 37 Timothy and his master Captain Montgomery did not come the next week, nor the week after, and what is more, the duck door leans, as his sister called the ship in which he had taken passage, was never heard of from that time. She sailed duly on the 5th of April as they learned from the papers, but whatever became of her she never reached port. It remained a doubt whether Captain Montgomery had actually gone in her, and Ellen had many weeks of anxious watching, first for herself and then for news of him in case he were still in France. None ever came. Anxiety gradually faded into uncertainty, and by mid-summer no doubt of the truth remained in any mind. If Captain Montgomery had been alive, he would certainly have written, if not before, on learning the fate of the vessel in which he had told his friends to expect him home. Ellen felt rather that she was an orphan than that she had lost her father. She had never learned to love him. He had never given her much cause. Comparatively a small portion of her life had been passed in his society, and she looked back to it as the least agreeable of all, and it had not been possible for her to expect with pleasure his return to America and visit to Thirlwall. She dreaded it. Life had nothing now worse for her than a separation from Alice and John Humphreys. She feared her father might take her away, and put her in some dreadful boarding school, or carry her about the world wherever he went, a wretched wanderer from everything good and pleasant. The knowledge of his death had less pain for her than the removal of this fear brought relief. Ellen felt sometimes, soberly and sadly, that she was thrown upon the wide world now to all intents and purposes, so she had been a year and three-quarters before, but it was something to have a father and mother living, even on the other side of the world. Now misfortune was her sole guardian and owner. However, she could hardly realize that with Alice and John so near at hand. Without reasoning much about it, she felt tolerably secure that they would take care of her interests and make good their claim to interfere if ever need were. Ellen and her little horse grew more and more fond of each other. This friendship, no doubt, was a comfort to the brownie, but to his mistress it made a large part of the pleasure of her everyday life. To visit him was her delight at all hours, early and late, and it is to the brownie's credit that he always seemed as glad to see her as she was to see him. At any time, Ellen's voice would bring him from the far end of the meadow where he was allowed to run. He would come trotting up at her call and stand to have her scratch his forehead or pat him and talk to him, and though the brownie could not answer her speeches, he certainly seemed to hear them with pleasure. Then throwing up his head he would bound off, take a turn in the field, and come back again to stand as still as a lamb as long as she stayed there herself. Now and then, when she had a little more time, she would cross the fence and take a walk with him, and there, with his nose just at her elbow, wherever she went the brownie went after her. After a while there was no need that she should call him. If he saw or heard her at any distance, it was enough, he would come running up directly. Ellen loved him dearly. She gave him more proof of it than words and caresses. Many were the apples and scraps of bread hoarded up for him, and if these failed, Ellen sometimes took him a little salt to show him that he was not forgotten. There were not certainly many scraps left at Miss Fortune's table, nor apples to be had at home for such a purpose, except what she gathered up from the poor ones that were left under the trees for the hogs. But Ellen had other sources of supply. Once she had begged from Jenny Hitchcock a waste bit that she was going to throw away. Jenny found what she wanted to do with it, and after that many a basket of apples and many a piece of cold shortcake was set by for her. Every two remembered the brownie when disposing of her odds and ends. Likewise did Mrs. Van Brunt, so that among them all, Ellen seldom wanted something to give him. Mr. Marshman did not know what happiness he was bestowing when he sent her that little horse. Many many were the hours of enjoyment she had upon his back. Ellen went nowhere but upon the brownie. Alice made her a riding dress of dark gingham, and it was the admiration of the country to see her trotting or cantering by, all alone and always looking happy. Ellen soon found that if the brownie was to do her much good, she must learn to saddle and bridle him herself. This was very awkward at first, but there was no help for it. Mr. Van Brunt showed her how to manage, and after a while it became quite easy. She used to call the brownie to the bar-place, put the bridle on, and let him out, and then he would stand motionless before her while she fastened the saddle on. Moving round sometimes, as if to make sure that it was herself, and giving a little kind of satisfied name when he saw that it was. Ellen's heart began to dance as soon as she felt him moving under her, and once off and away on the docile and spirited little animal, over the roads, through the lanes, up and down the hills, her horse, her only companion, but having the most perfect understanding with him, both Ellen and the brownie cast care to the winds. I do believe, said Mr. Van Brunt, that creature would eletil rather have Ellen on his back than not. He was the brownie's next best friend. Miss Fortune never said anything to him or of him. Ellen, however, reaped a reward for her faithful steadiness to duty while her aunt was ill. Things were never after that as they had been before. She was looked on with a different eye. To be sure Miss Fortune tasked her as much as ever, spoke as sharply, was as ready to scold if anything went wrong. All that was just as it used to be. But beneath all that, Ellen felt with great satisfaction that she was trusted and believed. She was no longer an interloper in everybody's way. She was not watched and suspected. Her aunt treated her as one of the family, and a person to be depended on. It was a very great comfort to little Ellen's life. Miss Fortune even owned that she believed she was an honest child, and meant to do right, a great deal from her. Miss Fortune was never over-forward to give anyone the praise of honesty. Ellen now went out and came in without feeling she was an alien. And though her aunt was always bent on keeping herself and everybody else at work, she did not now show any particular desire for breaking off Ellen from her studies, and was generally willing, when the work was pretty well done up, that she should saddle the brownie and be off to Alice or Mrs. Voss. Though Ellen was happy, it was a sober kind of happiness, the fun shining behind a cloud. And if others thought her so, it was not because she laughed loudly or wore a merry face. I can't help but think, said Mrs. Van Brunt, that that child has something more to make her happy than what she gets in this world. There was a quilting party gathered that afternoon at Mrs. Van Brunt's house. There is no doubt of that, neighbor, said Mrs. Voss. Nobody ever found enough here to make him happy yet. Well, I don't want to see a prettier girl than that, said Mrs. Lownes. You'll never catch her, working at home or riding along on the handsome little critter of her, that she has a pleasant look and smile for you, and as pretty behaved as can be. I never seen her look sorrowful but once. Ain't that a pretty horse, said Mimey Lawson? I've seen her look sorrowful, though, said Sarah Lownes. I've been up at the house when Miss Fortune was hustling everybody round, and as sharp as vinegar, and you'd think it would take Job's patience to stand it. And for all there wouldn't be a bit of crossness in that child's face. She'd go round and not say a word that wasn't just so. You'd have thought her bread was all spread with honey, and everybody knows it ain't. I don't see how she could do it for my part. I know, I couldn't. Ah, neighbor, said Mrs. Voss. Ellen looks higher than to please her aunt. She tries to please her god, and one can bear people's words or looks when one is pleasing him. She is a dear child. And there's Brom, said Mrs. Van Brunt. He thinks the whole world of her. I never see him take so to anyone. There ain't an earthly thing he wouldn't do to please her. If she was his own child, I've no idea he could set her up more than he does. Very well, said Nancy coming up, good reason. Ellen don't set him up any does she? I wish you'd just seen her once, the time when Miss Fortune was a bed, the way she'd look out for him. Mr. Van Brunt's as good as at home in that house, sure enough, whoever's downstairs. Bless her dear little heart, said his mother. A good name is better than precious ointment. August had come, and John was daily expected home. One morning Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, up to the elbows, and making a rich fall cheese. Ellen was busy upstairs, when her aunt shouted to her to, come and see what was all that splashing and crashing in the garden. Ellen ran out. Oh, Aunt Fortune, said she. Timothy has broken down the fence and got in. Timothy, said Miss Fortune, what Timothy? Why, Timothy, the near ox, said Ellen, laughing. He has knocked down the fence over there where it was low, you know. The near ox, said Miss Fortune. I wish he weren't quite so near this time. Look, he'll be at the corn, and over everything. Run and drive him into the barnyard, can't you? But Ellen stood still, and shook her head. He wouldn't stir for me, she said. And besides, I'm as afraid of that ox as can be. If it was Clover, I wouldn't mind. But he'll have every bit of the corn eaten up in five minutes. Where's Mr. Van Brunt? I heard him say he was going home till noon, said Ellen. And Sam Larkins has gone to the mill, and Johnny Low is laid up with the shakes. Very careless of Mr. Van Brunt, said Miss Fortune, drawing her arms out of the cheese-tub and ringing off the way. I wish he'd mined his own oxen. There was no business to be a low place in the fence. Well, come along. You ain't afraid with me, I suppose. Ellen followed at a respectful distance. Miss Fortune, however, feared the face of neither man nor beast. She pulled up a bean-pull, and made such a show of fight, that Timothy, after looking at her a little, fairly turned tail, and marched out at the breach he had made. Miss Fortune went after, and rested not till she had driven him quite into the meadow. Get him into the barnyard, she could not. You ain't worth a straw, Ellen, said she, when she came back. Couldn't you have headed him, and driven him into the barnyard? Now that plaguey beast will be back again by the time I get well to work. He hadn't done much mischief yet. There's Mr. Van Brunt's sailor he's made a pretty mess of. I'm glad on it. He should have put potatoes, as I told him. I don't know what's to be done. I can't be leaving my cheese to run in mine the garden every time, if it was full of Timothies. And you'd be scared if a mosquito flew at you. You had better go right off for Mr. Van Brunt, and fetch him straight home. Serve him right. He has no business to leave things so. Run along, and don't let the grass grow under your feet. Ellen wisely thought her pony's feet would do the business quicker. She ran and put on her gingham dress, and saddled and bridled the brownie in three minutes. But before setting off, she had to scream to her aunt that Timothy was coming round the corner of the barn again. And misfortune rushed out to the garden, as Ellen and the brownie walked down to the gate. The weather was fine, and Ellen thought with herself, it was an ill wind that blew no good. She was getting a nice ride in the early morning, that she would not have had but for Timothy's lawless behavior. To ride at that time was particularly pleasant and rare. And forgetting how she had left poor misfortune between the ox and the cheese-tub, Ellen and the brownie cantered on in excellent spirits. She looked in vain as she passed his grounds to see Mr. Van Brunt in the garden or about the barn. She went on to the little gate of the courtyard, dismounted, and led the brownie in. Here she was meant by Nancy, who came running from the way of the barnyard. How do you do, Nancy said, Ellen, where's Mr. Van Brunt? Goodness, Ellen, what do you want? I want Mr. Van Brunt, where is he? Mr. Van Brunt, he's out in the barn, but he's used himself up. Used himself up, what do you mean? Why he's fixed himself in fine style, he's fell through the trapdoor and broke his leg. Oh, Nancy screamed, Ellen, he hasn't. How could he? Why, easy enough, if he didn't look where he was going, there's so much hay on the floor. But it's a pretty bad place to fall. How do you know his leg is broken? Because he says so, and anybody with eyes can see it must be. I'm going over to Hitchcock's to get somebody to come and help in with him. For you know me and Mrs. Van Brunt, ain't Sampson's. Where is Mrs. Van Brunt? She's out there, in a terrible to-do. Nancy sped on to the Hitchcock's, and greatly frightened and distressed, Ellen ran over to the barn, trembling like an aspen. Mr. Van Brunt was lying in the lower floor, just where he had fallen. One leg doubled under him in such a way as left no doubt it must be broken. He had lain there some time before anyone found him. And on trying to change his position, when he saw his mother's distress, he had fainted from pain. She sat by, weeping most bitterly. Ellen could bear but one look at Mr. Van Brunt, that one sickened her. She went up to his poor mother, and getting down on her knees by his side, put both arms round her neck. Don't cry, so dear Mrs. Van Brunt. Ellen was crying, so she could hardly speak herself. Pray, don't do so. He'll be better. Oh, what shall we do? Oh, ain't it dreadful, said poor Mrs. Van Brunt? Oh, brah, brah, my son, my son, the best son that ever was to me. Oh, to see him there. Ain't it dreadful? He's dying. Oh, no, he isn't, said Ellen. Oh, no, he isn't. What shall we do, Mrs. Van Brunt? What shall we do? The doctor, said Mrs. Van Brunt. He said, send for the doctor. But I can't go, and there's nobody to send. Oh, he'll die. Oh, my dear brah, I wish it was me. What doctor, said Ellen? I'll find somebody to go. What doctor? Dr. Gibson, he said. But he is a way off to throw all, and he's been lying here all the morning already. Nobody found him. He couldn't make us here. Oh, isn't it dreadful? Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Van Brunt, said Ellen, pressing her cheek to the poor old ladies. He'll be better, he will. I've got the brownie here, and I'll ride over to Mrs. Hitchcock's, and get somebody to go right away for the doctor. I won't be long. We'll have him here in a little while. Don't feel so bad. You're a dear, blessed darling, said the old lady, hugging and kissing her. If there ever was one, make haste, dear, if you love him. He loves you. Ellen stayed but to give another kiss. Trembling so that she could hardly stand, she made her way back to the house, let out the brownie again, and set off full speed for Mrs. Hitchcock's. It was well her pony was sure-footed. Forvetting the rain's hang, Ellen bent over his neck, crying bitterly, only urging him now and then to greater speed, till at length the feeling that she had something to do came to her help. She straightened herself, gathered up her reins, and by the time she reached Mrs. Hitchcock's was looking calm again. Though very sad and very earnest. She did not alight, but stopped before the door, and called Jenny. Jenny came out, expressing her pleasure. Dear Jenny, said Ellen, isn't there somebody here that will go right off to Thorowall for Dr. Gibson? Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg, I'm afraid, and wants the doctor directly. Why, dear Ellen, said Jenny, the men have just gone off this minute to Mrs. Van Brunt's. Nancy was here for them to come and help move him in a great hurry. How did it happen? I couldn't get anything out of Nancy. He fell down through the trap door. But, dear Jenny, isn't there anybody about? Oh, said Ellen, clasping her hands. I want somebody to go for the doctor so much. There ain't a living soul, said Jenny. Two of the men and all the teams are way on the other side of the hill, plowing. And Pa and June and Blackbill have gone over, as I told you. But I don't believe there'll be enough. Where's his leg broke? I didn't meet them, said Ellen. I came away only a little while after Nancy. They went cross lots, I guess. That's how it was. And that's the way Nancy got the start of you. What shall I do, said Ellen. She could not bear to wait till they returned. If she rode back, she might miss them again, besides the delay. And then a man on foot would make a long journey of it. Jenny told her of a house or two where she might try for a messenger. But they were strangers to her. She could not make up her mind to ask such a favor of them. Her friends were too far out of the way. I'll go myself, she said suddenly. Tell them, dear Jenny, will you, that I've gone for Dr. Gibson. And that I'll bring him back as quick as ever I can. I know the road to Thirlwall. But Ellen, you mustn't, said Jenny. I'm afraid to have you go all that way alone. Wait till the men come back. They won't be long. No, I can't, Jenny, said Ellen. I can't wait. I must go. You needn't be afraid. Tell them I'll be as quick as I can. But see, Ellen cried Jenny as she was moving off. I don't like to have you. I must, Jenny, never mind. But see, Ellen cried Jenny again. If you will go, if you don't find Dr. Gibson, just get Dr. Marsh's shock. He's every bit as good, and some folks think he's better. He'll do just as well. Goodbye. Ellen nodded and rode off. There was a little fluttering of the heart at taking so much upon herself. She had never been to Thirlwall, but once, since the first time she saw it. But she thought of Mr. Van Brunt, suffering for help which could not be obtained, and it was impossible for her to hesitate. I am sure I am doing right, she thought. And what is there to be afraid of? If I ride two miles alone, why shouldn't I four? And I am doing right. God will take care of me. Ellen earnestly asked him to do so, and after that she felt pretty easy. Now, dear Brownie, said she, patting his neck, you and I have work to do today. Behave like a good little horse as you are. The Brownie answered with a little cheerful kind of nay, as much to say, never fear me. They tried it on nicely. But nothing could help that's being a disagreeable ride. Do what she would, Ellen felt a little afraid when she found herself on a long piece of road where she had never been alone before. There were not many houses on the way. The few there were looked strange. Ellen did not know exactly where she was, or how near the end of her journey. It seemed a long one. She felt rather lonely, a little shy of meeting people, and yet a little unwilling to have the intervals between them so very long. She repeated to herself, I am doing right. God will take care of me. Still there was a nervous trembling at heart. Sometimes she would pat her pony's neck and say, Trot on, dear Brownie, we'll soon be there, by way of cheering herself. For certainly the Brownie needed no cheering and was trotting on bravely. Then the thought of Mr. Van Brunt, as she had seen him lying on the barn floor, made her feel sick and miserable. Many tears fell during her ride when she remembered him. Heaven will be a good place, thought little Ellen, as she went. There will be no sickness, no pain, no sorrow. But Mr. Van Brunt, I wonder if he is fit to go to heaven. This was a new matter of thought and uneasiness, not now for the first time in Ellen's mind. And so the time passed, till she crossed the bridge over the little river and saw the houses of Thorowall stretching away in the distance. Then she felt comfortable. Long before she had be thought her that she did not know where to find Dr. Gibson and had forgotten to ask Jenny. For one instant Ellen drew bridle, but it was too far to go back and she recollected anybody could tell her where the doctor lived. When she got to Thorowall, however, Ellen found that she did not like to ask anybody. She remembered her old friend Mrs. Forbes of the star Inn and resolved she would go there in the first place. She rode slowly up the street looking carefully till she came to the house. There was no mistaking it. There was the very same big star over the front door that had caught her eye from the coach window. And there was the very same boy or man, Sam, lounging on the sidewalk. Ellen reigned up and asked him to ask Mrs. Forbes if she would be so good as to come out to her for one minute. Sam gave her a long, ginky look and disappeared coming back again directly with the landlady. How do you do, Mrs. Forbes, said Ellen, holding out her hand? Don't you know me? I am Ellen Montgomery, that you are so kind to and gave me bread and milk when I first came here. Miss Fortunes, oh, bless your dear little heart, cried the landlady. Don't I know you and ain't I glad to see you. I must have a kiss. Bless you, I couldn't mistake you in Jerusalem, but the sun was in my eyes and that way I was almost blind. But ain't you grown though? Forget you, I guess I can't. There's one of your friends wouldn't let me do that in a hurry. If I hadn't seen you, I've heard on you. But what are you sitting there in the sun for? Come in, come in, and I'll give you something better than bread and milk this time. Come, jump down. Oh, I can't, Mrs. Forbes, said Ellen, I'm in a great hurry. Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg and I want to find the doctor. Mr. Van Brunt, cried the landlady, broken his leg, the land sakes. How did he do that? He, too. He fell down through the trap door in the barn and I want to get Dr. Gibson as soon as I can, come to him. Where does he live, Mrs. Forbes? Dr. Gibson, you won't catch him to come, dear. He's flying round somewheres. But how come the trap door to be open? And how happened Mr. Van Brunt not to see it before he put his foot in it? Dear, I declare I'm real sorry to hear you tell. How happened it, darlin'? I'm curious to hear. I don't know, Mrs. Forbes, said Ellen, but oh, where shall I find Dr. Gibson? Do tell me. He ought to be there now. Oh, help me. Where shall I go for him? Well, I declare, said the landlady, stepping back a pace. I don't know as I can tell. There ain't no sort of likelihood that he's to home this time of day. Sam, you lazy feller. You ain't got nothing to do but gape it, folks. Hey, you seen the doctor go by this forenoon? I seen him go down to Miss Perryman, said Sam. Miss Perryman was a dyin', Jim Barstow said. How long since, said his mistress. But Sam shuffled and shuffled. Looking every way but at Ellen or Mrs. Forbes. And didn't know. Well, then, said Mrs. Forbes, turning to Ellen. I don't know, but you might as well go down to the post office. But if I was you, I'd just get Dr. Marshchalk instead. He's a smarter man than Dr. Gibson any day of the year. And he ain't quite so awful high neither, and that's something. I'd get Dr. Marshchalk. They say there ain't the like of him in the country for setin' bones. It's quite a gift. He takes to it natural like. But Ellen, said Mr. Van Brunt, wanted Dr. Gibson. And if she could, she must find him. Well, said Mrs. Forbes, everyone has their fancies. I wouldn't let Dr. Gibson come near me with a pair of tongs. But anyhow, if you must have him, your best way is to go right straight down to the post office and ask for him there. Maybe you'll catch him. Thank you, ma'am, said Ellen. Where is the post office? It's that white-faced house down street, said the landlady, pointing with her finger, where Ellen saw no lack of white-faced houses. You see that big red store with a man standing out in front? The next white house below that is Ms. Perriman's. Just run right in and ask for Dr. Gibson. Goodbye, dear. I'm real sorry you can't come in. That first white house. Glad to get free. Ellen rode smurantly down to the post office. Nobody before the door. There was nothing for it, but to get off here and go in. She did not know the people either. Never mind. Wait for me a minute, dear Brownie. Like a good little horse as you are. No fear of the Brownie. He stood as if he did not mean to budge again in a century. At first, going in, Ellen saw nobody in the post office. Presently, at an opening and a kind of boxed-up place in one corner, a face licked out and asked what she wanted. Is Dr. Gibson here? No, said the owner of the face with a disagreeable kind of smile. Isn't this Ms. Perriman's house? You were in the right box, my dear, and no mistakes, said the young man. But then I ain't Dr. Gibson's house, you know. Can you tell me, sir, where I can find him? Can't indeed, the doctor never tells me where he was going, and I never ask him. I am sorry I didn't, this morning, for your sake. The way and the look made the words extremely disagreeable. And furthermore, Ellen had an uncomfortable feeling that neither was new to her. Where had she seen the man before? She puzzled herself to think. Where but in a dream had she seen that bold, ill-favored face, that horrible smile, that sandy hair? She knew, it was Mr. Saunders, the man who had sold her the merino at St. Clair and Fleury's. She knew him, and she was very sorry to see that he knew her. All she desired now was to get out of the house and away. But, unturning, she saw another man, older and respectable-looking, whose face encouraged her to ask again if Dr. Gibson was there. He was not, the man said. He had been there and gone. Do you know where I should be likely to find him, sir? No, I don't, said he, who wants him? I want to see him, sir. For yourself? No, sir, Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg and wants Dr. Gibson to come directly and set it. Mr. Van Brunt, said he. Farmer Van Brunt that lives down towards the cat's back? I'm very sorry, how did it happen? Ellen told us shortly as possible, and again begged to know where she might look for Dr. Gibson. Well, said he, the best plan I can think of will be for you. How did you come here? I came on horseback, sir. Ah, well, the best plan will be for you to ride up to his house. Maybe he'll have leftward there. And anyhow, you can leave word for him to come down as soon as he gets home. Do you know where the doctor lives? No, sir. Come here, said he, pulling her to the door. You can't see it from here. But you must ride up the street till you have passed two churches, one on the right hand first, and then a good piece beyond. You'll come to another red brick one on the left hand. And Dr. Gibson lives in the next block, but one after that, on the other side. Anybody will tell you the house. Is that your horse? Yes, sir. I'm very much obliged to you. Well, I will say, if you hand the prettiest fit out in Thorowall, shall I help you? Will you have a cheer? No, I thank you, sir. I'll bring him up to the step. It will do just as well. I'm very much obliged to you, sir. He did not seem to hear her thanks. He was all eyes, and with his clerk, stood looking after her till she was out of sight. Poor Ellen found it a long way up to the doctors. The post office was near the lower end of the town, and the doctor's house was near the upper. She passed one church and then the other. But there was a long distance between, or what she thought so. Happily, the brownie did not seem tired at all. His little mistress was tired and disheartened, too. And there, all this time, was poor Mr. Van Brunt, lying without a doctor. She could not bear to think of it. She jumped down when she came to the black she had been told of, and easily found the house where Dr. Gibson lived. She knocked at the door. A gray-haired woman with a very ill-favored countenance presented herself. Ellen asked for the doctor. He ain't to home. When will he be at home? Couldn't say. Before dinner? The woman shook her head. Guess not till late in the day. Where has he gone? He has gone to Babcock. Gone to attend at consummation, I guess, he told me. Babcock is a considerable long way. Ellen thought a minute. Can you tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives? I guess you'd better wait till Dr. Gibson comes back, can't you? said the woman coaxingly. He'll be along by and by. If you leave your name, I'll give it to him. I cannot wait, said Ellen. I'm in a dreadful hurry. Will you be so good as to tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives? Well, if so be, you're in such a take, and you can't wait. You know where Miss Forbes lives. At the inn, the star? Yes. He lives a few doors this side of herne. You'll know what the first minute you sight your eyes on it. It's painted a bright yellow. Ellen thanked her, once more mounted, and rode down the street. End of Chapter 37. Chapter 38 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 38. Wherein the black prince arrives opportunly. The yellow door, as the old woman had said, was not to be mistaken. Again Ellen dismounted and knocked. Then she heard a slow step coming along the entry, and the pleasant kind face of Miss Janet appearing at the open door. It was a real refreshment, and Ellen wanted one. Why, it's dear little, ain't it, her that lives down to Miss Fortune Emerson's. Yes it is. Come in, dear. I'm very glad to see you. How's all at your house? Is the doctor at home, ma'am? No, dear. He ain't to home just this minute, but he'll be indirectly. Come in, is that your horse? Just hitch him to the post there so he won't run away, and come right in. Who did you come along with? Nobody, ma'am, I came alone, said Ellen, while she obeyed Miss Janet's directions. Alone, on that air little skittish creed-er? He's as handsome as a picture, too. Why, do tell, if you weren't afraid. It almost scares me to think of it. I was a little afraid, said Ellen, as she followed Miss Janet along the entry, but I couldn't help that. You think the doctor will soon be in, ma'am? Yes, dear, sure of it, said Miss Janet, kissing Ellen and taking off her bonnet. He won't be five minutes, for it's almost dinnertime. What's the matter, dear? Is Miss Fortune sick again? No, ma'am, said Ellen sadly. Mr. Van Brunt has fallen through the trapdoor in the barn and broken his leg. Oh, cried the old lady, with a face of real horror. You don't tell me, fell through the trapdoor? And he ain't a lightweight neither. Oh, that is a lamentable event. And how is the poor old mother, dear? She has very much troubled ma'am, said Ellen, crying at the remembrance. And he has been lying ever since early this morning without anybody to set it. I have been going round and round for a doctor this ever so long. Why, weren't there nobody to come but you, you poor lamb, said Miss Janet? No, ma'am, nobody quick enough. And I hid the brownie there, and so I came. Well, cheer up, dear. The doctor will be here now, and we'll send him right off. He won't be long about his dinner, I'll engage. Come and set in this big cheer. Do, it'll rest you. I see you're almost tired out, and it ain't a wonder. There, don't that feel better? Now I'll give you a little sip of dinner, for you won't want to swallow it at the rate Leander will hisen. Dear, dear, to think of poor Mr. Van Brunt. He's a likely man, too. I'm very sorry for him and his poor mother, a kind body she is, as ever the sun shined upon. And so is he, said Ellen. Well, so I dare say, said Miss Janet, but I don't know so much about him. However, he's got everybody's good word as far as I know. He's a likely man. The little room in which Miss Janet had brought Ellen was very plainly furnished indeed, but as neat as hands could make it. The carpet was as crumbless and lintless as if meals were never taken there, nor work seen. And yet a little table ready set for dinner forbade the one conclusion. And a huge basket of naperies in one corner showed that Miss Janet's industry did not spend itself in housework alone. Before the fire stood a pretty good-sized kettle, and a very appetizing smell came from it to Ellen's nose. In spite of sorrow and anxiety, her ride had made her hungry. It was not without pleasure that she saw her kind hostess arm herself with a deep plate and a tin dipper, and carefully taking off the pot cover so that no drops might fall on the hearth. Proceed to ladle out a goodly supply of what Ellen knew was that excellent country dish called pot pie. Excellent it is when well made, and that was Miss Janet's. The pieces of crust were white and light like new bread. The very tip bits of the meat she called out for Ellen, and the soup gravy poured over all would have met even Miss Fortune's wishes from its just degree of richness and exact seasoning. Smoking hot, it was placed before Ellen on a little stand by her easy chair with some nice bread and butter, and presently Miss Janet poured her out a cup of tea. For, she said, Leander never could take his dinner without it. Ellen's appetite needed no silver fork. Tea and pot pie were never better liked, yet Miss Janet's enjoyment was perhaps greater still. She sat talking and looking at her little visitor with secret but immense satisfaction. Have you heard what fine doings we're going to have here by and by, said she? The doctor's tired of me. He's going to get a new housekeeper. He's going to get married some of these days. Is he, said Ellen, not to Jenny? Yes, indeed he is, to Jenny, Jenny Hitchcock, and a nice little wife shall make him. You're a great friend of Jenny, I know. How soon, said Ellen? Oh, not just yet, by and by, after we get a little smarted up, I guess. Before a great while. Don't you think he'll be a happy man? Ellen could not help wondering, as the doctor just then came in, and she looked up at his unfortunate three-cornered face, whether Jenny would be a happy woman. But as people often do, she only judged from the outside. Jenny had not made such a bad choice after all. The doctor said he would go directly to Mr. Van Brunt after he had been over to Mrs. Subnorths. It wouldn't be a minute. Ellen meant to ride back in his company and having finished her dinner, waited now only for him. But the one minute passed, two minutes, 10, 20, she waited impatiently, but he came not. I'll tell you how it must be, said his sister. He's gone off without his dinner, calculating to get it at Ms. Hitchcock's. He'd be glad of the chance, that's how it is, dear, and you'll have to ride home alone. I'm real sorry. Suppose you stop till evening and I'll make the doctor go along with you. But, oh, dear, maybe he wouldn't be able to neither. He's got to go up to that tiresome Mrs. Robbins. It's too bad. Well, take good care of yourself, darling. Couldn't you stop till it's cooler? Well, come and see me as soon as you can again, but don't come without someone else along. Goodbye, I wish I could keep you. She went to the door to see her mount and smiled and nodded her off. Ellen was greatly refreshed with her rest and her dinner. It grieved her that the brownie had not fared as well. All the refreshment that kind words and padding could give him, she gave, promised him the freshest of water and the sweetest of hay when he should reach home, and begged him to keep up his spirits and hold on for a little longer. It may be doubted whether the brownie understood the full sense of her words, but he probably knew what the kind tones and gentle hand meant. He answered cheerfully, threw up his head, and gave a little nay, as much as to say he wasn't going to mind a few hours of sunshine, and trotted on as if he knew his face was towards home, which no doubt he did. Luckily it was not a very hot day. For August it was remarkably cool and beautiful. Indeed, there was little very hot weather ever known in Thirlwall. Ellen's heart felt easier, now that her business was done, and when she had left the town behind her and was again in the fields, she was less timid than she had been before. She was going towards home. That makes a great difference, and every step was bringing her nearer. I am glad I came after all, she thought, but I hope I shall never have to do such a thing again. But I am glad I came. She had no more than crossed the little bridge, however, when she saw what brought her heart into her mouth. It was Mr. Saunders, lolling under a tree. What could he have come there for at that time of day? A vague feeling crossed her mind that if she could only get past him, she should pass a danger. She thought to ride by without seeming to see him, and quietly gave the brownie a pat to make him go faster. But as she drew near, Mr. Saunders rose up, came to the middle of the road, and taking hold of her bridle, checked her pony's pace, so that he could walk alongside, to Ellen's unspeakable dismay. What's kept you so long, said he, I've been looking out for you this great while. Had hard work to find the doctor? Won't you please to let go of my horse, said Ellen, her heart beating very fast? I am in a great hurry to get home. Please don't keep me. Oh, I want to see you a little, said Mr. Saunders. You ain't in such a hurry to get away from me as that comes to, are you? Ellen was silent. It's quite a long time since I saw you last, said he. How have the Marinos worn? Ellen could not bear to look at his face, and did not see the expression, which went with these words, yet she felt it. They have worn very well, said she, but I want to get home very much. Please let me go. Not yet, not yet, said he. Oh, no, not yet. I want to talk to you. Why, what are you in such a devil of a hurry for? I came out on purpose. Do you think I'm going to have all my long waiting for nothing? Ellen did not know what to say. Her heart sprang with a nameless pang to the thought, if she ever got free from this. Meanwhile, she was not free. Whose horse is that you're on? Mine, said Ellen. Yorn, that's a likely story. I guess he ain't Yorn, and so you won't mind if I touch him up a little. I want to see how well you could sit on a horse. Passing his arm through the bridle, as he said these words, Mr. Saunders led the pony down to the side of the road, where grew a clump of high bushes, and with some trouble, cut off a long stout sapling. Ellen looked in every direction while he was doing this, despairing as she looked of aid from any quarter of the broad, quiet, open country. Oh, for wings! But she could not leave the brownie if she had them. Returning to the middle of the road, Mr. Saunders amused himself as they walked along, with stripping off all the leaves and little twigs from his sapling, leaving it when done a very good imitation of an ox whip in size and length, with a fine, lash-like point. Ellen watched him in an ecstasy of apprehension, afraid alike to speak or be silent. There, what do you think of that, said he, giving it two or three switches in the air to try its suppleness and toughness. Don't that look like a whip? Now we'll see how we'll go. Please don't do anything with it, said Ellen earnestly. I never touch him with a whip. He doesn't need it. He isn't used to it. Pray, pray do not. Oh, we'll just tickle him a little with it, said Mr. Saunders coolly. I want to see how well you sit him. Just make him caper a little bit. He accordingly applied the switch lightly to the brownie's heels, enough to annoy, without hurting him. The brownie showed signs of uneasiness, quitted his quiet pace and look to little starts and springs and whisking motions, most unpleasing to his rider. Oh, do not, cried Ellen, almost beside herself. He's very spirited, and I don't know what he will do if you trouble him. You let me take care of that, said Mr. Saunders. If he troubles me, I'll give it to him. If he rears up, only you catch hold of his mane and hold on tight, and you won't fall off. I want to see him rear. But you'll give him bad tricks, said Ellen. Oh, pray don't do so. It's very bad for him to be teased. I'm afraid he will kick you if you do so, and he'd be ruined if he got a habit of kicking. Oh, please let us go, said she, with the most acute accent of entreaty. I want to be home. You keep quiet, said Mr. Saunders coolly. If he kicks, I'll give him such a lathering as he never had yet. He won't do it but once. I ain't a-going to hurt him, but I am a-going to make him rear. No, I won't. I'll make him leap over our rail. The first bar place we come to. That'll be prettier. Oh, you mustn't do that, said Ellen. I have not learned to leap yet. I couldn't keep on. You mustn't do that if you please. You just hold fast and hold your tongue. Catch hold of his ears and you'll stick on fast enough. If you can't, you may get down, for I am going to make him take the leap, whether you will or no. Ellen feared still more to get off and leave the brownie to her tormentor's mercy than to stay where she was and take her chance. She tried in vain as well as she could, to soothe her horse. The touches of the whip coming now in one place and now in another, and some of them pretty sharp. He began to grow very frisky indeed, and she began to be very much frightened, for fear she should suddenly be jerked off. With a good deal of presence of mind, though wrought up to a terrible pitch of excitement and fear, Ellen gave her best attention to keeping her seat as the brownie sprang and started and jumped to one side and the other. Mr. Saunders holding the bridle is loose as possible, so as to give him plenty of room. For some little time he amused himself with this game, the horse growing more and more irritated. At length, a smart stroke of the whip upon his haunches made the brownie spring in a way that brought Ellen's heart into her mouth and almost threw her off. Oh, don't, cried Ellen, bursting into tears for the first time. She had with great effort commanded them back until now. Poor brownie, how can you? Oh, please let us go. Please let us go. For one minute she dropped her face into her hands. Be quiet, said Mr. Saunders. Here's a bar-place, now for the leap. Ellen wiped away her tears, forced back those that were coming, and began the most earnest remonstrance and pleading with Mr. Saunders that she knew how to make. He paid her no sort of attention. He led the brownie to the side of the road, let down all the bars but the lower two, let go the bridle and stood off a little, prepared with his whip to force the horse to take the spring. I tell you I shall fall, said Ellen, reigning him back. How can you be so cruel? I want to go home. Well, you ain't going home yet. Get off if you are afraid. But though trembling in every nerve from head to foot, Ellen fancied the brownie was safer so long as he had her on his back. She would not leave him. She pleaded her best, which Mr. Saunders heard as if it was amusing and without making any answer, kept the horse capering in front of the bars. Pretending every minute he was going to whip him up to take the leap. His object, however, was merely to gratify the smallest of minds by teasing a child he had a spite against. He had no intention to risk breaking her bones by a fall from her horse. So in time he had enough of the bar place, took the bridle again, and walked on. Ellen drew breath a little more freely. Did you hear how I handled your old gentleman after that time, said Mr. Saunders? Ellen made no answer. No one ever affronts me that don't hear news of it afterwards, and so he found to his cost. I paid him off to my heart's content. I gave the old fellow a lesson to behave in future. I forgive him entirely now. By the way, I have a little account to settle with you. Didn't you ask Mr. Perryman this morning if Dr. Gibson was in the house? I don't know who it was, said Ellen. Well, hadn't I told you just before he weren't there? Ellen was silent. What did you do that for, eh? Didn't you believe me? Still, she did not speak. I say, said Mr. Saunders, touching the brownie as he spoke. Did you think I told you a lie about it, eh? I didn't know, but he might be there, Ellen forced herself to say. Then you didn't believe me, said he, always with that same smile upon his face. Ellen knew that. Now that weren't handsome of you, and I'm a-going to punish you for it, somehow or another, but it ain't pretty to crawl with ladies, so brownie and me will settle it together. You won't mind that, I daresay. What are you going to do, said Ellen, as he once more drew her down to the side of the fence? Get off and you'll see, said he, laughing. Get off and you'll see. What you want to do, repeated, Ellen, though scarce able to speak the words. I'm just going to tickle brownie a little, to teach you to believe honest folks when they speak the truth. Get off. No, I won't, said Ellen, throwing both arms around the neck of her pony. Poor brownie, you shan't do it. He hasn't done any harm, nor I either. You are a bad man. Get off, repeated, Mr. Saunders. I will not, said Ellen, still clinging fast. Very well, said he, coolly. Then I will take you off. It don't make much difference. We'll go along a little further till I find a nice stone for you to sit down upon. If you had got off then, I wouldn't had done much to him, but I'll give it to him now. If he hasn't been used to a whip, he'll know pretty well what it means by the time I have done with him, and then you may go home as fast as you can. It is very likely Mr. Saunders would have been as good, or as bad as his word. His behavior to Ellen in the store in New York, and the measures taken by the old gentleman who had befriended her, had been the cause of his dismissal from the employ of Mr. St. Clair and Fleury. Two or three other attempts to get into business had come to nothing, and he had been obliged to return to his native town. Ever since, Ellen and the old gentleman had lived in his memory as objects of the deepest spite, the one for interfering, the other for having been the innocent cause, and he no sooner saw her in the post office than he promised himself revenge. Such revenge as only the meanest and most cowardly spirit could have taken pleasure in. His best way of distressing Ellen, he found, was through her horse. He had almost satisfied himself, but very naturally, his feeling of spite had grown stronger and blunter with indulgence, and he meant to wind up with such a treatment of her pony, real or seeming, as he knew would give great pain to the pony's mistress. He was prevented. As they went slowly along, Ellen still clasping the brownie's neck and resolved to cling to him to the last, Mr. Saunders making him caper in a way very uncomfortable to her. One was too busy, the other too deafened by fear, to notice the sound of fast approaching hoofs behind them. It happened that John Humphries had passed the night at Ventnor and having an errand to do for a friend at Thirlwall had taken that road, which led him but a few miles out of his way and was now at full speed on his way home. He had never made the brownie's acquaintance and did not recognize Ellen as he came up, but in passing them, some strange notion crossing his mind, he wheeled his horse round directly in front of the astonished pair. Ellen quitted her pony's neck and stretching out both arms toward him, exclaimed, almost shrieked, oh John, John, send him away, make him let me go. What are you about, sir, said the newcomer sternly. It's none of your business, answered Mr. Saunders, in whom rage for the time overcame cowardice. Take your hand off the bridle, with a slight touch of the riding whip upon the hand in question. Not for you, brother, said Mr. Saunders nearingly. I'll walk with any lady I've in mind to. Look out for yourself. We will dispense with your further attendance, said John, coolly. Do you hear me? Do as I order you. The speaker did not put himself in a passion, and Mr. Saunders, accustomed for his own part to make bluster serve instead of prowess, despised to command so calmly given. Ellen, who knew the voice, and still better could read the eye, drew conclusions very different. She was almost breathless with terror. Saunders was enraged and mortified at an interference that promised to baffle him. He was a stout young man, and judged himself the stronger of the two, and took notice, besides, that the stranger had nothing in his hand but a slight riding whip. He answered very insolently, and with an oath, and John saw that he was taking the bridle in his left hand and shifting the sapling whip, so as to bring the club end of it uppermost. The next instant he aimed a furious blow at his adversary's horse. Their quick eye and hand of the rider disappointed that with a sudden swerve. In another moment, and Ellen hardly saw how, it was so quick. John had dismounted, taken Mr. Saunders by the collar, and hurled him quite over into the gully at the side of the road, where he lay at full length without stirring. Right on, Ellen said her deliverer. She obeyed. He stayed a moment to say to his fallen adversary a few words of pointed warning as to ever repeating his offence. Then remounted and spurred forward to join Ellen. All her power of keeping up was gone, now that the necessity was over. Her head was once more bowed on her pony's neck. Her whole frame shaking with convulsive sobs. She could scarce with great effort keep from crying out aloud. Ellie said her adopted brother and a voice that could hardly be known for the one that had last spoken. She had no words, but as he gently took one of her hands, the convulsive squeeze it gave him showed the state of nervous excitement she was in. It was very long before his uppermost efforts could soothe her, or she could command herself enough to tell him her story. When at last told, it was with many tears. Oh, how could he, how could he, said poor Ellen? How could he do so? It was very hard. An involuntary touch of the spurs made John's horse start. But what took you to throw all the loans at he? You have not told me that yet. Ellen went back to Timothy's invasion of the cabbages and gave him the whole story of the morning. I thought when I was going for the doctor at first, said she, and then afterwards when I have found him, what a good thing it was that Timothy broke down that garden fence and got in this morning. For if it had not been for that, I should not have gone to Mr. Van Brunt's. And then again, after that I thought, if he only hadn't. Little things often draw after them long trains of circumstances, said John, and that shows the folly of those people who think that God does not stoop to concern himself about trifles. Life and much more than life may hang upon the turn of a hand. But Ellen, you must ride no more alone. Promise me that you will not. I will not to throw while certainly, said Ellen. But may I and I to Alice's? How can I help it? Well, to Alice's, that is a safe part of the country. But I should like to know a little more of your horse before trusting you even there. Of the brownie, said Ellen? Oh, he is as good as he can be. You need not be afraid of him. He has no trick at all. There never was such a good little horse. John smiled. How do you like mine, said he? Is that your new one? Oh, what a beauty. Oh, me, what a beauty. I didn't look at him before. Oh, I like him very much. He's handsomer than the brownie. Do you like him? Very well. This is the first trial I have made of him. I wasn't Mr. Marshman's last night. And they detained me this morning, or I should have been here much earlier. I am very well satisfied with him so far. And if you had not been detained, said Ellen? Yes, Ellie. I should not have fretted at my late breakfast and having to try Mr. Marshman's favorite mare if I had known what good purpose the delay was to serve. I wish I could have been here half an hour sooner, though. Is his name the Black Prince, said Ellen, returning to the horse? Yes, I believe so. But you shall change it, Ellie, if you could find one you like better. Oh, I cannot. I like that very much. How beautiful he is. Is he good? I hope so, said John, smiling. If he is not, I shall be at the pains to make him so. We are hardly acquainted yet. Ellen looked doubtfully at the Black Horse and his rider, and patting the brownie's neck, observed with great satisfaction that he was very good. John had been riding very slowly on Ellen's account. They now mended their pace. He saw, however, that she still looked miserably and exerted himself to turn her thoughts from everything disagreeable. Much to her amusement, he rode round her two or three times to view her horse and show her his own, commended the brownie, praised her bridal hand, corrected several things about her riding, and by degrees engaged her in a very animated conversation. Ellen roused up, the color came back to her cheeks, and when they reached home and rode round to the glass door, she looked almost like herself. She sprang off as usual without waiting for any help. John's scare saw that she had done so when Alice's cry of joy brought him to the door, and from that together they went into their father's study. Ellen was left alone on the lawn. Something was the matter. First she stood with swimming eyes and a trembling lip, rubbing her stirrup, which really needed no polishing, and forgetting the tired horses, which would have had her sympathy at any other time. What was the matter? Only that Mr. John had forgotten the kiss he always gave her ongoing or coming. Ellen was jealous of it as a pledge of sister-ship and could not want it, and though she tried as hard as she could to get her face in order so that she might go in and meet them, somehow it seemed to take a great while. She was still busy with her stirrup when she suddenly felt two hands on her shoulders and looking up, received the very kiss the want of which she had been lamenting. But John saw the tears in her eyes and asked her. She thought with somewhat a comical look what the matter was. Ellen was ashamed to tell, but he had her there by the shoulders and besides whatever that I demanded, she never knew how to keep back. So with some difficulty she told him, you were a very foolish child, Ellie said he gently and kissing her again, running out of the sun while I see to the horses. Ellen ran in and told her long story to Alice, and then, feeling very weary and weak, she sat on the sofa and lay resting in her arms in a state of the most entire and unruffled happiness. Alice, however, after a good while, transferred her to bed, thinking with good reason, that a long sleep would be the best thing for her. End of chapter 38. Chapter 39 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 39. Hail Sion Days. When Ellen came out of Alice's room again, it was late in the afternoon. The sun was so low that the shadow of the house had crossed the narrow lawn and mounted up near to the top of the trees, but on them he was still shining brightly and on the broad landscape beyond, which lay open to view through the gap in the trees. The glass door was open, the sweet summer air and the sound of birds and insects and fluttering leaves floated into the room, making the stillness musical. On the threshold, Pussy sat crouched, with his forefeet doubled under his breast, watching, with intense gravity, the operations of Marjorie, who was setting the table on the lawn, just before his eyes. Alice was paring peaches. Oh, we are going to have tea out of doors, aren't we, said Ellen? I'm very glad. What a lovely evening, isn't it? Just look at Pussy, will you, Alice? Don't you believe he knows what Marjorie is doing? Why didn't you call me to go along with you after peaches? I thought you were doing the very best thing you possibly could, Ellie, my dear. How do you do? Oh, nicely now. Where's Mr. John? I hope he won't ask for my last drawing tonight. I want to fix the top of that tree before he sees it. Fix the top of your tree, you little Yankee, said Alice. What do you think John would say to that? Unfix it, you mean. It is too stiff already, isn't it? Well, what shall I say, said Ellen, laughing? I'm sorry that is Yankee, for I suppose one must speak English. I want to do something to my tree, then. Where is he, Alice? He has gone down to Mr. Van Bruntz to see how he is, and to speak to misfortune about you on his way back. Oh, how kind of him. He's very good. That is just what I want to know. But I am sorry, after this long ride. He don't mind that, Ellie. He'll be home presently. How nice those peaches look. They are as good as strawberries, don't you think so? Better, I don't know which is best. But Mr. John likes these best, don't he? Now you've done, shall I set them on the table? And here's a picture of splendid cream, Alice. You had better not tell John so, or he will make you define splendid. John came back in good time and brought word that Mr. Van Bruntz was doing very well so far as could be known. Also, that misfortune consented to Ellen's remaining where she was. He wisely did not say, however, that her consent had been slow to gain, till he had hinted at his readiness to provide a substitute for Ellen's services, on which misfortune had instantly declared she did not want her, and she might stay as long as she pleased. This was all that was needed to complete Ellen's felicity. Wasn't your poor horse too tired to go out again this afternoon, Mr. John? I did not ride him, Ellie. I took yours. The brownie, did you? I'm very glad. How did you like him? But perhaps he was tired a little, and you couldn't tell so well today. He was not tired with any work you had given him, Ellie. Perhaps he may be a little now. Why, said Ellen, somewhat alarmed? I have been trying him, and instead of going quietly along the road, we have been taking some of the fences in our way. As I intended practicing you at the bar, I wished to make sure, in the first place, that he knew his lesson. Well, how did he do? Perfectly well. I believe he is a good little fellow. I wanted to satisfy myself if he was fit to be trusted with you, and I rather think Mr. Marshman has taken care of that. The whole wall of trees was in shadow when the little family sat down to table, but there was still the sunlit picture behind, and there was another kind of sunshine in every face at the table. Quietly happy, the whole four, or at least the whole three, were first in being together, after that in all things beside. Never was tea so refreshing, or bread and butter so sweet, or the song of birds so delightsome. When the birds were gone to their nests, the cricket and the grasshopper, the tree toad and Katie did, and nameless other songsters, kept up a concert, nature's own, and delicious harmony with woods and flowers, and summer breezes and evening light. Ellen's cup of enjoyment was running over. From one beautiful thing to another, her eye wandered. From one joy to another, her thoughts went, till her full heart fixed on the God who had made and given them all, and that Redeemer whose blood had been their purchase money. From the dear friends beside her, the best love she had in the world, she thought of the one dearer, yet from whom death had separated her, yet living still, and to whom death would restore her, thanks to him who had burst the bonds of death and broken the gates of the grave, and made a way for his ransom to pass over, and the thought of him was the joyfulest of all. You look happy, Ellie, said her adopted brother. So I am, said Ellen, smiling a very bright smile. What are you thinking about? But John saw it would not do to press his question. You remind me, said he, of some old fairy story that my childish ears received, in which the fountains of the sweet and bitter waters of life were said to stand very near each other, and to mingle their streams, but a little away from their source. Your tears and smiles seem to be brothers and sisters. Whenever we see one, we may be sure the other is not far off. My dear Jack, said Ellis, laughing, what an unhappy simile. Are all brothers and sisters always found like that? I wish they were, said John, sighing and smiling. But my last words had nothing to do with my simile, as you call it. When tea was over, and marjorie had withdrawn the things, and taken away the table, they still lingered in their places. It was far too pleasant to go in. Mr. Humphries moved his chair to the side of the house, and throwing a handkerchief over his head to defend him from the mosquitoes, a few of which were buzzing about. He either listened, meditated, or slept, most probably one of the two latter, for the conversation was not very loud, nor very lively. It was happiness enough to merely breathe so near each other. The sun left the distant fields and hills, soft twilight stole through the woods, down the gap and over the plain, the grass lost its green, the wall of trees grew dark and dusky, and very faint and dim showed the picture that was so bright a little while ago. As they sat quite silent, listening to what nature had to say to them, or letting fancy and memory take their way, the silence was broken, hardly broken, by the distinct far-off cry of a whipper-will. Alice grasped her brother's arm, and they remained motionless, while it came nearer, nearer, than quite near, with its clear, wild, shrill, melancholy note sounding close by them again and again, strangely, plaintively, then leaving the lawn, it was heard further and further off, till the last faint whipper-will in the far distance ended its pretty interlude. It was almost too dark to read faces, but the eyes of the brother and sister had sought each other, remained fixed till the bird was out of hearing, then Alice's hand was removed to his, and her head found its old place on her brother's shoulder. Sometimes, John said, Alice, I am afraid I have one tie too strong to this world. I cannot bear, as I ought, to have you away from me. Her brother's lips were instantly pressed to her forehead. I may say to you, Alice, as Colonel Gardner said to his wife, we have an eternity to spend together. I wonder, said Alice, after a pause, how those can bear to love or be loved, whose affection can see nothing but a blank beyond the grave. Few people, I believe, said her brother, would come exactly under that description, most flatter themselves with a vague hope of reunion after death. But that is a miserable hope, very different from ours. Very different indeed, and miserable, for it can only deceive, but ours is sure. Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. Precious, said Alice, how exactly fitted to every want and mood of the mind are the sweet Bible words. Well, said Mr. Humphreys, rousing himself, I am going in. These mosquitoes have half eaten me up. Are you going to sit there all night? We are thinking of it, Papa, said Alice cheerfully. He went in and was heard calling Marjorie for a light. They had better lights on the lawn. The stars began to peep out through the soft blue, and as the blue grew deeper, they came out more and brighter till all heaven was hung with lamps. But that was not all. In the eastern horizon, just above the low hills that bordered the far side of the plain, a white light spreading and growing and brightening promised the moon and promised that she would rise very splendid, and even before she came, began to throw a faint luster over the landscape. All eyes were fastened and exclamations burst as the first silver edge showed itself and the moon rapidly rising, looked on them with her whole, broad, bright face, lighting up not only their faces and figures, but the wide country view that was spread out below and touching most beautifully the trees in the edge of the gap and faintly the lawn while the wall of wood stood in deeper and blacker shadow than ever. Isn't that beautiful, said Ellen? Come round here, Ellie, said John. Alice may have you all the rest of the year, but when I am at home, you belong to me. What was your little head busy upon a while ago? When, said Ellen, when I asked you, oh, I know, I remember, I was thinking, well, I was thinking, do you want me to tell you? Unless you would rather not. I was thinking about Jesus Christ, said Ellen, in a low tone. What about him, dear Ellie, said her brother, drawing her closer to his side? Different things. I was thinking of what he said about little children and about what he said, you know, in my father's house are many mansions, and I was thinking that mama was there, and I thought that we all, Ellen, could get no further. He that believeth in him shall not be ashamed, said John softly. This is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life, and who shall separate us from the love of Christ, not death, nor things present, nor things to come. But he that hath this hope in him purifyeth himself, even as he is pure, let us remember that too. Mr. John said, Ellen, presently, don't you like some of the chapters in the Revelation very much? Yes, very much. Why, do you? Yes, I remember reading parts of them to mama, and that is one reason, I suppose, but I like them very much. There is a great deal I can't understand, though. There is nothing finer in the Bible than parts of that book, said Alice. Mr. John said, Ellen, what is meant by the white stone? And in the stone a new name written? Yes, that I mean. Mr. Baxter says it is the sense of God's love in the heart, and indeed, that is it, which no man knoweth, saving him that receiveth it. This I take, Ellen, with Christian certificate, which he used to comfort himself with reading in. You remember? Can a child have it, said Ellen, thoughtfully? Certainly, many children have had it. You may have it. Only seek it faithfully. Thou meetest him that rejoiceth, and worketh righteousness, those that remember thee in thy ways. And Christ said, he that loveth me, shall be loved of my father, and I will love him, and I will manifest myself to him. There is no failure in these promises, Ellie. He that made them is the same yesterday, today, and forever. For a little while, each was busy with his own meditations. The moon meanwhile, rising higher and higher, poured a flood of light through the gap in the woods before them, and, stealing among the trees here and there, lit up a spot of ground under their deep shadow. The distant picture lay in mazy brightness, all was still but the ceaseless chirrup of insects and gentle flapping of leaves. The summer air just touched their cheeks with the lightest breath of a kiss, sweet from distant hay fields, and nearer pines and hemlocks, and other of nature's number of us perfume boxes. The hay harvest had been remarkably late this year. This is higher enjoyment, said John, than half those who make their homes in rich houses and mighty palaces have any notion of. But cannot rich people look at the moon, said Ellen? Yes, but the taste for pure pleasures is commonly gone when people make a trade of pleasure. Mr. John, Ellen began, I will forewarn you, said he, that Mr. John has made up his mind he will do nothing more for you, so if you have anything to ask, it must lie still unless you begin again. Ellen drew back, he looked grave, but she saw Alice smiling. But what shall I do, said she, a little perplexed and half laughing. What do you mean, Mr. John? What does he mean, Alice? You could speak without a mister to me this morning when you were in trouble. Oh, said Ellen, laughing, I forgot myself then. Have the goodness to forget yourself permanently for the future. Was that man heard this morning, John, said his sister? What man? That man you delivered Ellen from? Hurt? No, nothing material. I did not wish to hurt him. He richly deserved punishment, but it was not for me to give it. He was in no hurry to get up, said Ellen. I do not think he ventured upon that till we were well out of the way. He lifted his head and looked after us as we rode off. But I wanted to ask something, said Ellen. Oh, what is the reason the moon looks so much larger when she first gets up than she does afterwards? Whom are you asking? You? And who is you? Here are two people in the moonlight. Mr. John Humphries, Alice's brother, and that Thomas calls the young master, said Ellen, laughing. You are more shy of taking a leap than your little horses, said John, smiling. But I shall bring you up to it yet. What is the cause of the sudden enlargement of my thumb? He had drawn a small magnifying glass from his pocket and held it between his hand and Ellen. Why, it is not enlarged, said Ellen. It is only magnified. What do you mean by that? Why, the glass makes it look larger. Do you know how or why? No, he put up the glass again. But what do you mean by that, said Ellen? There is no magnifying glass between us and the moon to make her look larger. You are sure of that? Why, yes, said Ellen, I'm perfectly sure. There is nothing in the world. There she is right up there, looking straight down upon us and there's nothing between. What is that keeps up that pleasant fluttering of leaves in the wood? Why, the wind? And what about the wind? It is air, air moving, I suppose. Exactly, then there is something between us and the moon. The air? But, Mr. John, one can see quite clearly through the air. It doesn't make things look larger or smaller. How far do you suppose the air reaches from us towards the moon? Why, all the way, don't it? No, only about forty miles. If it reached all the way, there would indeed be no magnifying glass in the case. But how is it, said Ellen? I don't understand. I cannot tell you tonight, Ellie. There is a long ladder of knowledge to go up before we can get to the moon. But we will begin to mount tomorrow if nothing happens. Alice, you have that little book of conversations on natural philosophy, which you and I used to deviate ourselves with in old time. Safe and sound in the bookcase, said Alice, I have thought of giving it to Ellen before. But she has been busy enough with what she had already. I have done rolling now, though, said Ellen. That is lucky. I am ready for the moon. This new study was begun the next day, and Ellen took great delight in it. She would have run on too fast in her eagerness, but for the steady hand of her teacher. He obliged her to be very thorough. This was only one of her items of business. The weeks of John's stay were, as usual, not merely weeks of constant and very delight, but of constant and swift improvement, too. A good deal of time was given to the writing lessons. John busied himself one morning and preparing a bar for her on the lawn, so placed that it might fall if the horse's heels touched it. Here Ellen learned to take first standing and then running leaps. She was afraid at first, but habit wore that off, and the bar was raised higher and higher till Marjorie declared she couldn't stand and look at her going over it. Then John made her ride without the stirrup and with her hands behind her, while he, holding the horse by a long halter, made him go round in a circle, slowly at first, and afterwards trotting and cantering, till Ellen felt almost as secure on his back as in a chair. It took a great many lessons, however, to bring her to this, and she trembled very much at the beginning. Her teacher was careful and gentle, but determined, and whatever he said she did, tremble or no tremble, and in general loved her writing lessons dearly. Drawing, too, went on finely. He began to let her draw things from nature, and many a pleasant morning, the three went out together with pencils and books and work and spent hours in the open air. They would find a pretty point of view or a nice shady place where the breeze came and where there was some good old rock with a tree beside it or a piece of fence or the house or barn in the distance for Ellen to sketch, and while she drew and Alice worked, John read aloud to them. Sometimes he took a pencil, too, and Alice read. And often, often, pencils, books, and work were all laid down and talk, lively, serious, earnest, always delightful, took the place of them. When Ellen could not understand the words, at least she could read the faces, and that was a study she was never weary of. At home there were other studies and much reading, many tea drinkings on the lawn, and even breakfastings, which she thought pleasant or still. As soon as it was decided that Mr. Van Brent's leg was doing well and in a fair way to be sound again, Ellen went to see him, and after that, rarely let two days pass without going again. John and Alice used to ride with her so far and taking a turn beyond while she made her visit, call for her on their way back. She had a strong motive for going and the pleasure her presence always gave, both to Mr. Van Brent and his mother. Sam Larkins had been to Thirlwall and seen Mrs. Forbes, and from him they had heard the story of her riding up and down the town in search of the doctor. Neither of them could forget it. Mrs. Van Brent poured out her affection in all sorts of expressions whenever she had Ellen's ear. Her son was not a man of many words, but Ellen knew his face and manner well enough without them, and read there, whenever she went into his room, what gave her great pleasure. How do you do, Mr. Van Brent, she said, on one of these occasions. Oh, I'm getting along, I suppose, said he, getting along as well as a man can that's lying on his back from morning to night, prostrated, as Squire Denison said his corn was to other day. It is very tiresome, isn't it? said Ellen. It's the tiresomest work that ever was for a man that has two arms to be a doing nothing day after day, and what bothers me is the wheat in the 10 acre lot that ought to be prostrated, too, and ain't, nor ain't like to be, as I know, unless the rain comes and does it. Sam and Johnny'll make no headway at all with it. I can tell as well as if I see them. But Sam is good, isn't he, said Ellen? Sam's as good a boy as ever was, but then Johnny Lowe is mischievous, you see, and he gets Sam out of his tracks once in a while. I never see a finer growth of wheat. I had a sight rather cut and harvest the whole of it than to lie here and think of it getting spoiled. I'm almost out of conceit of trapped doors, Ellen. Ellen could not help smiling. What can I do for you, Mr. Van Brunt? There ain't nothing, said he. I wish there was. How are you coming along at home? I don't know, said Ellen. I am not there just now, you know. I am staying up with Miss Alice again. Oh, I, while her brother's at home. He's a splendid man that young Mr. Humphreys, ain't he? Oh, I knew that a great while ago, said Ellen, the bright color of pleasure overspreading her face. Well, I didn't you see till the other day when he came here very kindly to see how I was getting on. I wish something would bring him again. I never hear a man talk I like to hear so much. Ellen secretly resolved something should bring him and went on with the purpose she had had for some time in her mind. Wouldn't it be pleasant while you were lying there and can do nothing? Wouldn't you like to have me read something to you, Mr. Van Brunt? I should like to very much. It's just like you, said he gratefully, to think of that. But I wouldn't have you be bothered with it. It wouldn't, indeed. I should like it very much. Well, if you have a mind, said he, I can't say but it would be a kind of comfort to keep that grain out of my head a while. Seems to me I have cut and housed it all three times over already. Read just whatever you have a mind to. If you want to go over a last year's almanac, it would be as good as a fiddle to me. I'll do better for you than that, Mr. Van Brunt, to be honest, said Ellen, laughing and high-glee at having gained her point. She had secretly brought her pilgrim's progress with her, and now, with marvelous satisfaction, drew it forth. I hadn't been as much of a reader as I had ought to, said Mr. Van Brunt, as she opened the book and turned to the first page. But, however, I understand my business pretty well, and a man can't be everything to once. Now let's hear what you've got there. With a throbbing heart, Ellen began, and read, notes and all, till the sound of tramping hooves and Alice's voice made her break off. It encouraged and delighted her to see that Mr. Van Brunt's intention was perfectly fixed. He lay still, without moving his eyes from her face, till she stopped. Then, thanking her, he declared that was a first straight book, and he should like mainly to hear the whole on it. From that time, Ellen was diligent in her attendance on him. That she might have more time for reading than the old plan gave her. She sought off by herself alone sometime before the others, of course, riding home with them. It cost her a little, sometimes, to forego so much of their company. But she never saw the look of grateful pleasure, with which she would welcomed, without ceasing to regret her self-denial. How Ellen blessed those notes as she went on with her reading. They said exactly what she wanted Mr. Van Brunt to hear, and in the best way. They were too short and simple to interrupt the interest of the story. After a while, she ventured to ask if she might read him a chapter in the Bible. He agreed very readily, owning he had an ought to be so long without reading one as he had been. Ellen then made it a rule to herself, without asking any more questions, to end every reading with a chapter in the Bible. And she carefully sought out those that might be most likely to take hold of his judgment or feelings. They took hold of her own very deeply by the means. What was stronger tender before, now seemed to her, too mighty to be withstood. And Ellen read not only with her lips, but with her whole heart, the precious words, longing that they might come with their just effect upon Mr. Van Brunt's mind. Once as she finished reading the 10th chapter of John, a favorite chapter, which between her own feeling of it and her strong wish for him, had moved her even to tears, she cast a glance at his face to see how he took it. His head was a little turned to one side, and his eyes closed. She thought he was asleep. Ellen was very much disappointed. She sank her head upon her book, and prayed that a time might come when he would know the worth of those words. The touch of his hand startled her. What is the matter, said he? Are you tired? No, said Ellen, looking hastily up. Oh, no, I'm not tired. But what else you said the astonish Mr. Van Brunt? What have you been a-crying for? What's the matter? Oh, never mind, said Ellen, brushing her hand over her eyes. It's no matter. Yes, but I want to know, said Mr. Van Brunt. You shan't have anything to vex you that I can help. What is it? It is nothing, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen, bursting into tears again. Only I thought you were asleep. I thought you didn't care enough about the Bible to keep you awake. I want so much that you should be a Christian. He half-growned and turned his head away. What makes you wish that so much, said he, after a minute or two? Because I want you to be happy, said Ellen, and I know you can't without. Well, I am pretty tolerable happy, said he, as happy as most folks, I guess. But I want you to be happy when you die, too, said Ellen. I want to meet you in heaven. I hope I will go there shortly, said he gravely, when the time comes. Ellen was uneasily silent, not knowing what to say. I ain't as good as I ought to be, said he presently, with a half sigh. I ain't good enough to go to heaven. I wish I was. You are, I do believe. I, oh no, Mr. Van Brunt, do not say that. I am not good at all. I am full of wrong things. Well, I wish I was full of wrong things, too, in the same way, said he. But I am, said Ellen, whether you will believe it or not. Nobody is good, Mr. Van Brunt. But Jesus Christ has died for us, and if we ask him, he will forgive us, and wash away our sins, and teach us to love him, and make us good, and take us to be with him in heaven. Oh, I wish you would ask him, she repeated, with an earnestness that went to his heart. I don't believe anyone can be very happy that doesn't love him. Is that what makes you happy, said he? I have a great many things to make me happy, said Ellen soberly, but that is the greatest of all. It always makes me happy to think of him, and it makes everything else a thousand times pleasanter. I wish you knew how it is, Mr. Van Brunt. He was silent for a little, and disturbed, Ellen thought. Well, said he at length, taint the folks that thinks themselves the best that is the best always. If you ain't good, I should like to know what the goodness is. There's somebody that thinks you be, said he, a minute or two afterwards, as the horses were heard coming to the gate. No, she knows me better than that, said Ellen. It isn't any she that I mean, said Mr. Van Brunt. There's somebody else out there, ain't there? Who, said Ellen? Mr. John? Oh no, indeed he don't. It was only this morning he was telling me of something I did that was wrong. Her eyes watered as she spoke. He must have mighty sharp eyes then, said Mr. Van Brunt, for it beats all my powers of seeing things. And so he has, said Ellen, putting on her bonnet. He always knows what I'm thinking of just as well as if I told him. Goodbye. Goodbye, said he. I hadn't forgotten what you've been saying, and I don't mean to. How full of sweet pleasure was the ride home? The something wrong of which Ellen had spoken was this. The day before, it happened that Mr. John had broken her off from a very engaging book to take her drawing lesson. And as he stooped down to give a touch or two to the piece she was to copy, he said, I don't want you to read any more of that, Ellie. It is not a good book for you. Ellen did not for a moment question that he was right, nor wished to disobey. But she had become very much interested and was a good deal annoyed at having such a sudden stop put to her pleasure. She said nothing and went on with her work. In a little while, Alice asked her to hold a scan of cotton for her while she wound it. Ellen was annoyed again at the interruption. The harp strings were jarring yet and gave fresh discord to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her vexation be seen. She went immediately and held the cotton. And as soon as it was done, sat down again to her drawing. Before ten minutes had passed, Marjorie came to set the table for dinner. Ellen's papers and desk must move. Why, it's not time for dinner yet, this great while, Marjorie, said she. It isn't much after twelve. No Miss Ellen said Marjorie under her breath. For John was in one corner of the room reading. But by and by I'll be busy with the chops and frying the celsify and I couldn't leave the kitchen if you let me have the table now. Ellen said no more and moved her things to a stand before the window, where she went on with her copying till dinner was ready. What the reason was, however, her pencil did not work smoothly, her eye did not see true, and she lacked her usual steady patience. The next morning, after an hour and more's work and much painstaking, the drawing was finished. Ellen had quite forgotten her yesterday's trouble. But when John came to review her drawing, he found several faults with it, pointed out to her three places in which it had suffered from haste and want of care, and asked her how it had happened. Ellen knew it happened yesterday. She was vexed again, though she did her best not to show it. She stood quietly and heard what he had to say. He then told her to get ready for her writing lesson. May I just make this right first, said Ellen? It won't take me long. No, said he. You have been sitting long enough. I must break you off. The brownie will be here in ten minutes. Ellen was impatiently eager to mend the bad places in her drawing and impatiently displeased at being obliged to ride first. Slowly and reluctantly, she went to get ready. John was already gone. She would not have moved so leisurely if he had been anywhere within seeing distance. As it was, she found it convenient to quicken her movements and was at the door ready as soon as he and the brownie. She was soon thoroughly engaged in the management of herself and her horse. A little smart writing shook all the ill-humour out of her, and she was entirely herself again. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes, they drew up under the shade of a tree to let the brownie rest a little. It was a warm day, and John had taken off his hat and stood resting too, with his arm leading on the neck of the horse. Presently he looked round to Ellen and asked her with a smile if she felt right again. Why, said Ellen, the crimson of her cheeks mounting to her forehead? But her eye sunk immediately at the answering glance of his. He then, in a very few words, set the matter before her, with such a happy mixture of pointedness and kindness that while the reproof coming from him went to the quick, Ellen yet joined with it no thought of harshness or severity. She was completely subdued, however. The rest of the writing lesson had to be given up, and for an hour Ellen's tears could not be stayed. But it was, and John had meant it should be, a strong check given to her besetting sin. It had a long and lasting effect. End of chapter 39. Chapter 40 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 40, Pradigius. In due time Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must spring to, as their leader said, and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a breath again. For, do what she would, she couldn't be everywhere. Before this, John and the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone again. How long will it be, dear Alice, said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully looking down the road by which she had gone, before he will be through that, before he will be able to leave Doncaster. Next summer. And what will he do then? Then he will be ordained. Ordained? What is that? He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and appointed to it by a number of clergymen. And then will he come and stay at home, Alice? I don't know what then, dear Ellen, said Alice, sighing. He may for a little, but Papa wishes very much that before he has settled anywhere, he should visit England and Scotland and see our friends there, though I hardly think John will do it, unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will probably soon be called somewhere. Mr. Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be. Well, said Ellen, with a kind of a queasing sigh, at any rate now we must wait until next Christmas. The winter passed with little to market, except the usual visits to Ventnor, which, however by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed should not be when John was at home. At all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months, Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter, and it was bargained for, that Mr. Humphries should follow to see them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom. She too had become quite domesticated at Ventnor and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the time she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the boat again, but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter. The latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than anyone else of her age. She has good teachers, said Mrs. Chauncey. Yes, indeed, I should think she had. Alice, I should think anybody would learn well with her. And Mr. John, I suppose he's as good, though I don't know so much about him, but he must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, Mama, for Ellen draws ten times as well as I do. Perhaps that is your fault and not Mr. Sandford, said her mother, though I rather think you overrate the difference. I am sure I take pains enough if that's all, said the little girl. But what more can I do, Mama? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always. She never seems to think she does better than I, and she is always ready to help me and take ever so much time to show me how to do things. She is so pleasant, isn't she, Mama? I know I have heard you say she is very polite. She is certainly that, said Mrs. Gillespie, and there is a grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my comprehension. One would not readily forget the notion of good breeding in the society of Alice and John Humphrey, said Mrs. Sophia. And Mr. Humphrey, said Mrs. Chauncey. There is no society about him, said Mrs. Sophia. He don't say two dozen words a day. But she is not with them, said Mrs. Gillespie. She is with them a great deal, Aunt Matilda, said Ellen Chauncey, and they teach her everything, and she does learn. She must be very clever, don't you think she is, Mama? Mama, she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about English history and arithmetic, and did you ever hear her sing, Mama? I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation of others, said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling and bending forward to kiss her daughter. But what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in history than you? I don't know, Mama, unless I wish I wasn't so fond of reading stories. Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them all weren't, said Mrs. Sophia. Yes, oh, I know she is fond of them, but then Alice and Mr. John don't let her read them, except now and then one. I fancy she does it though when their backs are turned, said Mrs. Gillespie. She, oh yeah, Matilda, she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first. She is a most extraordinary child, said Mrs. Gillespie. She is a good child, said Mrs. Chauncey. Yes, Mama, and that is what I wanted to say. I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could help being polite. It is not that, said Mrs. Gillespie. Mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved child. That she is, said Mrs. Chauncey, but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper. That's exactly what I think, Mama, said Ellen Chauncey. Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her. It was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline had not done with it yet. When the winter came on and the housework grew less and with renewed vigor she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it came unluckily into Miss Fortune's head that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do, were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her downstairs with a big spinning wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin. So much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing and studying. Her very heart sunk with her. She made no remonstrance unless her disconsolate face might be thought one. She stood half a day at the big spinning wheel, fretting secretly while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day. She must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room and a long, hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. To be patient and quiet and spin nobody knows how much yarn and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading, Ellen cried very heartily, but she knew what she ought to do. She prayed long, humbly, earnestly that her little rush light might shine bright and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes if overpressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop, saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such things. Miss Fortune never made any objection and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt wrought better things yet for the little spinner. Patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them. This weary some work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was held the more precious and used the more carefully. After all, it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her. John's visit came as usual at the holidays and was enjoyed as usual. Only the everyone seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The only other event that broke the quiet course of things, besides the journeys to Ventnor was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry, both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's. Who she was sure felt much, though according to his general custom, he said nothing. Ellen felt for him nonetheless. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future while being. The winter passed and the spring came. One fine mild pleasant afternoon, early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked to Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap and before her a huge sheep of white beans which she was picking over for the Saturday's favorite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face. I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't, all these to do. Beans, eh? said he, putting one or two in his mouth. Where's your aunt? Here, ma'am, said he. Can't you let this child go with me? I want her along to help feed the sheep. To Ellen's astonishment, her aunt called to her through the closed door to go along and leave the beans till she came back. Joyfully, Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap, which would still be there to pick over when she returned and ran to get her bonnet. And all the time she had been at Thirlwall, something had always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure. They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn to a low rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this, they came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain. Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky woodland that lay on the far side of the wheat field. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow. The trees were beginning to show their leaves. The air was soft and spring-like. In great glee, Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than ever. He amused himself all the way over the meadow with turning over his salt and tasting it. Till Ellen laughingly told him, she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were. And then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again by laughing at his wastefulness and so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was feigned to stop and wait for her. Aren't these lovely, said Ellen, as she came up with her hands full of anemones. And look, there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out before now, the dear little thing. But I can't find any blood root, Mr. Van Brunt. I guess they're gone, said Mr. Van Brunt. I suppose they must, said Ellen. I am sorry. I like them so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago, when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of by not having been to look for flowers before the spring. It had an ought to have happened. That's a fact, said Mr. Van Brunt. I don't know how it has. Oh, there are my yellow bells, exclaimed Ellen. Oh, you beauties, aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt? I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer, said he, with his half-smile. Why, Mr. Van Brunt, how can you? But an ear of wheat's pretty, too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what is that? Do you get me some of it, will you please? Oh, how beautiful, what is it? That's black birch, said he. Tis kind of handsome. Stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon seal. Do you want some of that? Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and before she could rise from her stooping posture, discovered some cow slips to be scrambled for. Wild cowambine, the delicate quarry dallas, and moral varias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail. Now I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt, said she, when her hands were as full as they could hold. I have kept you a great while. You were very good to wait for me. They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last piece of Rocky Woodland, came to an open hillside, sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones. But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen? I guess they ain't first, said he. You keep quiet, because they don't know you, and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the fence. Kanan, kanan, kanan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan. This was the sheep-call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it sound abroad far over the hills, again and again it sounded, and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep at the edge of the woods, on the top of the hill. On the call sounding again, the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running along a narrow footpath, down towards where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light-hooks in another direction turned Ellen's eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great hurry. Till they got very near, then the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and evoked very wistfully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt, and the strange little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt were not a traitor, who had put on a friend's voice, and lured them down there with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt, gently repeating his call, went quietly up to the nearest stone, and began to scatter the salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end. He had hung out the white flag. They flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt. The rocks where it was strung recovered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice, heaped up with snow, or queen cakes, with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one scene of pushing and crowding, those which had not had their share of the feast, forcing themselves up to get at it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, the busy, hustling crowd of gentle creatures, with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening, and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part, still lingered upon the stones, and the vain hope of yet licking a little saltiness from them. Well said Ellen, I never knew what salt was worth before. How they do love it. Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt? Good for them, said he, to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a critter that walks, as I know, that it ain't good for. Except chickens, and it's very queer, it kills them. They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her hand, and greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible. She was going home very happy. Yet she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together, and she wondered what had possessed him with the desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking sticks. He did not want to make any use of them. That was certain. For as fast as he caught and trimmed at one, he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields, and there was none to be found. It was just about this time a year ago, said she. The ant fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness. Yes, said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air. Something is always happening most years. Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark. I am very glad nothing is happening this year, said she. I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly. Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I suppose. Might end it? I don't know, said Ellen, wonderingly. Why, Mr. Van Brunt, what is going to happen? I declare, said he, half- laughing. You're as cute as a razor. I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I? But is there, said Ellen? Hancher Ant said nothing to you about it? Why, no, said Ellen. She never tells me anything. What is it? Why, the story is, said Mr. Van Brunt. At least I know, for I've understood as much from herself, that I believe she's going to be married before long. She exclaimed, Ellen, married, ant fortune. I believe so, said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft of tall grass, and pulling off to her three spears of it, which he carried to his mouth. There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or meadow. Two frameworks into another sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time. Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt? Why, pretty soon, as soon as next week, I guess. So I thought it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who? I don't know, said Ellen, in a low voice. I couldn't help guessing. I reckoned you've guessed about right, said he, without looking at her. There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels. They were in such confusion. The short and the long of it is, said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded the corner of the barn. We have made up our minds to draw in the same yoke, and were both honest, pretty go-ahead folks. So I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as leaf tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back. A forever you came to throw all. But I was never going to leave my old mother without a home, so I stuck to her, and wood to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is gone, and there's nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the whole on it, and I wanted you should. With this particularly quill statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barnyard, leaving Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the chipyard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically, she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans. But the beans might have been flowers, and the flowers beans, for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's faces most carefully for a long time. Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes. And it is a matter of great uncertainty, which, in fact, did first look at the other. Other than this, there was no manner of difference in anything without the house or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely speechless was not a very uncommon thing. End of chapter 40.