It's hardly in a body's pow'rTo keep at times frae being sour.
—Burns.
Before the sun was up the next morning, Mrs. Van Brunt came into Ellen's room and aroused her.
"It's a real shame to wake you up," she said, "when you were sleeping so finely; but 'Brahm wants to be off to his work, and won't stay for breakfast. Slept sound, did you?"
"Oh yes, indeed; as sound as a top," said Ellen, rubbing her eyes; "I am hardly awake yet."
"I declare it's too bad," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "but there's no help for it. You don't feel no headache, do you, nor pain in your bones?"
"No, ma'am, not a bit of it; I feel nicely."
"Ah! well," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "then your tumble into the brook didn't do you any mischief; I thought it wouldn't. Poor little soul!"
"I am very glad I did fall in," said Ellen, "for if I hadn't I shouldn't have come here, Mrs. Van Brunt."
The old lady instantly kissed her.
"Oh! mayn't I just take one look at the kitties?" said Ellen, when she was ready to go.
"Indeed you shall," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "if 'Brahm's hurry was ever so much; and it ain't besides. Come here, dear."
She took Ellen back to a waste lumber-room, where in a corner, on some old pieces of carpet, lay pussy and her family. How fondly Ellen's hand was passed over each little soft back! How hard it was for her to leave them!
"Wouldn't you like to take one home with you, dear?" said Mrs. Van Brunt at length.
"Oh! may I?" said Ellen, looking up in delight; "are you in earnest? Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Van Brunt! Oh, I shall be so glad!"
"Well, choose one, then, dear; choose the one you like best, and 'Brahm shall carry it for you."
The choice was made, and Mrs. Van Brunt and Ellen returned to the kitchen, where Mr. Van Brunt had already been waiting some time. He shook his head when he saw what was in the basket his mother handed to him.
"That won't do," said he; "I can't do that, mother. I'll undertake to see Miss Ellen safe home, but the cat 'ud be more than I could manage. I think I'd hardly get off with a whole skin 'tween the one and t'other."
"Well, now!" said Mrs. Van Brunt.
Ellen gave a longing look at her black-and-white favourite, which was uneasily endeavouring to find out the height of the basket, and mewing at the same time with a most ungratified expression. However, though sadly disappointed, she submitted with a very good grace to what could not be helped. First setting down the little cat out of the basket it seemed to like so ill, and giving it one farewell pat and squeeze, she turned to the kind old lady who stood watching her, and throwing her arms around her neck, silently spoke her gratitude in a hearty hug and kiss.
"Good-bye, ma'am," said she; "I may come and see them some time again, and see you, mayn't I?"
"Indeed you shall, my darling," said the old woman, "just as often as you like;—just as often as you can get away. I'll make 'Brahm bring you home sometimes. 'Brahm, you'll bring her, won't you?"
"There's two words to that bargain, mother, I can tell you; but if I don't, I'll know the reason on't."
And away they went. Ellen drew two or three sighs at first, but she could not help brightening up soon. It was early—not sunrise; the cool freshness of the air was enough to give one new life and spirit; the sky was fair and bright; and Mr. Van Brunt marched along at a quick pace. Enlivened by the exercise, Ellen speedily forgot everything disagreeable; and her little head was filled with pleasant things. She watched where the silver light in the east foretold the sun's coming. She watched the silver changed to gold, till a rich yellow tint was flung over the whole landscape; and then broke the first rays of light upon the tops of the western hills—the sun was up. It was a new sight to Ellen.
"How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed.
"Yes," said Mr. Van Brunt, in his slow way, "it'll be a fine day for the field. I guess I'll go with the oxen over to that 'ere big meadow."
"Just look," said Ellen, "how the light comes creeping down the side of the mountain—now it has got to the wood—Oh, do look at the tops of the trees! Oh! I wish mamma was here."
Mr. Van Brunt didn't know what to say to this. He rather wished so too for her sake.
"There," said Ellen, "now the sunshine is on the fence, and the road, and everything. I wonder what is the reason that the sun shines first upon the top of the mountain, and then comes so slowly down the side; why don't it shine on the whole at once?"
Mr. Van Brunt shook his head in ignorance. "He guessed it always did so," he said.
"Yes," said Ellen, "I suppose it does, but that's the very thing—I want to know the reason why. And I noticed just now, it shone in my face before it touched my hands. Isn't it queer?"
"Humph!—there's a great many queer things, if you come to that," said Mr. Van Brunt philosophically.
But Ellen's head ran on from one thing to another, and her next question was not so wide of the subject as her companion might have thought.
"Mr. Van Brunt, are there any schools about here?"
"Schools?" said the person addressed. "Yes, there's plenty of schools."
"Good ones?" said Ellen.
"Well, I don't exactly know about that. There's Captain Conklin's. That had ought to be a good 'un. He's a regular smart man, they say."
"Whereabouts is that?" said Ellen.
"His school? It's a mile or so the other side of my house."
"And how far is it from your house to Aunt Fortune's?"
"A good deal better than two mile, but we'll be there before long. You ain't tired, be you?"
"No," said Ellen. But this reminder gave a new turn to her thoughts, and her spirits were suddenly checked. Her former brisk and springing step changed to so slow and lagging a one that Mr. Van Brunt more than once repeated his remark that he saw she was tired.
If it was that, Ellen grew tired very fast. She lagged more and more as they neared the house, and at last quite fell behind, and allowed Mr. Van Brunt to go in first.
Miss Fortune was busy about the breakfast, and as Mr. Van Brunt afterwards described it, "looking as if she could have bitten off a tenpenny nail," and indeed as if the operation would have been rather gratifying than otherwise. She gave them no notice at first, bustling to and fro with great energy, but all of a sudden she brought up directly in front of Ellen, and said—
"Why didn't you come home last night?"
The words were jerked out rather than spoken.
"I got wet in the brook," said Ellen, "and Mrs. Van Brunt was so kind as to keep me."
"Which way did you go out of the house yesterday?"
"Through the front door."
"The front door was locked."
"I unlocked it."
"What did you go out that way for?"
"I didn't want to come this way."
"Why not?" Ellen hesitated.
"Why not?" demanded Miss Fortune, still more emphatically than before.
"I didn't want to see you, ma'am," said Ellen, flushing.
"If ever you do so again!" said Miss Fortune in a kind of cold fury. "I've a great mind to whip you for this, as ever I had to eat."
The flush faded on Ellen's cheek, and a shiver visibly passed over her—not from fear. She stood with downcast eyes and compressed lips, a certain instinct of childish dignity warning her to be silent. Mr. Van Brunt put himself in between.
"Come, come!" said he, "this is getting to be too much of a good thing. Beat your cream, ma'am, as much as you like, or if you want to try your hand on something else you'll have to take me first, I promise you."
"Now don'tyoumeddle, Van Brunt," said the lady sharply, "with what ain't no business o' yourn."
"I don't know about that," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Maybe it is my business; but meddle or no meddle, Miss Fortune, it is time for me to be in the field, and if you ha'n't no better breakfast for Miss Ellen and me than all this here, we'll just go right away hum again; but there's something in your kettle there that smells uncommonly nice, and I wish you'd just let us have it and no more words."
No more words did Miss Fortune waste on any one that morning. She went on with her work and dished up the breakfast in silence, and with a face that Ellen did not quite understand, only she thought she had never in her life seen one so disagreeable. The meal was a very solemn and uncomfortable one. Ellen could scarcely swallow, and her aunt was near in the same condition. Mr. Van Brunt and the old lady alone despatched their breakfast as usual, with no other attempts at conversation than the common mumbling on the part of the latter, which nobody minded, and one or two strange grunts from the former, the meaning of which, if they had any, nobody tried to find out.
There was a breach now between Ellen and her aunt thatneither could make any effort to mend. Miss Fortune did not renew the disagreeable conversation that Mr. Van Brunt had broken off. She left Ellen entirely to herself, scarcely speaking to her, or seeming to know when she went out or came in. And this lasted day after day. Wearily they passed. After one or two, Mr. Van Brunt seemed to stand just where he did before in Miss Fortune's good graces, but not Ellen. To her, when others were not by, her face wore constantly something of the same cold, hard, disagreeable expression it had put on after Mr. Van Brunt's interference—a look that Ellen came to regard with absolute abhorrence. She kept away by herself as much as she could; but she did not know what to do with her time, and for want of something better often spent it in tears. She went to bed cheerless night after night, and arose spiritless morning after morning, and this lasted till Mr. Van Brunt more than once told his mother that "that poor little thing was going wandering about like a ghost, and growing thinner and paler every day, and he didn't know what she would come to if she went on so."
Ellen longed now for a letter with unspeakable longing, but none came. Day after day brought new disappointment, each day more hard to bear. Of her only friend, Mr. Van Brunt, she saw little. He was much away in the fields during the fine weather, and when it rained Ellen herself was prisoner at home, whither he never came but at meal times. The old grandmother was very much disposed to make much of her; but Ellen shrank, she hardly knew why, from her fond caresses, and never found herself alone with her if she could help it, for then she was regularly called to the old lady's side and obliged to go through a course of kissing, fondling, and praising she would gladly have escaped. In her aunt's presence this was seldom attempted, and never permitted to go on. Miss Fortune was sure to pull Ellen away and bid her mother "stop that palavering," avowing that "it made her sick." Ellen had one faint hope that her aunt would think of sending her to school, as she employed her in nothing at home, and certainly took small delight in her company; but no hint of the kind dropped from Miss Fortune's lips, and Ellen's longing look for this as well as for a word from her mother was daily doomed to be ungratified and to grow more keen by delay.
One pleasure only remained to Ellen in the course of the day, and that one she enjoyed with the carefulness of a miser. It was seeing the cows milked, morning and evening. For this she got up very early, and watched till the men came for the pails; and then away she bounded out of the house and to the barn-yard. There were the milky mothers, five in number, standing about,each in her own corner of the yard or cow-house, waiting to be relieved of their burden of milk. They were fine gentle animals, in excellent condition, and looking every way happy and comfortable; nothing living under Mr. Van Brunt's care was ever suffered to look otherwise. He was always in the barn or barn-yard at milking time, and under his protection Ellen felt safe and looked on at her ease. It was a very pretty scene—at least she thought so. The gentle cows standing quietly to be milked as if they enjoyed it, and munching the cud; and the white stream of milk foaming into the pails; then there was the interest of seeing whether Sam or Johnny would get through first; and how near Jane or Dolly would come to rivalling Streaky's fine pailful; and at last Ellen allowed Mr. Van Brunt to teach herself how to milk. She began with trembling, but learnt fast enough; and more than one pailful of milk that Miss Fortune strained had been, unknown to her, drawn by Ellen's fingers. These minutes in the farm-yard were the pleasantest in Ellen's day. While they lasted every care was forgotten, and her little face was as bright as the morning; but the milking was quickly over, and the cloud gathered on Ellen's brow almost as soon as the shadow of the house fell upon it.
"Where is the post-office, Mr. Van Brunt?" she asked one morning, as she stood watching the sharpening of an axe upon the grindstone. The axe was in that gentleman's hand, and its edge carefully laid to the whirling stone, which one of the farm boys was turning.
"Where is the post-office? Why, over to Thirlwall, to be sure," replied Mr. Van Brunt, glancing up at her from his work. "Faster, Johnny."
"And how often do letters come here?" said Ellen.
"Take care, Johnny!—some more water—mind your business, will you!—Just as often as I go to fetch 'em, Miss Ellen, and no oftener."
"And how often do you go, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Only when I've some other errand, Miss Ellen; my grain would never be in the barn if I was running to post-office every other thing, and for what ain't there too. I don't get a letter but two or three times a year, I s'pose, though I call, I guess, half-a-dozen times."
"Ah, but there's one there now, or soon will be, I know, for me," said Ellen. "When do you think you'll go again, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Now if I'd ha' knowed that I'd ha' gone to Thirlwall yesterday—I was within a mile of it. I don't see as I can go this week anyhow in the world; but I'll make some errand there the firstday I can, Miss Ellen, that you may depend on. You shan't wait for your letter a bit longer than I can help."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Van Brunt, you are very kind. Then the letters never come except when you go after them?"
"No—yes, they do come once in a while by old Mr. Swaim, but he ha'n't been here this great while."
"And who's he?" said Ellen.
"Oh, he's a queer old chip that goes round the country on all sorts of errands; he comes along once in a while. That'll do, Johnny. I believe this here tool is as sharp as I have any occasion for."
"What's the use of pouring water upon the grindstone?" said Ellen; "why wouldn't it do as well dry?"
"I can't tell, I am sure," replied Mr. Van Brunt, who was slowly drawing his thumb over the edge of the axe; "your questions are a good deal too sharp for me, Miss Ellen; I only know it would spoil the axe, or the grindstone, or both most likely."
"It's very odd," said Ellen thoughtfully; "I wish I knew everything. But, oh dear! I am not likely to know anything," said she, her countenance suddenly changing from its pleased inquisitive look to a cloud of disappointment and sorrow. Mr. Van Brunt noticed the change.
"Ain't your aunt going to send you to school, then?" said he.
"I don't know," said Ellen, sighing; "she never speaks about it, nor about anything else. But I declare I'll make her!" she exclaimed, changing again. "I'll go right in and ask her, and then she'll have to tell me. I will! I am tired of living so. I'll know what she means to do, and then I can tell you whatImust do."
Mr. Van Brunt, seemingly dubious about the success of this line of conduct, stroked his chin and his axe alternately two or three times in silence, and finally walked off. Ellen, without waiting for her courage to cool, went directly into the house.
Miss Fortune, however, was not in the kitchen; to follow her into her secret haunts, the dairy, cellar, or lower kitchen, was not to be thought of. Ellen waited awhile, but her aunt did not come, and the excitement of the moment cooled down. She was not quite so ready to enter upon the business as she had felt at first; she had even some qualms about it.
"But I'll do it," said Ellen to herself; "it will be hard, but I'll do it!"
For my part, he keeps me here rusticallyAt home, or, to speak more properly, staysMe here at home unkept.
—As You Like It.
The next morning after breakfast Ellen found the chance she rather dreaded than wished for. Mr. Van Brunt had gone out; the old lady had not left her room, and Miss Fortune was quietly seated by the fire, busied with some mysteries of cooking. Like a true coward, Ellen could not make up her mind to bolt at once into the thick of the matter, but thought to come to it gradually—always a bad way.
"What is that, Aunt Fortune?" said she, after she had watched her with a beating heart for about five minutes.
"What is what?"
"I mean, what is that you are straining through the colander into that jar?"
"Hop-water."
"What is it for?"
"I'm scalding this meal with it to make turnpikes."
"Turnpikes!" said Ellen; "I thought turnpikes were high, smooth roads with toll-gates every now and then—that's what mamma told me they were."
"That's all the kind of turnpikes your mamma knew anything about, I reckon," said Miss Fortune, in a tone that conveyed the notion that Mrs. Montgomery's education had been very incomplete. "And indeed," she added immediately after, "if she had made more turnpikes and paid fewer tolls, it would have been just as well, I'm thinking."
Ellen felt the tone, if she did not thoroughly understand the words. She was silent a moment; then remembering her purpose, she began again. "What are these, then, Aunt Fortune?"
"Cakes, child, cakes! turnpike cakes—what I raise the bread with."
"What, those little brown cakes I have seen you melt in water and mix in the flour when you make bread?"
"Mercy on us! yes! you've seen hundreds of 'em since you've been here, if you never saw one before."
"I never did," said Ellen. "But what are they called turnpikes for?"
"The land knows! I don't. For mercy's sake stop asking mequestions, Ellen; I don't know what's got into you; you'll drive me crazy."
"But there's one more question I want to ask very much," said Ellen, with her heart beating.
"Well, ask it then quick, and have done, and take yourself off. I have other fish to fry than to answer all your questions."
Miss Fortune, however, was still quietly seated by the fire stirring her meal and hop-water, and Ellen could not be quick; the words stuck in her throat—came out at last.
"Aunt Fortune, I wanted to ask you if I may go to school?"
"Yes."
Ellen's heart sprang with a feeling of joy, a little qualified by the peculiar dry tone in which the word was uttered.
"When may I go?"
"As soon as you like."
"Oh, thank you, ma'am. To which school shall I go, Aunt Fortune?"
"To whichever you like."
"But I don't know anything about them," said Ellen; "how can I tell which is best?"
Miss Fortune was silent.
"What schools are there near here?" said Ellen.
"There's Captain Conklin's down at the Cross, and Miss Emerson's at Thirlwall."
Ellen hesitated. The name was against her, but nevertheless she concluded on the whole that the lady's school would be the pleasantest.
"Is Miss Emerson any relation of yours?" she asked.
"No."
"I think I should like to go to her school the best. I will go there if you will let me—may I?"
"Yes."
"And I will begin next Monday—may I?"
"Yes."
Ellen wished exceedingly that her aunt would speak in some other tone of voice; it was a continual damper to her rising hopes.
"I'll get my books ready," said she; "and look 'em over a little too, I guess. But what will be the best way for me to go, Aunt Fortune?"
"I don't know."
"I couldn't walk so far, could I?"
"You know best."
"I couldn't, I am sure," said Ellen; "it's four miles to Thirlwall, Mr. Van Brunt said; that would be too much for me to walk twice a day; and I should be afraid besides."
A dead silence.
"But, Aunt Fortune, do please tell me what I am to do. How can I know unless you tell me? What way is there that I can go to school?"
"It is unfortunate that I don't keep a carriage," said Miss Fortune; "but Mr. Van Brunt can go for you morning and evening in the ox-cart, if that will answer."
"The ox-cart! But, dear me! it would take him all day, Aunt Fortune. It takes hours and hours to go and come with the oxen; Mr. Van Brunt wouldn't have time to do anything but carry me to school and bring me home."
"Of course; but that's of no consequence," said Miss Fortune, in the same dry tone.
"Then I can't go—there's no help for it," said Ellen despondingly. "Why didn't you say so before. When you said yes I thought you meant yes."
She covered her face. Miss Fortune rose with a half smile and carried her jar of scalded meal into the pantry. She then came back and commenced the operation of washing-up the breakfast things.
"Ah, if I only had a little pony," said Ellen, "that would carry me there and back, and go trotting about with me everywhere—how nice that would be!"
"Yes, that would be very nice! And who do you think would go trotting about after the pony? I suppose you would leave that to Mr. Van Brunt; and I should have to go trotting about after you, to pick you up in case you broke your neck in some ditch or gully; it would be a very nice affair altogether, I think."
Ellen was silent. Her hopes had fallen to the ground, and her disappointment was unsoothed by one word of kindness or sympathy. With all her old grievances fresh in her mind, she sat thinking her aunt was the very most disagreeable person she ever had the misfortune to meet with. No amiable feelings were working within her; and the cloud on her brow was of displeasure and disgust, as well as sadness and sorrow. Her aunt saw it.
"What are you thinking of?" said she rather sharply.
"I am thinking," said Ellen, "I am very sorry I cannot go to school."
"Why, what do you want to learn so much? You know how to read and write and cipher, don't you?"
"Read and write and cipher?" said Ellen: "to be sure I do; but that's nothing—that's only the beginning."
"Well, what do you want to learn besides?"
"Oh, a great many things."
"Well, what?"
"Oh, a great many things," said Ellen; "French, and Italian, and Latin, and music, and arithmetic, and chemistry, and all about animals and plants and insects—I forget what it's called—and—oh, I can't recollect; a great many things. Every now and then I think of something I want to learn; I can't remember them now. But I'm doing nothing," said Ellen sadly; "learning nothing—I am not studying and improving myself as I meant to; mamma will be disappointed when she comes back, and I meant to please her so much!" The tears were fast coming; she put her hand upon her eyes to force them back.
"If you are so tired of being idle," said Miss Fortune, "I'll warrant I'll give you something to do; and something to learn too, that you want enough more than all those crinkumcrankums; I wonder what good they'd ever do you! That's the way your mother was brought up, I suppose. If she had been trained to use her hands and do something useful instead of thinking herself above it, maybe she wouldn't have had to go to sea for her health just now; it doesn't do for women to be bookworms."
"Mamma isn't a bookworm!" said Ellen indignantly; "I don't know what you mean; and she never thinks herself above being useful; it's very strange you should say so when you don't know anything about her."
"I know she ha'n't brought you up to know manners, anyhow," said Miss Fortune. "Look here, I'll give you something to do—just you put those plates and dishes together ready for washing, while I am downstairs."
Ellen obeyed, unwillingly enough. She had neither knowledge of the business nor any liking for it; so it is no wonder Miss Fortune at her return was not well pleased.
"But I never did such a thing before," said Ellen.
"There it is now!" said Miss Fortune. "I wonder where your eyes have been every single time that I have done it since you have been here. I should think your own sense might have told you! But you're too busy learning of Mr. Van Brunt to know what's going on in the house. Is that what you call made ready for washing? Now just have the goodness to scrape every plate clean off and put them nicely in a pile here; and turn out the slops out of the tea-cups and saucers and set them by themselves. Well! what makes you handle them so? Are you afraid they'll burn you?"
"I don't like to take hold of things people have drunk out of," said Ellen, who was indeed touching the cups and saucers very delicately with the tips of her fingers.
"Look here," said Miss Fortune, "don't you let me hear no more of that, or I vow I'll give you something to do you won'tlike. Now put the spoons here, and the knives and forks together here; and carry the salt-cellar and the pepper-box and the butter and the sugar into the buttery."
"I don't know where to put them," said Ellen.
"Come along, then, and I'll show you; it's time you did. I reckon you'll feel better when you've something to do, and you shall have plenty. There—put them in that cupboard, and set the butter up here, and put the bread in this box, do you see? now don't let me have to show you twice over."
This was Ellen's first introduction to the buttery; she had never dared to go in there before. It was a long, light closet or pantry, lined on the left side, and at the further end, with wide shelves up to the ceiling. On these shelves stood many capacious pans and basins of tin and earthenware, filled with milk, and most of them coated with superb yellow cream. Midway was the window, before which Miss Fortune was accustomed to skim her milk, and at the side of it was the mouth of a wooden pipe, or covered trough, which conveyed the refuse milk down to an enormous hogshead standing at the lower kitchen door, whence it was drawn as wanted for the use of the pigs. Beyond the window in the buttery, and on the higher shelves, were rows of yellow cheeses; forty or fifty were there at least. On the right hand of the door was the cupboard, and a short range of shelves, which held in ordinary all sorts of matters for the table, both dishes and eatables. Floor and shelves were well painted with thick yellow paint, hard and shining, and clean as could be; and there was a faint pleasant smell of dairy things.
Ellen did not find out all this at once, but in the course of a day or two, during which her visits to the buttery were many. Miss Fortune kept her word, and found her plenty to do; Ellen's life soon became a pretty busy one. She did not like this at all; it was a kind of work she had no love for; yet no doubt it was a good exchange for the miserable moping life she had lately led. Anything was better than that. One concern, however, lay upon poor Ellen's mind with pressing weight—her neglected studies and wasted time; for no better than wasted she counted it. "What shall I do?" she said to herself after several of these busy days had passed; "I am doing nothing—I am learning nothing—I shall forget all I have learnt, directly. At this rate I shall not know any more than all these people around me; and whatwillmamma say?—Well, if I can't go to school I know what I will do," she said, taking a sudden resolve, "I'll study by myself! I'll see what I can do; it will be better than nothing, any way. I'll begin this very day!"
With new life Ellen sprang upstairs to her room, and forthwithbegan pulling all the things out of her trunk to get at her books. They were at the very bottom; and by the time she had reached them half the floor was strewn with the various articles of her wardrobe; without minding them in her first eagerness, Ellen pounced at the books.
"Here you are, my dear Numa Pompilius," said she, drawing out a little French book she had just begun to read, "and hereyouare, old grammar and dictionary; and here is my history—very glad to see you, Mr. Goldsmith! And what in the world's this?—wrapped up as if it was something great—oh, my expositor! I am not glad to seeyou, I am sure; never want to look at your face or your back again. My copy-book!—I wonder who'll set copies for me now! My arithmetic—that's you! Geography and atlas—all right! And my slate!—but dear me! I don't believe I've such a thing as a slate-pencil in the world. Where shall I get one, I wonder? Well, I'll manage. And that's all—that's all, I believe."
With all her heart Ellen would have begun her studying at once, but there were all her things on the floor silently saying, "Put us up first."
"I declare," said she to herself, "it's too bad to have nothing in the shape of a bureau to keep one's clothes in. I wonder if I am to live in a trunk, as mamma says, all the time I am here, and have to go down to the bottom of it every time I want a pocket-handkerchief or a pair of stockings. How I do despise those grey stockings! But what can I do? It's too bad to squeeze my nice things up so. I wonder what is behind those doors! I'll find out, I know, before long."
On the north side of Ellen's room were three doors. She had never opened them, but now took it into her head to see what was there, thinking she might possibly find what would help her out of her difficulty. She had some little fear of meddling with anything in her aunt's domain, so she fastened her own door to guard against interruption while she was busied in making discoveries.
At the foot of her bed, in the corner, was one large door fastened by a button, as indeed they were all. This opened, she found, upon a flight of stairs, leading as she supposed to the garret; but Ellen did not care to go up and see. They were lighted by half of a large window, across the middle of which the stairs went up. She quickly shut that door and opened the next, a little one. Here she found a tiny closet under the stairs, lighted by the other half of the window. There was nothing in it but a broad low shelf or step under the stairs, where Ellen presently decided she could stow away her books very nicely. "It only wants alittle brushing out," said Ellen, "and it will do very well." The other door, in the other corner, admitted her to a large light closet, perfectly empty. "Now if there were only some hooks or pegs here," thought Ellen, "to hang up dresses on—but why shouldn't I drive some nails? I will! I will! Oh, that'll be fine!"
Unfastening her door in a hurry she ran downstairs, and her heart beating between pleasure and the excitement of daring so far without her aunt's knowledge, she ran out and crossed the chip-yard to the barn, where she had some hope of finding Mr. Van Brunt. By the time she got to the little cow-house door a great noise of knocking or pounding in the barn made her sure he was there, and she went on to the lower barn-floor. There he was, he and the two farm boys (who, by-the-bye, were grown men), all three threshing wheat. Ellen stopped at the door, and for a minute forgot what she had come for in the pleasure of looking at them. The clean floor was strewn with grain, upon which the heavy flails came down one after another with quick regular beat—one—two—three—one—two—three,—keeping perfect time. The pleasant sound could be heard afar off, though, indeed, where Ellen stood it was rather too loud to be pleasant. Her little voice had no chance of being heard; she stood still and waited. Presently Johnny, who was opposite, caught a sight of her, and without stopping his work said to his leader, "Somebody there for you, Mr. Van Brunt." That gentleman's flail ceased its motion, then he threw it down and went to the door to help Ellen up the high step.
"Well," said he, "have you come out to see what's going on?"
"No," said Ellen, "I've been looking—but Mr. Van Brunt, could you be so good as to let me have a hammer and half-a-dozen nails?"
"A hammer and half-a-dozen nails? Come this way," said he.
They went out of the barn-yard and across the chip-yard to an out-house below the garden and not far from the spout, called the poultry-house, though it was quite as much the property of the hogs, who had a regular sleeping apartment there, where corn was always fed out to the fatting ones. Opening a kind of granary storeroom, where the corn for this purpose was stored, Mr. Van Brunt took down from a shelf a large hammer and a box of nails, and asked Ellen what size she wanted.
"Pretty large."
"So?"
"No; a good deal bigger yet I should like."
"'A good deal bigger yet'—who wants 'em?"
"I do," said Ellen, smiling.
"You do! Do you think your little arms can manage the big hammer?"
"I don't know. I guess so; I'll try."
"Where do you want 'em driv?"
"Up in a closet in my room," said Ellen, speaking as softly as if she had feared her aunt was at the corner; "I want 'em to hang up dresses and things."
Mr. Van Brunt half smiled, and put up the hammer and nails on the shelf again.
"Now, I'll tell you what we'll do," said he; "you can't manage them big things. I'll put 'em up for you to-night when I come in to supper."
"But I'm afraid she won't let you," said Ellen doubtfully.
"Never you mind about that," said he; "I'll fix it. Maybe we won't ask her."
"Oh, thank you," said Ellen joyfully, her face recovering its full sunshine in answer to his smile; and, clapping her hands, she ran back to the house, while more slowly Mr. Van Brunt returned to the threshers. Ellen seized dust-pan and brush and ran up to her room, and setting about the business with right good will, she soon had her closets in beautiful order. The books, writing-desk, and work-box were then bestowed very carefully in the one; in the other her coats and dresses, neatly folded up in a pile on the floor, waiting till the nails should be driven. Then the remainder of her things were gathered up from the floor, and neatly arranged in the trunk again. Having done all this, Ellen's satisfaction was unbounded. By this time dinner was ready. As soon after dinner as she could escape from Miss Fortune's calls upon her, Ellen stole up to her room and her books, and began work in earnest. The whole afternoon was spent over sums, and verbs, and maps, and pages of history. A little before tea, as Ellen was setting the table, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen with a bag on his back.
"What have you got there, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Miss Fortune.
"A bag of seed corn."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Put it up in the garret for safe keeping."
"Set it down in the corner, and I'll take it up to-morrow."
"Thank you, ma'am,—rather go myself, if it's all the same to you. You needn't be scared, I've left my shoes at the door. Miss Ellen, I believe I've got to go through your room."
Ellen was glad to run before to hide her laughter. When they reached her room, Mr. Van Brunt produced a hammer outof the bag, and taking a handful of nails from his pocket, put up a fine row of them along her closet wall; then, while she hung up her dresses, he went on to the garret, and Ellen heard him hammering there too. Presently he came down, and they returned to the kitchen.
"What's all that knocking?" said Miss Fortune.
"I've been driving some nails," said Mr. Van Brunt coolly.
"Up in the garret!"
"Yes, and in Miss Ellen's closet; she said she wanted some."
"You should ha' spoke tomeabout it," said Miss Fortune to Ellen. There was displeasure enough in her face; but she said no more, and the matter blew over much better than Ellen had feared.
Ellen steadily pursued her plan of studying, in spite of some discouragements.
A letter written about ten days after gave her mother an account of her endeavours and of her success. It was a despairing account. Ellen complained that she wanted help to understand, and lacked time to study; that her aunt kept her busy, and, she believed, took pleasure in breaking her off from her books; and she bitterly said her mother must expect to find an ignorant little daughter when she came home. It ended with, "Oh, if I could just see you, and kiss you, and put my arms round you, mamma, I'd be willing to die."
This letter was despatched the next morning by Mr. Van Brunt; and Ellen waited and watched with great anxiety for his return from Thirlwall in the afternoon.
An ant dropped into the water; a wood pigeon took pity of her and threw her a little bough.—L'Estrange.
An ant dropped into the water; a wood pigeon took pity of her and threw her a little bough.—L'Estrange.
The afternoon was already half spent when Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart was seen returning. Ellen was standing by the little gate that opened on the chip-yard; and with her heart beating anxiously she watched the slow-coming oxen; how slowly they came! At last they turned out of the lane and drew the cart up the ascent; and stopping beneath the apple-tree Mr. Van Brunt leisurely got down, and flinging back his whip, came to the gate. But the little face that met him there, quivering with hope and fear, made his own quite sober. "I'm reallyverysorry, Miss Ellen——" he began.
That was enough. Ellen waited to hear no more, but turned away, the cold chill of disappointment coming over her heart. She had borne the former delays pretty well, but this was one too many, and she felt sick. She went round to the front stoop, where scarcely ever anybody came, and sitting down on the steps wept sadly and despairingly.
It might have been half-an-hour or more after, that the kitchen door slowly opened and Ellen came in. Wishing her aunt should not see her swollen eyes, she was going quietly through to her own room when Miss Fortune called her. Ellen stopped. Miss Fortune was sitting before the fire with an open letter lying in her lap and another in her hand. The latter she held out to Ellen, saying, "Here, child, come and take this."
"What is it?" said Ellen, slowly coming towards her.
"Don't you see what it is?" said Miss Fortune, still holding it out.
"But who is it from?" said Ellen.
"Your mother."
"A letter from mamma, and not to me?" said Ellen with changing colour. She took it quick from her aunt's hand. But her colour changed more as her eye fell upon the first words, "My dear Ellen," and turning the paper she saw upon the back, "Miss Ellen Montgomery." Her next look was to her aunt's face, with her eye fired and her cheek paled with anger, and when she spoke her voice was not the same.
"This ismyletter," she said, trembling; "who opened it?"
Miss Fortune's conscience must have troubled her a little, for her eye wavered uneasily. Only for a second, though.
"Who opened it?" she answered; "Iopened it. I should like to know who has a better right. And I shall open every one that comes, to serve you for looking so; that you may depend upon."
The look and the words and the injury together, fairly put Ellen beside herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and livid and trembling with various feelings—rage was not the only one—she ran from her aunt's presence. She did not shed any tears now; she could not: they were absolutely burnt up by passion. She walked her room with trembling steps, clasping and wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking whatcouldshe do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and unable to see anything but misery before her. She walked, for she could not sit down; but presently she felt that she could not breathe the air of the house; and taking her bonnet she went down, passed through the kitchen and went out. Miss Fortune asked where she was going, and bade her stay within doors, but Ellen paid no attention to her.
She stood still a moment outside the little gate. She might have stood long to look. The mellow light of an Indian summer afternoon lay upon the meadow, and the old barn and chip-yard; there was beauty in them all under its smile. Not a breath was stirring. The rays of the sun struggled through the blue haze, which hung upon the hills and softened every distant object; and the silence of nature all around was absolute, made more noticeable by the far-off voice of somebody, it might be Mr. Van Brunt, calling to his oxen, very far off, and not to be seen: the sound came softly to her ear through the stillness. "Peace" was the whisper of nature to her troubled child; but Ellen's heart was in a whirl; she could not hear the whisper. It was a relief, however, to be out of the house and in the sweet open air. Ellen breathed more freely, and pausing a moment there, and clasping her hands together once more in sorrow, she went down the road and out at the gate, and exchanging her quick, broken step for a slow measured one, she took the way towards Thirlwall. Little regarding the loveliness which that day was upon every slope and roadside, Ellen presently quitted the Thirlwall road, and half unconsciously turned into a path on the left which she had never taken before—perhaps for that reason. It was not much travelled evidently; the grass grew green on both sides, and even in the middle of the way, though here and there the track of wheels could be seen. Ellen did not care about where she was going; she only found it pleasant to walk on and get farther from home. The road or lane led towards a mountain somewhat to the northwest of Miss Fortune's; the same which Mr. Van Brunt had once named to Ellen as "the Nose." After three-quarters of an hour the road began gently to ascend the mountain, rising towards the north. About one-third of the way from the bottom Ellen came to a little footpath on the left, which allured her by its promise of prettiness, and she forsook the lane for it. The promise was abundantly fulfilled; it was a most lovely, wild, wood-way path; but withal not a little steep and rocky. Ellen began to grow weary. The lane went on towards the north; the path rather led off towards the southern edge of the mountain, rising all the while; but before she reached that Ellen came to what she thought a good resting-place, where the path opened upon a small level platform or ledge of the hill. The mountain rose steep behind her, and sank very steep immediately before her, leaving a very superb view of the open country from the north-east to the south-east. Carpeted with moss, and furnished with fallen stones and pieces of rock, this was a fine resting-place for the wayfarer, or loitering-place for the lover of nature. Ellen seated herself on one of the stones, and looked sadly and wearilytowards the east, at first very careless of the exceeding beauty of what she beheld there.
For miles and miles, on every side but the west, lay stretched before her a beautifully broken country. The November haze hung over it now like a thin veil, giving great sweetness and softness to the scene. Far in the distance a range of low hills showed like a misty cloud; near by, at the mountain's foot, the fields and farm-houses and roads lay a pictured map. About a mile and a half to the south rose the mountain where Nancy Vawse lived, craggy and bare; but the leafless trees and stern, jagged rocks were wrapped in the haze; and through this the sun, now near the setting, threw his mellowing rays, touching every slope and ridge with a rich, warm glow.
Poor Ellen did not heed the picturesque effect of all this, yet the sweet influences of nature reached her, and softened while they increased her sorrow. She felt her own heart sadly out of tune with the peace and loveliness of all she saw. Her eye sought those distant hills—how very far off they were? and yet all that wide tract of country was but a little piece of what lay between her and her mother. Her eye sought those hills—but her mind overpassed them and went far beyond, over many such a tract, till it reached the loved one at last. But oh! how much between! "I cannot reach her!—she cannot reach me!" thought poor Ellen. Her eyes had been filling and dropping tears for some time, but now came the rush of the pent-up storm, and the floods of grief were kept back no longer.
When once fairly excited Ellen's passions were always extreme. During the former peaceful and happy part of her life the occasions of such excitement had been very rare. Of late, unhappily, they had occurred much oftener. Many were the bitter fits of tears she had known within a few weeks. But now it seemed as if all the scattered causes of sorrow that had wrought those tears were gathered together and pressing upon her at once; and that the burden would crush her to the earth. To the earth it brought her literally. She slid from her seat at first, and embracing the stone on which she had sat, she leaned her head there; but presently in her agony quitting her hold of that, she cast herself down upon the moss, lying at full length upon the cold ground, which seemed to her childish fancy the best friend she had left. But Ellen was wrought up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears brought no relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In the extremity of her distress and despair, and in that lonely place, out of hearing of every one, she sobbed aloud, and even screamed, for almost the first time in her life; and these fits of violence were succeeded by exhaustion, during which she ceasedto shed tears and lay quite still, drawing only long, sobbing sighs now and then.
How long Ellen had lain there, or how long this would have gone on before her strength had been quite worn out, no one can tell. In one of these fits of forced quiet, when she lay as still as the rocks around her, she heard a voice close by say, "What is the matter, my child?"
The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the tempest in Ellen's mind. She got up hastily, and brushing away the tears from her dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady standing there, and a face, whose sweetness well matched the voice, looking upon her with grave concern. She stood motionless and silent.
"What is the matter, my dear?"
The tone found Ellen's heart, and brought the water to her eyes again, though with a difference. She covered her face with her hands. But gentle hands were placed upon hers and drew them away; and the lady, sitting down on Ellen's stone, took her in her arms; and Ellen hid her face in the bosom of a better friend than the cold earth had been like to prove her. But the change overcame her; and the soft whisper, "Don't cry any more," made it impossible to stop crying. Nothing further was said for some time; the lady waited till Ellen grew calmer. When she saw her able to answer, she said gently—
"What does all this mean, my child? What troubles you? Tell me, and I think we can find a way to mend matters."
Ellen answered the tone of voice with a faint smile, but the words with another gush of tears.
"You are Ellen Montgomery, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I thought so. This isn't the first time I have seen you; I have seen you once before."
Ellen looked up surprised.
"Have you, ma'am. I am sure I have never seen you."
"No, I know that. I saw you when you didn't see me. Where, do you think?"
"I can't tell, I am sure," said Ellen; "I can't guess; I haven't seen you at Aunt Fortune's, and I haven't been anywhere else."
"You have forgotten," said the lady. "Did you never hear of a little girl who went to take a walk once upon a time, and had an unlucky fall into a brook? and then went to a kind old lady's house where she was dried and put to bed and went to sleep?"
"Oh yes," said Ellen. "Did you see me there, ma'am, and when I was asleep?"
"I saw you there when you were asleep; and Mrs. Van Brunttold me who you were and where you lived; and when I came here a little while ago I knew you again very soon. And I knew what the matter was too, pretty well; but, nevertheless, tell me all about it, Ellen; perhaps I can help you."
Ellen shook her head dejectedly. "Nobody in this world can help me," she said.
"Then there's one in heaven that can," said the lady steadily. "Nothing is too bad for Him to mend. Have you askedHishelp, Ellen?"
Ellen began to weep again. "Oh, if I could I would tell you all about it, ma'am," she said; "but there are so many things, I don't know where to begin; I don't know when I should ever get through."
"So many things that trouble you, Ellen?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I am sorry for that indeed. But never mind, dear, tell me what they are. Begin with the worst, and if I haven't time to hear them all now, I'll find time another day. Begin with the worst."
But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed herself at Ellen's distress, which was extreme.
"Don't cry so, my child, don't cry so," she said, pressing her in her arms. "What is the matter? Hardly anything in this world is so bad it can't be mended. I think I know what troubles you so—it is that your dear mother is away from you, isn't it?"
"Oh no, ma'am," Ellen could scarcely articulate. But struggling with herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again, and more clearly.
"The worst is—oh! the worst is—that I meant—I meant—to be a good child, and I have been worse than ever I was in my life before."
Her tears gushed forth.
"But how, Ellen?" said her surprised friend after a pause. "I don't quite understand you. When did you 'mean to be a good child?' Didn't you always mean so? and what have you been doing?"
Ellen made a great effort and ceased crying, straightened herself, dashed away her tears, as if determined to shed no more, and presently spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then threatened to interrupt her.
"I will tell you, ma'am. The first day I left mamma, when I was on board the steamboat and feeling as badly as I could feel, a kind, kind gentleman, I don't know who he was, came to me and spoke to me, and took care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him again! He talked to me a great deal; he wantedme to be a Christian; he wanted me to make up my mind to begin that day to be one; and, ma'am, I did. I did resolve with my whole heart, and I thought I should be different from that time from what I had ever been before. But I think I have never been so bad in my life as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right I have felt wrong all the time, almost, and I can't help it. I have been passionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming, and I know it's wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh, ma'am, I haven't changed my mind a bit; I think just the same as I did that day; I want to be a Christian more than anything else in the world, but I am not; and what shall I do?"
Her face sank into her hands again.
"And this is your great trouble?" said her friend.
"Yes."
"Do you remember who said, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'?"
Ellen looked up inquiringly.
"You are grieved to find yourself so unlike what you would be. You wish to be a child of the dear Saviour, and to have your heart filled with His love, and to do what will please Him. Do you? Have you gone to Him day by day, and night by night, and told Him so? have you begged Him to give you strength to get the better of your wrong feelings, and asked Him to change you, and make you His child?"
"At first I did, ma'am," said Ellen in a low voice.
"Not lately?"
"No, ma'am," in a low tone still, and looking down.
"Then you have neglected your Bible and prayer for some time past?"
Ellen hardly uttered, "Yes."
"Why, my child?"
"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen, weeping, "that is one of the things that made me think myself so very wicked. I couldn't like to read my Bible or pray either, though I always used to before. My Bible lay down quite at the bottom of my trunk, and I even didn't like to raise my things enough to see the cover of it. I was so full of bad feelings I didn't feel fit to pray or read either."
"Ah! that is the way with the wisest of us," said her companion; "how apt we are to shrink most from our Physician just when we are in most need of Him! But, Ellen, dear, that isn't right. No hand but His can touch that sickness you are complaining of. Seek it, love, seek it. He will hear and help you, no doubt of it, in every trouble you carry simply and humbly to His feet; He haspromised, you know."
Ellen was weeping very much, but less bitterly than before; the clouds were breaking and light beginning to shine through.
"Shall we pray together now?" said her companion after a few minutes' pause.
"Oh, if you please, ma'am, do!" Ellen answered through her tears.
And they knelt together there on the moss beside the stone, where Ellen's head rested and her friend's folded hands were laid. It might have been two children speaking to their father, for the simplicity of that prayer; difference of age seemed to be forgotten, and what suited one suited the other. It was not without difficulty that the speaker carried it calmly through, for Ellen's sobs went nigh to check her more than once. When they rose Ellen silently sought her friend's arms again, and laying her face on her shoulder and putting both arms round her neck, she wept still,—but what different tears! It was like the gentle rain falling through sunshine, after the dark cloud and the thunder and the hurricane have passed by. And they kissed each other before either of them spoke.
"You will not forget your Bible and prayer again, Ellen?"
"Oh no, ma'am."
"Then I am sure you will find your causes of trouble grow less. I will not hear the rest of them now. In a day or two I hope you will be able to give me a very different account from what you would have done an hour ago; but besides that it is getting late, and it will not do for us to stay too long up here; you have a good way to go to reach home. Will you come and see me to-morrow afternoon?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, indeed I will!—if I can; and if you will tell me where."
"Instead of turning up this little rocky path you must keep straight on in the road, that's all; and it's the first house you come to. It isn't very far from here. Where were you going on the mountain?"
"Nowhere, ma'am."
"Have you been any higher than this?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then before we go away I want to show you something. I'll take you over the Bridge of the Nose; it isn't but a step or two more; a little rough to be sure, but you mustn't mind that."
"What is the 'Bridge of the Nose,' ma'am?" said Ellen, as they left her resting-place, and began to toil up the path which grew more steep and rocky than ever.
"You know this mountain is called the Nose. Just here it runs out to a very thin sharp edge. We shall come to a placepresently where you turn a very sharp corner to get from one side of the hill to the other; and my brother named it jokingly the Bridge of the Nose."
"Why do they give the mountain such a queer name?" said Ellen.
"I don't know, I'm sure. The people say that from one point of view this side of it looks very like a man's nose; but I never could find it out, and have some doubt about the fact. But now here we are! Just come round this great rock,—mind how you step, Ellen,—now look there!"
The rock they had just turned was at their backs, and they looked towards the west. Both exclaimed at the beauty before them. The view was not so extended as the one they had left. On the north and south sides the broken wavy outline of mountains closed in the horizon; but far to the west stretched an opening between the hills through which the setting sun sent his long beams, even to their feet. In the distance all was a golden haze; nearer, on the right and left, the hills were lit up singularly, and there was a most beautiful mingling of deep hazy shadow and bright glowing mountain sides and ridges. A glory was upon the valley. Far down below at their feet lay a large lake gleaming in the sunlight; and at the upper end of it a village of some size showed like a cluster of white dots.
"How beautiful!" said the lady again. "Ellen, dear, He whose hand raised up those mountains, and has painted them so gloriously, is the very same One who has said to you and to me, 'Ask, and it shall be given you.'"
Ellen looked up; their eyes met; her answer was in that grateful glance.
The lady sat down and drew Ellen close to her. "Do you see that little white village yonder, down at the far end of the lake? That is the village of Carra-carra, and that is Carra-carra lake. That is where I go to church; you cannot see the little church from here. My father preaches there every Sunday morning."
"You must have a long way to go," said Ellen.
"Yes—a pretty long way, but it's very pleasant though. I mount my little grey pony, and he carries me there in quick time, when I will let him. I never wish the way shorter. I go in all sorts of weathers too, Ellen; Sharp and I don't mind frost and snow."
"Who is Sharp?" said Ellen.
"My pony. An odd name, isn't it. It wasn't of my choosing, Ellen, but he deserves it if ever pony did. He's a very cunning little fellow. Where do you go, Ellen? To Thirlwall?"
"To church, ma'am? I don't go anywhere."
"Doesn't your aunt go to church?"
"She hasn't since I have been here."
"What do you do with yourself on Sunday?"
"Nothing, ma'am; I don't know what to do with myself all the day long. I get tired of being in the house, and I go out of doors, and then I get tired of being out of doors and come in again. I wanted a kitten dreadfully, but Mr. Van Brunt said Aunt Fortune would not let me keep one."
"Did you want a kitten to help you keep Sunday, Ellen," said her friend, smiling.
"Yes, I did, ma'am," said Ellen, smiling again; "I thought it would be a great deal of company for me. I got very tired of reading all day long, and I had nothing to read but the Bible; and you know, ma'am, I told you I have been all wrong ever since I came here, and I didn't like to read that much."
"My poor child," said the lady, "you have been hardly bestead, I think. What if you were to come and spend next Sunday with me? Don't you think I should do instead of a kitten?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, I am sure of it," said Ellen, clinging to her. "Oh, I'll come gladly if you will let me, and if Aunt Fortune will let me; and I hope she will, for she said last Sunday I was the plague of her life."
"What did you do to make her say so?" said her friend gravely.
"Only asked her for some books, ma'am."
"Well, my dear, I see I am getting upon another of your troubles, and we haven't time for that now. By your own account you have been much in fault yourself; and I trust you will find all things mend with your own mending. But now there goes the sun!—and you and I must follow his example."
The lake ceased to gleam, and the houses of the village were less plainly to be seen; still the mountain heads were as bright as ever. Gradually the shadows crept up their sides, while the grey of evening settled deeper and deeper upon the valley.
"There," said Ellen, "that's just what I was wondering at the other morning; only then the light shone upon the top of the mountains first and walked down, and now it leaves the bottom first and walks up. I asked Mr. Van Brunt about it, and he could not tell me. That's another of my troubles,—there's nobody that can tell me anything."
"Put me in mind of it to-morrow, and I'll try to make you understand it," said the lady, "but we must not tarry now. I see you are likely to find me work enough, Ellen."
"I'll not ask you a question, ma'am, if you don't like it," said Ellen earnestly.
"I do like, I do like," said the other. "I spoke laughingly, for I see you will be apt to ask me a good many. As many as you please, my dear."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen, as they ran down the hill, "they keep coming into my head all the while."
It was easier going down than coming up. They soon arrived at the place where Ellen had left the road to take the wood-path.
"Here we part," said the lady. "Good-night."
"Good-night, ma'am."
There was a kiss and a squeeze of the hand, but when Ellen would have turned away the lady still held her fast.
"You are an odd little girl," said she. "I gave you liberty to ask me questions."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen doubtfully.
"There is a question you have not asked me that I have been expecting. Do you know who I am?"
"No, ma'am."
"Don't you want to know?"
"Yes, ma'am, very much," said Ellen, laughing at her friend's look; "but mamma told me never to try to find out anything about other people that they didn't wish me to know, or that wasn't my business."
"Well, I think this is your business decidedly. Who are you going to ask for when you come to see me to-morrow? Will you ask for 'the young lady that lives in this house?' or will you give a description of my nose, and eyes, and inches?"
Ellen laughed.
"My dear Ellen," said the lady, changing her tone, "do you know you please me very much? For one person that shows herself well-bred in this matter there are a thousand, I think, that ask impertinent questions. I am very glad you are an exception to the common rule. But, dear Ellen, I am quite willing you should know my name—it is Alice Humphreys. Now, kiss me again and run home; it is quite, quite time; I have kept you too late. Good-night, my dear. Tell your aunt I beg she will allow you to take tea with me to-morrow."
They parted, and Ellen hastened homewards, urged by the rapidly-growing dusk of the evening. She trod the green turf with a step lighter and quicker than it had been a few hours before, and she regained her home in much less time than it had taken her to come from thence to the mountain. Lights were in the kitchen, and the table set; but though weary and faint she was willing to forego her supper rather than meet her aunt just then; so she stole quietly up to her room. She did not forget her friend's advice. She had no light; she could not read; butEllen did pray. She did carry all her heart-sickness, her wants, and her woes, to that Friend whose ear is always open to hear the cry of those who call upon Him in truth; and then, relieved, refreshed, almost healed, she went to bed and slept sweetly.