 Chapter 1 of THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD Here at the portal thou dost stand, and with thy little hand, thou openest the mysterious gate, into the future's undiscovered land, I see its valves expand, as at the touch of fate, into those realms of love and hate. Long fellow. Mama, what was that I heard Papa saying to you this morning about his lawsuit? I cannot tell you just now. Ellen, pick up that shawl and spread it over me. Mama, are you cold in this warm room? A little. There, that will do. Now my daughter, let me be quiet awhile. Don't disturb me. There was no one else in the room, driven thus to her own resources. Ellen B. took herself to the window and saw amusement there. The prospect without gave little promise of it. Rain was falling, and made the street and everything in it look dull and gloomy. The foot passengers plashed through the water, and the horses and carriages plashed through the mud. The gaiety had forsaken the sidewalks, and equipages were few, and the people that were out were plainly there only because they could not help it. But yet Ellen, having seriously set herself to studying everything that passed, presently became engaged in her occupation, and her thoughts traveling dreamily from one thing to another, she sat for a long time, with her little face pressed against the window frame perfectly regardless of all but the moving world without. The light gradually faded away, and the street wore a more and more gloomy aspect. The rain poured, and now only an occasional carriage or footstep disturbed the sound of its steady pattering. Yet still Ellen sat, with her face glued to the window as a spellbound, gazing out at every dusky form that passed, as though it had some strange interest for her. At length, in the distance, light after light began to appear. Presently Ellen could see the dim figure of the lamplighter crossing the street from side to side, with his ladder. Then he drew near enough for her to watch him, as he hooked his ladder on the lamp irons, ran up and lit the lamp, then shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the light glancing on his wet oil-skin hat, rough greatcoat and lantern, and on the pavement and iron railings. The various moth could not have followed the light with more perseverance than did Ellen's eyes, till the lamplighter gradually disappeared from view, and the last lamp she could see was lit. And not till then did it occur to her that there was such a place as indoors. She took her face from the window. The room was dark and cheerless, and Ellen felt stiff and chilly. However, she made her way to the fire, and having found the poker, she applied it gently to the Liverpool Coal, with such good effect that a bright, ready blaze sprang up and lighted the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her experiment. "'That is something like,' said she to herself. "'Who says I can't poke the fire?' "'Now, let us see if I can't do something else.' "'Do but see how these chairs are standing. "'One would think we had had a sewing circle here. "'There, go back to your places. "'That looks a little better. "'Now, these curtains must come down. "'And I may as well shut the shutters, too. "'And now this tablecloth must be content to hang straight. "'And Mama's box and the books must lie in their places, and not all "'helter-skelter. "'Now I wish Mama would wake up. "'I should think she might. "'I don't believe she is asleep, either. "'She don't look as if she was.'" Ellen was right in this. Her mother's face did not wear the look of sleep, nor indeed of repose at all. The lips were compressed and the brow not calm. To try, however, whether she was asleep or no, and with the half-acknowledged intent to rouse her at all events, Ellen knelt down by her side and laid her face close to her mother's on the pillow. But this failed to draw either word or sign. After a minute or two, Ellen tried stroking her mother's cheek very gently, and this succeeded, for Mrs. Montgomery arrested the little hand as it passed her lips, and kissed it fondly two or three times. "'I haven't disturbed you, Mama, have I?' said Ellen. "'Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself "'to a sitting posture, and lifting both hands to her face, "'pushed back the hair from her forehead and temple, "'with a gesture which Ellen knew meant that she was making "'up her mind to some disagreeable or painful effort. "'Then taking both Ellen's hands, as she's still not before her, "'she gazed in her face with a look even more fine "'than usual, Ellen thought, but much sadder, too, "'though Mrs. Montgomery's cheerfulness had always "'been of a serious kind. "'What question was that you were asking me a while ago "'in my daughter? "'I thought, Mama, I heard Papa telling you this morning, "'or yesterday, that he had lost that lawsuit. "'You heard right, Ellen. "'He has lost it,' said Mrs. Montgomery sadly. "'Are you sorry, Mama? "'Does it trouble you?' "'You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself "'over much about the gain or the loss of money. "'I believe my heavenly father will give me what is good for me. "'Then, Mama, why are you troubled? "'Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle "'in other matters, and leave quietly my all in his hands. "'What is the matter, dear mother? "'What makes you look so?' "'This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble "'than I ever thought a lawsuit could. "'The loss of it, I mean. "'How, Mama?' "'It has caused an entire change of all our plans. "'Your father says he is too poor now to stay here any longer, "'and he has agreed to go soon on some government "'or military business to Europe. "'Well, Mama, that is bad, "'but he has been away a great deal before, "'and I am sure we were always very happy. "'But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, "'that it is very important for my health "'that I should go with him. "'Does he, Mama? "'And do you mean to go? "'I am afraid I must, my dear child. "'Not, and leave me, mother.' "'The imploring look of mingled astonishment, "'terror, and sorrow, with which Ellen uttered these words, "'took from her mother all power of replying. "'It was not necessary. "'Her little daughter understood only too well "'the silent answer of her eye. "'With a wild cry she flung her arms around her mother, "'and hiding her face in her lap "'gave way to a violent burst of grief "'that seemed for a few moments "'as if it would rend soul and body in twain. "'For her passions were by nature very strong, "'and by education very imperfectly controlled. "'And time, that rider that breaks youth, "'had not as yet tried his hand upon her. "'And Mrs. Montgomery, in spite of the fortitude "'and calmness to which she had sealed herself, "'bent down over her, and folding her arms about her, "'yielded to sorrow deeper still, "'and for a little while scarcely less violent "'in its expression than Ellen's own. "'Alas, she had too good reason. "'She knew that the chance of her ever returning "'to shield the little creature who has nearest her heart "'from the future evils and snares of life "'was very, very small. "'She had at first absolutely refused to leave Ellen "'when her husband proposed it, "'declaring that she would rather stay with her and die "'than take the chance of recovery at such a cost. "'But her physician assured her "'she could not live long without a change of climate. "'Captain Montgomery urged that it was better "'to submit to a temporary separation "'than to cling obstinately to her child for a few months "'and then leave her forever, "'said he must himself go speedily to France, "'and that now was her best opportunity, "'assuring her, however, "'that his circumstance would not permit him "'to take Ellen with them, "'but that she would be secure of a happy home "'with his sister during her mother's absence, "'and to the pressure of argument, "'Captain Montgomery added the weight of authority, "'insisting on her compliance. "'Conscience also asked Mrs. Montgomery "'whether she had a right to neglect "'any chance of life that was offered her. "'And at last she yielded "'to the combined influence of motives, "'no one of which would have power sufficient to move her. "'And though with a secret consciousness "'it would be in vain, "'she consented to do as her friends wished, "'and it was for Ellen's sake she did it, after all.' "'Nothing but necessity had given her the courage "'to open the matter to her little daughter. "'She had foreseen an endeavor "'to prepare herself for Ellen's anguish, "'but nature was too strong for her, "'and they clasped each other in a convulsive embrace "'while tears fell like rain.' "'It was some minutes before Mrs. Montgomery "'recollected herself. "'And then, though she struggled hard, "'she could not immediately regain her composure. "'But Ellen's deep sobs at length fairly alarmed her. "'She saw the necessity, for both their sakes, "'of putting a stop to this state of violent excitement. "'Self-command was restored at once.' "'Ellen, Ellen, listen to me,' she said. "'My child, this is not right. "'Remember, my darling, "'who it is that brings a sorrow upon us, "'that we must sorrow, we must not rebel.' "'Ellen sobbed more gently, "'but that, in the mute pressure of her arms, "'was her only answer. "'You will hurt both yourself and me, my daughter, "'if you cannot command yourself. "'Remember, dear Ellen, "'Godson's no trouble upon his children, but in love, "'and though we cannot see how, "'he will no doubt make all this work for our good. "'I know it, dear mother,' sobbed Ellen, "'but it's just as hard.' "'Mrs. Montgomery's own heart answered so readily "'to the truth of Ellen's words, "'that for the moment she could not speak. "'Try, my daughter,' she said after a pause. "'Try to compose yourself. "'I'm afraid you will make me worse, Ellen, if you cannot. "'I am indeed.' "'Ellen had plenty of faults, "'but amidst them all, "'love to her mother was the strongest feeling "'her heart knew. "'It had power enough now "'to move her as nothing else could have done. "'And exerting all her self-command, "'of which she had sometimes a great deal, "'she did calm herself, "'ceased sobbing, "'wiped her eyes, "'a rose from her crouching posture, "'and seating herself on the sofa by her mother, "'and laying her head on her bosom, "'she listened quietly to all the soothing words "'and cheering considerations, "'with which Mrs. Montgomery endeavored to lead her "'to take a more hopeful view of the subject. "'All she could urge, however, "'had but very partial success, "'though the conversation was prolonged "'far into the evening.' "'Ellen said little, "'and did not weep any more, "'but in secret her heart refused consolation.' "'Long before this, "'the servant had brought in the tea-things. "'Nobody regarded it at the time, "'but the little kettle hissing away on the fire, "'now by chance attracted Ellen's attention, "'and she suddenly recollected her mother had had no tea. "'To make her mother's tea was Ellen's regular business. "'She treated it as a very grave affair "'and loved it as one of the pleasantest "'in the course of the day. "'She used in the first place "'to make sure that the kettle really boiled. "'Then she carefully poured some water "'into the teapot and rinsed it, "'both to make it clean and to make it hot. "'Then she knew exactly how much tea "'to put into the tiny little teapot, "'which was just big enough to hold two cups of tea, "'and having poured a very little boiling water to it, "'she used to set it by the side of the fire "'while she made half a slice of toast. "'How careful Ellen was about that toast. "'The bread must not be cut too thick nor too thin. "'The fire must, if possible, burn clear and bright, "'and she herself held the bread on a fork, "'just at the right distance from the coals "'to get nicely browned without burning. "'When this was done to her satisfaction, "'and if the first piece failed, she would take another. "'She filled up the little teapot from the boiling kettle "'and proceeded to make a cup of tea. "'She knew and was very careful to put in "'just the quantity of milk and sugar that her mother liked. "'And then she used to carry the tea and toast "'on a little tray to her mother's side, "'and very often held it there for her while she ate. "'All this Ellen did with the zeal that love gives. "'And though the same thing was to be gone "'over every night of the year, she was never wearied. "'It was a real pleasure. "'She had the greatest satisfaction "'in seeing that the little her mother could eat "'was prepared for her in the nicest possible manner. "'She knew her hands made it taste better. "'Her mother often said so. "'But this evening other thoughts had driven "'this important business quite out of poor Ellen's mind. "'Now, however, when her eyes fell upon the little kettle, "'she recollected her mother had not had her tea "'and must want it very much. "'And silently slipping off the sofa, "'she said about getting it as usual. "'There was no doubt this time "'whether the kettle boiled or no. "'It had been hissing for an hour and more, "'calling as loud as it could to somebody to come "'and make the tea. "'So Ellen made it, and then began the toast. "'But she began to think too as she watched it, "'how few more times she would be able to do so, "'how soon her pleasant tea-makings would be over, "'and the desolate feeling of separation "'began to come upon her before the time. "'These thoughts were too much for poor Ellen. "'The tears gathered so fast, "'she could not see what she was doing, "'and she had no more than just turned the slice "'of bread on the fork when the sickness of heart "'quite overcame her. "'She could not go on. "'Toast and fork and all dropped from her hand "'into the ashes and rushing to her mother's side, "'who is now lying down again, "'and throwing herself upon her, "'she burst into another fit of sorrow, "'not so violent as the former, "'but with a touch of hopelessness in it, "'which went yet more to her mother's heart. "'Passion in the first said, I cannot. "'Disbear now seemed to say, I must. "'But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted "'to either share or soothe Ellen's agitation. "'She lay in suffering silence "'till after some time she said faintly, "'Ellen, my love, I cannot bear this much longer.' "'Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. "'She arose, sorry and ashamed "'that she should have given occasion for them, "'and tenderly kissing her mother, "'assured her most sincerely and resolutely "'that she would not do so again. "'And a few minutes she was calm enough "'to finish making the tea, "'and having toasted another piece of bread, "'she brought it to her mother. "'Mrs. Montgomery swallowed a cup of tea, "'but no toast could be eaten that night. "'Both remained silent and quiet a while after this, "'till the clock struck ten. "'You had better go to bed, my daughter,' "'said Mrs. Montgomery. "'I will, Mama. "'Do you think you can read me a little before you go? "'Yes, indeed, Mama.' "'And Ellen brought the book. "'Where shall I read?' "'The 23rd Psalm. "'Ellen began it and went through it steadily and slowly, "'though her voice quivered a little. "'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. "'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. "'He leadeth me beside the still waters. "'He restoreth my soul. "'He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness "'for his name's sake. "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, "'I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. "'Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. "'Thou preparest a table before me "'in the presence of mine enemies. "'Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. "'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me "'all the days of my life, "'and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.'" Long before she had finished, Ellen's eyes were full and her heart too. "'If only I could feel these words as Mama does,' she said to herself. She did not dare look up till the traces of tears had passed away. Then she saw that her mother was asleep. Those first sweet words had fallen like bomb upon the sore heart, and mind and body had instantly found rest together. Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead, and still quietly out of the room to her own little bed. End of chapter one. Chapter two of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter two. Give sorrow to the winds. Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she slept late on the following morning. The great dressing bell waked her. She started up with the confused notion that something was a matter. There was a weight on her heart that was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring it all back, and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control the evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still, and she was careful to allow no sound to escape her that could reach the ears of her mother, who slept in the next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her no more with useless expressions of sorrow, to keep it to herself as much as possible. But this very thought that she must keep it to herself gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the convulsive clasp of her little arms around the pillow plainly showed that it needed none. The breakfast bell again startled her, and she remembered she must not be too late downstairs or her mother might inquire and find out the reason. I will not, trouble mother. I will not, I will not, she resolved to herself as she got out of bed, though the tears fell faster as she said so. Dressing with sad work to Ellen today, it went on very heavily. Tears dropped into the water as she stooped her head to the basin, and she hid her face in the towel to cry instead of making the ordinary use of it. But the usual duties were dragged through at last, and she went to the window. I'll not go down till Papa is gone, she thought. He'll ask me what is the matter with my eyes. Ellen opened the window. The rain was over. The lovely light of a fair September morning was beautifying everything it shone upon. Ellen had been accustomed to amuse herself a good deal at this window, though nothing was to be seen from it, but an ugly city prospect of back walls of houses, with the yards belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street. But she had watched the people that showed themselves at the windows, and the children that played in the yards, and the women that went to the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with the neighborhood. And though they were for the most part dingy, dirty, and disagreeable, women, children, houses, and all, she certainly had taken a good deal of interest in their proceedings. It was all gone now. She could not bear to look at them. She felt as if it made her sick, and turning away her eyes, she lifted them to the bright sky above her head and gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot there was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white clouds were chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that was blowing away Ellen's hair from her face and cooling her hot cheeks. That wind could not have been long in coming from the place of woods and flowers, and it was so sweet still. Ellen looked till she didn't know why. She felt calmed and soothed, as if somebody was saying to her softly, cheer up, my child, cheer up. Things are not so bad as they might be. Things will be better. Her attention was attracted at length by voices below. She looked down and saw there, in one of the yards, a poor, deformed child, whom she had often noticed before, and always with sorrowful interest. Besides his bodily infirmity, he had a further claim upon her sympathy, and having lost his mother within a few months. Ellen's heart was easily touched this morning. She felt for him very much. Poor, poor little fellow, she thought, he's a great deal worse off than I am. His mother is dead. Mine is only going away for a few months, not forever. Oh, what a difference! And then the joys of coming back again. Poor Ellen was weeping already at the thought. And I will do, oh, how much, while she was gone. I'll do more than she could possibly expect from me. I'll astonish her. I'll delight her. I'll work harder than ever I did in my life before. I'll mend all my faults and give her so much pleasure. But, oh, if she only neededn't go away. Oh, mama, tears of mingled sweet and bitter were poured out fast. But the bitter had the largest share. The breakfast table was still standing, and her father gone when Ellen went downstairs. Mrs. Montgomery welcomed her with her usual quiet smile and held out her hand. Ellen tried to smile in answer, but she was glad to hide her face in her mother's bosom, and the long, close embrace was too close and too long. It told of sorrow as well as love, and tears fell from the eyes of each that the other did not see. Need I go to school today, mama, whispered Ellen. No, I spoke to your father about that. You shall not go any more. We will be together now while we can. Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make up her mind to it. Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast. Have you done, mama? No, I waited for you. Thank you, dear mama, with another embrace. How good you are, but I don't think I want any. They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither had much hard to eat, although Mrs. Montgomery, with her own hands, laid on Ellen's plate half of the little bird that had been boiled for her own breakfast. The half was too much for each of them. What made you so late this morning, daughter? I got a plate in the first place, mama, and then I was a long time at the window. At the window, were you examining into your neighbor's affairs, as usual? Said Mrs. Montgomery, surprised that it should have been so. Oh, no, mama, I didn't look at them at all, except poor little Billy. I was looking at the sky. And what did you see there that pleased you so much? I don't know, mama. It looked so lovely and peaceful that pure blue spread over my head and the little white clouds flying across it. I loved to look at it. It seemed to do me good. Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of him who made it? No, mama, said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast and now speaking with difficulty. I did think of him. Perhaps that was the reason. And what did you think of him, daughter? I hoped, mama. I felt. I thought. He would take care of me, said Ellen, bursting into tears and throwing her arms around her mother. He will, my dear daughter. He will, if you will only put your trust in him, Ellen. Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few minutes succeeded. Mama, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my putting my trust in him? Don't you trust me, Ellen? Certainly, mama. How do you trust me? In what? Why, mama, in the first place I trust every word you say entirely. I know nothing could be truer. If you were to tell me black is white, mama, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. Then everything you tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, perfectly. And I always feel safe when you are near me because I know you'll take care of me. And I'm glad to think I belong to you and you have the management of me entirely and I needn't manage myself because I know I can't. And if I could, I'd rather you would, mama. My daughter, it is just so. It is just so that I wish you to trust in God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder by far than I am. Even if I could always be with you and what will you do when I'm away from you? And what would you do, my child, if I were to be parted from you forever? Oh, mama, said Ellen, bursting into tears and clasping her arms round her mother again. Oh, dear mama, don't talk about it. Her mother fondly returned her caress and one or two tears fell in Ellen's head as she did so. But that was all and she said no more. Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety of the preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the sofa and lay quite still. Ellen placed herself on a little bench at her side with her back to the head of the sofa that her mother might not see her face and possessing herself of one of her hands sat with her little head resting upon her mother as quiet as she. They remained thus for two or three hours without speaking and Mrs. Montgomery was part of the time slumbering. But now and then a tear ran down the side of the sofa and dropped on the carpet where Ellen sat. And now and then her lips were softly pressed to the hand she held as if they would grow there. The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Dr. Green found his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect and his sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times between the mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He made no remark upon it, however, but continued for some moments a pleasant chatty conversation which he had begun with Mrs. Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him. He had rather taken a fancy to her. Well, Miss Ellen, he said, rubbing one of her hands in his. What do you think of this fine scheme of mine? What scheme, sir? Why the scheme of sending this sickly lady over the water to get well? What do you think of it, eh? Will it make her quite well? Do you think, sir, asked Ellen earnestly? Will it make her well? To be sure it will. Do you think I don't know better than to send people all the way across the ocean for nothing? Who do you think would want Dr. Green if he sent people on wild goose chases in that fashion? Will she have to stay long there before she has cured, sir, asked Ellen? Oh, that I can't tell. That depends entirely on circumstances. Perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of business to say to you. You know you agreed to be my little nurse. Mrs. Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite as well as she ought to be this morning. I am afraid you haven't taken proper care of her. She looks to me as if she had been too much excited. I have a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort. You understand? Now, Mrs. Nurse, said the doctor, changing his tone, she must not be excited. You must take care that she is not. It isn't good for her. You mustn't let her talk too much, or laugh much, or cry at all, on any account. She mustn't be worried in the least. Will you remember? Now, you know what I shall expect of you. You must be very careful. That piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned, one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences. Goodbye, said he, shaking Ellen's hand. You needn't look sober about it. All you have to do is let your mama be as much like an oyster as possible. You understand? Goodbye. And Dr. Green took his leave. Poor woman, said the doctor to himself, as he went downstairs. He was a humane man. I wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side. That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child, poor child. Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the doctor's advice and determined to follow it. By common consent, as it seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of sorrow to the other's mind, though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It was not spoken of. Indeed, little of any kind was spoken of, but that never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless employed during this interval in preparing for what she believed was before her, endeavoring to resign herself and her child to him in whose hands they were, and struggling to withdraw her affections from a world which she had a sacred misgiving she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not distress her mother with the sight of her sorrow, and she kept it as far as she could. She did not let her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet ones, though she drooped her head like a withered flower and went about the house with an air of submissive sadness that tried her mother sorely. But when she was alone and knew no one could see, sorrow had its way, and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution, had she known them. This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant and elastic spirit naturally. It was not for one's sorrow, however great to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover, she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable thing, but though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length would come back to her little heart, and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the roughest and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had just passed through her head that first morning, as she stood at her window, now came back again. Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's absence, unheard of efforts to learn and amend, which should be all crowned with success and above all, thoughts of that coming home, when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to her mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions received their long desired reward. They made Ellen's heart beat and her eyes swim and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was rejoiced to see the change. She felt that as much time had already been given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly relieved her. What are you thinking about, Ellen, said she, one morning. Ellen was sowing, and while busy at her work, her mother had two or three times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still smiling, and answered, "'Oh, Mama, I was thinking of different things, "'things that I mean to do while you are gone.' "'And what are these things?' inquired her mother. "'Oh, Mama, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand. "'I want to surprise you with them when you come back.'" A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced another subject. "'Mama, what kind of person is my aunt?' "'I do not know. I have never seen her.' "'How has that happened, Mama?' "'Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, "'and I have been very much confined to two or three cities, "'and your father's long and repeated absences "'made traveling impossible to me.' Ellen thought, but she didn't say it, "'that it was very odd her father should not sometimes, "'when he was in the country, "'have gone to see his relations "'and taken her mother with him. "'What is my aunt's name, Mama? "'I think you must have heard that already, Ellen, "'Fortune Emerson.' "'Emerson? I thought she was Papa's sister. "'So she is. "'Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery? "'She is only his half-sister, "'the daughter of his mother, not the daughter of his father.' "'I am very sorry for that,' said Ellen gravely. "'Why, my daughter? "'I'm afraid she will not be so likely to love me. "'You mustn't think so, my child. "'Her loving or not loving you will depend solely "'and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. "'Don't forget that. "'If you are a good child "'and make it your daily care to do your duty, "'she cannot help liking you. "'Be she what she may. "'And on the other hand, "'if she have all the will in the world to love you, "'she cannot do it unless you will let her. "'It all depends on your behavior. "'Oh, Mama, I can't help wishing dear Aunt Bessie "'was alive and I was going to her. "'Many a time the same wish had passed "'through Mrs. Montgomery's mind, "'but she kept down her rising heart and went on calmly. "'You must not expect, my child, "'to find anybody as indulgent as I am, "'or as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. "'It would be unreasonable to look for it. "'And you must not think hardly of your aunt "'when you find she is not your mother, "'but then it will be your own fault "'if she does not love you in time, truly and tenderly. "'See that you render her all the respect and obedience "'you could render me. "'That is your bound in duty. "'She will stand in my place while she has the care of you. "'Remember that, Ellen, "'and remember, too, "'that she will deserve more gratitude at your hands "'for showing you kindness than I do, "'because she cannot have the same feeling of love "'to make trouble easy.' "'Oh, no, Mama,' said Ellen. "'I don't think so. "'It's that very feeling of love that I am grateful for. "'I don't care a fig for anything people do for me "'without that. "'But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try. "'Well, I'll try, Mama.' "'And don't be discouraged. "'Perhaps you may be disappointed in first appearances, "'but never mind that. "'Have patience and let your motto be, "'if there's any occasion. "'Overcome evil with good. "'Will you put that among the things you mean to do "'while I am gone?' said Mrs. Montgomery with a smile. "'I'll try, dear Mama. "'You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear. "'If you apply yourself in your trying "'to the only unfailing source of wisdom "'and strength to him without whom you can do nothing. "'There was silence for a little. "'What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?' asked Ellen. "'Your father says it is a very pleasant place. "'He says the country is beautiful and very healthy "'and full of charming walks and rides. "'You have never lived in the country. "'I think you will enjoy it very much.' "'Then it is not a town, said Ellen? "'No, it is not far from the town of Thurawall, "'but your aunt lives in the open country. "'Your father says she is a capital housekeeper "'and that you will learn more and be in all respects "'a great deal happier and better off "'than you would be in a boarding school here or anywhere.' "'Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth "'of this last assertion very much. "'Is there any school near?' she asked. "'Your father says there was an excellent one "'in Thurawall when he was there. "'Mama,' said Ellen, "'I think the greatest pleasure I shall have "'while you are gone will be writing to you. "'I have been thinking of it a good deal. "'I mean to tell you everything, absolutely everything, Mama. "'You know there will be nobody for me to talk to "'as I do to you.' "'Ellen's words came out with difficulty. "'And when I feel badly, "'I shall just shut myself up and write to you.' "'She hid her face in her mother's lap. "'I count upon it, my dear daughter. "'It will make quite as much the pleasure "'of my life, Ellen, as of yours.' "'But then, mother,' said Ellen, "'brushing away the tears from her eyes. "'It will be so long before my letters can get to you. "'The things I want you to know right away, "'you won't know, perhaps, in a month. "'That's no matter, daughter. "'They will be just as good when they do get to me. "'Never think of that, right every day, "'and all manner of things that concern you, "'just as particularly as if you were speaking to me. "'And you'll write to me, too, Mama? "'Indeed I will, when I can. "'But, Ellen, you say that when I am away "'and cannot hear you, "'there will be nobody to supply my place. "'Perhaps it will be so, indeed. "'But then, my daughter, "'let it make you seek that friend "'who is never far away, nor out of hearing. "'Draw an eye to God, and he will draw an eye to you. "'You know he is said of his children. "'Before they call, I will answer. "'And while they are yet speaking, I will hear.' "'But, Mama,' said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly. "'You know he is not my friend "'in the same way that he is yours. "'And hiding her face again, she added. "'Oh, how I wish she was.' "'You know the way to make him so, Ellen. "'He is willing. "'It only rests with you. "'Oh, my child, my child, "'if losing your mother might be the means "'of finding you that better friend, "'I should be quite willing and glad to go, forever.' There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice had trembled and her face was now covered with her hands, but she was not weeping. She was seeking a better relief where it had long been her habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure and the employments which had been broken off, but neither chose to renew the conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company prevented their having another opportunity during the rest of the day. But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of the time. Friends had taken their departure. The curtains were down, the lamp lit, the little room looked cozy and comfortable. The servant had brought the tea things and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered and fast drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very precious. She now lay on her couch with her face partially shaded and her eyes fixed upon her little daughter, who is now preparing the tea. She watched her with thoughts and feelings not to be spoken as the little figure went back and forward between the table and the fire and the light shining full upon her face showed that Ellen's whole soul was in her beloved duty. Tears would fall as she looked and were not wiped away. But when Ellen, having finished her work, brought with a satisfied face the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer any sign of them left. Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile to show her gratitude by honoring, as far as possible, what Ellen had provided. You have more appetite tonight, Mama. I am very glad, daughter, replied her mother, to see that you have made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that has come upon us. I'm glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine, and I am glad, too, because we have a great deal to do and no time to lose in doing it. What, have we so much to do, Mama, said Ellen? Oh, many things, said her mother. You will see, but now, Ellen, if there's anything you wish to talk to me about, any question you want to ask, anything you would like particularly to have or to have done for you, I want you to tell it to me as soon as possible, now, while we can attend to it. For, by and by, perhaps we shall be hurried. Mama, said Ellen, with brightening eyes. There is one thing I have thought of that I should like to have, shall I tell it to you now? Yes. Mama, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal. Wouldn't it be a good thing for me to have a little box with some pens in it and an ink stand and some paper and wafers? Because, Mama, you know I shall be among strangers at first, and I shan't like asking them for these things as often as I shall want them, and maybe they wouldn't want to let me have them if I did. I have thought of that already, daughter, said Mrs. Montgomery, with a smile and a sigh. I will certainly take care that you are well provided in that respect before you go. How am I to go, Mama? What do you mean? I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone, Mama. No, my daughter, I'll not send you alone, but your father says it is impossible for him to take the journey at present, and it is yet more impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but we must entrust you to the care of some friend going that way, but he that holds the winds and waters in the hollow of his hand can take care of you without any of our help, and it is to his keeping above all that I shall commit you. Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and troubled than her mother had expected. In truth, the greater evil swallowed up the less. Parting from her mother, and for so long a time, it seemed to her comparatively a matter of little importance with whom she went, or how or where, except for this, the taking of a long journey under a stranger's care would have been a dreadful thing to her. Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with Mama? Not yet, but it will be necessary to take the first good opportunity, for I cannot go till I have seen you off, and it is thought very desirable that I should get to see before the severe weather comes. It was with a pang that these words were spoken and heard, but neither showed it to the other. It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have shown yourself so submissive and patient under this affliction. I should scarcely have been able to endure it if you had not exerted self-control. You have behaved beautifully. This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her utmost stretch of self-control to keep within any bounds of composure, and for some moments her flushed cheek, quivering lip, and heaving bosom told what a tumult her mother's words had raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had gone too far, and willing to give both Ellen and herself time to recover, she laid her head on the pillow again and closed her eyes. Many thoughts coming thick upon one another presently filled her mind, and half an hour had passed before she again recollected what she had meant to say. She opened her eyes. Ellen was sitting at a little distance, staring into the fire, evidently as deep in meditation as her mother had been. Ellen said, Mrs. Montgomery, did you ever fancy what kind of a Bible you would like to have? A Bible, Mama, said Ellen, with sparkling eyes. Do you mean to give me a Bible? Mrs. Montgomery smiled. But Mama, said Ellen gently, I thought you couldn't afford it. I have said so and truly answered her mother, and hitherto you have been able to use mine, but I will not leave you now without one. I will find ways and means, said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling again. Oh, Mama, thank you, said Ellen, delighted. How glad I shall be. And after a pause of consideration, she added, Mama, I never thought much about what sort of one I should like. Couldn't I tell better if I were to see the different kinds in the store? Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine enough and I'm well enough, I will go out with you and we will see about it. I'm afraid Dr. Green won't let you, Mama. I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible and some other things that I will not leave you without, and nobody can do it but myself. I shall go if I possibly can. What other things, Mama, asked Ellen, very much interested in the subject. I don't think it will do to tell you tonight, said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling. I foresee that you and I should be kept awake too late if we were to enter upon it just now. We will leave it till tomorrow. Never read to me, love, and then to bed. Ellen obeyed and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing before her eyes than had been the case for some time. End of chapter two. Chapter three of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter three, The Worth of a Finger Ring. Ellen had to wait some time for the desired fine day. The equinoxial storms would have their way, as usual, and Ellen thought they were longer than ever this year, but after many stormy days had tried her patience, there was at length a sudden change, both without and with indoors. The clouds had done their work for that time and fled away before a strong, northerly wind, leaving the sky bright and fair. And Mrs. Montgomery's deceitful disease took a turn, and for a little space raised the hopes of her friends. All were rejoicing but two persons. Mrs. Montgomery was not deceived, neither was the doctor. The shopping project was kept a profound secret from him and from everybody except Ellen. Ellen watched now for a favorable day. Every morning, as soon as she rose, she went to the window to see what was the look of the weather. And about a week after the change above noticed, she was greatly pleased one morning on opening her window, as usual, to find the air and sky promising all that could be desired. It was one of those beautiful days in the end of September that sometimes herald October before it arrives, cloudless, brilliant and breathing balm. This will do said Ellen to herself in great satisfaction. I think this will do. I hope Mama will think so. Hastily dressing herself and a good deal excited already, she ran downstairs and after the morning salutations examined her mother's looks with as much anxiety as she had just done those of the weather. All was satisfactory there also and Ellen ate her breakfast with an excellent appetite, but she said not a word of the intended expedition till her father should be gone. She contented herself with strengthening her hopes by making constant fresh inspections of the weather and her mother's countenance alternately and her eyes returning from the window on one of these excursions and meeting her mother's face saw a smile there which said all she wanted. Breakfast went on more vigorously than ever, but after breakfast it seemed to Ellen that her father would never go away. He took the newspaper and uncommon thing for him and poured over up most perseveringly while Ellen was in a perfect fidget of impatience. Her mother seeing the state she was in and taking pity on her sent her upstairs to do some little matters of business in her own room. These Ellen dispatched with all possible zeal and speed and coming down again found her father gone and her mother alone. She flew to kiss her in the first place and then made the inquiry. Don't you think today we'll do mama? As fine as possible daughter, we could not have a better but I must wait till the doctor has been here. Mama said Ellen after a pause making a great effort of self-denial. I'm afraid you oughtn't to go out to get these things for me. Pray don't mama if you think it will do you harm. I would rather go without them. Indeed I would. Nevermind that daughter said Mrs. Montgomery kissing her. I am bent upon it. It would be quite as much of a disappointment to me as to you not to go. We have a lovely day for it and we will take our time and walk slowly and we haven't far to go either but I must let Dr. Green make his visit first. To fill up the time till he came Mrs. Montgomery employed Ellen in reading to her as usual. And this morning's reading Ellen long after remembered. Her mother directed her to several passages in different parts of the Bible that speak of heaven and its enjoyments. And though when she began her own little heart was full of excitement and view of the day's plans and beating with hope and pleasure the sublime beauty of the words and thoughts as she went on, awed her into quiet and her mother's manner at length turned her attention entirely from herself. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa and for the most part listened in silence with her eyes closed but sometimes saying a word or two that made Ellen feel how deep was the interest her mother had in the things she read of and how pure and strong the pleasure she was even now taking in them. And sometimes there was a smile on her face that Ellen's scarce like to see. It gave her an indistinct feeling that her mother would not be long away from that heaven to which she seemed already to belong. Ellen had a sad consciousness too that she had no part with her mother in this matter. She could hardly go on. She came to that beautiful passage in the seventh of Revelation. And one of the elders answered saying unto me, what are these which are arrayed in white robes and whence came they? And I said unto him, sir, thou knowest. And he said to me, these are they which came out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sunlight on them nor any heat. For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the throne, shall feed them and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. With difficulty and a husky voice, Ellen got through it. Lifting then her eyes to her mother's face, she saw again the same singular sweet smile. Ellen felt that she could not read another word. To her great relief the door opened and Dr. Green came in. His appearance changed the whole course of her thoughts. All that was grave or painful quickly fled away. Ellen's head was immediately full again of what had filled it before she began to read. As soon as the doctor had retired and was fairly out of hearing, "'Now, Mama, shall we go?' said Ellen. "'You needn't stir, Mama. "'I'll bring all your things to you and put them on. "'May I, Mama? "'Then you won't be a bit tired before you set out.'" Her mother assented and with a great deal of tenderness and a great deal of eagerness, Ellen put on her stockings and shoes, arranged her hair and did all that she could towards changing her dress and putting on her bonnet and shawl and greatly delighted she was when the business was accomplished. "'Now, Mama, you look like yourself. "'I haven't seen you look so well this great while. "'I'm glad you're going out again,' said Ellen, putting her arms round her. "'I do believe it will do you good. "'Now, Mama, I'll go and get ready. "'I'll be very quick about it. "'You shan't have to wait long for me.'" In a few minutes the two set forth from the house. The day was as fine as could be. There was no wind. There was no dust. The sun was not oppressive and Mrs. Montgomery did feel refreshed and strengthened during the first few steps they had to take to their first stopping place. It was a jeweler's store. Ellen had never been in one before in her life and her first feeling on entering was of dazzled wonderment at the glittering splendors around. This was presently forgotten in curiosity to know what her mother could possibly want there. She soon discovered that she had come to sell and not to buy. Mrs. Montgomery drew a ring from her finger and after a little chaffering, parted with it to the owner of the store for $80, being about three quarters of its real value. The money was counted out and she left the store. "'Mama,' said Ellen, in a low voice, "'wasn't that Grandma was rang, "'which I thought you loved so much?' "'Yes, I did love it, Ellen, but I love you better.' "'Oh, Mama, I am very sorry,' said Ellen. "'You need not be sorry, daughter. "'Jewels and themselves are the nearest nothings to me. "'And as for the rest, it doesn't matter. "'I can remember my mother without any help from a trinket.' "'There were tears, however, in Mrs. Montgomery's eyes, "'that showed the sacrifice had cost her something, "'and there were tears in Ellen's "'that told it was not thrown away upon her. "'I am sorry you should know of this,' continued Mrs. Montgomery. "'You should not if I could have helped it. "'But set your heart quite at rest, Ellen. "'I assure you this use of my ring "'gives me more pleasure on the whole "'than any other I could have made of it. "'A grateful squeeze of her hand and a glance into her face "'was Ellen's answer.' Mrs. Montgomery had applied to her husband for the funds necessary to fit Ellen comfortably for the time they should be absent, and in answer he had given her a sum barely sufficient for her mere clothing. Mrs. Montgomery knew him better than to ask for a further supply, but she resolved to have recourse to other means to do what she had determined upon. Now that she was about to leave her little daughter and a might be forever, she had set her heart upon providing her with certain things which she thought important to her comfort and improvement, and which Ellen would go very long without if she did not give them to her, and now. Ellen had had very few presents in her life, and those always of the simplest and cheapest kind. Her mother resolved that in the midst of the bitterness of this time she would give her one pleasure if she could, it might be the last. They stopped next at a bookstore. Oh, what a delicious smell of new books at Ellen, as they entered. Mama, if it wasn't for one thing, I should say I was never so happy in my life. Children's books lying in tempting confusion near the door immediately fastened Ellen's eyes and attention. She opened one and was already deep in the interest of it when the word Bibles struck her ear. Mrs. Montgomery was desiring the shopman to show her various kinds and sizes that she might choose from among them. Down went Ellen's book and she flew to the place where a dozen different Bibles were presently displayed. Ellen's wits were ready to forsake her. Such beautiful Bibles she had never seen. She poured an ecstasy over their varieties of type and binding and was very evidently in love with them all. Now Ellen said, Mrs. Montgomery, look and choose, take your time and see what you like best. It was not likely that Ellen's time would be a short one. Her mother seeing this took a chair at a little distance to await patiently her decision. And while Ellen's eyes were riveted on the Bibles, her own very naturally were fixed upon her. In the excitement and eagerness of the moment, Ellen had thrown off her little bonnet and with flushed cheek and sparkling eye and a brow grave with unusual care as though a nation's fate were deciding, she was weighing the comparative advantages of large, small and middle-sized, black, blue, purple and red, guilt and not guilt, clasp and no clasp. Everything but the Bibles before her, Ellen had forgotten utterly. She was deep in what was to her the most important of business. She did not see the bystander's smile. She did not know there were any. To her mother's eye it was a most fair sight. Mrs. Montgomery gazed with rising emotions of pleasure and pain that struggled for the mastery. But pain at last got the better and rose very high. How can I give thee up? Was the one thought of her heart. Unable to command herself, she rose and went to a distant part of the counter where she seemed to be examining books. But tears, some of the bitterest she had ever shed, were falling thick upon the dusty floor, and she felt her heart like to break. Her little daughter at one end of the counter had forgotten there ever was such a thing as sorrow in the world. And she at the other was bowed beneath a weight of it that was nigh to crush her. But in her extremity she betook herself to that refuge she had never known to fail. It did not fail her now. She remembered the words that Ellen had been reading to her but that very morning, and they came like the breath of heaven upon the fever of her soul. Not my will, but thine be done. She strove and prayed to say it and not in vain. And after a little while she was able to return to her seat. She felt that she had been shaken by a tempest, but she was calmer now than before. Ellen was just as she had left her and apparently just as far from coming to any conclusion. Mrs. Montgomery was resolved to let her take her way. Presently Ellen came over from the counter with a large royal octavo Bible, heavy enough to be a good lift for her. Mama said she, laying out on her mother's lap and opening it. What do you think of that? Isn't that splendid? A most beautiful page indeed. Is this your choice, Ellen? Well, Mama, I don't know. What do you think? I think it is rather inconveniently large and heavy for everyday use. It is quite a weight upon my lap. I shouldn't like to carry it in my hands long. You would want a little table on purpose to hold it. Well, that won't do it all, said Ellen, laughing. I believe you are right, Mama. I wonder I didn't think of it. I might have known that myself. She took it back, and there followed another careful examination of the whole stock. And then Ellen came to her mother with a beautiful miniature edition and two volumes, gilt and clasped, and very perfect in all respects, but of exceeding small print. I think I'll have this, Mama, said she. Isn't it a beauty? I could put it in my pocket, you know, and carry it anywhere with the greatest ease. It would have but one great objection to me, said Mrs. Montgomery, in as much as I cannot possibly see to read it. Cannot, you Mama, but I can read it perfectly. Well, my dear, take it. That is, if you will make up your mind to put on spectacles before your time. Spectacles, Mama, I hope I shall never have to wear spectacles. What do you propose to do when your sight fails if you shall live so long? Well, Mama, if it comes to that, but you don't advise me then to take this little beauty, judge for yourself, I think you are old enough. I know what you think, though, Mama, and I dare say you are right, too. I won't take it, though it's a pity. Well, I must look again. Mrs. Montgomery came to her help, for it was plain Ellen had lost the power of judging amidst so many tempting objects. But she presently simplified the matter by putting aside all that were decidedly too large or too small or of too fine print. There remained three of moderate size and sufficiently large type, but different binding. Either of these, I think, will answer your purpose nicely, said Mrs. Montgomery. Then, Mama, if you please, I will have the red one. I like that best, because it will put me in mind of yours. Mrs. Montgomery could find no fault with this reason. She paid for the red Bible and directed it to be sent home. Shant I carry it, Mama, said Ellen? No, you would find it in the way. We have several things to do yet. Have we, Mama? I thought we only came to get a Bible. That is enough for one day, I confess. I'm a little afraid your head will be turned, but I must run the risk of it. I dare not lose the opportunity of this fine weather. I may not have such another. I wish to have the comfort of thinking, when I am away, that I have left you with everything necessary to the keeping up of good habits, everything that will make them pleasant and easy. I wish you to be always neat and tidy and industrious, depending upon others as little as possible and careful to improve yourself by every means and especially by writing to me. I will leave you no excuse, Ellen, for failing in any of these duties. I trust you will not disappoint me in a single particular. Ellen's heart was too full to speak. She again looked up tearfully and pressed her mother's hand. I do not expect to be disappointed, love, returned Mrs. Montgomery. They now entered a large, fancy store. What are we to get here, Mama, said Ellen? A box to put your pens and paper in, said her mother, smiling. Oh, to be sure, said Ellen, I had almost forgotten that. She quite forgot it a minute after. It was the first time she had seen the inside of such a store, and the articles displayed on every side completely bewitched her. From one thing to another she went, admiring and wondering, and her wildest dreams she had never imagined such beautiful things. The store was fairyland. Mrs. Montgomery, meanwhile, attended to business. Having chosen a neat little Japan dressing box, perfectly plain, but well supplied with everything a child could want in that line, she called Ellen from the delightful journey of discovery she was making round the store and asked her what she thought of it. I think it's a little beauty, said Ellen, but I never saw such a place for beautiful things. You think it will do then, said her mother? For me, Mama, you don't mean to give it to me. Oh, Mother, how good you are. But I know what is the best way to thank you, and I'll do it. What a perfect little beauty. Mama, I'm too happy. I hope not, said her mother, for you know I haven't gotten you the box for your pens and paper yet. Well, Mama, I'll try and bear it, said Ellen, laughing. But do get me the plainest little thing in the world, for you're giving me too much. Mrs. Montgomery asked to look at writing desks, and was shown to another part of the store for the purpose. Mama, said Ellen, in a low tone as they went, you're not going to get me a writing desk. Why, that is the best kind of box for holding writing materials, said her mother, smiling. Don't you think so? I don't know what to say, exclaimed Ellen. I can't thank you, Mama. I haven't any words to do it. I think I shall go crazy. She was truly overcome with the weight of happiness. Words failed her, and tears came instead. From among a great many desks of all descriptions, Mrs. Montgomery, with some difficulty, succeeded in choosing one to her mind. It was of mahogany, not very large, but thoroughly well-made and finished, and very convenient and perfect in its internal arrangements. Ellen was speechless. Occasional looks at her mother and deep sighs were all she had now to offer. The desk was quite empty. Ellen said her mother, do you remember the furniture of Miss Ellen's desk that you were so pleased with a while ago? Perfectly, Mama. I know all that was in it. Well then, you must prompt me if I forget anything. Your desk will be furnished with everything really useful. Merely showy matters we can dispense with. Now let us see. Here's a great empty place that I think wants some paper to fill it. Show me some of different sizes, if you please. The shop man obeyed, and Mrs. Montgomery stacked the desk well with letter paper, large and small. Ellen looked on in great satisfaction. That will do nicely, she said. That large paper will be beautiful whenever I'm writing to you, Mama, you know, and the other will do for other times when I haven't so much to say. Though I'm sure I don't know who there is in the world, I should ever send letters to, except you. If there is nobody now, perhaps there will be at some future time, replied her mother. I hope I shall not always be your only correspondent. Now what next? Envelopes, Mama? To be sure, I had forgotten them. Envelopes of both sizes to match. Because, Mama, you know I might, and I certainly shall, want to write upon the fourth page of my letter. And I couldn't do it unless I had envelopes. A sufficient stock of envelopes was laid in. Mama said, Ellen, what do you think of a little note paper? Who are the notes to be written to, Ellen? said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling. You needn't smile, Mama. You know, as you said, if I don't know now, perhaps I shall buy and buy. Miss Ellen's desk had note paper. That made me think of it. So shall yours, daughter. While we are about it, we will do the thing well. And your note paper will keep quite safely in this nice little place provided for it, even if you should not want to use a sheet of it in a half a dozen years. How nice that is, said Ellen, admiringly. I suppose a note paper must have envelopes too, said Mrs. Montgomery. To be sure, Mama, I suppose so, said Ellen, smiling. Miss Ellen's had. Well, now we have got all the paper we want, I think, said Mrs. Montgomery. The next thing is ink, or an ink stand, rather. Different kinds were presented for her choice. Oh, Mama, that one won't do, said Ellen anxiously. You know the desk will be knocking about in a trunk, and the ink would run out and spoil everything. It should be one of those that shut tight. I don't see the right kind here. The shopman brought one. There, Mama, do you see, said Ellen, it shuts with a spring, and nothing can possibly come out. Do you see, Mama, you can turn it to Psy-Turvy. I see you are quite right, daughter. It seems I should get on very ill without you to advise me. Fill the ink stand, if you please. Mama, what shall I do when my ink is gone? The ink stand will hold but a little, you know. Your aunt will supply you, of course, my dear, when you are out. I'd rather take some of my own by half, said Ellen. You could not carry a bottle of ink in your desk without great danger to everything else in it. It would not do to venture. We have excellent ink powders to the shopman and small packages, which can be very conveniently carried about. You see, Ma'am, there is a compartment in the desk for such things, and the ink is very easily made at any time. Oh, that will do nicely, said Ellen. That is just the thing. Now what is to go in this other square place, opposite the ink stand, said Mrs. Montgomery. That is a place for the box of lights, Mama. What sort of lights? For sealing letters, Mama, you know. They're not like your wax taper at all. They're little wax matches that burn just long enough to seal one or two letters. Miss Ellen showed me how she used them. Hers were in a nice little box, just like the ink stand on the outside, and there was a place to light the matches and a place to set them in while they were burning. There, Mama, that's it, said Ellen, as the shopman brought forth the article which she was describing. That's it, exactly, and that will just fit. Now, Mama, for the wax. You want to seal your letter before you have written it, said Mrs. Montgomery. We have not got the pens yet. That's true, Mama. Let us have the pens. And some quills, too, Mama. Do you know how to make a pen, Ellen? No, Mama. Not yet, but I want to learn very much. Miss Pagru says that every lady ought to know how to make her own pens. Miss Pagru is very right, but I think you are rather too young to learn. However, we will try. Now, here are steel points enough to last you a great while, and as many quills as it is needful, you should cut up for one year at least. We haven't a pen handle yet. Here, Mama, said Ellen, holding out a plane, everyone. Don't you like this? I think it is prettier than these that are all cut and fussed, or those other gay ones, either. I think so, too, Ellen, the plainer, the prettier. Now what comes next? The knife, Mama, to make the pens, said Ellen, smiling. True, the knife. Let us see some of your best pen knives. Now, Ellen, choose. That one won't do, my dear. It should have two blades, a large as well as a small one. You know you want to mend a pencil sometimes. So I do, Mama, to be sure, you're very right. Here's a nice one. Now, Mama, the wax. There is a box full, choose your own colors. Seeing it was likely to be a work of time, Mrs. Montgomery walked away to another part of the store. When she returned, Ellen had made up an assortment of the oddest colors she could find. I won't have any red, Mama. It is so common, she said. I think it is the prettiest of all, said Mrs. Montgomery. Do you, Mama, then I will have a stick of red on purpose to seal to you with. And who do you intend shall have the benefit of the other colors, inquired her mother. I declare, Mama, said Ellen, laughing. I never thought of that. I'm afraid they will have to go to you. You must not mind, Mama, if you get green and blue and yellow seals once in a while. I dare say I shall submit myself to it with a good grace, said Mrs. Montgomery. But come, my dear, have we got all that we want? This desk has been very long and furnishing. You haven't given me a seal yet, Mama. Seals, there are a variety before you. See if you could find one that you like. By the way, you cannot seal a letter, can you? Not yet, Mama, said Ellen, smiling again. That is another of the things I've got to learn. Then I think you'd better have some wafers in the meantime. While Ellen was picking out her seal, which took not a little time, Mrs. Montgomery laid in a good supply of wafers of all sorts, and then went on further to furnish the desk with an ivory leaf cutter, a paper folder, a pounce box, a ruler, and a neat little silver pencil, also some drawing pencils, India rubber, and sheets of drawing paper. She took a sad pleasure in adding everything she could think of that might be for Ellen's future use or advantage. But as with her own hand, she placed in the desk one thing after another. The thought crossed her mind, how Ellen would make drawings with those very pencils on those very sheets of paper, which her eyes would never see. She turned away with a sigh and receiving Ellen's seal from her hand, put that also in its place. Ellen had chosen one with her own name. Will you send these things at once? Said Mrs. Montgomery. I particularly wish to have them at home as early in the day as possible. The man promised. Mrs. Montgomery paid the bill and she and Ellen left the store. They walked a little way in silence. I cannot thank you, Mama, said Ellen. It is not necessary, my dear child, said Mrs. Montgomery, returning the pressure of her hand. I know all that you would say. There was as much sorrow as joy at that moment in the heart of the joyfulist of the two. Where are we going now, Mama, said Ellen again, after a while. I wished and intended to have gone to St. Clair and Fleury's to get you some merino and other things, but we have been detained so long that I think I'd better go home. I feel somewhat tired. I am very sorry, dear Mama, said Ellen. I'm afraid I kept you too long about that desk. You did not keep me, daughter, any longer than I chose to be kept, but I think I will go home now and take the chance of another fine day for the merino. End of chapter three. Chapter four of the wide, wide world. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter four, The Bitter Suite of Life. When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother and daughter were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was late in the afternoon and already somewhat dark, for clouds had gathered over the beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind, rising now and then, made its voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa, as usual, seemingly at ease, and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very much at her ease, without any seeming about it. She smiled as she met her mother's eyes. You have made me very happy today, Mama. I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the whole affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you. There was a pause. Mama, I will take the greatest possible care of my new treasures. I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly, I should not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been to leave you without them. So you see, you have not established a character for carefulness in vain. And Mama, I hope you have not given them to me in vain, either. I will try to use them in the way that I know you wish me to. That will be the best way I can thank you. Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I wish you to do and to be. And when I am away, I shall please myself with thinking that my little daughter is following her mother's wishes. I shall believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be disappointed. Oh, no, Mama, said Ellen, who is now in her mother's arms. Well, my child, said Mrs. Montgomery, in a lighter tone. My gifts will serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted to forget my lessons. If you fail to send me letters, or if those you send are not what they ought to be, I think the desk will cry shame upon you. And if you ever go an hour with a hole in your stocking or a tear in your dress or a string off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your work box will make you blush. Work box, Mama. Yes, oh, I forgot. You've not seen that. No, Mama, what do you mean? Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted. But I thought it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning. So while you were on an exploring expedition around the store, I chose and furnished one for you. Oh, Mama, Mama, said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands. What shall I do? I don't know what to say. I can't say anything. Mama, it's too much. So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow, till, gently drawn by the same hand, she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And in that tried resting place she lay, calmed and quieted till the shades of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the light of the fire was all that was left to them. Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep. Her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing through her little head and stirring her heart. A few were of her new possessions and bright projects, more of her mother. She was thinking how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her cheek lay. She thought it was greater happiness to lie there than anything else in life could be. She thought she had rather even die so on her mother's breast than lived long without her in the world. She felt that in earth or in heaven there is nothing so dear. Suddenly she broke the silence. Mama, what does that mean? He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me. It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of his children. But then Mama, said Ellen, raising her head, how can I be one of his children? I do love you a great deal better. How can I help it, Mama? You cannot help it, I know, my dear, said Mrs. Montgomery with a sigh, except by his grace, who has promised to change the hearts of his people, to take away the heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh. But is mine a heart of stone then, Mama, because I cannot help loving you best? Not to me, dear Ellen, replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the little form that lay in her arms. I have never found it so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than I am. And if your heart were not hardened by sin, you would see him so. It is only because you do not know him that you love me better. Pray, pray, my dear child, that he would take away the power of sin and show you himself, that it is all that is wanting. I will, Mama, said Ellen tearfully. Oh, Mama, what shall I do without you? Alas, Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question. She had no answer. Mama said Ellen after a few minutes. Can I have no true love to him at all, unless I love him best? I dare not say that you can, answered her mother seriously. Mama said Ellen after a little, again raising her head, and looking her mother fall in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression. Do you love him better than you do me? She knew her mother loved the Savior, but she thought it scarcely possible that herself could have bought the second place in her heart. She ventured a bold question, to prove whether her mother's practice would not contradict her theory. But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, I do my daughter. And with a gush of tears, Ellen sank her head again upon her bosom. She had no more to say. Her mouth was stopped forever as to the right of the matter, though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular case. I do indeed, my daughter, repeated Mrs. Montgomery, that does not make my love to you the less, but the more Ellen. Oh, Mama, Mama said Ellen, clinging to her. I wish you would teach me. I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do, Mama? With a voice that strove to be calm, Mrs. Montgomery answered, I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me. And after a minute or two, she added, he who says this has promised, too, that he will gather the lambs with his arm and carry them in his bosom. The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still on her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire. And Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so near her lips, it every time breathed a water to Ellen's eyes and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three quarters of an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother and daughter asleep. It had to be repeated once or twice before the knocker could gain attention. What is that, Mama, said Ellen, starting up. Somebody at the door, open it quickly, love. Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full of sundry packages. Oh, Mama, my things, cried Ellen, clapping her hands. Here they are. The man placed his burden on the table and withdrew. Oh, Mama, I am so glad they are come. Now, if I only had a light, this is my desk, I know, for it's the largest, and I think this is my dressing box, as well as I can tell by feeling. Yes, it is. Here's the handle on top, and this is my dear work box, not so big as the desk, nor so little as the dressing box. Oh, Mama, may an eye ring for a light. There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the wished-for candles and the not-wished-for tea. Ellen was capering about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight of the tea things and looked very grave. Well, Mama, I'll tell you what I'll do, she said, after a pause of consideration. I'll make the tea first thing before I untie a single knot. Won't that be best, Mama? Because I know, if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop. Don't you think that is wise, Mama? But alas, the fire had got very low. There was no making the tea quickly, and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point very gracefully and went to bed. She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy. Going out was not to be thought of. And it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her new possessions. And as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear, she said about it, she first went through the desk and everything in it, making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of all it contained. Then the dressing box received a share, but a much smaller share of attention. And lastly, with fingers trembling with eagerness, she untied the pack thread that was wound around the work box, and slowly took off cover after cover. She almost screamed when the last was removed. The box was of satin wood, beautifully finished, and lined with crimson silk. And Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care of it should want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order. Oh, Mama, how beautiful. Oh, Mama, how good you are. Mama, I promise you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a great while. Every number I do think. And needles, oh, the needles, what a parcel of them. And, Mama, what lovely scissors. Did you choose it, Mama, or did it belong to the box? I chose it. I might have guessed it. Mama, it's just like you. And here's a thimble, fits me exactly, and an emery bag, how pretty, and a bodkin. This is a great nicer than yours, Mama. Yours is decidedly the worst for wear. And what's this? Oh, to make eyelet holes with, I know. And, oh, Mama, here's almost everything, I think. Here are tapes, and buttons, and hooks, and eyes, and darning cotton, and silk winders, and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for, Mama? That's a scissors to cut buttonholes with. Try it on that piece of paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works. Oh, I see, said Ellen, how very nice that is. Well, I shall take great pains now to make my buttonholes very handsomely. One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For some time she pleased herself with going over and over the contents of the box, finding each time something new to like. At length she closed it, and keeping it still in her lap, sat a while looking thoughtfully into the fire, till, turning towards her mother, she met her gaze, fixed mournfully, almost tearfully on herself. The box was instantly shelved aside, and getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her. Oh, dear mother, she said, I wish they were all back in the store if I could only keep you. Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart. Is there no help for her, Mama? There is none. We know that all things shall work together for good to them that love God. Then it will all be good for you, Mama. But what will it be for me? And Ellen sobbed bitterly. It will be all well, my precious child. I doubt not. I do not doubt it, Ellen. Do you not doubt it, either, love? But from the hand that wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that he may heal. He does not afflict willingly. Perhaps he sees, Ellen, that you would never seek him while you had me to cling to. Ellen clung to her at that moment, yet not more than her mother clung to her. How happy we were, Mama, only a year ago, even a month. We have no continuing city here, answered her mother with a sigh. But there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come. And they that are once gathered there are parted no more forever, and all tears are wiped from their eyes. I believe I am going fast to that home, and now my greatest concern is that my little Ellen, my precious baby, may follow me and come there, too. No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doctor's steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an appearance of composure as speedily as possible. But they could not succeed perfectly enough to blind him. He did not seem very well satisfied. And told Ellen he believed he should have to get another nurse. He was afraid she didn't obey orders. While the doctor was there, Ellen's Bible was brought in. And no sooner was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examination as the boxes had received. Ellen went over every part of it with the same great care and satisfaction, but mixed with a different feeling. The words that caught her eye as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her mother had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a little she rose and brought it to the sofa. Are you satisfied with it, Ellen? Oh yes, Mama, it is perfectly beautiful outside and inside. Now, Mama, will you please write my name in this precious book, my name, and anything else you please, Mother? I'll bring you my new pen to write it with, and I've got ink here, shall I? She brought it, and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name and the date of the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and then she wrote below the date. I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me. This was for Ellen, but the next words were not for her. What made her write them? I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee. They were written almost unconsciously, and as if bowed by an unseen force, Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page, and her whole soul went up with her petition. Let these words be my memorial that I've trusted in thee, and oh, when these miserable lips are silent forever, remember the word unto thy servant, upon which thou hast caused me to hope, and be unto my little one all that has been to me. Unto thee I lift up mine eyes, oh, thou that dwellest in the heavens. She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently to Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of the cause. She supposed that one of her mother's frequent feelings of weakness or sickness had made her lean her head upon the Bible, and she thought no more about it. However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes that day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa, with her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in her face that it had not worn for several days. End of chapter four. Chapter five of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter five, A Peep Into the Wide World. The next day would not do for the intended shopping, nor the next. The third day was fine, though cool and windy. Do you think you can venture out today, mama, said Ellen? I'm afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it, and the wind is a great deal too high for me besides. Well, said Ellen, in the tone of one who is making up her mind to do something, we shall have a fine day by and by, I suppose, if we wait long enough. We had to wait a great deal well for our first shopping day. I wish such another would come round. But the misfortune is, said our mother, that we cannot afford to wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be suddenly wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestow ourselves. And Miss Rice is coming in a few days. I ought to have the merino ready for her. What will you do, mama? I do not know indeed, Ellen. I'm greatly at a loss. Couldn't Papa get the stuffs for you, mama? No, he's too busy, and besides, he doesn't know about shopping for me. Well, what will you do, mama? Is there nobody else you could ask to get the things for you? Mrs. Foster would do it, mama. I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, but she is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it, but to be patient and let things take their course. Though if a favorable opportunity should offer, you would have to go, clothes or no clothes. It would not do to lose the chance of a good escort. And Mrs. Montgomery's face showed that this possibility of Ellen's going unprovided gave her some uneasiness. Ellen observed it. Never mind me, dearest mother. Don't be in the least worried about my clothes. You don't know how little I think of them or care for them. It's no matter at all whether I have them or not. Mrs. Montgomery smiled and passed her hand fondly over her little daughter's head, but presently resumed her anxious look out of the window. Mama exclaimed to Ellen, suddenly starting up. A bright thought has just come into my head. I'll do it for you, mama. Do what? I'll get the merino and things for you, mama. You needn't smile. I will, indeed, if you let me. My dear Ellen said her mother, I don't doubt you would, if good will only were wanting. But a great deal of skill and experience is necessary for a shopper. And what would you do without either? But, see, mama pursued Ellen eagerly. I'll tell you how I'll manage, and I know I can manage very well. You tell me exactly what color of merino you want, and give me a little piece to show me how fine it should be, and tell me what price you wish to give. And then I'll go to the store and ask them to show me different pieces, you know. And if I see any I think you would like, I'll ask them to give me a little bit of it to show you. And then I'll bring it home, and if you like it, you can give me the money, and tell me how many yards you want. And I can go back to the store and get it. Why can't I, mama? Perhaps you could, but my dear child, I'm afraid you wouldn't like the business. Yes, I should indeed, mama. I should like it dearly, if I could help you so. Will you let me try, mama? I don't like my child to venture you alone on such an errand among crowds of people. I should be uneasy about you. Dear mama, what would the crowds of people do to me? I am not a bit afraid. You know, mama, I have often taken walks alone. That's nothing new. And what harm should come to me while I'm in the store? You needn't be in the least uneasy about me. May I go? Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent. May I go, mama, repeated Ellen. Let me go at least and try what I can do. What do you say, mama? I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty on either hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It would be a great relief to me to get this marino by any means. Then shall I go right away, mama? As well now as ever. You were not afraid of the wind? I should think not, said Ellen, in a way she scampered upstairs to get ready. With eager haste she dressed herself, then with great care and particularity took her mother's instructions, as to the article wanted, and finally set out, sensible that a great trust was reposed in her, and feeling busy and important accordingly. But at the very bottom of Ellen's heart there was a little secret doubtfulness respecting her undertaking. She hardly knew what was there, but then she couldn't tell what it was that made her finger so inclined to be tremulous while she was dressing, and that made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or than was pleasant, and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other. However, she sat forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she kept up till, on turning a corner, she came in sight of the place she was going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed her steps to St. Clair and Flurries. It was one of the largest and best stores in the city, and the one she knew where her mother generally made her purchases, and it did not occur to her that it might not be the best for her purpose on this occasion. But her steps slackened as soon as she came in sight of it, and continued to slacken as she drew nearer, and she went up the broad flight of marble steps in front of the store, very slowly indeed, though they were exceeding low and easy. Pleasure was not certainly the uppermost feeling in her mind now, yet she never thought of turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the object of her mission, her mother would be relieved from some anxiety. That was enough. She was bent on accomplishing it. Timidly she entered the large hall of entrance. It was full of people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had for some time passed seldom gone a shopping with her mother, and had never been in the store but once or twice before. She had not the remotest idea where or in what apartment of the building the marina counter was situated, and she could see no one to speak to. She stood a resolute in the middle of the floor. Everybody seemed to be busily engaged with somebody else, and whenever an opening on one side or another appeared to promise her an opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she could reach it. And, disappointed and abashed, she would return to her old station in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her, crossing the store in all directions, but they were always bustling along in a great hurry of business. They did not seem to notice her at all, and were gone before poor Ellen could get her mouth open to speak to them. She knew well enough now, poor child, what it was that made her cheeks burn as they did, and her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. She felt confused and almost confounded by the incessant hum of voices, and moving crowd of strange people all around her. While her little figure stood alone and unnoticed in the midst of them, and there seemed no prospect that she would be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single person. Once she determined to accost to man she saw advancing toward her from a distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a hurried bow, and I beg your pardon, Miss, he brushed past. Ellen almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of the store, but a faint hope remaining and an unwillingness to give up her undertaking kept her fast. At length one of the clerks in the desk observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair who stood by. There's a little girl sir who seems to be looking for something, or waiting for somebody. She has been standing there a good while. Mr. St. Clair upon this advanced to poor Ellen's relief. What do you wish, Miss? he said. But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter them, and failing in the attempt that now when an opportunity to speak and be heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to be gone. Do you wish anything, Miss? inquired Mr. St. Clair again. Mother sent me, stammered Ellen. I wish if you please, sir. Mama wished me to look at the marinos. Sir, if you please. Is your mama in the store? No, sir, said Ellen. She is ill and cannot come out, and she sent me to look at marinos for her, if you please, sir. Here, Saunders, said Mr. St. Clair. Show this young lady the marinos. Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of clerks, with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way of relief from the tedium of business. Come this way, he said to Ellen, and sauntering before her with a rather dissatisfied air, led the way out of the entrance hall into another and much larger apartment. There were plenty of people here, too, and just as busy as those they had quitted. Mr. Saunders, having brought Ellen to the marino counter, placed himself behind it, and leaning over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her, asked what she wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most unpleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He was a tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed down on each side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most disagreeable pair of eyes Ellen thought she had ever beheld. She could not bear to meet them and cast down her own. Their look was bold, ill-bred, and ill-humored, and Ellen felt, though she couldn't have told why, that she need not expect either kindness or politeness from him. What you want to see, little one, inquired this gentleman, as if he had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen heartily wished he was rid of it, and she, too. Marinos, if you please, she answered, without looking up. Well, what kind of marinos? Here are all sorts and descriptions of marinos, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for you to look at. What kind do you want? I don't know without looking, said Ellen. Won't you please to show me some? He tossed down several pieces upon the counter and tumbled them about before her. There, said he, is that anything like what you want? There's a pink one, and there's a blue one, and there's a green one. Is that the kind? This is the kind, said Ellen, but this isn't the color I want. What color do you want? Something dark, if you please. Well, there, that green's dark, won't that do? See, that would make up very pretty for you. No, said Ellen, mama don't like green. Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself then? What color does she like? Dark blue, or dark brown, or an ice gray would do, said Ellen, if it's fine enough. Dark blue, or dark brown, or an ice gray, eh? Well, she's pretty easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already. What's the matter with that? It isn't dark enough, said Ellen. Well, said he, discontentedly, pulling down another piece. How will that do? That's dark enough. It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had showed her first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed perfectly as to fineness. What is the price of this? She asked, with trembling hope, that she was going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise. Two dollars a yard. Her hopes and countenance fell together. That's too high, she said with a sigh. Then take this other blue. Come, it's a great deal prettier than that dark one, and not so dear. And I know your mother will like it better. Ellen's cheeks were tingling, and her heart throbbing, but she couldn't bear to give up. Would you be so good as to show me some gray? He slowly and ill-humoredly complied, and took down an excellent piece of dark gray, which Ellen fell in love with at once. But she was again disappointed. It was fourteen shillings. Well, if you won't take that, take something else of the man. You can't have everything at once. If you will have cheap goods, of course. You can't have the same quality that you like. But now, here's this other blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you have it for ten if you'll take it. No, it's too light and too coarse, said Ellen. Mama wouldn't like it. Let me see, said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to compare it. It's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want. Could you, said Ellen timidly, give me a little bit of this gray to show Mama? Oh no, said he, impatiently tossing over the cloths and throwing Ellen's pattern on the floor. We can't cut up our goods. If people don't choose to buy of us, they may go somewhere else. And if you cannot decide upon anything, I must go and attend to those that can. I can't wait here all day. What's the matter, Saunders, said one of his brother clerks passing him? Why, I've been here this half hour showing cloths to a child that doesn't know Merino from a sheep's backs, said he, laughing. And some other customers coming up at the moment, he was as good as his word, and left Ellen to attend them. Ellen stood a moment, stuck still, just where he had left her, struggling with her feelings of mortification. She could not endure to let them be seen. Her face was on fire, her head was dizzy. She could not stir at first, and in spite of her utmost efforts, she could not command back one or two rebel tears that forced their way. She lifted her hand to her face to remove them as quietly as possible. What is all this about, my little girl? Said a strange voice at her side. Ellen started and turned her face with the tears but half wiped away towards a speaker. It was an old gentleman, an odd old gentleman too, she thought. One she certainly would have been rather shy of if she had seen him under other circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her. And it was a kind tone of voice in which his question had been put. So he seemed to her like a friend. What is all this, repeated the old gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was. But the pride which had forbidden her to weep before strangers gave way at one touch of sympathy. And she poured out tears much faster than words as she related her story. So that it was some little time before the old gentleman could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she had finished. But then he set himself in good earnest about righting the wrong. Hello, you, sir, he shouted in a voice that made everybody look round. You merino man, come and show your goods. Why aren't you at your post, sir? As Mr. Saunders came up with an altered countenance, here's the young lady you've left standing unattended to. I don't know how long. Are these your manners? The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, sir. Returned Mr. Saunders softly. You know better you scoundrel retorted the old gentleman, who was in a great passion. I saw the whole matter with my own eyes. You are a disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be sent out of it, which you are like enough to be. I really thought, sir, said Mr. Saunders smoothly, for he knew the old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that must not be offended. I really thought, I was not aware, sir, that the young lady had any occasion for my services. Well, show your wear, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my dear, what did you want? I wanted a little bit of this gray merino, sir, to show mama. I couldn't buy it, you know, sir, until I found out whether she would like it. Cut a piece, sir, without any words, said the gentleman. Mr. Saunders obeyed. Did you like this best, pursued the old gentleman? I like this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mama would, but it's too high. How much is it, inquired he. Fourteen shillings, replied Mr. Saunders. He said it was two dollars, exclaimed Ellen. I beg pardon, said the crest phone, Mr. Saunders. The young lady mistook me. I was speaking of another piece when I said two dollars. He said this was two dollars, and the gray was fourteen shillings, said Ellen. Is the gray fourteen shillings, inquired the old gentleman? I think not, sir, answered Mr. Saunders. I believe not, sir. I think it's only twelve. I'll inquire if you please, sir. No, no, said the old gentleman. I know it was only twelve. I know your tricks, sir. Caught a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, are there any more pieces of which you would like to take patterns to show your mother? No, sir, said the overjoyed Ellen. I am sure she will like one of these. Now, shall we go, then? If you please, sir, said Ellen, I should like to have my bit of marino that I brought from home. Mama wanted me to bring it back again. Where is it? That gentleman threw it on the floor. Do you hear, sir, said the gentleman? Find it directly. Mr. Saunders found and delivered it after stooping in search of it till he was very red in the face, and he was left, wishing heartily that he had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the conclusion that none was in his reach, and that he must stomach his indignity in the best manner he could. But Ellen and her protector went forth most joyously together from the store. Do you live far from here, asked the old gentleman? Oh, no, sir, said Ellen, not very. It's only at Greens Hotel in Southing Street. I'll go with you, said he, and when your mother has decided which marino she will have, we'll come right back and get it. I do not want to trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk. Oh, thank you, sir, said Ellen. That is just what I was afraid of. But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, sir, she added in another tone. No, you won't, said the old gentleman. I can't be troubled, so you needn't say anything about that. They went gaily along. Ellen's heart about five times as light as the one with which she had traveled that very road a little while before. Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood, too, for he assured Ellen laughingly that it was of no manner of use for her to be in a hurry, for he could not possibly set up and skip to Greens Hotel, as she seemed inclined to do. They got there at last. Ellen showed the old gentleman into the parlor and ran up the stairs in great haste to her mother. But in a few minutes she came down again with a very April face, for smiles were playing in every feature, while the tears were yet wet upon her cheeks. Mama hopes she'll take the trouble, sir, to come upstairs, she said, seizing his hand. She wants to thank you herself, sir. It is not necessary, said the old gentleman. It is not necessary at all. But he followed his little conductor, nevertheless, to the door of her mother's room, into which she ushered him with great satisfaction. Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill. He saw that at a glance. She rose from her sofa and, extending her hand, thanked him with glistening eyes for his kindness to her child. I don't deserve any thanks, ma'am, said the old gentleman. I suppose my little friend has told you what made us acquainted. She gave me a very short account of it, said Mrs. Montgomery. She was very disagreeably tried, said the old gentleman. I presume you do not need to be told, ma'am, that her behavior was such as would have become any years. I assure you, ma'am, if I had had no kindness in my composition to feel for the child, my honor as a gentleman would have made me interfere for the lady. Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on Ellen. I am very glad to hear it, she replied. I was very far from thinking when I permitted her to go on this errand that I was exposing her to anything more serious than the annoyance a timid child would feel at having to transact business with strangers. I suppose not, said the gentleman, but it isn't a sort of thing that should be often done. There are all sorts of people in this world, and a little one alone in a crowd is in great danger of being trampled upon. Mrs. Montgomery's heart answered this with an involuntary pang. He saw the shade that passed over her face, as she said sadly. I know it, sir, and it was with strong unwillingness that I allowed Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed, but in truth I was but making a choice between difficulties. I am very sorry I chose as I did. If you are a father, sir, you know better than I can tell you how grateful I am for your kind interference. Say nothing about that, ma'am, the less the better. I am an old man, and not good for much now, except to please young people. I think myself best off when I have the best chance to do that. So if you will be so good as to choose that Merino, and let Miss Ellen and me go and dispatch her business, you will be conferring and not receiving a favor. And any other errand that you please to entrust her with, I'll undertake to see her safe through. His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at his word. A very short examination of Ellen's patterns ended in favor of the gray Merino. And Ellen was commissioned, not only to get and pay for this, but also to choose a dark dress of the same stuff and enough of a certain article called Dan Keane for a coat. Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old gentleman's care would do more than see her scatheous, that it would have some regard to the justness and prudence of her purchase. And great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her hand was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely. For her heart was completely open to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as she was to talk. And by little and little, Ellen told him all her history. The troubles that had come upon her and consequence of her mother's illness and her intended journey and prospects. That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and Fleury's, bought the gray Merino and the Nan Keane and a dark brown Merino for a dress. Do you want only one of these, asked the old gentleman? Mama said only one, said Ellen, that will last me all the winter. Well, said he, I think two will be better. Let us have another off the same piece, Mr. Shopman. But I am afraid Mama won't like it, sir, said Ellen gently. Po, po, said he, your mother has nothing to do with this. This is my affair. He paid for it accordingly. Now, Miss Ellen, said he, when they left the store, have you got anything in the shape of a good warm winter bonnet? For it's precious cold up there in Thirlwall. Your paste-board things won't do. If you don't take good care of your ears, you will lose them some fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad and all sorts of things to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven't a hood, eh? Do you think you and I could make out to choose one that your mother would think wasn't quite a fright? Come this way and let us see. If she don't like it, she can give it away, you know. He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner's shop, and after turning over a great many different articles, chose her a nice warm hood or quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well-made and pretty. He saw with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well and would protect her ears nicely. And having paid for it and ordered it home, he and Ellen sailed forth into the street again, but he wouldn't let her thank him. It is just the very thing I wanted, sir, said Ellen. Mama was speaking about it the other day, and she did not see how I was ever to get one because she did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not get one myself. I know she'll like it very much. Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother, Ellen, if you could choose and have but one? Oh, for Mama, sir, said Ellen, a great deal. Come in here, said he. Let us see if we could find anything she would like. It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old gentleman ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be packed up in papers. And being now very near home, he took one parcel and Ellen the other, till they came to the door of Green's Hotel, where he committed both to her care. Won't you come in, sir, said Ellen? No, said he. I can't this time. I must go home to dinner. And shan't I see you any more, sir, said Ellen, a shade coming over her face, which a minute before had been quite joyous. Well, I don't know, said he kindly. I hope you will. You shall hear from me again at any rate. I promise you. We've spent one pleasant morning together, haven't we? Goodbye, goodbye. Ellen's hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in both his, packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and, again, bidding her goodbye, walked away down the street. The next morning, Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly together, and Ellen had not finished her custom reading when there came a knock at the door. My old gentleman cried, Ellen, as she sprung to open it. No, there was no old gentleman, but a black man with a brace of beautiful woodcocks in his hand. He bowed very civilly, and said he had been ordered to leave the birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in surprise, took them from him, and likewise a note which he delivered into her hand. Ellen asked from whom the birds came, but with another polite bow, the man said the note would inform her, and went away. In great curiosity, she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom the latter was directed. It read thus, Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in his own way by showing his regard for her little daughter, and not feel that he is taking a liberty? The birds are for Miss Ellen. Oh, Mama, exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight. Did you ever see such a dear old gentleman? Now I know what he meant yesterday when he asked me if I would rather have something for myself or for you. How kind he is. To do just the very thing for me that he knows would give me the most pleasure. Now, Mama, these birds are mine, you know, and I give them to you. You must pay me a kiss for them, Mama. They are worth that. Aren't they beauties? They are very fine indeed, said Mrs. Montgomery. This is just the season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition. Do you like woodcocks, Mama? Yes, very much. Oh, how glad I am, said Ellen. I'll ask Sam to have them done very nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much. The waiter was called and instructed accordingly, and to him the birds were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook. Now, Mama, said Ellen, I think these birds have made me happy for all day. Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. You have ruffles to hem and the skirts of your dresses to make. We need not wait for Miss Rice to do that, and when she comes you will have to help her, for I can do little. You can't be too industrious. Well, Mama, I am as willing as can be. This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen, weeks to which she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled away, and busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother, the passions which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasions, were for the present, kept effectually in check. She could not forget that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long time at least, and this consciousness, always present to her mind, forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her. Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power to overcome the sourful thoughts that would often rise, so that in spite of them, peace reigned, and perhaps both mother and daughter enjoyed this interval the more keenly, because they knew that sorrow was at hand. All this while, there was scarcely a day that the old gentlemen's servant did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time he came with some fine larks, next was a superb grouse, then a woodcock again, curiosity strove for the astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind. Mama, she said, after she had admired the grass for five minutes, I cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is. I am sorry for that, replied Mrs. Montgomery gravely, for I see no possible way of your doing it. Why, Mama, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name is? He must know it. Certainly not, it would be very dishonorable. Wouldn't, Mama, why? This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name. He wrote his note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not to disclose it. Don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked him, the first time he came. Now, this shows the old gentleman wishes to keep it a secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very unworthy return for his kindness. Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure, but would it be dishonorable, Mama? Very, it is very dishonorable to try to find out that about other people which does not concern you and which they wish to keep from you. Remember that, my dear daughter. I will, Mama, I'll never do it, I promise you. Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that some higher interests do not oblige you to go on. That is true politeness and true kindness, which are nearly the same, and not to do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting and true honor. Well, Mama, I don't care what his name is, at least I won't try to find out, but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew how much I feel obliged to him. Very well, write him and tell him so. Mama, said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide, can I? Would you? Certainly, if you like, it would be very proper. Then I will, I declare that as a good notion. I'll do it the first thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes tomorrow, as I suppose he will. Mama, said she, on opening her desk, how funny. Don't you remember you wondered who I was going to write notes to? Here is one now, Mama. It is very lucky I have got note paper. More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied herself with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time she began when she brought the following note for her mother's inspection. Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gentleman who is so kind to her. Mama enjoys the birds very much, and I think I do more, for I have the double pleasure of giving them to Mama and of eating them afterwards. But your kindness is the best of all. I can't tell you how much I am obliged to you, sir, but I will always love you for all you have done for me. Ellen Montgomery. This note Mrs. Montgomery approved and Ellen having with great care and satisfaction and closed it in an envelope, succeeded in sealing it according to rule, and very well. Mrs. Montgomery laughed when she saw the direction but let it go. Without consulting her, Ellen had written on the outside to the old gentleman. She sent it the next morning by the hands of the same servant, who this time was a bearer of a plump partridge to Miss Montgomery, and her mind was a great deal easier on the subject from that time. End of chapter five.