ears, and danced him up and down upon the floor. But didn't that hurt him? Hurt him, I guess it did. He meant it should. He tied me under the table once. Sometimes, when he wanted to punish two boys at a time, he would sit them to spit in each other's faces. Oh, don't tell me about him, cried Ellen, with a face of horror. I don't like to hear it. Jenny laughed, and just then the door opened, and Mr. Van Brunt and the old news carrier came in. He was a venerable, mild-looking man, with thin hair as white as snow. He wore a long, snuff-colored coat, and a broad-brimmed hat, the sides of which were oddly looped up to the crown, with twine. His tin horn or trumpet was in his hand. His saddle-bags were on Mr. Van Brunt's arm. As soon as she saw him, Ellen was fevered with the notion that perhaps he had something for her, and she forgot everything else. It would seem that the rest of the company had the same hope, for they crowded round him, shouting out welcomes and questions, and inquires for letters, all in a breath. Softly, softly, said the old man, sitting down slowly, not all at once. I can't attend to you all at once, one at a time, one at a time. Don't attend to him at all till you're ready, said Miss Fortune. Let him wait. And she handed him a glass of cider. He drank it off at a breath, smacking his lips as he gave back the glass to her hand, and exclaiming, that's prime. Then taking up his saddle-bags from the floor, he began slowly to undo the fastenings. You are going to our house tonight, ain't you, Father Swame? said Jenny. That's where I was going, said the old man. I was at going to stop with your father, Miss Jenny. But since I've got into Farmer Van Brunt's hands, I don't know any more what's going to become of me. And after that glass of cider, I don't much care. Now, let's see. Let's see. Miss Jenny Hitchcock, here's something for you. I should like very much to know what's inside of that letter. There's a blue seal to it. Ah, young folks, young folks. Jenny received her letter amidst a great deal of laughing and joking, and seemed herself quite as much amused as anybody. Jedidiah B. Lawson. There's for your father, Miss Mimey. That saves me a long tramp. If you've twenty-one cents in your pocket. That is, if you hand, I shall be a bleach to tramp after that. Here's something for most all of you, I'm thinking. Miss Cecilia Denison, your fair hands, how's the squire? Rheumatism, eh? I think I'm a younger man now than your father, Cecilia. And yet I must have seen a good many years more than Squire Denison. I must surely. Miss Fortune Emerson, that's for you. A double letter, ma'am. Ellen with a beating heart had pressed nearer and nearer to the old man, till she stood close by his right hand, and could see every letter as he handed it out. A spot of deepening red was on each cheek as her eye eagerly scanned, letter after letter. It spread to a sudden flush when the last name was read. Alice watched in some anxiety her keen look as it followed the letter from the old man's hand to her aunt's, and thence to the pocket, where Miss Fortune coolly bestowed it. Ellen could not stand this. She sprang forward across the circle. Aunt Fortune, there's a letter inside of that for me. Won't you give it to me? Won't you give it to me? She repeated, trembling. Her aunt did not notice her by so much as a look. She turned away and began talking to someone else. The red had left Ellen's face when Alice could see it again. It was livid and spotted from stifled passion. She stood in a kind of maze. But as her eye caught Alice's anxious and sorrowful look, she covered her face with her hands, and as quick as possible made her escape out of the room. For some minutes Alice heard none of the hubbub around her. Then came a knock at the door, and the voice of Thomas Grimes sang to Mr. Van Brunt that Miss Humphrey's horse was there. Mr. Swames said, Alice Rising, I don't like to leave you with these gay friends of ours. You'll stand no chance of rest with them tonight. Will you ride home with me? Many of the party began to beg Alice would stay to supper. But she said her father would be uneasy. The old news carrier concluded to go with her. For, he said, there was a pint he wanted to mention to Parson Humphrey's that he had forgotten to bring forward when they were talking on that air subject two months ago. So Nancy brought her things from the next room, and helped her on with them, and looked pleased as well she might at the smile and kind words with which she was rewarded. Alice lingered at her leaf-taking, hoping to see Ellen. But it was not till the last moment that Ellen came in. She did not say a word, but the two little arms were put around Alice's neck, and held her with a long, close earnestness, which did not pass from her mind all the evening afterwards. When she was gone, the company sat down again to business, and apple-pairing went on more steadily than ever for a while, till the bottom of the barrels was seen, and the last basketful of apples was duly emptied. Then there was a general shout, and the kitchen was quickly cleared, and everybody's face brightened, as much as to say, now for fun. While Ellen and Nancy and Miss Fortune and Mrs. Van Brunt were running always with trays, pans, baskets, knives, and buckets, the fun began by Mr. Juniper Hitchcock's whistling in his dog, and setting him to do various feats for the amusement of the company. There followed such a rushing, leaping, barking, laughing, and scolding on the part of the dog and his admirers that the room was in an uproar. He jumped over a stick, he got into a chair, and sat up on two legs. He kissed the lady's hands. He suffered an apple-pairing to be laid across his nose, then threw it up with a jerk, and caught it in his mouth. Being very remarkable, certainly, but as Miss Fortune observed to somebody, if he had been the learned pig there couldn't have been more fuss made over him. Ellen stood looking on, smiling partly at the dog and his master, and partly at the antics of the company. Presently Mr. Van Brunt, bending down to her, said, What is the matter with your eyes? Nothing, said Ellen, starting. At least nothing that's any matter, I mean. Come here, said he, drawing her on one side. Tell me all about it. What is the matter? Never mind. Please don't ask me, Mr. Van Brunt. It's nothing I ought to tell you. It isn't any matter. But her eyes were full again, and he still held her fast, doubtfully. I'll tell you about it, Mr. Van Brunt, said Nancy, as she came past them. You better go, and I'll tell you by and by. And Ellen tried in vain afterwards to make her promise she would not. Come, June, said Miss Jenny. We have got enough of you and jumper. Turn him out. We are going to have the cat now. Come. Puss, puss in the corner. Go off into other room, will you, everybody that don't want to play? Puss, puss. Now the fun began in good earnest, and but a few minutes had passed before Ellen was laughing with all her heart, as if she never had had anything to cry for in her life. After puss, puss in the corner came blind man's bluff, and this was played with great spirit, the two most distinguished being Nancy and Dan Denison. The misfortune played admirably well. Ellen had seen Nancy play before, but she forgot her own part of the game and sheer amazement at the way Mr. Denison managed his long body, which seemed to go where there was no room for it, and vanished into air just when the grasp of some grasping blind man was ready to fasten upon him. And when he was blinded, he seemed to know by instinct where the walls were, and keeping clear of them, he would swoop like a hawk from one end of the room to the other, pouncing upon the unlucky people who could by no means get out of the way fast enough. When this had lasted a while, there was a general call for the fox and the goose, and misfortune was pitched upon for the latter. She, having in the other game, showed herself capable of good generalship. But who for the fox? Mr. Van Brunt? Not I, said Mr. Van Brunt. There ain't nothing of the fox about me. Misfortune would beat me all hollow. Who then, farmer? said Bill Huff. Come, who is the fox? Will I do? Not you, Bill. The goose would be too much for you. There was a general shout, and cries of, who then, who then? Dan Denison, said Mr. Van Brunt. Now look out for a sharp fight. Amidst a great deal of laughing and confusion, the line was formed, each person taking hold of a handkerchief or banned pastor on the waist of the person behind him, except when the women held by each other's skirts. They were ranged according to height, the tallest being next to their leader, the goose. Mr. Van Brunt and the elder ladies, and two or three more, chose to be looker-ons, and took post outside the door. Mr. Denison began by taking off his coat to give himself more freedom in his movements, for his business was to catch the train of the goose, one by one, as each in turn became the hindmost, while her object was to baffle him and keep her family together, meeting him with outspread arms at every rush he made to seize one of her brood, while the long train behind her, following her quick movements, and swaying from side to side to get out of the reach of the furious fox, was sometimes in the shape of the letter C, and sometimes in that of the letter S, and sometimes looked like a long snake with a curling tail. Loud was the laughter, shrill the shrieks, as the fox drove them hither and thither, and seemed to be in all parts of the room at once. He was a cunning fox, that, as well as a bold one. Sometimes, when they thought him quite safe, held at bay by the goose, he dived under or leaped over her outstretched arms, and almost snatched hold of little Ellen, who, being the least, was the last one of the party. But Ellen played very well, and just escaped him two or three times, till he declared she gave him so much trouble, that when he caught her, he would kiss her the worst kind. Ellen played none the worse for that, however she was caught at last, and kissed, too. There was no help for it, so she bore it as well as she could. Then she watched and laughed, till the tears ran down her cheeks, to see how the fox and goose dodged each other, what tricks were played, and how the long train pulled each other about. At length Nancy was caught, and then Jenny Hitchcock, and then Cecilia Denison, and then Jane Hough, and so on, till last the fox and the goose had a long struggle for Mimey Lawson, which would never have come to an end if Mimey had not gone over to the enemy. There was a general pause. The hot and tired company were seated around the room, panting and fanning themselves with their pocket-hinker chiefs, and speaking broken sentences, glad to rest even from laughing. Miss Fortune had thrown herself down on a seat close by Ellen, when Nancy came up and softly asked, Is it time to beat the eggs now? Miss Fortune nodded, and then drew her close to receive a long, low whisper in her ear, at the end of which Nancy ran off. Is there anything I can do, Aunt Fortune, said Ellen, so gently and timidly, that I ought to have won a kind answer. Yes, said her aunt, you may go and put yourself to bed. It's high time, long ago. And looking round as she moved off she added, Go! With a little nod that as much as said, I am an earnest. Ellen's heart throbbed. She stood doubtful. One word to Mr. Van Brunt, and she need not go. That she knew. But as surely, too, that word would make trouble and do harm. And then she remembered. A charge to keep I have. She turned quick, and quitted the room. Ellen sat down on the first stare she came to, for her bosom was heaving up and down, and she was determined not to cry. The sounds of talking and laughing came to her from the parlor, and there at her side stood the covered-up supper. For a few minutes it was hard to keep her resolve. The thick breath came and went very fast. Through the fan-lights of the hall door, opposite to which she was sitting, the bright moonlight streamed in, and presently, as Ellen quieted, it seemed to her fancy like a gentle messenger from its maker, bidding his child remember him. And then came up some words in her memory that her mother's lips had fastened there long ago. I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me. She remembered her mother had told her it is Jesus who says this. Her lost pleasure was nigh forgotten. And yet, as she set gazing into the moonlight, Ellen's eyes were gathering tears very fast. Well, I am seeking him, she thought. Can it be that he loves me? Oh, I'm so glad. And they were glad tears that little Ellen wiped away as she went upstairs, for it was too cold to sit there long, if the moon was ever so bright. She had her hand on the latch of the door, when her grandmother called out from the other room to know who was there. It is I, Grandma. Ain't somebody there? Come in here. Who is it? It's I, Grandma, said Ellen, coming to the door. Come in here, dearie, said the old woman in a lower tone. What is it all? What's the matter? Who's downstairs? It's a bee, Grandma. There's nothing the matter. A bee? Who's been stung? What's all the noise about? It isn't that kind of a bee, Grandma. Don't you know? There's a parcel of people that came to pair apples, and they've been playing games in the parlor. That's all. Pairing apples, eh? Is there company below? Yes, ma'am, a whole parcel of people. Dear me, said the old lady, I oughtn't to have been a bed. Why hant fortune told me? I'll get right up. Ellen, you go in the fur closet and bring me my paddy-soy. That hangs there, and then help me on with my things. I'll get right up. Dear me, what was fortune thinking about? The moonlight served very well instead of candles. After twice bringing the wrong dresses, Ellen at last hit a pod in the paddy-soy, which the old lady knew immediately by the touch. In haste and not without some fear and trembling on Ellen's part, she was arrayed in it, her best cat put on, not over hair in the best order Ellen feared, but the old lady would not stay to have it made better. Ellen took care of her down the stairs, and after opening the door for her went back to her room. A little while had passed, and Ellen was just tying her nightcap strings and ready to go peacefully to sleep when antsy burst in. Ellen, hurry, you must come right downstairs. Downstairs? Why, I'm just ready to go to bed. No matter, you must come down right away. There's Mr. Van Bruntz as he won't begin supper till you come. But does hant fortune want me to? Yes, I tell you, and the quicker you come the better shall be pleased. She sent me after you in all sorts of a hurry. She said she didn't know where you were. Said she didn't know where I was? Why, she told me herself, Ellen began, and stopped short. Of course, said Nancy. Don't you think I know that? But he don't, and if you want to plague her, you'll just tell him. Now come, and be quick, will you? The supper splendid. Ellen lost the first view of the table, for everything had begun to be pulled to pieces before she came in. The company were all crowded round the table, eating and talking, and helping themselves, and ham and bread and butter, pumpkin pies and mince pies and apple pies. Cakes of various kinds, and glasses of eggnog and cider, weren't everybody's hands. One dish in the middle of the big table had won the praise of many tongue, nobody could guess, and many asked how it was made. But misfortune kept a satisfied silence. Pleased to see the constant stream of comers to the big dish, till it was near empty. Just then Mr. Van Bruntz, seeing Ellen had nothing, ordered up all that was left, and gave it to her. It was sweet and cold and rich. Ellen told her mother afterwards it was the best thing she had ever tasted, except the ice cream she once gave her in New York. She had taken, however, but one spoonful when her eye fell upon Nancy, standing at the back of the company and forgotten. Nancy had been upon her good behavior all the evening, and it was a singular proof of this that she had not pushed in and helped herself among the first. Ellen's eye went once or twice from her plate to Nancy, and then she crossed over and offered it to her. It was eagerly taken, and a little disappointed. Ellen stepped back again. But she soon forgot the disappointment. She'll know now that I don't bear her any grudge, she thought. And she got nothing, said Nancy, coming up presently. That wasn't your own that you gave me, was it? Ellen nodded smilingly. Well, there ain't no more of it, said Nancy, the bowl is empty. I know it, said Ellen. Why, didn't you like it? Yes, very much. Why, you're a queer little fish, said Nancy. What did you get Mr. Van Brent to let me in for? How did you know I did? Because he told me. Say, what did you do it for? Mr. Denison, won't you give Ellen a piece of cake or something? Here, take this, said Nancy, pouncing upon a glass of eggnog, which a gap in the company enabled her to reach. I made it more than half myself. Ain't it good? Yes, very, said Ellen, smacking her lips. What's in it? Oh, plenty of good things. But what made you ask Mr. Van Brent to let me stop tonight? You didn't tell me. Did you want me to stay? Never mind, said Ellen, don't ask me any questions. Yes, but I will though, and you've got to answer me. Why did you come? Do you like me? Say, I should like you, I dare say if you would be different. Well, I don't care, said Nancy, after a little pause. I like you, though you're as queer as you can be. I don't care whether you like me or not. Look here, Ellen, that cake there is the best. I know it is, for I've tried them all. You know, I told Van Brent that I would tell him what you were crying about? Yes, and I asked you not, did you? Nancy nodded, being at the moment still further engaged in trying the cake. I'm sorry you did. What did he say? He didn't say much to me. Somebody else will hear of it, I guess. He was mad about it, or I am mistaken. What makes you sorry? It will only do harm and make Aunt Fortune angry. Well, that's just what I should like if I were you. I can't make you out. I'd a great deal rather have her like me, said Ellen. What she vexed when Grandma came down? I don't know, but she had to keep it to herself if she was. Everybody else was so glad, and Mr. Van Brent made such a fuss. Just look at the old lady, how pleased she is. I declare if the folks ain't talking of going. Come, Ellen, now for the cloaks. You and me, I'll finish our supper afterwards. That, however, was not to be. Nancy was offered a ride home to Mrs. Van Brents and a lodging there. They were ready cloaked and shulled, and Ellen was still hunting for Miss Janet's things in the Moonlit Hall, when she heard Nancy close by, in a lower tone than common, say, Ellen, will you kiss me? Ellen dropped her armful of things and taking Nancy's hands gave her truly the kiss of peace. When she went up to undress for the second time, she found on her bed, her letter, and with tears Ellen kneeled down and gave Ernest thanks for this blessing, and that she had been able to gain Nancy's goodwill. When two little feet came running round the corner of the house, the glass door opened, and Ellen rushed in. I have come, I have come, she exclaimed. Oh, dear Alice, I am so glad. So is Alice, if her kiss meant anything. But how late my child, how late you are. I have come, I have come, she exclaimed. Oh, dear Alice, I am so glad. So is Alice, if her kiss meant anything. But how late my child, how late you are. Oh, I thought I never was going to get done, said Ellen, pulling off her things in a great hurry and throwing them on the sofa. But I am here at last. Oh, I am so glad. Why, what has been the matter, said Alice, folding up what Ellen laid down. Oh, a great deal of matter. I couldn't think what Nancy meant last night. I know very well now. I shan't want to see any more apples all winter. What do you think I have been doing all today, dear Miss Alice? Nothing that has done you much harm, said Alice, smiling, if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good spits and berg yourself. That's very funny, said Ellen, laughing, for Aunt Fortune said a while ago that my cheeks were just the color of two mealy potatoes. But about the apples, said Alice. Why this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the first thing I knew, Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen and made me sit down on the floor. And then she gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together. And as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all around the ceiling. I tried very hard to get through before, but I could not. And I am so tired. I thought I never should get to the bottom of that big basket. Never mind, love, come to the fire. We'll try and forget all disagreeable things while we are together. I have forgotten it almost already, said Ellen, as she sat down in Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers. I don't care for it at all now. But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable color Miss Fortune had spoken of. And weariness and weakness kept her for a while quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat so till the clock struck half past five. Then Alice proposed they should go into the kitchen, and see Marjorie, and order the teammate, which she had no doubt Ellen wanted. Marjorie welcomed her with great cordiality. She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her husband that Ellen was an uncommon well-behaved child. She said she would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few minutes. But Miss Alice, there's an Irish body, out by, waiting to speak to you. I was just coming in to tell you. Were you pleased to see her now? Certainly, let her come in. Is she in the cold, Marjorie? No, Miss Alice, there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her. The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed, untidy. No wonder Marjorie's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into the spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her. The hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow lay white, not yet melted away. Did you wish to speak to me, my friend? said Alice pleasantly. If you please, ma'am, it's the master I'm wanting, said the woman, dropping a curtsy. My father, Marjorie, will you tell him? Marjorie departed. Come nearer the fire, said Alice, and sit down. My father will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not? It is, ma'am, a bitter storm. Have you come far? It's a good bit, my lady. It's more nor a mile beyond Cara. Just right for again the old big hill they call the catchback, in Jemmy Morrison's woods, where Pat Maffarin's claring is. It's there I live, my lady. That is a long distance indeed for a walk in the snow, said Alice kindly. Sit down and come nearer the fire. Marjorie will give you something to refresh you. I thank you, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night, and when one's on an errant of life and death its little the cold or the storm can do to put out the heart's fire. Life and death? Who is six, said Alice? It's my own child, ma'am, my own boy, all the child I have, and I'll have none by the morning light. Is he so ill, said Alice? What is the matter with him? Myself doesn't know. The voice was fainter, the brown cloak was drawn over her face, and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances. Sit down, said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet shoulder. Sit down and rest. My father will be here directly. Marjorie, oh, that's right, a cup of tea will do her good. What do you want with my father? The Lord bless ye, I'll tell you, my lady. She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that Marjorie offered her. The Lord bless ye, I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger nor prettier nor suedeer child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left it. It'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next, but I'm thinking the bitter winders of this cowled country has chilled the life of him, and troubles cowled her than all, she added, in a lower tone. I see'd him grow waker and waker, and his dare face grown thinner and thinner, and the red all left it. Only two burning spots was on it some days. And I worried the life out of me for him, and all I could do. I couldn't do nothing at all to help him, for he just grow'd waker and waker. I asked the father, wouldn't he see the doctor about him? But he's an icy kind of man, my lady, when he said he would, and he never did to this day, and, John, he always said it was no use, sending for the doctor, and looked so suede at me, and said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. And I thought he was already like a heavenly angel itself, and always was, but then more nor ever. Oach, it's soon that he'll be won entirely. Let Father Shannon say what he will. She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Amon looked on, silent and pitying. And to-night, my lady, he's very bad. She went on, wiping away the tears that came quickly again. And I see'd he was going fast from me, and I was breaking my heart with the loss of him, when I heard one of the men that was in it say, What's this he's saying? says he. And what is this thin, says I, about the gentleman that preaches at Cara, says he. He's a calling for him, says he. I know there wasn't a price at all at Cara. And I thought he was dreaming, or out of his head, or crazy with his sickness, like. And I went up close to him. And I says, John, says I. What is it you want, says I. And sure, if it's anything in heaven above, or an earth beneath, that your own mother can get for you, says I. You shall have it, says I. And he puts up his two arms around my neck, and pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot with the favor, and kissed me, he did. And, says he. Mother, dare, says he. If you love me, says he. Fetch me the good gentleman that preaches at Cara till I spake to him. Is it the price you want, John, my boy, says I? Sure he's in it, says I. For Michael had been for Father Shannon, and he had come home with him half an hour before. Oh, no, mother, says he. It's not him at all that I mean. It's the gentleman that spakes in the little white church at Cara. He's not a priest at all, says he. And who is he, then, says I, getting up from the bed? Or where will I find him? Or how will I get to him? You'll not stir a foot for him, then the night Kitty Dolan says my husband. Are you mad, says he? Sure it's not his own head, the child has it all at all. Or it's a little heretic, he is, says he. And you won't show the disrespect to the priest in your own house. I'm maining none, says I. No more, he isn't a heretic. But if he was, he's a born angel to you, Michael Dolan, anyhow, says I. And with the kiss of his lips on my face, wouldn't I do the errant of my own boy, and he a-dying? By the blessing, and I will, if twenty men stood between me and it. So tell me where I'll find him this praised, if there's the love of mercy in any soul of ye, says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of them. So I axed and axed at one place and another, till here I am. And now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy? For he'd maybe be dead while I stand here. Surely I will, said Mr. Humphries, who had come in while she was speaking. Wait but one moment. In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them. It storms very hard, she said, and he had not his tea. But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen Love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get back again? It will be so deep by that time. There was a cloud in her fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed away, and quiet and calm as ever. She sat down at the little tea table with Ellen. From her face all shadows seemed to have flown forever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed margarie's good bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright in reply. Ellen was well pleased for her part that the third seat was empty. But Alice looked thoughtful some time as a gust of wind swept by, and once or twice went to the window. After tea, Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire, while Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some silk purse in a mysterious fashion that no eye could be quick enough to follow, and with such skill and steadiness that the work grew fast under her hand. I had such a funny dream last night, said Ellen. Had you, what about? It was pleasant too, said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk, but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on board the boat. You know, I told you about him. Yes, I remember. While I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where, and he didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was. And I thought I didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know me. But then I thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see me, and he asked me if I had been pious since he saw me. Ellen stopped to laugh. And what did you tell him? I told him yes, and then I thought he seemed so very pleased. Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems. I didn't, said Ellen. But then I thought I had in my dream. Had what, kept close to the truth? No, no, been what he said. Dreams are queer things, said Alice. I have been far enough from being good today, said Ellen thoughtfully. How so, my dear? I don't know, Miss Alice, because I never am good, I suppose. But what has been the matter today? Why those apples? I thought I would come here so early, and then, when I found I must do all those baskets of apples first, I was very ill-humored, and ant fortune saw I was, and said something that made me worse, and I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner, and when I found I couldn't, I said I wouldn't come to dinner. But she made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything. And then, when I got back to the apples again, I sewed so hard, that I ran the needle into my finger ever so far. See there what a market left. And ant fortune said it served me right, and she was glad of it, and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved so hard that I wouldn't? Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours are. It is strange that they should be so evil. I told ant fortune afterwards I was sorry. But she said, actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap. If she only wouldn't say that, just as she does. It does worry me so. Patience, said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat looking sorrowfully up at her. You must try not to give her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good. That is just what Mama said, exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her arms around Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love, gratitude, repentance and sorrowful recollection. Oh, what do you think, she said, suddenly, her face changing again. I got my letter last night. Your letter? Yes, the letter the old man brought, don't you know? And it was written in the ship, and there was only a little bit from Mama, and a little bit from Papa, but so good. Papa says she is a great deal better, and he is no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite well again. Isn't that good? Very good, dear Ellen, I am very glad for you. It was on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there, and I don't care either so long as I've got it. What are you making? A purse, said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection. It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this? Yes, and these tassels to finish them off. Oh, that's beautiful, said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect. And these rings to fasten it with? Is it black? No, dark green. I'm making it for my brother, John. A Christmas present, exclaimed Ellen. I'm afraid not. He will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New Year. How pleasant it must be to make Christmas a New Year present, said Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. I wish I could make something for somebody. Oh, I wonder if I couldn't make something for Mr. Van Brunt. Oh, I should like to, very much. Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes. What could you make for him? I don't know, that's the thing. He keeps his money in his pocket, and besides, I don't know how to make purses. There are other things besides purses. How would a watchguard do? Does he wear a watch? I don't know whether he does or not. He doesn't every day, I am sure. But I don't know about Sundays. Then we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a nightcap. A nightcap? You're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think a nightcap would be pretty for a Christmas present to you. Well, what shall we do, Ellen, said Alice, laughing. I made a pocket-pin cushion for Papa once, when I was a little girl. But I fancy Mr. Van Brunt would not know exactly what used to make of such a convenience. I don't think you could fail to please him, though, with anything you should hit upon. I have got a dollar, said Ellen, to buy stuff with. It came in my letter last night, if I only knew what. Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, while Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible article of Mr. Van Brunt's dress. I have some nice pieces of fine linen, said Alice. Suppose I cut out a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and then Marjorie will starch an ironet for you, all ready to give him. How will that do? Can you stitch well enough? Oh, yes, I guess I can, said Ellen. Oh, thank you, dear Alice. You were the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do you think? I'm sure he will, very much. Then that will do nicely, said Ellen, much relieved. And now, what do you think about Nancy's Bible? Nothing could be better. Only that I'm afraid Nancy would either sell it for something else, or let it go to destruction very quickly. I never heard of her spending five minutes over a book. And the Bible, I'm afraid, last of all. But I think, said Ellen slowly. I think she would not spoil it, or sell it either, if I gave it to her. And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last night. That's the most hopeful thing I've heard about Nancy for a long time, said Alice. We will get her the Bible, by all means, my dear. A nice one. And I hope you will be able to persuade her to read it. She rose as she spoke, and went to the glass door. Ellen followed her, and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She opened the door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their faces, and they were glad to shut it again. It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it, said Ellen? Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy and cold. Papa will be late getting home. I'm sorry you are worried, dear Alice. I'm not much worried, love. I've often known Papa out late before, but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, we'll try to make a good use of the time while we are waiting. Suppose you read to me while I work. She took down a volume of cow per, and found his account of the three pet hairs. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller pieces of poetry. Then followed a long talk about hairs and other animals, about cow per and his friends, and his way of life. Time passed swiftly away. It was getting late. How weary Papa will be, said Alice. He has had nothing to eat since dinner. I'll tell you what we'll do, Ellen, she exclaimed, as she threw her work down. We'll make some chocolate for him. That'll be the very thing. Ellen, dear, run into the kitchen and asked Marjorie to bring me the little chocolate pot and a pitcher of night's milk. Marjorie brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice had caught up the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen watched it with great interest till it was melted, and the boiling water stirred in, and the whole was simmering quietly in the coals. Is it done now? No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be put in. And when that has boiled, the eggs, and then it will be done. With Marjorie and the chocolate pot, the cat had walked in. Ellen immediately endeavored to improve his acquaintance. That was not so easy. The captain chose the corner of the rug furthest from her, in spite of all her calling and coaxing, paying her no more attention than if he had not heard her. Ellen crossed over to him, and began most tenderly and respectfully to stroke his head and back, touching his soft fur with great care. Perry presently lifted up his head uneasily, as much as to say, I wonder how long this is going to last. And finding there was every prospect of its lasting some time, he fairly got up and walked over to the other end of the rug. Ellen followed him and tried again, with exactly the same effect. Well, Cat, you aren't very kind, said she at length. Ellis, he won't let me have anything to do with him. I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable. He is a cat of very bad taste. That is all I can say. But I never saw such a cat. He won't let me touch him ever so softly. He lifts up his head and looks as cross, and then walks off. He don't know you yet. And truth is, Perry has no fancy for extending the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty, said Ellis, fondly stroking his head. Why don't you behave better? Perry lifted his head and opened and shut his eyes, with an expression of great satisfaction, very different from that he had bestowed on Ellen. Ellen gave him up for the present as a hopeless case, and turned her attention to the chocolate, which had now received the milk, and must be watched lest it should run over, which Ellis said it would very easily do when once it began to boil again. Meanwhile, Ellen wanted to know what chocolate was made of, where it came from, where it was made best, burning her little face in the fire all the time, lest the pot should boil over while she was not looking. At last the chocolate began to gather a rich froth, and Ellen called out, oh, Ellis, look here, quick. Here's the shape of the spoon on the top of the chocolate. Do look at it. An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly raised on the smooth, frothy surface, as they were both bending forward to watch it. Ellis waiting to take the pot off the moment it began to boil, Ellen heard a slight click of the lock of the door, and turning her head was a little startled to see a stranger there, standing still at the far end of the room. She touched Ellis's arm without looking round, but Ellis started to her feet with a slight scream, and in another minute had thrown her arms around the stranger, and was locked in his. Ellen knew what it meant now very well. She turned away as if she had nothing to do with what was going on there, and lifted the pot of chocolate off the fire with infinite difficulty, but it was going to boil over, and she would have broken her back rather than not do it, and then she stood with her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire as if she was determined not to see them till she could help it. But what she was thinking of Ellen could not have told then or afterwards. It was but a few minutes, though it seemed to her a great many, before they drew near the fire. Curiosity began to be strong, and she looked round to see if the newcomer was like Ellis. No, not a bit. How different. Darker hair and eyes, not a bit like her. Handsome enough, too, to be her brother. And Ellis did not look like herself. Her usually calm, sweet face was quivering and sparkling now, lit up as Ellen had never seen it. Oh, how bright. Poor Ellen herself had never looked duller in her life. And when Ellis said, gaily, this is my brother, Ellen. Her confusion of thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into a flood of tears. She sprang and hit her face in Ellis's arms. Ellen's were not the only eyes that were full just then. But of course she did not know that. Come, Ellen, whispered Ellis presently, look up. What kind of a welcome is this? Come, we have no business with tears just now. Won't you run into the kitchen for me, love? She added more low. And ask Marjorie to bring some bread and butter and anything else she has that is fit for a traveler. Glad of an escape. Ellen darted away that her wet face might not be seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when she returned. John said, Ellis, this is my little sister that I wrote you about. Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well as mine, you know. Stop, stop, said her brother. Miss Ellen, this sister of mine is giving us away to each other at a great rate. I should like to know first what you say to it. Are you willing to take a strange brother upon her recommendation? Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker's face. But eating the grave, though somewhat comical look, of two very keen eyes, she looked down again and merely answered, Yes. Then if I am to be your brother, you must give me a brother's right, you know, said he, drawing her gently to him, and kissing her gravely on the lips. Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John Humphries and Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentleman of the apple-pairing, for though she colored a good deal, she made no objection, and showed no displeasure. Ellis and she now busied themselves with getting the cups and saucers out of the cupboard, and setting the table. But all that evening, through whatever was doing, Ellen's eyes saw the stranger as if by fascination. She watched him whenever she could without being noticed. At first she was in doubt what to think of him. She was quite sure, from that one looking into his eyes, that he was a person to be feared. There was no doubt of that. As to the rest she didn't know. And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the evening, said John Humphries, one time that Ellis was gone into the kitchen on some kind errand for him. Talking, sir, said Ellen doubtfully. Talking this whole evening. Ellis must have improved. What have you been talking about? Hairs and dogs, and about Mr. Cowper, and some other things. Private affairs, eh, said he, with again the look Ellen had seen before. Yes, sir, said Ellen, nodding and laughing. And how came you upon Mr. Cowper? Sir? How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper? I was reading about his hairs, and about John Gilpin, and then Ellis told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends. Well, I don't know, after all, that you have had a pleasanter evening than I have had, said her questioner, though I have been riding hard, with a cold wind in my face, and the driving snow doing all it could to discomfort me. I have had this very bright fireside before me all the way. He fell into a fit of grave musing, which lasted till Ellis came in, then suddenly fell a fumbling in his pocket. Here's a note for you, said he, throwing it into her lap. A note! Sophia Marshman! Where did you get it? From her own hand, passing there to-day, I thought I must stop a moment to speak to them, and had no notion of doing more. But Mrs. Marshman was very kind, and Miss Sophia in despair. So the end of it was, I dismounted and went into a wait, the preparing of that belay, while my poor nag was led off to the stables, and a fresh horse supplied me. I fancy that tells you on what conditions. Charming, said Ellis, to spend Christmas. I am very glad. I should like to very much, with you, dear, if I can only get Papa. But I think he will. It will do him a great deal of good. Tomorrow, she says, we must come. But I doubt the weather will not let us. We shall see. I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the slaying will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old sleigh is in being, yet, I suppose. Oh, yes, in good order. Ellen, what are you looking so grave about? You were going to. I said, Ellen, with a great spot of crimson coming back in each cheek. To be sure, do you think I am going to leave you behind? But. But what? There won't be room. Room in the sleigh? Then we'll put John on Prince Charlie, and let him ride there, pastilian fashion. But Mr. Humphries. He always goes on horseback. He will ride sharp, or old John. In great delight, Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss, and then they all gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or rather to see John take his, which his sister would not let him wait for any longer. The storm had ceased, and through the broken clouds the moon and stars were looking out, so they were no more uneasy for Mr. Humphries, and expected him every moment. Still the supper was begun and ended without him, and they had drawn round the fire again before his welcome step was at last heard. There was new joy then, new embracing and questioning, and answering. The little circle opened to let him in, and Alice brought the corner of the table to his side and poured him out a cup of hot chocolate. But after drinking half of it, and neglecting the eatables beside him, he sat with one hand in the other, his arm leaning on his knee, with a kind of softened gravity upon his countenance. Is your chocolate right, Papa? said Alice at length. Very good, my daughter. He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude and look. Gradually they ceased their conversation and waited, with respectful affection and some curiosity for him to speak. Something of more than common interest seemed to be in his thoughts. He sat looking earnestly in the fire, sometimes with almost a smile on his face, and gently striking one hand in the palm of the other. And sitting so, without moving or stirring his eyes, he sat at last, as though the words had been forced from him. Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift. As he added no more, Alice said gently, What have you seen tonight, Papa? He roused himself and pushed the empty cup towards her. A little more, my daughter. I have seen the fairest sight almost a man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed spirit go home to its rest. Oh, that unspeakable gift! He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his chocolate. But having drunk it he pushed the table from him and drew up his chair. You had a long way to go, Papa, observed Alice again. Yes, a long way there. I don't know what it was coming home. I never thought of it. How independent the spirit can be of externals. I scarcely felt the storm tonight. Nor I, said his son. I had a long way to go, said Mr. Humphreys. That poor woman, that Mrs. Dolan, she lives in the woods beyond the cat's back, a mile beyond Cara Cara, or more. It seemed a long mile tonight, and a more miserable place I never saw yet. A little rickety shanty, the storm was hardly kept out of it, and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere or in anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and in a corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye meant mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but I couldn't at first make out where. Do you remember Alice, a little ragged boy, with a remarkably bright, pleasant face, who has planted himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time past in the south aisle of the church, and stood there all service time? Alice said no. I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most fixed and steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him on his way out of the church to speak to him, but always failed. I asked him tonight when I first went in, if he knew me. I do, sir, he said. I asked him where he had seen me. He said, in the church beyond. So, said I, you are the little boy I have seen there so regularly. What did you come for? To hear your honor speak the good words. What good words did I? About what? He said, about him that was slain, and washed us from our sins, in his own blood. And do you think he has washed away yours, I said? He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat difficult for him to speak, and to tell the truth so it was for me, for I was taken by surprise. But the people in the hut had gathered round, and I wished to hear him say more, for their sake as well as my own. I asked him why he thought his sins were washed away. He gave me, for answer, part of the verse, suffer little children to come unto me, but did not finish it. Do you think you are very sick, John, I asked? I am, sir, he said. I'll not be here long. And where do you think you are going, then, said I? He lifted one little thin bony arm from under his cover lid, and threw all the dirt and paler of his face. The smile of heaven, I am sure, was on it, as he looked and pointed upward, and answered, Jesus. I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished to see me for. I don't know whether he heard me or not. He lay with his eyes half closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted whether he would speak again. And indeed, for myself, I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me entirely. For the sake of the grouper on the bed, I could have desired something further. They kept perfect stillness, odd, I think, by a profession of faith such as they had never heard before. They and I stood watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than ten or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and with sudden life and strength rose up halfway in bed, exclaiming, thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift, and then fell back, just dead. The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished. For Alice and Ellen were both weeping, and John Humphries had covered his face with his hands. I have felt, said the old gentleman presently, as if I could have shouted out his words, his dying words, all the way as I came home. My little girl, said he, drawing Ellen to him, do you know the meaning of those sweet things of which little John Dolan's mind was so full? Ellen did not speak. Do you know what it is to be a sinner, and what it is to be a forgiven child of God? I believe I do, sir, Ellen said. He kissed her forehead and blessed her, and then said, let us pray. It was late. The servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. Oh, what a thanksgiving Mr. Humphries poured forth for that unspeakable gift, that they, everyone there, had been made to know and rejoicing it, for the poor little boy, rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same rejoicing, for their own loved ones, who were there already, and for the hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the new song, forever and ever. There were no dry eyes in the room, and when they arose Mr. Humphries, after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good night, gave one to Ellen too, which he had never done before, and then going to his son, and laying both hands on his shoulders, kissed his cheek also, then silently took his candle and went. They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round the fire as a floath depart, but in grave silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother, for laying her hand in her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, and so you have been well all this time, John? He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen, as well as his sister, saw the look of love with which he answered the question, rather of endearment than inquiry, and from that minute, Ellen's mind was made up as to the doubt which had troubled her. She went to bed quite satisfied that her new brother was a decided acquisition. CHAPTER 27 The jingling of sleigh bells Before Ellen's eyes were open the next morning, almost before she awoke, the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh ride, John Humphries, and the weather all rushed into her mind at once, and started her half up in the bed to look out of the window. Well frosted the panes of glass were, but at the corners and edges, unmistakable bright gleams of light came in. Oh, Alice, it's beautiful, exclaimed Ellen. Look how the sun is shining, and tisn't very cold. Are we going to-day? I don't know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We'll settle that at breakfast. At breakfast it was settled. They were to go and set off directly. Mr. Humphries could not go with them, because he had promised to bury little John Dolan. The priest had declared he would have nothing to do with it, and the poor mother had applied to Mr. Humphries, as being the clergyman her child had most trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that little John had persuaded her out of half her prejudices by his affectionate talk and blameless behavior during some time past. Mr. Humphries, therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised, however, to follow them the next, and would by no means permit them to wait for him. He said the day was fine, and they must improve it, and he should be pleased to have them with their friends as long as possible. So the little traveling bag was stuffed, with more things than it seemed possible to get into it. Among the rest Ellen brought her little red Bible, which Alice decided should go in John's pocket. The little carpet bag could not take it. Ellen was afraid it never would be locked. By dint of much pushing and crowding, however, locked it was, and they made themselves ready. Over Ellen's merino dress and coat went an old fur tippet. A little shawl was tied round her neck. Her feet were cased in a pair of warm moccasins, which, belonging to Marjorie, were, of course, a world too big for her. But anything but cold, as their owner said. Her nice blue hood would protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green veil to save her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen shuffled out of Alice's room in this trim, John gave her one of his grave looks and, saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to know how she expected to get to the sleigh. He said she would want a footman indeed to wait upon her, to pick up her slippers if she went in that fashion. However, he ended by picking her up, carried her, and set her down safely in the sleigh. Alice followed, and in another minute they were off. Ellen's delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a corner and left the house behind out of sight, and they were speeding away along a road that was quite new to her. Ellen's heart felt like dancing for joy. Nobody would have thought it, she sat so still and quiet between Alice and her brother, but her eyes were very bright as they looked joyously about her, and every now and then she could not help smiling to herself. Nothing was wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was of winter's fairest. The blue sky as clear as clouds had never dimmed or crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold, but not bitterly cold, nor windy. The sleigh skimmed along over the smooth frozen surface of the snow, as if it was no trouble at all to Prince Charlie to draw it. And the sleigh bells jingled and rang, the very music for Ellen's thoughts to dance to. And then with somebody she liked very much on each side of her, and pleasures untold in the prospect, no wonder she felt as if her heart could not hold any more. The green veil could not be kept down. Everything looked so beautiful in that morning sun. The long wide slopes of untrieden and unspotted snow, too bright sometimes for the eye to look at. The shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and scattered trees, the very brown fences, and the bare arms and branches of the leafless trees, showing sharp against the white background and clear bright heavens, all seemed lovely in her eyes. For, it is content of heart gives nature power to please. She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And besides, they were in a nice little red sleigh with a warm buffalo robe, and Prince Charlie was a fine-spirited gray that scarcely ever needed to be touched with the whip. At a word of encouragement from his driver, he would toss his head and set forward with new life, making all the bells jingle again. To be sure she would have been just as happy if they had had the poorest of vehicles on runners, with old John instead, but still it was pleasant or so. There rode at first his through a fine undulating country, like that between the nose and thorough wall, farmhouses and patches of woodland scattered here and there. It would seem that the minds of all the party were full of the same thoughts. For, after a very long silence, Alice's first word, almost sigh, was, This is a beautiful world, John. Beautiful, wherever you can escape from the signs of man's presence and influence. Isn't that almost too strong, said Alice? He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince Charlie, who was indulging himself in a walk. But there are bright exceptions, said Alice. I believe it, never so much as when I come home. Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have confidence and sympathy? He shook his head again. Not enough, Alice. I long for you every day of my life. Alice turned her head quick away. It must be so, my dear sister, he said presently. We can never expect to find it otherwise. There are, as you say, bright expectations, many of them. But in almost all I find some sad want. We must wait till we join the spirits of the just made perfect, before we see society that will be all we wish for. What is Ellen thinking of all this while, said Alice, presently, bending down to see her face? As grave as a judge, what are you musing about? I was thinking, said Ellen, how men could help the world's being beautiful. Don't trouble your little head with that question, said John, smiling. Long may it be before you are able to answer it. Look at those snowbirds. By degrees the day wore on. About one o'clock they stopped at a farmhouse to let the horse rest and to stretch their own limbs, which Ellen, for her part, was very glad to do. The people of the house received them with great hospitality, and offered them pumpkin pies and sweet cider. Alice had brought a basket of sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was furnished with a bag of corn Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for him. So they were all well refreshed and rested and warmed before they set off again. From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman's place was more than thirty miles, and the longest because the most difficult part of the way was still before them. Ellen, however, soon became sleepy, from riding in the keen air. She was content now to have the green veil over her face, and sitting down in the bottom of the sleigh, her head leading against Alice, and covered well with the buffalo robe, she slept in happy unconsciousness of hill and dale, wind and sun, and all the remaining hours of the way. It was drawing towards four o'clock, when Alice, with some difficulty, roused her to see the approach of the house and get wide awake before they should reach it. They turned from the road, and entered by a gateway into some pleasure grounds, through which a short drive brought them to the house. These grounds were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth spread of snow now. The great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and wintry, and patches of shrubbery offered little but toughs and bunches of brown twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary, but that some well-grown evergreens were clustered round the house, and others scattered here and there relieved the eye. A few holly bushes, singly and in groups, proudly displayed their bright dark leaves and red berries, and one unrivaled hemlock on the west, through its graceful shadow quite across the lawn, on which, as on itself, the white chimney tops, and the naked branches of oaks and elms was the faint smile of the afternoon sun. A servant came to take the horses, and Ellen, being first rid of her moccasins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of steps and into the house. They entered a large, handsome square hall, with a blue and white stone floor, at one side of which this staircase went winding up. Here they were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced, who threw her arms round Alice and kissed her a great many times, seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen, too, with such warmth that she began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and expected. Told Mr. John he had behaved admirably, and then led them into a large room, where was a group of ladies and gentlemen. The welcome they got here was less lively, but quite as kind. Mr. and Mrs. Marshman were fine handsome old people, of stately presence, and most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. Ellen saw that Alice was at home here, as if she had been a daughter of the family. Mrs. Marshman also stooped down and kissed her herself, telling her she was very glad she had come, and that there were a number of young people there, who would be much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen could not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. John and Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of pleasant voices, and a great bustle of shaking hands. The children had all gone out to walk, and as they had had their dinner a great while ago, it was decided that Ellen should take hers that day with the elder part of the family. While they were waiting to be called to dinner, and everybody else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman took notice of little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his own began a long conversation. He asked her a great many questions, some of them funny ones, that she could not help laughing, but she answered them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By the time the butler came to say dinner was ready, she had almost forgotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the dining-room, begged the older ladies would excuse him, but he felt bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He placed her on his right hand, and took the greatest care of her all dinner time. Once sending her plate the whole length of the table, for some particular little thing he thought she would like. On the other side of Ellen set Mrs. Tronsy one of Mr. Marshman's daughters, a lady with a sweet, gentle, quiet face and manner that made Ellen like to sit by her. Another daughter, Mrs. Glepspie, had more of her mother's stately bearing. The third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and good-humored. Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed with the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and raisins, admiring the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly cut and colored glass, and silver decanter stands, which were reflected in it. When a door at the further end of the room half opened, a little figure came partly in, and holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along the table, as if seeking for someone. What is the matter, Ellen? said Mrs. Tronsy. Mrs. Bland told me, Mama, she began, her eye not ceasing its uneasy quest, but then breaking off and springing to Alice's side, she threw her arms round her neck, and gave her, certainly, the warmest of all the warm welcomes she had had that day. Hello! cried Mr. Marshman, wrapping on the table. That's too much for anyone's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me just such another. The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed him with a very good will, remarking, however. Ah, but I've seen you before today, grand-papa. Well, here's somebody you've not seen before, said he, good humorably, pulling her round to Ellen. Here's a new friend for you, a young lady from the great city, so you must brush up your country manners. Miss Ellen Montgomery, come from. Pasha, what is it? Come from. London, grand-papa, said the little girl, as with a mixture of simplicity and kindness, she took Ellen's hand, and kissed her on the cheek. From Kara Karrasur, said Ellen, smiling. Go along with you, said he, laughing and pinching her cheek. Take her away, and mind you take good care of her. Tell Mrs. Bland she is one of grand-papa's guests. The two children had not, however, reached the door, when Ellen Chauncey exclaimed, Wait! Oh, wait a minute. I must speak to Aunt Sophia about the bag. And, flying to her side, there followed an earnest whispering, and then a nod and smile from Aunt Sophia. Aunt satisfied, Ellen returned to her companion, and led her out of the dining-room. We have both got the same name, said she, as they went along a wide corridor. How shall we know which is which? Why, said Ellen laughing, when you say, Ellen, I shall know you mean me, and when I say it, you will know I mean you. I shouldn't be calling myself, you know. Yes, but when somebody else calls Ellen, we shall both have to run. Do you run when you are called? Sometimes, said Ellen laughing. But I do always. Mama always makes me. I thought perhaps you were like Mary Ann Galepspie. She waits often as much as half a minute before she stirs when anybody calls her. Did you come with Miss Alice? Yes. Do you love her? Very much. Oh, very much. Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising color, with a glance of mixed curiosity and pleasure, and which lay a strong promise of growing love. So do I, she answered gaily, I am very glad she has come, and I am very glad you are come, too. The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence of a group of young people, rather older than themselves. Mary Ann, she said to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen. This is Miss Ellen Montgomery. She came with Alice, and she has come to keep Christmas with us. Aren't you glad? There will be quite a parcel of us when what's her name comes, won't there? Mary Ann shook hands with Ellen. She is one of Grand Papa's guests, I can tell you, so little Ellen Chauncey, and he says we must brush up our country manners. She's come from the great city. Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses? Miss Ellen inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Mary Ann Galepspie to prove him her brother. I don't know what that is, said Ellen. Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here? I don't know how you do them here, said Ellen. Don't you? Come, stand out of my way right and left all of you, will you, and give me a chance. Now, then. Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to her, bowed down to her knees, then slowly raising his head, stepped back. Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you at Vengenor. Isn't that polite now? Is that like what you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery? No, sir, thank you, said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The mirth of the others redoubled. May I request to be informed, then, continued Galepspie. What is the fashion of making bows in the great city? I don't know, said Ellen. I never saw a boy make a bow before. Hump! I guess country manners will do for you, said William, turning on his heel. You're giving her a pretty specimen of a bill, said another boy. For shame, William, cried little Ellen Chauncey. Didn't I tell you she was one of Grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen, I'll take you somewhere else. She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly stopped again. Oh, I forgot to tell you, she said. I asked Aunt Sophia about the bag of moroccos, and she said she would have them early tomorrow morning, and then we can divide him right away. We mustn't divide him till Maggie comes, said Marianne. Oh, no, not till Maggie comes, said little Ellen, and then ran off again. I'm so glad you are come, said she. The others are all so much older, and they have all so much to do together, and now you can help me think what I will make for Mama. Hush, don't say a word about it. They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were soon gathered for tea. The children who had dined early sat down to a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided. The elder persons were standing or sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had leisure to look about her, and her eyes soon wandered from the tea-table in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman, talking with two other ladies. But Ellen smiled presently, as she caught her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of recognition. John came up just then, to set down his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was smiling at. That city-manor, said William Globsby, to laugh at what's going on. I have no doubt we shall all follow the examples of John Humphrey's gravely, if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile. The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweet meats, and if ever so well-disposed, compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however, not even his sister could keep their countenances, for the eye of the speaker had pointed and sharpened his words. And William, very red in the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible, that he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to, and a threat to do something to his tormentor. Only not to eat me, said John, with a shade of expression in his look and tone, which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone retaining entire gravity. What's all this? What's all this? What's all this laughing about? said old Mr. Marshman, coming up. This young gentleman, sir, said John, has been endeavouring, with a mouthful of arguments, to prove us the inferiority of city-manors to those learned in the country. Will, said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's discomfitted face, then added sternly, I don't care where your manners were learned, sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music. He set the children a dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept her by him, and kept her very much amused, too, in his own way. Then he would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet flew over the floor, as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good night to their elders, and pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her, as well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy. The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood fire. The very old brass-headed hand-irons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth, with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, you have come to the right place for comfort. A little dark mahogany bookcase in one place, an odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another, and opposite the fire, an old-fashioned high-post bedstead, with its handsome Marseille quilt and ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor. This is Aunt Sophia's room, said little Ellen Chauncey. This is where you are to sleep. And where will Alice be? said the other Ellen. Oh, she'll sleep here in this bed with Aunt Sophia. That is because the house is so full, you know. And here is your bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here. Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun. Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for instead of a bedstead, it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it. This is Aunt Sophia's room, continued little Ellen. And next to it, out of that door, is our dressing room. And next to that is where Mama and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself? To be sure I do, said Ellen, always. So do I, but Marianne Glepsby won't even put on her shoes and stockings for herself. Who does it then, said Ellen? Why luster? Aunt Matilda's maid. Mama sent away her maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty, she would like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have anyone put on one's shoes and stockings for you, should you? No, indeed, said Ellen. Then you live here all the time? Oh, yes. Ever since Papa didn't come back from that long voyage. We live here since then. Is he coming back soon? No, said little Ellen gravely. He never will come back. He never will come back any more. Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a minute. I'll tell you what, said little Ellen jumping up. Mama said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things, and bring them here, and we can undress together. Won't that be a nice way? End of Chapter Twenty-Seven