"My dearest Mamma,—It makes me so glad and so sorry to write to you, that I don't know what to do. I want to see you so much, mamma, that it seems to me sometimes as if my heart would break. Oh, mamma, if I could just kiss you once more, I would give anything in the whole world. I can't be happy as long as you are away, and I'm afraid I can't be good either; but I will try. Oh, I will try, mamma. I have so much to say to you that I don't know where to begin. I am sure my paper will never hold it all. You will want to know about my journey. The first day was on the steamboat, you know. I should have had a dreadful time that day, mamma, but for something I'll tell you about. I was sitting up on the upper deck, thinking about you, and feeling very badly indeed, when a gentleman came and spoke to me, and asked me what was the matter. Mamma, I can't tell you how kind he was to me. He kept me with him the whole day. He took me all over the boat, and showed me all about a great many things, and he talked to me a great deal. Oh, mamma, how he talked to me. He read in the Bible to me, and explained it, and he tried to make me a Christian. And oh, mamma, when he was talking to me, how I wanted to do as he said, and I resolved I would. I did, mamma, and I've not forgotten it. I will try indeed, but I am afraid it will be very hard without you or him, or anybody else to help me. You couldn't have been kinder yourself, mamma; he kissed me at night when I bid him good-bye, and I was very sorry indeed. I wish I could see him again. Mamma, I will always love that gentleman, if I never see him again in the world. I wish there was somebody here that I could love, but there is not. You will want to know what sort of a person my Aunt Fortune is. I think she is very good-looking, or she would be if her nose was not quite so sharp; but, mamma, I can't tell you what sort of a feeling I have about her; it seems to me as if she was sharp all over. I am sure her eyes are as sharp as two needles. And she don't walk like other people; at least sometimes. She makes queer little jerks and starts and jumps, and flies about like I don't know what. I am afraid it is not right for me to write so about her; but may I not tell you, mamma? There's nobody else for me to talk to. I can't like Aunt Fortune much yet, and I am sure she don't like me; but I will try to make her. I have not forgotten what you said to me about that. Oh, dear mamma, I will try to mind everything you ever said to me in your life. I am afraid you won't like what I have written about Aunt Fortune; but indeed I have done nothing to displease her, and I will try not to. If you were only here, mamma, I should say it was the loveliest place I ever saw in my life. Perhaps, after all, I shall feel better, and be quite happy by-and-by; but oh, mamma, howglad I shall be when I get a letter from you. I shall begin to look for it soon, and I think I shall go out of my wits with joy when it comes. I had the funniest ride down here from Thirlwall that you can think; how do you guess I came? In a cart drawn by oxen. They went so slow we were an age getting here; but I liked it very much. There was a good-natured man driving the oxen, and he was kind to me; but, mamma, what do you think? he eats at the table. I know what you would tell me; you would say I must not mind trifles. Well, I will try not, mamma. Oh, darling mother, I can't think much of anything but you. I think of you the whole time. Who makes tea for you now? Are you better? Are you going to leave New York soon? It seems dreadfully long since I saw you. I am tired, dear mamma, and cold; and it is getting dark. I must stop. I have a good big room to myself; that is a good thing. I should not like to sleep with Aunt Fortune. Good-night, dear mamma. I wish I could sleep with you once more. Oh, when will that be again, mamma? Good-night. Good-night."Your affectionateEllen."
"My dearest Mamma,—It makes me so glad and so sorry to write to you, that I don't know what to do. I want to see you so much, mamma, that it seems to me sometimes as if my heart would break. Oh, mamma, if I could just kiss you once more, I would give anything in the whole world. I can't be happy as long as you are away, and I'm afraid I can't be good either; but I will try. Oh, I will try, mamma. I have so much to say to you that I don't know where to begin. I am sure my paper will never hold it all. You will want to know about my journey. The first day was on the steamboat, you know. I should have had a dreadful time that day, mamma, but for something I'll tell you about. I was sitting up on the upper deck, thinking about you, and feeling very badly indeed, when a gentleman came and spoke to me, and asked me what was the matter. Mamma, I can't tell you how kind he was to me. He kept me with him the whole day. He took me all over the boat, and showed me all about a great many things, and he talked to me a great deal. Oh, mamma, how he talked to me. He read in the Bible to me, and explained it, and he tried to make me a Christian. And oh, mamma, when he was talking to me, how I wanted to do as he said, and I resolved I would. I did, mamma, and I've not forgotten it. I will try indeed, but I am afraid it will be very hard without you or him, or anybody else to help me. You couldn't have been kinder yourself, mamma; he kissed me at night when I bid him good-bye, and I was very sorry indeed. I wish I could see him again. Mamma, I will always love that gentleman, if I never see him again in the world. I wish there was somebody here that I could love, but there is not. You will want to know what sort of a person my Aunt Fortune is. I think she is very good-looking, or she would be if her nose was not quite so sharp; but, mamma, I can't tell you what sort of a feeling I have about her; it seems to me as if she was sharp all over. I am sure her eyes are as sharp as two needles. And she don't walk like other people; at least sometimes. She makes queer little jerks and starts and jumps, and flies about like I don't know what. I am afraid it is not right for me to write so about her; but may I not tell you, mamma? There's nobody else for me to talk to. I can't like Aunt Fortune much yet, and I am sure she don't like me; but I will try to make her. I have not forgotten what you said to me about that. Oh, dear mamma, I will try to mind everything you ever said to me in your life. I am afraid you won't like what I have written about Aunt Fortune; but indeed I have done nothing to displease her, and I will try not to. If you were only here, mamma, I should say it was the loveliest place I ever saw in my life. Perhaps, after all, I shall feel better, and be quite happy by-and-by; but oh, mamma, howglad I shall be when I get a letter from you. I shall begin to look for it soon, and I think I shall go out of my wits with joy when it comes. I had the funniest ride down here from Thirlwall that you can think; how do you guess I came? In a cart drawn by oxen. They went so slow we were an age getting here; but I liked it very much. There was a good-natured man driving the oxen, and he was kind to me; but, mamma, what do you think? he eats at the table. I know what you would tell me; you would say I must not mind trifles. Well, I will try not, mamma. Oh, darling mother, I can't think much of anything but you. I think of you the whole time. Who makes tea for you now? Are you better? Are you going to leave New York soon? It seems dreadfully long since I saw you. I am tired, dear mamma, and cold; and it is getting dark. I must stop. I have a good big room to myself; that is a good thing. I should not like to sleep with Aunt Fortune. Good-night, dear mamma. I wish I could sleep with you once more. Oh, when will that be again, mamma? Good-night. Good-night.
"Your affectionateEllen."
The letter finished was carefully folded, enclosed, and directed; and then with an odd mixture of pleasure and sadness, Ellen lit one of her little wax matches, as she called them, and sealed it very nicely. She looked at it fondly a minute when all was done, thinking of the dear fingers that would hold and open it; her next movement was to sink her face in her hands, and pray most earnestly for a blessing upon her mother and help for herself—poor Ellen felt she needed it. She was afraid of lingering lest tea should be ready; so, locking up her letter, she went downstairs.
The tea was ready. Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt were at the table, and so was the old lady, whom Ellen had not seen before that day. She quietly drew up her chair to its place.
"Well," said Miss Fortune, "I hope you feel better for your long stay upstairs."
"I do, ma'am," said Ellen; "a great deal better."
"What have you been about?"
"I have been writing, ma'am."
"Writing what?"
"I have been writing to mamma."
Perhaps Miss Fortune heard the trembling of Ellen's voice, or her sharp glance saw the lip quiver and eyelid droop. Something softened her. She spoke in a different tone; asked Ellen if her tea was good; took care she had plenty of the bread and butter, and excellent cheese, which was on the table; and lastly cut her alarge piece of the pumpkin pie. Mr. Van Brunt too looked once or twice at Ellen's face as if he thought all was not right there. He was not so sharp as Miss Fortune, but the swollen eyes and tear stains were not quite lost upon him.
After tea, when Mr. Van Brunt was gone, and the tea things cleared away, Ellen had the pleasure of finding out the mystery of the brass kettle and the white maple bark. The kettle now stood in the chimney corner. Miss Fortune, seating herself before it, threw in all Ellen's stockings except one pair, which she flung over to her, saying, "There, I don't care if you keep that one." Then, tucking up her sleeves to the elbows, she fished up pair after pair out of the kettle, and wringing them out hung them on chairs to dry. But, as Ellen had opined, they were no longer white, but of a fine slate colour. She looked on in silence, too much vexed to ask questions.
"Well, how do you like that?" said Miss Fortune at length, when she had got two or three chairs round the fire pretty well hung with a display of slate-coloured cotton legs.
"I don't like it at all," said Ellen.
"Well,Ido. How many pair of white stockings would you like to drive into the mud and let me wash out every week?"
"Youwash!" said Ellen in surprise; "I didn't think ofyourdoing it."
"Who did you thinkwasgoing to do it? There's nothing in this house but goes through my hand, I can tell you, and so must you. I suppose you've lived all your life among people that thought a great deal of wetting their little finger; but I am not one of 'em, I guess you'll find."
Ellen was convinced of that already.
"Well, what are you thinking of?" said Miss Fortune presently.
"I'm thinking of my nice white darning cotton," said Ellen. "I might just as well not have had it."
"Is it wound or in the skein?"
"In the skein."
"Then just go right up and get it. I'll warrant I'll fix it so that you'll have a use for it."
Ellen obeyed, but musing rather uncomfortably what else there was of hers that Miss Fortune could lay hands on. She seemed in imagination to see all her white things turning brown. She resolved she would keep her trunk well locked up; but what if her keys should be called for?
She was dismissed to her room soon after the dyeing business was completed. It was rather a disagreeable surprise to find her bed still unmade; and she did not at all like the notion that themaking of it in future must depend entirely upon herself; Ellen had no fancy for such handiwork. She went to sleep in somewhat the same dissatisfied mood with which the day had been begun; displeasure at her coarse heavy coverlid and cotton sheets again taking its place among weightier matters; and dreamed of tying them together into a rope by which to let herself down out of the window; but when she had got so far, Ellen's sleep became sound, and the end of the dream was never known.
Downward, and ever farther.And ever the brook beside;And ever fresher murmured,And ever clearer, the tide.
—Longfellow.From the German.
Clouds and rain and cold winds kept Ellen within doors for several days. This did not better the state of matters between herself and her aunt. Shut up with her in the kitchen from morning till night, with the only variety of the old lady's company part of the time, Ellen thought neither of them improved upon acquaintance. Perhaps they thought the same of her; she was certainly not in her best mood. With nothing to do, the time hanging very heavy on her hands, disappointed, unhappy, frequently irritated, Ellen became at length very ready to take offence, and nowise disposed to pass it over or smooth it away. She seldom showed this in words, it is true, but it rankled in her mind. Listless and brooding, she sat day after day, comparing the present with the past, wishing vain wishes, indulging bootless regrets, and looking upon her aunt and grandmother with an eye of more settled aversion. The only other person she saw was Mr. Van Brunt, who came in regularly to meals; but he never said anything unless in answer to Miss Fortune's questions and remarks about the farm concerns. These did not interest her, and she was greatly wearied with the sameness of her life. She longed to go out again; but Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday passed, and the weather still kept her close prisoner. Monday brought a change, but though a cool drying wind blew all day, the ground was too wet to venture out.
On the evening of that day, as Miss Fortune was setting the table for tea, and Ellen sitting before the fire, feeling weary of everything, the kitchen door opened, and a girl somewhat largerand older than herself came in. She had a pitcher in her hand, and marching straight up to the tea-table, she said—
"Will you let granny have a little milk to-night, Miss Fortune? I can't find the cow. I'll bring it back to-morrow."
"You ha'n't lost her, Nancy?"
"Have, though," said the other; "she's been away these two days."
"Why didn't you go somewhere nearer for milk?"
"Oh, I don't know; I guess your'n is the sweetest," said the girl, with a look Ellen did not understand.
Miss Fortune took the pitcher and went into the pantry. While she was gone the two children improved the time in looking very hard at each other. Ellen's gaze was modest enough, though it showed a great deal of interest in the new object; but the broad, searching stare of the other seemed intended to take in all there was of Ellen from her head to her feet, and keep it, and find out what sort of a creature she was at once. Ellen almost shrank from the bold black eyes, but they never wavered, till Miss Fortune's voice broke the spell.
"How's your grandmother, Nancy?"
"She's tolerable, ma'am, thank you."
"Now, if you don't bring it back to-morrow, you won't get any more in a hurry," said Miss Fortune, as she handed the pitcher back to the girl.
"I'll mind it," said the latter, with a little nod of her head, which seemed to say there was no danger of her forgetting.
"Who is that, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen, when she was gone.
"She is a girl that lives up on the mountain yonder."
"But what's her name?"
"I had just as lief you wouldn't know her name. She ain't a good girl. Don't you never have anything to do with her."
Ellen was in no mind to give credit to all her aunt's opinions, and she set this down as in part at least coming from ill-humour.
The next morning was calm and fine, and Ellen spent nearly the whole of it out of doors. She did not venture near the ditch, but in every other direction she explored the ground, and examined what stood or grew upon it as thoroughly as she dared. Towards noon she was standing by the little gate at the back of the house, unwilling to go in, but not knowing what more to do, when Mr. Van Brunt came from the lane with a load of wood. Ellen watched the oxen toiling up the ascent, and thought it looked like very hard work; she was sorry for them.
"Isn't that a very heavy load?" she asked of their driver, as he was throwing it down under the apple-tree.
"Heavy? Not a bit of it. It ain't nothing at all to 'em. They'd take twice as much any day with pleasure."
"I shouldn't think so," said Ellen; "they don't look as if there was much pleasure about it. What makes them lean over so against each other when they are coming up hill?"
"Oh, that's just a way they've got. They're so fond of each other, I suppose. Perhaps they've something particular to say, and want to put their heads together for the purpose."
"No," said Ellen, half laughing, "it can't be that; they wouldn't take the very hardest time for that; they would wait till they got to the top of the hill; but there they stand just as if they were asleep, only their eyes are open, poor things."
"They're not very poor anyhow," said Mr. Van Brunt; "there ain't a finer yoke of oxen to be seen than them are, nor in better condition."
He went on throwing the wood out of the cart, and Ellen stood looking at him.
"What'll you give me if I'll make you a scup one of these days?" said Mr. Van Brunt.
"A scup?" said Ellen.
"Yes—a scup! How would you like it?"
"I don't know what it is," said Ellen.
"A scup!—maybe you don't know it by that name; some folks call it a swing."
"A swing! Oh yes," said Ellen; "now I know. Oh, I like it very much."
"Would you like to have one?"
"Yes, indeed I should, very much."
"Well, what'll you give me if I'll fix you out?"
"I don't know," said Ellen; "I have nothing to give. I'll be very much obliged to you indeed."
"Well now, come, I'll make a bargain with you; I'll engage to fix up a scup for you if you'll give me a kiss."
Poor Ellen was struck dumb. The good-natured Dutchman had taken a fancy to the little pale-faced, sad-looking stranger, and really felt very kindly disposed towards her; but she neither knew nor at that moment cared about that. She stood motionless, utterly astounded at this unheard-of proposal, and not a little indignant; but when, with a good-natured smile upon his round face, he came near to claim the kiss he no doubt thought himself sure of, Ellen shot from him like an arrow from a bow. She rushed to the house, and bursting open the door, stood with flushed face and sparkling eyes in the presence of her astonished aunt.
"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed that lady.
"He wanted to kiss me!" said Ellen, scarce knowing whom she was talking to, and crimsoning more and more.
"Who wanted to kiss you?"
"That man out there."
"What man?"
"That man that drives the oxen."
"What, Mr. Van Brunt?" And Ellen never forgot the loud ha! ha! which burst from Miss Fortune's wide-opened mouth.
"Well, why didn't you let him kiss you?"
The laugh, the look, the tone, stung Ellen to the very quick. In a fury of passion she dashed away out of the kitchen and up to her own room. And there, for a while, the storm of anger drove over her with such violence that conscience had hardly time to whisper. Sorrow came in again as passion faded, and gentler but very bitter weeping took the place of convulsive sobs of rage and mortification, and then the whispers of conscience began to be heard a little. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" cried poor Ellen in her heart; "how miserable I am without you! I never can like Aunt Fortune; it's of no use—I never can like her. I hope I sha'n't get to hate her!—and that isn't right. I am forgetting all that is good, and there's nobody to put me in mind. Oh, mamma! if I could lay my head in your lap for a minute!" Then came thoughts of her Bible and hymn-book, and the friend who had given it—sorrowful thoughts they were; and at last, humbled and sad, poor Ellen sought that great Friend she knew she had displeased, and prayed earnestly to be made a good child. She felt and owned she was not one now.
It was long after mid-day when Ellen rose from her knees. Her passion was all gone; she felt more gentle and pleasant than she had done for days; but at the bottom of her heart resentment was not all gone. She still thought she had cause to be angry, and she could not think of her aunt's look and tone without a thrill of painful feeling. In a very different mood, however, from that in which she had flown upstairs two or three hours before, she now came softly down and went out by the front door to avoid meeting her aunt. She had visited that morning a little brook which ran through the meadow on the other side of the road. It had great charms for her; and now crossing the lane and creeping under the fence, she made her way again to its banks. At a particular spot, where the brook made one of its sudden turns, Ellen sat down upon the grass and watched the dark water—whirling, brawling over the stones, hurrying past her with ever the same soft, pleasant sound, and she was never tired of it. She did not hear footsteps drawing near, and it was nottill some one was close beside her, and a voice spoke almost in her ears, that she raised her startled eyes and saw the little girl who had come the evening before for a pitcher of milk.
"What are you doing?" said the latter.
"I'm watching for fish," said Ellen.
"Watching for fish!" said the other, rather disdainfully.
"Yes," said Ellen; "there, in that little quiet place they come sometimes. I've seen two."
"You can look for fish another time. Come now and take a walk with me."
"Where?" said Ellen.
"Oh, you shall see. Come! I'll take you all about and show you where people live. You ha'n't been anywhere yet, have you?"
"No," said Ellen, "and I should like dearly to go, but——"
She hesitated. Her aunt's words came to mind, that this was not a good girl, and that she must have nothing to do with her; but she had not more than half believed them, and she could not possibly bring herself now to go in and ask Miss Fortune's leave to take this walk. "I am sure," thought Ellen, "she would refuse me if there was no reason in the world." And then the delight of rambling through the beautiful country and being for awhile in other company than that of her Aunt Fortune and the old grandmother! The temptation was too great to be withstood.
"Well, what are you thinking about?" said the girl. "What's the matter? Won't you come?"
"Yes," said Ellen, "I'm ready. Which way shall we go?"
With the assurance from the other that she would show her plenty of ways, they set off down the lane; Ellen with a secret fear of being seen and called back, till they had gone some distance, and the house was hid from view. Then her pleasure became great. The afternoon was fair and mild, the footing pleasant, and Ellen felt like a bird out of a cage. She was ready to be delighted with every trifle; her companion could not by any means understand or enter into her bursts of pleasure at many a little thing which she of the black eyes thought not worthy of notice. She tried to bring Ellen back to higher subjects of conversation.
"How long have you been here?" she asked.
"Oh, a good while," said Ellen; "I don't know exactly; it's a week, I believe."
"Why, do you call that a good while?" said the other.
"Well, it seems a good while to me," said Ellen, sighing; "it seems as long as four, I am sure."
"Then you don't like to live here much, do you?"
"I had rather be at home, of course."
"How do you like your Aunt Fortune?"
"How do I like her?" said Ellen, hesitating. "I think she's good-looking, and very smart."
"Yes, you needn't tell me she's smart—everybody knows that; that ain't what I ask you. How do youlikeher?"
"How do I like her?" said Ellen again; "how can I tell how I shall like her? I haven't lived with her but a week yet."
"You might just as well ha' spoke out," said the other somewhat scornfully. "Do you think I don't know you half hate her already? and it'll be whole hating in another week more. When I first heard you'd come, I guessed you'd have a sweet time with her."
"Why?" said Ellen.
"Oh, don't ask me why," said the other impatiently, "when you know as well as I do. Every soul that speaks of you says, 'poor child,' and 'I'm glad I ain't her.' You needn't try to come cunning over me. I shall be too much for you, I tell you."
"I don't know what you mean," said Ellen.
"Oh no, I suppose you don't," said the other in the same tone; "of course you don't; I suppose you don't know whether your tongue is your own or somebody's else. You think Miss Fortune is an angel, and so do I; to be sure she is!"
Not very well pleased with this kind of talk, Ellen walked on for a while in grave silence. Her companion meantime recollected herself; when she spoke again it was with an altered tone.
"How do you like Mr. Van Brunt?"
"I don't like him at all," said Ellen, reddening.
"Don't you?" said the other, surprised, "why, everybody likes him. What don't you like him for?"
"I don't like him," repeated Ellen.
"Ain't Miss Fortune queer to live in the way she does?"
"What way?" said Ellen.
"Why, without any help—doing all her own work, and living all alone, when she's so rich as she is."
"Is she rich?" asked Ellen.
"Rich! I guess she is! she's one of the very best farms in the country, and money enough to have a dozen help, if she wanted 'em. Van Brunt takes care of the farm, you know."
"Does he?" said Ellen.
"Why, yes, of course he does! didn't you know that? what did you think he was at your house all the time for?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Ellen. "And are those Aunt Fortune's oxen that he drives?"
"To be sure they are. Well, I do think youaregreen, to have been there all this time and not found that out. Mr. Van Brunt does just what he pleases over the whole farm, though; hires what help he wants, manages everything; and then he has his share of all that comes off it. I tell you what—you'd better make friends with Van Brunt, for if anybody can help you when your aunt gets one of her ugly fits, it's him; she don't care to meddle with him much."
Leaving the lane, the two girls took a footpath leading across the fields. The stranger was greatly amused with Ellen's awkwardness in climbing fences. Where it was a possible thing, she was fain to crawl under; but once or twice that could not be done, and having with infinite difficulty mounted to the top rail, poor Ellen sat there in a most tottering condition, uncertain on which side of the fence she should tumble over, but seeing no other possible way of getting down. The more she trembled the more her companion laughed, standing aloof meanwhile, and insisting she should get down by herself. Necessity enabled her to do this at last, and each time the task became easier; but Ellen secretly made up her mind that her new friend was not likely to prove a very good one.
As they went along, she pointed out to Ellen two or three houses in the distance, and gave her not a little gossip about the people who lived in them; but all this Ellen scarcely heard, and cared nothing at all about. She had paused by the side of a large rock standing alone by the wayside, and was looking very closely at its surface.
"What is this curious brown stuff," said Ellen, "growing all over the rock—like shrivelled and dried-up leaves? Isn't it curious? Part of it stands out like a leaf, and part of it sticks fast; I wonder if it grows here, or what it is."
"Oh, never mind," said the other; "it always grows on the rocks everywhere. I don't know what it is, and what's more, I don't care. 'Taint worth looking at. Come!"
Ellen followed her. But presently the path entered an open woodland, and now her delight broke forth beyond bounds.
"Oh, how pleasant this is! how lovely this is! Isn't it beautiful?" she exclaimed.
"Isn'twhatbeautiful? I do think you are the queerest girl, Ellen."
"Why, everything," said Ellen, not minding the latter part of the sentence; "the ground is beautiful, and those tall trees, and that beautiful blue sky—only look at it."
"The ground is all covered with stones and rocks—is that what you call beautiful? and the trees are as homely as they canbe, with their great brown stems and no leaves. Come! whatareyou staring at?"
Ellen's eyes were fixed on a string of dark spots which were rapidly passing overhead.
"Hark," said she; "do you hear that noise? What is that? What is that?"
"Isn't it only a flock of ducks," said the other contemptuously; "come! do come!"
But Ellen was rooted to the ground, and her eyes followed the airy travellers till the last one had quitted the piece of blue sky which the surrounding woods left to be seen. And scarcely were these gone when a second flight came in view, following exactly in the track of the first.
"Where are they going?" said Ellen.
"I am sure I don't know where they are going; they never told me. I know whereIam going; I should like to know whether you are going along with me."
Ellen, however, was in no hurry. The ducks had disappeared, but her eye had caught something else that charmed it.
"What is this?" said Ellen.
"Nothing but moss."
"Is that moss? How beautiful! how green and soft it is! I declare it's as soft as a carpet."
"As soft as a carpet!" repeated the other: "I should like to see a carpet as soft as that!younever did, I guess."
"Indeed I have, though," said Ellen, who was gently jumping up and down on the green moss to try its softness, with a face of great satisfaction.
"I don't believe it a bit," said the other; "all the carpets I ever saw were as hard as a board, and harder: as soft as that, indeed!"
"Well," said Ellen, still jumping up and down, with bonnet off, and glowing cheek, and hair dancing about her face, "you may believe what you like; but I've seen a carpet as soft as this, and softer, too; only one, though."
"What was it made of?"
"What other carpets are made of, I suppose. Come, I'll go with you now. I do think this is the loveliest place I ever did see. Are there any flowers here in the spring?"
"I don't know—yes, lots of 'em."
"Pretty ones?" said Ellen.
"You'dthink so, I suppose; I never look at 'em."
"Oh, how lovely that will be," said Ellen, clasping her hands; "how pleasant it must be to live in the country!"
"Pleasant, indeed!" said the other; "I think it's hateful.You'd think so too if you lived where I do. It makes me mad at granny every day because she won't go to Thirlwall. Wait till we get out of the wood, and I'll show you where I live. You can't see it from here."
Shocked a little at her companion's language, Ellen again walked on in sober silence. Gradually the ground became more broken, sinking rapidly from the side of the path, and rising again in a steep bank on the other side of a narrow dell; both sides were thickly wooded, but stripped of green, now, except where here and there a hemlock flung its graceful branches abroad and stood in lonely beauty among its leafless companions. Now, the gurgling of waters was heard.
"Where is that?" said Ellen, stopping short.
"'Way down, down, at the bottom, there. It's the brook."
"What brook? Not the same that goes by Aunt Fortune's?"
"Yes, it's the very same. It's the crookedest thing you ever saw. It runs over there," said the speaker, pointing with her arm, "and then it takes a turn and goes that way, and then it comes round so, and then it shoots off in that way again and passes by your house; and after that the dear knows where it goes, for I don't. But I don't suppose it could run straight if it was to try to."
"Can't we get down to it?" asked Ellen.
"To be sure we can, unless you're as afraid of steep banks as you are of fences."
Very steep indeed it was, and strewn with loose stones, but Ellen did not falter here, and though once or twice in imminent danger of exchanging her cautious stepping for one long roll to the bottom, she got there safely on her two feet. When there, everything was forgotten in delight. It was a wild little place. The high, close sides of the dell left only a little strip of sky overhead; and at their feet ran the brook, much more noisy and lively here than where Ellen had before made its acquaintance; leaping from rock to rock, eddying round large stones, and boiling over the small ones, and now and then pouring quietly over some great trunk of a tree that had fallen across its bed, and dammed up the whole stream. Ellen could scarcely contain herself at the magnificence of many of the waterfalls, the beauty of the little quiet pools where the water lay still behind some large stone, and the variety of graceful, tiny cascades.
"Look here, Nancy!" cried Ellen, "that's the Falls of Niagara—do you see?—that large one; oh, that is splendid! and this will do for Trenton Falls—what a fine foam it makes—isn't it a beauty?—and what shall we call this? I don't know what to call it; I wish we could name them all, but there's no end tothem. Oh, just look at that one! that's too pretty not to have a name. What shall it be?"
"Black Falls," suggested the other.
"Black," said Ellen dubiously, "why—I don't like that."
"Why, the water's all dark and black, don't you see?"
"Well," said Ellen, "let it be Black, then; but I don't like it. Now remember,—this is Niagara—that is Black—and this is Trenton. And what is this?"
"If you are a-going to name them all," said Nancy, "we sha'n't get home to-night; you might as well name all the trees; there's a hundred of 'em and more. I say, Ellen! suppos'n we follow the brook instead of climbing up yonder again; it will take us out to the open fields by-and-by."
"Oh, do let's!" said Ellen; "that will be lovely."
It proved a rough way; but Ellen still thought and called it "lovely." Often by the side of the stream there was no footing at all, and the girls picked their way over the stones, large and small, wet and dry, which strewed its bed, against which the water foamed and fumed and fretted, as if in great impatience. It was ticklish work getting along over these stones; now tottering on an unsteady one, now slipping on a wet one, and every now and then making huge leaps from rock to rock, which there was no other method of reaching, at the imminent hazard of falling in. But they laughed at the danger; sprang on in great glee, delighted with the exercise and the fun; didn't stay long enough anywhere to lose their balance, and enjoyed themselves amazingly. There was many a hairbreadth escape, many analmostsousing; but that made it all the more lively. The brook formed, as Nancy had said, a constant succession of little waterfalls, its course being quite steep and very rocky; and in some places there were pools quite deep enough to have given them a thorough wetting, to say no more, if they had missed their footing and tumbled in. But this did not happen. In due time, though with no little difficulty, they reached the spot where the brook came forth from the wood into the open day, and thence making a sharp turn to the right, skirted along by the edge of the trees, as if unwilling to part company with them.
"I guess we'd better get back into the lane now," said Miss Nancy, "we're a pretty good long way from home."
Behind the door stand bags o' meal,And in the ark is plenty.And good hard cakes his mither makes,And mony a sweeter dainty.A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,Are standing in the byre;While winking puss, wi' mealy mou',Is playing round the fire.
Behind the door stand bags o' meal,And in the ark is plenty.And good hard cakes his mither makes,And mony a sweeter dainty.A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,Are standing in the byre;While winking puss, wi' mealy mou',Is playing round the fire.
—Scotch Song.
They left the wood and the brook behind them, and crossed a large stubble field; then got over a fence into another. They were in the midst of this when Nancy stopped Ellen, and bade her look up towards the west, where towered a high mountain, no longer hid from their view by the trees.
"I told you I'd show you where I live," said she. "Look up now, clear to the top of the mountain, almost, and a little to the right; do you see that little mite of a house there? Look sharp,—it's a'most as brown as the rock,—do you see it?—it's close by that big pine-tree, but it don't look big from here—it's just by that little dark spot near the top."
"I see it," said Ellen, "I see it now; do you live 'way up there?"
"That's just what I do; and that's just what I wish I didn't. But granny likes it; she will live there. I'm blessed if I know what for, if it ain't to plague me. Do you think you'd like to live up on the top of a mountain like that?"
"No, I don't think I should," said Ellen. "Isn't it very cold up there?"
"Cold! you don't know anything about it. The wind comes there, I tell you—enough to cut you in two; I have to take and hold on to the trees sometimes to keep from being blowed away. And then granny sends me out every morning before it's light, no matter how deep the snow is, to look for the cow; and it's so bitter cold I expect nothing else but I'll be froze to death some time."
"Oh," said Ellen, with a look of horror, "how can she do so?"
"Oh, she don't care," said the other; "she sees my nose freeze off every winter, and it don't make no difference."
"Freeze your nose off!" said Ellen.
"To be sure," said the other, nodding gravely, "every winter; it grows out again when the warm weather comes."
"And is that the reason why it is so little?" said Ellen innocently, and with great curiosity.
"Little!" said the other, crimsoning in a fury; "what do you mean by that? It's as big as yours any day, I can tell you."
Ellen involuntarily put her hand to her face to see if Nancy spoke true. Somewhat reassured to find a very decided ridge where her companion's nose was wanting in the line of beauty, she answered in her turn—
"It's no such thing, Nancy! you oughtn't to say so; you know better."
"Idon'tknow better! Ioughtto say so!" replied the other furiously. "If I had your nose I'd be glad to have it freeze off; I'd a sight rather have none. I'd pull it every day, if I was you, to make it grow."
"I shall believe what Aunt Fortune said of you was true," said Ellen. She had coloured very high, but she added no more, and walked on in dignified silence. Nancy stalked before her in silence that was meant to be dignified too, though it had not exactly that air. By degrees each cooled down, and Nancy was trying to find out what Miss Fortune had said of her, when on the edge of the next field they met the brook again. After running a long way to the right it had swept round, and here was flowing gently in the opposite direction. But how were they ever to cross it? The brook ran in a smooth current between them and a rising bank on the other side so high as to prevent their seeing what lay beyond. There were no stepping-stones now. The only thing that looked like a bridge was an old log that had fallen across the brook, or perhaps had at some time or other been put there on purpose, and that lay more than half in the water; what remained of its surface was green with moss and slippery with slime. Ellen was sadly afraid to trust herself on it; but what to do—Nancy soon settled the question as far as she was concerned. Pulling off her thick shoes, she ran fearlessly upon the rude bridge; her clinging bare feet carried her safely over, and Ellen soon saw her re-shoeing herself in triumph on the opposite side; but thus left behind and alone, her own difficulty increased.
"Pull off your shoes and do as I did," said Nancy.
"I can't," said Ellen; "I'm afraid of wetting my feet; I know mamma wouldn't let me."
"Afraid of wetting your feet!" said the other; "what a chickaninny you are! Well, if you try to come over with yourshoes on you'll fall in, I tell you; and then you'll wet more than your feet. But come along somehow, for I won't stand here waiting much longer."
Thus urged, Ellen set out upon her perilous journey over the bridge. Slowly and fearfully, and with as much care as possible, she set step by step upon the slippery log. Already half of the danger was passed, when, reaching forward to grasp Nancy's outstretched hand, she missed it—perhapsthat was Nancy's fault—poor Ellen lost her balance, and went in head foremost. The water was deep enough to cover her completely as she lay, though not enough to prevent her getting up again. She was greatly frightened, but managed to struggle up first to a sitting posture, and then to her feet, and then to wade out to the shore; though, dizzy and sick, she came nearly falling back again more than once. The water was very cold; and, thoroughly sobered, poor Ellen felt chill enough in body and mind too; all her fine spirits were gone; and not the less because Nancy had risen to a great pitch of delight at her misfortune. The air rang with her laughter; she likened Ellen to every ridiculous thing she could think of. Too miserable to be angry, Ellen could not laugh, and would not cry, but she exclaimed in distress—
"Oh, what shall I do! I am so cold!"
"Come along," said Nancy; "give me your hand; we'll run right over to Mrs. Van Brunt's—'tain't far—it's just over here. There," said she, as they got to the top of the bank, and came within sight of a house standing only a few fields off—"there it is! Run, Ellen, and we'll be there directly."
"Who is Mrs. Van Brunt?" Ellen contrived to say as Nancy hurried her along.
"Who is she?—run, Ellen!—why, she's just Mrs. Van Brunt—your Mr. Van Brunt's mother, you know—make haste, Ellen—we had rain enough the other day; I'm afraid it wouldn't be good for the grass if you stayed too long in one place; hurry! I'm afraid you'll catch cold—you got your feet wet after all, I'm sure."
Run they did; and a few minutes brought them to Mrs. Van Brunt's door. The little brick walk leading to it from the courtyard gate was as neat as a pin; so was everything else the eye could rest on; and when Nancy went in poor Ellen stayedherfoot at the door, unwilling to carry her wet shoes and dripping garments any further. She could hear, however, what was going on.
"Hillo! Mrs. Van Brunt," shouted Nancy; "where are you?—oh! Mrs. Van Brunt, are you out of water? 'cos if you are I've brought you a plenty; the person that has it don't want it; she's just at the door; she wouldn't bring it in till she knew you wantedit. Oh, Mrs. Van Brunt, don't look so or you'll kill me with laughing. Come and see! come and see!"
The steps within drew near the door, and first Nancy showed herself, and then a little old woman, not very old either, of very kind, pleasant countenance.
"What is all this?" said she in great surprise. "Bless me! poor little dear! what is this?"
"Nothing in the world but a drowned rat, Mrs. Van Brunt, don't you see?" said Nancy.
"Go home, Nancy Vawse! go home," said the old lady; "you're a regular bad girl. I do believe this is some mischief o' yourn, go right off home; it's time you were after your cow a great while ago."
As she spoke, she drew Ellen in, and shut the door.
"Poor little dear!" said the old lady kindly, "what has happened to you? Come to the fire, love, you're trembling with the cold. Oh dear! dear! you're soaking wet; this is all along of Nancy somehow, I know; how was it, love? Ain't you Miss Fortune's little girl? Never mind, don't talk, darling; there ain't one bit of colour in your face, not one bit."
Good Mrs. Van Brunt had drawn Ellen to the fire, and all this while she was pulling off as fast as possible her wet clothes. Then sending a girl who was in waiting, for clean towels, she rubbed Ellen dry from head to foot, and wrapping her in a blanket, left her in a chair before the fire, while she went to seek something for her to put on. Ellen had managed to tell who she was, and how her mischance had come about, but little else, though the kind old lady had kept on pouring out words of sorrow and pity during the whole time. She came trotting back directly with one of her own short gowns, the only thing that she could lay hands on that was anywhere near Ellen's length. Enormously big it was for her, but Mrs. Van Brunt wrapped it round and round, and the blanket over it again, and then she bustled about till she had prepared a tumbler of hot drink which she said was to keep Ellen from catching cold. It was anything but agreeable, being made from some bitter herb, and sweetened with molasses; but Ellen swallowed it, as she would anything else at such kind hands, and the old lady carried her herself into a little room opening out of the kitchen, and laid her in a bed that had been warmed for her. Excessively tired and weak as she was, Ellen scarcely needed the help of the hot herb tea to fall into a very deep sleep; perhaps it might not have lasted so very long as it did, but for that. Afternoon changed for evening, evening grew quite dark, still Ellen did not stir; and after every little journey into the bedroom to see how she was doing, Mrs. Van Brunt cameback saying how glad she was to see her sleeping so finely. Other eyes looked on for a minute—kind and gentle eyes; though Mrs. Van Brunt's were kind and gentle too; once a soft kiss touched her forehead, there was no danger of waking her.
It was perfectly dark in the little bedroom, and had been so a good while, when Ellen was aroused by some noise, and then a rough voice she knew very well. Feeling faint and weak, and not more than half awake yet, she lay still and listened. She heard the outer door open and shut, and then the voice said—
"So, mother, you've got my stray sheep here, have you?"
"Ay, ay," said the voice of Mrs. Van Brunt. "Have you been looking for her? How did you know she was here?"
"Looking for her! ay, looking for her ever since sundown. She has been missing at the house since some time this forenoon. I believe her aunt got a bit scared about her; anyhow I did. She's a queer little chip as ever I see."
"She's a dear little soul,Iknow," said his mother; "you needn't say nothin' agin her, I ain't a-going to believe it."
"No more am I—I'm the best friend she's got, if she only knowed it; but don't you think," said Mr. Van Brunt, laughing, "I asked her to give me a kiss this forenoon, and if I'd been an owl she couldn't ha' been more scared; she went off like a streak, and Miss Fortune said she was as mad as she could be, and that's the last of her."
"How did you find her out?"
"I met that mischievous Vawse girl, and I made her tell me; she had no mind to at first. It'll be the worse for Ellen if she takes to that wicked thing."
"She won't. Nancy has been taking her for a walk, and worked it so as to get her into the brook, and then she brought her here, just as dripping wet as she could be. I gave her something hot and put her to bed, and she'll do, I reckon; but I tell you it gave me queer feelings to see the poor little thing just as white as ashes, and all of a tremble, and looking so sorrowful too. She's sleeping finely now; but it ain't right to see a child's face look so; it ain't right," repeated Mrs. Van Brunt thoughtfully. "You ha'n't had supper, have you?"
"No, mother, and I must take that young one back. Ain't she awake yet?"
"I'll see directly; but she ain't going home, nor you neither, 'Brahm, till you've got your supper; it would be a sin to let her. She shall have a taste of my splitters this very night; I've been making them o' purpose for her. So you may just take off your hat and sit down."
"You mean to let her know where to come when she wants good things, mother. Well, I won't say splitters ain't worth waiting for."
Ellen heard him sit down, and then she guessed from the words that passed that Mrs. Van Brunt and her little maid were busied in making the cakes. She lay quiet.
"You're a good friend, 'Brahm," began the old lady again, "nobody knows that better than me; but I hope that poor little thing has got another one to-day that'll do more for her than you can."
"What, yourself, mother? I don't know about that."
"No, no; do you think I mean myself? There, turn it quick, Sally! Miss Alice has been here."
"How; this evening?"
"Just a little before dark, on her grey pony. She came in for a minute, and I took her—that'll burn, Sally!—I took her in to see the child while she was asleep, and I told her all you told me about her. She didn't say much, but she looked at her very sweet, as she always does, and I guess—there—now I'll see after my little sleeper."
And presently Mrs. Van Brunt came to the bedside with a light, and her arms full of Ellen's dry clothes. Ellen felt as if she could have put her arms round her kind old friend and hugged her with all her heart; but it was not her way to show her feelings before strangers. She suffered Mrs. Van Brunt to dress her in silence, only saying with a sigh, "How kind you are to me, ma'am;" to which the old lady replied with a kiss, and telling her she mustn't say a word about that.
The kitchen was bright with firelight and candlelight; the tea-table looked beautiful with its piles of white splitters, besides plenty of other and more substantial things; and at the corner of the hearth sat Mr. Van Brunt.
"So," said he, smiling, as Ellen came in and took her stand at the opposite corner, "so I drove you away this morning? You ain't mad with me yet, I hope."
Ellen crossed directly over to him, and putting her little hand in his great rough one, said, "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt, for taking so much trouble to come and look after me."
She said it with a look of gratitude and trust that pleased him very much.
"Trouble, indeed!" said he good-humouredly, "I'll take twice as much any day for what you wouldn't give me this forenoon. But never fear, Miss Ellen, I ain't a-goin' to ask you that again."
He shook the little hand, and from that time Ellen and her rough charioteer were firm friends.
Mrs. Van Brunt now summoned them to table, and Ellen was well feasted with the splitters, which were a kind of rich short-cake baked in irons, very thin and crisp, and then split in two and buttered, whence their name. A pleasant meal was that. Whatever an epicure might have thought of the tea, to Ellen, in her famished state, it was delicious; and no epicure could have found fault with the cold ham and the butter and the cakes; but far better than all was the spirit of kindness that was there. Ellen feasted on that more than on anything else. If her host and hostess were not very polished, they could not have been outdone in their kind care of her and kind attention to her wants. And when the supper was at length over, Mrs. Van Brunt declared a little colour had come back to the pale cheeks. The colour came back in good earnest a few minutes after, when a great tortoise-shell cat walked into the room. Ellen jumped down from her chair, and presently was bestowing the tenderest caresses upon pussy, who stretched out her head and purred as if she liked them very well.
"What a nice cat," said Ellen.
"She has five kittens," said Mrs. Van Brunt.
"Five kittens!" said Ellen. "Oh, may I come some time and see them?"
"You shall see 'em right away, dear, and come as often as you like too. Sally, just take a basket, and go fetch them kittens here."
Upon this Mr. Van Brunt began to talk about its being time to go, if they were going. But his mother insisted that Ellen should stay where she was; she said she was not fit to go home that night, that she oughtn't to walk a step, and that 'Brahm should go and tell Miss Fortune the child was safe and well, and would be with her early in the morning. Mr. Van Brunt shook his head two or three times, but finally agreed, to Ellen's great joy. When he came back she was sitting on the floor before the fire, with all the five kittens in her lap, and the old mother cat walking around and over her and them. But she looked up with a happier face than he had ever seen her wear, and told him she was "somuch obliged to him for taking such a long walk for her;" and Mr. Van Brunt felt that, like his oxen, he could have done a great deal more with pleasure.