 15 Mother Earth Rather Than Aunt Fortune The afternoon was already half spent when Mr. Van Brunt's ox cart was seen returning. Ellen was standing by the little gate that opened on the chipyard, and with her heart beating anxiously she watched the slow coming oxen. How slowly they came! At last they turned out of the lane and drew the cart up the ascent, and stopping beneath the apple-tree, Mr. Van Brunt leisurely got down, and flinging back his whip came to the gate. But the little face that met him there quivering with hope and fear made his own quite sorry. I'm really very sorry, Miss Ellen, he began. That was enough. Ellen waited to hear no more, but turned away, the cold chill of disappointment coming over her heart. She had borne the former delays pretty well, but this was one too many, and she felt sick. She went round to the front stoop, where scarcely ever anybody came, and sitting down on the steps wept sadly and despairingly. It might have been half an hour or more after that the kitchen door slowly opened and Ellen came in. Wishing her aunt should not see her swollen eyes, she was going quietly through to her own room when Miss Fortune called her. Ellen stopped. Miss Fortune was sitting before the fire with an open letter lying in her lap and another in her hand. The latter she held out to Ellen, saying, Here, child, come and take this. What is it, said Ellen, slowly coming towards her? Don't you see what it is, said Miss Fortune, still holding it out? But who is it from, said Ellen? Your mother. A letter from Mama and not to me, said Ellen, with changing color. She took it quick from her aunt's hand, but her color changed more as her eye fell upon the first words. My dear Ellen, and turning the paper she saw upon the back, Miss Ellen Montgomery. Her next look was to her aunt's face, with her eye fired, and her cheek paled with anger, and when she spoke her voice was not the same. This is my letter, she said trembling, who opened it? Miss Fortune's conscience must have troubled her a little, for her eye wavered uneasily. Only for a second, though. Who opened it? She answered, I opened it. I should like to know who has a better right, and I shall open every one that comes to serve you for looking so, that you may depend upon. The look and the words, and the injury together, fairly put Ellen beside herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and lived it in trembling with various feelings. Rage was not the only one. She ran from her aunt's presence. She did not shed any tears now. She could not. They were absolutely burnt up by passion. She walked her room with trembling steps, clasping and wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking what could she do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and unable to see anything but misery before her. She walked, for she could not sit down. But presently she felt that she could not breathe the air of the house, and taking her bonnet she went down, passed through the kitchen, and went out. This fortune asked where she was going, and bade her stay within doors. But Ellen paid no attention to her. She stood still a moment outside the little gate. She might have stood long to look. The mellow light of an Indian summer afternoon lay upon the meadow and the old barn and chip yard. There was beauty in them all under its smile. Not a breath was stirring. The rays of the sun struggled through a blue haze which hung upon the hills and softened every distant object, and the silence of nature all around was absolute, made more noticeable by the far-off voice of somebody. It might be Mr. Van Brunt calling to his oxen, very far off and not to be seen. The sound came softly to her ear through the stillness. Peace was the whisper of nature to her troubled child, but Ellen's heart was in a whirl. She could not hear the whisper. It was a relief, however, to be out of the house and in the sweet open air. Ellen breathed more freely, and pausing a moment there, and clasping her hands together once more in sorrow. She went down the road and out at the gate, and, exchanging her quick, broken step for a slow-measured one, she took the way towards Thirlwall. Little regarding the loveliness which that day was upon every slope and roadside, Ellen presently quitted the Thirlwall road, and half unconsciously, turned into a path on the left which she had never taken before, perhaps for that reason. It was not much traveled, evidently. The grass grew green on both sides, and even in the middle of the way, though here and there the track of wheels could be seen. Ellen did not care about where she was going. She only found it pleasant to walk on, and get further from home. The lane or road led towards a mountain, somewhat to the northward of Miss Fortune's, the same which Mr. Van Brunt had once named to Ellen as the nose. After three-quarters of an hour, the road began gently to ascend the mountain, rising toward the north. About one-third of the way from the bottom, Ellen came to a little footpath on the left, which alerted her by its promise of prettiness, and she forsook the lane for it. The promise was abundantly fulfilled. It was a most lovely, wild, wood-way path, but with all not a little steep and rocky. Ellen began to grow weary. The lane went on towards the north. The path rather led off towards the southern edge of the mountain, rising all the way. But before she reached that, Ellen came to what she thought a good resting place, where the path opened upon a small-level platform or ledge of the hill. The mountain rose steep behind her, and sank very steep immediately before her, leaving a very superb view of the open country from the northeast to the southeast, carpeted with moss and furnished with fallen stones and pieces of rock. This was a fine resting place for the Wayfarer, or a loitering place for the lover of nature. Ellen seated herself on one of the stones, and looked sadly and wearyly towards the east, at first very careless of the exceeding beauty of what she beheld there. For miles and miles on every side but the west lay stretched before her a beautifully broken country. The November haze hung over it now like a thin veil, giving great sweetness and softness to the scene. Near in the distance a range of low hills showed like a misty cloud. Nearby, at the mountain's foot, the fields and farmhouses and roadslay, a pictured map. About a mile and a half to the south rose the mountain where Nancy Voss lived, craggy and bare, but the leafless trees and stern jagged rocks were wrapped in the haze, and through this the sun, now near the setting, threw his mellowing rays, touching every slope and ridge with a rich warm glow. For Ellen did not heed the picturesque effect of all this, yet the sweet influence of nature reached her, and softened while they increased her sorrow. She felt her own heart sadly out of tune with the peace and loveliness of all she saw. Her eyes saw those distant hills, how very far off they were, and yet all that wide-tracked of country was but a little peace of what lay between her and her mother. Her eyes saw those hills, but her mind overpassed them, and went far beyond, over many such a tract, till it reached the loved one at last. But, oh, how much between! I cannot reach her, she cannot reach me, thought poor Ellen. Her eyes had been filling and dropping tears for some time, but now came the rush of the pent-up storm, and the floods of grief were kept back no longer. When once fairly excited, Ellen's passions were always extreme. During the former peaceful and happy part of her life, the occasions of such excitement had been very rare. Of late, unhappily, they had occurred much oftener. Many were the bitter fits of tears she had known within a few weeks. But now it seemed as if all the scattered causes of sorrow that had wrought those tears were gathered together, and pressing upon her at once that the burden would crush her to the earth. To the earth it brought her literally. She slid from her seat at first, and embracing the stone on which she had sat, she leaned her head there. But presently, in her agony, quitting her hold of that, she cast herself down upon the moss, lying at her full length upon the cold ground, which seemed, to her childish fancy, the best friend she had left. But Ellen was raw up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears brought no relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In the extremity of her distress and despair, and in that lonely place, out of hearing of everyone, she sobbed aloud, and even screamed for almost the first time in her life. And these fits of violence were succeeded by exhaustion, during which she ceased to shed tears, and lay quite still, drawing only long, sobbing sighs now and then. How long Ellen had leaned there, or how long this would have gone on before her strength had been quite worn out, no one can tell. In one of these fits of forced quiet, when she lay as still as the rocks around her, she heard a voice close by say, What is the matter, my child? The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the tempest in Ellen's mind. She got up hastily, and brushing away the tears from her dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady standing there, and a face whose sweetness well matched the voice, looking upon her with grave concern. She stood motionless and silent. What is the matter, my dear? The tone found Ellen's heart, and brought the water to her eyes again, though with a difference. She covered her face with her hands, but gentle hands were placed upon hers, and drew them away. And the lady, sitting down on Ellen's stone, took her in her arms, and Ellen hid her face in the bosom of a better friend than the cold earth had been like to prove her. But the change overcame her, and the soft whisper, don't cry anymore, made it impossible to stop crying. Nothing further was said for some time. The lady waited till Ellen grew calmer. When she saw her able to answer, she said gently, what does all this mean, my child? What troubles you? Tell me, and I think we can find a way to mend matters. Ellen answered the tone of voice with a faint smile, but the words with another gush of tears. You were Ellen Montgomery, aren't you? Yes, ma'am. I thought so. This isn't the first time I've seen you. I have seen you once before. Ellen looked up surprised. Have you, ma'am? I'm sure I have never seen you. No, I know that. I saw you when you didn't see me. Where do you think? I can't tell, I am sure, said Ellen. I can't guess. I haven't seen you at Aunt Fortunes, and I haven't been anywhere else. You have forgotten, said the lady. Did you never hear of a little girl who went to take a walk once upon a time, and had an unlucky fall into a brook, and then went to a kind old lady's house, where she was dried, and put to bed, and went to sleep? Oh yes, said Ellen. Did you see me there, ma'am? And when I was asleep? I saw you there when you were asleep. And Mrs. Van Brunt told me who you were, and where you lived. And when I came here a little while ago, I knew you again very soon. And I knew what the matter was, too, pretty well. But nevertheless, tell me all about it, Ellen. Perhaps I can help you. Ellen shook her head dejectedly. Nobody in this world can help me, she said. Then there's one in heaven that can, said the lady, steadily. Nothing is too bad for him to mend. Have you asked his help, Ellen? Ellen began to weep again. Oh, if I could, I would tell you all about it, ma'am, she said. But there are so many things. I don't know where to begin. I don't know when I should ever get through. So many things that trouble you, Ellen? Yes, ma'am. I am sorry for that, indeed. But never mind, dear. Tell me what they are. Begin with the worst. And if I haven't time to hear them all now, I'll find time another day. Begin with the worst. But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed herself at Ellen's distress, which was extreme. Don't cry so, my child. Don't cry so, she said, pressing her in her arms. What is the matter? Hardly anything in this world is so bad it can't be mended. I think I know what troubles you so. It is that your dear mother is away from you, isn't it? Oh, no, ma'am. Ellen could scarcely articulate. But struggling with herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again, and more clearly. The worst is. Oh, the worst is. That I meant. I meant to be a good child, and I have been worse than I ever was in my life before. Her tears gushed forth. But how, Ellen, said her surprised friend after a pause, I don't quite understand you. When did you mean to be a good child? Didn't you always mean so? And what have you been doing? Ellen made a great effort, and ceased crying, straightened herself, dashed away her tears, as if determined to shed no more, and presently spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then threatened to interrupt her. I will tell you, ma'am, that first day I left Mama, when I was on board the steamboat and feeling as badly as I could feel, a kind, kind gentleman, I don't know who he was, came to me and spoke to me, and took care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him again. He talked to me a great deal. He wanted me to be a Christian. He wanted me to make up my mind to begin that day to be one. And, ma'am, I did. I did resolve with my whole heart, and I thought I should be different from that time, from what I had ever been before, but I think I have never been so bad in my life as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right, I have felt wrong all the time, almost, and I can't help it. I have been passionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming, and I know it's wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh, ma'am, I haven't changed my mind a bit. I think just the same as I did that day. I want to be a Christian more than anything else in the world, but I am not, and what shall I do? Her face sank in her hands again. And this is your great trouble, said her friend? Yes. Do you remember who said, come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest? Ellen looked up inquiringly. You are grave to find yourself so unlike what you would be. You wish to be a child of the dear savior, and to have your heart filled with his love, and to do what will please him. Do you? Have you gone to him day by day and night by night and told him so? Have you begged him to give you strength to get the better of your wrong feelings, and asked him to change you and make you his child? At first I did, ma'am, said Ellen, in a low voice, not lately. No, ma'am, in a tone lower still and looking down. Then you have neglected your Bible in prayer for some time past. Ellen hardly uttered, yes. Why, my child? I don't know, ma'am, said Ellen, weeping. That is one of the things that made me think myself so very wicked. I couldn't like to read my Bible or pray either, though I always used to before. My Bible lay down quite at the bottom of my trunk, and I didn't even like to raise my things enough to see the cover of it. I was so full of bad feelings I didn't feel fit to pray or read either. Ah, that is the way with the wisest of us, said her companion. How apt we are to shrink from our physician just when we are in most need of him. But Ellen, dear, that isn't right. No hand but his can touch that sickness you are complaining of. Seek it, love, seek it. He will hear and help you no doubt about it. In every trouble you carry, simply and humbly to his feet, he has promised, you know. Ellen was weeping very much, but less bitterly than before. The clouds were breaking and light beginning to shine through. Shall we pray together now, said her companion, after a few minutes' pause? Oh, if you please, ma'am, do, Ellen answered, through her tears. And they knelt together there on the moss beside the stone, where Ellen's had rested and her friend's folded hands were laid. It might have been two children speaking to their father for the simplicity of that prayer. Difference of age seemed to be forgotten and what suited one suited the other. It was not without difficulty that the speaker carried it calmly through. For Ellen's sobs went nigh to check her more than once. When they rose, Ellen silently sought her friend's arms again and laying her face on her shoulder and putting both arms round her neck, she wept still. But what different tears? It was like the gentle rain falling through sunshine after the dark cloud and the thunder and the hurricane have passed by. And they kissed each other before either of them spoke. You will not forget your Bible in prayer again, Ellen? Oh, no, ma'am. Then I am sure you will find the causes of your trouble grow less. I will not hear the rest of them now. In a day or two, I hope you will be able to give me a very different account from what you would have done an hour ago. But besides that, it is getting late and it will not do for us to stay too long up here. You have a good way to go to reach home. Will you come and see me tomorrow afternoon? Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed I will, if I can and if you will tell me where. Instead of turning up this little rocky path, you must keep straight on in the road, that's all. And it's the first house you come to. It isn't very far from here. Where were you going on the mountain? Nowhere, ma'am. Have you been any higher up than this? No, ma'am. Then before we go away, I want to show you something. I'll take you over the bridge of the nose. It isn't but a step or two more. A little rough to be sure, but you mustn't mind that. What is the bridge of the nose, ma'am, said Ellen, as they left her resting place and began to toil up the path which grew more steep and rocky than ever. You know this mountain is called the nose. Just here it runs out to a very thin, sharp edge. We shall come to a place presently where you turn a very sharp corner to get from one side of the hill to the other. And my brother named it, jokingly, the bridge of the nose. Why do they give them out in such a queer name, said Ellen? I don't know, I'm sure. The people say that from one point of view, this side of it looks very like a man's nose, but I never could find it out and have some doubt about the fact. But now here we are. Just come round this great rock. Mind how you step, Ellen. Now, look there. The rock they had just turned was at their backs and they looked towards the west. Both exclaimed at the beauty before them. The view was not so extended as the one they had left. On the north and south, the broken wavy outline of mountains closed in the horizon, but far to the west stretched an opening between the hills through which the setting sun sent his long beams even to their feet. In the distance, all was a golden haze. Nearer on the right and left, the hills were lit up singularly and there was a most beautiful mingling of deep, hazy shadow and bright glowing mountain sides and ridges. A glory was upon the valley. Far down below at their feet lay a large lake gleaming in the sunlight and at the upper end of it, a village of some size showed like a cluster of white dots. How beautiful, said the lady again. Ellen dear, he whose hand raised up those mountains and has painted them so gloriously is the very same one who has said to you and me, ask and it shall be given you. Ellen looked up, their eyes met. Her answer was in that grateful glance. The lady sat down and drew Ellen close to her. Do you see that little white village yonder down at the far end of the lake? That is the village of Cara Cara and that is Cara Cara Lake. That is where I go to church. You cannot see the little church from here. My father preaches there every Sunday morning. You must have a long way to go, said Ellen. Yes, a pretty long way, but it's very pleasant though. I mount my little gray pony and he carries me there in quick time when I will let him. I never wish the way shorter. I go in all sorts of weathers to Ellen. Sharp and I don't mind frost and snow. Who is sharp, said Ellen? My pony, an odd name, isn't it? It wasn't of my choosing, Ellen, but he deserves it if ever pony did. He's a very cunning little fellow. Where do you go, Ellen, to Thirlwall? To church, ma'am, I don't go anywhere. Doesn't your aunt go to church? She hasn't since I have been here. What do you do with yourself on Sunday? Nothing, ma'am. I don't know what to do with myself all the day long. I get tired of being in the house and I go out of doors and then I get tired of being out of doors and coming again. I wanted a kitten dreadfully, but Mr. Van Brunt, said Aunt Fortune, would not let me keep one. Did you want a kitten to help you keep Sunday, Ellen, said her friend, smiling? Yes, I did, ma'am, said Ellen, smiling again. I thought it would be a great deal of company for me. I got very tired of reading all day long and I had nothing to read but the Bible. And you know, ma'am, I told you I have been all wrong ever since I came here and I didn't like to read that much. My poor child, said the lady, you have been hardly be stead, I think. What if you were to come and spend next Sunday with me? Don't you think I should do instead of a kitten? Oh, yes, ma'am, I am sure of it, said Ellen, clinging to her. Oh, I'll come gladly if you will let me and Aunt Fortune will let me. And I hope she will, for she said last Sunday I was the plague of her life. What did you do to make her say so, said her friend gravely? Only asked her for some books, ma'am. Well, my dear, I see I'm getting upon another of your troubles and we haven't time for that now. By your own account you have been much and fought yourself and I trust you will find all things mend with your own mending. But now there goes the sun and you and I must follow his example. The lake ceased to gleam and the houses of the village were less plainly to be seen. Still the mountain heads were as bright as ever. Gradually the shadows crept up their sides while the gray of evening settled deeper and deeper upon the valley. There, said Ellen, that's just what I was wondering at the other morning. Only then the light shone upon the top of the mountain first and walked down and now it leaves the bottom first and walks up. I asked Mr. Van Brunt about it and he could not tell me. That's another of my troubles. There's nobody that could tell me anything. Put me in mind of it tomorrow and I'll try to make you understand it, said the lady. But we must not tarry now. I see you are likely to find me work enough, Ellen. I'll not ask you a question, ma'am, if you don't like it, said Ellen earnestly. I do like, I do like, said the other. I spoke laughingly. For I see you will be apt to ask me a good many, as many as you please, my dear. Thank you, ma'am, said Ellen, as they ran down the hill. They keep coming into my head all the while. It was easier going down than coming up. They soon arrived at the place where Ellen had left the road to take the wood path. Here we part, said the lady. Good night. Good night, ma'am. There was a kiss and a squeeze of the hand, but when Ellen would have turned away, the lady still held her fast. You are an odd little girl, said she. I give you liberty to ask me questions. Yes, ma'am, said Ellen doubtfully. There's a question you have not asked me that I've been expecting. Do you know who I am? No, ma'am. Don't you want to know? Yes, ma'am, very much, said Ellen, laughing at her friend's look. But mama told me never to try to find out anything about other people that they didn't wish me to know or that wasn't my business. Well, I think this is your business decidedly. Who are you going to ask for when you come to see me tomorrow? Will you ask for the young lady that lives in this house? Or will you give a description of my nose and eyes and height? Ellen laughed. My dear Ellen, said the lady, changing her tone. Do you know you please me very much? For one person that shows herself well-bred in this matter, there are a thousand, I think, to ask impertinent questions. I'm very glad you are an exception to the common rule. But dear Ellen, I'm quite willing you should know my name. It is Alice Humphries. Now kiss me again and run home. It is quite, quite time. I have kept you too late. Good night, my dear. Tell your aunt I beg she will allow you to take tea with me tomorrow. They parted, and Ellen hastened homewards, urged by the rapidly growing dusk of the evening. She trod the green turf with a step lighter and quicker than it had been a few hours before, and she regained her home in much less time than it had taken her to come from thence to the mountain. Lights were in the kitchen and the table set, but though weary and faint, she was willing to forego her supper rather than meet her aunt just then. So she still quietly up to her room. She did not forget her friend's advice. She had no light she could not read, but Ellen did pray. She did carry all her heart sickness, her wants, and her woes to that friend whose ears always open to the cry of those who call upon him in truth, and then relieved, refreshed, almost healed. She went to bed and slept sweetly. End of chapter 15. Chapter 16 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 16. Council, Cakes, and Captain Perry. Early next morning, Ellen awoke with a sense that something pleasant had happened. Then the joyful reality darted into her mind and jumping out of bed. She said about her morning work with a better heart than she had been able to bring to it for many a long day. When she had finished, she went to the window. She had found out how to keep it open now by means of a big nail stuck in a hole under the sash. It was very early, and in the perfect stillness, the soft gurgle of the little brook came distinctly to her ear. Ellen leaned her arms on the windowsill and tasted the morning air, almost wondering at its sweetness and at the loveliness of field and sky and the bright eastern horizon. Four days and days all had looked dark and sad. There were two reasons for the change. In the first place, Ellen had made up her mind to go straight on in the path of duty. In the second place, she had found a friend. Her little heart bounded with delight and swelled with thankfulness at the thought of Ellis Humphreys. She was once more at peace with herself and had even some notion of being by and by at peace with her aunt, though a sad twinge came over her whenever she thought of her mother's letter. But there is only one way for me, she thought. All do is that dear Miss Humphreys told me, it's good and early, and I shall have a fine time before breakfast yet to myself, and I'll get up so every morning and have it. That'll be the very best plan I can hit upon. As she thought of this, she drew forth her Bible from its place at the bottom of her trunk and opening it at hazard. She began to read the 18th chapter of Matthew. Some of it she did not quite understand, but she paused with pleasure at the 14th verse. That means me, she thought. The 21st and 22nd verses struck her a good deal, but when she came to the last, she was almost startled. There it is again, she said, that is exactly what that gentleman said to me. I thought I was forgiven, but how can I be? For I feel I have not forgiven Aunt Fortune. Laying aside her book, Ellen kneeled down, but this one thought so pressed upon her mind that she could think of scarce anything else, and her prayer this morning was an urgent and repeated petition that she might be enabled from her heart to forgive her Aunt Fortune, all her trespasses. Poor Ellen, she felt it was very hard work. At the very minute she was striving to feel at peace with her aunt, one grievance after another would start up to remembrance, and she knew the feelings that met them were far enough from the spirit of forgiveness. In the midst of this she was called down. She rose with tears in her eyes, and what shall I do in her heart? Bowing her head once more, she earnestly prayed that if she could not yet feel right towards her aunt, she might be kept at least from acting or speaking wrong. Poor Ellen, in the heart is the spring of action, and she found it so this morning. Her aunt and Mr. Van Brunt were already at the table. Ellen took her place in silence. For one look at her aunt's face told her that no good morning would be accepted. Miss Fortune was in a particularly bad humor, owing, among other things, to Mr. Van Brunt's having refused to eat his breakfast unless Ellen was called. An unlucky piece of kindness. She neither spoke to Ellen nor looked at her. Mr. Van Brunt did what in him lay to make amends. He helped her very carefully to the cold pork and potatoes, and handed her the well-piled platter of griddle cakes. Here's the first buckwheats of the season, said he, and I told Miss Fortune I weren't going to eat one of them if you didn't come down to enjoy them along with us. Take two, take two. You want them to keep each other hot. Ellen's look and smile thanked him. As following his advice, she covered one generous buckwheat with another as ample. That's the thing. Now here's some prime maple. You like them, I guess, don't you? I don't know yet. I've never seen any, said Ellen. Never seen buckwheats, why they're most as good as my mother's splitters. Buckwheat cakes and maple molasses, that's food fit for a king, I think, when they're good and Miss Fortune's are always first rate. Miss Fortune did not relent at all at this compliment. What makes you so white this morning, Mr. Van Brunt presently went on? You ain't well, be you? Yes, said Ellen doubtfully. I'm well. She's as well as I am, Mr. Van Brunt, if you don't go and put her up to any notions, Miss Fortune said, in a kind of choked voice. Mr. Van Brunt hemmed and said no more to the end of breakfast time. Ellen rather dreaded what was to come next. For her aunt's look was ominous. In dead silence the things were put away and put up, and in the course of washing and drying when Miss Fortune suddenly broke forth. What did you do with yourself yesterday afternoon? I was up on the mountains, said Ellen. What mountain? I believe they call it the nose. What business had you up there? I hadn't any business there. What did you go there for? Nothing. Nothing? You expect me to believe that? You call yourself a truth teller, I suppose. Mama used to say I was, said poor Ellen, striving to swallow her feelings. Your mother, I daresay, mothers always are blind. I daresay she took everything you said for gospel. Ellen was silent, from sheer want of words that were pointed enough to suit her. I wish Morgan could have had the gumption to marry in his own country, but he must go running after a Scotch woman. A Yankee would have brought up his child to be worth something. Give me Yankees. Ellen sat down the cup she was wiping. You don't know anything about my mother, she said. You oughtn't to speak so, it's not right. Why ain't it right, I should like to know, said misfortune. This is a free country, I guess. Our tongues ain't tied, we're all free here. I wish we were, muttered Ellen. I know what I'd do. What would you do, said misfortune. Ellen was silent, her aunt repeated the question in a sharper tone. I oughtn't to say what I was going to, said Ellen. I'd rather not. I don't care, said misfortune. You begin and you shall finish it. I will hear what it was. I was going to say, if we were all free, I would run away. Well, that is a beautiful, well-behaved speech. I'm glad to have heard it. I admire it very much. Now, what were you doing yesterday up on the nose? Pleased to go on wiping. There's a pile ready for you. What were you doing yesterday afternoon? Ellen hesitated. Were you alone or with somebody? I was alone part of the time. And who were you with the rest of the time? Miss Humphreys. Miss Humphreys, what were you doing with her, talking? Did you ever see her before? No, ma'am. Where did you find her? She found me up on the hill. What were you talking about? Ellen was silent. What were you talking about, repeated misfortune. I had rather not tell. And I had rather you should tell, so out with it. I was alone with Miss Humphreys, said Ellen, and it is no matter what we were talking about. It doesn't concern anybody but her and me. Yes it does, it concerns me, said her aunt, and I choose to know. What were you talking about? Ellen was silent. Will you tell me? No, said Ellen, low but resolutely. I vow you're enough to try the patience of Job. Look here, said Miss Fortune, setting down what she had in her hands. I will know. I don't care what it was, but you shall tell me, or I'll find a way to make you. I'll give you such a... Stop, stop, said Ellen wildly. You must not speak to me so. Mama never did, and you have no right to. If Mama or Papa were here, you would not dare talk to me so. The answer to this was a sharp box on the ear from Miss Fortune's wet hand. Half stunned, lest by the blow than the tumult of feeling it roused. Ellen stood a moment, and then throwing down her towel, she ran out of the room, shivering with passion, and brushing off the soapy water left on her face as if it had been her aunt's very hand. Violent tears burst forth as soon as she reached her own room. Tears at first of anger and mortification only, but conscience presently began to whisper, you are wrong, you are wrong, and tears of sorrow mingled with the others. Oh, said Ellen, why couldn't I keep still when I had resolved so this morning? Why couldn't I be quiet? But she ought not to have provoked me so dreadfully. I couldn't help it. You are wrong, said conscience again. And her tears flowed faster. And then came back her mourning trouble, the duty and the difficulty of forgiving. Forgive her aunt Fortune with her whole heart and a passion of displeasure against her. Alas, Ellen began to feel and acknowledged that indeed all was wrong. But what to do? There was just one comfort, the visit to Miss Humphries in the afternoon. She will tell me, thought Ellen, she will help me. But in the meanwhile, Ellen had not much time to think. Her aunt called her down and set her to work. She was very busy till dinner time and very unhappy. But 20 times in the course of the morning did Ellen pause for a moment and covering her face with her hands, pray that a heart to forgive might be given her. As soon as possible after dinner, she made her escape to the room that she might prepare for her walk. Conscience was not quite easy that she was going without the knowledge of her aunt. She had debated the question with herself and could not make up her mind to hazard losing her visit. So she dressed herself very carefully. One of her dark marinos was affectionately put on, her single pair of white stockings, shoes, ruffle, cape. Ellen saw that all was faultlessly neat, just as her mother used to have it. And the nice blue hood lay upon the bed ready to be put on at the last thing. When she heard her aunt's voice calling, Ellen, come down and do your ironing right away now. The irons are hot. For one moment, Ellen stood still in this may, then slowly undressed, dressed again, and went downstairs. Come, you've been in age, said misfortune. Now make haste, there ain't but a handful and I want to mop up. Ellen took courage again, ironed away with the right goodwill. And as there was really but a handful of things, she had soon done, even to taking off the ironing blanket and putting up the irons. In the meantime, she had changed her mind as to stealing off without leave. Her conscience was too strong for her. And though with a beating heart, she told of Miss Humphrey's desire and her half-engagement. You may go where you like. I am sure I do not care what you do with yourself was misfortune's reply. Full of delight at this ungracious permission, Ellen fled upstairs and dressing much quicker than before was soon on her way. But at first she went rather sadly. In spite of all her good resolves and wishes, everything that day had gone wrong. And Ellen felt that the root of the evil was in her own heart. Some tears fell as she walked. Further from her aunt's house, however, her spirits began to rise. Her foot fell lighter on the Greensward. Hope and expectation quickened her steps. And when at length she passed the little woodpath, it was almost on a run. Not very far beyond that, her glad eyes saw the house she was inquestive. It was a large white house, not very white either, for its last dress of pink had grown old long ago. It stood close by the road, and the trees of the wood seemed to throng-ground it on every side. Ellen mounted the few steps that led to the front door and knocked. But as she could only just reach the high-knocker, she was not likely to alarm anybody with the noise she made. After a great many little faint raps, which, if anybody heard them, might easily have been mistaken for the attacks of some rat's teeth upon the wainscote, Ellen grew weary of her fruitless toil and of standing on tiptoe, and resolved, though doubtfully, to go round the house and see if there was any other way of getting in. Turning the far corner, she saw a long, low-out building, or shed, jutting out from the side of the house. On the further side of this, Ellen found an elderly woman standing in front of the shed, which was there opened and paved, and ringing some clothes out of a tub of water. She was a pleasant woman to look at, very trim and tidy, and a good-humored eye and smile when she saw Ellen. Ellen made up to her and asked for Miss Humphreys. Why, where in the world did you come from, said the woman? I don't receive company at the back of the house. I knacked at the front door till I was tired, said Ellen, smiling in return. Miss Alice must have been asleep. Now, honey, you have come so far round to find me. Will you go a little further and find Miss Alice? Just go round this corner and keep straight along till you come to the glass door. There you'll find her. Stop, maybe she's asleep. I may as well go along with you myself. She wrung the water from her hands and led the way. A little space of green grass stretched in front of the shed, and Ellen found it extended all along that side of the house, like a very narrow lawn. At the edge of it shot up the high forest trees, nothing between them and the house but the smooth grass, and a narrow, worn footpath. The woods were now all brown stems, except here and there a superb hemlock and some scattered, silvery birches. But the grass was still green, and the last day of the Indian summer hung its soft veil over all. The foliage of the forest was hardly missed. They passed another hall door, opposite the one where Ellen had tried her strength and patience upon the knocker. A little further on they paused at the glass door. One step led to it. Ellen's conductress looked in first through one of the panes, and then opening the door, motioned her to enter. Here you are, my new acquaintance, said Alice, smiling and kissing her. I began to think something was a matter. You tarried so late. We don't keep fashionable hours in the country, you know. But I'm very glad to see you. Take off your things and lay them on that set tee by the door. You see I have a set tee for summer and a sofa for winter, for here I am in this room at all times of the year. And a very pleasant room, I think it, don't you? Yes, indeed I do, ma'am, said Ellen, pulling off her last glove. But wait till you have taken tea with me half a dozen times and then see if you don't say it's pleasant. Nothing can be so pleasant that it's quite new. But now come here and look out of this window or door, whichever you choose to call it. Do you see what a beautiful view I have here? The wood was just as thick all along as it is on the right and left. I felt half smothered to be so shut in. So I got my brother and Thomas to take axes and go to work there, and many a large tree they cut down for me. Till you see they opened away through the woods for the view of that beautiful stretch of country. I should grow melancholy if I had that wall of trees pressing on my vision all the time. It always comforts me to look off far away to those distant blue hills. Aren't those the hills I was looking at yesterday, said Ellen? From up on the mountain, the very same. This is part of the very same view and a noble view it is. Every morning, Ellen, the sun rising behind those hills shines in through the store and lights up my room. And in winter he looks in at that south window, so I have him all the time. To be sure, if I want to see him set, I must take a walk for it, but that is an unpleasant and you know we cannot have everything at once. It was a very beautiful extent of woodland, meadow and hill, that was seen picture fashion through the gap cut in the forest. The wall of trees on each side serving as a frame to shut it in, in the descent of the mountain, from almost the edge of the lawn being very rapid. The opening had been skillfully cut. The effect was remarkable and very fine. The light on the picture being often quite different from that on the frame or on the hither side of the frame. Now Ellen said, Alice, turning from the window, take a good look at my room. I want you to know it and feel at home in it, for whenever you can run away from your aunts, this is your home. Do you understand? A smile was on each face. Ellen felt that she was understanding it very fast. Here next to the door you see is my summer sati. And in summer it very often walks out of doors to accommodate people on the grass plat. I have a gray fancy for taking tea out of doors, Ellen, in warm weather. And if you don't mind a mosquito or two, I shall be always happy to have your company. That door opens into the hall, look out and see, for I want you to get the geography of the house. That odd looking, lumbering, painted concern is my cabinet of curiosities. I tried my best to make the carpenter man at throw ball, understand what it's sort of a thing I wanted. And did, I'll but show him how to make it. But as the southerners say, he hasn't made it right, know how. There I keep my dried flowers, my minerals, and a very odd collection of curious things of all sorts that I'm constantly picking up. I'll show you them some day, Ellen. Have you a fancy for curiosities? Yes, ma'am, I believe so. Believe so, not more sure than that. Are you a lover of dead moths and empty beetle skins and butterflies wings and dry tufts of moss and curious stones and pieces of ribbon grass and strange bird's nests? These are some of the things I used to delight in when I was about as old as you. I don't know, ma'am, said Ellen. I never was where I could get them. Weren't you, poor child? Then you have been shut up to brick walls and paving stones all your life? Yes, ma'am, all my life. But now you have seen a little of the country. Don't you think you shall like it better? Oh, a great deal better. That's right, I'm sure you will. On the other side you see is my winter sofa. It's a very comfortable resting place, I can tell you, Ellen, as I have proved by many a sweet nap. And its old, chintz covers are very pleasant to me, for I remember them as far back as I remember anything. There was a sigh here, but Alice passed on and opened a door near the end of the sofa. Look in here, Ellen, this is my bedroom. Oh, how lovely, Ellen exclaimed. The carpet covered only the middle of the floor. The rest was painted white. The furniture was common, but neat as wax. Ample curtains of white de midi clothed the three windows and lightly draped the bed. The toilet table was covered with a snow white muslin, and by the toilet cushion stood, late as it was, a glass of flowers. Ellen thought it must be a pleasure to sleep there. This said Alice when they came out, between my door and the fireplace is a cupboard. Here be cups and saucers, and so forth. In the other corner beyond the fireplace, you see my flower stand. Do you love flowers, Ellen? I love them dearly, Miss Alice. I have some pretty ones out yet, and she'll have one or two in the winter, but I can't keep a great many here. I haven't room for them. I have hard work to save these from the frost. There's a beautiful Daphne that will be out by and by and make the whole house sweet. But here, Ellen, on this side, between the windows is my greatest treasure, my precious books. All these are mine. Now, my dear, it is time to introduce you to my most excellent of easy-chairs. The best things in the room, aren't they? Put yourself in that. Now do you feel yourself at home? Very much indeed, ma'am, said Ellen, laughing as Alice placed her in the deep easy-chair. There were two things in the room that Alice had not mentioned, and while she mended the fire, Ellen looked at them. One was the portrait of a gentleman, grave and good-looking. This had very little of her attention. The other was the counter-portrait of a lady, a fine, dignified countenance that had a charm for Ellen. It hung over the fireplace in an excellent light, in the mild eye and somewhat of a peculiar expression about the mouth, for such likeness to Alice, though older, that Ellen had no doubt whose it was. Alice presently drew a chair close to Ellen's side and kissed her. I trust, my child, she said, that you feel better today than you did yesterday. Oh, I do, ma'am, a great deal better, Ellen answered. Then I hope the reason is that you have returned to your duty and are not resolved to be a Christian by and by, but to lead a Christian's life now. I have resolved so, ma'am. I did resolve so last night and this morning. But, yeah, I've been doing nothing but wrong all today. Alice was silent. Ellen's lips quivered for a moment, and then she went on. Oh, ma'am, how I have wanted to see you today to tell me what I should do. I resolved and resolved this morning, and then, as soon as I got downstairs, I began to have bad feelings towards Aunt Fortune and I have been full of bad feelings all day and I couldn't help it. It will not do to say that we cannot help what is wrong, Ellen. What is the reason you have had bad feelings towards your aunt? She don't like me, ma'am. But how happens that, Ellen? I'm afraid you don't like her. No, ma'am, I don't, to be sure. How can I? Why cannot you, Ellen? Oh, I can't, ma'am. I wish I could. But oh, ma'am, I should have liked her. I might have liked her, if she had been kind. But she never has. Even that first night I came, she never kissed me, nor said she was glad to see me. That was failing in kindness, certainly. But is she unkind to you, Ellen? Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed she is. She talks to me and talks to me in such a way that almost drives me out of my wits. And today she even struck me. She has no right to do it, said Ellen, firing with passion. She has no right to. And she has no right to talk as she does about Mama. She did it today, and she has done it before. I can't bear it, and I can't bear her. I can't bear her. Hush, hush, said Alice, drawing the excited child to her arms, for Ellen had risen from her seat. You must not talk so, Ellen. You are not feeling right now. No, ma'am, I am not, said Ellen, coldly and sadly. She sat a moment, and then turning to her companion, put both arms round her neck, entered her face on her shoulder again. And without raising it, she gave her the history of the morning. What has brought about this dreadful state of things, said Alice, after a few minutes? Whose fault is it, Ellen? I think it is Aunt Fortune's fault, said Ellen, raising her head. I don't think it is mine. If she had behaved well to me, I should have behaved well to her. I meant to, I am sure. Do you mean to say you do not think you have been in fault at all in the matter? No, ma'am, I do not mean to say that. I have been very much in fault, very often. I know that. I get very angry and vexed, and sometimes I say nothing, but sometimes I get out of all patience and say things I ought not. I did so today, but it is so very hard to keep still when I am in such a passion, and now I have got to feel so towards Aunt Fortune that I don't like the sight of her. I hate the very look of her bonnet hanging up on the wall. I know it isn't right, and it makes me miserable, and I can't help it, for I grow worse and worse every day. And what shall I do? Ellen's tears came faster than her words. Ellen, my child, said Alice, after a while. There is but one way. You know what I said to you yesterday. I know it, but dear Miss Alice, in my reading this morning, I came to that verse that speaks about not being forgiven if we do not forgive others. And oh, how it troubles me, for I can't feel that I forgive Aunt Fortune. I feel vexed whenever the thought of her comes into my head. And how can I behave right to her while I feel so? You are right there, my dear. You cannot indeed. The heart must be set right before the life can be. But what shall I do to set it right? Pray, dear Miss Alice, I have been praying all this morning that I might forgive Aunt Fortune, and yet I cannot do it. Pray still, my dear, said Alice, pressing her closer in her arms. Pray still. If you are in earnest, the answer will come. But there is something else you can do, and must do, Ellen, besides praying, or praying may be in vain. What do you mean, Miss Alice? You acknowledge yourself in fault, but have you made all the amends you can? Have you, as soon as you have seen yourself in the wrong, gone to your Aunt Fortune and acknowledged it, and humbly asked her pardon? Ellen answered, no, in a low voice. Then, my child, your duty is plain before you. The next thing after doing wrong is to make all the amends in your power, confess your fault and ask forgiveness, both of God and man. Pride struggles against it. I see yours does. But, my child, God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. Ellen burst into tears and cried heartily, mind your own wrongdoings, my child, and you will not be half so disposed to quarrel with those of other people. But, Ellen, dear, if you will not humble yourself to this, you must not count upon an answer to your prayer. If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and thou rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee, what then? Leave there thy gift before the altar. Go first and be reconciled to thy brother, and then come. But it is so hard to forgive, subbed Ellen. Hard? Yes, it is hard when our hearts are so. But there is little love to Christ and no just sense of his love to us in the heart that finds it hard. Pride and selfishness make it hard. The heart full of love to the dear Savior cannot lay up offenses against itself. I have said quite enough, said Alice, after a pause, you know what you want, my dear Ellen, and what you want to do. I shall leave you for a little while to change my dress, for I have been walking and riding all the morning. Make a good use of the time while I am gone. Ellen did make good use of the time. When Alice returned, she met her with another face, then she had worn all that day, humbler and quieter, and flinging her arms around her, she said, I will ask Aunt Fortune's forgiveness. I feel I can do it now. And how about forgiving, Ellen? I think God will help me to forgive her, said Ellen. I have asked him. At any rate, I will ask her to forgive me. But, oh, Miss Alice, what would have become of me without you? Don't lean upon me, dear Ellen. Remember, you have a better friend than I, always near you. Trust in him. If I have done you any good, don't forget it was he brought me to you yesterday afternoon. There's just one thing that troubles me now, said Ellen. Mama's letter. I'm thinking of it all the time. I feel as if I should fly to get it. We'll see about that. Can't you ask your aunt for it? I don't like to. Take care, Ellen. There's some pride there yet. Well, I will try, said Ellen. But sometimes I know. She would not give it to me if I were to ask her. But I'll try if I can. Well, now to change the subject. At what o'clock did you die today? I don't know, ma'am. At the same time we always do, I believe. And that is twelve o'clock, isn't it? Yes, ma'am, but I was so full of coming here and other things that I couldn't eat. Then I suppose you would have no objection to an early tea. No, ma'am, whenever you please, said Ellen, laughing. I shall please it pretty soon. I have had no dinner all to-day, Ellen. I've been out and about all the morning and had just taken a little nap when you came in. Come this way and let me show you some of my housekeeping. She led the way across the hall to the room on the opposite side, a large well-appointed and spotlessly neat kitchen. Ellen could not help exclaiming at its pleasantness. Why, yes, I think it is. I have been in many a parvore that I do not like as well. Beyond this is a lower kitchen where Marjorie does all her rough work. Nothing comes up from the steps that leads from that to this, but the very nicest and daintiest of kitchen matters. Marjorie, is my father gone to throw a wall? No, Miss Ellis, he's at Cara Cara. Thomas heard him say he wouldn't be back early. Well, I shall not wait for him. Marjorie, if you will put the kettle on and see to the fire, I'll make some of my cakes for tea. I'll do it, Miss Ellis. It's not good for you to go so long without eating. Ellis now rolled up her sleeves above the elbows and tying a large white apron before her, set about gathering the different things she wanted for her work, to Ellen's great amusement. A white molding board was placed upon the table as white and round it soon grouped the pale of flour, the plate of nice yellow butter, the bowl of cream, the sieve, the tray, and sundry, et cetera. And then first sifting some flour into the tray, Ellis began to throw in the other things, one after another, and tossed the whole about with a carelessness that looked as if all would go wrong, but with a confidence that seemed to say all was going right. Ellen gazed in comical wonderment. Did you think cakes were made without hands, said Ellis, laughing at her look? You saw me wash mine before I began. Oh, I'm not thinking of that, said Ellen. I'm not afraid of your hands. Did you never see your mother do this, said Ellis, who is now turning and rolling about the dough upon the board in a way that seemed to Ellen curious beyond expression? No, never, she said. Mama never kept house, and I never saw anybody do it. Then your aunt does not let you into the mysteries of bread and butter-making? Butter-making? Oh, said Ellen with a sigh. I have enough of that. Ellis now applied a smooth wooden roller to the cake with such quickness and skill that the lump forthwith lay spread upon the board in a thin, even layer, and she next cut it into little round cakes with the edge of a tumbler. Half the board was covered with a nice little white things, which Ellen declared looked good enough to eat already, and she had quite forgotten all possible causes of vexation, past, present, or future, when suddenly a large gray cat jumped upon the table and coolly walking upon the molding board planted his paw directly in the middle of one of his mistress' cakes. Take him off. Oh, Ellen, cried Ellis, take him off. I can't touch him. But Ellen was a little afraid. Ellis then tried gently to shove the pus off with her elbow, but he seemed to think that was very good fun. Perd whisked his great tail over Ellis' bare arm and rubbed his head against it, having evidently no notion that he was not just where he ought to be. Ellis and Ellen were too much amused to try any violent method of relief, but Marjorie, happily coming in, seized pus in both hands and set him on the floor. Just look at the print of his paw in that cake, said Ellen. He has set his mark on it, certainly. I think it is his now, by the right of possession, if not the right of discovery. I think he discovered the cakes, too, said Ellen, laughing. Why, yes, he shall have that one baked for his supper. Does he like cakes? Indeed he does. Captain Perry is very particular and delicate about his eating. Captain Perry, said Ellen, is that his name? Yes, said Ellis, laughing. I don't wonder you look astonished, Ellen. I have had that cat five years, and when he was first given me by my brother Jack, who is younger than he is now, and had been reading Captain Perry's voyages, gave him that name, and would have him called so. Oh, Jack, said Ellis, half laughing and half crying. Ellen wondered why, but she went to wash her hands, and when her face was again turned to Ellen, it was unruffled as ever. Marjorie, my cakes are ready, said she, and Ellen and I are ready, too. Very well, Miss Ellis, the kettle is just going to boil. You shall have tea and a trice. I'll do some eggs for you. Something, anything, said Ellis. I feel one cannot live without eating. Come, Ellen, you and I will go and set the tea table. Ellen was very happy arranging the cups and saucers and other things that Ellis handed her from the cupboard, and when a few minutes after the tea and the cakes came in, and she and Ellis were cosily seated at supper, poor Ellen hardly knew herself in such a pleasant state of things. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 17. Difficulty of Doing Right. Ellen dear, said Ellis, as she poured out Ellen's second cup of tea, have we run through the list of your troubles? Oh, no, Miss Ellis, indeed we haven't, but we have got through the worst. Is the next one so bad it would spoil our supper? No, said Ellen. It couldn't do that, but it's bad enough, though. It's about my not going to school. Miss Ellis, I promised myself I would learn so much while Mama was away, and surprise her when she came back. But instead of that, I am not learning anything. I don't mean not learning anything, said Ellen, correcting herself, but I can't do much. When I found Aunt Fortune wasn't going to send me to school, I determined I would try to study by myself, and I have tried, but I can't get along. Well, now, don't lay down your knife and fork and look so dullful, said Ellis, smiling. This is a matter I can help you in. What are you studying? Some things I can manage well enough, said Ellen, the easy things, but I cannot understand my arithmetic without someone to explain it to me, and French I can do nothing at all with, and that is what I wanted to learn most of all, and often I want to ask questions about my history. Suppose, said Ellis, you go on studying by yourself as much and as well as you can, and bring your books up to me two or three times a week. I will hear and explain and answer questions to your heart's content, unless you should be too hard for me. What do you say to that? Ellen said nothing to it, but the color that rushed to her cheeks, the surprised look of delight, were answering off. It will do, then, said Ellis, and I have no doubt we shall untie the knot of those arithmetical problems very soon, but Ellen, my dear, I cannot help you in French, for I do not know it myself. What will you do about that? I don't know, ma'am, I am sorry. So am I for your sake. I can help you in Latin, if that would be any comfort to you. It wouldn't be much comfort to me, said Ellen, laughing. Mama wanted me to learn Latin, but I wanted to learn French a great deal more. I don't care about Latin, except to please her. Permit me to ask if you know English. Oh yes, ma'am, I hope so. I knew that a great while ago. Did you? I am very happy to make your acquaintance, then, for the number of young ladies who do know English is, in my opinion, remarkably small. Are you sure of the fact, Ellen? Why yes, Miss Ellis. Will you undertake to write me a note of two pages that shall not have one felt of grammar, nor one words felt wrong, nor anything in it that is not good English? You may take for a subject the history of this afternoon. Yes, ma'am, if you wish it. I hope I can write a note that long without making mistakes. Ellis smiled. I will not stop to inquire, she said, whether that long is Latin or French. But Ellen, my dear, it is not English. Ellen blushed a little, though she laughed, too. I believe I have got into the way of saying that by hearing Aunt Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt say it. I don't think I ever did before I came here. What are you so anxious to learn French for? Mama knows it, and I've often heard her talk French with a great many people. And Papa and I always wanted to be able to talk it, too. And Mama wanted me to learn it. She said there were a great many French books I ought to read. That last is true, no doubt. Ellen, I will make a bargain with you. If you will study English with me, I will study French with you. Dear Miss Ellis, said Ellen, caressing her. I'll do it without that. I'll study anything you please. Dear Ellen, I believe you would. But I should like to know it for my own sake. We'll study it together. We shall get along nicely. I have no doubt. We can learn to read it, at least. And that is the main point. But how shall we know what to call the words, said Ellen doubtfully? That is a grave question, said Ellis, smiling. I'm afraid we should hit upon a style of pronunciation that a French man would make nothing of. I have it, she exclaimed, clapping her hands. Where there's a will, there's a way. It always happens, so, Ellen. I have an old friend upon the mountain who will give us exactly what we want, unless I am greatly mistaken. We'll go and see her. That is the very thing. My old friend, Mrs. Voss. Mrs. Voss, repeated, Ellen, not the grandmother of that Nancy Voss. The very same. Her name is not Voss. The country people call it so. And I, being one of the country people, have fallen into the way of it. But her real name is Vossure. She was born in Swiss and brought up in a wealthy French family as a personal attendant of a young lady to whom she became exceedingly attached. This lady finally married an American gentleman. And so great was Mrs. Voss's love to her that she left country and family to follow her here. In a few years, her mistress died. She married, and since that time she has been tossed from trouble to trouble, a perfect sea of troubles, till now she has left like a wreck upon this mountaintop. A fine wreck she is. I go to see her very often. And next time I will call for you and we will propose her French plan. Nothing will please her better, I know. By the way, Ellen, are you as well versed in the other common branches of education as you are in your mother tongue? What do you mean, Miss Alice? Geography, for instance. Do you know it well? Yes, ma'am, I believe so. I am sure I have studied it till I am sick of it. Can you give me the boundaries of Great Tibet or Peru? Ellen hesitated. I had rather not try, she said. I am not sure. I can't remember those queer countries in Asia and South America. Half so well as Europe and North America. Do you know anything about the surface of the country in Italy or France, the character and condition of the people, what kind of climate they have, and what grows there most freely? Why no, ma'am, said Ellen. Nobody ever taught me that. Would you like to go over the Alice again, talking about all these matters, as well as the mere outlines of the countries you have studied before? Oh, yes, dearly exclaimed Ellen. Well, I think we may let Marjorie have the tea things, but here is Captain's cake. Oh, may I give him his supper, said Ellen? Certainly, you must carve it for him. You know I told you he is very particular. Give him some of the egg, too. He likes that. Now where is the Captain? Not far off, for scarcely had Alice opened the door and called him once or twice, when, with a queer little note of answer, he came hurriedly trotting in. He generally has his supper in the outer kitchen, said Alice, but I grant him leave to have it here tonight as a particular honor to him and you. How handsome he is, and how large, said Ellen. Yes, he is very handsome, and more than that, he is very sensible for a cat. Do you see how prettily his paws are marked? Jack used to say he had white gloves on. And white boots, too, said Ellen. No, only one leg is white. Pussy's boots aren't mates. Is he good-natured? Very, if you don't meddle with him. I don't call that being good-natured, said Ellen, laughing. No, I, but truth obligees me to say that the Captain does not permit anybody to take liberties with him. He is a character, Captain Perry. Come out on the lawn, Ellen, and we will let Marjorie clear away. What a pleasant-faced Marjorie has, said Ellen, as that are closed behind them, and what a pleasant way she has of speaking. I like to hear her. The words come out so clear, and I don't know how, but not like other people. You have a quick ear, Ellen. You were very right. Marjorie had lived too long in England before she came here to lose her trick of speech afterwards. But Thomas speaks as thick as a Yankee, and always did. Then Marjorie is English, said Ellen. To be sure. She came over with us 12 years ago for the pure love of my father and mother. And I believe now she looks upon John and me as her own children. I think she could scarcely love us more if we were so in truth. Thomas, you haven't seen Thomas yet, have you? No. He is an excellent good man in his way, and as faithful as the day is long, but he isn't equal to his wife. Perhaps I am partial. Marjorie came to America for the love of us, and Thomas came for the love of Marjorie. There's a difference. But Miss Ellis, what Miss Ellen? You said Marjorie came over with you. Yes, is that what makes you look so astonished? But then you're English too. Well, what of that? You won't love me the less, will you? Oh, no, said Ellen. My own mother came from Scotland, Aunt Fortune says. I am English-born, Ellen, but you may count me half-American if you like. For I have spent rather more than half my life here. Come this way, Ellen, and I'll show you my garden. It is some distance off, but as near as a spot could be found fit for it. They quitted the house by a little steep path leading down the mountain, which in two or three minutes brought them to a clear bit of ground. It was not large, but lying very prettily among the trees, with an open view to the east and the southeast. On the extreme edge, and at the lower end of it, was fixed a rude bench, well-sheltered by the towering forest trees. Here, Ellis and Ellen sat down. It was near sunset, the air cool and sweet, the evening light upon field and sky. How fair it is, said Ellis musingly. How fair and lovely. Look at those long shadows of the mountains, Ellen, and how bright the light is on the far hills. It won't be so long, a little while more, and our Indian summer will be over. And then the clouds, the frost, and the wind and the snow. Well, let them come. I wish they wouldn't, I am sure, said Ellen. I am sorry enough they're coming. Why, all seasons have their pleasures. I am not sorry at all. I like the cold very much. I guess you wouldn't, Miss Ellis, if you had to wash every morning where I do. Why, where is that? Down at the spout. At the spout? What is that, pray? The spout of water, ma'am, just down a little way from the kitchen door. The water comes in a little, long, very long trough from a spring at the back of the pig field, and at the end of the trough, where it pours out is the spout. Have you no conveniences for washing in your room? Not a sign of such a thing, ma'am. I have washed at the spout ever since I have been here, said Ellen, laughing in spite of her vexation. And do the pigs share the water with you? The pigs, oh no, ma'am, the trough is raised up from the ground on little heaps of stones they can't get at the water, unless they drink at the spring, and I don't think they do that. So many big stones stand around it. Well, Ellen, I must say that is rather uncomfortable, even without any danger of forefooted society. It isn't so bad just now, said Ellen, in this warm weather, but in that cold time we had a week or two back. Do you remember, Miss Ellis, just before the Indian summer began? Oh, how disagreeable it was. Early in the morning, you know, the sun scarcely up, and the cold wind blowing my hair and my clothes all about, and then that board before the spout that I have to stand on is always kept wet by the spattering of the water, and it's muddy besides and very slippery. There's a kind of green stuff comes upon it, and I can't stoop down for fear of muddying myself. I have to tuck my clothes around me and bend over as well as I can and fetch up a little water to my face and the hollow of my hand. And of course, I have to do that a great many times before I get enough. I can't help laughing, said Ellen, but it isn't a laughing matter for all that. So you wash your face in your hands and have no pitcher but a long wooden trow. Poor child, I am sorry for you. I think you must have some other way of managing before the snow comes. The water is bitter cold already, said Ellen. It's the coldest water I ever saw. Mama gave me a nice dressing box before I came away, but I found very soon this was a queer place for a dressing box to come to. Why, Miss Alice, if I take out my brush or comb, I haven't any table to lay them on, but one that's too high, and my poor dressing box has to stay on the floor. And I haven't a sign of a bureau. All my things are tumbling about in my trunk. I think if I were in your place, I would not permit that at any rate, said Alice. If my things were confined to my trunk, I would have them keep good order there at least. Well, so they do, said Ellen, pretty good order. I didn't mean tumbling about exactly. I always try to say what you mean exactly. But now, Ellen, love, do you know I must send you away? Do you see the sunlight has quitted those distant hills and it will be quite gone soon. You must hasten home. Ellen made no answer. Alice had taken her on her lap again and she was nestling there with her friend's arms wrapped around her. Both were quite still for a minute. Next week, if nothing happens, we will begin to be busy with our books. You shall come to me Tuesday and Friday, and all the other days you must study as hard as you can at home, for I am very particular I forewarn you. But suppose Aunt Fortune should not let me come, said Ellen, without stirring. Oh, she will. You need not speak about it. I'll come down and ask her myself, and nobody ever refuses me anything. I shouldn't think they would, said Ellen. Then don't you set the first examples, said Alice, laughingly. I ask you to be cheerful and happy and grow wiser and better every day. Dear Miss Alice, how can I promise that? Dear Ellen, it is very easy. There is one who has promised to hear and answer you when you cry to him. He will make you in his own likeness again, and to know and love him and not be happy is impossible. That blessed savior, said Alice. Oh, what should you and I do without him, Ellen? As rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. How beautiful, how true, how often I think of that. Ellen was silent, though entering into the feeling of the words. Remember him, dear Ellen, remember your best friend. Learn more of Christ, our dear savior, and you can't help but be happy. Never fancy you are helpless and friendless while you have him to go to. Whenever you feel weary and sorry, flee to the shadow of that great rock. Will you, and do you understand me? Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, said Ellen, as she lifted her lips to kiss her friend. Alice heartily returned the kiss, and pressing Ellen in her arms said, now, Ellen, dear, you must go. I dare not keep you any longer. It will be too late now, I fear, before you reach home. Quick they mounted the little path again, and soon were at the house, and Ellen was putting on her things. Next Tuesday, remember, but before that, Sunday, you were to spend Sunday with me, come bright and early. How early? Oh, as early as you please, before breakfast. And our Sunday morning breakfasts aren't late, Ellen. We have to set off betimes to go to church. Kisses and goodbyes, and then Ellen was running down the road at a great rate, for twilight was beginning to gather, and she had a good way to go. She ran till out of breath, then walked a while to gather breath, then ran again. Running downhill is a pretty quick way of traveling. So before very long, she saw her aunt's house at a distance. She walked now. She had come all the way in good spirits, though with a sense upon her mind of something disagreeable to come. When she saw the house, this disagreeable something swallowed up all her thoughts, and she walked leisurely on, pondering what she had to do, and what she was like to me in the doing of it. A fat fortune should be in a bad humor, and say something to vex me. But I'll not be vexed, but it will be very hard to help it, but I will not be vexed. I have done wrong, and I'll tell her so, and ask her to forgive me. It will be hard, but I'll do it. I'll say what I ought to say, and then, however she takes it, I shall have the comfort of knowing I have done right. But, said conscience, you must not say it stiffly and proudly. You must say it humbly, and as if you really felt and meant it. I will, said Ellen. She paused in the shed, and looked through the window to see what was the promise of things within. Not good. Her aunt's step sounded heavy and ominous. Ellen guessed she was not in a pleasant state of mind. She opened the door, no doubt of it. The whole air of Miss Fortune's figure to the very handkerchief that was tied round her head, spoke displeasure. She isn't in a good mood, said Ellen, as she went upstairs to leave her bonnet and cape there. I never knew her to be good-humored when she had that handkerchief on. She returned to the kitchen immediately. Her aunt was busy in washing and wiping the dishes. I have come home rather late, said Ellen pleasantly. Shall I help you, Aunt Fortune? Her aunt cast a look at her. Yes, you may help me. Go and put on a pair of white gloves and a silk apron, and then you'll be all ready. Ellen looked down at herself. Oh, my merino, I forgot about that. I'll go and change it. Miss Fortune said nothing, and Ellen went. When she came back, the things were all wiped, and as she was about to put some of them away, her aunt took them out of her hands, bidding her, go and sit down. Ellen obeyed and was mute. While Miss Fortune dashed round, with the display of energy, there seemed to be no particular carl for, and speedily had everything in its place and all straight and square about the kitchen. When she was, as a last thing, brushing the crumbs from the floor into the fire, she broke the silence again. The old grandmother sat in the chimney corner, but she seldom was very talkative in the presence of her stern daughter. What did you come home for tonight? Why didn't you stay at Mr. Humphreys? Miss Alice didn't ask me. That means I suppose that you would if she had? I don't know, ma'am. Miss Alice wouldn't have asked me to do anything that wasn't right. Oh, no, of course not. Miss Alice is a piece of perfection, everybody says so, and I suppose you'd sing the same song who haven't seen her three times. Indeed, I would, said Ellen. I could have told that in one seeing. I'd do anything in the world for Miss Alice. I, I dare say, that's the way of it. You can show not one bit of goodness or pleasantness to the person that does the most for you and has all the care of you, but the first stranger that comes along, you can be all honey to them and make yourself out too good for common folks and go and tell great tales how you are used at home, I suppose. I am sick of it, said Miss Fortune, setting up the hand irons and throwing the tongs and shovel into the corner in a way that made the iron ring again. One might as well be a stepmother at once and done with it. Come, mother, it's time for you to go to bed. The old lady rose with the meekness of habitual submission and went upstairs with her daughter. Ellen had time to rethink herself while they were gone and resolved to lose no time when her aunt came back in doing what she had to do. She would feign have persuaded herself to put it off. It is late, she said to herself, it isn't a good time. It will be better to go to bed now and ask Aunt Fortune's pardon tomorrow. But Conscience said, first, be reconciled to thy brother. Miss Fortune came downstairs presently, but before Ellen could get any words out, her aunt prevented her. Come, let your candle and be off. I want you out of the way. I can't do anything with half a dozen people about. Ellen rose, I want to say something to you first, Aunt Fortune. Say it and be quick, I haven't time to stand talking. Aunt Fortune said, Ellen, stumbling over her words. I want to tell you that I know I was wrong this morning and I am sorry and I hope you'll forgive me. A kind of indignant laugh escaped from Miss Fortune's lips. It's easy talking. I'd rather have acting. I'd rather see people mend their ways than stand and make speeches about them. Being sorry don't help the matter much. But I will try not to do so anymore, said Ellen. When I see you don't, I shall begin to think there is something in it. Actions speak louder than words. I don't believe in this jumping into goodness all at once. Well, I will try not to at any rates, said Ellen, sighing. I shall be very glad to see it. What has brought you into the sudden fit of dutifulness and fine talking? Miss Alice told me I ought to ask your pardon for what I had done wrong, said Ellen, scarce able to keep from crying. And I know I did wrong this morning and I did wrong the other day about the letter and I am sorry whether you believe it or no. Miss Alice told you, did she? So all this is to please Miss Alice. I suppose you were afraid your friend Miss Alice would hear of some of your goings on and thought you'd better make up with me. Is that it? Ellen answered, no, ma'am, in a low tone, but had no voice to say more. I wish Miss Alice would look after her own affairs and let other people's houses alone. That's always the way with your pieces of perfection. They're eternally finding out something that isn't as a ought to be among their neighbors. I think people that don't set up for being quite such great things get along quite as well in the world. Ellen was strongly tempted to reply, but kept her lips shut. I'll tell you what, Miss Fortune, if you want me to believe that all this talk means something, I'll tell you what you shall do. You shall just tell Mr. Van Brent tomorrow about it all, and how ugly you have been these two days, and let him know you were wrong and I was right. I believe he thinks you cannot do anything wrong, and I should like him to know it for once. Ellen struggled hard with herself before she could speak. Miss Fortune's lips began to wear a scornful smile. I'll tell him, said Ellen at length. I'll tell him I was wrong if you wish me to. I do wish it. I like people's eyes to be opened. It'll do him good, I guess, and you too. Now have you anything more to say? Ellen hesitated. The color came and went. She knew it wasn't a good time, but how could she wait? Aunt Fortune, she said, you know I told you I behaved very ill about that letter. Won't you forgive me? Forgive you? Yes, child, I don't care anything about it. Then you will be so good as to let me have my letter again, said Ellen timidly. Oh, I can't be bothered to look for it now. I'll see about it some other time. Take your candle and go to bed now if you've nothing more to say. Ellen took her candle and went. Some tears were rung from her by hurt feeling and disappointment, but she had the smile of conscience, and as she believed, of him whose witness conscience is. She remembered that great rock in a weary land, and she went to sleep in the shadow of it. The next day was Saturday. Ellen was up early, and after carefully performing her toilet duties, she had a nice long hour before it was time to go downstairs. The use she made of this hour had fitted her to do cheerfully and well her morning work, and Ellen would have sat down to breakfast in excellent spirits if it had not been for her promised disclosure to Mr. Van Brunt. It vexed her a little. I told Aunt Fortune, that was all right, but why should I be obliged to tell Mr. Van Brunt? I don't know. But if it convinces Aunt Fortune that I am an earnest and meant what I say, then I had better. Mr. Van Brunt looked uncommonly grave, she thought. Her aunt, uncommonly satisfied. Ellen had more than half a guess at the reason of both, but make up her mind to speak she could not during all breakfast time. She ate without knowing what she was eating. Mr. Van Brunt at length, having finished his meal without saying a syllable, arose, and was about to go forth when Miss Fortune stopped him. Wait a minute, Mr. Van Brunt, she said. Ellen has something to say to you. Go ahead, Ellen. Ellen felt rather than saw the smile with which these words were spoken. She crimsoned and hesitated. Ellen and I had some trouble yesterday, said Miss Fortune, and she wants to tell you about it. Mr. Van Brunt stood gravely waiting. Ellen raised her eyes, which were full to his face. Mr. Van Brunt, she said, Aunt Fortune wants me to tell you what I told her last night, that I knew I behaved as I ought not to her yesterday and the day before and other times. And what made you do that, said Mr. Van Brunt? Tell him, said Miss Fortune, coloring, that you were in the wrong, and that I was in the right, and then he'll believe it, I suppose. I was wrong, said Ellen, and I was right, said Miss Fortune. Ellen was silent. Mr. Van Brunt looked from one to the other. Speak, said Miss Fortune, tell him the whole if you mean what you say. I can't, said Ellen. Why, you said you were wrong, said Miss Fortune. That's only half the business. If you were wrong, I was right. Why don't you say so? And that makes such a shilly-shelly piece of work of it. I said I was wrong, said Ellen, and so I was. But I never said you were right, Aunt Fortune, and I don't think so. These words, though moderately spoken, were enough to put Miss Fortune in a rage. What did I do that was wrong, she said? Come, I should like to know. What was it, Ellen? Out with it. Say everything you can think of. Stop and hear it, Mr. Van Brunt. Come, Ellen, let's hear the whole. Thank you, ma'am. I've heard quite enough, said that gentleman, as he went out and closed the door. And I have said too much, said Ellen. Pray forgive me, Aunt Fortune. I shouldn't have said that if you hadn't pressed me so. I forgot myself a moment. I am sorry I said that. Forgot yourself, said Miss Fortune. I wish you'd forget yourself out of my house. Pleased to forget the place where I am for today anyhow. I've got enough of you for one while. You would better go to Miss Alice and get a new lesson, and tell her you are coming on, finally. Gladly, Ellen would, indeed, have gone to Miss Alice. But as the next day was Sunday, she thought it best to wait. She went sorrowfully to her own room. Why couldn't I be quiet, said Ellen. If I had only held my tongue that unfortunate minute, what possessed me to say that? Strong passion, strong pride, both long unbroken. And Ellen had yet to learn that many a prayer and many a tear, much watchfulness, much help from on high, must be hers before she could be thoroughly dispossessed of these evil spirits. But she knew her sickness. She had applied to the physician. She was in a fair way to be well. One thought in her solitary room that day, drew streams of tears down Ellen's cheeks. My letter, my letter, what shall I do to get you? She said to herself, it serves me right. I oughtn't to have gotten a passion. Oh, I have got a lesson this time. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 18. Loses Care on the Cat's Back. The Sunday with Alice met all Ellen's hopes. She wrote a very long letter to her mother, giving the full history of the day, how pleasantly they had ridden to church on the pretty gray pony. She half the way, and Alice the other half, talking to each other all the while, for Mr. Humphries had ridden on before. How lovely the road was, winding about round the mountain, up and down, and with such a wide fair view, and part of the time close along by the edge of the water. This had been Ellen's first ride on horseback. Then the letter described the little caracara church, Mr. Humphries' excellent sermon, every which of which she could understand. Alice's Sunday school, in which she was sole teacher, and how Ellen had four little ones put under her care, and told how well Mr. Humphries went on to hold a second service at a village some six miles off, his daughter ministered to two infirm old women at caracara, reading and explaining the Bible to the one and to the other, who was blind, repeating the whole substance of her father's sermon. Miss Alice told me that nobody could enjoy a sermon better than that old woman, but she cannot go out, and every Sunday Miss Alice goes and preaches to her, she says. How Ellen went home in the boat with Thomas and Marjorie, and spent the rest of the day and the night also at the parsonage, and how polite and kind Mr. Humphries had been. He's a very grave-looking man indeed, said the letter, and's not a bit like Miss Alice. He is a great deal older than I expected. This letter was much the longest Ellen had ever written in her life, but she had set her heart on having her mother's sympathy and her new pleasures, though not to be had but after the lapse of many weeks, and beyond a sad interval of land and sea. Still she must have it, and her little fingers traveled busily over the paper hour after hour, as she found time, till the longy pistol was finished. She was hard at work at it Tuesday afternoon when her aunt called her down, and obeying the call to her great surprise and delight, she found Alice seated in the chimney corner and chatting away with her old grandmother, who looked remarkably pleased. Miss Fortune was bustling around, as usual, looking at nobody, though putting in her word now and then. Come, Ellen, said Alice, get your bonnet. I'm going up the mountain to see Mrs. Voss, and your aunt has given leave for you to go with me. Wrap yourself up well, for it is not warm. Without waiting for a word of answer, Ellen joyfully ran off. You have chosen rather an ugly day for your walk, Miss Alice. Can't expect pretty days in December, Miss Fortune. I'm only too happy it doesn't storm. It will by tomorrow, I think, but I have learned not to mind weathers. Yes, I know you have said, Miss Fortune. You'll stop up on the mountain till supper time, I guess, won't you? Oh, yes, I shall want something to fortify me before coming home after such a long tramp. You see, I have brought a basket along. I thought it safest to take a loaf of bread with me, for no one can tell what may be in Mrs. Voss's cupboard, and to lose our supper is not a thing to be thought of. Well, have you looked out for butter, too, for you'll find none where you're going. I don't know how the old lady lives up there, but it's without butter, I reckon. I have taken care of that, too, thank you, Miss Fortune. You see, I'm a farsighted creature. Ellen said her aunt, as Ellen now, cloaked and hooded, came in, go into the buttery, and fetch out one of them pumpkin pies to put in Miss Alice's basket. Thank you, Miss Fortune, said Alice, smiling. I shall tell Mrs. Voss who it comes from. Now, my dear, let's be off. We have a long walk before us. Ellen was quite ready to be off, but no sooner had she opened the outer shed door than her voice was heard in astonishment. A cat! What cat is this? Miss Alice, look here. Here's the captain, I do believe. Here is the captain, indeed, said Alice. Oh, Pussy Pussy, what have you come for? Pussy walked up to his mistress, and stroking himself and his great tail against her dress, seemed to say that he had come for her sake, and that it made no difference to him where she was going. He was sitting as gravely as possible, said Ellen, on the stone just outside the door, waiting for the door to be opened. How could he have come here? Why, he has followed me, said Alice. He often does, but I came quick, and I thought I had left him at home today. This is too long an expedition for him. Kitty, I wish you had stayed at home. Kitty did not think so. He was arching his neck and purring an acknowledgment of Alice's soft touch. Can't you send him back, said Ellen? No, my dear, he is the most sensible of cats, no doubt, but he could by no means understand such an order. No, we must let him try on after us, and when he gets tired, I'll carry him. It won't be the first time by a good money. They set off with a quick pace, which the weather forbade them to slacken. It was somewhat as misfortune had said, an ugly afternoon. The clouds hung cold and gray, and the air had a raw chill feeling that be tokened a coming snow. The wind blew strong, too, and seemed to carry the chillness through all manner of wrappers. Alice and Ellen, however, did not much care for it. They walked and ran by turns, only stopping once in a while. When poor captain's uneasy cry warned them, they had left him too far behind. Still, he would not submit to be carried, but jumped down whenever Alice attempted it, and trotted on, most perseveringly. As they neared the foot of the mountain, they were somewhat sheltered from the wind, and could afford to walk more slowly. How is it between you and your Aunt Fortune now, said Alice? Oh, we don't get on well at all, Miss Alice, and I don't know exactly what to do. You know, I said I would ask her pardon. Well, I did, the same night after I got home, but it was very disagreeable. She didn't seem to believe I was an earnest, and wanted me to tell Mr. Van Brunt that I had been wrong. I thought that was rather hard, but at any rate, I said I would. And next morning I did tell him so, and I believe all would have done well if I could only have been quiet, but Aunt Fortune said something that vexed me, and almost before I knew it, I said something that vexed her dreadfully. It was nothing very bad, Miss Alice, though I ought not to have said it, and I was sorry two minutes after, but I just got provoked, and what shall I do, for it is so hard to prevent it. The only thing I know, said Alice, with a slight smile, is to be full of that charity, which among other lovely ways of showing itself has this, that it is not easily provoked. I am easily provoked, said Ellen. Then you know one thing at any rate, that is to be watched and prayed and guarded against. It is no little matter to be acquainted with one's own weak points. I tried so hard to keep quiet that morning, said Ellen. And if I only could have left that unlucky speech alone, but somehow I forgot myself, and I just told her what I thought, which it is very often best not to do. I do believe, said Ellen, Aunt Fortune would like to have Mr. Van Brunt, not like me. Well, said Alice, what then? Nothing, I suppose, ma'am. I hope you are not going to lay it up against her. No, ma'am, I hope not. Take care, dear Ellen, don't take up the trade of suspecting evil. You could not take up a worse, and even when it is forced upon you, see as little of it as you can, and forget as soon as you can what you see. Your aunt, it may be, is not a very happy person, and no one can tell but those that are unhappy how hard it is not to be unamiable, too. Return good for evil as fast as you can, and you will soon either have nothing to complain of, or be very well able to bear it. They now began to go up the mountain, and the path became in places steep and rugged enough. There's an easier way on the other side, said Alice, but this is the nearest for us. Captain Perry now showed signs of being decidedly weary, and permitted Alice to take him up. But presently he mounted from her arms to her shoulder, and to Ellen's great amusement kept his place there, passing from one shoulder to the other, and every now and then sticking his nose up in her bonnet as if to kiss her. What does he do that for, said Ellen? Because he loves me and is pleased, said Alice. Put your ear close, Ellen, and hear the quiet way he is purring to himself. Do you hear? That's his way. He very seldom purrs aloud. He's a very funny cat, said Ellen, laughing. Cat, said Alice, there isn't such a cat as this to be seen. He's a cat to be respected, my old Captain Perry. He's not to be laughed at, Ellen, I can tell you. The travelers went on with goodwill, but the path was so steep and the way so long that when about halfway up the mountain they were feigned to follow the example of their four-footed companion and rest themselves. They sat down on the ground. They had warmed themselves with walking, but the weather was as chill and disagreeable and gusty as ever. Every now and then the wind came sweeping by, catching up the dried leaves at their feet and whirling and scattering them off to a distance, winter's warning voice. I never was in the country before when the leaves were off the trees, said Ellen. It isn't so pretty, Miss Alice. Do you think so? So pretty? No, I suppose not. If we were to have it all the while, but I like the change very much. Do you like to see the leaves off the trees? Yes, in the time of it. There's beauty in the leafless trees that you cannot see in summer. Just look, Ellen. No, I cannot find you a nice specimen here. Here they grow too thick, but where they have room, the way the branches spread and ramify or branch out again is most beautiful. There's first the trunk, then the large branches, then those divide into smaller ones and those part and part again into smaller and smaller twigs till you are canopied as it were with a network of fine stems and when the snow falls gently on them. Oh, Ellen, winter has its own beauties. I love it all, the cold and the wind and the snow and the bare forests and our little river of ice. What pleasant sleigh rides to church I have had upon that river. And then the evergreens, look at them. You don't know in summer how much they are worth. Wait till you see the hemlock branches bending with a weight of snow. And then, if you don't say the winter is beautiful, I'll give you up as a young lady of bad taste. I dare say I shall, said Ellen. I'm sure I shall like what you like. But, Miss Ellis, what makes the leaves fall when the cold weather comes? A very pretty question, Ellen, and one that can't be answered in a breath. I asked Aunt Fortune the other day said Ellen laughing very heartily and she told me to hush up and not be a fool and I told her I really wanted to know and she said she wouldn't make herself a simpleton if she was in my place so I thought it might as well be quiet. By the time the cold weather comes, Ellen, the leaves have done their work and are no more needed. Do you know what work they have to do? Do you know what is the use of the leaves? Why, for prettiness, I suppose, said Ellen and to give shade. I don't know anything else. Shade is one of their uses, no doubt, and prettiness too. He who made the trees made them pleasant to the eyes as well as good for food. So we have an infinite variety of leaves. One shape would have done the work just as well for every kind of tree but then we should have lost a great deal of pleasure. But, Ellen, the tree could not live without leaves. In the spring, the thin sap, which the roots suck up from the ground, is drawn into the leaves. There, by the help of the sun and air, it is thickened and prepared in a way you cannot understand and goes back to supply the wood with the various matters necessary for its growth and hardness. After this has gone on some time, the little vessels of the leaves become clogged and stopped up with earthy and other matter. They cease to do their work any longer. The hot sun dries them up more and more and by the time the frost comes, they are as good as dead. That finishes them and they drop off from the branch that needs them no more. Do you understand all this? Yes, ma'am, very well, said Ellen, and it's exactly what I wanted to know and very curious. So the trees couldn't live without leaves? No more than you could without a heart and lungs. I'm very glad to know that, said Ellen. Then how is it with the evergreens, Miss Alice? Why don't their leaves die and drop off too? They do. Look how the ground is carpeted under that pine tree. But they stay green all winter, don't they? Yes, their leaves are fitted to resist frost. I don't know what the people in cold countries would do else. They have the fate of all the other leaves, however. They live a while, do their work, and then die. Not all at once, though. There is always a supply left on the tree. Are we rested enough to begin again? I am, said Ellen. I don't know about the captain. Poor fellow, he's fast asleep. I declare it's too bad to wake you up, pussy. Haven't we had a pleasant little rest, Miss Alice? I have learned something while we have been sitting here. That is pleasant, Ellen, said Alice, as they began their upward march. I would, I might be all the while learning something. But you have been teaching, Miss Alice, and that's as good. Mama used to say it is more blessed to give than to receive. Thank you, Ellen, said Alice, smiling. That ought to satisfy me certainly. They bent themselves against this deep hill again and pressed on. As they rose higher, they felt it grow more cold and bleak. The woods gave them less shelter, and the wind swept her on the mountain head and over them with great force, making their way quite difficult. Courage, Ellen, said Alice, as they struggled on. We shall soon be there. I wonder, said the panting Ellen, as, making an effort, she came up alongside of Alice. I wonder why Mrs. Foss will live in such a disagreeable place. It is not disagreeable to her, Ellen, though I must say I should not like to have too much of this wind. But does she really like to live up here better than down below where it is warmer? And all alone, too? Yes, she does. Ask her why, Ellen, and see what she will tell you. She likes it so much better that this little cottage was built on purpose for her, near 10 years ago, by a good old friend of hers, a connection of the lady whom she followed to this country. Well, said Ellen, she must have a queer taste. That is all I can say. They were now within a few easy steps of the house, which did not look so uncomfortable when they came close to it. It was small and low, of only one story. Though it is true the roof ran up very steep to a high and sharp gable, it was perched so snugly, in a niche of the hill, that the little yard was completely sheltered with a high wall of frock. The house itself stood out more boldly, and caught pretty well near all the winds that blew. But so, Alice informed Ellen, the inmate liked to have it. And that roof, said Alice, she begged Mr. Marshman when the cottage was building that the roof might be high and pointed. She said her eyes were tired with all the low roofs of this country, and if he would have it made so, it would be a great relief to them. The odd roof Ellen thought was pretty. But they now reached the door, protected with a deep porch. Alice entered, and knocked at the other door. They were bade to come in. A woman was there, stepping briskly back and forth before a large spinning wheel. She half turned her head to see who the comers were, then stopped her wheel instantly, and came to meet them with open arms. Miss Alice, dear Miss Alice, how glad I am to see you! And I, you, dear Mrs. Voss, said Alice, kissing her. Here's another friend you must welcome for my sake, little Ellen Montgomery. I am very glad to see Miss Ellen, said the old woman, kissing her also. And Ellen did not shrink from the kiss, so pleasant were the lips that tendered it, so kind and frank the smile, so winning the eye, so agreeable the whole air of the person. She turned from Ellen again to Miss Alice. It's a long while that I have not seen you, dear, not since you went to Mrs. Marshmonds. And what a day you have chosen to come at last. I couldn't help that, said Alice, pulling off her bonnet. I couldn't wait any longer. I wanted to see you dolefully, Mrs. Voss. Why, my dear, what's the matter? I have wanted to see you, but not dolefully. That's the very thing, Mrs. Voss. I wanted to see you to get a lesson of quiet contentment. I never thought you wanted such a lesson, Miss Alice. What's the matter? I can't get over John's going away. Her lip trembled, and her eye was swimming as she said so. The old woman passed her hands over the gentle head and kissed her brow. So I thought, so I felt when my mistress died, and my husband, and my sons, one after the other. But now I think I can say with Paul, I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I think so, maybe that I deceive myself, but they are all gone. And I am certain that I am content now. Then surely I ought to be, said Alice. It is not till one loses one's hold of other things and looks to Jesus alone that one finds how much he can do. There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother. But I never knew all that meant till I had no other friends to lean upon. Nay, I should not say no other friends, but my dearest were taken away. You have your dearest still, Miss Alice. Two of them, said Alice faintly, and hardly that now. I have not one, said the old woman. I have not one, but my home is in heaven, and my savior is there, preparing a place for me. I know it, I am sure of it, and I can wait a little while, and rejoice all the while I am waiting. Dearest Miss Alice, none of them that trust in him shall be desolate. Don't you believe that? I do, surely, Mrs. Voss, said Alice, wiping away a tear or two. But I forget it sometimes, or the pressure of present pain is too much for all that faith and hope can do. It hinders faith and hope from acting. That is the trouble. They that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing. I know that is true of my own experience, so will you, dear. I know what, Mrs. Voss, I know it all, but it does me good to hear you say it. I thought I should become accustomed to John's absence, but I do not at all. The autumn winds all the while seem to sing to me that he is away. My dear loves, said the old lady, it sorrows me much to hear you speak so. I would take away this trial from you if I could, but he knows best. Seek to live nearer to the Lord, dear Miss Alice, and he will give you much more than he has taken away. Alice again brushed away some tears. I felt I must come and see you today, said she, and you have comforted me already. The sound of your voice always does me good. I catch courage and patience from you, I believe. As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend. How did you leave Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and has Mr. George returned yet? Drawing their chairs together, a close conversation began. Ellen had been painfully interested and surprised by what went before, but the low tone of voice now seemed to be not meant for her ear, and turning away her attention, she amused herself with taking a general survey. It was easy to see that Mrs. Voss lived in this room and probably had no other to live in. Her bed was in one corner. Cupboards filled the deep recesses on each side of the chimney, and in the wide fireplace, the crane and the hooks and trammels hanging upon it showed that the bedroom and sitting room was the kitchen too. Most of the floor was covered with a thick rag carpet where the boards could be seen. They were beautifully clean and white and everything else in the room, in this respect, matched with the boards. The panes of glass in the little windows were clean and bright as panes of glass could be made. The hearth was clean swept up. The cupboard doors were unstained and unsoiled, though fingers had worn the paint off. Dust was nowhere. On a little stand by the chimney corner lay a large Bible and another book. Close beside stood a cushioned armchair. Some other apartment there probably was where wood and stores were kept. Nothing was to be seen here that did not agree with the very comfortable face of the whole. It looked as if one might be happy there. It looked as if somebody was happy there, and a glance at the old lady of the house would not alter the opinion. Many a glance Ellen gave her as she sat talking with Alice and with every one she felt more and more drawn towards her. She was somewhat under the common size and rather stout, her countenance most agreeable. There was sense, character, sweetness in it. Some wrinkles no doubt were there too. Lines deep marked that spoke of sorrows once known. Those storms had all passed away. The last shadow of a cloud had departed. Her evening sun was shining clear and bright towards the setting, and her brow was beautifully placid, not as though it had never been, but as if it could never be ruffled again. Respect no one could help feeling for her, and more than respect one felt would grow with acquaintance. Her dress was very odd, Ellen thought. It was not American, and what it was she did not know, but supposed Mrs. Voss must have a lingering fancy for the costume as well as for the roofs of her fatherland. More than all, her eye turned again and again to the face, which seemed to her in its changing expression, winning and pleasant exceedingly. The mouth had not forgotten to smile, nor the eye to laugh, and though this was not often seen, the constant play of feature showed a deep and lively sympathy in all Alice was saying, and held Ellen's charmed gaze. And when the old ladies' looks and words were at length turned to herself, she blushed to think how long she had been looking steadily at a stranger. Little Miss Ellen, how do you like my house on the rock here? I don't know, ma'am, said Ellen. I like it very much, only I don't think I should like it so well in winter. I am not certain that I don't like it then, best of all. Why would you not like it in the winter? I shouldn't like the cold, ma'am, and to be alone. I like to be alone, but cold, I am in no danger of freezing, Miss Ellen. I make myself very warm, keep good fires, and my house is too strong for the wind to blow away. Don't you want to go out and see my cow? I have one of the best cows that you ever saw. Her name is Snow. There is not a black hair upon her, she is all white. Come, Miss Alice, Mr. Marshman sent her to me a month ago. She's a great treasure and worth looking at. They went across the yard to the tiny barn or outhouse where they found Snow nicely cared for. She was in a warm stable, a nice bedding of straw upon the floor, and plenty of hay laid up for her. Snow deserved it, for she was a beauty. And a very well-behaved cow, letting Alice and Ellen stroke her and pat her and feel of her thick hide with the most perfect placidity. Mrs. Voss, meanwhile, went to the door to look out. Nancy ought to be home to milk her, she said. I must give you supper and send you off. I have no feeling nor smell if Snow isn't thick in the air somewhere. We shall see it here soon. I'll milk her, said Alice. I'll milk her, said Ellen. I'll milk her. Ah, do let me, I know how to milk. Mr. Van Brunt taught me, and I've done it several times. May I? I should like it dearly. You shall do it surely, my child, said Mrs. Voss. Come with me, and I'll give you the pail and the milking stool. When Alice and Ellen came in with the milk, they found the kettle on, the little table set, and Mrs. Voss very busy at another table. What are you doing, Mrs. Voss, may I ask, said Alice. I'm just stirring up some Indian meal for you. I find I have not a crust left. Pleased to put that away, ma'am, for another time. Do you think I didn't know better than to come up to this mountaintop without bringing along something to live upon while I am here? Here's a basket, ma'am, and in it are diverse things. I believe Marjorie and I between us have packed enough for two or three suppers to say nothing of misfortune's pie. There it is, sure to be good, you know. And here are some of my cakes that you like so much, Mrs. Voss, said Alice, as she went on pulling the things out of the basket. And there is a bowl of butter. That's not wanted, I see. And here's a loaf of bread, and that's all. Ellen, my dear, this basket will be lighter to carry down than it was to bring up. I am glad of it, I am sure, said Ellen. My arm hasn't done aching yet, though I had it so little while. I am glad to hear that kettle singing, said their hostess. I can give you good tea, Miss Alice. You'll think so, I know. For it's the same Mr. John sent me. It is very fine tea, and he sent me a noble supply, like himself, continued Mrs. Voss, taking some out of her little caddy. I ought not to say I have no friends left. I cannot eat a meal that I am not reminded of two good friends. Mr. John knew one of my weak points when he sent me that box of sochong. The supper was ready, and the little party gathered round the table. The tea did credit to the judgment of the giver and the skill of the maker, but they were no critics that drank it. Alice and Ellen were much too hungry and too happy to be particular. Miss Fortune's pumpkin pie was declared to be very fine, and so were Mrs. Voss's cheese and butter. Eating and talking went on with great spirit, their old friend seeming scarceless, pleased, or lively than themselves. Alice proposed the French plan, and Mrs. Voss entered into it very frankly. It was easy to see that the style of building and of dress to which she had been accustomed in early life were not the only things remembered kindly for old time's sake. It was settled they should meet as frequently as might be, either here or at the parsonage, and become good French women with all convenient speed. Will you wish to walk so far to see me again, little Miss Ellen? Oh, yes, ma'am. You won't fear the deep snow and the wind and the cold and the steep hill? Oh, no, ma'am, I won't mend them a bit, but ma'am, Miss Alice told me to ask you why you loved better to live up here than down where it is warmer. I shouldn't ask if she hadn't said I might. Ellen has a great fancy forgetting about the reason of everything, Mrs. Voss, said Alice, smiling. You wonder anybody should choose it, don't you, Miss Ellen? Said the old lady. Yes, ma'am, a little. I'll tell you the reason, my child. It is for the love of my old home and the memory of my young days. Till I was as old as you are and a little older, I lived among the mountains and upon them, and after that, for many a year, they were just before my eyes every day, stretching away for more than 100 miles and piled up one above another 50 times as big as any you ever saw. These are only moleholes to them. I loved them. Oh, how I love them still. If I have one unsatisfied wish, said the old lady, turning to Alice, it is to see my Alps again, but that will never be. Now, Miss Ellen, it is not that I fancy when I get to the top of this hill that I am among my own mountains, but I can breathe better here than down in the plain. I feel more free, and in the village I would not live for gold unless that duty bade me. But all alone so far from everybody, said Ellen. I am never lonely, and old as I am, I don't mind a long walk or a rough road any more than your young feet do. But isn't it very cold, said Ellen? Yes, it is very cold, and what of that? I make a good blazing fire, and then I like to hear the wind whistle. Yes, but you wouldn't like to have it whistling inside as well as outside of Alice. I will come and do the listing and caulking for you in a day or two. Oh, you have done it without me. I am sorry. No need to be sorry, dear. I am glad. You don't look fit for any troublesome jobs. I am fit enough, said Alice. Don't put up the curtains. I'll come and do it. You must come with a stronger face, then, said her old friend. Have you wearyed yourself with walking all this way? I was a little weary, said Alice, but your nice tea has made me up again. I wish I could keep you all night, said Mrs. Voss, looking out, but your father would be uneasy. I'm afraid this storm will catch you before you get home, and you aren't fit to breast it. Little Ellen, too, don't look as if she was made of iron. Can't you stay with me? I must not. It would not do, said Alice, who is hastily putting on her things. We'll soon run down the hill, but we are leaving you alone. Where's Nancy? She'll not come if there's a promise of a storm, said Mrs. Voss. She often stays out a night. And leaves you alone? I am never alone, said the old lady quietly. I have nothing to fear, but I am uneasy about you, dear. Mind my words. Don't try to go back the way you came. Take the other road. It's easier, and stop when you get to Mrs. Van Brunt's. Mr. Van Brunt will take you the rest of the way in his little wagon. Do you think it is needful, said Alice doubtfully? I'm sure it is best. Hasten down. Adieu, moon and foe. They kissed and embraced her and hurried out. End of chapter 18.