When Ellen came into the library, she was surprised to see how very grave her uncle Villars looked. She turned her eyes on Mary, and saw that she had been weeping. Ellen would have asked what was the matter, but she was afraid that it was something connected with her and her wrong doings, and she thought it the safest course to be silent. Mr. Villars did not leave her long in doubt. Drawing her to him, he said, "I see, Ellen, that you are anxious to know what has distressed Mary so much; it is the thought of parting with her old uncle—for, Ellen, my dear child, I shall have to part with you both."
Before we attempt to describe Ellen's emotions, we must, to make them understood, tell our readers that Mrs. Merrill had more than once, when very much provoked by Ellen, hinted her conviction that Mr. Villars would not long be able to endure such an unquiet house—that he would certainly be obliged to send his nieces out to board, and that she doubted not people might be found able to curb the most unruly spirit. On such occasions, Ellen, being angry too, had very valorously declared, that she was ready and willing to go anywhere to get rid of Mrs. Merrill. But we regard things very differently when they are only talked about or threatened, and when they actually come. Ellen felt now that she was neither ready nor willing to go. This, however, she was too proud to acknowledge. Tears rushed to her eyes, but she kept them back, and would have answered boldly, perhaps saucily; but as she raised her head, she again saw Mary's sad face, and the thought that her sister was to suffer for her fault, subdued her spirit. Bursting into tears, she wept for a minute without speaking. Mr. Villars passed his hand kindly over her head, saying gently, "Poor little girl!—poor little girl!" Encouraged by this kindness, she at length exclaimed, though sobs still impeded her utterance, "Please, Uncle Villars, let Mary stay—don't send Mary away—I'm sure she is good—I can't help my bad temper—I try to do right—and if Mrs. Merrill would only let me alone, I am sure I would not trouble her; but send me away—I don't mind going—I shall be very glad to go,"—here Ellen's pride and anger were again conquering her better feelings,—"yes, I shall be very glad to go—I don't want to stay anywhere with people that don't like me"—again Ellen raised her head stiffly, and again she saw Mary, whose tears were now streaming—"but oh! Uncle Villars, let Mary stay—I know you love Mary, and she will always be good."
Mr. Villars had not interrupted Ellen. At first he was too much surprised at the feelings she expressed to do so, and then he continued silent, because he desired to hear all she had to say. When she stopped speaking, he said, "Ellen, do you suppose that I would send either of you away if I could help it? You are my children, now," and putting out his hand for Mary, he clasped both the weeping girls in his arms,—"both my children, and I love you both; but some of my property, as well as all your father's, has gone to pay his debts. They were honest debts, my dear children, and the people to whom they were owed wanted their money, and we must not regret that they have got it; but we are poor now, and we cannot continue to live as we have done. I must soon leave you to go on a journey to a distant place, with the hope of recovering some money which is due to your father's estate. I know not how long I may be gone; and even when I return I may not be able to come back to my old home, but may be obliged to look out some cheap country place where I can board for little money. To this place I shall not take you with me. I have good reasons for not doing so. Listen to me, and I will try to make you understand these reasons. I am now an old man, and it is very probable that I may not live many years. I once hoped that when I died I should be able to leave you sufficient property to support you in the way in which you have been accustomed to live; but this, I now fear, cannot be. You will be obliged to do something by which you may make money to assist in supporting yourselves. Many women, you know, support themselves entirely by their own work. Do you remember the young girl who came to make your mourning? She not only supplies her own wants, but those of an infirm mother, by her work."
"And must we go and hire ourselves out to people to sew for them as she does?" asked Ellen, with a heightened color and a curling lip.
"No, my dear Ellen, you could not do that, even if I wished it. Miss Fenner has been taught to make dresses,—she learned it as a trade, just as a shoemaker learns to make shoes or a carpenter to build houses. You have never learned it, and I fear nobody would hire you."
Ellen colored now from shame as much as she had just done from pride.
"But," Mr. Villars proceeded, "there are some things you can do. You can embroider and paint, and do many fancy works for which the rich are ready to pay money. Mary understands music well. She may give lessons in music, and you can both of you teach a few small children. In this way, that is, by doing whatever you can, you may make enough to clothe yourselves. This is all I shall expect you to do at present,—I will pay all your other expenses; and also I will continue to pay for your French, Italian, and music lessons, till you have become so perfectly acquainted with them as to be able to teach them yourselves. You will then be always able to support yourselves respectably, even when you have no Uncle Villars to help you."
I cannot attempt to describe to you the feelings with which Mary and Ellen had listened to their uncle. They scarcely understood him, and what they did understand seemed like a strange dream. That they, who had always been waited on and surrounded with every luxury, should be obliged to work for money to buy their clothes—just like those whom they had been accustomed to call the poor—it seemed impossible; and they looked at Mr. Villars steadily, with the hope that they should discover something like a smile—something which would make them believe that it was a jest, or, as Ellen said to herself, "just done to frighten me." But on Uncle Villars' face there was no smile—all was graver, sadder than usual. He read their thoughts, and, as if to assure them of the truth of what he had said, told them to put on their bonnets and he would show them their future home. They obeyed him, and he took them to that small plain house in which I found them living, and introduced them to Mrs. Maclean as her future lodgers.
The next day Mr. Villars called at Colonel Melville's, and having related to him and Mrs. Melville his arrangements for Mary and Ellen, asked what they thought of them. They both exclaimed together, "They will never do—they will never do!"
"Why," proceeded Colonel Melville, "here are two children, Villars—two mere children—the eldest is only fifteen, I believe;" he paused, and Mr. Villars nodded. "Well, these children, hardly out of the nursery, you are going to—"
Mr. Villars interrupted him somewhat impatiently, "Going to place them in a comfortable room, with a kind and honest woman—going to demand of them that they shall do just as much as they can to help themselves, and no more; for all which they cannot do without injury to their health, I will. My children shall not want—at least while I live," and the old man's voice trembled. "From you, my friends, I ask that while I am absent you will watch over them. Do not let them want any thing necessary for comfort. I have told them to come to you, Mrs. Melville, for advice in their outlay of money. I would wish their wardrobe to be suited to their circumstances—plain, but neat, respectable, and comfortable. If it be necessary at any time, Melville, advance money for them, and I will repay you."
"Mr. Villars," said Mrs. Melville, earnestly, "I will do all you wish, if you persist in this plan, but I pray you think better of it. I do not doubt that Mrs. Brown would take Mary into her school as a sub-governess, and her services in this capacity would pay for Ellen's board and tuition, till she could do something for herself."
"My dear Mrs. Melville, I have not told you all the reasons which make me prefer my plan to yours—fair as yours seems. Poor Ellen's ungoverned temper must be subdued; but before Mrs. Brown could reduce her into a proper behaved boarding-school Miss, she must inflict and Ellen endure a course of discipline which would break Mary's heart to witness. Now I would give Ellen a discipline which she cannot escape from—which she will feel it is vain to fret against—which will be steady and unyielding, but never cruel and tyrannical,—the discipline which was God's own appointment for man—labor and privation. Do you think me right now?" he asked.
"I think that you may be. I hope that you are," said Mrs. Melville.
In a fortnight Mary and Ellen had taken possession of their neat plain room at Mrs. Maclean's, and Mr. Villars had set out on his journey to some place in Carolina. It was autumn, but the weather had not yet become at all cold. Mrs. Maclean was a lover of flowers, and the little court-yard before her house was really gay with its golden marigolds, its pink and white artemisias, and its purple dahlias. We have said that Mrs. Maclean was a widow. She had no children of her own, and it was with real pleasure that she prepared for the reception of these young girls. Mr. Villars had sent over the furniture for their room, and she had begged that they would come over themselves and direct its arrangement. And how patiently did she obey their directions! Now the bedstead was put behind the door, because Mary thought that the right place for it; and now wheeled into the corner near the fireplace, because Ellen thought it would look best there. The looking-glass was hung first in one pier and then in the other, and then moved back again to the first. In short, every piece of furniture made a journey around the room before it found an abiding place, and yet Mrs. Maclean showed no weariness or impatience,—a fact on which Ellen dilated with great emphasis to her uncle in Mrs. Merrill's presence—declaring that "Mrs. Maclean was so good-natured, she was sure she should love her dearly."
When Mr. Villars took the sisters to their home on the evening before he left H., Ellen carried him up to their room—explained to him all the advantages of its present arrangement—and especially challenged his admiration for the mantelpiece, on which Mrs. Maclean had placed two china mugs filled with her brightest flowers. More pleasant than all to Mr. Villars, was her satisfaction. While his children smiled so cheerfully and appeared so animated, he felt that there was little to regret in their change of circumstances. It was noon the next day before Mr. Villars was at leisure to make his farewell visit at Mrs. Maclean's. As soon as he came within view of the parlor windows, he saw Ellen standing at one of them, looking out. She saw him too, and running out opened the little gate for him.
"Oh, Uncle Villars, I thought you were never coming, I have been looking for you so long."
"That was very unprofitable labor, Ellen, for it could not bring me here any sooner. Where is Mary?"
"Up stairs in our room—come softly, Uncle Villars," here Ellen lowered her voice to a whisper, "come softly, and I do believe you may get close up to her without her knowing it—she is so busy sewing."
Ellen tripped lightly on herself, and Mr. Villars with a smile followed with as quiet a step as possible. They ascended the staircase, the door was opened without the least noise, and Ellen, motioning to her uncle to stand still, stole on towards her sister. Mary sat near the window, but though her face was towards it, she was not looking out. Her head was bent down over a piece of embroidery, and her fingers were moving quickly while she sang in a low suppressed voice to a cheerful tune an old song, the words of which ran thus—
1.I will not be a butterfly,To sport beneath the summer sky,Idly o'er ev'ry flower to roam,And droop when winter storms have come.2.I will not be an ant, to soilMyself with low, debasing toil,To crawl on earth—to yon bright heavenNo wing upraised, no effort given.3.But I will be a bee, to supPure honey from each flow'ry cup;Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky
1.
I will not be a butterfly,To sport beneath the summer sky,Idly o'er ev'ry flower to roam,And droop when winter storms have come.
2.
I will not be an ant, to soilMyself with low, debasing toil,To crawl on earth—to yon bright heavenNo wing upraised, no effort given.
3.
But I will be a bee, to supPure honey from each flow'ry cup;Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky
As she finished her song, Ellen, who now stood close beside her, though unperceived, took up the strain and warbled,
Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky.
Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky.
"Ah truant!" said Mary, with a smile, "you will not win much treasure, I am afraid. See how much I have done while you have been looking out for Uncle Villars, and all your looking has not brought him."
"No—but if I could only persuade you to take your eyes from your work and just give one glance over your shoulder, he would be here I know; try it, Mary."
"No, butterfly, I mean to be a bee, and you shall not tempt me to lose time."
"There, Miss Bee, is that losing time?" asked Ellen, as, putting a hand on each side of Mary's head, she turned it suddenly round to where Mr. Villars stood, amused by the scene.
"Why, Uncle Villars!" exclaimed Mary, dropping her work in her surprise and pleasure, and hastening to meet him, "how long have you been there?"
"Long enough to hear most of your song, Mary. But what pretty work is this?" asked Mr. Villars, as he picked it up and handed it to her.
"A cape which Mrs. Melville sent me this morning to embroider for her; and see, she has sent Ellen some cambric handkerchiefs to hem."
"And how much have you done to them, Ellen?"
"I have done half a side to one of them."
Mr. Villars shook his head, and Ellen coloring, said, "Well, Uncle Villars, I do hate so to hem handkerchiefs; it is all the same thing over and over again. Now there is some pleasure in embroidering."
"But my little girl must learn to take pleasure in winning treasure," said Mr. Villars, pleasantly.
"I should like very well to have the treasure, Uncle Villars, if you mean money, but I do not see much pleasure in winning it."
"But I do not mean money only, Ellen, that is the treasure of earth; but you remember the bee won that of the sky too, and I would have you, my dear child, win the best of all treasures, a disciplined, well-regulated mind and heart; and the surest way to do this, is by steady perseverance in what you know to be right, however disagreeable it may be to you; and to encourage you, let me tell you that the things you like least will become pleasant to you as soon as you have made up your mind to do them, because they are right."
This was Mr. Villars' parting lesson to Ellen, for it was soon time for him to be on board the steamboat which was to take him to New York, on his way south. He left them, with many charges that they should write to him at least once a fortnight; and that they should apply, if any difficulty occurred, to Colonel and Mrs. Melville for advice, and, if necessary, for assistance.
"Poor things," said Mrs. Maclean the next morning at the breakfast table, when she saw Ellen's eyes fill with tears at some mention of her Uncle Villars, "Poor things! it is no wonder you feel bad to part with such a good friend; but you must cheer up, he will soon be back again; and now I will tell you what—instead of setting down to mope in your room to-day we will just make a holiday of it. I will put my ironing off for once, and we will borrow Deacon Foster's horse and shay—the shay will carry us all three easy enough—and I will drive you out to my brother-in-law's farm. Were you ever there?"
"No—never."
"Well—I can tell you there ain't many such farms as Tom Maclean's, and you'll get some of the finest peaches there that you've seen this year. So now I'll go for the horse and shay, and you can put these cups and saucers in the cupboard for me, and get your bonnets on by the time I come for you."
Ellen's face brightened with the anticipated delights of the day—a ride of three miles, and then the privilege of sauntering at will through gardens and orchards, of a sunny day in October—who can wonder at her enjoyment of the thought? Even Mary felt that she might take a holiday "for once," as Mrs. Maclean said, without being a butterfly. So the cups were soon put away, and the bonnets tied on, and soon came Deacon Foster's horse and shay, and Mrs. Maclean driving. Mary and Ellen jumped in, and found, as Mrs. Maclean had told them there would be, plenty of room; and Mrs. Maclean cheruped to the horse, and away they went—not very fast, yet fast enough to get over the three miles in much less time than Mary and Ellen wished. And yet they could scarcely be sorry when they reached the low, but large stone farmhouse, with its field of clover on one side, in which three or four cows were grazing, and its orchard on the other, where among pear and apple trees they could catch glimpses of the red and yellow peaches which Mrs. Maclean had praised so highly. And Mrs. Tom Maclean, and Susy and Martha Maclean, came to welcome them with such pleasant looks and words, that nothing seemed wanting to their gratification. All the morning they walked about with Susy and Martha for their guides—had fruit from the orchard, milk from the dairy, and more flowers from the garden than they could carry home. When called in to dinner they found Mr. Maclean there. He too received them very kindly, and talked of their Uncle Villars, regretting that he had met with any troubles, as he heard he had, and that he should have been obliged to leave his own pleasant home.
"Mrs. Merrill seems almost broken down about it," continued Mr. Maclean; "and she teld me that you was agoing to keep a school for young children: now I'm a thinking of sending our Susy and Martha to you for a while. A little more schooling won't do 'em any harm, and they can go in with the market-cart every morning, and come back home in it when market is over. You can help them, I dare say, and then what they pay will help you—and that's what I call right."
Mary thanked Mr. Maclean, and said she would do her best to "help" his daughters, who smiled at each other, and looked much pleased with the arrangement.
"Well now," said Mr. Maclean, "I should like to know what you're going to charge?"
To this Mary could only answer, whatever he thought right.
"That won't do—that won't do," said Mr. Maclean; "you sell the schooling, and I buy it: it is the one that sells that always ought to fix the price."
"Tom, how you talk," said his wife; "you might as well tell a baby about fixing prices, I dare say. Don't you know what you've paid before for schooling?"
"Yes, I paid a dollar a month apiece; but that wouldn't be fair now—for then they went to a man, and only learnt books; but I guess now they'll find out how to be handy with the needle too, and that's worth as much as book learning to a woman—so I think double the old price would be fair now. I'll tell you what, miss," he added, turning to Mary, "to encourage you, I'll make it a dollar a week for the two, and I'll send it in to you every Saturday; how will that do?"
Mary thought it would do very well. Knowing nothing of the labor of teaching, and as little of the value of money, she thought a dollar a week a great sum to be given her. It was really a generous offer in Mr. Maclean, who, being uneducated himself, could not estimate very truly the value of her services in educating his daughters, and who knew, besides, that he could have them taught at some common day-schools for less.
The happiest day must have an end, and the western sky was still bright with the sun's last beams, when Mary and Ellen alighted at their own door, leaving Mrs. Maclean to drive home the borrowed chaise.
The next morning Mary awoke very early—much earlier than usual, and try as much as she would, she could not sleep again. I have told you that even in her early childhood Mary had been thoughtful, but now you must remember she was over fifteen years old, and had already experienced such changes as might have made a person of much gayer temper grave. But not even these changes had tended to sadden Mary so much as Ellen's waywardness had done. The charge which she had received from her dying mother Mary never had forgotten, and it had been recently and forcibly repeated by her father. Though Mr. Leslie did not know himself the extent of those losses through which his children had been left so very destitute, he knew enough to make him suffer much anxiety about them in his last illness. Especially had he feared for Ellen,—so young, so thoughtless, and so arrogant in temper. To Mary, who was ever at his side, and who showed so much of a woman's care and thoughtfulness that he often forgot she was but a child, these anxious feelings were expressed; and again did she promise to her father, as under like circumstances she had done to her mother, that she would never part from Ellen—that she would love her—and bear with her—take care of her, and if it were necessary, work for her support, even as her mother would have done had she lived. And faithfully did Mary fulfil her promise of loving Ellen and bearing with her, and pleasant did she feel it would be to take care of her, and even to labor for her. And Ellen loved her sister Mary too, and for her sake would have done almost any thing except control her temper, or restrain the expression of any angry or dissatisfied feeling. But it was just this temper and these feelings which gave Mary most pain, and were likely to make her task most difficult. In all which these sisters had to do, they must depend greatly on the kindness and good-will of others. Mary knew this, and she knew too that kindness and good-will were not to be gained by a display of passionate, wilful tempers. Especially did Mary dread any thing of this kind in the school they were about to begin, and her morning thoughts—the thoughts which would not let her sleep again when once she had awoke—were all of how she might most gently, and with the least danger of displeasing Ellen, impress upon her how much patience and self-control would be needed in teaching a set of rude, ignorant children. Before she had come to any decision on this important point, Ellen awoke, and with more animation than she usually evinced at such an early hour, exclaimed, "Why, Mary, not up yet—and our school to begin to-day!"
"But not for three hours yet, Ellen—it is only six o'clock."
"But I thought you were always up at half-past five."
"So I am; but I have been thinking so much about this school this morning that I have forgotten every thing else."
"What about it, Mary—about what you should teach?"
"No, Ellen—not just that; but I have been thinking how unpleasant and difficult it will be."
"Do you think so? I think I shall like it."
"So should I, Ellen, if I were sure that the children would all be smart, and pleasant tempered; but it must be very hard to teach dull children; and if they are obstinate and ill-tempered we shall be so apt to become impatient with them, and then, you know, all comfort will be at an end."
"But I don't see why you should think they will be dull; I am sure Susy and Martha Maclean seemed to be very pleasant children."
"So they did, but there are four other children, you know, whom Mrs. Maclean has engaged for us, and of whom we know nothing."
"Well, I dare say they are clever children. For my part I don't think children are ever ill-tempered unless people are cross to them, and if you are afraid that I shall be cross toyourscholars, Mary—"
Mary interrupted Ellen's hasty speech, saying in a gentle tone, "I am afraid, dear Ellen, thatourscholars will often tire us and try our patience very much; but Uncle Villars says that whatever we do, we should do cheerfully, so I will not talk of my fears any more."
A week passed away, and nothing occurred in the little school to make Mary think again of her fears. Ellen seemed to like being a teacher; and if she laughed and talked and played with her pupils a little more than was quite consistent with her new dignity, they liked her all the better for it, and learned, from a wish to please her, more than they would perhaps have done if more constrained. As for Mary, Mrs. Maclean said, "It was just a wonder to see how that young bit of a thing, that was nothing but a child herself, would sit sewing so steady like, and never seem to be thinking of any thing but her work; and yet if any of the young ones got in a snarl, and Miss Ellen's voice only sounded quick like, she was up in a minute, and helped them so quietly along that they hardly knowed that she was a helping till they got through."
Ellen had even exerted herself to rise early, that she might be ready for her scholars; but the second Monday morning after the commencement of her labors she seemed to find this an unusually difficult task, and when Mary, who had been some time below stairs, came back to tell her that it was eight o'clock and breakfast was ready, and unless she dressed herself quickly the children would be there before their room was in order, she exclaimed, "Those children! I am sure I wish I had never seen them or heard of them. It is bad enough to have to teach the stupid things, without being obliged to get up at daybreak for them."
"Daybreak, Ellen!" said Mary, moving the window-curtain and letting in a stream of sunshine.
"Well, I don't care what time it is, Mary, it is earlier than I choose to get up, and earlier than I would get up, if it was not for them; and there would be some comfort in it if one thought they would ever learn any thing: but for such a stupid set!"
"Stupid, Ellen!—why Mrs. Maclean and I have just been saying what bright intelligent children they were."
"Well," said Ellen, who had now talked herself into a really angry mood, "I suppose they do not learn because they have such a stupid teacher in me. I dare say if you will hear their lessons, they will do better."
"No, Ellen, I think they do learn—learn more with you than they would do with a grave, quiet person like me."
"I do think, Mary, you are the most contradictory person I ever saw in my life. When I hoped the children might be clever, you were sure they would be stupid; and now that I think them stupid, you have found out that they are wonderfully intelligent."
Mary finding that whatever she said tended only to increase Ellen's displeasure, did not remind her that the fears she had expressed had been quite as much of the impatience of the teacher as of the stupidity of the scholars.
Mrs. Maclean's call to breakfast on this morning was quickly and gladly obeyed by Mary, for she thought Ellen's irritation would subside sooner if she was alone. At any rate, thought Mary, when Ellen comes to say her prayers, her ill-humor will pass away. With this hope she went to the breakfast table, and when Ellen followed, received her so cheerfully, that her frowns soon began to wear away and the tones of her voice to grow more pleasant. They had not yet risen from the table when Anna Melville rushed in, sparkling with joyous expectation.
"Mary and Ellen, papa is going to carry us to see the caravan of animals at N., and if you were not going to have school to-day, he would carry you with us. Must you have school? Can't you manage so as to go?"
Mary was delighted at the prospect of such a pleasure for Ellen, and she answered quickly, "We cannot both go, Anna—but Ellen can."
"I am sure, Mary, I don't see how I can go any more than you. Any one would think, to hear you, that I did nothing at all in the school."
"You know, Ellen, that I cannot mean that, for you do a great deal more than I, but I can take your place and give you a holiday for one day."
"Yes, and have Uncle Villars think when he comes back again that I have done nothing but amuse myself while you were at work. I thank you, Anna—but I cannot go to see caravans. I must stay and keep school."
Anna stood irresolute.
"Mary, cannot you go?" said she at last.
"Thank you, Anna," said Mary, "but I should not enjoy it unless Ellen could go too."
"Mary, I beg you will not stay at home on my account."
Anna saw that neither of the sisters was going, and she bade them good morning, and left the house with a much more serious face and more sedate step than that with which she entered it, for ill-humor has the property of making all unhappy who come within its reach. As Anna opened the door, Mr. Maclean's market-cart drove up with Susy and Martha. The children stood for a moment, after leaving the cart, to look at her, and before she was out of hearing Ellen was calling from the house, "Susy, Martha, if you stand all day staring there I might as well have pleased myself by going with Anna Melville, as have stayed at home to teach you."
"Did you want to go, Miss Ellen?"
"That is of no consequence," said Ellen, "for if I wanted to go ever so much I could not."
"Oh yes—but you could," said the kind-hearted girls; "now do go, and we'll get our lessons just the same, and say them all to you to-morrow."
"That may suit you just as well, but your father would hardly be willing to pay his money if you were left to get your lessons by yourselves."
"Oh, I'm sure my papa wouldn't mind about it."
Ellen impatiently pushed the child nearest to her into the room, saying, "I do wish you would go to your lessons, and hush talking about what does not concern you!"
It will readily be believed that Mary had to help Ellen and the children through many a "snarl," to borrow Mrs. Maclean's significant, though not very elegant expression, on this day. But the evil did not stop there. Three of the girls were sent home weeping and indignant, to complain that Ellen Leslie had called them by some unkind or disgraceful epithet. These girls brought back the next morning messages from their parents, intimating that they were sent to school to Mary Leslie, and that it was hoped she would teach them herself. Poor Mary! she scarce knew how to meet this difficulty. To comply with the request would grievously wound and displease Ellen, who had really, till this unlucky day, given no just cause of complaint; not to comply with it would as certainly displease several of those on whose support her school depended. But better lose their support—better lose any thing, Mary said to herself, than create unkind feelings between Ellen and myself. So she tried to pacify the children and satisfy the parents without making any change in the arrangements of the school.—Perhaps, had Ellen seconded her efforts, she would have succeeded, but Ellen could not forget the mortification she had received from this affair, and scarce a day passed that she did not by some petulant word or action increase the dissatisfaction of her pupils or their parents, till one by one they were withdrawn. With them went the most certain profits of the sisters; yet it was with real satisfaction that Mary saw the door close upon the last scholar who left them, for she hoped now to see Ellen again cheerful and pleased as when they first came to Mrs. Maclean's. She turned smilingly towards her from the window at which she was standing, to express her satisfaction, and was surprised to find her weeping bitterly.
"Ellen, my own dear little sister, what is the matter? Surely you are not sorry that those children are gone who have plagued you so."
"No, Mary, I am not sorry they are gone, but I am sorry that I made them go. I know they all hate me, Mary, and their fathers and mothers hate me."
"Ellen—my dear Ellen—people don'thateeach other for such little things."
"Oh yes, Mary—I heard the children say they hated me. Nobody will ever love me, and I can't help it—I am sure I can't help it; for I try to be good like you—but I can't, Mary—I can't. I wish I was dead, and buried with poor papa and mamma."
"Ellen—my dear Ellen! this is very wicked and very cruel, Ellen. You know that I love you, Ellen—that I love you dearly—better than I love any thing else in the world, and yet you want to die and leave me here by myself: what would I do without my own little sister!" Mary's voice became choked, and she too sobbed aloud. Ellen felt then that she had indeed been wicked and cruel to desire any thing which might grieve this loving sister. From this time she did try, and try successfully, to control her temper towards Mary herself, rarely being betrayed into any petulance towards her; or, if she were, endeavoring the next moment to atone for it, by double tenderness of manner and speech. But, impressed with the conviction that she was disliked by all others, she became daily more and more irritable towards them, more and more careless and defying in her manner, till she created the very dislike she had at first only fancied. Naturally affectionate, Ellen could not but suffer under a consciousness of this dislike, and hence the gloomy dissatisfaction which I noticed in her countenance on my first visit to Mary and herself after my return to H——.
Mr. Villars had now been gone six months, and the business which had taken him south, and which he had not supposed would detain him half so long, was not yet completed. Colonel Melville heard from him frequently, for to him he expressed all his wishes respecting his children, as he always called Mary and Ellen. Soon after the school was given up, he wrote to ask that Colonel Melville would let him know all he could learn about it, as Mary's account of her reasons for discontinuing her teaching was so confused and imperfect, that he was afraid there was something which she had not liked to tell. Before Colonel Melville had found time to reply to this letter, he received another from Mr. Villars to say that he had already learned all which he had requested him to ascertain, from Ellen, who had of her own accord written a full statement of the whole business, for fear, as she wrote, that he might blame Mary if he did not know all. "Poor child," Mr. Villars wrote to his friend, "her letter is a very sad one. Few things can be more sad than to see childhood, the brightest and most joyous period, the holiday of our lives, made miserable by evil passions. And yet, with all its sadness, Ellen's letter gave me pleasure, for it shows that she is beginning to feel the influence of that discipline from which, you know, I hope so much for her. She is beginning to learn the secrets of her own heart—to see that from the evil there, arises much of the suffering she endures. She must yet see more of this—feel more hopeless, more despondent—learn that there is no rest for her on earth—no rest for her anywhere except in making it the most earnest desire of her heart and effort of her life to do right—in a perfect willingness, when she has done this, to leave every thing which concerns her to the care of her Heavenly Father, and in such entire trust in that Heavenly Father's goodness, that even when she suffers she shall feel that it is his love which corrects her faults."
Perhaps you would like to see something of the letter which made Mr. Villars feel at once so much grieved and so hopeful for poor Ellen. I have it with me, and will extract a few sentences from it for your perusal. After giving a very fair account of the school, of the pleasure she at first felt in it, of the pains she took to please and improve the children, she relates very truly all which took place on that unlucky Monday morning—how reluctant she was to rise—how fretted with Mary for trying to persuade her that things were not so bad as she felt them to be—how disappointed that she could not go with Anna Melville, yet how unwilling to let it appear by her going that she was of no consequence at all, but that Mary could do just as well without her—how dissatisfied with herself for all these things—how that dissatisfaction made her impatient with the children—and how that morning's impatience was deepened into dislike by their resentment—their readiness, as she said, to give her up just for one cross word—their thinking so much more of Mary, who had never done any thing for them, than of her who had taken so much trouble with them. After this account Ellen adds, "And so it is always, Uncle Villars—everybody loves Mary without her caring for it or trying to make them love her; and I want them to love me, and do every thing I can to make them love me, and yet they never do,—nobody but Mary. Even you, Uncle Villars, though you were always very kind to me, did not love me as you loved Mary. I know it is because she is so good, and I have such a wicked, bad temper. But, Uncle Villars, I cannot help my temper—indeed I cannot, for I have tried very often, very often indeed. Many a time I have said to myself, when I got up in the morning—I will be good and kind to everybody to-day, and I will not say a cross word, or give an angry look, let them serve me ever so badly, but when people tease and worry me I forget it all. And so now, Uncle Villars, since I cannot help it, I mean to try not to care about it at all—not to love anybody except Mary, who loves me so much that I never get angry with her now, and you who were always so kind to me."
The letter here broke off abruptly, and was continued again several days after in these words: "What I was writing to you the other day, Uncle Villars, made me feel so bad that I had to put down my pen and cry. Since that, I have hardly thought of any thing else, and I am more and more convinced that it all comes from my bad temper; but that is no comfort, since I cannot help it. I am afraid you will think me very wicked, but I cannot help wishing I was dead. I think, then, when people saw me lying so pale and still, and knew that I could never say an angry word again, they would feel sorry for having been so hard upon me, and they would look kindly at me and speak kindly of me. I think of these things a great deal, but do not tell Mary so, for it would distress her. I am almost sorry for having written all about these feelings to you, Uncle Villars; but my letter must go now, for it has taken me a great deal of time to write so long a one, and I want you to know all about the school, for fear, as I said before, you should blame Mary."
About a month after Colonel Melville had received the letters of which I have spoken from Mr. Villars, I met Mrs. Maclean in one of my morning walks.
"And how are Mary and Ellen Leslie this morning, Mrs. Maclean?" asked I.
"Middling, ma'am, middling," replied Mrs. Maclean; "Miss Mary's looking a little pale, but I think it's trouble more than sickness."
"Trouble! why, I hope nothing has happened to disturb her."
"Nothing more than usual, ma'am; but that sister of hers is enough to worry out a saint; and I'm sure that's Miss Mary, if there ever was one."
"I fear Ellen is no favorite with you, Mrs. Maclean."
"Indeed, ma'am, and she was a very great favorite when first she came to me, for she was a lively, sprightly thing as ever I seed, but when she gets in her tantrums, she's more than mortal flesh can bear."
"But what do you mean by her tantrums, for I acknowledge I have never seen any thing in her which did not appear to me very excusable in a spoiled child."
"Well, ma'am, it may be so; that spoiled child may excuse it all; but, as I said, it's very hard for them to bear that didn't spoil her. Now, only this morning she asked me quite civil like for some more sugar in her tea; and I, to be just as civil as she, said, 'Come, help yourself, for I am afraid I won't suit you.'—Says she, 'I'm sure I'm not so very hard to be suited, and if you don't choose to help me I can go without.' And then I was mad at her perverse ways, and I said, 'Well, and if you can't put out your hand and help yourself, you can go without.' 'Yes,' says she, 'that's a very good excuse to save your sugar.' And then she keeps a-throwing out her insinuations of my stinginess, and how sorry her Uncle Villars would be for boarding them where they couldn't get enough to eat and drink; till I answered her, and says, 'Well, I'm sure he can't be no sorrier than I, for I would rather eat but one meal a-day in peace and quiet, than to take my good, hearty, three meals a-day with you quarrelling over them.' With that, up she gets, and says, 'I won't take my meals at anybody's table that don't wish me to, and I will never eat another meal at your table if I starve to death;' and sure enough, off she went up stairs without her breakfast. I shouldn't have minded that much, but poor Miss Mary went without her breakfast too, and had a good cry besides."
When I repeated to Mrs. Melville the conversation I had had with Mrs. Maclean, we were just passing in to dinner, and she bade Anna, as soon as we had dined, go over and invite the Leslies to pass the afternoon and evening with her; adding, in a lower tone, to me, that such was Ellen's wilfulness, she would not be at all surprised to hear that she had held her purpose for all day, or even for several days. Anna did not need to be reminded of her errand, but went over to Mrs. Maclean's quite early, and quickly returned, bringing Mary and Ellen along with her. It was now May, and Emma Melville having reported the spring roses to be in bud, the children soon left the parlor, where Col. and Mrs. Melville and I were seated, and from the windows of which, a few minutes after, we could see them walking around the flower-beds in the garden, and occasionally stopping to search for, or to communicate some new token of the advancing season. Our observations on them were interrupted by the sound of the door-bell and the entrance of a servant, who, handing Col. Melville a card and a letter, announced that the gentleman who brought them was waiting to see him in the next room. Col. Melville only glanced at the card, ran his eye hastily over the letter, and handing them both to Mrs. Melville, went to meet his visiter. "The Rev. Mr. Wallace," said Mrs. Melville, as she looked at the card, in a tone which indicated that to her at least he was a stranger. "And the letter," she added, as opening it she looked at once at the name of the writer, "is from Mrs. Herbert."
"And who is Mrs. Herbert?" I asked.
"Did you never hear of her? She is a sister of Mr. Leslie. I have not seen her since her marriage, fifteen years ago; but if her maturer years have fulfilled the promise of her early life, she must be excellent indeed."
"You say you have not seen her in fifteen years; has she never visited her brother in all that time?"
"No—she removed on her marriage to the western part of the State of New York; and as Mr. Herbert was not wealthy, the expense of travelling so far has perhaps had something to do with keeping her away."
"But Mr. Leslie was long thought a very wealthy man; did he not assist his sister?"
"I have heard that he offered to do so; but as he had disapproved her marriage with one who had so few worldly advantages to offer as Mr. Herbert, it was probably regard for her husband's feelings which made Mrs. Herbert decline his aid, replying, as I was told she did, with every expression of grateful affection for her brother, but adding the assurance that they had enough for happiness." After a few minutes' silence Mrs. Melville added: "I doubt not they were very happy, for he seemed worthy of her, and that is, I assure you, high praise. What a blow his death must have been!"
"His death!" I exclaimed—"is he dead?"
"Yes; I thought I had mentioned that she was now a widow: he died about the same time with Mr. Leslie. His death was sudden, and I fear he left her and her three children but illy provided for. Had it been otherwise, she would, I am sure, before this time have endeavored to do something for Mary and Ellen; for I know that Mr. Villars wrote soon after their father's death, informing her of their entire destitution, and of those embarrassments on his part which would prevent his doing all he wished for them."
Mrs. Melville had scarcely ceased speaking, when the door between the two parlors was opened, and Mr. Melville entered, accompanied by a very benevolent-looking old gentleman, whom he introduced as Mr. Wallace, saying, as he presented him to Mrs. Melville, that he was a near neighbor of her old friend Mrs. Herbert, of whom he could give her very late intelligence, as he had been only about a fortnight from home.
"I have just been speaking of Mrs. Herbert," said Mrs. Melville, addressing herself to Mr. Wallace, "and though it has been fifteen years since we met, there are few of whom I retain a more admiring and pleasant remembrance. I was indeed grieved when I heard of Mr. Herbert's death."
"It was a terrible blow," said Mr. Wallace, "the more terrible from being so sudden; but Mrs. Herbert is a mourner from a yet more recent affliction—the death of her eldest child and only daughter."
"Indeed! such repeated and heavy strokes—how has she borne up under them?"
"As one who, though a devoted wife and mother, is likewise a devoted Christian. The strokes have been indeed as you say, heavy, but she has bowed to them, and kissed the rod which she knew was in a Father's hand. You who remember her, madam, will not be surprised to learn that no selfish sorrow has made her forgetful of her remaining duties."
"She has yet two children, I believe," said Mrs. Melville.
"Yes—two fine boys, whose education is scarcely commenced yet, as the eldest is but thirteen years old. Her orphan and destitute nieces, too, who, I understood, were with you this afternoon, she feels to have strong claims upon her, almost as strong as those of her own children. To these claims she had not hitherto been able to attend, for she had scarce recovered from the first bewildering effect of her husband's death, when the symptoms which had already alarmed her in her daughter's health, deepened into decided consumption, and her whole time was necessarily given to her till death released her from her cares."
"And will she now be able to give a home to these poor girls?"
"Only to one of them," said Mr. Melville,—"to Ellen."
"And separate them!" exclaimed Mrs. Melville; "that will never do."
"So Mrs. Herbert thought at first," said Mr. Wallace, smiling, "but she has been in correspondence with Mr. Villars on the subject, and she has yielded to his arguments, on the one condition, that the children themselves consent to the arrangement."
"That I am sure they will never do," said Mrs. Melville.
"In that case, Mrs. Herbert's power of being useful to them ceases, since Mr. Villars has decided that the eldest must on no account relinquish the advantages of her position here, as neither he nor Mrs. Herbert are in circumstances to ensure them future support independently of their own exertions."
"Mr. Villars is certainly a very eccentric man," said Mrs. Melville; "does he suppose that a few years could make any difference in Mary's claims upon the people of H., or their willingness to give her their support, if she were then compelled to teach."
"Mr. Villars is eccentric," said Mr. Melville; "yet for what seemed to us strange, he has always had some good reason to give, as I doubt not he has now."
"Well, here come the children," said Mrs. Melville; "we shall soon hear their decision, and I suspect you will find that Mr. Villars' limitation is a complete hinderance to Mrs. Herbert's kind intentions."
The door was thrown open as Mrs. Melville spoke, and the children, unconscious of a stranger's presence, came laughing and talking in. Even Ellen looked pleased, which I was especially glad to see, as her usual gloomy countenance would have impressed a stranger unfavorably. Mrs. Melville led Mary and Ellen to Mr. Wallace, and introduced him to them as a friend of their Aunt Herbert. To their inquiries respecting their aunt and her family Mr. Wallace replied very fully. The children having said that they had never seen her, he described her appearance, her manners, her character—spoke of their cousins George and Charles Herbert, whom he represented as spirited, manly, but kind and affectionate tempered boys.
"And my cousin Lucy?" said Mary.
"Was one of the loveliest and most engaging young persons I ever saw, when she was on earth," said Mr. Wallace; "she is now, I hope, an angel in heaven."
"Is my cousin Lucy dead?" said Ellen, who had hitherto been a silent listener.
"Yes, my child, she has now been dead for more than two months, after enduring for almost two years very great suffering. During all that time, though I saw her very often, I never heard a complaining word from her. All her grief was for her mother. Even when she was dying she thought of her, and the last words we could distinguish from her were, 'Our good heavenly Father will comfort you, mother.'"
"Poor Aunt Herbert!" exclaimed Mary, touched with sympathy for such a loss.
"Yes, my dear child," said Mr. Wallace, "you may well pity her for losing such a daughter, her only daughter; your Aunt Herbert hopes that you will do more than pity her, that you will send her by me another daughter in your sister Ellen, to whom she will be just such a mother as she was to Lucy Herbert. She wished to have you both come to her as her daughters, but your Uncle Villars does not think it wise that you should leave H. just at present; he consents, however, that Ellen should go to her aunt, if you are both willing."
From the moment Ellen's name was mentioned, the sisters had sat looking earnestly into each other's eyes.
"Ellen," said Mr. Wallace, "will you not go with me, and be another Lucy to this good aunt?"
"I could not be like Lucy—I am not good enough; and I cannot leave Mary—I cannot leave Mary for anybody."
Mary threw her arm around Ellen, and drew her closely to her side, answering all Mr. Wallace's arguments only with her tears, or a silent shake of the head. Colonel Melville attempted to influence her, and then she spoke: "Oh! Colonel Melville, I cannot let Ellen go: I promised my mother, when I was a very little girl, and then I promised my father when he was on his death-bed, that I never would part with Ellen, and I cannot do it."
"Mary," said Colonel Melville, "I do not wish you to do it; none wish you to do it, unless you feel it to be not only right but desirable, and all I would ask of you now is that you and Ellen too would think before you decide on a question of so much importance. As respects your promise, you could not have promised that she should not leave you, because about that, you know, she will one of these days have a will of her own, and you cannot prevent her going from you if she chooses it. Now Ellen's home with you is not, I fear, a very happy one,"—Ellen colored and looked down at these words,—"and you have it not in your power to make it so; and here your kind aunt sends and asks her to come to her and be her daughter, promising to cherish her as her own dear child. Mrs. Herbert will educate Ellen as few are capable of doing, and so enable her to be of use to herself and to you too, if the necessity for your labors continue. And there will be no force exercised over Ellen's wishes there, more than here. I doubt not if, after six months or a year's trial of her home there, she should be dissatisfied, and wish to return to you, she will be permitted to do so."
"Will she, sir?—May she come back if she should wish to?" asked Mary quickly, turning to Mr. Wallace.
"Certainly, my dear; your aunt's desire is to make Ellen happy, and that could not be done by keeping her against her will. But I would not have you make up your minds in a hurry—take to-night to think about it. You have, I hope, been taught to pray; ask your heavenly Father to direct you to what is best for you. I intended to set off to-morrow afternoon on my way home, but I will wait till the next morning for Ellen, if you will give me your answer in the course of the day, or to-morrow."
And so it was determined. The children consented to defer their decision till the next day, and Colonel Melville advised that nothing more should then be said on the subject. I saw, however, that though they did not speak of it, Mary and Ellen both thought of it; for more than once I saw Mary's eyes fill with tears as they rested on her sister, and Ellen herself perceiving it at one time, shook her head, and said with a smile, "You need not be afraid, Mary; I shall not leave you." These thoughts, however, did not interfere with Ellen's enjoyment of her supper, which, from the appetite with which it was eaten, was, I doubt not, the only regular meal she had made that day.
Mr. Wallace stayed that night at Colonel Melville's. We had the next morning just assembled around the breakfast-table, when there was a ring at the door-bell, so loud and so hurried, that, surprised and startled, each one turned towards the door to watch for the entrance of the ringer. The servant had probably been as much startled as we, for she moved with unusual quickness, and scarce a minute passed from the ring to the entrance into the breakfast parlor of Ellen Leslie, flushed, breathless, and evidently agitated. Without speaking to, almost without looking at any one else, she walked up to Mr. Wallace, and holding out her hand, said, "I have come to tell you, sir, that I will go with you."
"I am very glad to hear it, my dear; but sit down, get your breath, and then we will talk about it."
"I don't want to talk about it," said Ellen, in an impatient tone; "I want to go. How soon can we go, sir?"
"This afternoon at five o'clock, if you can be ready so soon."
"I am ready now," Ellen began, but Mrs. Melville, who had risen from the table on her coming in, now approached her, and taking off her bonnet, insisted that she should sit down, and take some breakfast before she said any thing more about going. Ellen looked at the breakfast-table, and seemed to find some attraction in it, for she drew nearer to it, then suddenly turning to Mrs. Melville, said, "But Mary does not know. I must go and tell Mary."
"I will send for Mary. Anna, go over to Mrs. Maclean's, and tell Mary she must come and take her breakfast with us."
"Thank you, Mrs. Melville," said Ellen; "I am sure I am much obliged to you, for Mrs. Maclean would not give me any breakfast this morning, and poor Mary felt so badly about it, that I dare say she has not eaten any."
In a moment, I saw the whole reason of Ellen's unexpected resolve, of her hurry and agitation. She had doubtless refused to go down to breakfast—Mrs. Maclean had refused to let her breakfast go up to her—angry words had probably ensued—Ellen had declared she would go away—Mrs. Maclean, instead of expressing sorrow or apprehension at such a threat, had hoped she would, and Ellen, too proud to retract, too wilful to hesitate, had started off at once; and thus, the decision about which she had been advised to think so carefully and prayerfully, was made in a fit of anger, and carried through for the gratification of proud and resentful feeling.
Anna Melville was gone a longer time than was usually found necessary for a message to Mrs. Maclean's. Mary returned with her, and her eyes showed that her tears had been just hastily wiped away as she entered the parlor. Neither of the sisters ate much breakfast, for Ellen was still too angry and Mary too sorrowful to feel hungry. Mrs. Melville placed Mary by her at table—Ellen was at the other end—and was careful that nothing should be said in relation to Ellen's departure till breakfast was over. She then took Mary's hand, and leading her into the next room, closed the door after her. They were gone almost an hour, and when they came back, though Mary's eyes were red and swollen, her countenance was much more composed. Ellen looked anxiously at her as she entered, and going up to her, took her hand and said, "Are you sorry I am going, Mary?"
"I am sorry and glad too, Ellen," said Mary, pressing her lips to her sister's forehead; "sorry to part with you, but glad, very glad that you are going to such a good, kind aunt as Mrs. Melville says our Aunt Herbert is."
"I do not care so much about that, for I am sure she cannot be more good and kind than you are, Mary," and Ellen passed her arm around her sister's waist, and laid her head affectionately on her shoulder; "but I am very glad that I shall not have to go back to that hateful Mrs. Maclean."
"Hush—hush, Ellen. Mrs. Maclean is quick in her temper, but she has been often very kind to us, and you should not call her hateful."
"She may be very kind to you," said Ellen, "I do not know any thing about that; but I do not call it kindness to tell me that she would rather go without her meals than eat them with me, and then to refuse to give me my breakfast. I told her I would never darken her door again, and I never will. I will not go back even to pack my trunk or get my things."
Mary looked as if she were about to remonstrate with her sister, but Mrs. Melville interposed, saying, "It will not be at all necessary, Ellen, that you should; I will go over with Mary and assist her in packing your trunk, and get such things as may be necessary for you on your journey, of which I shall be a better judge than either of you, as I am an older traveller. In the mean time, you had better go around and say good-by to some of your old friends in H. Anna will go with you."
While Mrs. Melville was speaking, Colonel Melville and Mr. Wallace, who had walked out together after breakfast, entered.
"Well, my little fellow-traveller," said Mr. Wallace cheerfully, "will you be ready at five o'clock?"
"Yes, sir," said Ellen; then after hesitating a moment she added, "You say, sir, that if I want to come back to Mary I can."
"Yes, my dear, if you want to come back after you have been six months with your Aunt. In a shorter time than that you could form no judgment of what your life there would be; but if then you wish to return, I am sure that nothing will be done to detain you."
"There, Mary, you hear that," said Ellen with great animation; "by that time Uncle Villars will have come back, and then you can leave that"—Ellen looked as if she wanted to say hateful again—"Mrs. Maclean, and we will all, I dare say, live together just as we used to do."
"Mrs. Merrill and all," said Colonel Melville slyly, for he had heard from Mr. Villars something of Ellen's disagreements with Mrs. Merrill.
Ellen colored very much, but after a minute's hesitation, she said, "Well, even Mrs. Merrill was not so bad as Mrs. Maclean."
Our party now separated; Mary and Mrs. Melville went to Mrs. Maclean's, and Ellen and Anna set out to make their visits. Three o'clock brought us all together again for dinner. The flush had now faded from Ellen's cheeks, and it was easy to see that being no longer sustained by anger or resentment, her heart had begun to fail her at the thought of the approaching separation from her sister. But there was now no time for the indulgence of feeling. Immediately after dinner Ellen's baggage was brought over; then she had to change her dress for that in which she was to travel—then to have all the arrangements which Mrs. Melville and Mary had made of those things that would be necessary to her comfort on the journey explained to her; and before this was completed the carriage was at the door, and her adieus must be made. Ellen started as she heard this announcement, and flung herself into Mary's arms, exclaiming amidst sobs and tears, "Oh Mary, if you could only go with me! if you could only go with me, Mary!"
Mary said not a word, but she folded Ellen closely to her heart, as if to part with her were impossible, and wept over her as if that heart were breaking. Anna and Emma Melville sobbed from sympathy, and the rest of us stood around, silent and tearful spectators of the scene.
"My dear children," said Mr. Wallace at last, "you are needlessly distressing yourselves; remember it is but a visit Ellen is going on. She shall come back, I again promise you, in six months, if she desire to do so."
"And Mary," said Colonel Melville, going up to her and taking her hand, "it will not do to keep Mr. Wallace waiting. For Ellen's sake, my dear girl, control yourself."
Mary unclasped her arms from her sister, and as Mr. Wallace approached to lead Ellen away she looked imploringly in his face, and exclaimed in the most earnest tones, "Oh! be good to her, sir, be very good to her."
"I will, my dear child, I will," was all that the kind old gentleman could say.
A silent kiss to Ellen from each of the party, and Mr. Wallace led her out to the carriage. The next moment the sound of wheels told that they were off. Mary had stood listening for that sound. As it fell upon her ear she turned from us into an adjoining room, and her quick, heavy sobs reached us where we stood, showing that she had gone there to weep alone. We left her undisturbed for some minutes, and then Mrs. Melville went in and talked soothingly and cheeringly to her. Mary had learned early to control her feelings for the sake of others, and she soon came out with Mrs. Melville, looking and speaking calmly, though often, in the course of the evening, I saw a tear steal down her cheek without her seeming to notice it. Just before night, Mary rose and took her bonnet to return home. "Stay, Mary," said Mrs. Melville, "you are not going to leave us so soon. I will send over to let Mrs. Maclean know that you will not return to-night, and the messenger can bring any thing you may want."
And so Mary stayed that night, and the next day, and a week; and still, as she talked of going home, new reasons were found for delay. Her obliging temper and gentle manners rendered her so pleasing an inmate, that all found it painful to part with her; and at last it was arranged that she should remain at Colonel Melville's till Mr. Villars returned, continuing there to employ herself with her needle or pencil, and giving lessons in music, as she had hitherto done, to a few pupils. Leaving her to be loved and cherished by this kind family, we will follow Ellen to her new home.