 CHAPTER 33 A Gathering Cloud in the Spring Weather Ellen's life had nothing to market for many months. The rest of the winter passed quietly away, every day being full of employment. At home the state of matters was rather bettered. Their misfortune was softened by Ellen's gentle, inoffensive ways and obedient usefulness, or she had resolved to bear what could not be helped, and make the best of the little inmates she could not get rid of. She was certainly resolved to make the most of her. Ellen was kept on the jump a great deal of the time. She was runner of errands and maid of all work. To set the table and clear it was only a trifle in the list of her everyday duties, and they were not ended till the last supper-dish was put away, and the hearths swept up. This fortune never spared herself, and never spared Ellen, so long as she had any occasion for her. There were, however, long pieces of time that were left free. These Ellen seized for her studies and used most diligently, urged on by a three- or fourfold motive. For the love of them, and for her own sake, that John might think she had done well, that she might presently please and satisfy Alice, above all that her mother's wishes might be answered. This thought whenever it came was a spur to her efforts. So was each of the others, and Christian feeling added another, and kept all the rest in force. Without this indolence might have weakened, or temptation surprised her resolution. Little Ellen was open to both, but if ever she found herself growing careless from either cause, conscience was sure to smite her, and then would rush in all the motives that called upon her to persevere. Soon faithfulness began to bring its reward. With delight she found herself getting the better of difficulties, beginning to see a little through the mists of ignorance, making some sensible progress on the long road of learning. Study grew delightful. Her lessons with Alice one of her greatest enjoyments, and as they were a labor of love to both teacher and scholar, and as it was the aim of each to see quite to the bottom of every matter where it was possible, and to leave no difficulties behind them on the road which they had not cleared away, no wonder Ellen went forward steadily and rapidly. Reading also became a wonderful pleasure. Weems' life of Washington was read, and read, and read over again, till she almost knew it by heart. And from that she went to Alice's library, and ransacked it for what would suit her. Happily it was a well-picked one, and Ellen could not light upon many books that would do her mischief. For those Alice's wish was enough. She never opened them. Furthermore Alice insisted that when Ellen had once fairly begun a book she should go through with it, not capriciously leave it for another, nor have half a dozen about at a time. But when Ellen had read it once she commonly wanted to go over it again, and sell them late at a side until she had sucked the sweetness all out of it. As for drawing it could not go on very fast while the cold weather lasted. Ellen had no place at home where she could spread out her paper and copies without danger of being disturbed. Her only chance was at the parsonage. John had put all her pencils in order before he went, and had left her in abundance of copies, marked as she was to take them. They, or some of them, were bestowed in Alice's desk. And whenever Ellen had a spare hour or two of a fine morning or afternoon she made the best of her way to the mountain. It made no difference whether Alice were at home or not. She went in, coaxed up the fire, and began her work. It happened many a time that Alice, coming home from a walk or a run in the woods, saw the little hood and cloak on a settee before she opened the glass door, and knew very well how she should find Ellen, bending intently over her desk. These runs to the mountain were very frequent, sometimes to draw, sometimes to recite, always to see Alice and be happy. Ellen grew rosy and hearty, and in spite of her separation from her mother, she was very happy, too. Her extreme and varied occupation made this possible. She had no time to indulge useless sorrow. On the contrary, her thoughts were taken up with agreeable matters, either doing or to be done, and at night she was far too tired and sleepy to lie awake musing. And besides, she hoped that her mother would come back in the spring, or the summer at farthest. It is true Ellen had no liking for the kind of business her aunt gave her. It was often times a trial of temper and patience. Miss Fortune was not the pleasantest Burke mistress in the world, and Ellen was apt to wish to be doing something else. But after all, this was not a miss. Besides the discipline of character, these trials made the pleasant things with which they were mixed up seemed doubly pleasant. The disagreeable parts of her life relished the agreeable wonderfully. After spending the whole morning with Miss Fortune in the depths of housework, how delightful it was to forget all and drawing some nice little cottage with a bit of stone wall and a barrel in front, or to go with Alice in thought to the south of France and learn how the peasants manage their vines and make their wine from them, or run over the rock of Gibraltar with the monkeys, or at another time seeded on a little bench in the chimney corner when the fire blazed up well before the candles were lighted to forget the kitchen and the supper and her bustling aunt and sail around the world with Captain Cook. Yes, these things were all the sweeter for being tasted by snatches. Spring brought new occupation, household labors began to increase in number and measure. Her leisure times were shortened. But pleasures were increased, too. When the snow went off and the spring-like days began to come and Bert's notes were heard again, and the trees put out their young leaves, and the brown mountains were looking soft and green, Ellen's heart bounded at the sight. The springing grass was lovely to see. Dandelions were marvels of beauty. To her, each wild woodflower was a never-to-be-enough-admired and loved wonder. She used to take long rambles with Mr. Van Brunt when business led him to the woods, sometimes riding part of the way on the ox sled. Always a basket for flowers went along, and when the sled stopped she would wander all round seeking among the piled up dead leaves for the white windflower and pretty little head-hanging gulvaria and delicate blood-root and the wild geranium and columbine and many others the names of which she did not know. They were like friends to Ellen. She gathered them affectionately as well as admiringly into her little basket and seemed to purify herself in their pure companionship. Even Mr. Van Brunt came to have an indistinct notion that Ellen and flowers were made to be together. After he found what a pleasure it was to her to go on these expeditions, he made it a point whenever he was bound to the woods of a fine day to come to the house for her. Miss Fortune might object as she pleased. He always found an answer, and at last Ellen, to her great joy, would be told, Well, go get your bonnet and be off with yourself. Once under the shadow of the big trees, the dried leaves crackling beneath her feet and alone with her kind conductor, and Miss Fortune and all the world that was disagreeable was forgotten. Forgotten, no more to be remembered till the walk should come to an end. And it would have surprised anybody to hear the long conversations she and Mr. Van Brunt kept up—he, the silentest man in Thirlwall. Their talk often ran upon trees, among which Mr. Van Brunt was at home. Ellen wanted to become acquainted with them, as well as with the little flowers that grew with their feet, and he tried to teach her how to know each separate kind by the bark and leaf and manner of growth. The pine and hemlock and fir were easily learned. The white birch, too. Beyond those, at first, she was perpetually confounding one with another. Mr. Van Brunt had to go over and over his instructions. Never weary, always vastly amused. Pleasant lessons these were. Ellen thought so, and Mr. Van Brunt thought so, too. Then there were walks with Alice, pleasant or still, if that could be. And even in the house, Ellen managed to keep a token of springtime. On her toilet-table, the three uncouthed legs of which were now hidden by a neat, dimity cover, there always stood a broken tumbler with a supply of flowers. The supply was very varied, it is true, sometimes only a handful of dandelions, sometimes a huge bunch of lilac flowers, which could not be persuaded to stay in the glass without the help of the wall, against which it leaned in very undignified style. Sometimes the bouquet was of really delicate and beautiful wild flowers. All were charming in Ellen's eyes. As the days grew longer and the weather warm, Alice and she began to make frequent trips to the cat's back, and French came very much into fashion. They generally took sharp to ease the long way, and rested themselves with a good stay on the mountain. Their coming was always a joy to the old lady. She was dearly fond of them both, and delighted to hear from their lips the language she loved best. After a time they spoke nothing else when with her. She was well qualified to teach them, and indeed her general education had been far from contemptible, though nature had done more for her. As the language grew familiar to them, she loved to tell and they to hear long stories of her youth in native country. Scenes and people so very different from all Ellen had ever seen or heard of, and told in a lively, simple style, which she could not have given in English, and with a sweet coloring of Christian thought and feeling. Many things made these visits good and pleasant. It was not the least of Alice's and Ellen's joy to carry their old friend something that might be for her comfort in her lonely way of life. For even Miss Fortune now and then told Ellen she might take a piece of that cheese along with her, or she wondered if the old lady would like a little fresh meat. She guessed she'd cut her a bit of that nice lamb. She wouldn't want but a little piece. A singular testimony this was to the respect and esteem of Mrs. Voss had from everybody. Miss Fortune, very, very seldom was known to take a bit from her own comforts, to add to those of another. The ruling passion of this lady was thrift. Her next good house were free. First, to gather to herself and heap up of what the world most esteems, after that, to be known as the most thorough housekeeper and the smartest woman in Thrallwall. Ellen made other visits she did not like so well. In the course of the winter and summer, she became acquainted with most of the neighborhood. She sometimes went with her aunt to a formal tea-drinking, one, two, three, or four miles off as the case might be. They were not very pleasant. To some places she was asked by herself, and though the people invariably showed themselves very kind, and did their best to please her, Ellen seldom cared to go a second time, liked even home and Miss Fortune better. There were a few exceptions. Jenny Hitchcock was one of her favorites, and Jane Huff was another, and all of their respective families came in, with good reason, for a share of her regard. Mr. Juniper, indeed, accepted. Once they went to a quilting at Squire Dunnison's. The house was spotlessly neat and well-ordered. The people all kind, but Ellen thought they did not seem to know how to be pleasant. Dan Dennison alone had no stiffness about him. Miss Fortune remarked with pride that even in this family of pretension, as she thought it, the refreshments could bear no comparison with hers. Once they were invited to tea at the Lawson's, but Ellen told Alice, with much apparent disgust, that she never wanted to go again. Mrs. Van Brunt, she saw often. To throw a wall, Miss Fortune never went. Twice in the course of the summer Ellen had a very great pleasure in the company of little Ellen Chauncey. Once Miss Sophia brought her, and once her mother. And the last time they made a visit of two weeks. On both occasions Ellen was sent for to the parsonage, and kept while they stayed. And the pleasure that she and her little friend had together cannot be told. It was unmixed now. Rambling about through the woods and over the fields, no matter where, it was all enchanting. Helping Alice garden, helping Thomas make hay, and mischief they did his haycocks by tumbling upon them. And the patience with which he bore it, the looking for eggs, the helping marjorie to churn, and the helping each other to set tables. The pleasant mornings and pleasant evenings, and pleasant mid-days, it cannot be told. Long to be remembered, sweet and pure was the pleasure of those summer days, unclouded by a shade of discontent or disagreement on either brow. Ellen loved the whole Marshman family now, for the sake of one, the one she had first known. And little Ellen Chansey repeatedly told her mother in private that Ellen Montgomery was the very nicest girl she had ever seen. They met with joy and parted with sorrow, and treating and promising, if possible, a speedy meeting again. Amidst all the improvement and enjoyment of these summer months, and they had a great deal of both for Ellen, there was one cause of sorrow she could not help feeling, and it began to press more and more. Letters. They came slowly, and when they came they were not at all satisfactory. Those in her mother's hand dwindled and dwindled, till at last there came only mere scraps of letters from her. And sometimes, after a long interval, one from Campton Montgomery would come alone. Ellen's heart sickened with long deferred hope. She wondered what could make her mother neglect to matter so necessary for her happiness. Sometimes she fancied they were traveling about, and it might be inconvenient to write. Sometimes she thought, perhaps they were coming home without letting her know, and would suddenly surprise her some day, and make her half lose her wits with joy. But they did not come, nor write, and whatever was the reason. Ellen felt it was very sad, and sadder and sadder as the summer went on. Her own letters became pitiful in their supplications for letters. They had been very cheerful, and filled with encouraging matter, and in part they were still. For a while her mind was diverted from the sad subject, and her brow cleared up when John came home in August. As before, Alice gained misfortune's leave to keep her at the parsonage the whole time of his stay, which was several weeks. Ellen wondered that it was so easily granted. But she was much too happy to spend time in thinking about it. Misfortune had several reasons. She was unwilling to displease Miss Humphries, in conscience that it would be a shame to her to stand openly in the way of Ellen's good. Besides, though Ellen's services were lost for a time, yet she said she got tired of setting her to work. She liked to dash round the house alone, without thinking what somebody else was doing or ought to be doing. In short, she liked to have her out of the way for a while. Furthermore, it did not please her that Mr. Van Brunt and her little handmaid were, as she expressed it, so thick. His first thought and his last thought, she said, she believed, were for Ellen, whether she came in or went out. And Misfortune was accustomed to be the chief, not only in her own house, but in the regards of all who came to it. At any rate, the leave was granted and Ellen went. And that was repeated the pleasure of the first week in January. It would have been increased, but that increase was not possible. There was only the difference between lovely winter and lovely summer weather. It was seldom very hot and through a wall. The fields and hills were covered with green instead of white. Fluttering leaves had taken the place of snow-covered sprays and sparkling icicles. And for the keen north and brisk northwestern, soft summer airs were blowing. Ellen saw no other difference. Except that, perhaps, if it could be, there was something more of tenderness in the matter of Alice and her brother towards her. No little sister could have been more cherished and cared for. If there was a change, Mr. Humphrey shared it. It is true, he seldom took much part in the conversation, and seldomer was with them in any of their pursuits or pleasure. He generally kept by himself in his study. But whenever he did speak to Ellen, his tone was particularly gentle, and his look kind. He sometimes called her my little daughter, which always gave Ellen great pleasure. She would jump at such times with double zeal to do anything he asked her. Now drawing went on with new vigor under the eye of her master, and many things beside. John took a great deal of pains with her in various ways. He made her read to him. He helped her and Alice with their French. He went with them to Mrs. Voss's, and even Mr. Humphrey's went there too one afternoon to tea. How much Ellen enjoyed that afternoon. They took with them a great basket of provisions, for Mrs. Voss could not be expected to entertain so large a party, and borrowed Jenny Hitchcock's pony, which with the old John and Sharp, mounted three of the company. They took turns in walking. Nobody minded that. The fine weather. The beautiful mountaintop. The general pleasure. Mr. Humphrey's uncommon spirits and talkableness. The oddity of their way of traveling. And of a tea party up on the cat's back. And furthermore, the fact that Nancy stayed at home, and behaved very well the whole time, altogether filled Ellen's cup of happiness for the time, as full as it could hold. She never forgot that afternoon. And the right home was the best of all. The sun was low by the time they reached the plane. Long shadows lay across their road. The soft air just stirred the leaves on the branches. Stillness and loveliness were over all things. And down the mountain and along the roads, through the open country, the whole way, John walked at her bridle. So kind in his care of her. So pleasant in his talk to her. Teaching her how to sit in the saddle, and hold the reins and whip. And much more important things, too, that Ellen thought a pleasanter thing could not be than to ride so. After that they took a great many rides, borrowing Jenny's pony or some other, and explored the beautiful country far and near. And almost daily, John had up sharp, and gave Ellen a regular lesson. She often thought, and sometimes looked, what she had once said to him, I wish I could do something for you, Mr. John. But he smiled at her and said nothing. At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home, and in many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The thought had been kept from weighing upon her by the thousand pleasures that filled up every moment of his stay. She could not be said then, or only for a minute. Hope threw off the sorrow as soon as that was felt, and she forgot how time flew. But when his visit was over, and she went back to her old place, and her old life at her aunt's, the old feeling came back in greater strength. She began again to count the days and the weeks, to feel the bitter, unsatisfied longing. Tears would drop down upon her Bible. Tears streamed from her eyes when she prayed that God would make her mother well, and bring her home to her quickly. Oh, quickly! And little Ellen's face began to wear once more something of its old book. END OF CHAPTER XXXIV THE CLOUD OVERHEAD One day in the early part of September she was standing in front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the road. With her back against the open gate she was gently moving it to and fro, half enjoying the weather and the scene, half indulging the melancholy mood which drove her from the presence of her bustling aunt. The gurgling sound of the brook a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her ear than misfortunes, sharp tones. By and by a horseman came in sight at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What made Ellen look at him so sharply? Poor child, she was always expecting news. At first she could only see that the man rode a white horse. Then, as he came nearer, an odd, looped-up hat showed itself, and something queer in his hand. What was it? Who is it? The old newsman, Ellen was sure. Yes, she could now see the saddlebags, and the white horse-tail set in a handle, with which he was brushing away the flies from his horse. The tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow with all. He was a venerable old figure, with all his oddities, clad in a suit of snuff brown, with a neat, quiet look about him. He and the saddlebags, and the white horse, jogged on together, as if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other. In an ecstasy of fear and hope, Ellen watched the pace of the old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the gate. Her breath came short. She hardly breathed at all. She was trembling from head to foot. Would he stop, or was he going on? Oh, the long cagony of two minutes. He stopped. Ellen went towards him. What little gal is this, said he? I am Ellen Montgomery, sir, said Ellen eagerly. Ms. Fortune's niece. I live here. Stop a bit, said the old man, taking up his saddlebags. Ms. Fortune's niece, eh? Why, I believe, as I've got something for her. Something here. Antwell, eh? Yes, sir. That's more than you be, ain't it, said he, glancing sideways at Ellen's face. How do you know, but I've got a letter for you here, eh? The color rushed to that face, and she clasped her hands. No, dear, no, said he. I hand got any for you. It's for the old lady. There, run in with it, dear. But Ellen knew before she touched it that it was a foreign letter, and dashed into the house with it. Ms. Fortune coolly sent her back to pay the postage. When she came in again, her aunt was still reading the letter. But her look, Ellen felt, was unpromising. She did not venture to speak. Expectation was chilled. She stood till Ms. Fortune began to fold up the paper. Is there nothing for me, she said then, timidly. No. Oh, why don't she write to me, cried Ellen, bursting into tears. Ms. Fortune stalked about the room, without any particular purpose, as far as could be seen. It is very strange, said Ellen sorrowfully. I'm afraid she is worse. Does Papa say she is worse? No. Oh, if she had only sent me a message, I should think she might. Oh, I wish she had three words. Does Papa say why she don't write? No. It is very strange, repeated poor Ellen. Your father talks of coming home, said Ms. Fortune, after a few minutes, during which Ellen had been silently weeping. Home, then she must be better, said Ellen, with new life. Does Papa say she is better? No. But what does he mean, said Ellen uneasily? I don't see what he means. He doesn't say she is worse, and he doesn't say she is better. What does he say? He don't say much about anything. Does he say when they are coming home? Ms. Fortune mumbled something about spring, and whisked off to the buttery. Ellen thought no more was to be got out of her. She felt miserable. Her father and her aunt both seemed to act strangely. And where to find comfort she scarcely knew. She had one day been telling her doubts and sorrows to John. He did not try to raise her hopes, but said, Troubles will come in this world, Ellie. The best is to trust them and ourselves toward your savior, and let trials drive us to him. Seek to love him more, and to be patient under his will. The good shepherd means nothing but kindness to any lamb in his flock. You may be sure of that, Ellie. Ellen remembered his words and tried to follow them now. But she could not be patient under his will yet, not quite. It was very hard to be patient in such uncertainty. With swimming eyes she turned over her Bible in search of comfort, and found it. Her eye lit upon words she knew very well, but that were like the fresh sight of a friend's face for all that. Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my father's house are many mansions. There is no parting there, thought little Ellen. She cried a long time, but she was comforted, nevertheless. The heart that rests on the blessed one who said those words can never be quite desolate. For several days things went on in the old train. Only her aunt, she thought, was sometimes rather queer, not quite as usual in her manner towards her. Mr. Van Brunt was not rather, but very queer. He scarcely spoke or looked at Ellen, bolted down his food, and was off without a word, and even stayed away entirely from two or three meals. She saw nobody else. Weather and other circumstances prevented her going to the mountain. One afternoon she was giving her best attention to a French lesson, when she heard herself called. Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, dipping candles. Ellen ran down. I don't know what's got into these candles, said Miss Fortune. I can't make them hang together. The tellow ain't good, I guess. Where's the nearest place they keep bees? They have got bees at Mrs. Hitchcock, said Ellen, so they have an Egypt for anything I know, said her aunt. One would be about as much good now as to other. Mrs. Lowndes, that ain't far off, put on your bonnet, Ellen, and run over there, and ask her to let me have a little beeswax. I'll pay her and something she likes best. Does Mrs. Lowndes keep beehives, said Ellen doubtfully? No, she makes the beeswax herself, said Miss Fortune, in the tone she always took when anybody presumed to suppose she might be mistaken in anything. How much shall I ask for, said Ellen? Oh, I don't know. A pretty good piece. Ellen was not very clear what quantity this might mean. However, she wisely asked no more questions, and set out upon her walk. It was hot and disagreeable, just the time of day when the sun had most power, and Mrs. Lowndes' house was about half way on the road to Alice's. It was not a place where Ellen liked to go, though the people always made much of her. She did not fancy them, and regularly kept out of their way when she could. Miss Mary Lawson was sitting with Mrs. Lowndes and her daughter when Ellen came in and briefly gave her aunt's message. Beeswax, said Mrs. Lowndes, well, I don't know. How much does she want? I don't know, ma'am. Exactly, she said a pretty good piece. What's it for, do you know, honey? I believe it's to put in some tallow for Kendall, said Ellen. The tallow was too soft, she said. I didn't know Miss Fortune's tallow was ever anything but the hardest, said Sarah Lowndes. You had better not let your aunt know you've told on her, Ellen, remarked Mary Lawson. She won't thank you. Had she a good lot of tallow to make up, inquired the mother, preparing to cut her Beeswax? I don't know, ma'am. She had a big kettle, but I don't know how full it was. You may as well send a good piece, ma'am, while you're about it, said the daughter, and ask her to let us have a piece of her sage cheese, will you? Is it worthwhile to weigh it? whispered Mrs. Lowndes. Her daughter answered in the same tone, and Miss Mary joining them. A conversation of some length went on over the Beeswax, which Ellen could not hear. The tones of the speakers became lower and lower, tell it length, her own name, and an incautious sentence were spoken more distinctly, and reached her. Shouldn't you think Miss Fortune might put a black ribbon at least on her bonnet? Anybody but her would. Hush, they whispered again under breath. The words entered Ellen's heart like cold iron. She did not move hand or foot. She sat motionless with pain and fear. Yet what she feared, she dared not think. When the Beeswax was given her, she rose up from her chair, and stood gazing into Mrs. Lowndes' face as if she had lost her senses. My goodness, child, how you look, said that lady. What ails you, honey? Ma'am, said Ellen, what was that you said about? About what, dear, said Mrs. Lowndes, with a startled look at the others. About a ribbon, said Ellen, struggling to get the words out of white lips. My goodness, said the other. Did you ever hear anything like that? I didn't say nothing about a ribbon, dear. Do you suppose her aunt, Aunt, told her, said Miss Mary, in an undertone? Told me what, cried Ellen. Oh, what? What? I wish I was a thousand miles off, said Mrs. Lowndes. I don't know, dear. I don't know what it is. Miss Alice knows. Yes, ask Miss Alice, said Mary Lawson. She knows better than we do. Ellen looked doubtfully from one to the other, then, as, go ask Miss Alice, was repeated on all sides. She caught up her bonnet, and, flinging the beeswax from her hand, darted out of the house. Those she had left looked at each other a minute in silence. Ain't that too bad now, exclaimed Mrs. Lowndes, crossing the room to shut the door. But what could I say? Which way did she go? I don't know, I am sure. I had no head to look, or anything else. I wonder if I had ought to have told her. But I couldn't have done it. Just look at her beeswax, said Sarah Lowndes. She will kill herself if she runs up the mountain at that rate, said Mary Lawson. They all made a rush to the door to look after her. She ain't in sight, said Mrs. Lowndes. If she's gone the way to the nose, she's got as far as them big poplars yet, or she'd be somewhere the side of them, where we could see her. You had an ought to have let her go, ma'am, and all the sun, said Miss Lowndes. I declare, said Mrs. Lowndes. She scared me so. I hadn't three IDs left in my head. I wish I knew where she was, though, poor little soul. Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a fear that knew no stay of heat or fatigue. They were little to her that day. She saw nothing on her way. All within and without were swallowed up in that one feeling, yet she dared not think what it was she feared. She put that by. Alice knew. Alice would tell her. On that goal her heart fixed. To that she pressed on. But, oh, the while, what a cloud was gathering over her spirit, and growing darker and darker. Her hurry of mind and hurry of body made each other worse. It must be so. And when she at last ran round the corner of the house and burst in at the glass door, she was in a frightful state. Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look that stopped Ellen short. She stood still, the color in her cheeks, as her eyes read Alice's, faded quite away. Words and the power to speak them were gone together. Alas, the need to utter them was gone, too. Alice burst into tears and held under arms, saying only, My poor child. Ellen reached her arms and strength and spirit seemed to fail there. Alice thought she had fainted. She laid her on the sofa, called Marjorie, and tried the usual things. Weeping bitterly herself as she did so. It was not fainting, however. Alice's senses soon came back. But she seemed like a person stunned with a great blow. And Alice wished grief had had any other effect upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung over her. Tears did not come. The violent strain of every nerve and feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep long, heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to have no power to do anything else. Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days lived but to watch her. She had heard All-Ellen's story from Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the Parsonage. One on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own, to ask about her. And she dreaded that a violent fit of illness might be brought on by All-Ellen had undergone. She was mistaken, however. Ellen was not ill, but her whole mind and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As a first stupor wore off there were indeed more lively signs of grief. She would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often. But it was very quietly, no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying. Sorrow had taken too strong cold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it. Ella saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let her go back to her ants. It was impossible to do otherwise. Yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. The busy industry to which she would have been forced at home might have roused her. As it was nothing drew her, and nothing could be found to draw her from her own thoughts. Her interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their charm, walks and drives, and staying at home were all one, except indeed that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed, her cheek grew colorless, and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not soon to put to this gradual sinking it would at last end with her life. But all her efforts were without fruit, and the winter was a sorrowful one. Not to Ellen alone. As it were on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone or into a corner with it, and turned the leaves over and over, looking out its gentle promises and sweet comforting words to the weak and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ, all he said and did, all his kindness to his people, and tender care of them. The love shown them here, and the joys prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that one unchangeable friend from whose love neither life nor death can sever those that believe in him, and her heart, tossed and shaken as it had been, began to take rest again in that happy resting place, with stronger affection, and even with greater joy than before. Yet for all that this joy often kept company with bitter weeping, the stirring of anything like pleasure roused sorrow up afresh, and though Ellen's look of sadness grew less dark. Alice could not see that her face was at all less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother after once hearing when and where she had died. She never hinted at her loss, except exclaiming in an agony, I shall get no more letters, and Alice dared not touch upon what the child seemed to avoid so carefully, though Ellen sometimes wept on her bosom, and often sat for hours still and silent, with her head in her lap. The time drew nigh when John was expected home for the holidays. In the meanwhile they had had many visits from other friends. Mr. Van Brunt had come several times, enough to set the whole neighborhood a wondering if they had only known it. His good old mother often are still. Mrs. Voss as often as possible. Miss Fortune once, and that because, as she said to herself, everybody would be talking about what was none of their business if she didn't. As neither she nor Ellen knew in the least what to say to each other, the visit was rather a dull one, spite of all Alice could do. Jenny Hitchcock, and the Huffs, and the Denizens, and others, came now and then. But Ellen did not like to see any of them all, but Mrs. Voss. Alice longed for her brother. He came at last, just before New Year. It was the middle of a fine afternoon, and Alice and her father had gone in the sleigh to Cara Cara. Ellen had chosen to stay behind, but Marjorie did not know this, and of course did not tell John. After paying a visit to her in the kitchen, he had come back to the empty sitting-room, and was thoughtfully walking up and down the floor, when the door of Alice's room slowly opened, and Ellen appeared. It was never her way, when she could help it, to show violent feeling before other people. So she had been trying to steal herself to meet John without crying, and now came in, with her little grave face, prepared not to give way. His first look had like to overset it all. Ellie, said he, I thought everybody was gone, my dear Ellie. Ellen could hardly stand the tone of these three words, and she bore with the greatest difficulty the kiss that followed them. It took but a word or two more, and a glance at the old look and smile, to break down entirely all her guard. According to her usual fashion, she was rushing away, but John held her fast, and though gently, drew her close to him. I will not let you forget that I am your brother, Ellie, said he. Ellen hid her face on his shoulder, and cried as if she had never cried before. Ellie, said he after a while, speaking low and tenderly. The Bible says, We have known and believed the love that God hath taught us. Have you remembered and believed this lately? Ellen did not answer. Have you remembered that God loves every sinner that has believed in his dear son, and loves him so well that he will let nothing come near them to harm them, and loves him never better than when he sends bitter trouble on them? It is wonderful, but it is true. Have you thought of this, Ellie? She shook her head. It is not an anger he does it. It is not that he has forgotten you. It is not that he is careless of your trembling little heart. Never, never. If you are his child, always done in love, and shall work good for you. And if we often cannot see how, it is because we are weak and foolish, and can see but a very little way. Ellen listened with her face hid on his shoulder. Do you love Christ, Ellen? She nodded, weeping afresh. Do you love him less since he has brought you into this great sorrow? No, sobbed Ellen more. He drew her closer to his breast, and was silent a little while. I am very glad to hear you say that. Then all will be well. And haven't you the best reason to think that all is well with your dear mother? Ellen almost shrieked. Her mother's name had not been spoken before her in a great while, and she could hardly bear it now. Her whole frame quivered with hysterical sobs. Hush, Ellie, said John, in a tone that low as it was, somehow found its way through all her agitation, and calmed her like a spell. Have you not good reason to believe that all is well with her? Oh yes, oh yes. She loved and trusted him too, and now she is with him. She has reached that bright home, where there is no more sin, nor sorrow, nor death. Nor parting, either, sobbed Ellen, whose agitation was excessive. Nor parting. And though we are parted from them, it is but for a little. Let us watch, and keep our garments clean, and soon we shall be all together, and have done with tears forever. She has done with them now. Did you hear from her again? Oh no, not a word. That is a hard trial. But in it all, believe me, dear Ellie, the love that God hath toward us. Remember that our dear savior is near us, and feels for us, and is the same at all times. And don't cry so, Ellie. He kissed her once or twice, and begged her to calm herself. For it seemed as if Ellen's very heart was flowing away in her tears. Yet they were gentler and softer far than at the beginning. The conversation had been in great relief. The silence between her and Ellis on the thing always in her mind—a silence neither of them dared to break—had grown painful. The spell was taken off, and though at first Ellen's tears knew no measure, she was easier even then, as John soothed her, and went on with his kind talk, gradually leading it away from their first subject to other things. She grew not only calm, but more peaceful at heart than months had seen her. She was quite herself again before Ellis came home. You have done her good already, exclaimed Ellis. As soon as Ellen was out of the room, I knew you would. I saw it in her face as soon as I came in. It is time, said her brother. She is a dear little thing. The next day, in the middle of the morning, Ellen, to her great surprise, saw a sharp brought before the door with a side settle on, and Mr. John carefully looking to the girth and shortening the stirrup. Why, Ellis, she exclaimed, what is Mr. John going to do? I don't know, Ellie. I'm sure he does queer things sometimes. What makes you ask? Before she could answer, he opened the door. Come, Ellen, go and get ready. Bundle up well for it is rather frosty. Ellis, has she a pair of gloves that are warm enough? Lend her yours, and I'll see if I could find some at Thirlwall. Ellen thought she would rather not go, to anybody else she would have said so. Half a minute she stood still, then went to put on her things. Ellis, you will be ready by the time we get back in half an hour? Ellen had an excellent lesson, and her master took care. It should not be an easy one. She came back, looking as she had not done all winter. Ellis was not quite ready. While waiting for her, John went to the bookcase, and took down the first volume of Rowland's ancient history, and giving it to Ellen, he said he would talk with her tomorrow about the first twenty pages. The consequence was, the hour and a half of their absence, instead of being moped away, was spent in hard study. A pair of gloves was bought at Thirlwall, Jenny Hitchcock's pony was sent for, and after that, every day, when the weather would it all do, they took a long ride. By degrees, reading and drawing, and all her studies, were added to the history, till Ellen's time was well filled with business again. Ellis had endeavored to bring this about before, but fruitlessly. What she asked of her, Ellen indeed tried to do. What John told her, was done. She grew a different creature. Appetite came back. The color sprang again to her cheek. Hope, meek and sober as it was, relighted her eye. In her eagerness to please and satisfy her teacher, her whole soul was given to the performance of whatever he wished her to do. The effect was all that he looked for. The second evening after he came, John called Ellen to his side, saying he had something he wanted to read to her. It was before candles were brought, but the room was full of light from the blazing wood fire. Ellen glanced at his book as she came to the sofa. It was a largeish volume, and a black leather cover, a good deal worn. It did not look at all interesting. What is it, she asked? It is called, said John, the pilgrim's progress from this world to a better. Ellen thought it did not sound at all interesting. She had never been more mistaken in her life, and that she found almost as soon as he begun. Her attention was nailed. The listless, careless mood in which she sat down was changed for one of rapt delight. She devoured every word that fell from the reader's lips. Indeed, they were given their fullest effect by a very fine voice and singularly fine reading. Whenever anything might not be quite clear to Ellen, John stopped to make it so. And with his help, and without it, many a lesson went home. Next day she looked a long time for the book. It could not be found. She was forced to wait until evening. Then to her great joy it was brought out again, and John asked her if she wished to hear some more of it. After that, every evening while he was at home, they spent an hour with the pilgrim. Alice would leave her work and come to the sofa too, and with her head on her brother's shoulder, her hand and his, and Ellen's face leaning against his other arm. That was the common way they placed themselves, to see and hear. No words can tell Ellen's enjoyment of those readings. They made her sometimes laugh and sometimes cry. They had much to do in carrying on the cure which John's wisdom and kindness had begun. They came to the place where Christian loses his burden at the cross, and as he stood looking and weeping, three shining ones came to him. The first said to him, Thy sins be forgiven thee. The second stripped him of his rags, and clothed him with a change of reinement. The third also set a mark on his forehead. John explained what was meant by the rags and the change of reinement. And the mark in his forehead said, Ellen, That is the mark of God's children, the change wrought in them by the Holy Spirit, the change that makes them different from others, and different from their old selves. Do all Christians have it? Certainly none can be a Christian without it. But how can one tell whether one has it or no? said Ellen, very gravely. Carry your heart and life to the Bible, and see how they agree. The Bible gives you great many signs and descriptions, by which Christians may know themselves, both know what they are and what they ought to be. If you find your own feelings and manner of life at one with these Bible words, you may hope that the Holy Spirit has changed you and set his mark upon you. I wish you would tell me of one of those places, said Ellen. The Bible is full of them. To them that believe Christ is precious, there is one. If you love me, keep my commandments. He that saith he abideth in him, ought himself also so to walk, even as he walked. O how I love thy law. The Bible is full of them, Ellie. But you have need to ask for great help when you go to try yourself by them. The heart is deceitful. Ellen looked sober all the rest of the evening, and the next day she pondered the matter a good deal. I think I am changed, she said to herself at last. I didn't used to like to read the Bible, and now I do very much. I never liked praying in old times, and now. Oh, what should I do without it? I didn't love Jesus at all, but I am sure I do now. I don't keep his commandments, but I do try to keep them. I must be changed a little. Oh, I wish Mama had known it before. Weeping with mixed sorrow and thankful joy, Ellen bent her head upon her little Bible to pray that she might be more changed, and then, as she often did, raised the cover to look at the texts and the beloved handwriting. I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me. Ellen's tears were blinding her. That has come true, she thought. I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee. That has come true, too, she said, almost in surprise, and Mama believed it would. And then, as by a flash came back to her mind the time it was written, she remembered how, when it was done, her mother's head had sunk upon the open page. She seemed to see again the thin fingers tightly clasped. She had not understood it then. She did now. She was praying for me, thought Ellen. She was praying for me. She believed that would come true. The book was dashed down, and Ellen fell upon her knees in a perfect agony of weeping. Even this, when she was comagant, served to steady her mind. There seemed to be a link of communion between her mother and her that was wanting before. The promise, written and believed in by the one, realized and rejoiced in by the other, was a dear something in common. Though one hand in the meanwhile removed to heaven, and the other was still a lingerer on the earth, Ellen bound the words upon her heart. Another time, when they came to the last scene of Christian's journey, Ellen's tears ran very fast. John asked if he should pass it over, if it distressed her. She said, oh no, it did not distress her. She wanted him to go on, and he went on, though himself much distressed, and Ellis was near as bad as Ellen. But the next evening, to his surprise, Ellen begged that before he went on to the second part, he would read that piece over again. And when he lent her the book, with only the charge that she should not go further than he had been, she poured over that scene with untiring pleasure, till she almost had it by heart. In short, never was a child more comforted and contented with a book than Ellen was with the pilgrim's progress. That was a blessed visit of John's. Ellis said he had come like a sunbeam into the house. She dreaded to think what would be when he went away. She wrote him, however, when he had been gone for a few weeks, that his will seemed to carry all before it, present or absent. Ellen went on steadily mending. Or at least she did not go back any. They were keeping up their rides, also their studies, most diligently. Ellen was untiring in her efforts to do whatever he had wished her, and was springing forward, Ellis said, in her improvement. The spring had come, and Ellis and Ellen were looking forward to pleasanter rides and walks, after the sun should have got a little warmth, and the snow should be gone. When one morning, in the early part of March, Mr. Van Brunt made his appearance. Miss Fortune was not well, and had sent him to beg that Ellen would come back to her. He was sorry, he said. He knew Ellen was in the best place, but her aunt wanted her, and he supposed she'd have to go. He did not know what was the matter with Miss Fortune. It was a little of one thing, and a little of another. He supposed she'd overdid, and it was a wonder, for he didn't know she could do it. She thought she was as tough as a piece of shoe leather, but even that could be wore out. Ellen looked blank. However, she hurriedly set herself to get her things ready, and, with Ellis's help, in half an hour she was ready to go. The parting was hard. They held each other fast a good while, and kissed each other many times, without speaking. Good-bye, dear Ellie, whispered Ellis at last. I'll come and see you soon. Remember what John said when he went away. Ellen did not trust herself to speak. She pulled herself away from Ellis, and turned to Mr. Van Brunt, saying by her manner that she was ready. He took her bundle, and they went out of the house together. Ellen made a manful effort, all the way down the hill, to stifle the tears that were choking her. She knew they would greatly disturb her companion, and she did succeed, though with great difficulty in keeping them back. Luckily for her, he said hardly anything during the whole walk. She could not have borne to answer a question. It was no fault of Mr. Van Brunt's that he was so silent. He was beating his brains the whole way to think of something it would do to say, and could not suit himself. His single remark was, that it was like to be a fine spring for the maple, and he guessed they'd make a heap of sugar. When they reached the door, he told her she would find her aunt upstairs, and himself turned off to the barn. Ellen stopped a minute upon the threshold to remember the last time she had crossed it, and the first time. How changed everything now? And the thought came, was this now to be her home forever? She had need again to remember John's words. When bidding her goodbye, he had said, My little pilgrim, I hope you will keep the straight road, and win the praise of the servant who is faithful over a few things. I will try, thought poor Ellen, and then she passed through the kitchen, and went up to her own room. Here, without stopping to think, she took off her things, gave one strange look at the old familiar place, and her trunk in the corner, fell on her knees for one minute, and then went to her aunt's room. Come in, cried misfortune, when Ellen had knocked. Well, Ellen, there you are. I am thankful it is you. I was afraid it might be Mimey Lawson, or Sarah Lownes, or some of the rest of the set. I know they'll all come scampering here as soon as they hear I'm laid up. Are you very sick, Aunt Fortune, said Ellen? La, no child, I shall be up again tomorrow, but I felt queer this morning, somehow, and I thought I'd try lying down. I expect I've caught some cold. There was no doubt of this, but this was not all. Besides catching cold, and doing her best to bring it about, misfortune had over-tasked her strength, and by dint of economy, housewifery, and smartness, had brought on herself the severe punishment of lying idle and helpless for a much longer time than she at first reckoned on. What can I do for you, Aunt Fortune, said Ellen? Oh, nothing as I know, said Miss Fortune. Only let me alone, and don't ask me anything, and keep people out of the house. Mercy, my head feels as if it would go crazy. Ellen, look here, said she, raising herself on her elbow. I won't have anybody come into this house, if I lie here till doomsday I won't. Now you mind me. I ain't a-going to have Mimey Lawson nor nobody else poking all round into every hole and corner, and turning every cheese upside down to see what's under it. There ain't one of them too good for it, and they shan't have a chance. They'll be streaking here a dozen of them to help take care of the house, but I don't care what becomes of the house. I won't have anybody in it. Promise me you won't let Mr. Van Brunt bring anyone here to help. I know I can trust you to do what I tell you. Promise me. Ellen promised a good deal gratified at her aunt's last words, and once more asked if she could do anything for her. Oh, I don't know, said Miss Fortune, flinging herself back on her pillow. I don't care what you do, if you only keep the house clear. There's the clothes in the basket under the table downstairs. You might begin to iron them. They're only rough dry. But don't come asking me about anything. I can't bear it. Ellen, don't let a soul go into the buttery except yourself. And Ellen, I don't care if you make me a little catnip tea. They catnips up in the storeroom, the furthest door in the back attic. Here's the keys. Don't go to fussing with anything else there. Ellen thought the prospect before her rather dullful when she reached the kitchen. It was in order to be sure and clean, but it looked as if the mistress was away. The fire had gone out. The room was cold. Even so little a matter as catnip tea seemed to think far off and hard to come by. While she stood looking at the great logs in the fireplace, which she could hardly move, and thinking it was rather a dismal state of things, in came Mr. Van Brunt with his good-natured face and wanted to know if he could do anything for her. The very room seemed more comfortable as soon as his big figure was in it. He sat about kindling the fire forthwith, while Ellen went up to the storeroom, a well-filled storeroom. Among other things there hung at least a dozen bunches of dried herbs from one of the rafters. Ellen thought she knew catnip. But after smelling, of two or three, she became utterly puzzled, and was feigned to carry a leaf of several kinds down to Mr. Van Brunt to find out which was which. When she came down again, she found he had hung on the kettle for her, and swept up the hearth. So Ellen, wisely thinking it best to keep busy, put the ironing blanket on the table, and folded the clothes, and set the irons to the fire. By this time the kettle boiled. How to make catnip tea Ellen did not exactly know, but supposed it must follow the same rules as black tea, and the making of which she felt herself very much at home. So she put a pincer to have catnip leaves into the pot, poured a little water on them, and left it to draw. Meanwhile came in kind Mr. Van Brunt, with an armful or two of small short sticks for the fire, which Ellen could manage. I wish I could stay here and take care of you all the while, said he, but I'll be round. If you want anything, you must come to the door and holler. Ellen began to thank him. Just don't say anything about that, said he, moving his hands as if he were shaking her thanks out of them. I'd back all the wood you could burn every day for the pleasure of having you home again, if I didn't know you as better where you was, but I can't help that. Now, who am I going to get to stay with you? Who would you like to have? Nobody if you please, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen. Aunt Fortune, don't wish it, and I had rather not indeed. He stood up and looked at her in amazement. Why, you don't mean to say, said he, that you were thinking, or she is thinking, you can get along here without help. I'll get along somehow, said Ellen. Never mind, please let me, Mr. Van Brunt. It would worry Aunt Fortune very much to have anybody. Don't say anything about it. Worry, her, said he, and muttered something Ellen did not quite understand, about bringing the old woman to reason. However, he went off for the present, and Ellen filled up her teapot and carried it upstairs. Her old grandmother was awake before, when Ellen was in the room. She had been napping. Now she showed the greatest delight at seeing her, fondled her, kissed her, cried over her, and finally insisted on getting up directly and going downstairs. Ellen received and returned her caresses with great tenderness, and then began to help her rise and dress. Yes, do, said Miss Fortune. I shall have a little better chance of sleeping. My stars, Ellen, what do you call this? Isn't it catnip, said Ellen, alarmed? Catnip, a taste of nothing but the tea kettle. It's as weak as dishwater. Take it down and make some more. How much did you put in? You want a good double handful, stocks and all. Make it strong. I can't drink such stuff as that. I think if I could get into a sweat I should be better. Ellen went down, established her grandmother in her old corner, and made some more tea. Then her irons being hot, she began to iron, doing double duty at the same time. For Mrs. Montgomery had one of her talking fits on, and it was necessary to hear and answer a great many things. Presently the first visitor appeared in the shape of Nancy. Well, Ellen, said she, so Miss Fortune is really sick for once, and you are keeping house. Ain't you grand? I don't feel very grand, said Ellen. I don't know what is the matter with these clothes. I cannot make them look smooth. Irons ain't hot, said Nancy. Yes, they are. Too hot. I've scorched a towel already. My goodness, Ellen, I guess you have. If Miss Fortune was down, you'd get it. Why, their bone dry, said Nancy, plunging her hand into the basket. You haven't sprinkled them, have you? To be sure, said Ellen, with an awakened face. I forgot it. Here, get out of the way. I'll do it for you, said Nancy, rolling up her sleeves and pushing Ellen from the table. You just give me a bowl of water, will you, and we'll have them done in no time. Who is it coming to help you? Nobody. Nobody, you poor chicken. Do you think you're going to do all the work of the house yourself? No, said Ellen, but I can do a good deal, and the rest will have to go. You ain't going to do no such thing, I'll stay myself. No, you can't, Nancy, said Ellen, quietly. I guess I will, if I've a mind to. I should like to know how you'd help it. Miss Fortune's a bed. I could help it, though, said Ellen, but I'm sure you won't when I ask you not. I'll do anything you please, said Nancy, if you'll get Miss Fortune to let me stay. Come, do, Ellen. It will be splendid, and I'll help you finally, and I won't bother you neither. Come, go ask her. If you don't, I will. I can't, Nancy, she don't want anybody, and it worries her to talk to her. I can't go and ask her. Nancy impatiently flung down the cloth she was sprinkling, and ran upstairs, and a few minutes she came down with a triumphant face, and made Ellen go up to her aunt. Ellen said, Miss Fortune, if I let Nancy stay, will you take care of the keys, and keep her out of the buttery? I'll try to, ma'am, as well as I can. I'd as leave have hers anybody, said Miss Fortune, if she'd behave. She was with me a little in the winter. She is smart and knows the ways. If I was sure she would behave herself, but I'm afraid she will go rampaging about the house like a wildcat. I think I could prevent that, said Ellen, who, to say truth, was willing to have anybody come to share what she felt would be a very great burden. She knows I could tell Mr. Van Brunt if she didn't do right, and she would be afraid of that. Well, said Miss Fortune, disconsolently, let her stay then. Oh, dear, till I hear. But tell her if she don't do just what you tell her, I'll have Mr. Van Brunt turn her out by the ears. And don't let her come near me, for she drives me mad. And, Ellen, put the keys in your pocket. Have you got a pocket in that dress? Yes, ma'am. Put them in there, and don't take them out. Now go. Nancy agreed to the conditions with great glee, and the little housekeeper felt her mind a good deal easier. For though Nancy herself was somewhat of a charge, she was strong, and willing, and ready. And if she liked anybody, liked Ellen. Mr. Van Brunt privately asked Ellen if she chose to have Nancy stay, and told her if she gave her any trouble to let him know, and he would make short work with her. The young lady herself also had a hint on the subject. I'll tell you what, said Nancy, when this business was settled. We'll let the men go off to Mrs. Van Brunt's two meals. We'll have enough to do without him. That's how Miss Fortune has fixed herself. She would have Sam and Johnny into board. They never used to, you know, afford this winter. The men may go, said Ellen, but I had a great deal rather Mr. Van Brunt would stay than not, if we can only manage to cook things for him. We should have to do it at any rate, for ourselves, and for Grandma. Well, I ain't as fond of him as all that, said Nancy. But it'll have to be as you like, I suppose. We'll feed him somehow. Mr. Van Brunt came in to ask if they had anything in the house for supper. Ellen told him plenty, and put to have him come in just as usual. There was nothing to do but to make tea. Cold meat and bread and butter and cheese were all in the buttery. So that evening went off very quietly. When she came down the next morning, the fire was burning nicely, and the kettle on and singing. Not Nancy's work. Mr. Van Brunt had slept in the kitchen. Whether on the table, the floor, or the chairs, was best known to himself. And before going to his work, had left everything he could think of ready done to her hand. Wood for the fire, pales of water brought from the spout, and some matters in the lower kitchen got out of the way. Ellen stood warming herself at the blaze, when it suddenly darted into her head that it was milking time. In another minute she had thrown up in the door, and was running across the chip yard to the barn. There, in the old place, were all her old friends, both four-legged and two-legged, and with great delight she found dally had a fine calf, and streaky another superb one, brindled just like herself. Ellen longed to get near enough to touch their little innocent heads. But it was impossible, and recollecting the business on her hands, she too danced away. We have said, Nancy, when Ellen told her of the new inmates of the barnyard, there will be work to do. Get your milk pans ready, Ellen, in a couple of weeks we'll be making butter. Aunt Fortune will be well by that time, I hope, said Ellen. She won't then, so you may just make up your mind to it. Dr. Gibson was to see her yesterday, four noon, and he stopped at Miss Slowns on his way back, and he said it was a chance if she got up again in a month and more. So that's what it is, you see. A month and more, it was all that. Miss Fortune was not dangerously ill, but part of the time in a low, nervous fever, part of the time encumbered with other ailments. She lay from week to week, bearing her confinement very ill, and making it as disagreeable and burdensome as possible for Ellen to attend upon her. Those were weeks of trial. Ellen's patience and principle and temper were all put to the proof. She had no love in the first place for household work, and now her whole time was filled up with it. Studies could not be thought of. Reading was only to be had by mere snatches. Walks and rides were at an end. Often, when already very tired, she had to run up and downstairs for her aunt, or stand and bathe her face and hands with vinegar, or read the paper to her. When Miss Fortune declared she was so nervous she should fly out of her skin if she didn't hear something besides the wind. And very often, when she was not wanted upstairs, her old grandmother would beg her to come and read to her. Perhaps at the very moment when Ellen was busiest. Ellen did her best. Miss Fortune never could be put off. The old mother sometimes could, with a kiss and a promise. But not always. And then, rather than she should fret, Ellen would leave everything and give half an hour to soothing and satisfying her. She loved to do this at other times. Now it was sometimes burdensome. Nancy could not help her at all in these matters, for neither Miss Fortune nor the old lady would let her come near them. Besides all this, there was a measure of care constantly upon Ellen's mind. She felt charged with the welfare of all about the house, and under the effort to meet the charge, joined to the unceasing bodily exertion, she grew thin and pale. She was tired with Nancy's talk. She longed to be reading and studying again. She longed, oh how she longed, for Alice's and John's company again. And it was no wonder if she sometimes cast very sad, longing looks further back still. Now and then an old fit of weeping would come. But Ellen remembered John's words, and often in the midst of her work, stopping short with a sort of pain of sorrow and weariness, and the difficulty of doing right, she would press her hands together and say to herself, I will try to be a good pilgrim. Her morning hour of prayer was very precious now, and her Bible grew more and more dear. Little Ellen found its words a mighty refreshment, and often when reading it, she loved to recall what Alice had said at this and at the other place, and John, and Mr. Marshman, and before them her mother. The passages about heaven, which she well remembered reading to her one particular morning, became great favorites. They were joined with her mother in Ellen's thoughts, and she used to go over and over them, till she knew them nearly by heart. What do you keep reading that for the whole time, said Nancy one day? Because I like to, said Ellen. Well, if you do, you're the first one I ever saw that did. Oh, Nancy, said Ellen, your grandma? Well, she does, I believe, said Nancy, for she's always at it, but all the rest of the folks that I ever saw are happy to get it out of their hands, I know. They think they must read a little, and so they do, and they are too glad if something happens to break them off. You needn't tell me. I've seen them. I wish you loved it, Nancy, said Ellen. Well, what do you love it for? Come, let's hear. Maybe you'll convert me. I love it for a great many reasons, said Ellen, who had some difficulty in speaking of what she felt Nancy could not understand. Well, I ain't any wiser yet. I like to read it because I want to go to heaven, and it tells me how. But what's the use, said Nancy? You ain't going to die yet. You are too young. You've time enough. Oh, Nancy, little John Dolan and Eleanor Parsons and Mary Huff, all younger than you and I. How can you say so? Well, said Nancy, at any rate, that ain't reading it because you love it. It's because you must, like other folks. That's only one of my reasons, said Ellen, hesitating and speaking gravely. I like to read about the Savior and what He has done for me, and what a friend He will be to me, and how He forgives me. I had rather have the Bible, Nancy, than all the other books in the world. That ain't saying much, said Nancy. But how come you to be so sure you are forgiven? Because the Bible says, he that believeth on him shall not be ashamed, and I believe in him, and that he will not cast out any one that comes to him, and I have come to him, and that he loves those that love him, and I love him. If it did not speak so very plainly, I should be afraid, but it makes me happy to read such verses as these. I wish you knew, Nancy, how happy it makes me. This profession of faith was not spoken without starting tears. Nancy made no reply. As Miss Fortune had foretold, plenty of people came to the house with proffers of service, Nancy's being there made it easy for Ellen to get rid of them all. Many were the marvels that Miss Fortune should trust her house to two girls like that, and many the guesses that she would rue it when she got up again. People were wrong. Things went on very steadily and in an orderly manner, and Nancy kept the peace as she would have done in few houses. Bold and insolent as she sometimes was to others, she regarded Ellen with a mixed notion of respect and protection, which led her at once to shun doing anything that would grieve her, and to thrust her aside from every heavy or difficult job, taking the brunt herself. Nancy might well do this, for she was at least twice as strong as Ellen, but she would not have done it for everybody. There were visits of kindness as well as visits of officiousness. Alice and Mrs. Van Brunt and Marjorie, one or the other every day, Marjorie would come in and mix up a batch of bread, Alice would bring a bowl of butter, or a basket of cake, and Mrs. Van Brunt sent whole dinners. Mr. Van Brunt was there always at night and about the place as much as possible during the day, when obliged to be absent he stationed Sam Larkins to guard the house, also to bring wood and water, and do whatever he was bid. All the help, however, that was given from abroad, could not make Ellen's life an easy one. Mr. Van Brunt's wishes that misfortune would get up again began to come very often. The history of one day may serve for the history of all those weeks. It was in the beginning of April. Ellen came downstairs early, but come down when she would, she found the fire made, and the kettle on. Ellen felt a little as if she had not quite slept off three membranes of yesterday's fatigue. However, that was no matter, she set to work. She swept up the kitchen, got her milk strainer and pans ready upon the buttery shelf, and began to set the table. By the time this was half done, in came Sam Larkins with two great pales of milk, and Johnny Lowe followed with another. They were much too heavy for Ellen to lift, but true to her charge, she let no one come into the buttery but herself. She brought the pans to the door, where Sam filled them for her, and as each was done, she set it in its place on the shelf. This took some time for there were eight of them. She had scare-swiped up the spilt milk and finished setting the table, when Mr. Van Brunt came in. Good morning, said he. How do you do today? Very well, Mr. Van Brunt. I wish you'd look a little redder in the face. Don't you be too busy? Where's Nancy? Oh, she's busy, out with the clothes. Same as ever upstairs? What are you going to do for breakfast, Ellen? I don't know, Mr. Van Brunt. There isn't anything cooked in the house. We have eaten everything up. Cleaned out, eh? Bread and all? Oh, no, not bread. There's plenty of that. But there's nothing else. Well, never mind. You bring me a ham and a dozen of eggs, and I'll make you a first-rate breakfast. Ellen laughed, for this was not the first time Mr. Van Brunt had acted as cook for the family. While she got what he had asked for, and buried a place in the table for his operations, he went to the spout and washed his hands. Now a sharp knife, Ellen, and the frying pan and a dish, and that's all I want of you. Ellen brought them, and while he was busy with the ham, she made the coffee, and set it by the side of the fire to boil, got the cream and butter, and set the bread on the table, and then set herself down to rest, and amuse herself with Mr. Van Brunt's cookery. He was no mean hand. His slices of ham were very artist-like, and frying away in the most unexceptionable manner. Ellen watched him and left at him, till the ham was taken out and all the eggs broke in. Then, after seeing that the coffee was right, she went upstairs to dress her grandmother, always the last thing before breakfast. Whose frying-ham and eggs downstairs, inquired Miss Fortune? Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen. This answer was unexpected. Miss Fortune tossed her head over in a dissatisfied kind of way, and told Ellen to tell him to be careful. Of what, though, Ellen, and wisely concluded with herself not to deliver the message? Very certain she should laugh if she did. And she had running in her head, an indistinct notion of the command, honor thy father and thy mother. Breakfast was ready, but no one there when she got downstairs. She placed her grandmother at table and called Nancy, who by this time had been getting the clothes out of the rinsing water, and hanging them out on the line to dry, said clothes having been washed the day before by Miss Sarah Lowndes, who came there for the purpose. Ellen poured out the coffee, and then in came Mr. Van Brunt, with a head of early lettuce, which he had pulled up in the garden and washed at the spout. Ellen had to jump up again to get the salt and pepper and vinegar. But she always jumped willingly for Mr. Van Brunt. The meals were pleasant her during those weeks, then in all the time Ellen had been in thorough well before, or she thought so. That sharp eye at the head of the table was pleasantly missed. They with one accord sat longer at meals, more talking and laughing went on. Nobody felt afraid of being snapped up. Mr. Van Brunt praised Ellen's coffee. He had taught her how to make it, and she praised his ham and eggs. Old Mrs. Montgomery praised everything, and seemed to be in particular comfort. Talked as much as she had a mind, and was respectfully attended to. Nancy was in high feather, and the clatter of knives and forks and tea cups went on very pleasantly. But at last chairs were pushed from the table, and work began again. Nancy went back to her tubs. Ellen supplied her grandmother with her knitting and filled her snuff box, cleared the table, and put up the dishes ready for washing. Then she went into the buttery to skim the cream. This was a part of the work she liked. It was heavy lifting the pans of milk to the skimming shelf before the window, but as Ellen drew her spoon around the edge of the cream, she'd like to see it wrinkle up in thick yellow leathery folds, showing how deep and rich it was. It looked half butter already. She knew how to take it off now very nicely. The cream was set in a vessel for future turning, and the milk, as each pan was skimmed, was poured down the wooden trough at the left of the window, through which it went into a great hog-set at the lower kitchen door. This done, Ellen went upstairs to her aunt. Dr. Gibby Gibson always came early, and she and her room must be put in apple pie order first. It was a long, weary some job. Ellen brought the basin for her to wash her face in hands, then combed her hair and put on her clean cap. That was always the first thing. The next was to make the bed, and for this, misfortune, weak or strong, wrapped herself up and tumbled out upon the floor. When she was comfortably placed again, Ellen had to go through a laborious dusting of the room and all the things in it, even taking a dust pan to brush the floor, if any speck of dust or crumbs could be seen there. Every rung of every chair must be gone over, though never so clean. Every article put up or put out of the way. Misfortune made the most of the little province of housekeeping that was left her, and a fluttering tape, escaping through the crack of the door, would have put her whole spirit topsy-turvy. When all was to her mind, and at before, she would have her breakfast, only gruel and biscuit or toast and tea, or some such trifle. But Ellen must prepare it and bring it upstairs, and wait till it was eaten. And very particularly, it must be prepared, and very faultlessly, it must be served. Or, with an impatient expression of disgust, Misfortune would send it down again. On the whole, Ellen always thought herself happy when this part of her day was well over. When she got down this morning, she found the kitchen in nice order, and Nancy standing by the fire in a little sort of pause, having just done the breakfast dishes. Well, said Nancy, what are you going to do now? Put away these dishes, and then churn, said Ellen. My goodness, so you are. What's going to be for dinner, Ellen? That's more than I know, said Ellen, laughing. We have eaten up Mrs. Van Brunt's pie and washed the dish. There's nothing but some cold potatoes. That won't do, said Nancy. I tell you what, Ellen. We'll just boil pot for today, and somebody else will send us something by tomorrow, most likely. I don't know what you mean by boil pot, said Ellen. Oh, you don't know everything yet, by half. I know. I'll fix it. You just give me the things, Miss Housekeeper. That's all you've got to do. I want a piece of pork and a piece of beef, and all the vegetables you've got. I'll, said Ellen. Every soul on them. Don't be scared, Ellen. You shall see what I can do in the way of cookery. If you don't like it, you need and eat it. What have you got in the cellar? Come and see and take what you want, Nancy. There is plenty of potatoes and carrots and onions, and beets, I believe. The turnips are all gone. Parsnips out in the yard, ain't there? Yes, but you'll have to do without a piece of pork, Nancy. I don't know anything about beef. While Nancy went round the cellar, gathering in her apron, the various routes she wanted, Ellen uncovered the pork barrel, and, after looking a minute at the dark pickle, she never loved to plunge into, bravely buried her arm, and fished up a piece of pork. Now, Nancy, just help me with this turn out of the cellar, will you? And then you may go. My goodness, it is heavy, said Nancy. You'll have a time of it, Ellen, but I can't help you. She went off to the garden for parsnips, and Ellen quietly put in the dasher in the cover and began to churn. It was tiresome work. The churn was pretty full, as Nancy had said. The cream was rich and cold, and at the end of a half an hour, grew very stiff. It splattered and sputtered up on Ellen's face and hands, and frock and apron, and over the floor. Legs and arms were both weary, but still, that pitiless dasher must go up and down, hard as it might be to force it either way. She must not stop. In this state of matters, she heard a pair of thick shoes come clumping down the stairs and beheld Mr. Van Brunt. How are you, said he? Churning. Been long at it? A good while, said Ellen with a sigh. Coming? I don't know when. Mr. Van Brunt stepped to the door and shouted for Sam Larkins. He was ordered to take the churn and bring the butter, and Ellen, very glad of a rest, went out to amuse herself with feeding the chickens, and then upstairs to see what Nancy was doing. Butter come, said Nancy? No, Sam has taken it. How are you getting on? Oh, I am tired. I'm getting on for a straight. I've got all the things in. In what? Why, in the pot, in a pot of water, boiling away as fast as they can, we'll have dinner directly. Hurrah, who comes there? She jumped to the door. It was Thomas, bringing Marjorie's respects and a custard pie for Ellen. I declare, said Nancy, it's a good thing to have friends, ain't it? I'll try and get some. Hello, what's wanting? Mr. Van Brunt's calling you, Ellen. Ellen ran down. The butters come, said he. Now, do you know what to do with it? Oh, yes, said Ellen, smiling. Marjorie showed me nicely. He brought her a pail of water from the spout, and stood by with a pleased kind of look, while she carefully lifted the cover and rinsed down the little bits of butter, which stuck to it and the dasher, took out the butter with her ladle into a large wooden bowl, washed it, and finally salted it. Don't take too much pain, said he. The less of the hand it gets, the better. That will do very nicely. Now, are you ready, said Nancy, coming downstairs? Because dinner is. My goodness, ain't that a fine lot of butter. There's four pounds, ain't there? Five, said Mr. Van Brunt. And as sweet as it can be, said Ellen. Beautiful, isn't it? Yes, I'm ready as soon as I set this in the cellar and cover it up. Nancy's dish, the pork, potatoes, carrots, beet, and cabbage, all boiled in the same pot together, was found very much to everybody's taste, except Ellen's. She made her dinner off potatoes and bread. The former of which she declared laughing were very porky and cabbagey. Her meal would have been an extremely late one, had it not been for the custard pie. After dinner, new labors began. Nancy had forgotten to hang on a pot of water for the dishes, so after putting away the eatables in the buttery, while the water was heating, Ellen warmed some gruel and carried it with a plate of biscuit upstairs to her aunt. But Miss Fortune said she was tired of gruel and couldn't eat it. She must have some milk porridge, and she gave Ellen very particular directions how to make it. Ellen sighed only once as she went down with her despised dish of gruel and set about doing her best to fulfill her aunt's wishes. The first dish of milk she burnt, another sigh, and another trial. Better care this time had better success, and Ellen had the satisfaction to see her aunt perfectly suited with her dinner. When she came down with the empty bowl, Nancy had a pile of dishes ready washed, and Ellen took the towel to dry them. Mrs. Montgomery, who had been in an uncommonly quiet fit all day, now laid down her knitting and asked if Ellen would not come and read to her. Presently, Grandma, as soon as I have done here. I know somebody that's tired, said Nancy. I'll tell you what, Ellen. You had better take to liking pork. You can't work on potatoes. I ain't tired a bit. There's somebody coming to the door again. Do run and open it, will you? My hands are wet. I wonder why folks can't come in without giving so much trouble. It was Thomas again, with a package for Ellen, which had just come, he said, and Miss Alice thought she would like to have it directly. Ellen thanked her and thanked him, with a face from which all signs of weariness had fled. The parcel was sealed up, and directed in a hand she was pretty sure she knew. Her fingers burned to break the seal, but she would not open it there. Neither leave her work unfinished. She went on wiping the dishes, with trembling hands and a beating heart. What's that, said Nancy? What did Thomas Grimes want? What have you got there? I don't know, said Ellen, smiling. Something good, I guess. Something good? Is it something to eat? No, said Ellen. I didn't mean anything to eat when I said something good. I don't think those are the best things. To Ellen's delight, she saw that her grandmother had forgotten about the reading, and was quietly taking short naps, with her head against the chimney. So she put away the last dish, and then seized her package and flew upstairs. She was sure it had come from Doncaster. She was right. It was a beautiful copy of the pilgrim's progress, on the first leaf written, to my little sister, Ellen Montgomery, from J.H., and within the cover lay a letter. This letter Ellen read in the course of the next six days, at least twice as many times, and ever without crying over it. Alice has told me, said John, about your new troubles. There is said to be a time, when the clouds return after the rain. I am sorry, my little sister, this time should come to you so early. I often think of you, and wish I could be near you. Still, dear Ellie, the good husband man knows what his plants want. Do you believe that, and can you trust him? They would have nothing but sunshine, if that was good for them. He knows it is not, so there come clouds and rain, and stormy wind fulfilling his will. And what is it all for? Herein is my father glorified, that ye bear much fruit. Do not disappoint his purpose, Ellie. We shall have sunshine enough, by and by. But I know it is hard for so young one, as my little sister, to look much forward. So do not look forward, Ellie. Look up. Look off unto Jesus from all your duties, troubles and wants. He will help you in them all. The more you look up to him, the more he will look down to you. And he especially said, suffer of little children, to come unto me. You see, you are particularly invited. Ellen was a long time upstairs, and when she came down, it was with red eyes. Mrs. Montgomery was now awake, and asked for the reading again. And for three quarters of an hour, Ellen and she were quietly busy with the Bible. Nancy, meanwhile, was downstairs washing the dairy things. When her grandmother released her, Ellen had to go up to wait upon her aunt, after which she went into the buttery and skimmed the cream, and got the pans ready for the evening milk. By this time it was five o'clock, and Nancy came in with a basket of dry clothes, at which Ellen looked with the sorrowful consciousness that they must be sprinkled and folded by and by, and ironed to-morrow. It happened, however, that Jane Huff came in just then, with a quantity of hot shortcake for tea. And seeing the basket, she very kindly took the business of sprinkling and folding upon herself. This gave Ellen spirits to carry out a plan she had long had, to delight the whole family with some eggs, scrambled in Marjorie's fashion. After the milk was strained and put away, she went about it, while Nancy set the table. A nice bed of coals was prepared, the spider sat over them. The eggs broken in, peppered and salted, and she began carefully to stir them, as she had seen Marjorie do. But instead of acting right, the eggs maliciously stuck fast to the spider and burned. Ellen was confounded. How much butter did you put in, said Mr. Van Brunt, who had come in and stood looking on. Butter, said Ellen, looking up. Oh, I forgot all about it. I ought to have put that in, Aunt and I. I'm sorry. Never mind, said Mr. Van Brunt, taint words you're being sorry about. Here, Nancy, clean us off this spider and we'll try again. At this moment, misfortune was heard screaming. Ellen ran up. What did she want, said Mr. Van Brunt, when she came down again. She wanted to know what was burning. Did you tell her? Yes. Well, what did she say? Said, I mustn't use any more eggs without asking her. That ain't fair place, said Mr. Van Brunt. You and I are the head of the house, now I take it. You just use as many on them as you've a mind, and all you spoil, I'll fetch you again from home. That's you, Nancy. Now, Ellen, here's the spider. Try it again. Let's have plenty of butter in this time, and plenty of eggs, too. This time the eggs were scrambled to a nicety, and the supper met with great favour from all parties. Ellen's day was done when the dishes were. The whole family went early to bed. She was weary, but she could rest well. She had made her old grandmother comfortable. She had kept the peace with Nancy. She had pleased Mr. Van Brunt. She had faithfully served her aunt. Her sleep was uncrossed by a dream, untroubled by a single jar of conscience, and her awakening to another day of labour, though by no means joyful, was yet not unhopeful or unhappy. She had a hard trial a day or two after. It was in the end of the afternoon she had her big apron on, and was in the buttery skimming the milk, when she heard the kitchen door open, and footsteps enter the kitchen. I went little Ellen to see who it was, and there stood Alice and old Mr. Marshman. He was going to take Alice home with him the next morning, and wanted Ellen to go too, and they had come to ask her. Ellen knew it was impossible. That is, it would not be right, and she said so. And in spite of Alice's wistful look, and Mr. Marshman's insisting, she stood her ground, not without some difficulty and some glistening of the eyes. They had to give it up. Mr. Marshman then wanted to know what she meant by swallowing herself in an apron in that sort of way. So Ellen had him into the buttery, and showed him what she had been about. He would see her skim several pans, and laughed at her prodigiously, though there was a queer look about his eyes, too, all the time. And when he went away, he held her in his arms, and kissed her again and again, and said that some of these days he would take her away from her aunt, and she should have her no more. Ellen stood and looked after them till they were out of sight, and then went upstairs and had a good cry. The butter-making soon became quite too much for Ellen to manage, so Jane Huff and Jenny Hitchcock were engaged to come by turns and do the heavy part of it, all within the butteries being still left to Ellen, for misfortune would have no one else go there. It was a great help to have them take even so much off her hands, and they often did some other little odd jobs for her. The milk, however, seemed to increase as fast as the days grew longer, and Ellen could not find that she was much less busy. The days were growing pleasant, too. Soft airs began to come, the grass was of a beautiful green, the buds on the branches began to swell, and on some trees to put out. When Ellen had a moment of time she used to run across the chip yard to the barn, or round the garden, or down to the brook, and drink in the sweet air in the lovely sights, which never had seemed quite so lovely before. If once in a while she could get a half an hour before tea, she used to take her book and sit down on the threshold of the front door, or on the big clog under the apple tree in the chip yard. In those minutes the reading was doubly sweet, or else the loveliness of earth and sky was such, that Ellen could not take her eyes from them. Till she saw Sam or Johnny coming out of the cowhouse door with the pales of milk, or heard their heavy tramp over the chips, then she had to jump and run. Those were sweet half-hours. Ellen did not at first know how much reason she had to be delighted with her pilgrim's progress. She saw, to be sure, that it was a fine copy, well-bound, with beautiful cuts. But when she came to look further, she found all through the book, on the margin, or at the bottom of the leaves, in John's beautiful handwriting, a great many notes. Simple, short, plain, exactly what was needed to open the whole book to her, and make it of the greatest possible use and pleasure. Many things she remembered hearing from his lips when they were reading it together. There was a large part of the book where all was new, the part he had not had time to finish. How Ellen loved the book and the giver, when she found these beautiful notes, it is impossible to tell. She counted at her greatest treasure, next to her little red Bible. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 of the Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner. Chapter 36 The Brownie In the course of time, misfortune showed signs of mending, and at last, towards the latter end of April, she was able to come downstairs. All parties hailed this event for different reasons. Even Nancy was growing tired for regular life and willing to have a change. Ellen's joy was, however, soon diminished by the terrible rummaging which took place. Misfortune's hands were yet obliged to lie still, but her eyes did double duty. They were never known to be idle in the best of times, and it seemed to Ellen now as if they were taking amends for all their weeks of forced rest. Oh, those eyes! Dust was found where Ellen never dreamed of looking for any. Things were said to be dreadfully in the way where she had never found it out. Disorder and dirt were groaned over, where Ellen did not know the fact, or was utterly ignorant how to help it. Waste was suspected where none had been, and carelessness charged where rather praise was due. Impatient to have things to her mind, and is yet unable to do anything herself, Misfortune kept Nancy and Ellen running, till both wished her back in bed, and even Mr. Van Brunt grumbled, that to pay Ellen for having grown white and poor, her aunt was going to work the little flesh she had off her bones. It was rather hard to bear, just when she was looking for ease too. Her patience and temper were more tried than in all those weeks before. But if there was small pleasure in pleasing her aunt, Ellen did earnestly wish to please God. She struggled against ill temper, prayed against it, and, though she often blamed herself in secret, she did so go through that week as to call forth Mr. Van Brunt's admiration, and even to stir a little the conscience of her aunt. Mr. Van Brunt comforted her with the remark that it is darkest just before day, and so it proved. Before the week was at an end, Misfortune began as she expressed it, to take hold. Jenny Hitchcock and Jane Huff were excused from any more butter-making. Nancy was sent away, Ellen's labors were much lightened, and the house was itself again. The third of May came. For the first time in near two months, Ellen found in the afternoon she could be spared a while. There was no need to think twice what she would do with her leisure. Perhaps Marjorie could tell her something of Alice. Hastily and joyfully, she exchanged her working frock for a marino, put on nice shoes and stockings, and ruffle again, and taking her bonnet and gloves to put on out of doors, away she ran. Who can tell how pleasant it seemed, after so many weeks, to be able to walk abroad again, and to walk to the mountain. Ellen snuffed the sweet air, skipped on the green sward, picked nosegaze of grass and dandelions, and at last, unable to contain herself, set off to run. Fatigue soon brought this to a stop, and then she walked more leisurely on, enjoying. It was a lovely spring day. Ellen's eyes were gladdened by it. She felt thankful in her heart that God had made everything so beautiful. She thought it was pleasant to think he had made them, pleasant to see in them everywhere so much of the wisdom and power and goodness of him she looked up to with joy as her best friend. She felt quietly happy, and sure he would take care of her. Then a thought of Alice came into her head. She sought off to run again, and kept it up this time till she got to the old house, and ran round the corner. She stopped at the shed door, and went through into the lower kitchen. Why, Miss Ellen, dear exclaimed Marjorie, if that isn't you, aren't you come in the very nick of time? How do you do? I am very glad to see you. Uncommon glad to be sure. What witch told you to come here just now? Run in, run into the parlor, and see what you'll find there. Has Alice come back? cried Ellen. But Marjorie only left, and said, run in. Up the steps, through the kitchen, and across the hall, Ellen ran, burst open the parlor door, and was in Alice's arms. There were others in the room, but Ellen did not seem to know it, clinging to her, and holding her in a fast, glad embrace, till Alice made her look up and attend to somebody else. And then she was seized round the neck by little Ellen Chauncey, and then came her mother, and then Miss Sophia. The two children were overjoyed to see each other, while their joy was touching to see, from the shade of sorrow in the one, and of sympathy in the other. Ellen was scarcely less glad to see kind Mrs. Chauncey. Miss Sophia's greeting, too, was very affectionate. But Ellen returned to Alice, and resting herself in her lap, with one arm round her neck, the other hand being in little Ellen's grasp. And now you were happy, I suppose, said Miss Sophia, when they were thus placed. Very said Ellen, smiling. Ah, but you'll be happier by and by, said Ellen Chauncey. Hush, Ellen, said Miss Sophia. What curious things children are. You didn't expect to find us all here, did you, Ellen Montgomery? No indeed, ma'am, said Ellen, drawing Alice's cheek nearer for another kiss. We have but just come, Ellie, said her sister. I should not have been long in finding you out. My child, how thin you have got. Oh, I'll grow fat again now, said Ellen. How is Miss Fortune? Oh, she is up again, and well. Have you any reason to expect your father home, Ellen, said Mrs. Chauncey? Yes, ma'am. Aunt Fortune says perhaps he will be here in a week. Then you are very happy in looking forward, aren't you, said Miss Sophia, not noticing the cloud that had come over Ellen's brow. Ellen hesitated, colored, colored more, and finally, with a sudden motion, hid her face against Alice. When did he sail, Ellie, said Alice gravely? In the duke de Orléon, he said he would. When? The fifth of April. Oh, I can't help it, exclaimed Ellen, failing in the effort to control herself. She clasped Alice as if she feared even then the separating hand. Alice bent her head down and whispered words of comfort. Mama said little Ellen Chauncey, under her breath, and looking solemn to the last degree. Don't Ellen want to see her father? She's afraid that he may take her away, where she will not be with Alice any more, and you know she has no mother to go to. Oh, said Ellen, with a very enlightened face. But he won't, will he? I hope not. I think not. Cheered again, the little girl drew near, and silently took one of Ellen's hands. We shall not be parted, Ellie, said Alice. You need not fear. If your father takes you away from your Aunt Fortune, I think it will be only to give you to me. You need not fear yet. Mama says so too, Ellen, said her little friend. This was a strong consolation. Ellen looked up and smiled. Now come with me, said Ellen Chauncey, pulling her hand. I want you to show me something. Let's go down to the garden. Come. Exercise is good for you. No, no, said her mother, smiling. Ellen has had exercise enough lately. You mustn't take her down to the garden now. You would find nothing there. Come here. A long whisper followed, which seemed to satisfy little Ellen, and she ran out of the room. Sometime passed in pleasant talk, and telling all that had happened, since they had seen each other. Then little Ellen came back, and called Ellen Montgomery to the glass door, saying she wanted her to look at something. It is only a horse we brought with us, said Miss Sophia. Ellen thinks it is a great beauty, and can't rest till you have seen it. Ellen went accordingly to the door. There, to be sure, was Thomas before it. Holding a pony bridled and saddled, he was certainly a very pretty little creature, brown all over, except for one white forefoot. His coat shone. It was so glossy. His limbs were fine, his eye gentle and bright, his tail long enough to please the children. He stood as quiet as a lamb, whether Thomas held him or not. Oh, what a beauty, said Ellen. What a lovely little horse. Ain't he, said Ellen Chauncey, and he goes so beautifully besides, and never starts nor nothing, and he is as good-natured as a little dog. As a good-natured little dog, she means Ellen, said Miss Sophia. There are little dogs, a very various character. Well, he looks good-natured, said Ellen. What a pretty head, and what a beautiful new sidesaddle, and all. I never saw such a dear little horse in my life. Is it yours, Ellis? No, said Ellis. It is a present to a friend of Mr. Marshman's. She'll be a very happy friend, I should think, said Ellen. That's what I said, said Ellen Chauncey, dancing up and down. That's what I said. I said you'd be happier by and by, didn't I? I said, Ellen Coloring? Yes, you. You are the friend it is for. It's for you, it's for you. You are Grandpa's friend, aren't you, she repeated, springing upon Ellen, and hugging her up in an ecstasy of delight. But it isn't really for me, is it, said Ellen? Now looking almost pale. Oh, Ellis! Come, come, said Miss Sophia. What will Papa say if I tell him you received his present so? Come, hold up your head. Put on your bonnet and try him. Come, Ellen, let's see you. Ellen did not know whether to cry or laugh till she mounted the pretty pony. That settled the matter. Not Ellen Chauncey's unspeakable delight was as great as her own. She rode slowly up and down before the house, and once a going would not have known how to stop if she had not recollected that the pony had traveled thirty miles that day and must be tired. Ellen begged not another turn after that. She jumped down and begged Thomas to take the tenderest care of him, padded his neck, ran into the kitchen to beg of Marjorie a piece of bread to give him from her hand, examined the new stirrup and housings, and the pony all over a dozen times, and after watching him as Thomas led him off till he was out of sight, finally came back into the house, with a face of marvelous contentment. She tried to fashion some message of thanks for the kind giver of the pony, but she wanted to express so much that no words would do. Miss Chauncey, however, smiled, and assured her she knew exactly what to say. That pony has been dusted for you, Ellen, she said, this year in more, but my father waited to have him thoroughly well broken. You need not be afraid of him. He is perfectly gentle and well-trained. If he had not been sure of that, my father would not have sent him. Though Mr. John is making such a horsewoman of you. I wish I could thank him, said Ellen, but I don't know how. What will you call him, Ellen, said Miss Sophia? My father has dubbed him George Marshman. He says you will like that, as my brother is such a favorite of yours. He didn't really, did he, said Ellen, looking from Sophia to Alice. I needn't call him that, need I? Not unless you like, said Miss Sophia, laughing. You may change it. But what will you call him? I don't know, said Ellen, very gravely. He must have a name to be sure. But why don't you call him that, said Ellen Chauncey? George is a very pretty name. I like that. I should call him Uncle George. Oh, I couldn't, said Ellen. I couldn't call him so. I shouldn't like it at all. George Washington, said Mrs. Chauncey. No indeed, said Ellen. I guess I wouldn't. Why, is it too good, or not good enough, said Miss Sophia? Too good. A great deal too good for a horse. I wouldn't for anything. How would Brandywine do, then? Since you are so patriotic, said Miss Sophia, looking amused. What is patriotic, said Ellen? A patriot, Ellen, said Alice, smiling, is one who has a strong and true love for his country. I don't know whether I am patriotic, said Ellen, but I won't call him Brandywine. Why, Miss Sophia? No, I wouldn't either, said Ellen Chauncey. It isn't a pretty name. Call him Seraphine, like Miss Angel's Pony. That's pretty. No, no, Seraphine Nonsense, said Miss Sophia. Call him Benedict Arnold, Ellen, and then it will be a relief to your mind to whip him. Whip him, said Ellen. I don't want to whip him, I am sure, and I should be afraid to, besides. Hasn't John taught you that lesson yet, said the young lady? He is perfect in it himself. Do you remember, Alice, the chastising he gave, that fine black course of ours we called the Black Prince? A beautiful creature he was. More than a year ago? My conscience. He frightened me to death. I remember, said Alice. I remember I could not look on. What did he do that for, said Ellen? What's the matter, Ellen Montgomery, said Miss Sophia, laughing? Where did you get that long face? Are you thinking of John or the horse? Ellen's eyes turned to Alice. My dear Ellen, said Alice, smiling, though she spoke seriously. It was necessary. It sometimes is necessary to do such things. You do not suppose John would do it cruelly or unnecessarily. Ellen's face shortened considerably. But what had the horse been doing? He had not been doing anything. He would not do. That was the trouble. He was as obstinate as a mule. My dear Ellen, said Alice, it was no such terrible matter as Sophia's words have made you believe. It was a clear case of obstinacy. The horse was resolved to have his own way and not do what his rider required of him. It was necessary that either the horse or the man should give up, and as John has no fancy for giving up, he carried his point. Partly by management. Partly, I confess, by judicious use of the whip and spur. But there is no such furious flagellation as Sophia seems to mean, and which a good horseman would scarce be guilty of. A very determined use, said Miss Sophia. I advise you, Ellen, not to trust your pony to Mr. John. He will have no mercy on him. Sophia is laughing, Ellen, said Alice. You and I know John, do we not? Then he did right, said Ellen. Perfectly right, except in mounting the horse at all, which I never wished him to do. No one on the place would ride him. He carried John beautifully all the day after that, though, said Miss Sophia. And I dare say he might have ridden him to the end of the chapter if you would have let Papa give him to him. But he was of no use to anybody else. Howard couldn't manage him. I suppose he was too lazy. Papa was delighted enough that day to have given John anything. And I can tell you, Black Prince II is spirited enough. I am afraid you won't like him. John has a present of a horse to Ellen, said Alice. Has he, from Mr. Marshman? Yes. I'm very glad. Oh, what rides we can take now, can't we, Alice? We shan't want to borrow Jenny's pony any more. What kind of a horse is Mr. John's? Black, perfectly black. Is he handsome? Very. Is his name Black Prince? Yes. Ellen began to consider the possibility of calling her pony the Brown Princess, or by some similar title, the name of John's two chargers, seeming the very most striking a horse could be known by. Don't forget, Alice and Mrs. Tronsy, to tell John to stop for him on his way home. It will give us a chance of seeing him, which is not a common pleasure in any sense of the term. They went back to the subject of the name, which Ellen pondered with uneasy visions of John and her poor pony flitting through her head. The little horse was very hard to fit, or else Ellen's taste was very hard to suit. A great many names were proposed, none of which were to her mind—Charlie and Cherry and Brown and Dash and Jumper, but she said they had John and Jenny already in throw-all, and she didn't monitor Charlie. Brown was not pretty, and she hoped he wouldn't dash at anything, nor be a Jumper when she was on his back. Cherry she mused a while about, but it wouldn't do. Call him Fairy, said Ellen Tronsy. That's a pretty name. Mama says she used to have a horse called Fairy. Do, Ellen, call him Fairy. No, said Ellen, he can't have a lady's name. That's the trouble. I have it, Ellen, said Ellis. I have a name for you. Call him the brownie. The brownie, said Ellen. Yes, brownies are male fairies, and brown is his color. So how will that do? It was soon decided that it would do very well. It was simple, descriptive, and not common. Ellen made up her mind that the brownie should be his name. No sooner given it began to grow dear. Ellen's face quitted its look of anxious gravity, and came out into the broadest and fullest satisfaction. She never showed joy boisterously, but there was a light in her eye, which brought many a smile into those of her friends as they sat round the tea table. After tea it was necessary to go home, much to the sorrow of all parties. Ellen knew, however, it would not do to stay. Miss Fortune was but just got well, and perhaps already thinking herself ill-used, she put on her things. Are you going to take your pony home with you, said Miss Sophia? Oh no, ma'am, not tonight. I must see about a place for him. And besides, poor fellow, he is tired, I daresay. I do believe you would take more care of his legs than of your own, said Miss Sophia. But you'll be here tomorrow early, Ellie. Oh, won't I, exclaimed Ellen, as she sprang to Ellis's neck, as early as I can. At least, I don't know when Aunt Fortune will have done with me. The way home seemed as nothing. If she was tired she did not know it. The brownie, the brownie, the thought of him carried her as cleverly over the ground, as his very back would have done. She came running into the chip yard. Hello, cried Mr. Van Brunt, who was standing under the apple tree, cutting a piece of wood for the tongue of the ox cart, which had been broken. I'm glad to see you can run. I was afeard you'd hardly be able to stand by this time. But there you come like a young deer. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, said Ellen, coming up close to him, and speaking in an undertone. You don't know what a present I have had. What do you think? Mr. Marshman had sent me from Ventnor. Couldn't guess, said Mr. Van Brunt, resting the end of his pole on the log, and chipping at it with his hatchet. Never guessed anything in my life. What is it? He has sent me the most beautiful little horse you ever saw, for my own, for me to ride, and a beautiful saddle and bridle. You never saw anything so beautiful, Mr. Van Brunt. He is all brown, with one white forefoot. And I've named him the brownie. And oh, Mr. Van Brunt, do you think Aunt Fortune will let him come here? Mr. Van Brunt chipped away at his pole, looking very good-humored. Because, you know, I couldn't have half the good of him if he had to stay away from me up on the mountain. I shall want to ride him every day. Do you think Aunt Fortune will let him be kept here, Mr. Van Brunt? I guess she will, said Mr. Van Brunt soberly, and his tone said to Ellen, I will if she don't. Then will you ask currency about it if you please, Mr. Van Brunt? I'd rather you would. And you won't have him put to plow or anything, will you, Mr. Van Brunt? Miss Sophia says it would spoil him. I'll plow myself first, said Mr. Van Brunt, with his half-smile. There shan't be a hair of his coat turned the wrong way. I'll see to him, as if he was a prince. Oh, thank you, dear Mr. Van Brunt, how good you are! Then I shall not speak about him at all till you do. Remember, I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt. Ellen ran in. She got a chiding for her long stay. But it fell upon ears that could not hear. The brownie came like a shield between her and all trouble. She smiled at her aunt's hard words, as if they had been sugar-plums. And her sleep that night might have been prairie land, for the multitude of forces of all sorts that chased through it. Have you heard the news, said Mr. Van Brunt, when he had got his second cup of coffee at breakfast next morning? No, said Miss Fortune. What news? There ain't as much news as there used to be when I was young, said the old lady. Seems to me I don't hear nothing nowadays. You might, if you'd keep your ears open, Mother. What news, Mr. Van Brunt? Why, here's Ellen got a splendid little horse, center of present, from some of her great friends, Mr. Marsh-talk. Mr. Marshman, said Ellen. Mr. Marshman, there ain't the like in the country, as I've here'd tell, and I expect next things shall be flying all over the fields and fences like smoke. There was a meaning silence. Ellen's heart beat. What's going to be done with him, do you suppose, said Miss Fortune? Her look said, if you think I'm coming around, you are mistaken. Humpf, said Mr. Van Brunt, slowly. I suppose he'll eat grass in the meadow, and there'll be a place fixed for him in the stables. Not in my stables, said the lady, shortly. No, in mine, said Mr. Van Brunt, half smiling. And I'll settle with you about it, by and by, when we square up our accounts. Miss Fortune was very much vexed. Ellen could see that, but she said no more good or bad about the matter, so the brownie was allowed to take quiet possession of meadow and stables to his mistress's unbounded joy. Anybody that knew Mr. Van Brunt would have been surprised to hear what he said that morning, for he was thought to be quite as keen a looker after the main chances Miss Fortune herself. Only somehow it was never late against him as it was against her. However that might be, it was plain he took pleasure in keeping his word about the pony. Ellen herself couldn't have asked for more carefulness for her favorite than the brownie had from every man and boy about the farm.