 CHAPTER VI NIGHT AND MORNING October was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of the last Sunday and the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone. Ellen had gone to bed some time before, and now, in the stillness of the Sabbath evening, the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was abroad, and he had been so, according to custom, or in bed, the whole day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves, and most quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed together, talked together a great deal, and the evening had been spent in singing hymns. But Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen sang alone. She was not soon weary. Hymns succeeded him, with fresh and varied pleasure, and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet words and the sweet airs, which were all old friends, and brought of themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of association, needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice in which they were sung, which was, of all things, the sweetest to Mrs. Montgomery's ear. She listened till she almost felt as if earth were left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of that city, where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall be wiped from all eyes forever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely while she heard it, all of her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter. God in Israel sows the seeds of affliction, pain, and toil. These spring up and choke the weeds, which would else o'er spread the soil. Trials make the promise sweet. Trials give new life to prayer. Trials bring me to his feet, lay me low and keep me there. It is so indeed, dear Ellen, said Mrs. Montgomery, when she had finished, and holding the little singer to her breast. I have always found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank him, for all the evils he has made me suffer here to four, and I do not doubt it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify him in the fires, my daughter, and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to him. He can, and he will, in that case, make up to us more than all we have lost. Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of confidence and hope. To her there is no brightness on the cloud that hung over them. It was all work. She could only press her lips in tearful silence, to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such embrace. This one for particular reasons was often and long remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek pressed against cheek without speaking, but then Mrs. Montgomery remembered that Ellen's bedtime was already past and dismissed her. For a while after, Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left her. Her busy thoughts roaming over many things, in the far past, and the sad present, and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the passage of time, and did not notice how the silence deepened as the night drew on till scarce a footfall was heard in the street, and the ticking of the clock sounded with that sad distinctness which seems to say, time is going on, time is going on, and you are going with it. Do what you will. You can't help that. It was just upon the stroke of ten, and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp brisk footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching, and she knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, before she heard the quick run up the steps succeeded by her husband's tread upon the staircase, and yet she saw him open the door with a kind of startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably caused her. The thought always darted through her head. Perhaps he brings news of Ellen's going. Something it would have been impossible to say what, in his appearance or manner, confirmed the sphere on the present occasion. Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would say. He seemed very well pleased, sat down before the fire, rubbing his hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction, and his first words were, well, we have got a fine opportunity for her at last. How little he was capable of understanding the paying this announcement gave his poor wife. But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly quiet, and he never suspected it. He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand, began to mend the fire, talking the while. I am very glad of it indeed, said he. It's quite a load off my mind. Now I'll be gone directly, and high time it is. I'll take passage in the England the first thing tomorrow. And this is the best possible chance for Ellen. Everything we could have desired. I began to feel very uneasy about it. It was getting so late. But I am quite relieved now. Why, who is it, said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak? Why, it's Mrs. Dunskohm, said the captain, flourishing his poker by way of illustration. You know her, don't you? Captain Dunskohm's wife. She's going right through Thrawall, and will take charge of Ellen as far as that, and there my sister will meet her with a wagon and take her straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I write to let fortune no one to expect her. Mrs. Dunskohm is a lady of the first family and fashion, and the highest degree respectable. She was going on to Fort Jameson, with her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow her in a few days. I happen to hear of it today, and I immediately seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her as far as Thrawall, and Dunskohm was only too glad to oblige me. I'm a very good friend of his, and he knows it. How soon does she go? Why, that's the only part of the business I'm afraid you won't like. But there is no help for it, and after all, it is a great deal better so than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning. Better, and easier, too, in the end. How soon, repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonized accent. Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you. Dunskohm's wife must go, he told me, to-morrow morning, and we arranged that she could call in the carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen. Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the sofa. I was afraid you would take it so, said her husband. But I don't think it is worthwhile. It is a great deal better, as it is. A great deal better than if she had a long mourning. You would fairly wear yourself out if you had time enough, and you haven't any strength to spare. It was some time before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and firmness enough to go on with what she had to do. Though, knowing the necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained quite silent and quiet, endeavoring to collect her scattered forces. Then, sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed, I must waken Ellen immediately. Waken Ellen? exclaimed her husband in his turn. What on earth for? That's the very last thing to be done. Why, you would not put off telling her until tomorrow morning, said Mrs. Montgomery. Certainly I would. That's the only proper way to do. Why in the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless grieving, unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a week? No, no, just let her slip quietly, and you can go to bed and do the same. Wake her up indeed. I thought you were wiser. But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning. Not one bit more than she would be tonight. And she won't have so much time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not have time to think about her feelings, and once on the way she will do well enough. Children always do. Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied. I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself. You must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do it all, said the captain, poking the fire very energetically. It would not do it all. I cannot allow it. Mrs. Montgomery silently arose in little lamp. You are not going into Ellen's room, said the husband. I must. I must put her things together. But you'll not disturb Ellen, said he, in a tone that required a promise. Not if I can help it. Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the door of Ellen's room, for her heart failed her. But she must go on. And the necessary preparations for the morrow must be made. She knew it. And repeating this to herself, she gently turned the handle of the door and pushed it open, and guarding the light with her hand from Ellen's eyes. She said it where it would not shine upon her. Having done this she set herself, without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all things in order for her early departure on the following morning. But it was a bitter piece of work for her. She first laid out all the Ellen would need to wear, the dark marino, the new nanking coat, the white bonnet, the clean frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and all the exeteras, with a thoughtfulness and carefulness of love. But it went through and through her heart that it was the very last time a mother's fingers would ever be busy in arranging or preparing Ellen's attire, the very last time she would ever see or touch even the little inanimate things that belong to her. And painful as the task was, she was loath to have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering unwillingness to quit her hold of them, that one thing after another was stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She felt it was love's last act. Words might indeed a few times yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper. But sight and hearing and touch must all have done henceforth forever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went unbizzily with her work all the while. And when the last thing was safely packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop and think and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her task, she went to the bedside. She had not looked that way before. Ellen was lying in the deep, sweet sleep of childhood, the easy position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the cheek showed that all causes of sorrow were for the present far removed. Yet not so far either. For once, when Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her, lightest the touch of that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to awaken a train of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind. A shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the word mama burst from the parted lips. Only a moment and the shade passed away, and the expression of peace settled again upon her brow. But Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she stood looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last, then she knelt by the bedside and hit her face in the coverings. But no tears came. The struggle in her mind and her anxious fear for the morning's trial made weeping impossible. Her husband at length came to seek her, and it was well he did. She would have remained there on her knees all night. He feared something of the kind and came to prevent it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered herself to be led away without making any opposition, and went to bed as usual. But sleep was far from her. The fear of Ellen's distress when she should be awakened and suddenly told the truth kept turn in agony. In restless wakefulness she tossed and turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn and dreading unspeakably to see it. The captain in happy unconsciousness of his wife's distress and utter inability to sympathize with it was soon in a sound sleep, and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble. It kept repeating what indeed she knew already, that the only one in the world who ought to have shared and soothed her grief was not capable of doing either. Weiried with watching and tossing to and fro, she at length lost herself in a moment of uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly started in terror and seizing her husband's arm to arouse him exclaimed, it is time to wake Ellen. But she had to repeat her efforts two or three times before she succeeded in making herself heard. What is the matter, said he, heavily, and not over well pleased at the interruption? It is time to wake Ellen. No, it isn't, said he, relapsing. It isn't time yet this great while. Oh, yes, it is, said Mrs. Montgomery. I am sure it is. I see the beginning of dawn in the east. Nonsense, it's no such thing. It's the glimmer of the lamp-light. What is the use of your exciting yourself so, for nothing? It won't be dawn these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, and I'll convince you. He found and struck it. There, I told you so. Only one quarter after four, it would be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to me. I'll take care it is done in proper time. Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to watch the eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direction, for she could see nothing. But, more quietly now, she lay gazing into the darkness, which it was in vain to try to penetrate, and thoughts succeeding thoughts in a more regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep, much as she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for near an hour, and when she awoke, the dawn had really begun to break in the eastern sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it might be as well to get up, but it was with unutterable impatience that she saw him lighting a lamp, and moving about as leisurely as if he had nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock. Oh, do speak to Ellen, she said, unable to control herself. Never mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have no time for anything. Oh, do not wait any longer. What are you thinking of? What are you thinking of, said the Captain? There's plenty of time. Do quiet yourself. You're getting as nervous as possible. I'm going immediately. Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience, and an agonizing dread of what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen. But her husband coolly went on with his preparations, which indeed were not long in finishing, and then taking the lamp he at last went. He had in truth delayed on purpose, wishing the final leave taking to be as brief as possible, and the gray streaks of light in the east were plainly showing themselves when he opened the door of his little daughter's room. He found her lying very much as her mother had left her, and the same quiet sleep, and with the same expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole face in person. It touched even him, and he was not readily touched by anything. It made him loath to say the word that would drive all that sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be said, however, the increasing light warned him he must not tarry. But it was with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that he said, Ellen. She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face again. Ellen! Ellen! She started up, brought awake now, and both the shadow and the peaceful expression were gone from her face. It was a look of blank astonishment at first with which she regarded her father, but very soon indeed that changed into one of bleak despair. He saw that she understood perfectly what he was there for, and that there was no needed all for him to trouble himself with making painful explanations. Come, Ellen, he said. That's a good child. Make haste and dress. There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be at the door, and your mother wants to see you, you know. Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings and shoes. That's right, now you'll be ready directly. You are going with Mrs. Dunskohm. I've engaged her to take charge of you all the way quite to Thurowall. She's the wife of Captain Dunskohm, whom you saw here the other day, you know, and her daughter is going with her. So you will have charming company. I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much, and your aunt will meet you at Thurowall. Now, make haste. I expect the carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I overslept myself. Don't be long. And nodding encouragement, her father left her. How did she bear it? asked Mrs. Montgomery when he returned. Like a little hero, she didn't say a word or shed a tear. I expected nothing but that she would make a great fuss. But she has all the old spirit that you used to have, and have yet for anything I know. She behaved admirably. Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than her husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret much more truly than he the signs of them. The conclusion she drew from Ellen's silent and tearless reception of the news differed widely from his. She now waited anxiously and almost fearfully for her appearance, which did not come as soon as she expected it. It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking and left her to herself. First she felt she could not dress herself so quick with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire that she should be speedy in what she had to do could not be greater than her own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could with every joint trembling. But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's heart, she could not cry, and she could not pray. Though true to her constant habit, she fell on her knees by her bedside, as she always did. It was in vain. All was in a whirl in her heart and head, and after a minute she rose again, clasping her little hands together with an expression of sorrow that it was well her mother could not see. She was dressed very soon, but she shrank from going to her mother's room while her father was there. To save time she put on her coat and everything but her bonnet and gloves, and then stood leaning against the bedpost, for she could not sit down, watching with most intense anxiety to hear her father's step come out of the room and go downstairs. Every minute seemed too long to be born. Poor Ellen began to feel as if she could not contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard the roll of carriage wheels, which came to the door and then stopped, and immediately her father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any longer, Ellen opened her own and brushed past him into the room he had quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her husband had insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to receive her little daughter, and with a cry of indescribable expression, Ellen sprang upon the bed and was folded in them. But then neither of them spoke or wept. What could words say? Heart met heart in that agony, for each knew all that was in the other. No, not quite all. Ellen did not know that the whole of bitterness Death had for her mother she was tasting then. But it was true, Death had no more power to give her pain after this parting should be over. His after-work, the parting between soul and body, would be welcome. Rather, yes, very welcome. Mrs. Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was the last embrace between them. She knew it would be the last time that dear little farm would ever lie in her bosom or be pressed in her arms, and it almost seemed to her that soul and body must part company too, when they should be rent asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this. She did not think it was the last time. But she was a child of very high spirit and violent passions, untamed at all by sorrow's discipline. And in proportion, violent was a tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too, her sorrow was sharpened by a sense of wrong, and a feeling of indignation at her father's cruelty and not waking her earlier. Not many minutes had passed in the sad embrace, and no word had yet been spoken. No sound uttered, except Ellen's first inarticulate cry of mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery's step was again heard slowly ascending the stairs. He is coming to take me away, thought Ellen, and in terror, lest she should go without a word from her mother. She burst forth with, Mama, speak. A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. But she could now, and as clearly and calmly the words were uttered as if nothing had been the matter. Only her voice felt a little toward the last. God bless my darling child and make her his own, and bring her to that home where parting cannot be. Ellen's eyes had been dried until now, but when she heard the sweet sound of her mother's voice it opened all the fountains of tenderness within her. She burst into uncontrollable weeping. It seemed as if she would pour out her very heart and tears, and she clung to her mother with a force that made it a difficult task for her father to remove her. He could not do it at first, and Ellen seemed not to hear anything that was said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness, and after a little, she had paid no attention to his entreaties or commands. Yet sensible of the necessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold, and suffered him to draw her away from her mother's arms. He carried her downstairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs. Dunskohm's maid. But Ellen could never recollect how she got there, and she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him when he bid her good-bye, and she did not know that he put a large paper of candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew nothing but that she had lost her mother. It will not be so long, said the captain, in a kind of apologizing way. She will soon get over it, and you will not have any trouble with her. I hope so, return the lady, rather shortly. And then, as the captain was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased tone of voice, Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to travel without a bonnet? Without a bonnet? No, said the captain. How is this? Hasn't she a bonnet? I beg a thousand pardons, ma'am. I'll bring it on the instant. After a little delay the bonnet was found, but the captain overlooked the gloves in his hurry. I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma'am, said he. I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet, replied the lady. Drive on as fast as you can. A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery, a very slight one from the lady, and off they drove. Proud enough thought the captain, as he went up the stairs again. I reckon she don't thank me for her traveling companion. But Ellen's off, that's one good thing, and now I'll go and engage berths in the England. CHAPTER 7 Strangers Walk as Friends The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blink to Ellen's recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her companions on her account. She did not know that her white bonnet was such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscome and the maid that they could hardly contain themselves. She did not find out that Miss Margaret's fingers were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good string and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It mattered nothing. She wept on in her loneliness, and knew nothing that happened, till the carriage stopped on the wharf. Even then she did not raise her head. Mrs. Dunscome got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the same. Then after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to Ellen. Will you get out, Miss Montgomery, or would you prefer to remain in the carriage? We must go on board directly. There was something, not in the words, but in the tone that struck Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears stopped instantly, and, wiping away quick the traces of them as well as she could, she got out of the carriage without a word, aided by Mrs. Dunscome's hand. The party was presently joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognized as Captain Dunscome. Dunscome, do put these girls on board, will you, and then come back to me. I want to speak to you. Timmons, you may go along and look after them. Captain Dunscome obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret Dunscome and the maid Timmons went straight to the cabin, not feeling it all drawn towards their company, as indeed they had given her no reason. Ellen planted herself by the guards of the boat, not far from the gangway, to watch the busy scene that at another time would have had a great deal of interest and amusement for her, and interest it had now, but it was with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but she felt this was not the time or the place to let it be seen, so for the present she occupied herself with what was passing before her, though it did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow. At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscome put his wife on board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great loops of ropes that held the boat to enormous wooden posts on the wharf, and they were off. At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon it were sailing away from them backwards, but she presently forgot to think of them at all. She was gone. She felt the bitterness of the whole truth. The blue water already lay between her and the shore, where she so much longed to be. And that confused massive buildings at which she was gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing distance, was the only spot she cared for in the world. Her heart was there. She could not see the place to be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all that widespread city, but it was there, somewhere, and every minute was making it farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing, that sailing away from all one loves, and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning both her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, and blinding her so that she could not see the place towards which her straining eyes were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve. It was Timmons. Mrs. Dunskohm sent me to tell you she wants you to come into the cabin, Miss. Hasteily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed Timmons into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, and nurses, bustling and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might have stayed outside. She wanted to be by herself. But as the next best thing, she mounted upon the bench, which ran all around the saloon, and kneeling on the cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of her bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a bit of her face, while she could look out nearby as well as from the deck. Presently her ear caught, as she thought the voice of Mrs. Dunskohm, saying in rather an undertone, but laughing too, what a figure does she cut in that outlandish bonnet. Ellen had no particular reason to think she was meant, and yet she did think so. She remained quite still, but with raised color and quickened breathing waited to hear what would come next. Nothing came at first, and she was beginning to think she had perhaps been mistaken, when she plainly heard Margaret Dunskohm say, and a loud whisper, Mama, I wish you could contrive some way to keep her in the cabin, can't you? She looked so odd in that queer sun bonnet kind of a thing, that anybody would think she had come out of the woods, and no gloves, too. I shouldn't like to have the Miss MacArthur's think she belonged to us. Can't you, Mama? If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would hardly have been greater. The lightning of passion shot through every vein, and it was not passion only. There was hurt feeling and wounded pride, and the sorrow of which her heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh. The child was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding place was a most pressing thought, to be where tears could burst and our heart could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd to the red curtain that cut off the far end of the saloon, and from there down to the cabin below. People were everywhere. At last she spied a nook where she could be completely hidden. It was in the far back end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she had come down. Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that ran round the end of the cabin, and sloped up to the little cabin window, and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened and out of sight of every human creature. It was time indeed. Her heart had been almost bursting with passion and pain, and now the pent-up tempest broke forth with a fury that wracked her little frame from head to foot, and the more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more bitter by mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and wrong, and through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor child was reaching forth longing arms towards her far-off mother, and calling in secret on her beloved name. Oh, Mama, Mama, was repeated numberless times with the unspeakable bitterness of knowing that she would have been a sure refuge and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she could neither reach nor hear her, alas, how soon and how sadly missed. Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or if quieted for a moment it was only to break out afresh, and then she was glad to sit still and rest herself. Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid upstairs, at a distance at first, and coming nearer and nearer. Breakfast ready, ladies, ladies, breakfast ready, and then came all the people in a rush pouring down the stairs over Ellen's head. She kept quite still and close, for she did not want to see anybody, and could not bear that anybody should see her. Nobody did see her. They all went off into the next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her hiding-place, and to feel restless in her confinement. She thought this would be a good time to get away. So she crept from her station under the stairs, and mounted them as quick and quietly as she could. She found almost nobody left in the saloon, and, breathing more freely, she possessed herself of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her head in the first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at the door went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck. She felt as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe. The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning sun, and nobody was there except for a few gentlemen. Ellen sat down on one of the settees that were ranged along the middle of it, and, much pleased at having found herself such a nice place of retreat, she once more took up her interrupted amusement of watching the banks of the river. It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not fairly enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart to put a veil over all nature's brightness. The thought did pass through her mind when she first went up, how very fair everything was, but she soon forgot to think about it at all. They were now in a wide part of the river, and the shore towards which she was looking was low and distant, and offered nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and presently lost all sense of everything around her and before her, for her thoughts went home. She remembered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her mother's arms after she had stopped singing. Could it be only last night? It seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again, in imagination. Her shocked waking up that morning. How cruel that was! Her hurried dressing, the miserable parting, and those last words of her mother that seemed to ring in her ears yet. That home where parting cannot be. Oh, thought Ellen, how shall I ever get there? Who is there to teach me now? Oh, what shall I do without you? Oh, Rama, how much I want you all ready. While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was perfectly calm. Her violent excitement had all left her. Her lip quivered a very little, sometimes, but that was all, and one or two tears rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on anything else before her. And there was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip, and cheek, and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by several people. But they all thought it was none of their business to speak to her. Or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman, who had been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look as he passed at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that time. But in coming back he stopped just in front of her. And bending down his face towards hers, said, What is the matter with you, my little friend? Though his figure had passed before her a great many times, Ellen had not seen him at all. For her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away. Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising, and clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her mother's intended departure had occasion that first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a retired part of the deck, where they were comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears. Then, taking her in his arms, he endeavored, by many kind and soothing words, to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one. That only exhausted. This, in some little measure, relieved her. What is this all about, said her friend kindly? Nay, never mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is, and perhaps we can find some help for it. Oh, no you can't, sir, said Ellen sadly. Well, let a sea, said he. Perhaps I can. What is it that has troubled you so much? I have lost my mother, sir, said Ellen. Your mother? Lost her? How? She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to get well, and Papa could not take me with her, said poor Ellen, weeping again, and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I do? Have you left your mother in the city? Oh, yes, sir, I left her this morning. What is your name? Ellen Montgomery. Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health? Oh, yes, sir. Nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her. Then you hope to see her come back by and by, don't you? Oh, yes, sir, but it won't be this great, great long while. It seems to me as if it was forever. Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us? Yes, sir, I know, but I don't feel that that makes it any easier. Do you know why he sends it? He is the God of love. He does not trouble us willingly. He has said so. Why does he ever make us suffer? Do you know? No, sir. Sometimes he sees that if he lets them alone, his children will love some dear thing on the earth better than himself, and he knows they will not be happy if they do so. And then, because he loves them, he takes it away. Perhaps it is a dear mother or a dear daughter, or else he hinders their enjoyment of it, that they may remember him and give their whole hearts to him. He wants their whole hearts, that he may bless them. Are you one of his children, Ellen? No, sir, said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground. How do you know that you are not? Because I do not love the Savior. Do you not love him, Ellen? I am afraid not, sir. Why are you afraid not? What makes you think so? Mama said I could not love him at all if I did not love him best. And, oh, sir, said Ellen, weeping, I do love Mama a great deal better. You love your mother better than you do the Savior? Oh, yes, sir, said Ellen. How can I help it? Then, if he had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared or thought about him? Ellen was silent. Is it so? Would you do you think? I don't know, sir, said Ellen, weeping again. Oh, sir, how can I help it? Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your heavenly father in this trial? He saw that his little child was in danger of forgetting him, and he loved you, Ellen, and so he has taken your dear mother, and sent you away to where you will have no one to look to but him. And now he says to you, my daughter, give me thy heart. Will you do it, Ellen? Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words, clasping his hands still in both hers, but she made no answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone. What is the reason that you do not love the Savior, my child? Mama says it is because my heart is so hard. That is true, but you do not know how good and how lovely he is, or you could not help loving him. Do you often think of him and think much of him, and ask him to show you himself that you may love him? No, sir, said Ellen, not often. You pray to him, don't you? Yes, sir, but not so. But you ought to pray to him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen. We are all heart-hearted. None of us can see him or love him unless he opens our eyes and touches our hearts, but he has promised to do this for those who seek him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what he should do for him? He answered, Lord, that I may receive my sight. That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too, and the Lord is just as ready to hear us as he was to hear the poor blind man, and you know he cured him. Will you ask him, Ellen? A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again. Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought to make you love him with all of your heart? Oh, yes, sir, if you please. Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much. Oh, I can't tell you, sir, everything, I think. I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much. Oh, yes, sir, said Ellen strongly. But how do you know that she loves you? How has she shown it? Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer. It seemed to her that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one. I suppose, said her friend, that to begin with the smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that would be useful or necessary to you. She never forgot your wants or was careless about them. No, indeed, sir. And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or pain where your good was concerned. She would sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours. Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said nothing. And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could. And in all the times you have seen her tried, no fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love. She could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of bearing with you when you forgot your duty, more ready always to receive you than you to return, isn't it so? Oh, yes, sir. And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and love, many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right way, all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world and in the next. Oh, yes, sir, said Ellen tearfully, and then added, Do you know my mother, sir? No, said he, smiling. Not at all. But my own mother has been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you. Have I described her right? Yes, indeed, sir, said Ellen, exactly. And in return for all this you have given this dear mother the love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you? Indeed I have, sir, and Ellen's face said it more than her words. You were very right, he said gravely, to love such a mother, to give her all possible duty and affection. She deserves it. But Ellen, in all these very things I have been mentioning, Jesus Christ has shown that he deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a child to your mother, if you had never made her the least return of love or regard, that she would have continued to love you as she does? No, sir, said Ellen. I do not think she would. Have you ever made any fit return to God for his goodness to you? No, sir, said Ellen, in a low tone. And yet there has been no change in his kindness. Just look at it and see what he has done and is doing for you. In the first place it is not your mother, but he who has given you every good and pleasant thing you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is so careful to provide for all your wants, but who gave her the materials to work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which he supplied you. And who gave you such a mother? There are many mothers not like her. Who put into her heart the truth and love that have been blessing you ever since you were born? It is all, all God's doing, from first to last, but his child has forgotten him in the very gifts of his mercy. Ellen was silent, but looked very grave. Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was concerned. Did Christ find his? You know what he did to save sinners, don't you? Yes, sir, I know. Mama often told me. Though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor, that we through his poverty might be rich. He took your burden of sin upon himself and suffered that terrible punishment, all to save you, and such as you. And now he asks his children to leave off sinning and come back to him, who has bought them with his own blood. He did this because he loved you. Does he not deserve to be loved in return? Ellen had nothing to say. She hung down her head further and further. And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved or obeyed him, and yet he loves you and is ready to be your friend. Is he not even today taking away your dear mother for the very purpose that he may draw you gently to himself and fold you in his arms as he has promised to do with his lambs? He knows you can never be happy anywhere else. The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind was full. Has not Christ shown that he loves you better even than your mother does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these? Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven. I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. I have loved thee with an everlasting love, therefore with love and kindness have I drawn thee. He waited a minute, and then added gently. Will you come to him, Ellen? Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his, but there were tears there too, and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed out in broken words. Oh, if I could, but I don't know how. Do you wish to be his child, Ellen? Oh, yes, sir, if I could. I know my child that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to him. He is looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little heart of yours to him, that he may make it holy and fill it with blessing. He says, you know, behold, I stand at the door and knock. Do not grieve him away, Ellen. Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone. Her heart was completely melted. If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you doubt her love to do it? Would you have any difficulty in asking her? Oh, no. Then do not doubt his love, who loves you better still. Come to Jesus. Do not fancy he is a way up in heaven out of reach or hearing. He is here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think you are in his presence and at his feet, even now, and say to him in your heart, Lord, look upon me. I am not fit to come to thee, but thou hast bid me come. Take me and make me thine own. Take this hard heart that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with thy love. I give it in myself into thy hands, O dear Savior. These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no more for some time, waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and appearance, and then said, Ellen, could you join in heart with my words? I did, sir. I couldn't help it. All but the last. All but the last? Yes, sir. But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too. Do you believe that? Yes, sir. Will you not make that constant prayer till you are heard and answered? Yes, sir. And he thought he saw that she was in earnest. Perhaps the answer may not come at once. It does not always, but it will come, as shortly as the sun will rise tomorrow morning. Then shall we know, if we follow on, to know the Lord. But then you must be in earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do besides praying? Ellen looked at him without making an answer. When a person isn't earnest, how does he show it? By doing everything he possibly can to get what he wants. Quite right, said her friend smiling, and has God been in us to do nothing besides pray for a new heart? Oh, yes, sir. He has told us to do a great many things. And will he be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen? If he sees that you do not care about displeasing him in those great many things, will he judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart? Oh, no, sir. Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help will come. And from this good day you will seek to know and to do the will of God, trusting in his dear son to perfect that which concerneth you. My little child, said the gentleman, softly and kindly, are you ready to say you will do this? As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning over the leaves said, I'm going to leave you for a little while. I have a few moments business downstairs to attend to, and I want you to look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will you, and resolve what you will do. Ellen got off his knee where she had been sitting all this while, and silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind, as her eyes went over and over the words to which he had pointed. Behold the Savior at thy door. He gently knocks, has knocked before. His weighted long is waiting still. You treat no other friend so ill. O lovely attitude he stands, with open heart and outstretched hands. O matchless kindness, and he shows this matchless kindness to his foes. Admit him for the human breast, near entertained so kind to guest. Admit him, or the hours at hand, when at his door denied you'll stand. Open my heart, Lord, enter in. Slay every foe, and conquer sin. Here now to thee I all resign. My body, soul, and all are thine. The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not. The two preceding were the very speech of her heart. Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back again. The book hung in Ellen's hand. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. Well, he said kindly, and taking her hand. What's your decision? Ellen looked up. Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about? Yes, sir, Ellen said, in a low voice, casting her eyes down again. And how have you decided, my child? I will try to do as you said, sir. You will begin to follow your Savior and to please him from this day forward. I will try, sir, said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently. God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen, said he, gently passing his hand over her head. But do not cry any more. You have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now. And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her, and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only qualified by the fear of giving him trouble, but he put that entirely by. He was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost forgotten. What shall we do now, said he, when they had at last gone through the hole. Would you like to go to your friends? I haven't any friends on board, sir, said Ellen, with a swelling heart. Haven't any friends on board? What do you mean, are you alone? No, sir, said Ellen. Not exactly alone. My father put me in the care of a lady that is going to throw a wall, but they are strangers and not friends. Are they unfriends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers cannot be friends, too. No, indeed, sir, I don't, said Ellen, looking up with a face that was fairly brilliant, with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting it down again, she added, but they are not my friends, sir. Well, then, he said, smiling, will you come with me? Oh, yes, sir, if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you, sir. Come this way, said he, and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place to sit down, where no one will trouble us. Such a place was found, and Ellen would have been quite satisfied, though the gentleman had done no more than merely permit her to remain there, by his side. But he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to her for some time, so pleasantly, that neither her weariness nor the way could be thought of. When he ceased reading to her, and began to read to himself, weariness and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of quietude. Then her thoughts grew misty, and at the end of it was, she dropped her head against the arm of her friend, and fell fast asleep. He smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her, and drew her head to a better resting place than it had chosen. And there she slept till the dinner bell rang. Timmons was sent out to look for her, but Timmons did not choose to meddle with the grave protector Ellen seemed to have gained, and Mrs. Dunskohm declared herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of her. After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again, and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air and quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand, and went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymnbook out of his pocket, and, with a smile, put it into Ellen's hand as he passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very pleasantly and studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side. How do you like my little book, said he? Oh, very much indeed, sir. Then you love hymns, do you? Yes, I do, sir, dearly. Do you sometimes learn them by heart? Oh, yes, sir, often. Mama often made me. I have learned, too, since I have been sitting here. Have you, said he? Which are they? One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir. And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning? Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance and answered in a low tone, just what it was then, sir. Have you been thinking of it since? I have thought of it the whole time, sir. And are you resolved to obey Christ henceforth? I am resolved to try, sir. My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest, you will not try in vain. He has never yet failed any that sincerely sought him. Have you a Bible? Oh, yes, sir, a beautiful one. Mama gave it to me the other day. He took the hymn book from her hand and, turning over the leaves, marked several places in pencil. I am going to give this to you, he said, that it may serve to remind you of what we have talked of today and of your resolution. Ellen flushed high with pleasure. I have put this mark, said he, showing her a particular one, and a few places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other marks here, too, but they are mine. These are for you. Thank you, sir, said Ellen, delighted. I shall not forget. He knew from her face what she meant, not the marks. The day wore on, thanks to the unwavered kindness of her friend, with great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon, they were resting from a long walk up and down the deck. What have you got in this package that you take such care of, he said, smiling? Oh, candy, said Ellen. I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask you to take some. Will you have some, sir? Thank you. What are they? Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best. He took one. Pray take some more, sir, said Ellen. I don't care for them in the least. Then I am more of a child than you, and this at any rate, for I do care for them. But I have a little headache today. I mustn't meddle with sweets. Then take some for tomorrow, sir. Please do, said Ellen, dealing them out very freely. Stop, stop, said he. Not a bit more. This won't do. I must put some of these back again. You'll want them tomorrow, too. I don't think I shall, said Ellen. I haven't wanted to touch them today. Oh, you'll feel brighter tomorrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and you've been bonnetless all day. What's the reason? Ellen looked down and culled a good deal. What's the matter, said he, laughing? Has any mischief befallen your bonnet? No, sir, said Ellen, in a low tone. Her color mounting higher and higher. It was laughed at this morning. Laughed at? Who laughed at it? Mrs. Dunskow and her daughter, and her maid. Did they? I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they think was the matter with it? I don't know, sir. They said it was outlandish, and what a figure I looked in it. Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me see. Ellen obeyed. I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets. It is true, said he. But I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and suitable. Nothing in the world. So that is what has kept you bareheaded all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet? Yes, sir. Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what she approved because some people, that haven't probably half her sense, choose to make merry with it? Is that right, he said gently? Is that honoring her as she deserves? No, sir, said Ellen, looking up into his face. But I never thought of that before. I am sorry. Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is right, that's enough for you. Let them laugh. I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more, said Ellen, trying it on. But they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry too. I am sorry for that, said her friend gravely. Have you quite got over it, Ellen? Oh, yes, sir, long ago. Are you sure? I am not angry now, sir. Is there no one kindness left towards the people who laughed at you? I don't like them much, said Ellen. How can I? You cannot, of course, like the company of ill-behaved people, and I do not wish that you should. But you can and ought to feel just as kindly disposed towards them as if they had never offended you. Just as willing and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer miss, what's her name, some of your candies, with as hard a good will as you could before she laughed at you? No, sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them again. Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do if you were in earnest in the resolve you made this morning. If you forgive unto men their trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will my Father forgive your trespasses. He was silent, and so was Ellen for some time. His words had raised a struggle in her mind, and she kept her face turned towards the shore, so that her bonnet shielded it from view. But she did not in the least know what she was looking at. The sun had been some time descending through a sky of cloudless splendor, and now is just kissing the mountaintops of the western horizon. Slowly and with great majesty he sank behind the distant blue line till only a glittering edge appeared, and then that was gone. There were no clouds hanging over his setting to be gilded and purpled by the parting rays, but a region of glory long remained to show where his path had been. The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only one was thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had disappeared, Ellen turned her face, bright again, towards her companion. He was intently gazing towards the hills that had so drawn Ellen's attention a while ago, and thinking still more intently, it was plain. So, though her mouth had been open to speak, she turned her face away again, as suddenly as if it had just sought his. He saw the motion, however. What is it, Ellen, he said? Ellen looked again with a smile. I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me. Well, said he, smiling in answer. I can't like Mrs. Dunskohm and Miss Dunskohm as well as if they hadn't done so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing had been the matter, and be as kind and polite to them as if they had been kind and polite to me. And how about the sugar-plums? The sugar-plums? Oh, said Ellen, laughing. Miss Margaret may have them all if she likes. I'm quite willing. Not but I'd rather give them to you, sir. You give me something a great deal better when I see you try to overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn't rest till you get rid of every bit of ill-will that you feel for this and any other unkindness you may suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know who can help you. I hope you have asked him, Ellen. I have, sir, indeed. Keep asking him, and he will do everything for you. A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side, leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew light from the south, so that they did not feel it at all. The light gradually faded away, till only a silver glow in the west showed where the sun had set, and the sober gray of twilight was gently stealing over all the bright colors of sky and river and hill. Now and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores. You are very tired, said Ellen's friend to her. I see you are. A little more patience, my child. We shall be at our journey's end before a very great while. I am almost sorry, said Ellen, though I am tired. We don't go on the steamboat tomorrow, do we, sir? No, in the stage. Shall you be in the stage, sir? No, my child, but I am glad you and I have spent this day together. Oh, sir, said Ellen, I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for you. There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little charge had fallen asleep. She sat so still. But she suddenly spoke again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away. I wish I knew where Mama is now. I do not doubt my child from what you told me that it is well with her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember her. She must want me so much, said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible voice. She has not lost her best friend, my child. I know it, sir, said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the mastery. But oh, it's just near the time when I used to make the tea for her. Who will make it now? She'll want me. Oh, what shall I do? And overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her friend's arms and sobbed aloud. There was no reasoning against this. He did not attempt it, but with the utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavored as soon as he might to soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last. With a sort of despairing submission Ellen ceased her tears and arose to her former position. But he did not rest from his kind endeavors till her mind was really eased and comforted, which, however, was not long before the lights of the city began to appear in the distance, and with them appeared a dusky figure ascending the stairs, which upon nearer approach proved by the voice to be timmons. Is this Miss Montgomery, said she? I can't see. I am sure. It is so dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery? Yes, said Ellen. It is I. Do you want me? If you please, Miss. Mrs. Duncecombe wants you to come right down. We're almost in, she says, Miss. I'll come directly, Miss Timmons, said Ellen. Don't wait for me. I won't be a minute. I'll come directly. Miss Timmons retired, standing still a good deal in all of the grave personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained. I must go, said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand. Good-bye, sir. She could hardly say it. He drew her towards him and kissed her cheek once or twice. It was well he did. For it sent a thrill of pleasure to Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next day. God bless you, my child, he said gravely but cheerfully, and good-night. You will feel better, I trust, when you have had some rest and refreshment. He took care of her down the stairs and saw her safe to the very door of the saloon and within it, and there again took her hand and kindly bade her good-night. Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart would break. She saw and heard nothing until Mrs. Dunscum's voice bade her make haste and be ready, for they were going ashore in five minutes, and in less than five minutes ashore they went. Which hotel, ma'am, asked the servant who carried her baggage, the eagle or fosters? The eagle, said Mrs. Dunscum. Come this way, then, ma'am, said another man, the driver of the eagle carriage. Now, ma'am, step in a few, please. Mrs. Dunscum put her daughter in. But it's full, said she to the driver. There isn't room for another one. Oh, yes, ma'am, there is, said the driver, holding the door open. There's plenty of room for you, ma'am. Just get in, ma'am. If you please, we'll be there in less than two minutes. Timmons, you'll have to walk, said Mrs. Dunscum. Miss Montgomery, would you rather ride or walk with Timmons? How far is it, ma'am, said Ellen? Oh, bless me, how can I tell how far it is? I don't know, I am sure. Not far. Say quick, would you rather walk or ride? I would rather walk, ma'am, if you please, said Ellen. Very well, said Mrs. Dunscum, getting in. Timmons, you know the way. And off went the coach with its load. But tired as she was, Ellen did not wish herself in it. Picking a passageway out of the crowd, she and Timmons now began to make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets. It was a strange place that she felt. She had lived long enough in the place she had left to feel at home there, but here she came to no street or crossing that she had ever seen before. Nothing looked familiar. All reminded her that she was a traveler. Only one pleasant thing Ellen saw on her walk, and that was the sky, and that looked just as it did at home. And very often Ellen's gaze was fixed upon it, much to the astonishment of Miss Timmons, who had to be not a little watchful for the safety of Ellen's feet while her eyes were thus employed. She had taken a great fancy to Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased, keeping all her wonderment to herself. Take care, Miss Ellen, cried Timmons, giving her arm a great pull. I declare I just saved you out of that gutter. Poor child, you are dreadfully tired, ain't you? Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmons, said Ellen. Have we much farther to go? Not a great deal, dear. Cheer up, we're almost there. I hope Mrs. Dunskone will want to ride one of these days herself, and can't. Oh, don't say so, Miss Timmons, said Ellen. I don't wish so, indeed. Well, I should think you would, said Timmons. I should think you'd be fit to poison her. I should, I know, if I was in your place. Oh, no, said Ellen. That wouldn't be right. That would be very wrong. Wrong, said Timmons. Why would it be wrong? She hasn't behaved good to you. Yes, said Ellen. But don't you know, the Bible says, if we do not forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven ourselves. Well, I declare, said Miss Timmons. You be it all. But here's the Eagle Hotel at last. And I am glad for your sake, dear. Ellen was shown into the lady's parlor. She was longing for a place to rest. But she saw directly it was not to be there. The room was large and barely furnished. And round it were scattered part of the carriage, vote of people that had arrived a quarter of an hour before her. They were waiting till their room should be ready. Ellen silently found herself a chair, and sat down to wait with the rest, as patiently as she might. Few of them had as much cause for impatience. But she was the only perfectly mute and an uncomplaining one of the few. But she was the only perfectly mute and an uncomplaining one of the few. Her two companions, however, between them, fully made up per share of fretting. At length they servant brought the welcome news that their room was ready, and the three marched upstairs. It made Ellen's heart very glad when they got there to find a good-sized, cheerful-looking bedroom comfortably furnished with a bright fire-burning, large curtains let down to the floor, and a nice warm carpet upon it. Taking off her bonnet, and only that, she sat down on a low cushion by the corner of the fireplace, and sat down on the floor. The cushion, by the corner of the fireplace, and leaning her head against the jam, fell asleep almost immediately. Mrs. Dunskump said about arranging herself for the tea-table. Well, she said, one day if this precious journey is over. Does Ellen go with us to-morrow, Mama? Oh, yes, quite to throw all. Well, you haven't had much plague with her to-day, Mama. No, I am sure I am as much obliged to whoever has kept her out of my way. Where is she going to sleep tonight, asked Miss Margaret. I don't know, I am sure. I suppose I shall have to have a cot brought in here for her. What a plague, said Miss Margaret. It will lumber up the room so. There's no place to put it. Couldn't she sleep with Timmons? Oh, she could, of course. Just as well as not. Only people would make such a fuss about it. It wouldn't do. We must bear it for once. I'll try and not be caught in such a scrape again. How provoking, said Miss Margaret. How came father to do so without asking you about it? Oh, he was bewitched, I suppose. Men always are. Look here, Margaret. I can't go down to T with a train of children at my heels. I shall leave you and Ellen up here, and I'll send up your tea to you. Oh, no, Mama, said Margaret eagerly. I want to go down with you. Look here, Mama. She's asleep, and you needn't wake her up. That's excuse enough. You can leave her to have her tea up here, I don't care. But make haste to get ready, for I expect every minute when the tea-bell will ring. Timmons, Timmons, cried Margaret, come here and fix me quick, and step softly, will you, or you'll wake that young one up, and then you see I shall have to stay upstairs. This did not happen, however. Ellen's sleep was much too deep to be easily disturbed. The tea-bell itself, loud and shrill as it did, did not even make her eyelids tremble. After Misses and Miss Dunskohm were gone down, Timmons employed herself a little while in putting all things about the room to rights, and then sat down to take her rest, dividing her attention between the fire and Ellen, towards whom she seemed to feel more and more kindness, as she saw that she was likely to receive it from no one else. Presently came a knock at the door. The tea for the young lady, on a waiter, missed him and silently took the tray from the man, and shut the door. Well, she said to herself, if that ain't a pretty supper to send up to a child that has gone two hundred miles today and had no breakfast, a cup of tea, cold enough I'll warrant, bread and butter enough for a bird, and two little slices of hammus thick as a wafer. Well, I just wish Misses Dunskohm had to eat it herself and nothing else. I'm not going to wake her up for that, I know, till I see whether something better ain't to be had for love or money, so just do sleep on, darling, till I see what I can do for you. In great indignation, downstairs went Miss Timmons, and at the foot of the stairs a rosy cheeked, pleasant-faced girl coming up. Are you the chambermaid, said Timmons? I'm one of the chambermaids, said the girl smiling. There's three of us in this house, dear. Well, I'm a stranger here, said Timmons, but I want you to help me, and I'm sure you will. I've got a dear little girl upstairs that I want some supper for. She's a sweet child, and she's under the care of some proud folks here in the tea-room that think it's too much trouble to look after her. And they've sent her up about supper enough for a mouse, and she's half starving. She lost her breakfast this morning by their ugliness. Now ask one of the waiters to give me something nice for her, will you? There's a good girl." James, said the girl, and a loud whisper to one of the waiters who was crossing the hall. He instantly stopped and came towards them, tray in hand, and making several extra polite bows as he drew near. What's on the supper table, James, said the smiling damsel. Everything that ought to be there, Miss Johns, said the man, with another flourish. There's another nonsense, said the girl, and tell me quick, I'm in a hurry. It's a pleasure to perform your commands, Miss Johns. I'll give you the whole bill of fare. There's a very fine beef steak, fricasseed chickens, stewed oysters, sliced ham, cheese, preserved quinces, with the usual complement of bread and toast, and muffins, and donuts, and New Year cake, and plenty of butter, likewise salt and pepper, likewise tea and coffee and sugar, likewise. Do stop, will you, and then laughing and turning to Miss Timmons she added. What will you have? I guess I'll have some of the chickens and oysters, said Timmons. That will be the nicest for her, and a muffin or two. Now, James, do you hear, said the chambermaid, I want you to get me now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and oysters and a muffin. It's for a lady upstairs. Be as quick as you can. I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss Johns, but Miss Custer's is at the table herself. Very well, that's nothing. She'll think it's for somebody upstairs, and so it is. I, but the upstairs people, is Timm's business. I should be hauled over the coals directly. Then ask Timm, will you, how slow you are. Now, James, if you don't, I won't speak to you again. Till tomorrow I couldn't stand that. It shall be done, Miss Johns, instantaneous. Bowing and smiling away went James, leaving the girls giggling on the staircase, and highly gratified. He always does what I want him to, said the good-humored chambermaid, but he generally makes a fuss about it first. He'll be back directly with what you want. Till he came, Miss Timm is filled up the time with telling her new friend as much as she knew about Ellen and Ellen's hardships, with which Miss Johns was much interested, that she declared she must go up and see her, and when James in a few minutes returned with a tray of nice things, the two women proceeded together to miss his duncecombe's room. Ellen had moved so far as to put herself on the floor, with her head on the cushion for a pillow, but she was as sound as sleep as ever. Just see now, said Timmons, there she lies on the floor, enough to give her her death of a cold poor child. She's tired to death, and Miss Duncecombe made her walk up from the steamboat tonight, rather than do it herself. I declare I wish the coach would break down, only for the other folks. I'm glad I have got a good supper for her, though. Thank you, Miss Johns. And I'll tell you what. I'll go and give you some nice hot tea, said the chambermaid, who is quite touched by the sight of Ellen's little pale face. Thank you, said Timmons, you're a darling. This is as cold as a stone. While the chambermaid went forth on her kind errand, Timmons stooped down by the little sleeper's side. Miss Ellen, she said, Miss Ellen, wake up, dear, wake up and get some supper. Come, you'll feel a great deal better for it. You shall sleep as much as you like afterwards. Slowly Ellen raised herself and opened her eye, she asked, looking bewildered. Here, dear, said Timmons, wake up and eat something. It will do you good. With a sigh, poor Ellen arose and came to the fire. You're tired to death, ain't you? said Timmons. Not quite, said Ellen. I shouldn't mind that if my legs would not ache so, and my head, too. Now I'm sorry, said Timmons, but your head will be better for eating, I know. See here, I've got you some nice chicken and oysters, and I'll make this for you. And here comes your tea. Miss Johns, I'm your servant, and I'll be your bridesmaid with the greatest pleasure in life. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, just you put yourself on that low chair and I'll fix you off. Ellen thanked her and did as she was told. Timmons brought another chair to her side, and placed the tray with her supper upon it, and prepared her muffin and tea. And having fairly seen Ellen begin to eat, she next took off her shoes. And seating herself on the carpet before her, she wrapped the resting place for Ellen's feet, chafing them in her hands, and heating them at the fire, saying there is nothing like a rubbing and roasting to get rid of the leg ache. By the help of the supper, the fire, and Timmons, Ellen meant it rapidly. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the latter for her kindness. Now just don't say one word about that, said Timmons. I never was famous for kindness, as I know. But people must be kind sometimes in their lives, unless they happen to be made of stone, but I believe some people are. You feel better, don't you? A great deal, said Ellen. Oh, if I could only go to bed now. And you shall, said Timmons. I know about your bed, and I'll go right away and have it brought in, and away she went. While she was gone, Ellen drew from her pocket her little hymn-book to refresh herself with looking at it. How quickly and freshly it brought back to her mind the friend who had given it, and his conversations with her, and the resolve she had made. Ellen's whole heart offered the prayer she had repeated many times that day. Open my heart, Lord, enter in, slay every foe, and conquer sin. Her head was still bent upon her little book when Timmons entered. Timmons was not alone. Miss John's and a little cot bedstead came in with her. The latter was put up at the foot of Mrs. Dunscum's bed, and speedily made up by the chambermaid, while Timmons undressed Ellen, and very soon all the sorrows and vexations were forgotten in a sound, refreshing sleep, but not till she had removed her little hymn-book from the pocket of her frock to a safe station under her pillow. It was with her hand upon it that Ellen went to sleep, and it was in her hand still when she waked the next morning. The next day was spent in a weary some stagecoach over a rough jolting road. Ellen's companions did nothing to make her way pleasant, but she sweetened theirs with sugar-plums. Somewhat malafied that, Miss Margaret condescended to enter into conversation with her, and Ellen underwent a thorough cross-examination as to all her own and her parents' affairs, past, present and future, and likewise as to all that could be known of her yesterday's friend till she was heartily worried and out of patience. It was just five o'clock when they reached her stopping-place. Ellen knew of no particular house to go to, so Mrs. Dunscum set her down at the door of the principal inn of the hall. The driver smacked his whip, and away went the stage again, and she was left standing alone beside her trunk before the piazza of the inn, watching Timmons, who was looking back at her out of the stage window, nodding and waving goodbye. CHAPTER 9 OF THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD CHAPTER 9 THE LITTLE QUEEN IN THE ARMCHER Ellen had been world-along over the roads for so many hours. The rattle of the stage-coach had filled her ears for so long that now, suddenly still in quiet, she felt half stunned. She stood with a kind of dreamy feeling, looking after the departing stage-coach. In it there were three people whose faces she knew, and she could not count a fourth within many a mile. One of those friends, too, as the fluttering handkerchief of poor Miss Timmons gave token still. Yet Ellen did not wish herself back in the coach, although she continued to stand and gaze after it as it rattled off at a great rate down the little street, its huge body lumbering up and down every now and then, reminding her of sundry uncomfortable jolts. Till the horses making a sudden turn to the right, it disappeared round a corner. Still for a minute, Ellen watched but then the feeling of strangeness and loneliness came over her and her heart sank. She cast a look up and down the street. The afternoon was lovely. The slant beams of the setting sun came back from gilded windows, and the houses and chimney tops of the little town were in a glow but she saw nothing bright anywhere. In all the glory of the setting sun, the little town looked strange and miserable. There was no sign of her having been expected. Nobody was waiting to meet her. What was to be done next? Ellen had not the slightest idea. Her heart growing fainter and fainter she turned again to the inn. A tall, awkward young countryman with a capsa on one side of his head was busying himself with sweeping off the floor of the Piazza, but in a very leisurely manner in between every two strokes of his broom he was casting long looks at Ellen, evidently wondering who she was and what she could want there. Ellen saw it and hoped he would ask her in words, for she could not answer his looks of curiosity, but she was disappointed. As he reached the end of the Piazza and gave his broom two or three knocks against the edge of the boards declared of dust, he indulged himself with one good, long, finishing look at Ellen, and then she saw he was going to take himself and his broom into the house. So in despair she ran up the two or three low steps of the Piazza and presented herself before him. Will you please to tell me, sir, said poor Ellen, if Miss Emerson is here? Miss Emerson, said he, what Miss Emerson? I don't know, sir. Miss Emerson lives not far from Thirlwall. Eyeing Ellen from head to foot, the man then trailed his broom into the house. Ellen followed him. Mr. Forbes, said he, Mr. Forbes, do you know anything of Miss Emerson? What Miss Emerson said another man with a big red face and a big round self in a doorway which he nearly filled. Miss Emerson that lives a little way out of town. Miss Fortune Emerson? Yes, I know her, whatever. Has she been here today? Here, what in town? No, not as I've seen or heard. Why, who wants her? This little girl. And the man with the broom stepping back disclosed Ellen to the view of the red face landlord. He advanced to step her two towards her. What do you want with Miss Fortune, I expected she would meet me here, sir, said Ellen. Where have you come from? From New York. The stage set her down just now, put in the other man. And you thought Miss Fortune would meet you, did you? Yes, sir, she was to meet me and take me home. Take you home? Are you going to Miss Fortune's home? Yes, sir. Why, you don't belong to her anyway, do you? No, sir, said Ellen, but she's my aunt. She's your what? My aunt, sir, my father's sister. Your father's sister? You'd be in the daughter of Morgan Montgomery be you. Yes, I am, said Ellen, half-smiling. And you are come to make a visit to Miss Fortune, eh? Yes, said Ellen, smiling no longer. And Miss Fortune ain't come up to meet you. That's real shabby of her. And how to get you down there tonight? I am sure it's more than I can tell. And he shouted, Wife! What's the matter, Mr. Forbes, said a fat landlady, appearing in the doorway, which she filled near as well as her husband would have done. Look here, said Mr. Forbes. Here's Morgan Montgomery's daughter come to pay a visit to her Aunt Fortune Emerson. Don't you think she'll be glad to see her? Mr. Forbes put this question with a rather curious look at his wife. She didn't answer him. She only looked to Ellen, looked grave, and gave a queer little nod of her head, which meant Ellen could not make out what. Now what's to be done, continued Mr. Forbes? Miss Fortune was to have come up to meet her, but she ain't here, and I don't know how in the world I can take the child down there tonight. The horses are both out to plow, you know, and besides, the tire has come off of that wagon-wheel. I couldn't possibly use it. And then it's a great question in my mind what Miss Fortune would say to me. I should get paid, I suppose. Yes, you'd get paid, said his wife, with another little shake of her head. But whether it would be the kind of pay you'd like, I don't know. Well, what's to be done, wife? Keep the child overnight and sonward down yonder? No, said Mrs. Forbes. I'll tell you, I think I saw Van Brunt go by two or three hours ago with the ox cart, and I guess he's somewhere uptown yet. I ain't seen him go back. He can take the child home with him. Sam, shouted Mrs. Forbes, Sam, here, Sam, run up the street directly, and see if you see Mr. Van Brunt's ox cart standing anywhere. I dare say he's at Mr. Miller's, or maybe at Mr. Leslie's, the blacksmith, and ask him to stop here before he goes home. Now hurry, and don't run over him, and then come back and tell me he ain't in town. Mrs. Forbes herself followed Sam to the door, and cast an exploring look in every direction. I don't see no signs of him. Up nor down, said she, returning to Ellen. But I'm pretty sure he ain't gone home. Come in here, come in here, dear, and make yourself comfortable. It'll be a while yet, maybe, if Mr. Van Brunt comes. But he'll be coming by and by. Come in here, and rest yourself. She opened the door, and Ellen followed her into a large kitchen, where a fire was burning, that showed wood must be plenty in those regions. Mrs. Forbes placed a low chair for her on the hearth, but herself remained standing by the side of the fire, looking earnestly, and with a good deal of interest upon the little stranger. Ellen drew her white bonnet from her head, and sitting down with a wearied air, gazed sadly into the light upon her. Are you going to stop a good while with Miss Fortune, said Mrs. Forbes? I don't know, ma'am. Yes, I believe so, said Ellen faintly. Ain't you got no mother, asked Mrs. Forbes, suddenly, after a pause? Oh, yes, said Ellen, looking up. But the question had touched the sore spot. Her head sank on her hands, and, oh, mama, was uttered with a bitterness that even Mrs. Forbes could feel. Now, what made me ask you that, said she? Don't love, poor little dear. You're as pale as a sheet. You're tired, I know, ain't you? Now cheer up, do. I can't bear to see you cry. You've come a great way today, ain't you? Ellen nodded her head, but could give no answer. I know what will do you good, said Mrs. Forbes, presently, getting up from the crouching posture she had taken to comfort Ellen. You'll want something to eat. That's the matter. I'll warrant your half starved. No wonder you feel bad. You othman I'm fainting. You've come a great way today, young lady. And a way she bustled to get it. Left alone, Ellen's tears flowed a few minutes very fast. She felt forlorn, and she was, besides as Mrs. Forbes opined, both tired and faint. But she did not wish to be found weeping. She checked her tears and was sitting again quietly before the fire when the landlady returned. Mrs. Forbes had a great bowl come and partake of it. Come, dear, here is something that will do you good. I thought there was a piece of pie in the buttery, and so there was, but Mr. Forbes must have got hold of it, for I ain't there now, and there ain't a bit of cake in the house for you. But I thought maybe you would like this as well as anything. Come!" Ellen thanked her, but said she did not want anything. "'Oh, yes you do,' said Mrs. Forbes. I know better. You're as pale as I don't know what. Come, this'll put roses in your cheeks. Don't you like bread and milk?' "'Yes, very much indeed, ma'am,' said Ellen. But I'm not hungry.' She rose, however, and came to the table. Oh, well, try to eat a bit, just to please me. It's real good country milk. Not a bit of cream-off. You don't get such milk as that in the city, I guess. That's right. I see the roses coming back to your cheeks already.' "'Is your paw in New York now?' "'Yes, ma'am.' "'You expect your paw and ma'a up to Thirawall by and by, don't you?' "'No, ma'am.' Mrs. Forbes was surprised, and she longed to ask why not, and what Ellen had come for. But the shade that had passed over her face as she answered the last question, warned the landlady she was getting upon dangerous ground. "'Does your aunt expect you to-night?' "'I believe so, ma'am. I don't know. She was to have met me. Papa said he would write.' "'Oh, well, maybe something hindered her from coming. It's no matter. You'll get home just as well. Mr. Van Brunt will be here soon, I guess. It's most time for him to be along.' She went to the front door to look out for him, but returned without any news. A few minutes passed in silence. For, though full of curiosity, the good landlady dared to not ask what she wanted to know, for fear of again exciting the sorrow of her little companion. She contented herself with looking at Ellen, who on her part much rested and refreshed, turned from the table, and was again, though somewhat less sadly, gazing into the fire. Presently the great wooden clock struck half past five, with a whirring, rickety voice, for all the world like a horse-grass-hopper. Ellen at first wondered where it came from, and was looking at the clumsy machine that reached nearly from the floor of the kitchen to the ceiling when a door at the other end of the room opened, and, good day, Mrs. Forbes, in a rough but not unpleasant voice, brought her head quickly round in that direction. There stood a large, strong-built man with an oxpip in his hand. He was well made, and rather handsome. But there was something of heaviness in the air of both face and person, mixed with his certainly good-humored expression. His dress was as rough as his voice, a coarse grey frock coat, green velveteen pantaloons, and a fur cap that had seen at its best days some time ago. Good day, Mrs. Forbes, said this personage. Sam said you wanted me to stop as I went along. Ah, how do you do, Mr. Van Brunt, said the landlady, rising. You've got the oxcart here with you, haven't you? Yes, I've got the oxcart, said the person addressed. I came in town for a barrel of flour, and then the near ox had lost both his foreshoes off, and I had to go over there, and hammerlessly has kept me a precious long time. What's wanting, Mrs. Forbes? I can't stop. You've no load in your cart, have you, said the landlady. No, I should have had, though, but Miller had no shorts nor fresh flour, nor won't till next week. What's to go down, Mrs. Forbes? The nicest load ever you carried, Mr. Van Brunt. Here's a little wady come to stay with Miss Fortune. She's a daughter of Captain Montgomery, Miss Fortune's brother, you know. She came by the stage a little while ago, and the thing is now to get her down to-night. She can go in the cart, can't she? Mr. Van Brunt looked a little doubtful, and pulling off his cap with one hand while he scratched his head with the other, he examined Ellen from head to foot, much as if she had been some great bale of goods, and he were considering whether his cart would hold her or not. Well, said he at length. I don't know about she can, but there ain't nothing on earth for her to sit down upon. Oh, never mind. I'll fix that, said Mrs. Forbes. Is there any straw on the bottom of the cart? Not a bit. Well, I'll fix it, said Mrs. Forbes. You get her trunk into the cart, will you, Mr. Van Brunt, and I'll see to the rest. Mr. Van Brunt moved off without another word, to do what was desired of him. Apparently quite confused at having a passenger, and set up his more wanted load of bags and barrels. And his face still continued to wear the singular doubtful expression it had put on at first hearing the news. Ellen's trunk was quickly hoisted in, however, and Mrs. Forbes presently appeared with a little armchair, which Mr. Van Brunt, with an approving look, bestowed in the cart, planting it with its back against the trunk to keep it steady. Mrs. Forbes, then raising herself on tiptoe by the side of the cart, took a view of the arrangements. That won't do yet, said she. Her feet will be cold on that bare floor, and taint over clean, neither. Here, Sally, run up and fetch me that piece of carpet you'll find lying at the top of the back stairs. Now hurry. Now, Mr. Van Brunt, I depend upon you to get my things back again. Will you see and bring them the first time you come in town? I'll see about it, but what if I can't get hold of them? Answered the person addressed with a half-smile. Oh, said Mrs. Forbes, with another. I'll leave that to you. You have your ways and means. Now just spread this carpet down nicely under her chair, and then she'll be fixed. Now, my darling, you'll ride like a queen. But how are you going to get in? Will you let Mr. Van Brunt lift you up? Ellen's—oh no, ma'am, if you please—was accompanied with such an evident shrinking from the proposal that Mrs. Forbes did not press it. A chair was brought from the kitchen, and by making a long step from it to the top of the wheel, and then to the edge of the cart, Ellen was at length safely stowed in her place. Kind Mrs. Forbes then stretched herself up over the side of the cart to shake hands with her and bid her good-bye, telling her again she would ride like a queen. Ellen answered only, good-bye, ma'am. But it was said with a look of so much sweetness, and eyes swimming half in sadness, and half in gratefulness, that the good landlady could not forget it. I do think, said she, when she went back to her husband, that is the dearest little thing about I ever did see. Humpf! said her husband. I reckon Miss Fortune will think so, too. The doubtful look came back to Mrs. Forbes' face, and with another little grave shake of her head she went into the kitchen. How kind she is! How good everybody is to me, thought little Ellen, as she moved off in state in her chariot drawn by oxen. Quite a contrast this new way of traveling was to the noisy stage and swift steamer. Ellen did not know at first whether to like it or dislike it, but she came to the conclusion that it was very funny, and a remarkably amusing way of getting along. There was one disadvantage about it certainly. Their rate of travel was very slow. Ellen wondered her charioteer did not make his animals go faster, but she soon forgot their lazy progress in the interest of novel sights and new scenes. Slowly, very slowly, the good oxen drew the cart and the little queen in the armchair out of the town, and they entered upon the open country. The sun had already gone down when they left the inn, and the glow of his setting had faded a good deal by the time they got quite out of the town, but light enough was still left to delight Ellen with the pleasant look of the country. It was a lovely evening, and quiet as summer, not a breath-stirring. The leaves were all off the trees, the hills were brown, but the soft, warm light that still lingered upon them forbade any look of harshness or juriness. These hills lay towards the west, and that through a wall were not more than two miles distance, but slipping off more to the west as the range extended in a southerly direction. Between the ground was beautifully broken. Bridge fields and meadows lay on all sides, sometimes level, and sometimes with a soft, wavy surface, where Ellen thought it must be charming to run up and down. Every now and then these were varied by a little rising ground, capped with a piece of woodland, and beautiful trees. Many of them were seen standing alone, especially by the roadside. All had a cheerful, pleasant look. The houses were very scattered, in the whole way they passed but few. Ellen's heart regularly began to beat when they came inside of one, and I wonder if that is Aunt Fortune's house. Perhaps it is, or I hope it is not, were the thoughts that rose to her mind. But slowly the oxen brought her abreast of the houses, one after another, and slowly they passed on beyond, and there was no sign of getting home yet. Their way was through pleasant lanes towards the south, but constantly approaching the hills. About a half mile from Thurawall they crossed a little river, not more than thirty yards broad, and after that the twilight deepened fast. The shades gathered on field and hill, everything grew brown and then dusky, and then Ellen was obliged to content herself with what was very near. For further than that she could only see dim outlines. She began again to think of their slow traveling, and to wonder that Mr. Van Brunt could be content with it. She wondered, too, what made him walk, when he might just as well have sat in the cart. The truth was, he had chosen that for the very purpose, that he might have a good look at the little queen in the armchair. Apparently, however, he too now thought it might be as well to make a little haste, for he thundered out some orders to his oxen, accompanied with two or three strokes of his heavy lash, which, though not cruel by any means, went to Ellen's heart. Then lazy critters won't go fast anyhow, said he to Ellen. They will take their own time. It ain't no use to cut them. Oh, no, pray don't, if you please, said Ellen, in a voice of earnest entreaty. Tain't fair neither, continued Mr. Van Brunt, lashing his great whip from side to side, without touching anything. I have seen critters that would take any quantity of whipping to make them go, but them ere ain't of that kind, though work as long as they can stand, poor fellows. There was a little silence, during which Ellen eyed her rough charioteer, not knowing exactly what to make of him. I guess this is the first time you ever ridden an ox cart, ain't it? Yes, said Ellen. I never saw one before. Ain't you never seen an ox cart? Well, how do you like it? I like it very much indeed. Have we got much further to go before we get to Aunt Fortune's house? Aunt Fortune's house? A pretty good bit yet. You see that mountain over there? Pointing with his whip to a hill directly west of them, and about a mile distant? Yes, said Ellen. That's the nose. Then you see that other? Pointing to one that lays some two miles further south. Miss Fortune's house is just this side of that. It's all of two miles from here. And urged by this recollection, he again scolded and cheered the patient oxen, who for the most part kept on their steady way, without any reminder. But perhaps it was for Ellen's sake that he scarcely touched them with the whip. That don't hurt them not a bit, he remarked to Ellen. It only lets them know that I'm here, and they must mind their business. So you're Miss Fortune's niece, eh? Yes, said Ellen. Well, said Mr. Van Brunt, with a desperate attempt at being complimentary. I shouldn't care if you was mine, too. Ellen was somewhat astounded, and so utterly unable to echo the wish that she said nothing. She did not know it, but Mr. Van Brunt had made, for him, most extraordinary efforts at sociability. Having quite exhausted himself, he now mounted into the car and sat silent, only now and then uttering energetic Gs and haws, which greatly excited Ellen's wonderment. She discovered they were meant for the ears of the oxen, but more than that she could not make out. They plotted along very slowly, and the evening fell fast. As they left behind the hill which Mr. Van Brunt had called the nose, they could see through an opening in the mountains, a bit of the western horizon, and some brightness still lingering there. But it was soon hid from view, and darkness veiled the whole country. Ellen could muse herself no longer with looking about. She could see nothing very clearly, but the outline of Mr. Van Brunt's broad back just before her. But the stars had come out, and brilliant and clear they were, looking down upon her, with their thousand eyes. Ellen's heart jumped when she saw them, with a mixed feeling of pleasure and sadness. They carried her right back to the last evening, when she was walking up the hill with timmons. She remembered her anger against Mrs. Dunskohm, and her kind friend's warning not to indulge it, and all his teaching that day. And tears came with a thought, how glad she should be to hear him speak to her again. Still looking up at the beautiful quiet stars, she thought of her dear far-off mother, how long it was already since she had seen her. Faster and faster the tears dropped, and then she thought of that glorious one who had made the stars, and was above them all, and who could and did see her mother and her, though ever so far apart, and could hear and bless them both. The little face was no longer upturned. It was buried in her hands, and bowed to her lap, and tears streamed as she prayed that God would bless her dear mother, and take care of her. Not once or twice. The fullness of Ellen's heart could not be poured out in one asking. Greatly comforted at last, at having as it were laid over the care of her mother, upon one who was able, she thought of herself, and her late resolution to serve him. She was in the same mind still. She could not call herself a Christian yet, but she was resolved to be one, and she earnestly asked the Savior she sought to make her and keep her his child, and then Ellen felt happy. Quiet and weariness and even drowsiness succeeded. It was well the night was still, for it had grown quite cool, and a breeze would have gone through and through Ellen's nanking coat. As it was, she began to be chilly, when Mr. Van Brunt, who since he got into the cart, had made her remarks except to his oxen, turned round a little and spoke to her again. It's only a little bit of a way we've got to go now, said he, returning the corner. The words seemed to shoot through Ellen's heart. She was wide awake instantly, and quite warm. And leaning forward in her little chair, she strove to pierce the darkness on either hand of her, to see whereabouts the house stood, and how things looked. She could discern nothing but misty shadows, and outlines if she could not tell what. The starlight was too dim to reveal anything to a stranger. There's the house, said Mr. Van Brunt, after a few minutes more. Do you see a yonder? Ellen strained her eyes, but could make out nothing, not even a glimpse of white. She sat back in her chair, her heart beating violently. Presently Mr. Van Brunt jumped down, and opened a gate at the side of the road, and, with a great deal of jeeing, the oxen turned to the right, and drew the cart a little way up the hill, then stopped on what seemed level ground. Here we are, cried Mr. Van Brunt, as he threw his whip on the ground, and late enough, you must be tired of that little arm-chair by this time. Come to the side of the cart, and I'll lift you down. Poor Ellen, there is no help for it. She came to the side of the cart, and, taking her in his arms, her rough, charioteer set her very gently and carefully on the ground. There, said he, now you can run right in. Do you see that little gate? No, said Ellen, I can't see anything. Well, come here, said he, and I'll show you. Here, you're runnin' again the fence, this way. And he opened a little wicket, which Ellen managed to stumble through. Now, said he, go straight up to that door yonder, and open it, and you'll see where to go. Don't knock, but just pull the latch and go in. And he went off to his oxen. Ellen at first saw no door, and did not even know where to look for it. By degrees, as her head became clearer, the large dark shadow of the house stood before her, and a little glimmering line of a path seemed to lead onward from where she stood. With unsettly steps, Ellen pursued it till her foot struck against the stone before the door. Her trembling fingers found the latch, lifted it, and she entered. All was dark there, but at the right a window should like glimmering within. Ellen made towards it, and groping came to another door latch. This was big and clumsy. However, she managed it, and pushing open the heavy door went in. It was a good-sized, cheerful-looking kitchen, a fine fire was burning in the enormous fireplace, the white walls and ceiling were yellow in the light of the flame. No candles were needed, and none were there. The supper table was set, and with its snow-white tablecloth and shining furniture looked very comfortable indeed. But the only person there was an old woman, sitting by the side of the fire, with her back towards Ellen. She seemed to be knitting, but did not move nor look round. Ellen had come a step or two into the room, and there she stood, unable to speak or to go any further. Can that be Aunt Fortune, she thought? She can't be as old as that. In another minute a door opened at her right, just behind the old woman's back, and a second figure appeared at the top of a flight of stairs which led down from the kitchen. She came in, shutting the door behind her with her foot, and indeed both hands were full, one holding a lamp and a knife, and the other a plate of butter. The sight of Ellen stopped her short. What is this? And what do you leave the door open for, child? She said. She advanced toward it, plate and lamp in hand, and setting her back against the door, shut it vigorously. Who are you, and what's wanting? I'm Ellen Montgomery, ma'am, said Ellen timidly. What? said the lady, with some emphasis. Didn't you expect me, ma'am? Papa said he would write. Why, is this Ellen Montgomery, said Miss Fortune, apparently forced to the conclusion that it must be? Yes, ma'am, said Ellen. Miss Fortune went to the table, and put the butter and the lamp in their places. Did you say your father wrote to tell me if you're coming? He said he would, ma'am, said Ellen. He didn't, never sent me a line, just like him. I never yet knew Morgan Montgomery do a thing when he promised he would. Ellen's face flushed, and her heart swelled. She stood motionless. How did you get down here to-night? I came in Mr. Van Brunt's ox cart, said Ellen. Mr. Van Brunt's ox cart, then he's got home, has he? And hearing this instant, a noise outside, Miss Fortune swept to the door, saying as she opened it, sit down, child, and take off your things. The first command at least, Ellen obeyed gladly. She did not feel enough at home to comply with the second. She only took off her bonnet. Well, Mr. Van Brunt, said Miss Fortune at the door. Have you brought me a barrel of flour? No, Miss Fortune, said the voice of Ellen's charioteer. I've brought you something better than that. Where did you find her? said Miss Fortune, something shortly. Up at Forbes. What have you got there? A trunk. Where is it to go? A trunk. It must go upstairs. But how it is ever to get there, I am sure I don't know. I'll find a way to get it there. I'll engage if you'll be so good as to open the door for me, ma'am. Indeed, you won't. That'll never do, with your shoes on, said Miss Fortune, and a tone of indignant housewife-ry. Well, without my shoes, then, said Mr. Van Brunt, with a half-giggle, as Ellen heard the shoes kicked off. No, ma'am, out of my way. Give me a road. Miss Fortune seized the lamp, and, opening another door, ushered Mr. Van Brunt and the trunk out of the kitchen. End up, Ellen saw not with her. In a minute or two they returned, and he of the axe-cart went out. Supper's just ready, Mr. Van Brunt, said the mistress of the house. Can't stay, ma'am. It's so late. Must hurry home. And he closed the door behind him. What made you so late, asked Miss Fortune of Ellen. I don't know, ma'am. I believe Mr. Van Brunt said the blacksmith had kept him. Miss Fortune bustled about a few minutes in silence, setting some things on the table and filling the teapot. Come, she said to Ellen, take off your coat and come to the table. You must be hungry by this time. It's a good while since you had your dinner, ain't it? Come, mother. The old lady rose, and Miss Fortune, taking her chair, set it by the side of the table, next to the fire. Ellen was opposite to her, and now, for the first time, the old lady seemed to know that she was in the room. She looked at her very attentively. But with an expressionless gaze which Ellen did not like to meet, though otherwise her face was calm and pleasant. Who is that? inquired the old lady presently of Miss Fortune and a half whisper. That's Morgan's daughter, was the answer. Morgan's daughter? Has Morgan a daughter? Why, yes, mother. Don't you remember? I told you a month ago he was going to send her here. The old lady turned again, with a half shake of her head, towards Ellen. Morgan's daughter, she repeated to herself softly. She's a pretty little girl. Very pretty. Will you come round here and give me a kiss, dear? Ellen submitted. The old lady folded her in her arms and kissed her affectionately. That's your grandmother, Ellen, said Miss Fortune, as Ellen went back to her seat. Ellen had no words to answer. Her aunt saw her weary down look, and soon after supper, proposed to take her upstairs. Ellen gladly followed her. Miss Fortune showed her to her room, and first, asking if she wanted anything, left her to herself. It was a relief. Ellen's heart had been brimful, and ready to run over for some time. But the tears could not come then. They did not now, till she had undressed and laid her weary little body on the bed. Then they broke forth in an agony. She did not kiss me. She didn't say she was glad to see me, thought poor Ellen. But weariness this time was too much for sorrow and disappointment. It was but a few minutes, and Ellen's brow was calm again. Her eyelids still, and with the tears wet upon her cheeks, she was fast asleep.