 CHAPTER 19 Showing that in certain circumstances white is black. The clouds hunk thick and low, the wind was less than it had been. They took the path Mrs. Voss had spoken of. It was broader and easier than the other, winding more gently down the mountain. It was sometimes, indeed, travelled by horses, though far too steep for any kind of carriage. Alice and Ellen ran along without giving much heed to anything but their footing, down, down, running and bounding, hand in hand, till want of breath obliged them to slacken their pace. "'Do you think it will snow soon?' asked Ellen. "'I think it will snow. How soon I cannot tell. Have you had a pleasant afternoon?' "'Oh, very. I always have when I go there. Now, Ellen, there is an example of contentment for you. If ever a woman loved husband and children and friends, Mrs. Voss loved hers. I know this from those who knew her long ago. And now, look at her. Of them all she has none left but the orphaned daughter of her youngest son. And you know a little what sort of child that is. She must be a very bad girl,' said Ellen. "'You can't think what story,' she told me about her grandmother.' "'Poor Nancy,' said Alice, Mrs. Voss has no money nor property of any kind except what is in her house, but there is not a more independent woman breathing. She does all sorts of things to support herself. "'Now, for instance, Ellen, if anybody is sick within ten miles around, the family are too happy to get Mrs. Voss for a nurse. She is an admirable one.' Then she goes out tailoring at farmers' houses. She brings home wool and returns it spun into yarn. She brings home yarn and it's set up into stockings and socks, all sorts of odd jobs. I have seen her picking hops. She isn't above doing anything, and yet she never forgets her own dignity. I think wherever she goes and wherever she is about, she is at all times one of the most truly lady-like persons I have ever seen, and everybody respects her. Everybody likes to gain her goodwill. She is known all over the country, and all the country are her friends. They pay her for doing these things, don't they? Certainly, not often in money, more commonly in various kinds of matters that she wants, flour and sugar and Indian meal, and pork and ham and vegetables and wool, anything. It is but a little of each that she wants. She has friends that would not permit her to earn another six pence if they could help it, but she likes better to live as she does, and she is always as you saw her today, cheerful and happy as a little girl. The storm is turning over Alice's last words, and thinking that little girls were not always the cheerfulest and happiest creatures in the world. When Alice suddenly exclaimed, It is snowing. Come, Ellen, we must make haste now, and set off at a quickened pace. Quick as they might, they had gone not a hundred yards when the whole air was filled with the falling flakes, and the wind, which had dulled for a little, now rose with greater violence, and swept round the mountain furiously. The storm had come in good earnest, and promised to be no trifling one. Alice and Ellen ran on, holding each other's hands, and strengthening themselves against the blast, but their journey became every moment more difficult. The air was dark with a thick falling snow. The wind seemed to blow in every direction by turns, but chiefly against them, blinding their eyes with the snow, and making it necessary to use no small effort to keep on their way. Ellen hardly knew where she went, but allowed herself to be pulled along by Alice, or, as well, pulled her along. It was hard to say which hurried most. In the midst of this dashing on down the hill, Alice all at once came to a sudden stop. Where's the captain, said she? I don't know, said Ellen. I haven't thought of him since we left Mrs. Voss's. Alice turned her back to the wind, and looked up the road they had come. There was nothing but wind and snow there. How furiously it blew! Alice called, Pussy! Shall we walk up the road a little way, or shall we stand and wait for him here, said Ellen, trembling, half from exertion, and half from a vague fear of she knew not what? Alice called again, no answer, but a wild gust of wind and snow that drove past. I can't go on and leave him, said Alice. He might perish in the storm. And she began to walk slowly back, calling at intervals, Pussy, Kitty, Pussy, and listening for an answer that came not. Ellen was very unwilling to tarry, and no wise inclined to prolong their journey by going backwards. She thought the storm grew darker and wilder every moment. Perhaps captain stayed up at Mrs. Voss's, she said, and didn't follow us down. No, said Alice. I am sure he did. Hark! Wasn't that he? I don't hear anything, said Ellen, after a pause of anxious listening. Alice went a few steps further. I hear him, she said. I hear him, poor Kitty. And she set off at a quick pace up the hill. Ellen followed, but presently a burst of wind and snow brought them both to a stand. Alice faltered a little at this, in doubt whether to go up or down. But then, to their great joy, captain's far-off cry was heard, and both Alice and Ellen strained their voices to cheer and direct him. In a few minutes he came in sight, trotting hurriedly along through the snow, and on reaching his mistress he sat down immediately on the ground, without offering any caress, a sure sign that he was tired. Alice stooped down and took him up in her arms. Poor Kitty, she said. You've done your part for today, I think. I'll do the rest. Ellen, dear, it's of no use to tire ourselves out at once. We will go moderately. Keep hold of my cloak, my child. It takes both my arms to hold this big cat. Now, never mind the snow. We can bear being blown about a little. Are you very tired? No, said Ellen, not very. I'm a little tired, but I don't care for that, if we can only get home safe. There's no difficulty about that, I hope. Nay, there may be some difficulty, but we shall get there, I think, in good safety after a while. I wish we were there now for your sake, my child. Oh, never mind me, said Ellen gratefully. I am sorry for you, Miss Alice. You have the hardest time of it, with that heavy load to carry. I wish I could help you. Thank you, my dear. But nobody could do that. I doubt if Captain would lie in any arms but mine. Let me carry the basket, then, said Ellen. Do, Miss Alice. No, my dear. It hangs very well on my arm. Take it gently. Mrs. Van Bruntz isn't very far off. We shall feel the wind less when we turn. But the road seemed long. The storm did not increase in violence. Truly, there was no need of that. But the looked-for turning was not soon found, and the gathering darkness warned them that day was drawing to a close. As they neared the bottom of the hill, Ellen made a pause. There's a path that turns off from this, and makes a shorter cut to Mrs. Van Bruntz. But it must be above here. I must have missed it, though I have been on the watch constantly. She looked up and down. It would have been a sharp eye indeed that had detected any slight opening in the woods on either side of the path, which the driving snowstorm blended into one continuous wall of trees. They could be seen stretching darkly before and behind them, but more than that, where they stood near together, and where scattered apart was all confusion, through the fast falling shower of lakes. Shall we go back and look for the paths, said Ellen? I'm afraid we shouldn't find it if we did, said Alice. We should only lose our time, and we have none to lose. I think we had better go straight forward. Is it much further this way than the other path we have missed? A good deal, all of a half mile. I am sorry, but courage, my child. We shall know better than to go out in snowy weather next time, on long expeditions at least. They had to shout to make each other hear. So drove the snow and wind through the trees, and into their very faces and ears. They plowed it on. It was plodding, the snow lay thick enough now to make their footing uneasy, and grow deeper every moment. Their shoes were full, their feet and ankles were wet, and their steps began to drag heavily over the ground. Ellen clung as close to Alice's cloak as their hurried traveling would permit. Sometimes one of Alice's hands was loosened for a moment to be passed round Ellen's shoulders, and a word of courage or comfort in the clear, calm tone cheered her to renewed exertion. The night fell fast. It was very darkling by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, and the road did not yet allow them to turn their faces towards Mrs. Van Brunt's, a weary some piece of the way this was, leading them from the place they wished to reach. They could not go fast, either. They were too weary, and the walking too heavy. Captain had the best of it. Snug and quiet he lay wrapped in Alice's cloak and fast asleep, little wadding how tired his mistresses' arms were. The path at length brought them to the long desired turning, but it was by this time so dark that the fences on each side of the road showed but dimly. They had not spoken for a while. As they turned to the corner, a sigh of mingled weariness and satisfaction escaped from Ellen's lips. It reached Alice's ear. What's the matter, love? said the sweet voice. No trace of weariness was allowed to come into it. I am so glad we have got here at last, said Ellen, looking up with another sigh, and removing her hand for an instant from its grasp on the cloak to Alice's arm. My poor child, I wish I could carry you too. Can you hold a little longer? Oh, yes, dear Miss Alice, I can hold on. But Ellen's voice was not so well guarded. It was like her steps, a little unsteady. She presently spoke again. Miss Alice, are you afraid? I'm afraid of your getting sick, my child, and a little afraid of it for myself, of nothing else. What is there to be afraid of? It is very dark, said Ellen, and the storm is so thick. Do you think you can find the way? I know it perfectly. It is nothing but to keep straight on, and the fences would prevent us from getting out of the road. It is hard walking, I know, but we shall get there by and by. Bear up as well as you can, dear. I'm sorry I can give you no help but words. Don't you think a nice bright fire will look comfortable after all this? Oh, dear, yes, answered Ellen, rather sadly. Are you afraid, Ellen? No, Miss Alice, not much. I don't like its being so dark. I can't see where I'm going. The darkness makes her way longer and more tedious. It will do us no other harm, love. I wish I had a hand to give you. But this great cat must have both of mine. The darkness and the light are both alike to our father. We are in his hand. We are safe enough, dear Ellen. Ellen's hand left the cloak again for an instant to press Alice's arm in answer. Her voice failed at the minute. Then clinging anew as close to her side as she could get, they toiled patiently on. The wind had somewhat lessened of its violence. And besides, it blew not now in their faces, but against their backs, helping them on. Still the snow continued to fall very fast and already lay thick upon the ground. Every half hour increased the heaviness and painfulness of their march, and darkness gathered till the very fences could no longer be seen. It was pitch dark. To hold the middle of the road was impossible. Their only way was to keep along by one of the fences. And for fear of hurting themselves against some outstanding post or stone, it was necessary to travel quite gently. They were indeed in no condition to travel otherwise, if light had not been wanting. Slowly and patiently, with painful care groping their way, they pushed on through the snow and the thick night. Alice could feel the earnestness of Ellen's grasp upon her clothes and her clothes pressing up to her, made their progress still slower and more difficult than it would otherwise have been. Miss Alice said, Ellen, what my child? I wish you would speak to me once in a while. Alice freed one of her hands and took Ellen's. I have been so busy picking my way along, I have neglected you, haven't I? Oh, no, ma'am, but I like to hear the sound of your voice sometimes. It makes me feel better. This is an odd kind of traveling, isn't it, said Alice, cheerfully, in the dark and feeling our way along. This will be quite an adventure to talk about, won't it? Quite, said Ellen. It is easier going this way, don't you find it so? The wind helps us forward. It helps me too much, said Ellen. I wish it wouldn't be quite so very kind. Why, Miss Alice, I have enough to do to hold myself together sometimes. It almost makes me run, though I am so very tired. Well, it is better than having it in our faces at any rate. Tired you are, I know, and must be. We shall want to rest all day tomorrow, shan't we? Oh, I don't know, said Ellen, sighing. I shall be glad when we begin. How long do you think it'll be, Miss Alice, before we get to Mrs. Van Bruntz? My dear child, I cannot tell you. I have not the least notion whereabouts we are. I can see no way marks, and I cannot judge at all of the rate at which we have come. But what if we should have passed it in this darkness, said Ellen? No, I don't think that, said Ellis, though a cold doubt struck her mind to Ellen's words. I think we shall see the glimmer of Mrs. Van Bruntz's friendly candle by and by. But more uneasily, and more keenly now, she strove to see that glimmer through the darkness. Strove till the darkness seemed to press painfully upon her eyeballs, and she almost outed her being able to see any light if light there were. It was all blank, thick darkness still. She began to question anxiously with herself which side of the house was Mrs. Van Bruntz ordinary sitting room, whether she should see the light of it from before or after passing the house. And now her glance was directed often behind her, that they might be sure, in any case, of not missing their desired haven. In vain she looked forward or back. It was all one. No cheering glimmer of lamp or candle greeted her straining eyes. Hurriedly now, from time to time, the comforting words were spoken to Ellen. For to pursue the long stretch of way that led onward from Mr. Van Bruntz to Miss Fortunes would be a very serious matter. Alice wanted comfort herself. Shall we get there soon, do you think, Ms. Alice, said poor Ellen, whose wearied feet carried her painfully over the deepening snow? The tone of voice went to Alice's heart. I don't know, my darling. I hope so, she answered. But it was spoken rather patiently than cheerfully. Fear nothing, dear Ellen. Remember who has the care of us. Darkness and light are both alike to him. Nothing will do us any real harm. How tired you must be, dear Miss Alice, carrying pussy, Ellen said with a sigh. For the first time, Alice echoed the sigh. But almost immediately, Ellen exclaimed in a totally different tone. There's a light, but it isn't a candle it is moving about. What is it, Miss Alice? They stopped and looked. A light there certainly was. Dimly seen, moving at some little distance from the fence on the opposite side of the road. All of a sudden, it disappeared. What is it, whispered Ellen fearfully. I don't know my love yet. Wait. They waited several minutes. What could it be, said Ellen? It was certainly a light. I saw it as plainly as ever I saw anything. What can it have done with itself? There it is again, going the other way. Alice waited no longer, but screamed out. Who's there? But the light paid no attention to her cry. It traveled on. Hello, called Alice again, as loud as she could. Hello, answered a rough deep voice. The light suddenly stopped. That's he, that's he exclaimed Ellen in an ecstasy and almost dancing. I know it. It's Mr. Van Brunt. It's Mr. Van Brunt. Oh, Miss Alice. Struggling between crying and laughing, Ellen could not stand it, but gave weight to a good fit of crying. Alice felt the infection, but controlled herself. Though her eyes watered, as her heart saw not its grateful tribute, as well as she could, she answered the hello. The light was seen advancing towards them. Presently, it glimmered faintly behind the fence, showing a bit of the dark rails covered with snow, and they could dimly see the figure of a man getting over them. He crossed the road to where they stood. It was Mr. Van Brunt. I am very glad to see you, Mr. Van Brunt, said Alice's sweet voice, but it trembled a little. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, sobbed Ellen. That gentleman, at first done with astonishment, lifted his lantern to savoury them, and to assure his eyes that his ears had not been mistaken. Miss Alice, how in the name of wonder, and my poor little lamb, but what on earth? Ma'am, you must be half-dead. Come this way, just come back a little bit. Why, where were you going, ma'am? To your house, Mr. Van Brunt, I have been looking for it with no little anxiety I assure you. Looking for it, but how on earth you wouldn't see the biggest house ever was built half a yard off, such a plagy night as this. But I thought I should see the light from the windows, Mr. Van Brunt. The light from the windows? The storm rattled so again the windows. That mother made me pull the great shutters, too. I won't have them shut again of a stormy night. That's a fact. You'd have gone far enough before you had seen the light through them shutters. Then we had passed the house already, hadn't we? Indeed you had, ma'am. I guess you saw my light, hadn't you? Yes, and glad enough we were to see it, too. I suppose so. It happened so tonight. Now that is a queer thing. I minded that I hadn't untied my horse. He's a trick of being untied at night, and won't sleep well if he ain't. And mother wanted me to let him alone because of the awful storm. But I couldn't go to my bed in peace till I had seen him to hisen. So that's how my lantern came to be going to the barn, in such an awkward night as this. They had reached the little gate, and Mr. Van Brunt, with some difficulty, pulled it open. The snow lay thick upon the neat brick walk which Ellen had tried the first time with wet feet and dripping garments. A few steps further, and they came to the same door that had opened then so hospitably to receive her. As the faint light of the lantern was thrown upon the old latch and doorposts, Ellen felt at home, and a sense of comfort sank down into her heart, which she had not known for some time. End of chapter 19. Chapter 20 of the Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 20. Head Sick and Heart Sick. Mr. Van Brunt flung open the door, and the two wet and weary travelers stepped after him into the same cheerful, comfortable-looking kitchen that had received Ellen once before. Just the same, tidy, clean-swept up, a good fire, and the same old red-backed chairs standing round on the hearth in most cozy fashion. It seemed to Ellen a perfect storehouse of comfort. The very walls had a kind face for her. There were no other faces, however. The chairs were all empty. Mr. Van Brunt put Alice in one, and Ellen in another, and shouted, Mother, here! Muttering that she had taken herself off with the light somewhere. Not very far, four and half a minute, answering the call. Mrs. Van Brunt and the light came hurriedly in. What's the matter, Bram? Who's this? Why, Tate, Miss Alice, my gracious me, and all wet, oh dear, dear, poor lamb, why, Miss Alice, dear, where have you been? And if that ain't my little Ellen, oh, dear, what a fix you are in. Well, darling, I'm glad to see you again almost anyway. She crossed over to kiss Ellen as she said this, but surprise was not more quickly alive than kindness and hospitality. She fell to work immediately to remove Alice's wet things, and to do whatever their joint prudence and experience might suggest to ward off any ill effects from the fatigue and exposure the wanderers had suffered. And while she was thus employed, Mr. Van Brunt busied himself with Ellen, who was really in no condition to help herself. It was curious to see him carefully taking off Ellen's wet hood, not the blue one, and knocking it gently to get rid of the snow, evidently thinking that ladies' things must have delicate handling. He tried the cloaknecks, but boggled sadly at the fastening of that, and at last was feigned to call and help. Here, Nancy, where are you? Step here and see if you can undo this here thing, whatever you call it. I believe my fingers are too big for it. It was Ellen's former acquaintance who came forward in obedience to this call. Ellen had not seen before that she was in the room. Nancy grinned a mischievous smile of recognition as she stooped to Ellen's throat and undid the fastening of the cloak, and then shortly enough bade her get up that she might take it off. Ellen obeyed, but was very glad to sit down again. While Nancy went to the door to shake the cloak, Mr. Van Brunt was gently pulling off Ellen's wet gloves, and on Nancy's return he directed her to take off the shoes, which were filled with snow. Nancy sat down on the floor before Ellen to obey this order, and, tired and exhausted as she was, Ellen felt the different manner in which her hands and feet were weighted upon. How did you get into the scrapes, said Nancy? This was none of my doings anyhow. It'll never be dry weather, Ellen, where you are. I won't put on my Sunday go-to-meeting clothes when I go a-walking with you. You had ought to a bin and duck or a goose or something like that. What's that for, Mr. Van Brunt? This last query, pretty sharply spoken, was an answer to a light touch of that gentleman's hand upon Miss Nancy's ear, which came rather as a surprise. He didn't know the reply. You are a fine gentleman, said Nancy, tartly. Have you done what I gave you to do, said Mr. Van Brunt, coolly? Yes, there, said Nancy, holding up Ellen's bare feet on one hand, while the fingers of the other, secretly applied in ticklish fashion to the soles of them, caused Ellen suddenly to start and scream. Get up, said Mr. Van Brunt. Nancy didn't think best to disobey. Mother, hence you got nothing you want Nancy to do? Sally, said Mrs. Van Brunt. You and Nancy go and fetch here a couple of pails of hot water right away. Go and mind what you were about, said Mr. Van Brunt, and after that keep out of this room and don't whisper again till I give you leave. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, how do you feel? Ellen said in words that she felt nicely, but the eyes and the smile said a great deal more. Ellen's heart was running over. Oh, she'll feel nicely directly. I'll be bound, said Mrs. Van Brunt. Wait till she get her feet soaked and then. I do feel nicely now, said Ellen. And Alice smiled in answer to their inquiries, and said if she only knew her father was easy, there would be nothing wanting to her happiness. The bathing of their feet was a great refreshment, and their kind hostess had got ready a plentiful supply of hot herb tea, with which both Alice and Ellen were well dosed. While they sat sipping this, toasting their feet before the fire, Mrs. Van Brunt and the girls meanwhile, preparing their room, Mr. Van Brunt suddenly entered. He was cloaked and hadded, and had a riding whip in his hand. Is there any word you'd like to get home, Miss Alice? I'm going to ride a good piece that way, and I can stop as good as not. Tonight, Mr. Van Brunt exclaimed to Alice in astonishment. Mr. Van Brunt's silence seemed to say that tonight was the time, and no other. But the storm is too bad, urged Alice. Pray don't go till tomorrow. Pray don't, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen. Can't help it, I've got business, must go. What shall I say, ma'am? I should be very glad, said Alice, to have my father know where I am. Are you going very near the nose? Very near. Then I shall be greatly obliged, if you will be so kind as to stop and relieve my father's anxiety. But how can you go in such weather, and so dark as it is? Never fear, said Mr. Van Brunt. We'll be back in half an hour, if Brahm and me don't come across a snowdrift, a little too deep. Good night, ma'am, and out he went. Back in a half hour, said Alice musing. Why, he said he had been to untie his horse for the night. He must be going on our account, I am sure, Ellen. On your account, said Ellen, smiling. Oh, I knew that all the time, Miss Alice. I don't think he'll stop to relieve Aunt Fortune's anxiety. Alice sprang to call him back, but Mrs. Van Brunt assured her it was too late, and that she need not be uneasy. For her son didn't mind the storm no more than a weatherboard. Brahm and Brahm could go anywhere, in any sort of a time. Here was a going without speaking to you, but I told him he had better, for maybe you wanted to send some word particular. And your room's ready now, dear, and you'd better go to bed, and sleep as long as you can. They went, thankfully. Isn't this a pleasant room, said Ellen, who saw everything in rose color, and a nice bed? But I feel as if I could sleep on the floor tonight. Isn't it almost worthwhile to have such a time, Miss Alice, for the sake of the pleasure afterwards? I don't know, Ellen, said Alice, smiling. I won't say that, though it is worth paying a price for, to find out how much kindness there is in some people's hearts. As to sleeping on the floor, I must say I never felt less inclined to it. Well, I am tired enough, too, said Ellen, as they laid themselves down. Two nights with you in a week. Oh, those weeks before I saw you, Miss Alice. One earnest kiss for good night, and Ellen's sigh of pleasure on touching the pillow was scarcely breathed when sleep, deep in sound, fell upon her eyelids. It was very late next morning when they awoke, having slept rather heavily than well. They crawled out of bed, feeling stiff and sore in every limb, each confessing to more evil effects from their adventure than she had been aware of the evening before. All the rubbing and bathing and drinking that Mrs. Van Brunt had administered had been too little to undo what wet and cold and fatigue had done. But Mrs. Van Brunt had set her breakfast table with everything her house could furnish that was nice, a bountifully-spread board it was. Mr. Humphries was there, too, and no bad feelings of two of the party could prevent that from being a most cheerful and pleasant meal. Even Mr. Humphries and Mr. Van Brunt, two persons not usually given too many words, came out wonderfully on this occasion, gratitude and pleasure in the one, and generous feeling on the part of the other, untied their tongues, and Ellen looked from one to the other in some amazement to see how agreeable they could be. Kindness and hospitality always kept Mrs. Van Brunt in full flow, and Alice, whenever she felt, exerted herself and supplied what was wanting everywhere, like the transparent glazing which painters used to spread over the dead color of their pictures. Unknown, it was she gave life and harmony to the whole, and Ellen, in her enjoyment of everything and everybody, forgot or despised aches and pains, and even whispered to Alice that coffee was making her well again. But happy breakfasts must come to an end, and so did this, prolonged though it was. Immediately after, the party, whom circumstances had gathered for the first and probably the last time, scattered again, but the meeting had left pleasant effects on all minds. Mrs. Van Brunt was in general delight that she had entertained so many people she thought a great deal of, and particularly glad of the chance of showing her kind feelings towards two of the number. Mr. Humphreys remarked upon that very sensible, good-hearted man, Mr. Van Brunt, towards whom he felt himself under great obligation. Mr. Van Brunt said, the minister weren't such a grumpy man as people called him, and moreover said, it was a good thing to have an education, and he had a notion to read more. As for Alice and Ellen, they went away full of kind feeling for everyone and much love to each other. This was true of them before, but their late troubles had drawn them closer together and given them fresh occasion to value their friends. Mr. Humphreys had brought the little one-horse sleigh for his daughter, and soon after breakfast, Ellen saw it drive off with her. Mr. Van Brunt then harnessed his own and carried Ellen home. Ill though she felt, the poor child made an effort and spent part of the morning in finishing the long letter to her mother, which had been on the stock since Monday. The effort became painful towards the last, and the aching limbs and trembling hand of which she complained were the first beginnings of a serious fit of illness. She went to bed that same afternoon and did not leave it again for two weeks. Cold had taken violent hold of her system, fever set in and ran high, and half the time little Ellen's wits were roving in delirium. Nothing, however, could be too much for misfortune's energies. She was as much at home in a sick room as in a well one. She flew about with increased agility, was upstairs and downstairs 20 times in the course of a day, and kept all straight everywhere. Ellen's room was always the picture of neatness, the fire, the wood fire was taken care of. Misfortune seemed to know by instinct when it wanted a fresh supply and to be on the spot by magic to give it. Ellen's medicines were dealt out in proper time. Her gruels and drinks perfectly well-made and arranged with appetizing nicety on a little table by the bedside where she could reach them herself. And misfortune was generally at hand when she was wanted. But in spite of all this, there was something missing in that sick room. There was a great want, and whenever the delirium was upon her, Ellen made no secret of it. She was never violent, but she moaned sometimes impatiently and sometimes plaintively for her mother. It was a vexation to misfortune to hear her. The name of her mother was all the time on her lips. If by chance her aunt's name came in, it was spoken in a way that generally sent her bouncing out of the room. Mama, poor Ellen, would say, just lay your hand on my forehead, will you? It's so hot, oh, do, Mama, where are you? Do put your hand on my forehead, won't you? Oh, do speak to me, why don't you, Mama? Oh, why don't she come to me? Once when Ellen was uneasily calling in this fashion for her mother's hand, misfortune softly laid her own upon the child's brow. But the quick sudden jerk of the head from under it told her how well Ellen knew the one from the other. And little as she cared for Ellen, it was wormwood to her. Misfortune was not without offers of help during the sick time. Mrs. Van Brunt, and afterwards Mrs. Voss, asked Leave to come and nurse Ellen. But Misfortune declared it was more plague than profit to her, and she couldn't be bothered with having strangers about. Mrs. Van Brunt, she suffered, much against her will, to come for a day or two. At the end of that, Misfortune found means to get rid of her civilly. Mrs. Voss, she would not allow to stay an hour. The old lady got Leave, however, to go up to the sick room for a few minutes. Ellen, who was then in a high fever, informed her that her mother was downstairs, and her Aunt Fortune would not let her come up. She pleaded with tears that she might come, and entreated Mrs. Voss to take her aunt away and send her mother. Mrs. Voss tried to soothe her. Misfortune grew impatient. What on earth's the use, said she, of talking to a child that's out of her head? She can't hear reason. That's the way she gets into whenever the fever's on her. I have the pleasure of hearing that sort of thing all the time. Come away, Mrs. Voss, and leave her. She can't be better any way than alone. And I am in the room every other thing. She's just as well quiet. Nobody knows, said Miss Fortune, on her way downstairs. Nobody knows the blessings of taking care of other people's children that hadn't tried it. I've tried it to my heart's content. Mrs. Voss sighed, but departed in silence. It was not when the fever was on her and the delirium high that Ellen most felt the want she then so pitifully made known. There were other times, when her head was aching and weary and weak, she lay still there. Oh, how she longed then for the dear-wanted face, the old, quiet smile that carried so much of comfort and assurance with it. The voice that was like heaven's music, the touch of that loved hand to which she'd clung for so many years. She could scarcely bear to think of it sometimes. In the still, wakeful hours of night, when the only sound to be heard was the heavy breathing of her aunt asleep on the floor by her side. And in the long, solitary day, when the only variety to be looked for was misfortunes, flitting in and out. And there came to be a sameness about that. Ellen mourned her loss bitterly. Many and many were the silent tears that rolled down and wet her pillow. Many a long, drawn sigh came from the very bottom of Ellen's heart. She was too weak and subdued now for violent weeping. She wondered sadly why Alice did not come to see her. It was another great grief added to the former. She never chose, however, to mention her name to her aunt. As she kept her wonder and her sorrow to herself, all the harder to bear for that. After two weeks, Ellen began to mend. And then she became exceedingly weary of being alone and shut up to her room. It was a pleasure to have her Bible and hymn book lying upon the bed. And a great comfort when she was able to look at a few words. But that was not very often. And she longed to see somebody and hear something beside her aunt's dry questions and answers. One afternoon, Ellen was sitting, alone as usual, bolstered up in bed. Her little hymn book was clasped in her hand. Though not equal to reading, she felt the touch of it assolus to her. Half dozing, half waking, she had been perfectly quiet for some time. When the sudden and not very gentle opening of the room door caused her to start and open her eyes. They opened wider than usual. For, instead of her aunt fortune, it was the figure of Miss Nancy Voss that presented itself. She came in briskly and shutting the door behind her, advanced to the bedside. Well, she said, there you are. Why, you look smart enough. I've come to see you. Have you, said Ellen, uneasily? Miss Fortune's gone out, and she told me to come and take care of you, so I'm going to spend the afternoon. Are you, said Ellen, again? Yes, ain't you glad? I knew you must be lonely, so I thought I'd come. There was a mischievous twinkle in Nancy's eyes. Ellen, for once in her life, wished for her aunt's presence. What are you doing? Nothing, said Ellen. Nothing, indeed. It's a fine thing to lie there and do nothing. You won't get well in a hurry, I guess, will you? You look as well as I do this minute. Oh, I always knew you was a sham. You are very much mistaken, said Ellen, indignantly. I have been very sick, and I'm not at all well yet. Fiddledee-dee, it's very nice to think so. I guess you're lazy. How soft and good those pillows do look, to be sure. Come, Ellen, try getting up a little. I believe you hurt yourself with sleeping. It'll do you good to be out of bed awhile. Come, get up. She pulled Ellen's arm as she spoke. Stop, Nancy, let me alone, cried Ellen, struggling with all her force. I mustn't, I can't, I mustn't get up. What do you mean? I'm not able to sit up at all, let me go. She succeeded in freeing herself from Nancy's grasp. Well, you're an obstinate piece, said the other. Have your own way. But mind, I'm left in charge of you. Is it time for you to take your physic? I'm not taking any, said Ellen. What are you taking? Nothing but gruel and little things. Gruel and little things. Little things means something good, I suppose. Well, is it time for you to take your gruel or one of the little things? No, I don't want any. Oh, that's nothing. People never know what's good for them. I'm your nurse now, and I'm going to give it to you when I think you want it. Let me feel your pulse. Yes, your pulse says gruel's wanting. I shall put some down to warm right away. I shan't take it, said Ellen. That's a likely story, you'd better not say so. I'd rather suppose you will if I give it to you. Look here, Ellen, you'd better mind how you behave. You're going to do just what I tell you. I know how to manage you. If you make any fuss, I shall just tickle you finally, said Nancy, as she prepared a bed of coals and set the cup of gruel on it to get hot. I'll do it in no time at all, my young lady, so you'd better mind. Poor Ellen involuntarily curled up her feet under the bedclothes so as to get them as far as possible out of harm's way. She judged the best thing was to keep quiet if she could, so she said nothing. Nancy was in great glee, with something of the same spirit of mischief that a cat shows when she has captured a mouse at the end of her paws. While the gruel was heeding, she spun around the room in quest of amusement, and her sudden jerks and flings from one place and thing to another had so much of lawlessness that Ellen was in perpetual terror as to what she might take it into her head to do next. Where does that door lead to? I believe that one leads to the garret, said Ellen. You believe so? Why don't you say it does at once? I haven't been up to sea. You haven't? You expect me to believe that, I suppose. I'm not quite such a goal as you take me for. What's up there? I don't know, of course. Of course. I declare I don't know what you are up to exactly, but if you won't tell me, I'll find out for myself pretty quick. That's one thing. She flung open the door and ran up, and Ellen heard her feet trampling overhead from one end of the house to the other, and sounds too, of pushing and pulling things over the floor. It was plain Nancy was rummaging. Well, said Ellen, as she turned uneasily upon her bed, it's no affair of mine. I can't help it whatever she does. But oh, won't Aunt Fortune be angry? Nancy presently came down with her frock gathered up into a bag before her. What do you think I've got here, said she. I suppose you didn't know there was a basket of fine hickory nuts up there in the corner. Was it you or misfortune that hid them away so nicely? I suppose she thought nobody would ever think of looking behind that great blue chest and under the feather bed. But it takes me. Miss Fortune was afraid of your stealing them, I guess, Ellen. She needn't have been, said Ellen, indignantly. No, I suppose you wouldn't take them if you saw them. You wouldn't eat them if they were cracked for you, would you? She flung some on Ellen's bed as she spoke. Nancy had seated herself on the floor, and using for hammer a piece of old iron she had brought down with her from the garret, she was cracking the nuts on the clean white hearth. Indeed I wouldn't, said Ellen, throwing them back. And you oughtn't to crack them there, Nancy. You'll make a dreadful mess. What do you think I care, said the other scornfully. She leisurely cracked and ate as many as she pleased of the nuts, bestowing the rest in the bosom of her frock. Ellen watched fearfully for her next move, if she should open the little door and get among her books and boxes. Nancy's first care, however, was the cup of gruel. It was found too hot for any mortal lips to bear, so it was set on one side to cool. Then taking up her rambling examination of the room, she went from window to window. What fine big windows, one might get in here easy enough. I declare, Ellen, some night I'll set the ladder up against here, and the first thing you'll see will be me coming in. You'll have me to sleep with before you think. I'll fasten my windows, said Ellen. No you won't, you'll do it a night or two maybe, but then you'll forget it. I shall find them open when I come. Oh, I'll come. But I could call Aunt Fortune, said Ellen. No you couldn't, because if you spoke a word, I'd tickle you to death, that's what I'd do. I know how to fix you off. And if you did call her, I'd just whip out of the window and run off with my ladder. And then you'd get a fine combing for disturbing the house. What's in this trunk? Only my clothes and things, said Ellen. Oh goody, that's fine. Now I'll have a look at them. That's just what I wanted, only I didn't know it. Where's the key? Oh here it is, sticking in. That's good. Oh please don't, said Ellen, raising herself and her elbow. They're all in nice order, and you'll get them all in confusion. Oh, do let them alone. You'd best be quiet, or I'll come and see you, said Nancy. I'm just going to look at everything in it. And if I find anything out of sorts, you'll get it. What's this? Ruffles? I declare, ain't you fine. I'll see how they look on me. What a plague, you have a glass in the room. Never mind, I'm used to dressing without a glass. Oh, I wish you wouldn't, said Ellen, who was worried to the last degree at seeing her nicely done up ruffles round Nancy's neck. They're so nice, and you'll must them all up. Don't cry about it, said Nancy coolly. I ain't going to eat them. My goodness, what a fine hood. Ain't that pretty. The nice blue hood was turning about in Nancy's fingers, and well looked at inside and out. Ellen was in distress for fear it would go on Nancy's head, as well as the ruffles round her neck, but it didn't. She flung it at length on one side, and went on pulling out one thing after another, screwing them very carelessly about the floor. What's here, a pair of dirty stockings, as I'm alive, ain't you ashamed to put dirty stockings in your trunk? They are no such things, said Ellen, who in her vexation was in danger of forgetting her fear. I've worn them but once. They've no business in here anyhow, said Nancy, rolling them up in a hard ball, and giving them a sudden fling at Ellen. They just missed her face and struck the wall beyond. Ellen seized them to throw back, but her weakness warned her that she was not able, and a moment reminded her of the folly of doing anything to rouse Nancy, who for the present was pretty quiet. Ellen lay upon her pillow and looked on, ready to cry with vexation. All her nicely stowed piles of white clothes were ruthlessly hurled out and tumbled about. Her capes tried on, her summer dresses unfolded, displayed, criticized. Nancy decided one was too short, another very ugly, a third horribly ill-made. And when she had done with each, it was cast out of her way on one side or the other, as the case may be. The floor was littered with clothes in various states of disarrangement and confusion. The bottom of the trunk was reached at last, and then Nancy suddenly recollected her gruel and sprang to it, but it had grown cold again. This won't do, said Nancy, as she put it on the coals again, it must be just right, it'll warm soon, and then, Miss Ellen, you're going to take it whether or no. I hope you won't give me the pleasure of pouring it down. Meanwhile, she opened the little door of Ellen's study closet and went in there, though Ellen begged her not. She pulled the door too and stayed sometime perfectly quiet, not able to see or hear what she was doing, and fretted beyond measure that her workbox and rating desk should be at Nancy's mercy, or even feel the touch of her fingers. Ellen could at last stand it no longer, but threw herself out of the bed, weak as she was, and went to see what was going on. Nancy was seated quietly on the floor, examining, with much interest, the contents of the workbox, trying on the thimble, cutting bits of thread with the scissors, and marking the ends of the spools, with whatever-like pieces of mischief her restless spirit could devise. But when Ellen opened the door, she put the box from her and started up. My goodness me, said she, this'll never do, what are you out here for? You'll cut your death with those dear little bear feet, and we shall have the mischief to pay. As she said this, she caught up Ellen in her arms as if she had been a baby, and carried her back to the bed, where she laid her with two or three little shakes, and then proceeded to spread up the clothes and tuck her in all round. She then ran for the gruel. Ellen was in great question whether to give way to tears or vexation, but with some difficulty, determined upon vexation as the best plan. Nancy prepared the gruel to her liking, and brought it to the bedside, but to get it swallowed was another matter. Nancy was resolved Ellen should take it. Ellen had less strength, but quite as much obstinacy as her enemy, and she was equally resolved not to drink a drop. Between laughing on Nancy's part, and very serious anger on Ellen's, a struggle ensued. Nancy tried to force it down, but Ellen's shut teeth were as firm as a vice, and the end was at two thirds were bestowed on the sheet. Ellen burst into tears, Nancy laughed. Well, I do think, said she, you are one of the hardest customers I ever came across. I shouldn't want to have the managing of you when you get a little bigger. Oh, the way Miss Fortune will look when she comes in here will be a caution. Oh, what fun. Nancy shouted and clapped her hands. Come, stop crying, said she. What a baby you are. What are you crying for? Come, stop. I'll make you laugh if you don't. Two or three little applications of Nancy's fingers made her words good, but laughing was mixed with crying, and Ellen writhed in hysterics. Just then came a little knock at the door. Ellen did not hear it, but it quieted Nancy. She stood still a moment, and then, as the knock was repeated, she called out boldly, come in. Ellen raised her head to see who there might be, and great was the surprise of both, and the joy of one, as the tall form and broad shoulders of Mr. Van Brunt presented themselves. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, sobbed Ellen. I'm so glad to see you. Won't you please send Nancy away? What are you doing here? said the astonished judgment. Look and see, Mr. Van Brunt said Nancy with a smile of mischief's own curling. You won't be long finding out, I guess. Take yourself off, and don't let me hear of you being caught here again. I'll go when I'm ready, thank you, said Nancy. And as to the rest, I haven't been caught the first time yet. I don't know what you mean. She sprang as she finished her sentence, for Mr. Van Brunt made a sudden movement to catch her then and there. He was foiled, and then began a running chase round the room, in the course of which Nancy dodged, pushed, and sprang, with the power of squeezing by impassibles and overleaping impossibilities, that, to say the least of it, was remarkable. The room was too small for her, and she was caught at last. I vow, said Mr. Van Brunt, as he pinnied her hands. I should like to see you play blind man's bluff for once, if I weren't the blind man. Had you seen me if you was, said Nancy scornfully. Now, Miss Ellen, said Mr. Van Brunt, as he brought her to Ellen's bedside. Here she is safe. What shall I do with her? If you will only send her away and not let her come back, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen, I'll be so much obliged to you. Let me go, said Nancy. I declare you're a real mean Dutchman, Mr. Van Brunt. He took both her hands in one, and laid the other lightly over her ears. I'll let you go, said he. Now don't you be caught here again if you know what is good for yourself. He saw Miss Nancy out of the door, and then came back to Ellen, who was crying heartily again from nervous vexation. She's gone, said he. What has that wicked thing been doing, Miss Ellen? What's the matter with you? Oh, Mr. Van Brunt said, Ellen, you can't think how she has worried me. She has been here this great while. Just look at all my things on the floor, and that isn't a half. Mr. Van Brunt gave a long whistle, as his eyes surveyed the tokens of Miss Nancy's mischief-making, over and through which both she and himself had been chasing up full speed, making the state of matters rather worse than it was before. I do say, said he slowly, that is too bad. I'd fix him up again for you, Miss Ellen, if I knew how, but my hands are almost as clumsy as my feet, and I see the marks of them there. It's too bad I declare. I didn't know what I was going on. Never mind, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen. I don't mind what you have done a bit. I'm so glad to see you. She put out her little hand to him as she spoke. He took it in his own silently, but though he said and showed nothing of it, Ellen's look and tone of affection thrilled his heart with pleasure. How do you do, he said kindly. I'm a great deal better, said Ellen. Sit down, won't you, Mr. Van Brunt? I want to see you a little. Horses wouldn't have drawn him away after that. He sat down. Ain't you going to be up again some of these days, said he? Oh, yes, I hope so, said Ellen, sighing. I am very tired of lying here. He looked around the room, got up and mended the fire, then came and sat down again. I was up yesterday for a minute, said Ellen, but the chair tired me so. I was glad to get back to bed again. It was no wonder. Harder and straighter-backed chairs never were invented. Probably Mr. Van Brunt thought so. Wouldn't you like to have a rocking chair, said he, suddenly, as if a bright thought had struck him? Oh yes, how much I should, said Ellen, with another long-drawn breath. But there isn't such a thing in the house that ever I saw. Aye, but there is in other houses, though, said Mr. Van Brunt, with his near and approach to a smile as his lips commonly made. We'll see. Ellen smiled more broadly. But don't you give yourself any trouble for me, said she. Trouble, indeed, said Mr. Van Brunt. I don't know anything about that. How came that wicked thing up here to plague you? She, said Aunt Fortune, left her to take care of me. That's one of her lies. Your aunt's gone out, I know. But she's a trifle wiser than to do such a thing as that. She has plagued you badly, hadn't she? He might have thought so. The color which excitement brought into Ellen's face had faded away, and she had settled herself back against her pillow with an expression of weakness and weariness that the strongman saw and felt. What is there I can do for you, said he, with the gentleness that seemed almost strange from such lips? If you would, said Ellen faintly, if you could be so kindest to read me a hymn, I should be so glad. I've had nobody to read to me. Her hand put the little book towards him, as she said so. Mr. Van Brunt would vastly rather anyone had asked him to plow an acre. He was to the full as much confounded as poor Ellen had once been at a request of his. He hesitated and looked towards Ellen, wishing for an excuse. But the pale little face that lay there against the pillow, the drooping eyelids, the meek helpless look of the little child, put all excuses out of his head. And though he would have chosen to do almost anything else, he took the book and asked her, where? She said, anywhere, and he took the first he saw. Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am, I have a rich, almighty friend. Jesus the Savior is his name. He freely loves and without end. Oh, said Ellen, with a sigh of pleasure, and folding her hands on her breast. How lovely that is. He stopped and looked at her a moment, and then went on with increased gravity. He ransomed me from hell with blood, and by his power my foes controlled. He found me wandering far from God, and brought me to his chosen fold. Fold, said Ellen, opening her eyes. What is that? It's where sheep are penned, ain't it? Said Mr. Van Brunt after a pause. Oh, yes, said Ellen. That's it, I remember. That's like what he said. I am the good shepherd, and the Lord is my shepherd. I know now, go on, please. He finished the hymn with no more interruption. Looking again towards Ellen, he was surprised to see several large tears, finding their way down her cheeks from under the wet eyelash, but she quickly wiped them away. What do you read them things for, said he, if they make you feel bad? Feel bad, said Ellen? Oh, they don't. They make me happy. I love them dearly. I never read that one before. You can't think how much I am obliged to you for reading it to me. Will you let me see where it is? He gave it to her. Yes, there's his marks at Ellen with sparkling eyes. Now, Mr. Van Brunt, would you be so very good as to read it once more? He obeyed. It was easier this time. She listened as before with closed eyes, but the color came and went once or twice. Thank you very much, she said, when he had done. Are you going? I must. I have some things to look after. She held his hand still. Mr. Van Brunt, don't you love him's? I don't know much about him, Miss Ellen. Mr. Van Brunt, are you one of that fold? What fold? The fold of Christ's people. I'm a fear not, Miss Ellen, said he soberly after a minute's pause, because, said Ellen, bursting into tears. I wish you were, very much. She carried the great brown hand to her lips before she let it go. He went out without saying a word, but when he got out, he stopped and looked at a little tear she had left on the back of it. And he looked till one of his own fell there to keep it company. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 21, Footsteps of Angels. The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, a light step crossed the shed, and the great door opening gently and walked Miss Alice Humphries. The room was all red up, and Miss Fortune and her mother sat there at work, one picking over white beans at the table, the other in her usual seat by the fire, and at her usual employment, which was knitting. Alice came forward and asked the old lady how she did. Pretty well, oh, pretty well, she answered, with the look of bland good humor her face almost always wore. I'm glad to see you, dear, take a chair. Alice did so, quite aware that the other person in the room was not glad to see her. And how goes the world with you, Miss Fortune? Humph, it's a queer kind of world, I think, answered that lady dryly, sweeping some of the picked beans into her pan. I get almost sick of it sometimes. Why, what's the matter, said Alice pleasantly? May I ask? Has anything happened to trouble you? Oh, no, said the other, somewhat impatiently. Nothing that's any matter to anyone but myself. It's no use speaking about it. Miss Fortune would never take the world easy, said the old woman, shaking her head from side to side. Never would. I never could get her to. Now, do hush, mother, will you, said the daughter, turning round upon her with startling sharpness of look and tone. Take the world easy. You always did. I'm glad I ain't like you. I don't think it's a bad way after all, said Alice. What's the use of taking it hard, Miss Fortune? The way one goes on, said that lady, picking away at her beans very fast, and not answering Alice's question. I'm tired of it. Toil, toil, and drive, drive from morning to night. And what's the end of it all? Not much, said Alice gravely, if our toiling looks no further than this world. When we go, we shall carry nothing away with us. I should think it would be very worrisome to toil only for what we cannot keep, nor stay long to enjoy. It's a pity you weren't a minister, Miss Alice, said Miss Fortune dryly. Oh, no, Miss Fortune, said Alice smiling. The family would be overstocked. My father is one, and my brother will be another. A third would be too much. You must be so good as to let me preach without taking orders. Well, I wish every minister was as good a one as you'd make, said Miss Fortune, her hard face giving way a little. At any rate, nobody'd mind anything you'd say, Miss Alice. That would be unlucky, in one sense, said Alice, but I believe I know what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would dream the world went very hard with you. I don't know anybody, I think, lives in more independent comfort and plenty, and has more things to her mind. I never come to the house that I'm not struck with the fine look of the farm, and all that belongs to it. Yes, said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times. Mr. Van Brunt is a good farmer, very good. There's no doubt about that. I wonder what he'd do, said Miss Fortune, quickly and sharply as before, if there weren't a head to manage for him. Oh, the farm's well enough, Miss Alice, taint that. Everyone knows where his own shoe pinches. I wish you'd let me into the secret, then, Miss Fortune. I'm a cobbler by profession. Miss Fortune's ill humor was giving way, but something disagreeable seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow darkened. I say it's a poor kind of world, and I'm sick of it. One may slave, and slave one's life out for other people. And what thanks do you get? I'm sick of it. There's a little body upstairs, or I'm much mistaken, who will give you very sincere thanks for every kindness shown her. Miss Fortune tossed her head and brushing the refuse beans into her lap. She pushed back her chair with a jerk to go to the fire with them. Much you know about her, Miss Alice. Thanks, indeed. I haven't seen the sign of such a thing since she's been here, for all I have worked and worked, and had plague enough with her, I'm sure. Deliver me from other people's children, say I. After all, Miss Fortune said Alice soberly, it is not what we do for people that makes them love us, or at least everything depends on the way things are done. A look of love, a word of kindness, goes further towards winning the heart than years of service, or benefactions mountains high without them. Does she say I am unkind to her, said Miss Fortune? Pardon me, said Alice. Words on her part are unnecessary. It is easy to see from your own that there is no love lost between you, and I'm very sorry it is so. Love indeed, said Miss Fortune, with great indignation. There never was any to lose, I can assure you. She plagues the very life out of me. Why, she hadn't been here three days before she went off with that girl Nancy Voss that I had told her never to go near, and was gone all night. That's the time she got in the brook. And if you'd seen her face when I was scolding her about it, it was like seven thunderclouds, much you know about it. I dare say she's very sweet to you. That's the way she is to everybody besides me. They all think she's too good to live, and it just makes me mad. She told me herself, said Alice, of her behaving ill another time, about her mother's letter. Yes, that was another time. I wish you'd seen her. I believe she saw and felt her fault in that case. Didn't she ask your pardon? She said she would. Yes, said Miss Fortune, dryly, after a fashion. Has she had her letter yet? No. How is she today? Oh, she's well enough. She's sitting up. You can go up and see her. I will directly, said Alice. But now, Miss Fortune, I'm going to ask a favor of you. Will you do me a great pleasure? Certainly, Miss Alice, if I can. If you think Ellen has been sufficiently punished for her ill behavior, if you do not think it right to withhold her letter still, will you let me have the pleasure of giving it to her? I should take it as a great favor to myself. Miss Fortune made no kind of reply to this, but stalked out of the room, and in a few minutes, stalked in again with a letter, which she gave to Alice, only saying shortly. It came to me in a letter from her father. You are willing she should have it, said Alice? Oh yes, do what you like with it. Alice now went softly upstairs. She found Ellen's door a little ajar, and looking in, could see Ellen seated in a rocking chair between the door and the fire, in her double gown, and with her hymn book in her hand. It happened that Ellen had spent a good part of that afternoon in crying for her lost letter, and the face that she turned to the door on hearing some slight noise outside was very white and thin indeed. And though it was placid too, her eye searched the crack of the door with a keen wistfulness that went to Alice's heart. But as the door was gently pushed open and the eye caught the figure that stood behind it, the sudden and entire change of expression took away all her powers of speech. Ellen's face became radiant. She rose from her chair, and as Alice came silently in, and kneeling down to be near her, took her in her arms. Ellen put both hers round Alice's neck and laid her face there. One was too happy, and the other too touched, to say a word. My poor child was Alice's first expression. No, I ain't, said Ellen, tightening this squeeze of her arms round Alice's neck. I'm not poor at all now. Alice presently rose, sat down in the rocking chair, and took Ellen in her lap. Ellen rested her head on her bosom, as she had been want to do of old time on her mother's. I am too happy, she murmured, but she was weeping, and the current of tears seemed to gather forces that flowed. What was little Ellen thinking of just then? Oh, those times gone by. When she had sat just so, her head pillowed on another as gentle breast, kind arms wrapped round her, just as now, the same little, old, double gown, the same weak, helpless feeling, the same committing herself to the strength and care of another. How much the same, and oh, how much not the same? And Ellen knew both. Blessing as she did, the breast on which she leaned, and the arms whose pressure she felt, they yet reminded her sadly of those most loved and so very far away. And it was an odd mixture of relief and regret, joy and sorrow, gratified and ungratified affection, that opened to the sluices of her eyes, tears poured. What is the matter, my love, said Alice softly? I don't know, whispered Ellen. Are you so glad to see me, or so sorry, or what is it? Oh, glad and sorry both, I think, said Ellen, with a long breath and sitting up. Have you wanted me so much, my poor child? I cannot tell you how much, said Ellen, her words cut short. And didn't you know that I have been sick too? What did you think had become of me? Why, Mrs. Voss was with me a whole week, and this is the very first day I have been able to go out. It is so fine today, I was permitted to ride sharp down. Was that it, said Ellen? I did wonder, Miss Alice. I did wonder very much why you did not come to see me, but I never like to ask misfortune because, because what? I don't know as I ought to say what I was going to. I had a feeling she would be glad about what I was sorry about. Don't know that you ought to say, said Alice. Remember, you are to study English with me. Ellen smiled a glad smile. And you have had a weary two weeks of it, haven't you, dear? Oh, said Ellen, with another long-drawn sigh. How weary! Part of that time, to be sure, I was out of my head, but I have got so tired lying here all alone. Yet, fortune coming in and out was just as good as nobody. Poor child, said Alice, you have had a worse time than I. I used to lie and watch that crack in the door at the foot of my bed, said Ellen, and I got so tired of it, I hated to see it. But when I opened my eyes, I couldn't help looking at it, and watching all the little ins and outs of the crack till I was as sick of it as I could be, and that button, too, that fastens the door, and the little round mark the button has made, and thinking how far the button went round. And then, if I looked towards the windows, I would go right to counting the pains, first up and down and then across, and I didn't want to count them, but I couldn't help it. And watching to see through which pain the sky looked brightest. Oh, I got so sick of it all. There was only the fire that I didn't get tired of looking at. I always liked to lie and look at that, except when it hurt my eyes. And oh, how I wanted to see you, Miss Alice. You can't think how sad I felt that you didn't come to see me. I couldn't think what could be the matter. I should have been with you, dear, and not have left you if I had not been tied at home myself. So I thought, and that made it seem so strange. But oh, don't you think, said Allen, her face suddenly brightening. Don't you think Mr. Van Brunt came up to see me last night? Wasn't it good of him? He even sat down and read to me. Only think of that. And isn't he kind? He asked if I would like a rocking chair, and of course I said yes, for these other chairs are dreadful. They break my back, and there wasn't such a thing as a rocking chair in Aunt Fortune's house. She hates him, she says. And this morning the first thing I knew in walked Mr. Van Brunt with this nice rocking chair. Just get up and see how nice it is. You see the back is cushioned, and the elbows as well as the seat. It's queer looking, ain't it? But it's very comfortable. Wasn't it good of him? It was very kind, I think. But do you know, Allen, I'm going to have a curl with you. What about, said Allen? I don't believe it's anything very bad, for you look pretty good-humored considering. Nothing very bad, said Alice, but still enough to curl about. You have twice said ain't, since I have been here. Oh, said Allen, laughing. Is that all? Yes, said Alice, and my English ears don't like it at all. Then they shan't hear it, said Allen, kissing her. I don't know what makes me say it. I never used to. But I've got more to tell you. I've had more visitors. Who do you think came to see me? You never guess. Nancy Voss. Mr. Van Brunt came in the very nick of time when I was almost worried to death with her. Only think of her coming up here, unknown to everybody. And she stayed in age. And how she did go on. She cracked nuts on the hearth. She got every stitch of my clothes out of my trunk and scattered them over the floor. She tried to make me drink gruel till between us we spilled a great parcel on the bed. And she had begun to tickle me when Mr. Van Brunt came. Oh, wasn't I glad to see him? And when Aunt Fortune came up and saw it all, she was as angry as she could be. And she scolded and scolded. Till at last I told her it was none of my doing. I couldn't help it at all. And she needn't talk so to me about it. And then she said it was my fault, the whole of it. That if I hadn't scraped acquaintance with Nancy when she had forbidden me, all this would never have happened. There is some truth in that, isn't there, Ellen? Perhaps so, but I think it might have all happened whether or no. And at any rate, it is a little hard to talk so to me about it now when it's all over and can't be helped. Oh, I have been so tired today, Miss Alice. Aunt Fortune has been in such a bad humor. What put her in a bad humor? Why, all this about Nancy in the first place, and then I know she didn't like Mr. Van Bruntz bringing the rocking chair for me. She couldn't say much, but I could see by her face. And then Mrs. Van Bruntz coming. I don't think she liked that. Oh, Mrs. Van Bruntz came to see me this morning and brought me a custard. How many people are kind to me everywhere I go? I hope, dear Ellen, you don't forget whose kindness sends them all. I don't, Miss Alice. I always think of that now. And it seems you can't think how pleasant to me sometimes. Then I hope you can bear unkindness from one poor woman, who after all, isn't as happy as you are, without feeling any ill will towards her in return. I don't think I feel ill will towards her, said Ellen. I always try as hard as I can not to. But I can't like her, Miss Alice. And I do get out of patience. It's very easy to put me out of patience, I think. It takes almost nothing sometimes. But remember, charity suffers long and is kind. And I try all the while, dear Miss Alice, to keep down my bad feelings, said Ellen, her eyes watering as she spoke. I try and pray to get rid of them. And I hope I shall buy and buy. I believe I am very bad. Alice drew her closer. I have felt very sad part of today, said Ellen, presently. Aunt Fortune and my being so lonely, and my poor letter altogether. But part of the time I felt a great deal better. I was learning that lovely him. Do you know it, Miss Alice? Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am. Alice went on. I have a rich, almighty friend. Jesus the Savior is his name. He freely loves and without end. Oh, dear Ellen, whoever can say that has no right to be unhappy. No matter what happens, we have enough to be glad of. And then I was thinking of those words in the Psalms. Blessed is the man. Stop, I'll find it. I don't know exactly how it goes. Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered. Oh, yes indeed, said Alice. It is a shame that any trifles should worry much those whose sins are forgiven them, and who are the children of the great king. Poor Miss Fortune never knew the sweetness of those words. We ought to be sorry for her and pray for her, Ellen. And never, never, even in thought, return evil for evil. It is not like Christ to do so. I will not. I will not if I can help it, said Ellen. You can help it, but there is only one way. Now, Ellen dear, I have three pieces of news for you that I think you will like. One concerns you, another myself, and the third concerns both you and myself. Which will you have first? Three pieces of good news, said Ellen, with opening eyes. I think I'll have my part first. Directing Ellen's eyes to her pocket, Alice slowly made the corner of the letter show itself. Ellen's color came and went quick as it was drawn forth. But when it was fairly out and she knew it again, she flung herself upon it with a desperate eagerness Alice had not looked for. She was startled at the half frantic way, in which the child clasped and kissed it, weeping bitterly at the same time. Her transport was almost hysterical. She had opened the letter, but she was not able to read a word. And quitting Alice's arms, she threw herself upon the bed, sobbing in a mixture of joy and sorrow that seemed to take away her reason. Alice looked on surprised a moment, but only a moment, and turned away. When Ellen was able to begin her letter, the reading of it served to throw her back into fresh fits of tears. Many a word of Mrs. Montgomery's went so to her little daughter's heart that its very inmost cords of love and tenderness were rung. It is true the letter was short and very simple, but it came from her mother's heart. It was written by her mother's hand, and the very old remembered handwriting had mighty power to move her. She was so wrapped up in her own feelings that through a doll she never noticed that Alice was not near her. That Alice did not speak to comfort her. When the letter had been read time after time and wept over again and again, and Ellen at last was folding it up for the present, she bethought herself of her friend, and turned to look after her. Alice was sitting by the window, her face hidden in her hands, and as Ellen drew near, she was surprised to see that her tears were flowing and her breasts heaving. Ellen came quite close and softly laid her hand on Alice's shoulder, but it drew no attention. Miss Alice said Ellen almost fearfully, dear Miss Alice, and her own eyes filled fast again. What is the matter, won't you tell me? Oh, don't do so, please don't. I will not, said Alice, lifting her head. I am sorry I have troubled you, dear. I am sorry I could not help it. She kissed Ellen, who stood anxious and sorrowful by her side, and brushed away her tears. But Ellen saw she had been shedding a great many. What is the matter, dear Miss Alice? What has happened to trouble you, won't you tell me? Ellen was almost crying herself. Alice came back to the rocking chair and took Ellen in her arms again, but she did not answer her. Leaning her face against Ellen's forehead, she remained silent. Ellen ventured to ask no more questions, but lifting her hand once or twice caressingly to Alice's face, she was distressed to find her cheek wet still. Alice spoke at last. It isn't fair not to tell you what is the matter, dear Ellen, since I have let you see me sorrowing. It is nothing new nor anything I would have otherwise if I could. It is only that I have had a mother once and have lost her, and you brought back the old time so strongly that I cannot command myself. Ellen felt a hot tear drop upon her forehead, and again ventured to speak her sympathy only by silently stroking Alice's cheek. It is all past now, said Alice. It is all well. I would not have her back again. I shall go to her, I hope, by and by. Oh no, you must stay with me, Miss Ellen, clasping both arms around her. There was a long silence during which they remained locked in each other's arms. Ellen dears at Alice at length. We are both mother of us for the present, at least, both of us almost alone. I think God has brought us together to be a comfort to each other. We will be sisters while he permits us to be so. Don't call me Miss Alice any more. You shall be my little sister, and I will be your elder sister, and my home shall be your home as well. Ellen's arms were drawn very close drawn to her companion at this, but she said nothing, and her face was laid in Alice's bosom. There was another very long pause. Then Alice spoke in a livelier tone. Come, Ellen, look up. You and I have forgotten ourselves. It isn't good for sick people to get down in the dumps. Look up and let me see these pale cheeks. Don't you want something to eat? I don't know, said Ellen faintly. What would you say to a cup of chicken broth? Oh, I should like it very much, said Ellen, with new energy. Marjorie made me some particularly nice, as she always does, and I took it into my head. A little might not come amiss to you, so I resolved to stand the chance of sharps jolting it all over me, and I rode down with a little pale of it on my arm. Let me rake open these coals, and you shall have some directly. And did you come without being spattered, said Ellen? Not a drop. Is this what you use to warm things in? Never mind. It has had gruel in it. I'll set the tin pale on the fire. It won't hurt it. I am so much obliged to you, said Ellen, for do you know I have got quite tired of gruel, and Panetta, I can't bear. Then I am very glad I brought it. While it was warming, Alice washed Ellen's grill-cup and spoon, and presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Ellen eating the broth with that keen enjoyment, none know, but those that have been sick and are getting well. She smiled to see her gaining strength almost in the very act of swallowing. Ellen said she presently, I have been considering your dressing table. It looks rather doful. I'll make you a present of some dimity, and when you come down to see me, you shall make a cover for it that will reach down to the floor and hide those long legs. That wouldn't do it all, said Ellen. Aunt Fortune would go off into all sorts of fits. What about? Why the washing, Miss Alice? To have such a great thing to wash every now and then. You can't think what a fushy makes if I have more than just so many white clothes in the wash every week. That's too bad, said Alice. Suppose you bring it up to me. It wouldn't be often, and I'll have it washed for you. If you care enough about it to take the trouble. Oh, indeed I do, said Alice. I should like it very much, and I'll get Mr. Van Brent to. No, I can't. Aunt Fortune won't let me. I was going to say I would get him to soft the legs and make it lower for me, and then my dressing box would stand so nicely on the top. Maybe I can yet. Oh, I never showed you my boxes and things. Ellen brought them all out and displayed their beauties. In the course of going over the writing desk, she came to the secret drawer and a little money in it. Oh, that puts me in mind, she said. Miss Alice, this money is to be spent for some poor child. Now, I've been thinking Nancy has behaved so to me. I should like to give her something to show her that I don't feel unkindly about it. What do you think will be a good thing? I don't know, Ellen. I'll take the matter into consideration. Do you think a Bible would do? Perhaps that would do as well as anything. I'll think about it. I should like to do it very much, said Ellen, for she has vexed me wonderfully. Well, Ellen, would you like to hear my other pieces of news or have you no curiosity? Oh, yes, indeed, said Ellen. I had forgotten it entirely. What is it, Miss Alice? You know, I told you one concerns only myself, but it is great news to me. I learned this morning that my brother will come to spend the holidays with me. It is many months since I have seen him. Does he live far away, said Ellen? Yes, he has gone far away to pursue his studies and cannot come home often. The other piece of news is that I intend, if you have no objection, to ask Miss Fortune's leave to have you spend the holidays with me, too. Oh, delightful, said Ellen, starting up and clapping her hands and then throwing them round her adopted sister's neck. Dear Alice, how good you are. Then I suppose I may reckon upon your consent, said Alice, and I'll speak to Miss Fortune without delay. Oh, thank you, dear Miss Alice, how glad I am. I shall be happy all the time from now till then thinking of it. You aren't going. I must. Don't go yet. Sit down again. You know you're my sister. Don't you want to read Mama's letter? If you please, Ellen, I should like it very much. She sat down and Ellen gave her the letter and stood by while she read it, watching her with glistening eyes. And though, as she saw Alice's fill, her own overflowed again. She hung over her still to the last, going over every line this time with a new pleasure. New York, Saturday, November 22nd, 18, blank. My dear Ellen, I meant to have written to you before, but have been scarcely able to do so. I did make one or two efforts, which came to nothing. I was obliged to give it up before finishing anything that could be called a letter. Today I feel much stronger than I have at any time since your departure. I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour in the day, nor a half hour, that the one of you does not come home to my heart. And I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This separation is a very hard thing to bear, but the hand that has arranged it does nothing amiss. We must trust him, my daughter, that all will be well. I feel it as well, though sometimes the thought of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing committed to his care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh, my daughter, never forget to pray, never slight it. It is almost my only refuge. Now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often, how often, through years gone by, when heart sick and faint, I have fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the sorrows of life. And keep this letter that if you are ever like to forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again. My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I drink it mechanically, and set down my cup, remembering only that the dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no more. My child, my child, words are poor to express the heart's yearnings. My spirit is near you all the time. Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you went came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me. He has shown himself very kind, and all this, dear Ellen, had for its immediate cause your proper and ladylike behavior in the store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that, though I have seen him so many times, I am still perfectly ignorant of his name. We set sail Monday in the England. Your father has secured a nice stateroom for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the voyage, so next week you may imagine me out on the broad ocean with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and probably much too sick to look at those. Nevermind that, the sickness is good for me. I will write you as soon as I can again and send by the first conveyance. And now, my dear baby, my precious child, farewell. May the blessings of God be with you. Your affectionate mother, E. Montgomery. You ought to be a good child, Ellen, said Alice, as she dashed away some tears. Thank you for letting me see this. It has been a great pleasure to me. And now, said Ellen, you feel as if you knew Mama a little. Enough to honor and respect her very much. Now good by my love. I must be at home before it is late. I will see you again before Christmas comes. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 of the wide, wide world. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The wide, wide world by Susan Warner. Chapter 22. Shows how Mr. Van Brunt could be sharp upon some things. To Ellen's sorrow, she was pronounced next morning well enough to come downstairs, hurrying, avering that it was no use to keep a fire burning up there for nothing. She must get up and dress in the cold again, and winter had fairly set in now. The 19th of December rose clear and keen. Ellen looked sighingly at the heap of ashes and the dead brands in the fireplace, where the bright little fire had blazed so cheerfully the evening before. But regrets did not help the matter, and shivering she began to dress as fast as she could. Since her illness, a basin and pitcher had been brought into her room, so the washing at the spout was ended for the present. And though the basin had no place but a chair, and the pitcher must stand on the floor, Ellen thought herself too happy. But how cold it was. The wind swept past her windows, giving wintry shakes to the panes of glass. And through many an opening and the wooden framework of the house, it came in and saluted Ellen's bare arms and neck. She hurried to finish her dressing, and wrapping her double gown over all, went down to the kitchen. It was another climate there. A great fire was burning that it quite cheered Ellen's heart to look at, and the air seemed to be full of coffee and buckwheat cakes. Ellen almost thought she should get enough breakfast by the sense of smell. Ah, here you are, Sid, Miss Fortune. What have you got that thing on for? It was so cold upstairs, said Ellen, drawing up her shoulders. The warmth had not gotten inside her wrapper yet. Well, taint cold here. You'd better pull it off right away. I've no notion of people's making themselves tender. You'll be warm enough directly. Breakfast'll warm you. Ellen felt almost inclined to curl with the breakfast that was offered in exchange for her comfortable wrapper. She pulled it off, however, and sat down without saying anything. Mr. Van Brunt put some cakes on her plate. If breakfast to go on to warm you, said he, make haste and get something down or drink a cup of coffee. Here is blue as skim milk. Am I, said Ellen, laughing. I feel blue, but I can't eat such a pile of cakes as that, Mr. Van Brunt. As a general thing, the meals at Miss Fortune's were silence, alumnities, and occasional consultation or a few questions and remarks about farm affairs, being all that ever passed. The breakfast this morning was a singular exception to the common rule. I'm in a regular quandary, said the mistress of the house when the meal was about half over. Mr. Van Brunt looked up for an instant and asked, what about? Why, how am I ever going to do to get those apples and sausage meat done? If I go to doing them myself, I shall about get through by spring. Why don't you make a bee, said Mr. Van Brunt. Ain't enough of either on them to make it worthwhile. I ain't going to have all the bother of a bee without something to show for it. Turn'em both into one, suggested her counselor, going on with his breakfast. Both. Yes, let him pair apples in one room and cut pork into other. But I wonder who ever heard of such a thing before, said Miss Fortune, pausing with her cup of coffee halfway to her lips. Presently, however, it was carried to her mouth, drunk off, and set down with an air of determination. I don't care, said she, if it never was heard of. I'll do it for once anyhow. I'm not one of them to care what folks say. I'll have it so. But I won't have them to tea, mind you. I'd rather throw apples and all into the fire at once. I'll have but one plague of setting tables in that. I won't have them to tea. I'll make it up to him in the supper, though. I'll take care to publish that, said Mr. Van Brunt. Don't you go and do such a thing, said Miss Fortune earnestly. I shall have the whole country on my hands. I won't have but just as many on them as I'll do what I want done. That'll be as much as I can stand under. Don't you whisper a word of it to a living creature? I'll go round and ask of myself to come Monday evening. Monday evening, then I suppose you'd like to have up the sleigh this afternoon. Who's it coming? I don't know. I hadn't asked them yet. Though every soul come that's asked that you may depend, there ain't one on them that would miss of it for a dollar. Miss Fortune bridled a little at the implied tribute to her housekeeping. If I was some folks, I wouldn't let people know I was in such a mighty hurry to get a good supper, she observed, rather scornfully. Hump, said Mr. Van Brunt. I think a good supper ain't a bad thing, and I've no objection to folks knowing it. Push-shaw, I didn't mean you, said Miss Fortune. I was thinking of those Lawsons and other folks. If you're going to ask them to your be, you ain't of my mind. Well, I am, though, replied Miss Fortune. There's a good many hands of them. They can turn off a good lot of work in an evening, and they always take care to get me to their bees. I may as well get something out of them in return, if I can. They'll reckon I'm getting as much as they can get a you if they come. There's no sort of doubt in my mind. It's my belief Mimey Lawson will kill herself some of these days upon Green Corn. She was at home to tea one day last summer, and declare I thought, what Mr. Van Brunt thought he left his hearers to guess. Well, let them kill themselves if they like, said Miss Fortune. I am sure I am willing. There'll be enough. I ain't going to mince manners when once I begin. Now, let me see. There's five of the Lawsons to begin with. I suppose they'll all come. Bill Huff and Janie, that's seven. That Bill Huff is as good nature to fellow as ever broke ground, remarked Mr. Van Brunt, ain't better people in the town than them Huffsar. They're well enough, said Miss Fortune. Seven, and the Hitchcocks, there's three of them. That'll make 10. Denizens ain't far from there, said Mr. Van Brunt. Dan Denizens a fine hand at almost anything, indoors or out. That's more than you can say for a sister. Seeley Dennison gives herself so many heirs, it's altogether too much for plain country folks. I should like to know what she thinks herself. It's almost too much for my stomach to see her flourishing that watch and chain. What's the use of troubling yourself about other people's notions, said Mr. Van Brunt? If folks want to take the road, let them have it. That's my way. I'm satisfied, provided they don't run me over. Taint my way then, I'd have you to know, said Miss Fortune. I despise it, and taint your way neither, Van Brunt. What did you give Tom Larkin's a cow hiding for? Because he deserved it, if ever a man did, said Mr. Van Brunt, quite rousing up. He was treating that little brother of his in a way a boy shouldn't be treated, and I am glad I did it. I gave him notice to quit before I laid a finger on him. He weren't doing nothing to me. And how much good do you suppose it did, said Miss Fortune, rather scornfully? It did just the good I wanted to do. He has seen fit to let little Billy alone ever since. Well, I guess I'll let the denizens come, said Miss Fortune. That makes twelve, and you and your mother are fourteen. I suppose that man Marshock will come dangling along after the Hitchcocks. To be sure he will, and his aunt, Miss Janet, will come with him most likely. Well, there's no help for it, said Miss Fortune. That makes sixteen. Will you ask Miss Alice? Not I. She's another of your proud set. I don't want to see anybody that thinks she's going to do me a great favor by coming. Ellen's lips opened, but wisdom came in time to stop the words that were on her tongue. It did not, however, prevent the quick little turn of her head, which showed what she thought, and the pale cheeks were for a moment bright enough. She is, and I don't care who hears it repeated, Miss Fortune. I suppose she'd look as sober as a judge, too, if she saw a slider on the table. They say she won't touch a drop ever, and thinks it's wicked, and if that ain't setting one's self up for better than other folks, I don't know what is. I saw her peering apples at the huffs, though, said Mr. Van Brunt, and as pleasant as anybody, but she didn't stay to supper. I'd ask Mrs. Voss if I could get words to her, said Miss Fortune, but I can never travel up that mountain. If I get a sight of Nancy, I'll tell her. There she is then, said Mr. Van Brunt, looking towards the little window that opened into the shed. And there, indeed, was the face of Miss Nancy, pressed flat against the glass, peering into the room. Miss Fortune beckons to her. That is the most impudent, shameless, outrageous piece of, what were you doing at the window, she asked, as Nancy came in. Looking at you, Miss Fortune, said Nancy Cooley, what have you been talking about this great while? If there had only been a pane of glass broken, I needn't have asked. Hold your tongue, said Miss Fortune, and listen to me. I'll listen, ma'am, said Nancy, but it's no use to hold my tongue. I do try sometimes, but I could never keep it long. Have you done? I don't know, ma'am, said Nancy, shaking her head. It's just as it happens. You tell your granny I'm going to have a bee here next Monday evening, and ask her if she'll come to it. Nancy nodded. If it's good weather, she added conditionally. Stop, Nancy, said Miss Fortune, here, for Nancy was shutting the door behind her. And sure as you come here Monday night with your grandma, you'll go out of the house quicker than you come in, see if you don't. With another gracious nod and smile, Nancy departed. Well, said Mr. Van Brunt, rising, I'll dispatch this business downstairs, and then I'll bring up the sleigh. The pickle's ready, I suppose. No, it ain't, said Miss Fortune. I couldn't make it yesterday, but it's all in the kettle, and I told Sam to make a fire downstairs, so you could put it on when you go down. The kits are all ready, and the salt, and everything else. Mr. Van Brunt went down the stairs that led to the lower kitchen, and Miss Fortune, to make up for lost time, said about her mornings work with even an uncommon measure of activity. Ellen, in consideration of her being still weak, was not required to do anything. She sat and looked on, keeping out of the way of her bustling aunt as far as it was possible. But Miss Fortune's gyrations were of that character that no one could tell five minutes beforehand what she might consider in the way. Ellen wished for her quiet room again. Mr. Van Brunt's voice sounded downstairs in tones of business. What could he be about? It must be very uncommon business that kept him in the house. Ellen grew restless with the desire to go and see and to change her aunt's company for his. And no sooner was Miss Fortune fairly shut up in the buttery at some secret work. Then Ellen gently opened the door at the head of the lower stairs and looked down. Mr. Van Brunt was standing at the bottom and looked up. May I come down there, Mr. Van Brunt? said Ellen softly. Come down here, to be sure you may. You may always come straight where I am without asking any questions. Ellen went down, but before she reached the lowest step she stopped with almost a start and stood fixed with such a horrified face that neither Mr. Van Brunt nor Sam Larkins who was there could help laughing. What's the matter, said the former? They're all dead enough, Miss Ellen. You needn't be scared. Three enormous hogs, which had been killed the day before, greeted Ellen's eyes. They lay in different parts of the room with each a cob in his mouth. A fourth lay stretched upon his back on the kitchen table, which was drawn out into the middle of the floor. Ellen stood fast on the stair. Have they been killed? was her first astonished exclamation, to which Sam responded with another burst. Be quiet, Sam Larkins, said Mr. Van Brunt. Yes, Miss Ellen, they've been killed sure enough. Are these the same pigs I used to see you feeding with corn, Mr. Van Brunt? The identical same ones, replied that gentleman, as laying hold of the head of the one on the table and applying his long sharp knife with the other hand, he, while he was speaking, severed it neatly and quickly away from the trunk. And very fine porcars they are. I ain't ashamed of them. And what's going to be done with them now, said Ellen? I'm just going to cut them up and lay them down. You never see nothing of the kind before, did you? No, said Ellen. What do you mean by laying them down, Mr. Van Brunt? Why, laying them down in salt for pork and hams. You want to see the whole operation, don't you? Well, here's a seat for you. You'd better fetch that painted coat of yarn and wrap round you, for it ain't quite so warm here as upstairs, but it's getting warmer. Sam, you just shut that door too and throw on another log. Sam built up as large a fire as could be made under a very large kettle that hung in the chimney. When Ellen came down in her wrapper, she was established close to the chimney corner. And when Mr. Van Brunt, not thinking her quite safe from the keen currents of air that would find their way into the room, dispatched Sam for an old buffalo rope that lay in the shed. This he himself with great care wrapped around her, feet in chair and all, and secured it in various places with old forks. He declared then she looked for all the world like an Indian, except her face. And in high good humor both, he went to cutting up the pork and Ellen from out of her buffalo rope watched him. It was beautifully done, even Ellen could see that, although she could not have known if it had been done ill. The knife guided by strength and skill seemed to go with the greatest ease and certainty just where he wished it. The hams were beautifully trimmed out, the pieces fashioned clean, no ragged cutting, and his quick going knife disposed of carcass after carcass with admirable neatness and celerity. Sam meanwhile arranged the pieces in different parcels at his direction and minded the kettle in which a great boiling and scumming was going on. Ellen was too amused for a while to ask any questions. When the cutting up was all done, the hams and shoulders were put in a cask by themselves and Mr. Van Brunt began to pack down the other pieces in the kits, strewing them with an abundance of salt. What's the use of putting all that salt with the pork, Mr. Van Brunt said Ellen? It wouldn't keep good without that, it would spoil very quick. Will the salt make it keep? All the year round, as sweet as a nut. I wonder what is the reason of that said Ellen? Will salt make everything keep good? Everything in the world, if it only has enough of it and is kept dry and cool. Are you going to do the hams in the same way? No, they're to go in that pickle over the fire. In this kettle, what is in it said Ellen? You must ask misfortune about that. Sugar and salt and salt, Peter and molasses and I don't know what all. And will this make the hams so different from the rest of the pork? No, they've got to be smoked after they have laid in that for a while. Smoked said Ellen, how? Why hadn't you been in the smoke house? The hams has to be taken out of the pickle and hung up there. And then we make a little fire of oak chips and keep it burning night and day. And how long must they stay in the smoke? Oh, three or four weeks or so. And then they are done? Then they are done. How very curious said Ellen. Then it's the smoke that gives them that nice taste. I never knew smoke was good for anything before. Ellen said the voice of misfortune from the top of the stairs. Come right up here this minute. You'll catch your death. Ellen's countenance fell. There's no sort of fear of that, ma'am, said Mr. Van Brunt quietly. And Miss Ellen is fastened up, so she can't get loose, and I can't let her out just now. The upper door was shut again pretty sharply, but that was the only audible expression of opinion with which misfortune favored them. I guess my mother curtains keep off the wind, don't they? Said Mr. Van Brunt. Yes, indeed they do, said Ellen. I don't feel a breath. I am as warm as a toast, too warm almost. How nicely you have fixed me up, Mr. Van Brunt. I thought that ere old Buffalo had done its work, he said, but I'll never say anything is good for nothing again. Have you found out where the apples are yet? No, said Ellen. Hant, misfortune showed you. Well, it's time you'd know. Sam, take that little basket and go fill it at the bin. I guess you know where they be, for I believe you put them there. Sam went into the cellar and presently returned with the basket nicely filled. He handed it to Ellen. Are all these for me, she said in surprise? Everyone on them, said Mr. Van Brunt. But I don't like to, said Ellen. What will Aunt Fortun say? She won't say a word, said Mr. Van Brunt, and don't you say a word, neither. But whenever you want apples, just go to the bin and take them. I give you leave. It's right at the end of the far cellar at the left-hand corner. There are bins and all sorts of apples in them. You've got a pretty variety there, hant you. Oh, all sorts, said Ellen. And what beauties, and I love apples very much, red and yellow and speckled and green. What a great monster. That's a swar. That ain't as good as most of the others. Those are seek-no-furthers. Seek-no-further, said Ellen, what a funny name. It ought to be a mighty good apple. I shall seek-no-further at any rate. What is this? That's as good an apple as you've got in the basket. That's a real orson-pippin', a very fine kind. I'll fetch you some up from home some day, though, that are better than the best of these. The pork was all packed. The kettle was lifted off the fire, and Mr. Van Brunt was wiping his hands from the salt. And now I suppose I must go, said Ellen, with a little sigh. Why, I must go, said he, so I suppose I may as well let you out of your tent first. I have had such a nice time, said Ellen. I had got so tired of doing nothing upstairs. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt. But, said she, stopping as she had taken up her basket to go, aren't you going to put the hams in the pickle? No, said he, laughing. It must wait to get cold first. But you'll make a capital farmer's wife, there's no mistake. Ellen blushed and ran upstairs with her apples. To bestow them safely in her closet was her first care. The rest of the morning was spent in increasing weariness and listlessness. She had brought down her little hymn book, thinking to amuse herself with learning a hymn. But it would not do. Eyes and head both refused their part of the work. And when at last Mr. Van Brunt came into a late dinner, he found Ellen seated flat on the hearth before the fire. Her right arm curled round the hard wooden bottom of one of the chairs. And her head pillowed upon that, fast asleep. Bless my soul, said Mr. Van Brunt. What's become of that ear rocking chair? It's upstairs, I suppose. You can fetch it if you've a mind to, answered misfortune, dryly enough. He did so immediately. And Ellen barely waked up to feel herself lifted from the floor and placed in the friendly rocking chair. Mr. Van Brunt remarking, at the same time, that it might be well enough to let folks lie on the floor and sleep on chairs. But cushions weren't a bit too soft for sick ones. Among the cushions, Ellen went to sleep again with a much better prospect of rest. And either sleeping or dozing passed away the time for a good while. End of chapter 22. Chapter 23 of the Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Werner. Chapter 23. How misfortune went out and pleasure came in. She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the house door after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone forth on their slaying expedition. And Ellen waked to find herself quite alone. She could not have doubted that her aunt was away, even if she had not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the shed door. The stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could be with misfortune anywhere about the premises. The old grandmother must have been a bed and a sleep, too, for a cricket under the hearth, and the wood fire in the chimney, had it all to themselves, and made the only sounds that were heard. The first singing out every now and then in a very contented and cheerful style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps and sparks that just served to make one take notice how very quickly and steadily it was burning. Misfortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of neatness, and that a speck of dust could be supposed to lie in the shining painted floor. The back of every chair was in its place against the wall. The very hearth stones shown, and the heads of the large iron nails in the floor were polished to steel. Ellen sat awhile listening to the soothing chirrup of the cricket and the pleasant crackling of the flames. It was a fine, cold winter's day. The two little windows at the far end of the kitchen looked out upon an expanse of snow, and a large lilac bush that grew close by the wall moved lightly by the wind, drew its icy fingers over the panes of glass. Wind-tree it was without, but that made the warmth and comfort within seem all the more. Ellen would have enjoyed it very much if she had had anyone to talk to. As it was, she felt rather lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn, but it had set her off upon a long train of thought, and with her head resting on her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the other hand with the hymn book lying listlessly in her lap, and eyes staring into the fire. She was sitting the very picture of meditation when the door opened, and Alice Humphries came in. Ellen started up. Oh, I'm so glad to see you. I'm all alone. Left alone are you, said Alice, as Ellen's warm lips were pressed again and again to her cold cheeks. Yes, Aunt Fortune's gone out. Come and sit down here in the rocking chair. How cold you are. Oh, do you know she is going to have a great bee here Monday evening? What is a bee? Alice smiled. Why, said she, when people here in the country have so much of any kind of work to do that their own hands are not enough for it, they send and call on their neighbors to help them. That's a bee. A large party in the course of a long evening can do a great deal. But why do they call it a bee? I don't know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for the time, as busy as a bee, you know? Then they ought to call it a hive, and not a bee, I should think. Aunt Fortune is going to ask 16 people. I wish you were coming. How do you know but I am? Oh, I know you aren't. Aunt Fortune isn't going to ask you. You are sure of that, are you? Yes, I wish I wasn't. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by something she said. You mustn't get vexed so easily, my child. Don't let every little untowards thing roughen your temper. But I couldn't help it, dear Miss Alice. It was about you. I don't know whether I ought to tell you, but I don't think you'll mind it, and I know it isn't true. She said she didn't want you to come because you were one of the proud set. And what did you say? Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, it's no such thing, but I didn't say it. I am glad you were so wise, dear Ellen, that is nothing to be vexed about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I trust Miss Fortune is mistaken. I shall try and find some way to make her change her mind. I am glad you told me. I am so glad you are come, dear Alice, said Ellen again. I wish I could have you always. And the long, very close pressure of two arms about her friend said as much. There was a long pause. The cheek of Alice rested on Ellen's head, which nestled against her. Both were busily thinking, but neither spoke, and the cricket chirped and the flames crackled without being listened to. Miss Alice said, Ellen, after a long time, I wish you would talk over him with me. How do you mean, my dear, said Alice, rousing herself? I mean, read it over and explain it. Mama used to do it sometimes. I have been thinking a great deal about her today, and I think I'm very different from what I ought to be. I wish you would talk to me and make me better, Miss Alice. Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face that was uplifted to her, and presently said, I'm afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother, Ellen. What him shall we take? Anyone, this one if you like. Mama likes it very much. I was looking it over today. A charge to keep I have, a God to glorify, a never-dying soul to save, and fit it for the sky. Alice read the first line and paused. There now, said Ellen, what is a charge? Don't you know that? I think I do, but I wish you would tell me. Try to tell me first. Isn't it something that is given to one to do? I don't know exactly. It is something given one in trust to be done or taken care of. I remember very well once when I was about your age. My mother had occasion to go out for half an hour, and she left me in charge of my little baby sister. She gave me a charge, not to let anything disturb her while she was away, and to keep her asleep if I could. And I remember how I kept my charge, too. I was not to take her out of the cradle, but I sat beside her the whole time. I would not suffer a fly to lie on her little fair cheek. I scarcely took my eyes from her. I made John keep Pussy at a distance, and whenever one of the little round dimpled arms was thrown out upon the coverlet, I carefully drew something over it again. Is she dead? said Ellen timidly, her eyes watering in sympathy with Alice's. She is dead, my dear. She died before we left England. I understand what a charge is, said Ellen, after a little. But what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have I to keep? The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part of it, a God to glorify. To glorify, said Ellen doubtfully. Yes, that is to honor, to give him all the honor that belongs to him. But can I honor him? Most certainly, either honor or dishonor, you cannot help doing one. I, said Ellen again, must not your behavior speak either well or ill for the mother who has brought you up? Yes, I know that. Very well. When a child of God lives as he ought to do, people cannot help having high and noble thoughts of that glorious one whom he serves and of that perfect law he obeys. Little as they may love the ways of religion in their own secret hearts, they cannot help confessing that there is a God and that they ought to serve him. But a worldly and still more an unfaithful Christian just helps people to forget there is such a being and makes them think either that religion is a sham or that they may safely go on despising it. I have heard it said, Ellen, that Christians are the only Bible some people ever read. And it is true. All they know of religion is what they get from the lives of its professors. And oh, where the world but full of the right kind of example, the kingdom of darkness cannot stand. A rise shine is a word that every Christian ought to take home. But how can I shine? asked Ellen. My dear Ellen, in the faithful, patient, self-denying performance of every duty as it comes to hand, whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. It is very little that I can do, said Ellen. Perhaps more than you think, but never mind that. All are not great stars in the church. You may be only a little rush light. See, you burn well. I remember, said Ellen, musing, Mama once told me when I was going somewhere that people would think strangely of her if I didn't behave well. Certainly, why Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon after I saw you. Did you, said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face? What was it? Was it good? Ah, do tell me. I'm not quite sure of the wisdom of that, said Alice, smiling. You might take home the praise that is justly her right and not yours. Oh, no indeed, said Ellen. I had rather she should have it than I. Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice. I know it was good at any rate. Well, I will tell you, said Alice, at all risks. I thought your mother was a lady. From the honourable notions she had given you, and from your ready obedience to her, which was evidently the obedience of love, I judged she had been a good mother in the true sense of the term. I thought she must be a refined and cultivated person from the manner of your speech and behaviour. And I was sure she was a Christian, because she had taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead you in it. The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen gave way long before Alice had done between bursts of tears. It makes me so glad to hear you say that, she said. The praise of it is your mother's, you know, Ellen. I know it, but you make me so glad. And hiding her face in Alice's lap, she fairly sobbed. You understand now, don't you, how Christians may honour or dishonour their heavenly father? Yes, I do, but it makes me afraid to think of it. Afraid? It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great honour and happiness for us to be permitted to honour him. A never-dying soul to save and fit it for the sky. Yes, that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never forget it, dear Ellen. And whatever would hinder you have nothing to do with it. What shall it profit a man though he gain the whole world and loose his own soul? To serve the present age, my calling to fulfil. What is the present age, said Ellen? All the people who are living in the world at this time. But, dear Alice, what can I do to the present age? Nothing to the most part of them certainly. And yet, dear Ellen, if your little rush light shines well, there is just so much the less darkness in the world, though perhaps you light only a very little corner. Every Christian is a blessing to the world, another grain of salt to go towards sweetening and saving the mass. That is very pleasant to think of, said Ellen musing. Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant it would be to do anything for him, how many ways we should find of honouring him by doing good. I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it, said Ellen. You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No one is so poor or so young, but he has one talent at least to use for God. I wish I knew what mine was, said Ellen. Is your daily example as perfect as it can be? Ellen was silent and shook her head. Christ, please not himself, and what about doing good? And he said, if any man serve me, let him follow me. Remember that. Perhaps your aunt is unreasonable and kind. See with how much patience and perfect sweetness of temper you can bear and forebear. See if you cannot win her over by untiring gentleness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no improvement to be made here? Oh, me, yes, answered Ellen with a sigh. Then your old grandmother, can you do nothing to cheer her life in her old age and helplessness? Can't you find some way of giving her pleasure, some way of amusing a long, contidious hour now and then? Ellen looked very grave. In her inmost heart she knew this was a duty she shrank from. He went about doing good. Keep that in mind. A kind toward spoken, a little thing to smooth the way of one, or light in the load of another, teaching those who need teaching, and treating those who are walking in the wrong way. Oh, my child, there is work enough. To serve the present age, my calling to fulfill, oh, may all my powers engage, to do my master's will. Arm me with jealous care, as in thy sight to live, and, oh, thy servant, Lord, prepare, a strict account to give. An account of what, said Ellen? You know what an account is. If I give Thomas a dollar to spend for me at Cara Cara, I expect he will give me an exact account when he comes back, what he has done with every shilling of it. So must we give an account of what we have done with everything our Lord has committed to our care, our hands, our tongues, our time, our minds, our influence. How much we have honored him, how much good we have done to others, how fast and how far we have grown holy and fit for heaven. It almost frightens me to hear you talk, Miss Ellis. Not frightened, dear Ellen, that is not the word. Sober we ought to be, mindful to do nothing we shall not wish to remember in the great day of account. Do you recollect how that day is described? Where is your Bible? She opened at the 20th chapter of Revelation. And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven flew away, and there was found no place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God, and the books were opened, and another book was opened, which is the book of life. And the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books according to their works. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them. And they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire. Ellen shivered, that is dreadful, she said. It will be a dreadful day to all but those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life, not dreadful to them, dear Ellen. But how can I be sure, dear Alice, that my name is written there? And I can't be happy if I am not sure. My dear child, said Alice tenderly, is Ellen's anxious face and glistening eyes were raised to hers. If you love Jesus Christ, you may know you are his child, and none shall pluck you out of his hand. But how can I tell whether I do love him really? Sometimes I think I do, and then again sometimes I'm afraid I don't at all. Alice answered in the words of Christ, he that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me. Oh, I don't keep his commandments, said Ellen, the tears running down her cheeks. Perfectly, none of us do. But dear Ellen, that is not the question. Is your heart's desire and effort to keep them? Are you grieved when you fail? There is the point. You cannot love Christ without loving to please him. Ellen rose, and putting both arms round Alice's neck, laid her head there, as her manner sometimes was, tears flowing fast. I sometimes think I do love him a little, she said, but I do so many wrong things. But he will teach me to love him if I ask him, won't he dear Alice? Indeed he will, dear Ellen, said Alice, folding her arms round her little adopted sister. Indeed he will. He has promised that. Remember what he told somebody who is almost in despair. Fear not, only believe. Alice's neck was wet with Ellen's tears, and after they had ceased to flow, her arms kept their hold, and her head its resting place on Alice's shoulder for some time. It was necessary at last for Alice to leave her. Ellen waited till the sound of her horse's footsteps died away on the road, and then, sinking on her knees beside her rocking chair, she poured forth her whole heart in prayers and tears. She confessed many a fall and shortcoming that none her knew but herself, and most earnestly besought help that her little rush late might shine bright. Prayer was too little, Ellen, what it is to all that know it. The satisfying of doubt, the soothing of care, the quieting of trouble. She had knelt down very uneasy, but she knew that God has promised to be the hearer of prayer, and she rose up very comforted, her mind fixing on those most sweet words Alice had brought to her memory. Fear not, only believe. When misfortune returned, Ellen was quietly asleep again in her rocking chair, with a face very pale, but calm as an evening sunbeam. While I declare if that child ain't sleeping her life away, said misfortune, she slept this whole blessed forenoon. I suppose she'll want to be alive and dancing the whole night to pay for it. I can tell you what she'll want, a slight more said Mr. Van Brunt, who had followed her in. It must have been to see about Ellen, for he was never known to do such a thing before or since. I'll tell you what she'll want, and that's a right hot supper. She's a as nigh as possible nothing at all this noon. There ain't much danger of her dancing a hole in your floor this sometime. End of chapter 23.