"New York,Saturday, Nov. 22, 18—,"My dear Ellen,—I meant to have written to you before, but have been scarcely able to do so. I did make one or two efforts which came to nothing; I was obliged to give it up before finishing anything that could be called a letter. To-day I feel much stronger than I have at any time since your departure."I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour in the day, nor a half-hour, that the want of you does not come home to my heart; and I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This separation is a very hard thing to bear. But the hand that has arranged it does nothing amiss; we must trust Him, my daughter, that all will be well. I feel itiswell, though sometimes the thought of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to Him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing committed to His care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh, my daughter, never forget to pray; never slight it. It is almost my only refuge, now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often—how often, through years gone by, when heart-sick and faint, I have fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the sorrows of life. And keep this letter, that if ever you are like to forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again."My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I drink it mechanically and set down my cup, remembering only that the dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no more. My child! my child! words are poor to express the heart's yearnings; my spirit is near you all the time."Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you went came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me. He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear Ellen, had for its immediate cause your proper and lady-like behaviour in the store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that though I have seen him so many times I am still perfectly ignorant of his name."We set sail Monday in theEngland. Your father has secured a nice state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on thebroad ocean, with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and probably much too sick to look at those. Never mind that; the sickness is good for me."I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first conveyance."And now, my dear baby—my precious child—farewell. May the blessing of God be with you!—Your affectionate mother,"E. Montgomery."
"New York,Saturday, Nov. 22, 18—,
"My dear Ellen,—I meant to have written to you before, but have been scarcely able to do so. I did make one or two efforts which came to nothing; I was obliged to give it up before finishing anything that could be called a letter. To-day I feel much stronger than I have at any time since your departure.
"I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour in the day, nor a half-hour, that the want of you does not come home to my heart; and I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This separation is a very hard thing to bear. But the hand that has arranged it does nothing amiss; we must trust Him, my daughter, that all will be well. I feel itiswell, though sometimes the thought of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to Him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing committed to His care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh, my daughter, never forget to pray; never slight it. It is almost my only refuge, now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often—how often, through years gone by, when heart-sick and faint, I have fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the sorrows of life. And keep this letter, that if ever you are like to forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again.
"My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I drink it mechanically and set down my cup, remembering only that the dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no more. My child! my child! words are poor to express the heart's yearnings; my spirit is near you all the time.
"Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you went came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me. He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear Ellen, had for its immediate cause your proper and lady-like behaviour in the store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that though I have seen him so many times I am still perfectly ignorant of his name.
"We set sail Monday in theEngland. Your father has secured a nice state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on thebroad ocean, with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and probably much too sick to look at those. Never mind that; the sickness is good for me.
"I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first conveyance.
"And now, my dear baby—my precious child—farewell. May the blessing of God be with you!—Your affectionate mother,
"E. Montgomery."
"You ought to be a good child, Ellen," said Alice, as she dashed away some tears. "Thank you for letting me see this; it has been a great pleasure to me."
"And now," said Ellen, "you feel as if you knew mamma a little."
"Enough to honour and respect her very much. Now, good-bye, my love; I must be at home before it is late. I will see you again before Christmas comes."
When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail.
—Shakespeare.
To Ellen's sorrow, she was pronounced next morning well enough to come downstairs; her aunt averring that "it was no use to keep a fire burning up there for nothing." She must get up and dress in the cold again; and winter had fairly set in now; the 19th of December rose clear and keen. Ellen looked sighingly at the heap of ashes and the dead brands in the fireplace where the bright little fire had blazed so cheerfully the evening before. But regrets did not help the matter; and shivering she began to dress as fast as she could. Since her illness, a basin and pitcher had been brought into her room, so the washing at the spout was ended for the present; and though the basin had no place but a chair, and the pitcher must stand on the floor, Ellen thought herself too happy. But how cold it was! The wind swept past her windows, giving wintry shakes to the panes of glass, and through many an opening in the wooden frame-work of the house it came in and saluted Ellen's bare arms and neck. She hurried to finish her dressing, and wrapping her double-gown over all,went down to the kitchen. It was another climate there. A great fire was burning that it quite cheered Ellen's heart to look at; and the air seemed to be full of coffee and buckwheat cakes; Ellen almost thought she should get enough breakfast by the sense of smell.
"Ah! here you are," said Miss Fortune. "What have you got that thing on for?"
"It was so cold upstairs," said Ellen, drawing up her shoulders. The warmth had not got inside of her wrapper yet.
"Well, t'ain't cold here; you better pull it off right away. I've no notion of people's making themselves tender. You'll be warm enough directly. Breakfast'll warm you."
Ellen felt almost inclined to quarrel with the breakfast that was offered in exchange for her comfortable wrapper; she pulled it off, however, and sat down without saying anything. Mr. Van Brunt put some cakes on her plate.
"If breakfast's agoing to warm you," said he, "make haste and get something down; or drink a cup of coffee; you're as blue as skim milk."
"Am I?" said Ellen laughingly; "I feel blue; but I can't eat such a pile of cakes as that, Mr. Van Brunt."
As a general thing the meals at Miss Fortune's were silent solemnities; an occasional consultation, or a few questions and remarks about farm affairs, being all that ever passed. The breakfast this morning was a singular exception to the common rule.
"I am in a regular quandary," said the mistress of the house, when the meal was about half over.
Mr. Van Brunt looked up for an instant, and asked, "What about?"
"Why, how I am ever going to do to get those apples and sausage-meat done. If I go to doing 'em myself I shall about get through by spring."
"Why don't you make a bee?" said Mr. Van Brunt.
"Ain't enough of either on 'em to make it worth while. I ain't agoing to have all the bother of a bee without something to show for't."
"Turn 'em both into one," suggested her counsellor, going on with his breakfast.
"Both?"
"Yes; let 'em pare apples in one room and cut pork in t'other."
"But I wonder who ever heard of such a thing before," said Miss Fortune, pausing with her cup of coffee half way to her lips. Presently, however, it was carried to her mouth, drunk off,and set down with an air of determination. "I don't care," said she, "if it never was heard of. I'll do it for once anyhow. I'm not one of them to care what folks say. I'll have it so. But I won't have them to tea, mind you; I'd rather throw apples and all into the fire at once. I'll have but one plague of setting tables, and that I won't have 'em to tea, I'll make it up to 'em in the supper though."
"I'll take care to publish that," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"Don't you go and do such a thing," said Miss Fortune earnestly. "I shall have the whole country on my hands. I won't have but just as many on 'em as'll do what I want done; that'll be as much as I can stand under. Don't you whisper a word of it to a living creature. I'll go round and ask 'em myself to come Monday evening."
"Monday evening—then I suppose you'd like to have up the sleigh this afternoon. Who's acoming?"
"I don't know; I ha'n't asked 'em yet."
"They'll every soul come that's asked, that you may depend; there ain't one on 'em that would miss of it for a dollar."
Miss Fortune bridled a little at the implied tribute to her housekeeping.
"If I was some folks I wouldn't let people know I was in such a mighty hurry to get a good supper," she observed rather scornfully.
"Humph!" said Mr. Van Brunt; "I think a good supper ain't a bad thing; and I've no objection to folks knowing it."
"Pshaw! I don't meanyou," said Miss Fortune; "I was thinking of those Lawsons, and other folks."
"If you're agoing to askthemto your bee you ain't of my mind."
"Well, I am though," replied Miss Fortune; "there's a good many hands of 'em; they can turn off a good lot of work in an evening; and they always take care to get me totheirbees. I may as well get something out of them in return if I can."
"They'll reckon on getting as much as they can out o'you, if they come, there's no sort of doubt in my mind. It's my belief Mimy Lawson will kill herself some of these days upon green corn. She was at home to tea one day last summer, and I declare I thought——"
What Mr. Van Brunt thought he left his hearers to guess.
"Well, let them kill themselves if they like," said Miss Fortune; "I am sure I am willing; there'll be enough; I ain't agoing to mince matters when once I begin. Now let me see. There's five of the Lawsons to begin with—I suppose they'll all come; Bill Huff, and Jany, that's seven——"
"That Bill Huff is as good natured a fellow as ever broke ground," remarked Mr. Van Brunt. "Ain't better people in the town than them Huffs are."
"They're well enough," said Miss Fortune. "Seven—and the Hitchcocks, there's three of them, that'll make ten——"
"Dennison's ain't far from there," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Dan Dennison's a fine hand at a'most anything, in doors or out."
"That's more than you can say for his sister. Cilly Dennison gives herself so many airs it's altogether too much for plain country folks. I should like to know what she thinks herself. It's a'most too much for my stomach to see her flourishing that watch and chain."
"What's the use of troubling yourself about other people's notions?" said Mr. Van Brunt. "If folks want to take the road let 'em have it. That's my way. I am satisfied, provided they don't run me over."
"'Taintmyway then, I'd have you to know," said Miss Fortune; "I despise it. And 'tain't your way neither, Van Brunt; what did you give Tom Larkens a cow-hiding for?"
"'Cause he deserved it, if ever a man did," said Mr. Van Brunt, quite rousing up; "he was treating that little brother of his'n in a way a boy shouldn't be treated, and I am glad I did it. I gave him notice to quit before I laid a finger on him. He warn't doing nothing tome."
"And how much good do you suppose it did?" said Miss Fortune rather scornfully.
"It did just the good I wanted to do. He has seen fit to let little Billy alone ever since."
"Well, I guess I'll let the Dennisons come," said Miss Fortune; "that makes twelve, and you and your mother are fourteen. I suppose that man Marshchalk will come dangling along after the Hitchcocks."
"To be sure he will; and his aunt, Miss Janet, will come with him most likely."
"Well, there's no help for it," said Miss Fortune. "That makes sixteen."
"Will you ask Miss Alice?"
"Not I! she's another of your proud set. I don't want to see anybody that thinks she's going to do me a favour by coming."
Ellen's lips opened, but wisdom came in time to stop the words that were on her tongue. It did not, however, prevent the quick little turn of her head, which showed what she thought, and the pale cheeks were for a moment bright enough.
"She is, and I don't care who hears it," repeated Miss Fortune."I suppose she'd look as sober as a judge too if she saw cider on the table; they say she won't touch a drop ever, and thinks it's wicked; and if that ain't setting oneself up for better than other folks, I don't know what is."
"I saw her paring apples at the Huffs' though," said Mr. Van Brunt, "and as pleasant as anybody; but she didn't stay to supper."
"I'd ask Mrs. Vawse if I could get word to her," said Miss Fortune; "but I can never travel up that mountain. If I get a sight of Nancy I'll tell her."
"There she is then," said Mr. Van Brunt, looking towards the little window that opened into the shed. And there indeed was the face of Miss Nancy pressed flat against the glass, peering into the room. Miss Fortune beckoned to her.
"That is the most impudent, shameless, outrageous piece of——What are you doing at the window?" said she, as Nancy came in.
"Looking at you, Miss Fortune," said Nancy coolly. "What have you been talking about this great while? If there had only been a pane of glass broken I needn't have asked."
"Hold your tongue," said Miss Fortune, "and listen to me."
"I'll listen, ma'am," said Nancy; "but it's of no use to hold my tongue. I do try sometimes, but I never could keep it long."
"Have you done?"
"I don't know, ma'am," said Nancy, shaking her head; "it's just as it happens."
"You tell your granny I'm going to have a bee here next Monday evening, and ask her if she'll come to it."
Nancy nodded. "If it's good weather," she added conditionally.
"Stop, Nancy!" said Miss Fortune—"here!" for Nancy was shutting the door behind her. "As sure as you come here Monday night without your grandma you'll go out of the house quicker than you came in; see if you don't!"
With another gracious nod and smile Nancy departed.
"Well," said Mr. Van Brunt, rising, "I'll despatch this business downstairs, and then I'll bring up the sleigh. The pickle's ready, I suppose?"
"No, it ain't," said Miss Fortune. "I couldn't make it yesterday; but it's all in the kettle, and I told Sam to make a fire downstairs, so you can put it on when you go down. The kits are all ready, and the salt and everything else."
Mr. Van Brunt went down the stairs that led to the lower kitchen, and Miss Fortune, to make up for lost time, set about her morning's work with even an uncommon measure of activity.Ellen, in consideration of her being still weak, was not required to do anything. She sat and looked on, keeping out of the way of her bustling aunt as far as it was possible; but Miss Fortune's gyrations were of that character that no one could tell five minutes beforehand what she might consider "in the way." Ellen wished for her quiet room again. Mr. Van Brunt's voice sounded downstairs in tones of business; what could he be about? It must be very uncommon business that kept him in the house. Ellen grew restless with the desire to go and see, and to change her aunt's company for his; and no sooner was Miss Fortune fairly shut up in the buttery at some secret work, than Ellen gently opened the door at the head of the lower stairs and looked down. Mr. Van Brunt was standing at the bottom, and he looked up.
"May I come down there, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen softly.
"Come down here? to be sure you may. You may always come straight where I am without asking any questions."
Ellen went down. But before she reached the bottom stair she stopped with almost a start, and stood fixed with such a horrified face that neither Mr. Van Brunt nor Sam Larkens, who was there, could help laughing.
"What's the matter?" said the former, "they're all dead enough, Miss Ellen; you needn't be scared."
Three enormous hogs which had been killed the day before greeted Ellen's eyes. They lay in different parts of the room, with each a cob in his mouth. A fourth lay stretched upon his back on the kitchen table, which was drawn out into the middle of the floor. Ellen stood fast on the stair.
"Have they been killed?" was her first astonished exclamation, to which Sam responded with another burst.
"Be quiet, Sam Larkens," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Yes, Miss Ellen, they've been killed, sure enough."
"Are these the same pigs I used to see you feeding with corn, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"The identical same ones," replied that gentleman, as laying hold of the head of the one on the table and applying his long sharp knife with the other hand, he, while he was speaking, severed it neatly and quickly from the trunk. "And very fine porkers they are; I ain't ashamed of 'em."
"And what's going to be done with them now?" said Ellen.
"I am just going to cut them up and lay them down. Bless my heart! you never see nothing of the kind before, did you?"
"No," said Ellen. "What do you mean by 'laying them down,' Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Why, laying 'em down in salt for pork and hams. You want to see the whole operation, don't you? Well, here's a seat foryou. You'd better fetch that painted coat o' yourn and wrap round you, for it ain't quite so warm here as upstairs; but it's getting warmer. Sam, just you shut that door to, and throw on another log."
Sam built up as large a fire as could be made under a very large kettle that hung in the chimney. When Ellen came down in her wrapper she was established close in the chimney corner; and then Mr. Van Brunt, not thinking her quite safe from the keen currents of air that would find their way into the room, despatched Sam for an old buffalo robe that lay in the shed. This he himself, with great care, wrapped round her, feet and chair and all, and secured it in various places with old forks. He declared then she looked for all the world like an Indian, except her face, and in high good-humour both, he went to cutting up the pork, and Ellen, from out of her buffalo robe, watched him.
It was beautifully done. Even Ellen could see that, although she could not have known if it had been done ill. The knife, guided by strength and skill, seemed to go with the greatest ease and certainty just where he wished it; the hams were beautifully trimmed out; the pieces fashioned clean; no ragged cutting; and his quick-going knife disposed of carcase after carcase with admirable neatness and celerity. Sam meanwhile arranged the pieces in different parcels at his direction, and minded the kettle, in which a great boiling and scumming was going on. Ellen was too much amused for a while to ask any questions. When the cutting up was all done, the hams and shoulders were put in a cask by themselves, and Mr. Van Brunt began to pack down the other pieces in the kits, strewing them with an abundance of salt.
"What's the use of putting all that salt with the pork, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.
"It wouldn't keep good without that; it would spoil very quick."
"Will the salt make it keep?"
"All the year round—as sweet as a nut."
"I wonder what is the reason of that?" said Ellen. "Will salt make everything keep good?"
"Everything in the world—if it only has enough of it, and is kept dry and cool."
"Are you going to do the hams in the same way?"
"No; they are to go in that pickle over the fire."
"In this kettle? what is in it?" said Ellen.
"You must ask Miss Fortune about that; sugar and salt and saltpetre and molasses, and I don't know what all."
"And will this make the hams so different from the rest of the pork?"
"No; they've got to be smoked after they have laid in that for a while."
"Smoked!" said Ellen; "how?"
"Why, ha'n't you been in the smoke-house? The hams has to be taken out of the pickle and hung up there; and then we make a little fire of oak chips and keep it burning night and day."
"And how long must they stay in the smoke?"
"Oh, three or four weeks or so."
"And then they are done?"
"Then they are done."
"How very curious!" said Ellen. "Then it's the smoke that gives them that nice taste? I never knew smoke was good for anything before."
"Ellen!" said the voice of Miss Fortune from the top of the stairs, "come right up here this minute! you'll catch your death!"
Ellen's countenance fell.
"There's no sort of fear of that, ma'am," said Mr. Van Brunt quietly, "and Miss Ellen is fastened up so she can't get loose; and I can't let her out just now."
The upper door was shut again pretty sharply, but that was the only audible expression of opinion with which Miss Fortune favoured them.
"I guess my leather curtains keep off the wind, don't they?" said Mr. Van Brunt.
"Yes, indeed they do," said Ellen, "I don't feel a breath; I am as warm as a toast, too warm almost. How nicely you have fixed me up, Mr. Van Brunt."
"I thought that 'ere old buffalo had done its work," he said, "but I'll never say anything is good for nothing again. Have you found out where the apples are yet?"
"No," said Ellen.
"Ha'n't Miss Fortune showed you? Well, it's time you'd know. Sam, take that little basket and go fill it at the bin; I guess you know where they be, for I believe you put 'em there."
Sam went into the cellar, and presently returned with the basket nicely filled. He handed it to Ellen.
"Are all these for me?" she said in surprise.
"Every one of 'em," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"But I don't like to," said Ellen; "what will Aunt Fortune say?"
"She won't say a word," said Mr. Van Brunt; "and don't you say a word neither, but whenever you want apples just go to the bin and take 'em.Igive you leave. It's right at the end of the far cellar, at the left-hand corner; there are the bins and all sorts of apples in 'em. You've got a pretty variety there, ha'n't you?"
"Oh, all sorts," said Ellen, "and what beauties! and I love apples very much—red and yellow, and speckled and green. What a great monster!"
"That's a Swar; they ain't as good as most of the others; these are Seek-no-furthers."
"Seek-no-further!" said Ellen; "what a funny name. It ought to be a mighty good apple.Ishall seek further, at any rate. What is this?"
"That's as good an apple as you've got in the basket; that's a real Orson pippin, a very fine kind. I'll fetch you some up from home some day though, that are better than the best of those."
The pork was all packed; the kettle was lifted off the fire; Mr. Van Brunt was wiping his hands from the salt.
"And now I suppose I must go," said Ellen, with a little sigh.
"Why,Imust go," said he, "so I suppose I may as well let you out of your tent first."
"I have had such a nice time," said Ellen; "I had gotsotired of doing nothing upstairs. I amverymuch obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt. But," said she, stopping as she had taken up her basket to go—"aren't you going to put the hams in the pickle?"
"No," said he, laughing, "it must wait to get cold first. But you'll make a capital farmer's wife, there's no mistake."
Ellen blushed and ran upstairs with her apples. To bestow them safely in her closet was her first care; the rest of the morning was spent in increasing weariness and listlessness. She had brought down her little hymn-book, thinking to amuse herself with learning a hymn, but it would not do; eyes and head both refused their part of the work; and when at last Mr. Van Brunt came in to a late dinner, he found Ellen seated flat on the hearth before the fire, her right arm curled round upon the hard wooden bottom of one of the chairs, and her head pillowed upon that, fast asleep.
"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Van Brunt, "what's become of that 'ere rocking-cheer?"
"It's upstairs, I suppose. You can go fetch it if you've a mind to," answered Miss Fortune, dryly enough.
He did so immediately; and Ellen barely waked up to feel herself lifted from the floor, and placed in the friendly rocking-chair; Mr. Van Brunt remarking at the same time that "it might be well enough to let well folks lie on the floor, and sleep on cheers, but cushions warn't a bit too soft for sick ones."
Among the cushions Ellen went to sleep again with a much better prospect of rest; and either sleeping or dozing passed away the time for a good while.
O that I were an Orange tree,That busy plant!Then should I always laden be,And never wantSome fruit for him that dresseth me.
—G. Herbert.
She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the house-door after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone forth on their sleighing expedition, and Ellen waked to find herself quite alone.
She could not long have doubted that her aunt was away, even if she had not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the shed-door—the stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could be with Miss Fortune anywhere about the premises. The old grandmother must have been abed and asleep too, for a cricket under the hearth, and a wood-fire in the chimney had it all to themselves, and made the only sounds that were heard; the first singing out every now and then in a very contented and cheerful style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps and sparks that just served to make one take notice how very quietly and steadily it was burning.
Miss Fortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of neatness. Not a speck of dust could be supposed to lie on the shining painted floor; the back of every chair was in its place against the wall. The very hearth-stone shone, and the heads of the large iron nails in the floor were polished to steel. Ellen sat a while listening to the soothing chirrup of the cricket and the pleasant crackling of the flames. It was a fine cold winter's day. The two little windows at the far end of the kitchen looked out upon an expanse of snow; and the large lilac bush that grew close by the wall, moved lightly by the wind, drew its icy fingers over the panes of glass. Wintry it was without; but that made the warmth and comfort within seem all the more. Ellen would have enjoyed it very much if she had had any one to talk to; as it was she felt rather lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn; but it had set her off upon a long train of thought; and with her head resting on her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the other hand with the hymn-book lying listlessly in her lap, and eyes staring into the fire, she wassitting the very picture of meditation when the door opened and Alice Humphreys came in. Ellen started up.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I'm all alone."
"Left alone, are you?" said Alice, as Ellen's warm lips were pressed again and again to her cold cheeks.
"Yes, Aunt Fortune's gone out. Come and sit down here in the rocking-chair. How cold you are. Oh, do you know she is going to have a great bee here Monday evening. What is abee?"
Alice smiled. "Why," said she, "when people here in the country have so much of any kind of work to do that their own hands are not enough for it, they send and call in their neighbours to help them—that's a bee. A large party in the course of a long evening can do a great deal."
"But why do they call it abee?"
"I don't know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for the time. 'As busy as a bee,' you know."
"Then they ought to call it a hive and not a bee, I should think. Aunt Fortune is going to ask sixteen people. I wish you were coming."
"How do you know but I am?"
"Oh, I know you aren't. Aunt Fortune isn't going to ask you."
"You are sure of that, are you?"
"Yes, I wish I wasn't. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by something she said."
"You mustn't get vexed so easily, my child. Don't let every little untoward thing roughen your temper."
"But I couldn't help it, dear Miss Alice; it was about you. I don't know whether I ought to tell you; but I don't think you'll mind it, and I know it isn't true. She said she didn't want you to come because you were one of the proud set."
"And what didyousay?"
"Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, 'It's no such thing;' but I didn't say it."
"I am glad you were so wise. Dear Ellen, that is nothing to be vexed about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I trust Miss Fortune is mistaken. I shall try and find some way to make her change her mind. I am glad you told me."
"I amsoglad you are come, dear Alice!" said Ellen again. "I wish I could have you always." And the long, very close pressure of her two arms about her friend said as much. There was a long pause. The cheek of Alice rested on Ellen's head which nestled against her; both were busily thinking, but neither spoke; and the cricket chirped and the flames crackled without being listened to.
"Miss Alice," said Ellen, after a long time, "I wish you would talk over a hymn with me."
"How do you mean, my dear?" said Alice, rousing herself.
"I mean, read it over and explain it. Mamma used to do it sometimes. I have been thinking a great deal about her to-day, and I think I'm very different from what I ought to be. I wish you would talk to me and make me better, Miss Alice."
Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face that was uplifted to her, and presently said—
"I am afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother, Ellen. What hymn shall we take?"
"Any one—this one if you like. Mamma likes it very much. I was looking it over to-day.
"'A charge to keep I have—A God to glorify;A never-dying soul to save,And fit it for the sky.'"
"'A charge to keep I have—A God to glorify;A never-dying soul to save,And fit it for the sky.'"
Alice read the first line and paused.
"There now," said Ellen, "what is a charge?"
"Don't you know that?"
"I think I do, but I wish you would tell me."
"Try to tell me first."
"Isn't it something that is given one to do?—I don't know exactly."
"It is something given one in trust, to be done or taken care of. I remember very well once when I was about your age my mother had occasion to go out for half-an-hour, and she left me in charge of my little baby sister; she gave me achargenot to let anything disturb her while she was away, and to keep her asleep if I could. And I remember how I kept my charge too. I was not to take her out of the cradle, but I sat beside her the whole time; I would not suffer a fly to light on her little fair cheek; I scarcely took my eyes from her; I made John keep pussy at a distance; and whenever one of the little round dimpled arms was thrown out upon the coverlet, I carefully drew something over it again."
"Is she dead?" said Ellen timidly, her eyes watering in sympathy with Alice's.
"She is dead, my dear; she died before we left England."
"I understand what a charge is," said Ellen, after a little while, "but what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have I to keep?"
"The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part of it. 'A God to glorify.'"
"To glorify!" said Ellen doubtfully.
"Yes—that is to honour—to give Him all the honour that belongs to Him."
"But canIhonourHim?"
"Most certainly; either honour or dishonour; you cannot help doing one."
"I!" said Ellen again.
"Must not your behaviour speak either well or ill for the mother who has brought you up?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Very well; when a child of God lives as he ought to do, people cannot help having high and noble thoughts of that glorious One whom he serves, and of that perfect law he obeys. Little as they may love the ways of religion, in their own secret hearts theycannot helpconfessing that there is a God, and that they ought to serve Him. But a worldling, and still more an unfaithful Christian, just helps people to forget there is such a Being, and makes them think either that religion is a sham, or that they may safely go on despising it. I have heard it said, Ellen, that Christians are the only Bible some people ever read; and it is true; all they know of religion is what they get from the lives of its professors; and oh, were the world but full of the right kind of example, the kingdom of darkness could not stand. 'Arise, shine!' is a word that every Christian ought to take home."
"But how can I shine?" asked Ellen.
"My dear Ellen!—in the faithful, patient, self-denying performance of every duty as it comes to hand—'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'"
"It is very little thatIcan do," said Ellen.
"Perhaps more than you think, but never mind that. All are not great stars in the Church; you may be only a little rushlight. See you burn well!"
"I remember," said Ellen, musing, "mamma once told me when I was going somewhere that people would think strangely ofherif I didn't behave well."
"Certainly. Why, Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon after I saw you."
"Did you?" said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face; "what was it? Was it good? ah, do tell me!"
"I am not quite sure of the wisdom of that," said Alice, smiling; "you might take home the praise that is justly her right and not yours."
"Oh no, indeed," said Ellen, "I had rather she should have it than I. Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice—I know it was good, at any rate."
"Well, I will tell you," said Alice, "at all risks. I thought your mother was a lady, from the honourable notions she had given you; and from your ready obedience to her, which was evidently the obedience of love, I judged she had been a good mother in the true sense of the term. I thought she must be a refined and cultivated person, from the manner of your speech and behaviour; and I was sure she was a Christian, because she had taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead you in it."
The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen gave way, long before Alice had done, to a burst of tears.
"It makes me so glad to hear you say that," she said.
"The praise of it is your mother's, you know, Ellen."
"I know it; but you make me so glad!" And hiding her face in Alice's lap, she fairly sobbed.
"You understand now, don't you, how Christians may honour or dishonour their Heavenly Father?"
"Yes, I do; but it makes me afraid to think of it."
"Afraid? It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great honour and happiness for us to be permitted to honour Him—
'A never-dying soul to save,And fit it for the sky.'
'A never-dying soul to save,And fit it for the sky.'
Yes, that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never forget it, dear Ellen! And whatever would hinder you, have nothing to do with it. 'What will it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'—
'To serve the present age,My calling to fulfil—'"
'To serve the present age,My calling to fulfil—'"
"What is 'the present age'?" said Ellen.
"All the people who are living in the world at this time."
"But, dear Alice, what can I do to the present age?"
"Nothing to the most part of them certainly; and yet, dear Ellen, if your little rushlight shines well there is just so much the less darkness in the world, though perhaps you light only a very little corner. Every Christian is a blessing to the world, another grain of salt to go towards sweetening and saving the mass."
"That is very pleasant to think of," said Ellen, musing.
"Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant it would be to do anything for Him! how many ways we should find of honouring Him by doing good."
"I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it," said Ellen.
"You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No one is so poor or so young but he has one talent at least to use for God."
"I wish I knew what mine is," said Ellen.
"Is your daily example as perfect as it can be?"
Ellen was silent and shook her head.
"Christ pleased not Himself, and went about doing good; and He said, 'If any man serve Me, let himfollow Me.' Remember that. Perhaps your aunt is unreasonable and unkind; see with how much patience and perfect sweetness of temper you can bear and forbear; see if you cannot win her over by untiring gentleness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no improvement to be made here?"
"Oh me, yes!" answered Ellen, with a sigh.
"Then your old grandmother. Can you do nothing to cheer her life in her old age and helplessness? Can't you find some way of giving her pleasure? some way of amusing a long tedious hour now and then?"
Ellen looked very grave; in her inmost heart she knew this was a duty she shrank from.
"He 'went about doing good.' Keep that in mind. A kind word spoken—a little thing done to smooth the way of one, or lighten the load of another—teaching those who need teaching—entreating those who are walking in the wrong way. Oh, my child, there is work enough!—
'To serve the present age,My calling to fulfil;O may it all my powers engageTo do my Maker's will.Arm me with jealous care,As in Thy sight to live;And oh! thy servant, Lord, prepareA strict account to give.'"
'To serve the present age,My calling to fulfil;O may it all my powers engageTo do my Maker's will.
Arm me with jealous care,As in Thy sight to live;And oh! thy servant, Lord, prepareA strict account to give.'"
"An account of what?" said Ellen.
"You know what an account is. If I give Thomas a dollar to spend for me at Carra-carra, I expect he will give me an exactaccountwhen he comes back, what he has done with every shilling of it. So must we give an account of what we have done with everything our Lord has committed to our care—our hands, our tongue, our time, our minds, our influence; how much we have honoured Him, how much good we have done to others, how fast and how far we have grown holy and fit for heaven."
"It almost frightens me to hear you talk, Miss Alice."
"Notfrighten, dear Ellen—that is not the word;soberwe ought to be, mindful to do nothing we shall not wish to remember in the great day of account. Do you recollect how that day is described? Where is your Bible?"
She opened at the twentieth chapter of the Revelation.
"'And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven flew away; and there was found no place for them.
"'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them; and they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.
"'And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.'"
Ellen shivered. "That is dreadful!" she said.
"It will be a dreadful day to all but those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life; not dreadful to them, dear Ellen."
"But how shall I be sure, dear Alice, thatmyname is written there? and I can't be happy if I am not sure."
"My dear child," said Alice tenderly, as Ellen's anxious face and glistening eyes were raised to hers, "if you love Jesus Christ you may know you are His child, and none shall pluck you out of His hand."
"But how can I tell whether I do love him really? sometimes I think I do, and then again sometimes I am afraid I don't at all."
Alice answered in the words of Christ: "'He that hath My commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.'"
"Oh, I don't keep His commandments!" said Ellen, the tears running down her cheeks.
"Perfectly, none of us do. But, dear Ellen,thatis not the question. Is it your heart's desire and effort to keep them? Are you grieved when you fail? There is the point. You cannot love Christ without loving to please Him."
Ellen rose, and putting both arms round Alice's neck, laid her head there, as her manner sometimes was, tears flowing fast.
"I sometimes think I do love Him a little," she said, "but I do so many wrong things. But He will teach me to love Him if I ask Him, won't He, dear Alice?"
"Indeed He will, dear Ellen," said Alice, folding her armsround her little adopted sister, "indeedHe will. He has promised that. Remember what He told somebody who was almost in despair: 'Fear not; only believe.'"
Alice's neck was wet with Ellen's tears; and after they had ceased to flow, her arms kept their hold and her head its resting-place on Alice's shoulder for some time. It was necessary at last for Alice to leave her.
Ellen waited till the sound of her horse's footsteps died away on the road; and then, sinking on her knees beside her rocking-chair, she poured forth her whole heart in prayers and tears. She confessed many a fault and shortcoming that none knew but herself, and most earnestly besought help that "her little rushlight might shine bright." Prayer was to little Ellen what it is to all that know it—the satisfying of doubt, the soothing of care, the quieting of trouble. She had knelt down very uneasy; but she knew that God has promised to be the hearer of prayer, and she rose up very comforted, her mind fixing on those most sweet words Alice had brought to her memory: "Fear not; only believe." When Miss Fortune returned Ellen was quietly asleep again in her rocking-chair, with her face very pale, but calm as an evening sunbeam.
"Well, I declare if that child ain't sleeping her life away!" said Miss Fortune. "She's slept this whole blessed forenoon; I suppose she'll want to be alive and dancing the whole night to pay for it."
"I can tell you what she'll want a sight more," said Mr. Van Brunt, who had followed her in; it must have been to see about Ellen, for he was never known to do such a thing before or since; "I'll tell you what she'll want, and that's a right hot supper. She eat as nigh as possible nothing at all this noon. There ain't much danger of her dancing a hole in your floor this some time."