CHAPTER 45 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL One Monday evening John being tired was resting in the corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen thought so, and standing near, she by and by put her hand gently into one of his, which was thoughtfully passing through the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and, quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had been doing that day. Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and a long rent in her dress. She merely answered, smiling, that she had been busy. Too busy, I am afraid. Come round here and sit down. What have you been busy about? Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She colored and hesitated. He did not press it any further. Mr. John said, Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in again, there is something I've been wanting to ask you this great while. Why hasn't it been asked this great while? I didn't quite like to. I didn't know what you would say to it. I am sorry. I am at all terrible to you, Ellie. Why, you are not, said Ellen, laughing. How you talk. But I don't much like to ask people things. I don't know about that, said he, smiling. My memory rather seems to say that you ask things pretty often. Ah, yes, those things. But I mean, I don't like to ask things when I am not quite sure how people will like it. You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful in such a matter. But it is best not to be doubtful when I am concerned. Well, said Ellen, I wished very much. I was going to ask, if you would have any objection to let me read one of your sermons. None in the world, Ellie, said he, smiling. But they have never been written yet. No, there is all I had to guide me yesterday. A half sheet of paper, and only written on one side? Oh, I can make nothing of this. What is this, Hebrew? Short hand. And is that all I cannot understand, said Ellen, sighing as she gave back the paper? What if you were to go with me next time? They want to see you very much of Etnor. So do I want to see them, said Ellen, very much indeed. Mrs. Marshman said a most earnest request by me that you would come to her the next time I go to Randolph. Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration, if one might judge by her face. What do you say to it? I should like to go very much, said Ellen, slowly. But—but you do not think it would be pleasant? No, no, said Ellen, laughing. I don't mean that. But I think I would rather not. Why? Oh, I have some reasons. You must give me very good ones, or I think I shall overrule your decision, Ellie. I have very good ones—plenty of them—only a glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen's hesitation. I have indeed, said she, laughing, only I did not want to tell you. The reason why I don't wish to go was because I thought I should be missed.  That is what I was afraid of—your reasons make against you, I hope not. I don't think they ought. But, Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you once or twice than have you want what would be good for you. I know that, I am sure of that, but that don't alter my feeling, you know, and besides, that is an all. Who else will miss you? Ellen's quick look seemed to say that he knew too much already, and that she did not wish him to know more. He did not repeat the question, but Ellen felt that her secret was no longer entirely her own. And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely? He went unpresently. Ellen's eyes watered at the tone in which these words were spoken. She answered, different things. The best remedy for it is prayer, and seeking the face of our best friend, we forget the loss of others. That is what I try, Ellie, when I feel alone. Do you try it, said he, softly? Ellen looked up. She could not well speak at that moment. There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who said, He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst. It troubles me, said he, after a pause, to leave you so much alone. I don't know that it were not best to take you with me every week. Oh, no, said Ellen, don't think of me. I don't mind it, indeed. I do not always feel so, sometimes, but I get along very well, and I would rather stay here, indeed I would. I am always happy as soon as Monday morning comes. He rose up suddenly, and began to walk up and down the room. Mr. John. What, Ellie? I do sometimes seek his face very much when I cannot find it. She hid her face in the sofa cushion. He was silent a few minutes, and then stopped his walk. There is something wrong, then, with you, Ellie, he said, gently. How has it been through the week? If you can let day after day pass without remembering your best friend, it may be that when you feel the blotch, you will not readily find him. How deeply, Ellie, is seeking his face your first concern? Do you give sufficient time faithfully to your Bible in prayer? Ellen shook her head. No words were possible. He took up his walk again. The silence lasted a length of time, and he was still walking, when Ellen came to his side and laid her hand on his arm. Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie? She weepingly answered, yes. They walked a few turns up and down. Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be over, you will give an hour at least to this business? Whatever else may be done or undone? Ellen promised, and then with her hand in his they continued their walk through the room, till Mr. Humphries and the servants came in. Her brother's prayer that night, Ellen never forgot. No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor, but a week or two after. John smilingly told her to get all her private affairs arranged, and to let her friends know they need not expect her the next Sunday, for that he was going to take her with him. As she saw he had made up his mind, Ellen said nothing in the way of objecting, and now that the decision was taken from her, was really very glad to go. She arranged everything as he had said, and was ready Saturday morning to set off for the very light hurt. They went in the sleigh, in a happy, quiet mood of mind, Ellen enjoyed everything exceedingly. She had not been to Ventnor in several months. The change of scene was very grateful. She could not help thinking as they slid along smoothly and swiftly over the hard frozen snow, that it was a good deal pleasanter for months than sitting alone in the parlor at home with her work-basket. Those days of salutary duty, however, had prepared her for the pleasure of this one. Ellen knew that, and was ready to be thankful for everything. Throughout the whole day, whether the eye and mind silently indulged in roving, or still better of a talk interrupted that, as it often did, Ellen was in a state of most unmixed and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the slightest reason to doubt the correctness of his judgment in bringing her. He went in but a moment at Ventnor, and leaving her there, proceeded himself to Randolph. Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken the greatest care of, and enjoyed as much as possible, while one has it. Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she had been their own child. Ellen Chauncey overwhelmed her with joyful caresses, and could scarcely let her out of her arms by night or by day. She was more than ever Mr. Marshman's pet. But indeed she was well petted by the family. It was a very happy visit. Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy not only Mrs. Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her brother, for his church was not the one the family attended, but the carriage was ordered in the afternoon also, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter and Miss Sophia went with her again. When they returned, Miss Sophia, who had taken a very great fancy to her, brought her into her own room, and made her lie down with her in the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not tired. Well, you ought to be if you are not, said the lady. I am. Keep away, Ellen Chauncey. You can't be anywhere without talking. You can live without Ellen for half an hour, can't you? Leave us a little while and quiet. Ellen, for her part, was quite willing to be quiet, but Miss Sophia was not sleepy, and it soon appeared, had no attention of being silent herself. Well, how do you like your brother in the pulpit, she began? I like him anywhere, ma'am, said Ellen, smiling a very unequivocal smile. I thought he would have come here with you last night. It is very mean of him. He never comes near us. He always goes to some wretched little lodging, or place in the town there, always, never so much as looks at Ventnor, unless sometimes he may stop for a minute at the door. He said he would come here to-night, said Ellen. Amazing condescending of him. However, he isn't like anybody else. I suppose we must not judge him by common rules. How is Mr. Humphrey's, Ellen? I don't know, ma'am, said Ellen. It is hard to tell. He doesn't say much. I think he is rather more cheerful, if anything, than I expected he would be. And how do you get along, poor child, with only two such grave people about you? I get along very well, ma'am, said Ellen, with what Miss Sophia thought a somewhat curious smile. I believe he will grow to be as sober as the rest of them, said she. How does Mr. John behave? Ellen turned so indutably curious a look upon her at this, that Miss Sophia half laughed and went on. Mr. Humphrey's was not always as silent and reserved as he is now. I remember him when he was different, though I don't think he was ever much like his son. Do you ever hear about it? About what, ma'am? Oh, all about his coming to this country, and what brought him to Cara Cara? No, ma'am. My father, you see, had come out long before, but the two families had always been very intimate in England, and it was kept up after he came away. He was a particular friend of an elder brother of Mr. Humphrey's. His estate and my grandfather's lay very near each other. And besides, there were other things that drew them to each other. He married my aunt for one. My father made several journeys back and forth in the course of years, and so kept up his attachment to the whole family, you know, and he became very desirous to get Mr. Humphrey's over here. This Mr. Humphrey's you know. He was the younger brother. Younger brothers in England have generally little or nothing. But you don't know anything about that, Ellen. He hadn't anything then but his living, and that was a small one. He had some property left him, though, just before he came to America. But Miss Sophia, Ellen hesitated, are you sure they would like I should hear all this? Why, yes, child, of course they would. Everybody knows it. Some things made Mr. Humphrey's as willing to leave England about that time, as my father was to have him. An excellent situation was offered him in one of the best institutions here, and he came out. That's about, let me see, I was just twelve years old, and Ellis was one year younger. She and I were just like sisters always from that time. We lived near together and saw each other every day, and our two families were just like one. But they were liked by everybody. Mrs. Humphrey's was a very fine person. Very. Oh, very. I never saw any woman I admired more. Her death almost killed her husband. And I think Ellis. I don't know. There isn't the least sign of delicate health about Mr. Humphrey's, nor Mr. John, not the slightest. Nor about Mrs. Humphrey's either. She was a very fine woman. How long ago did she die, said Ellen? Five, six, seven. Seven years ago. Mr. John had been left in England till a little before. Mr. Humphrey's was never the same after that. He wouldn't hold his professorship any longer. He couldn't bear society. He just went and buried himself at Caracara. That was a little after we came here. How much all this interested Ellen? She was glad, however, when Miss Sophia seemed to have talked herself out. For she wanted very much to think over John's sermon. And as Miss Sophia happily fell into a dote soon after, she had a long, quiet time for it, till it grew dark, and Ellen Chauncey, whose impatience could not hold her, came to seek her. John came in the evening. Ellen's patience and politeness were severely tried in the course of it. For while she longed exceedingly to hear what her brother and the older members of the family were talking about, animated delightful conversations she was sure, Ellen Chauncey detained her in another part of the room. And for a good part of the evening, she had to bridle her impatience and attend to what she did not care about. She did it, and Ellen Chauncey did not suspect it. And at last she found means to drub both her and herself near the larger group. But they seemed to have got through what they were talking about. There was a lull. Ellen waited and hoped they would begin again. You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John, said Miss Sophia. He bowed gravely. Did you know whom you had among your auditors? The blank and blank were there, naming some distinguished strangers in the neighbourhood. I think I saw them. You think you did? Is that an excess of pride or an excess of modesty? Now, do be a reasonable creature and confess that you are not insensible to the pleasure and honour of addressing such an audience. Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt for an instant in his face, instantly succeeded by a smile. Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old woman that sat at the foot of the pulpit stairs. That old thing, said Miss Sophia. I saw her, said Mrs. Chauncey, poor old creature. She seemed most deeply attentive when I looked at her. I saw her, cried Ellen Chauncey, and the tears were running down her cheeks several times. I didn't see her, said Ellen Montgomery. As John's eye met hers, he smiled. But do you mean to say, continued Miss Sophia, that you are absolutely careless as to who hears you? I have always won here, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity, that it sinks the rest into great insignificance. That is a rebuke, said Miss Sophia, but nevertheless I shall tell you that I liked you very much this afternoon. He was silent. I suppose you will tell me next, said the young lady, laughing, that you are sorry I am, said he gravely. Why, may I ask? You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at least, as one of my hearers was concerned. How do you know that? Do you remember what Louis XIV said to Miss Eo? My father, I heard several great orators in my chapel. I was very happy. For you, every time I heard you, I was very unhappy with myself. Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for a moment. Then you really mean to be understood that provided you fail of your aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people think of you? As I would take a bankrupt's promissory note in Louis of Tolled Gold, it gives me small gratification, Miss Sophia, very small indeed, to see the bowing heads of grain that yet my sickle cannot reach. I agree with you most heartily, said Mr. George Marshman. The conversation dropped, and the two gentlemen began in an undertone, pacing up and down the floor together. The next morning, not sorrowfully, Ellen entered the sleigh again, and they set off homewards.  Oh, sober, cried Ellen Chauncey. That is because you don't know her, Uncle Howard. She is the cheerfulest, happiest girl that I ever saw, always. Except Ellen Chauncey, always, said her uncle. She is a singular child, said Mrs. Gillespie. She is grave, certainly, but she don't look at all, and I should think she would be to death. There's not a bit of moping about her, said Miss Sophia. She can laugh and smile as well as anybody, though she has sometimes that peculiar grave look up the eyes that would make a stranger doubt it. I think John Humphries has infected. He has something of the same look himself. I am not sure whether it is the eyes or the mouth, said Mr. Howard. It is both, said Miss Sophia. Did you ever see the eyes look one way and the mouth another? And besides, said Ellen Chauncey, she has reason to look sober, I am sure. She is a fascinating child, said Mrs. Gillespie. I cannot comprehend where she gets the manner she has. I never saw a more perfectly polite child, and there she has been for months with nobody to speak to her but to gentlemen and the servants. It is natural to her, I suppose. She can have nobody to teach her. I'm not so sure as to that, said Miss Sophia, but I have noticed the same thing often. Did you observe her last night, Matilda, when John Humphries came in? You were talking to her at the moment. I saw her before the door was opened. I saw the color come and her eyes sparkle, but she did not look towards him for an instant till you had finished what you were saying to her, and she had given, as she always does, her modest, quiet answer, and then her eye went straight as an arrow to where he was standing. And yet, said Mrs. Chauncey, she never moved towards him when you did, but stayed quietly on that side of the room with the young ones till he came round to them, and it was a long time, too. She is an odd child, said Miss Sophia, laughing. What do you think she said to me yesterday? I was talking to her and getting rather communicative on the subject of my neighbor's affairs, and she asked me gravely, the little monkey, if I was sure they would like her to hear it. I felt quite rebuked, though I didn't choose to let her know as much. I wish Mr. John would bring her every weeks at Ellen Chauncey sighing. It would be so pleasant to have her. Towards the end of the winter, Mr. Humphries began to propose that his son would be able to return to his home next summer. He wished him to see his family and to know his native country, as well as some of the most distinguished men in institutions in both kingdoms. Mr. George Marshman also urged upon him some business in which he thought he could be eminently useful. But Mr. John declined both propositions, still thinking he had more important duties at home. This only cloud that rose above Ellen's horizon scattered away. One evening it was a Monday, in the twilight, facing up and down the floor. Ellen was reading in the window. Too late for you, Ellie. Yes, said Ellen, I know. I will stop in two minutes. But in a quarter of that time she had lost every thought of stopping, and knew no longer that it was growing dusk. Somebody else, however, had not forgotten it. The two minutes were not ended, when a hand came between her and the page, and quietly drew the book away. Oh, I beg your pardon, cried Ellen, pleased. He was smiling.  Come and walk with me. Have you had any exercise today? No. Why not? I had a good deal to do, and I had fixed myself so nicely on the sofa with my books, and it looked cold and disagreeable out of doors. Since when have you ceased to be a fixture? What? Oh! said Ellen, laughing. How shall I ever get rid of that troublesome word? What shall I say? I had arranged myself, established so nicely on the sofa. And did you think that a sufficient reason for not going out? No, said Ellen. I did not, and I did not decide that I would not go, and yet I let it keep me at home after all, just as I did about reading a few minutes ago. I meant to stop, but I forgot it, and I should have gone on. I don't know how long if you had not stopped me. I very often do so. He paused a minute, and then said, You must not do so any more, Ellie. The tone in which there was a great deal of decision wound round Ellen's heart and constrained her to answer immediately. I will not. I will not. Never partly with conscience. It is a dangerous habit. But then it was only about trifles I grant you, but the habit is no trifle. There will not be a just firmness of mind and steadfastness of action where tampering with duty is permitted even in little things. I will try not to do it, Ellen repeated. No, said he smiling. Let it stand as at first. I will do something. I will try. It is very apt to come to nothing. I will keep thy precepts with my whole heart. Not, I will try. Your reviance is precisely the same in either case. I will not, John, said Ellen smiling. What were you pouring over so intently a while ago? It was an old magazine. Blackwood's magazine, I believe, is the name of it. I found two great piles of them in a closet upstairs the other day, and I brought this one down. Is this bread? Yes, I got very much interested in a curious story there. Why? What will you say, Ellie, if I ask you to leave the rest of the two piles unopened? Why, I will say that I will do it, of course, said Ellen, with a little smothered sigh of regret, however, if you wish it. I do wish it, Ellie. Very well. I'll let them alone, then. I have enough other reading. I don't know how I happened to take that one up, because I saw it there, I suppose. Have you finished Nelson yet? I've finished it Saturday night. Oh, I like it very much. I'm going all over it again, though. I like Nelson very much, don't you? Yes, as well as I can like a man of very fine qualities without principle. Was he that, said Ellen? Yes, did you not find it out? I'm afraid your eyes were blinded by admiration. Were they, said Ellen? I thought he was so very fine in everything, and I should be sorry to think he was not.  Oh, me, said Ellen. Well, but I don't know whether I can give you a cool estimate of him. However, I'll try. I cannot think coolly of him now, just after Trafalger. I think it was a shame that Collingwood did not anger as Nelson told him to, don't you? I think he might have been obeyed while he was living at least. It is difficult, said John Smiling, to judge correctly of many actions and circumstances of the actors. I believe you and I must leave the question of Trafalger to more nautical heads. How pleasant this moonlight is, said Ellen. What makes it pleasant? What makes it pleasant, I don't know. I never thought of such a thing. It is made to be pleasant. I can't tell why. Can't anybody? The eye loves light for many reasons, but all kinds of light are not equally agreeable. What makes the peculiar charm of these long streams of pale light so beautiful? You must tell, said Ellen. I cannot. You know we enjoy anything much more by contrast. I think that is one reason. Night is the rain of darkness, which we do not love, and here is light struggling with the darkness, not enough to overcome it entirely, but yet banishing it to nooks and corners and distant parts, by the side of which it shows itself in contrasted beauty. Our eyes bless the unwanted victory. Yes, said Ellen, but that is only one reason out of many, and not the greatest. It is a very refined pleasure, and trying to resolve it into its elements is something like trying to divide one of the same white rays of light into the many various colored ones that go to form it, and not by any means so easy a task. Then it was no wonder I couldn't answer, said Ellen. No, you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie. The moonlight is so common-quiet, Ellen observed, admiringly. And why is it common-quiet? I must have an answer to that. Because we are generally common-quiet at such times, Ellen ventured after a little thought. Precisely, we in the world and association has given the moon herself the same character. Besides that, her mild sober light is not fitted for the purposes of active employment, and therefore the more graciously invites us to the pleasures of thought and fancy. I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it, said Ellen, and laughing. And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the pleasure we have, not only in moonlight, but in most other things. When two things have been in the mind together and made any impression, the mind associates them, and you cannot see or think of the one without bringing back the remembrance of the feeling of the other, if we have enjoyed the moonlight in pleasant scenes and happy hours with friends that we loved, though the sight of it may not always be the feeling of the old times, sweet as long as life lasts. And sorrowful things may be associated too, said Ellen? Yes, and sorrowful things. But this power of association is the cause of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my mother used to sing. I cannot hear it now without being carried swiftly back to my boyish days to the very spirit of the time. I feel myself spring over the green sword as I did then. Oh, I know that is true, said Ellen. The white camellia, you know. I like it so much ever since what you said about it one day. I never see it without thinking of it, and it would not seem half so beautiful but for that. What did I say about it? Don't you remember? You said it was like what you ought to be and what you should be if you ever reached heaven, and you repeated that verse in the Revelation about those that have not defiled their garments. I always think of it. It seems to give me a lesson. How eloquent of beautiful lessons it would be to us, said John Musingly, if we had but the eye and ear to take them in. And in that way you would heap associations upon associations? Yes, till our storehouse of pleasure was very full. You do that now, said Ellen. I wish you would teach me. I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of flowers you are so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you? I don't know. I only think of themselves. Except, sometimes they make me think of Alice. You know, from any works we may form some judgment of the mind and character of their author. From their writings I know you can, said Ellen. From what other works? From any in which the mind, not the hand, has been the creating power. I saw you very much interested the other day in the Eddystone lighthouse. Did it help you to form no opinion of Mr. Smeaton? Why, yes, certainly, said Ellen. I admired him exceedingly for his cleverness and perseverance. But what other works? I can't think of any. There is the lighthouse. That is one thing. I can't think of the ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it. Ellen half-shuttered. I shouldn't like to go to sea, John. But you were speaking of men's works and women's works. Well, women's works, I cannot help forming some notion of a lady's mind and character from the way she dresses herself. Can you? Do you? I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a lady's dress that she never dreams of, the style for thoughts, among others. Be very careful. It wouldn't meant the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things in which people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so it will show itself. But we have got a great way from the flowers, said Ellen. You shall bring me some tomorrow, Ellie, and we will read them together. There are plenty over there now, said Ellen, looking towards the little flower stand, which was as full and flourishing as ever. But we can't see them well by this light. A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that made them. They are the work of his fingers, and I cannot consider them without being joyfully assured of the glory and loveliness of their creator. It is written as plainly to me in their delicate painting and sweet breath and curious structure as in the very pages of the Bible, though no doubt without the Bible I could not read the flowers. I never thought much of that, said Ellen. And then you find particular lessons in particular flowers? Sometimes. Oh, come here, said Ellen, pulling him towards the flower stand and telling me what this Daphne is like. You need not see that, only smell it, that's enough. Do, John, and tell me what it is like. He smiled as he complied with her request and walked away again. Well, what is it, said Ellen? I know you have thought of something. It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes leaves upon the spirit when it is just what it ought to be. My Mr. Marshman exclaimed, Ellen, John smiled again. I thought of him, Ellie, and I thought also of cowper's lines. When one who holds communion with the skies has filled his urn where there's pure water's rise, descends and dwells among us meaner things, it is as if an angel shook his wings. Ellen was silent a moment from pleasure. Well, I have got an association now with the Daphne, she said joyously, and presently added sighing, how much you see in everything that I do not see at all. Time, Ellie, said John, there must be time for that. It will come. Time is cried out upon as a great thief. It is people's own fault. Use him but well, and you will get from his hand more than he will ever take from you. Ellen's thoughts traveled on a little way from this speech, and then came a sigh of some burden, as it seemed, and her face was softly laid against the arm she held. Let us leave all that to God, said John gently. Ellen started. How did you know? How could you know what I was thinking of? Perhaps my thoughts took the same roads that he, smiling. But, Ellie dear, let us look to that one source of happiness that can never be dried up. It is not safe to count upon anything else. It is not wonderful, said Ellen, in a tremulous voice, if I... It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up to God as our Father, who rejoice in Christ our Savior, we are happy, whatever beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust him, and never doubt that, Ellie. But still, said Ellen, but still we will hope and pray alike in that matter, and while we do and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave ourselves in our Father's hand. The joy of the knowledge of Christ, the joy the world cannot inter- meddle with, the peace it cannot take away. Let us make that our own, Ellie. And for the rest, put away all anxious care about what we cannot control. Ellen's hand, however, did not just then lie so lightly on his arm as it did a few minutes ago. He could feel that, and could see the glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight as they fell. The hand was fondly taken in his, and as they slowly paced up and down, he went on, in low tones of kindness and cheerfulness, with his pleasant talk, till she was too happy in the present to be anxious about the future, looked up again and brightly into his face, and questions and answers came as gaily as ever. End of CHAPTER 45 Something turns up. The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, passed happily away. March at Thurwall seemed more to belong to the former than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest. April and May brought warm days and wildflowers. Evelyn refreshed herself, and adorned the room with quantities of them. And as soon as might be, she set about restoring the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening. He provided her with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted to be done for her, supplied her with new plants and seeds and roots, and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or press of business that called for it. But for the most part, Ellen hoed and raked, and transplanted and sowed seeds while he walked or read, often giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and always coming in between her and any difficult or heavy job. The hours thus spent were to Ellen for hours of unmixed delight. When he did not choose to go himself, he sent Thomas with her, as the garden was some little distance down the mountain, away from the house and from everybody. He never allowed her to go there alone. As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark that something is always happening most years. About the middle of May, there came letters that, after all, determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr. Humphries. It required the personal attendance either of himself or his son. He could not, therefore, his son must go. Once on the other side of the Atlantic, Mr. John thought at best his going should fulfill all the ends for which both Mr. Humphries and Mr. Marshman had desired it. This would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably more, and he must set off without delay. In the midst, not of his hurry, for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be in a hurry about anything. But in the midst of his business, he took special care of everything that concerned, or could possibly concern Ellen. He arranged what books she should read, what studies she should carry on, and directed that about these matters, as well as about all others, she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter. He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphries could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked him for most of all, he found time for all his wanted rides, and she thought more than his wanted talks with her, endeavoring, as he well knew how, both to strengthen and to cheer her mind in view of his long absence. The memory of those hours never went from her. The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one of them during all the time John should be gone. They urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish it, and finally compounding the matter by arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up, and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstatic, and it was further promised that the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could well be brought about. Ellen had the comfort at the last of hearing John say that she had behaved unexceptionably well, where he knew it was difficult for her to behave well at all. That was a comfort from him, whose notions of unexceptional behavior she knew were remarkably high. But the parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter, though softened as much as it could be at the time, and rendered very sweet to Ellen's memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness with which her brother, without checking, soothed her grief. He was to go early in the morning, and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before, but he was in no hurry to send her away. And when at length he told her it was very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of her room, and there bait her a good night. How the next days passed, Ellen hardly knew. They were unspeakably long. Not a week after, one morning Nancy Voss came into the kitchen and asked in her blunt fashion, Is Ellen Montgomery at home? I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlor, said Marjorie Dryly. I want to speak to her. Marjorie silently went across the hall to the sitting-room. Miss Ellen dear, she said softly, Here is that Nancy girl wanting to speak with you. Will you please to see her? Ellen eagerly desired Marjorie to let her in. By no means displeased to have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she could not banish. She received Nancy very kindly. Well, I declare, Ellen, said that young lady, whose wandering eye was upon everything but Ellen herself. Ain't you as fine as a fiddle? I guess you never touch your fingers to a file nowadays, do you? A file, said Ellen. You can't forget what it means, I suppose, said Nancy, somewhat scornfully, because if you think I'm going to swallow that, you're mistaken. I've seen you file off-tables down yonder a few times, hadn't I? Oh, I remember now, said Ellen smiling. It is so long since I heard the word that I didn't know what you meant. Marjorie calls it a dishcloth, or a floorcloth, or something else. Well, you don't touch one nowadays, do you? No, said Ellen. I have other things to do. Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now for once, haven't you?  Ellen, have you got to read all these? I hope so in times, said Ellen smiling. Why haven't you been to see me before? Oh, I don't know, said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a little as if she felt herself out of her sphere. I didn't know as you would care to see me now. I'm very sorry you should think so, Nancy. I would be as glad to see you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness to me when Nancy was sick. You've forgotten all that went before that, I suppose, said Nancy, with a half laugh. You beat all. Most folks remember and forget just all their way exactly. But besides, I didn't know but I should catch myself in queer company. Well, I am all alone now, said Ellen, with a sigh. Yes, if you weren't, I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What do you think I've come for today, Ellen? For anything but to see me? Nancy nodded very decisively. What? Guess. How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your apron there? Ah, that's the very things, said Nancy. What have I got? Sure enough. Well, I can't tell through your apron, said Ellen smiling. And I can't tell either. That's more, ain't it? Now listen, and I'll tell you where I got it. And then you may find out what it is, for I don't know. Promise you won't tell anybody. I don't like to promise that, Nancy. Why? Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody about. But it ain't. If it isn't, I won't tell. Can't you leave it so? But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just for you, and now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would it do you to promise? It's nobody's business but yours in mind, and somebody else's that won't make any talk about it. It won't make any talk about it, I promise you. I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought. Can't you trust me? I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say-so, said Nancy. But as yours is stiff as the mischief, I suppose I'll have to let it go. I'll trust you. Now listen, it don't look like anything, does it? Why, no, said Ellen laughing. You hold your apron so loose that I cannot see anything. Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your aunts, did you? No. Well, I have, these six weeks. You never see anything go on quieter than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune never was so good in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly as ever, you know, but she has to keep it in. All I have to do, if I think anything is going wrong, I just let her think I'm going to speak to him about it. Only I have to do it very cunning, for fear she would guess what I am up to. And the next thing I know, it's all straight. He is about the coolest shaver, said Nancy I ever did see. The way he walks through her notions once in a while. Not very often, mind you. But when he takes a fancy, it's fun to see. Oh, I can get along there first right now. You'd have a royal time, Ellen. Well, Nancy, your story? Don't you be in a hurry. I'm going to take my time. Well, I've been there the six weeks, doing all sorts of things, you know. Taking your place, Ellen. Don't you wish you was back in it? Well, a couple of weeks since, Mrs. Van took it into her head. And she brought up the wagon, and go to Thorowall to get herself some things. A queer start for her. But at any rate, Van Brunt brought up the wagon, and in she got, and off they went. Now, she meant, you know, that I should be fast in the cellar kitchen all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given me enough to keep me busy there. But I was up to her. I was as spry as a cricket and flew round and got things put up, and then I thought I'd have some fun. I was quietly sitting in the chimney corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How Van Brunt looks out for her, Ellen, he won't let her be put out for anything or anybody.  It is just like him. I love him for it. The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great rate because she hadn't you to read to her. And what do you think he does? But goes and takes the book and sits down and reads to her himself. You should have seen Mrs. Van's face. What book, said Ellen? What book? Why your book? The Bible. There ain't any other book in the house, as I know. What on earth are you crying for, Ellen? He's fetched over his mother's old Bible, and there it lays on a shelf in the cupboard, and he has it out every once in a while. Maybe he's coming round, Ellen, but do hold up your head and listen to me.  I hand more than begun my story yet. Well, go on, said Ellen. You see, I ain't in any hurry, said Nancy, because as soon as I've finished I shall have to be off, and it's fun to talk to you. What do you think I did when I had done up all my chores? Where do you think I found this, eh? You'd never guess. What is it, said Ellen? No matter what it is, I don't know. Where do you think I found it? How can I tell? I don't know.  Ellen was silent. If it was anybody else, said Nancy, I'd have seen him shot before I had done it, but you ain't like anybody else. Look here, said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger and slowly marking off each word. This come out of your aunt's box in the closet upstairs in her room. Nancy! I, Nancy, there it is. Now you look. Don't alter, Ellen. That's where it was, if you look till tea time. But how came you there? Because I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it. Oh, Nancy! Well, I don't say it was right, but anyhow, I did it. You hadn't heard what I found yet. You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have a chance. Put it back again. I'll give it to you, and then you may put it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you. Why, you don't know what I found. Well, what did you find? And I had a mind to see what was in it. So I pulled them out one after the other till I got to the bottom. And at the very bottom was some letters and papers. And there, staring right in my face, the first thing I see was Miss Ellen Montgomery. Oh, Nancy! screamed Ellen, a letter for me. Hush, and sit down, will you? Yes, a whole package of letters for you. Well, thought I. Mrs. Van has no right to that, anyhow. And she ain't going to take the care of it any more. So I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any more for you. But there weren't. There it is. And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam. Well, good-bye, said Nancy, rising. I may go now, I suppose, and no thanks to me. Yes, I do. I do thank you very much, Nancy, cried Ellen, starting up and taking her by the hand. I do thank you, though it wasn't right. But, oh, how could she? How could she? She said Nancy to ask that of Mrs. Van. She could do anything. Why she did it ain't so easy to tell. Ellen bewildered, scarcely new, only felt that Nancy had gone. The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained three letters. Two addressed to Ellen in her father's hand, the third to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction. She threw it down and eagerly tried the other. Ah, yes, there was indeed the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings. Thankfulness, tenderness, joy and sorrow, past and present, that letter was not thrown down but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when she had fairly begun it she went unswiftly, almost breathlessly to the end. My dear, dear little Ellen, I am scarcely able but I must write to you once more. Once more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am comforted and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me and I believe is leading you.  Ellen, I have a mother living and she wishes to receive you as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never spoke to you of her. After your Aunt Bessie married and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who had always been her favorite child, should leave her for an American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all the entreaties she forgave me for destroying all her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and gone she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must consider myself. She never wrote to me and I never wrote to her after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did not deserve it. But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven and in the further joy of knowing the loss of care I had left is done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once filled and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have you is entirely her own in all respects. And to this, in consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will lead, I am willing, and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys me to think of it. I am willing to take your aunt and to you on the subject and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper persons going to Scotland, who will be willing to take charge of you. Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphries, will, I dare say, help you in this. To them I could say much if I had strength. But words are little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot. I have failed here, and what there was of the letter had evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of suitable guardians to cross the Atlantic, and repair to Nember, Blank, George Street, Edinburgh said that Miss Fortune would give her the money she would need, which he had written her to do, and that the accompanying letter Ellen was to carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother.  She took up that letter, gazed at the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling interest for her. Wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to do with it. Marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open it, or whether it would ever be opened. And finally, in a perfect maze, unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the bed, and fell into a deep sleep. She woke up towards evening, with the pressure of a mountain weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were amazed still, and not Mr. Humphries himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many questions answered to herself. It was a good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do. She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject. She would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But must she obey them? I have promised Alice, thought Ellen. I have promised Mr. Humphries. I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, my grandmother, she cannot be nice, or she wouldn't have treated my mother so. She cannot be a nice person. Hard, she must be hard. I never want to see her. My mother, but then my mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to her. Oh, oh, how could she? How could they do so, when they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they might make me leave? Oh, it was cruel. But then they did not know, that is the very thing. They thought I would have nobody but Aunt Fortune, and so it's no wonder. Oh, what shall I do? What ought I to do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time. It's, let me see, it's just about three years now, a little less, since these letters were written. I am older now, and circumstances are changed. I have a home, and a father, and a brother. May I not judge for myself? But my mother and my father have ordered me. What shall I do? If John were only here. But perhaps he would make me go. He might think it right. And to leave him, and maybe never to see him again. And Mr. Humphries, and how lonely he would be without me. I cannot, I will not. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? The relations gradually plunged her into despair. For she could not look at the event of being obliged to go. And she could not get rid of the feeling, that perhaps it might come to that. She wept bitterly. It didn't meant the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully, long, and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the matter to Mr. Humphries. She feared his decision. And she feared also that he would give her the money Ms. Fortune had failed to supply for the journey. How much it might be, Ellen had no idea. She could not dismiss the decision. idea. She could not dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked her with the Fifth Commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred to her, at last, to take counsel with Mrs. Voss. This might be done, she knew, without betraying Nancy. Mrs. Voss was much too honorable to press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily be obtained not to speak of the matters to any one. As for misfortunes conduct, it must be made known. There was no help for that. So it was settled, and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of care for that time. She had leisure to think of some other things. Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying dispatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of its being sent, Captain Montgomery's movements were extremely uncertain, and in obedience to the earnest request of his wife, he directed that, without waiting for his own return, Ellen should immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he sent, the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious doubts of ever being repaid. She instantly determined that if she had once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in adding to the sum. If he wanted to send his daughter on a wild goose chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it. It was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy phoned them. Only next morning after breakfast, Ellen came into the kitchen, and begged Marjorie to ask Thomas to bring the brownie to the door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner, Marjorie gave the message, and added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully. She hadn't heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away. The brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, who had dressed in feverish haste. The brownie was not alone. There was old John saddled and bridled, and Thomas crimes in waiting. It is not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas said Ellen. I don't mind going alone at all. I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen. Thomas touched his hat. But Mr. John left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen whenever it pleased her to ride, never failing. Did he, said Ellen, but is it convenient for you now, Thomas? I want to go as far as Mrs. Voss's. It's always convenient, Miss Ellen, always. Miss Ellen need not think of that at all. I am always ready. Ellen mounted upon the brownie, sighing for the want of the hand that used to lift her to the saddle, and spurred by this recollection, set off at a round pace. Soon she was at Mrs. Voss's, and soon, finding her alone, Ellen had spread out all her difficulties before her, and given her the letters to read. Mrs. Voss readily promised to speak on the subject to no one without Ellen's leave. Her suspicions fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her granddaughter. She heard all the story and read the letters before making any remark. Now, dear Mrs. Voss had Ellen anxiously when the last one was folded up and laid on the table. What do you think? I think, my child, you must go, said the old lady, steadily. Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her face, her own changing more and more for a minute, till she sunk it in her hands. I see it well. Said the old lady tenderly, their conversations were always in Mrs. Voss's tongue. But said Ellen presently, lifting her head again, there were no tears, I cannot go without money. That can be obtained without any difficulty. From whom, I cannot ask Aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Voss, I cannot do it. There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to Mr. Humphries. Oh, I cannot, said Ellen, covering her face again. Will you let me do it? I will speak to him, if you permit me. But what use? He ought not to give me the money, Mrs. Voss, it would not be right. And to show him the letters would be like asking him for it. Oh, I can't bear to do that. He would give it to you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure. Oh, no, Mrs. Voss had Ellen bursting into tears. He would never be pleased to send me away from him. I know, I know, he would miss me. Oh, what shall I do? Not that, my dear Ellen, said the old lady coming to her, and gently stroking her head with both hands. You must do what is right, and you know it cannot be, but that will be the best and happiest for you in the end. Oh, I wish, I wish, exclaimed Ellen, from the bottom of her heart. Those letters had never been found. Nay, Ellen, that is not right. But I promised Alice, Mrs. Voss, ought I go away and leave him? Oh, Mrs. Voss, it is very hard. Aught I?  But they never would have said it if they had known. But they did not know, Ellen, and here it is. Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing words which her old friend lavished upon her. There is one thing said she at last, raising her head. I don't know of anybody going to Scotland, and I am not likely to, and if I only do not before autumn, that is not a good time to go, and then comes winter. My dear Ellen, said Mrs. Voss sorrowfully, I must drive you from your last hope. Don't you know that Mrs. Gillespie is going abroad with all her family? Next month, I think. Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel with her own heart. Mrs. Voss hardly knew what to say next. You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses, she remarked after a pause. You can easily repay them, if you wish, when you reach your friends in Scotland. Ellen did not hear her.  Even taking it stand upon difficulties. I shan't stay there, Mrs. Voss, if I go. I shall go, I suppose, if I must. But do you think anything will keep me there? Never.  Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Voss, and then I shall come back, if they will let me. Whom do you mean by they? Mr. Humphries and Mr. John. My dear Ellen, said the old lady kindly, Be satisfied with doing your duty now. Leave the future. While you follow him, God will be your friend. Is that not enough? And all things shall work for your good. You do not know what you will wish when the time comes you speak of. You do not know what new friends you may find to love. Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for which she had said, and what she saw by her smile Mrs. Voss doubted. But she disdained to assert what she could bring nothing to prove. She took a sorrowful leave of her old friend and returned home. After dinner, when Mr. Humphries was about going back to his study, Ellen timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and asked him to look at them sometime when he had leisure. She told him also where they were found and how long they had lain there, and that Mrs. Voss had said she ought to show them to him. She guessed he would read them at once, and she waited with a beating heart. In a little while she heard his step coming back along the hall. He came and sat down by her on the sofa, and took her hand. What is your wish in this matter, my child, he said, gravely and cheerfully. Ellen's look answered that. I will do whatever you say I must, sir, she said faintly. I dare not ask myself what I would wish, Ellen. The matter is taken out of our hands. You must do your parents' will, my child. I will try to hope that you will gain more than I lose. As the Lord pleases, if I am bereaved of my children, I am bereaved. Mrs. Gillespie, he said after a pause, is about going to England. I know not how soon. It will be best for you to see her at once, and to make all arrangements that may be necessary. I will go with you to-morrow to Ventnor, if the day be a good one. There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible to get it out. She could not utter a word. She had pressed her hands upon her face to try to keep herself quiet, but Mr. Humphries could see the deep crimson, flushing to the very roots of her hair. He drew her close within his arms for a moment, kissed her forehead, Ellen felt it was sadly, and went away. It was well she did not hear him sigh as he went back along the hall. It was well she did not see the face of more settled gravity, with which he sat down to his writing. She had enough of her own. They went to Ventnor. Mrs. Gillespie, with great pleasure, undertook the charge of her, and promised to deliver her safely to her friends in Scotland. It was arranged that she should go back to Thorewall to make her a juice, and that in a week or two a carriage should be sent to bring her to Ventnor, where her preparations for the journey should be made, and once the whole party would set off.  I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia.  Ellen's face, however, looked so little inclined to be Mary, that she took up the subject in another tone. Seriously, do you know, said she, I have been thinking it is a very happy thing for you. I don't know what would become of you alone in that great parsonage house.  He will be back, said Ellen. Yes, but what if he is? He can't stay at Thorewall, child. He can't live thirty miles from his church, you know. Did you think he would? They think all the world of him already. I expect they'll barely put up with Mr. George while he is gone. They will want Mr. John all to themselves when he comes back. You may rely on that. What are you thinking of, child? For Ellen's eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts, which Miss Sophia could not read. I should like to know what you were smiling about, she said, with some curiosity, but the smile was almost immediately quenched in tears. Notwithstanding Miss Sophia's discouraging talk, Ellen privately agreed with Ellen Chauncey that the brownie should be sent to her to keep and use as her own till his mistress should come back, both children being entirely of the opinion that the arrangement was a most unexceptionable one. It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the date of the letters left some uncertainty as to the present state of affairs among Ellen's friends in Scotland, but this doubt was not thought sufficient to justify her letting pass so excellent an opportunity of making the journey, especially as Captain Montgomery's letter spoke of an uncle to whom, equally with her grandmother, Ellen was to be consigned. In case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. Gillespie engaged to keep Ellen with her and bring her home to America when she herself should return. And in little more than a month they were gone, a juice and preparations and all were over. Ellen's parting with Mrs. Voss was very tender and sad, with Mr. Van Brunt extremely and gratefully affectionate on both sides, with her aunt constrained in brief, with Marjorie very sorrowful indeed. But Ellen's longest and most lingering adieu was to Captain Perry, the old grey cat. For one whole evening she sat with him in her arms and over poor pussy were shed the tears that fell for many better loved and better deserving personages, as well as those not a few that were wept for him. Since Alice's death Perry had transferred his entire confidence and esteem to Ellen, whether from a feeling of want or because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and the tone that were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared it. Ellen was his chief favourite and almost constant companion. And bitter her tears Ellen shed at no time than that evening before she went away, over the old cat. She could not distress Kitty with her distress, nor weary him with the calls upon his sympathy.  She had no remonstrance or interruption to fear.  The old people at Cara Cara were taken leave of, the brownie too with great difficulty, and Nancy. I am real sorry you are going Ellen said she. You're the only soul in town I care about. I wish I'd thrown them letters in the fire after all. Who'd have thought it? Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish. I'm real sorry Ellen she repeated. Ain't there something I can do for you when you were gone? Oh yes dear Nancy said Ellen weeping, if you would only take care of your dear grandmother. She is left alone now. If you would only take care of her and read your Bible and be good Nancy. Oh Nancy Nancy do do. They kissed each other and Nancy went away fairly crying. Mrs. Marshman's own woman, a study excellent person, had come in the carriage for Ellen and the next morning, early after breakfast, when everything else was ready she went into Mr. Humphrey's study to bid the last dreaded goodbye. She thought her obedience was costing her dear. It was a nearly silent parting. He held her a long time in his arms and there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be. What have I to do to seek new relations she said to herself, but she was speechless. Till gently relaxing his hold he tenderly smoothed back her disordered hair and kissing her said a very few grave words of blessing and counsel. Ellen gathered all her strength together then for she had something that must be spoken. Sir said she falling on her knees before him and looking up in his face. This don't alter. You do not take back what you said do you? What's that I said my child? That said Ellen, hiding her face and her hands on his knee and scarce able to speak with great effort. That what you said when I first came, that what you said about—about what, my dear child? My going away don't change anything, does it sir? May I come back if ever I can? He raised her up and drew her close to his bosom again. My dear little daughter said he, you cannot be so glad to come back as my arms and my heart will be to receive you. I scarce dare hope to see that day, but all in this house is yours dear Ellen, as well when in Scotland is here. I take back nothing my daughter, nothing is changed. A word or two more of affection and blessing, which Ellen was utterly unable to answer in any way, and she went to the carriage with one drop of cordial in her heart that she fed upon a long while. He called me his daughter. He never said that before since Alice died. Oh, so I will be as long as I live if I find fifty new relations. But what good will a daughter three thousand miles off do him? Chapter 47 The Wide World Grown Wider The voyage was peaceful and prosperous. In due time the whole party found themselves safe in London. Ever since they set out, Ellen had been constantly gaining on Mrs. Gillespie's good will. The major hardly saw her, but she had something to say about that best-bred child in the world. Best-hearted, too, I think, said the major, and even Mrs. Gillespie owned that there was something more than good breeding in Ellen's politeness. She had a good trial of it. Mrs. Gillespie was much longer ailing than any of the party, and when Ellen got well, it was her great pleasure to devote herself to the service of the only member of the Marshman family now within her reach. She could never do too much. She watched by her, read to her, was quick to see and perform all the little offices of attention and kindness where a servant's hand is not so acceptable, and with all never was in the way nor put herself forward. Mrs. Gillespie's own daughter was much less helpful. Both she and William, however, had long since forgotten the old grudge and treated Ellen as well as they did anybody, rather better. Major Gillespie was a ten of and kind as possible to the gentle, well-behaved little body that was always at his wife's pillow, and even Lester, the maid, told one of her friends she was such a sweet little lady that it was a pleasure and gratification to do anything for her. Lester acted this out, and in her kindly disposition Ellen found very substantial comfort and benefit throughout the voyage. Mrs. Gillespie told her husband she should be rejoiced if it turned out that they might keep Ellen with them and carry her back to America. She only wished it were not for Mr. Humphries, but herself. As their destination was not now Scotland, but Paris, it was proposed to write to Ellen's friends to ascertain whether any change had occurred or whether they still wished to receive her. This, however, was rendered unnecessary. They were scarcely established in their hotel when a gentleman from Edinburgh, an intimate friend of the Ventnor family, and whom Ellen herself had more than once met there, came to see them. Mrs. Gillespie be thought herself to make inquiries of him. Do you happen to know a family of Linzays in George Street, Mr. Dundas? Linzays, yes, perfectly well. Do you know them? No, but I am very much interested in one of the family. Is the old lady living? Yes, certainly, not very old either, not above sixty or sixty-five, and as hail and alert as at forty, a very fine old lady. A large family? Oh no, Mr. Linzays is a widower, this some years, with no children, and there is a widowed daughter lately come home, Lady Keith. That's all. Mr. Linzays, that is the son? Yes, you would like them. They are excellent people, excellent family, wealthy, beautiful country-see on the south bank of the Esk, some miles out of Edinburgh. I was down there two weeks ago, entertained most handsomely and agreeably, two things that do not always go together. You meet a pleasanter circle nowhere than at Linzays. And that is the whole family, said Mrs. Gillespie? That is all. There were two daughters married to Americans some dozen or so years ago. Mrs. Linzays took it very hard, I believe, but she bore up, and bears up now, as if misfortune had never crossed her path. Though the death of Mr. Linzays' wife and son was another great blow, I don't believe there is a gray hair on her head at this moment. There is some peculiarity about them, perhaps, some pride to. But that is an amiable weakness, he added, laughing, as he rose to go. Mrs. Gillespie, I am sure, will not find fault with them for it. That's an insinuation, Mr. Dundas, but look here, what I am bringing to Mrs. Linzays in the shape of a granddaughter. What, my old acquaintance, Miss Ellen? Is it possible? My dear madam, if you had such a treasure for sale, they would pour half their fortune into your lap to purchase it, and the other half at her feet. I would not take it, Mr. Dundas. It would be no mean price, I assure you, in itself, however it might be comparatively. I give Miss Ellen joy. Miss Ellen took none of his giving. Ah, Ellen, my dear, said Mrs. Gillespie when he was gone. We shall never have you back in America again. I give up all hopes of it. Why do you look so solemn, my love?  Most girls would be delighted at such a prospect opening before them. You forget what I leave, Mrs. Gillespie. So will you, my love, in a few days, though I love you for remembering so well those that have been kind to you. But you don't realize yet what is before you. Why, you'll have a good time, Ellen, said Marianne. I wonder you are not out of your wits with joy. I should be. You may as well make over the brownie to me, Ellen, said William. I expect you'll never want him again. I cannot, you know, William. I lent him to Ellen Chauncey. Lent him? That's a good one, for how long? Ellen smiled, though sighing inwardly to see how very much narrowed was her prospect of ever mounting him again. She did not care to explain herself to those around her. Still, at the very bottom of her heart lay two thoughts in which her hope refuged itself. One was a peculiar assurance that whatever her brother pleased, nothing could hinder him from accomplishing. The other, a like confidence, that it would not please him to leave his little sister unlooked after. But all began to grow misty, and it seemed now as if Scotland must henceforth be the limit of her horizon. Leaving their children at a relations house, Major and Mrs. Gillespie accompanied her to the north. They traveled post, and arriving in the evening at Edinburgh, put up at a hotel in Princes Street. It was agreed that Ellen should not seek her new home till tomorrow. She should eat one more supper and breakfast with her old friends, and have a night's rest first. She was very glad of it. The Major and Mrs. Gillespie were enchanted with a noble view from their parlor windows, while they were eagerly conversing together. Ellen sat alone at the under window, looking out upon the curious old town. There was all the fascination of novelty and beauty about that singular picturesque mass of buildings, in its sober colouring, growing more sober as the twilight fell. And just before outlines were lost in the dusk, lights began feebly to twinkle here and there, and grew brighter and more as the night came on, till their brilliant multitude were all that could be seen, where the curious jumble of chimneys and housetops and crooked ways had shown a little before. Ellen sat watching this lighting up of the old town, feeling strangely that she was in the midst of new scenes, indeed entering upon a new stage of life, and having some difficulty to persuade herself that she was really Ellen Montgomery. The scene of extreme beauty before her seemed to rather to increase the confusion and sadness of her mind. Happily, joyfully, Ellen remembered as she sat gazing over the darkening city and its brightening lights, that there was one near her who could not change, that Scotland was no removed from him, that his providence as well as his heaven was over her there, that there not less than in America she was his child. She rejoiced as she sat in her dusky window over his words of assurance, I am the good shepherd and know my sheep and am known of mine, and she looked up into the clear sky, that at least was home-like and tearful thankfulness, and with earnest prayer that she might be kept from evil. Ellen guessed she might have special need to offer that prayer. And as again her eye wandered over the singular bright spectacle that kept reminding her she was a stranger in a strange place. Her heart joyfully leaned upon another loved sentence. This God is our God for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even unto death. She was called from her window to supper. Why, how well you look, said Mrs. Gillespie. I expected you would have been half tired to death. Doesn't she look well? As if she was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy, said Major Gillespie kindly, and yet she must be all three. Ellen was all three, but she had the rest of a quiet mind. In the same quiet mind a little fluttered and anxious now she sat out in the carriage the next morning with her kind friends to number blank George Street. It was their intention after leaving her to go straight on to England. They were in a hurry to be there, and Mrs. Gillespie judged that the presence of a stranger at the meeting between Ellen and her relations would be desired by none of the parties. But when they reached the house they found the family were not at home. They were in the country, at their place on the time. The direction was obtained, and the horse's heads turned that way. After a drive of some length, through what kind of a country Ellen could hardly have told, they arrived at the place. It was beautifully situated, and through well-kept grounds they drove up to a large, rather old-fashioned, substantial looking house. The ladies were at home, and that ascertained Ellen took a kind leave of Mrs. Gillespie, shook hands with a major at the door, and was left alone, for the second time in her life, to make her acquaintance with new and untried friends. She stood for one second, looking after the retreating carriage. One swift thought went to her adopted father and brother far away, one to her friend in heaven, and Ellen quietly turned to the servant and asked for Mrs. Lindsay. She was shown into a large room, where nobody was, and sat down with a beating heart, while the servant went upstairs, looking with a strange feeling upon what was to be her future home. The house was handsome, comfortably, luxuriously furnished, but without any attempt at display. Things rather old-fashioned than otherwise. Plain even homely in some instances, yet evidently there was no spearing of money in any line of use or comfort, nor were reading and writing, painting and music strangers there. Unconsciously acting upon her brother's principle of judging of people from their works, Ellen from what she saw gathered around her, formed a favorable opinion of her relations without thinking of it, for indeed she was thinking of something else. A lady presently entered, and said that Mrs. Lindsay was not very well. Seeing Ellen's very hesitating look, she added, shall I carry her any message from you? This lady was well looking and well dressed, but somehow there was something in her face or manner that encouraged Ellen to an explanation. She could make none. She silently gave her her father's letter, with which the lady left the room. In a minute or two she returned and said her mother would see Ellen upstairs, and asked her to come with her. This then must be Lady Keith, but no sign of recognition. Ellen wondered as her trembling feet carried her upstairs, and to the door of a room where the lady motioned her to enter. She did not follow herself. A large pleasant dressing room, but Ellen saw nothing but the dignified figure and searching glance of a lady in black, standing in the middle of the floor. At the look which instantly followed her entering, however, Ellen sprang forward, and was received in arms that folded her as fondly and as closely as ever those of her own mother had done. Without releasing her from their clasp, Mrs. Lindsay presently sat down, and placing Ellen on her lap, and for a long time without speaking a word, she overwhelmed her with caresses. Caresses often interrupted, with passionate bursts of tears. Ellen herself cried heartily for company, though Mrs. Lindsay little guessed why. Along with the joy and tenderness arising from the finding a relation that so much loved and valued her, and along with the sympathy that entered into Mrs. Lindsay's thoughts, there mixed other feelings. She began to know, as if by instinct, what kind of a person her grandmother was. The clasp of the arms that were about her set as plainly as possible. I will never let you go. Ellen felt it. She did not know in her confusion whether she was most glad or most sorry, and this uncertainty mightily helped the flow of her tears. When this scene had lasted some time, Mrs. Lindsay began with the utmost tenderness to take off Ellen's gloves, her cape, her bonnet had been hastily thrown off long before, and smoothing back her hair, and taking the fair little face in both her hands, she looked at it and pressed it to her own, as indeed something most dearly prized and valued. Then saying, I must lie down, come and hear love, she led her into the next room, locked the door, made Ellen stretch herself on the bed, and placing herself beside her, drew her close to her bosom again, murmuring, my own child, my precious child, my Ellen, my own darling, why did you stay away so long for me, tell me? It was necessary to tell, and this could not be done without revealing Miss Fortune's disgraceful conduct. Ellen was sorry for that. She knew her mother's American match had been unpopular with her friends, and now what notions this must give them, of one at least of the near connections, to whom it had introduced her. She winced under what might be her grandmother's thoughts. Mrs. Lindsay heard her in absolute silence, and made no comment, and at the end again kissed her lips and cheeks, embracing her. Ellen felt as a recovered treasure that would not be parted with. She was not satisfied, till she had drawn Ellen's head, fairly to rest on her breast, and then her caressing hand often touched her cheek, or smoothed back her hair, softly now and then asking slight questions about her voyage and journey, till exhausted from excitement, more than fatigue, Ellen fell asleep. Her grandmother was beside her when she awoke, and busied herself, with evident delight, in helping her to get off her traveling clothes, and put on others, and then she took her downstairs, and presented her to her aunt. Lady Keith had not been at home, nor in Scotland, at the time the letters passed between Mrs. Montgomery and her mother, and the result of that correspondence respecting Ellen had been known to no one except Mrs. Lindsay and her son. They had long given her up, the rather as they had seen in the papers, the name of Captain Montgomery, among those lost in the ill-fated Duke de Orleone. Lady Keith, therefore, had no suspicion who Ellen might be. She received her affectionately, but Ellen did not get rid of her first impression. Her uncle she did not see until late in the day, when he came home. The evening was extremely fair, and having obtained permission, Ellen wandered out into the shrubbery, glad to be alone, and glad for a moment to exchange new faces for old. The flowers were old friends to her, and never had looked more friendly than then. New and old, both were there. Ellen went on softly, from flower bed to flower bed, soothed and rested, stopping here to smell one, or there to gaze at some old favorite or new beauty, thinking curious thoughts of the past and the future, and through it all taking a quiet lesson from the flowers. When a servant came after her with a request from Mrs. Lindsay that she would return to the house. Ellen hurried in. She guessed for what, and was sure as soon as she opened the door, and saw the figure of a gentleman sitting before Mrs. Lindsay. Ellen remembered well she was sent to her uncle as well as her grandmother, and she came forward with a beating heart to Mrs. Lindsay's outstretched hand, which presented her to this other ruler of her destiny. He was very different from Lady Keith. Her anxious glance saw that at once, more like his mother. A man not far from fifty years old, fine looking and stately, like her. Ellen was not left long in suspense. His look instantly softened, as his mother said done. He drew her into his arms with great affection, and evidently with very great pleasure. Then held her off for a moment, while he looked at her changing color and downcast eye, and folded her close in his arms again, from which she seemed hardly willing to let her go, whispering as he kissed her, You are my own child now.  Do you know that, Ellen? I am your father henceforth.  I wonder how many times one may be adopted, thought Ellen that evening. But to be sure, my father and my mother have quite given me up here. That makes a difference. They had a right to give me away if they pleased. I suppose I do belong to my uncle and grandmother in good earnest, and I cannot help myself. Well, but Mr. Humphries seems a great deal more like my father than my uncle Lindsay. I cannot help that. But how they would be vexed if they knew it. That was profoundly true. Ellen was in a few days the dear pet and darling of the whole household, without exception, and almost without limit. At first, for a day or two, there was a little lurking doubt, a little anxiety, a constant watch on the part of all her friends, whether they were not going to find something in their newly acquired treasure to disappoint them, whether it could be that there was nothing behind to belied the first promise. Less keen observers, however, could not have failed to see very soon that there was no disappointment to be looked for. Ellen was just what she seemed, without the shadow of a cloak in anything. Doubts vanished, and Ellen had not been three days in the house when she was taken home to two hearts, at least, and unbounded love and tenderness. When Mr. Lindsay was present, he was not satisfied without having Ellen in his arms or close beside him, and if not there, she was at the side of her grandmother. There was nothing, however, in the character of this fondness, gray as it was, that would have inclined any child to presume upon it. Ellen was least of all likely to try, but if her will by any chance had run counter to theirs, she would have found it impossible to maintain her ground. She understood this from the first with her grandmother, and in one or two trifles, since they had been more and more confirmed in the feeling that they would do with her, and make of her precisely what they pleased, without the smallest regard to her fancy. If it jumped with theirs very well, if not, it must yield. In one matter, Ellen had been roused to plead very hard, and even with tears to have her wish, which she verily thought she ought to have had. Mrs. Lindsay smiled and kissed her, and went on with the utmost coolness in what she was doing, which she carried through without in the least regarding Ellen's distress or showing the slightest discomposure, and the same thing was repeated every day till Ellen got used to it. Her uncle she had never seen tried, but she knew it would be the same with him. When Mr. Lindsay clasped her to his bosom, Ellen felt it was as his own. His eye always seemed to repeat, my own little daughter. And in his whole manner, love was mingled with as much authority. Perhaps Ellen did not like them much the worse for this, as she had no sort of disposition to displease them in anything, but it gave rise to sundry thoughts, however, which she kept to herself. Thoughts that went both to the future and the past. Lady Keith, it may be, had less heart to give than her mother and brother, but pride took up the matter instead. And according to her measure, Ellen held with her the same place she held with Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay, being the great delay in darling of all three, and with all three seemingly the great object in life. A few days after her arrival, a week or more, she underwent one evening a kind of catacysing from her aunt, as to her former manner of life, where she had been and with whom, since her mother had left her, what she had been doing, whether she had been to school, and how her time was spent at home, et cetera, et cetera.  She did not feel inclined to enlarge upon anything, or to go at all further than the questions obliged her. And Lady Keith ended without having more than a very general notion of Ellen's way of life for three or four years past. This conversation was repeated to her grandmother and uncle. To think, said the latter, the next morning at breakfast, to think that the backwoods of America should have turned us out such a little specimen of, of what, uncle? said Ellen, laughing. I shall not tell you that, said he. But it is extraordinary, said Lady Keith, how after living among a parcel of thick-headed and thicker-tongued Yankees, she could come out and speak pure English in a clear voice. It is an enigma to me.  You are touching Ellen's nationality. Look here, said he, drawing his fingers down her cheek. She must learn to have no nationality but yours, said Lady Keith, somewhat shortly. Ellen's lips were open, but she spoke not. It is well you have come out from the Americans you see, Ellen, pursued Mr. Lindsay. Your aunt does not like them. But why, sir? Why, said he gravely? Don't you know that they are all a parcel of rebels who have broken loose from all loyalty and fealty? That no good Britain has any business to like? You are not an earnest uncle. You are, I see, said he, looking amused. Are you one of those that make a saint of George Washington? No, said Ellen. I think he was a great deal better than some saints. But I don't think the Americans were rebels.  Do you mean to say you think the Americans were right? Do you mean to say they were wrong, uncle? I assure you, said he, if I had been in the English army I would have fought them with all my heart. And if I had been in the American army I would have fought you with all my heart, uncle Lindsay. Come, come, said he. You fight. You don't look as if you would do battle with a good-sized mosquito. Ah, but I mean if I had been a man, said Ellen. You had better put in that qualification. After all, I am inclined to think it may be as well for you on the whole that we did not meet. I don't know, but we might have had a pretty stiff encounter, though. A good cause is stronger than a bad one, uncle. But, Ellen, these Americans forfeited entirely the character of good friends to England and good subjects to King George. Yes, but it was King George's fault, uncle. He and the English forfeited their characters first. I declare, said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, if your sword had been as stout as your tongue, I don't know how I might have come off in that same encounter. I hope Ellen will get rid of these strange notions about the Americans, said Lady Keith discontentedly. I hope not, Aunt Keith, said Ellen. Where did you get them, said Mr. Lindsay? What, sir, these notions? In reading, sir, reading different books and talking. Reading, so you did read in the backwoods. Sir, said Ellen, with a look of surprise. What have you read on this subject? Two lives of Washington, and some in the annual register, and part of Graham's United State, and one or two other little things. But those gave you only one side, Ellen. You should read the English account of the matter. So I did, sir. The annual register gave me both sides. The bills and messages were enough. What annual register? I don't know, sir. It is English, written by Burke, I believe. Upon my word, and what else have you read? I think that's all about America. No, but about other things. Oh, I don't know, sir, said Ellen, smiling. A great many books. I can't tell them all. Did you spend all your time over your books? A good deal, sir, lately, not so much before. How was that? I couldn't, sir. I had a great many other things to do. What else had you to do? Different things, said Ellen, hesitating, from the remembrance of her aunt's manner the night before. Come, come, answer me. I had to sweep and dust, said Ellen, coloring, and set tables, and wash and wipe dishes, and churn, and spin, and— Ellen heard, ladies, Keith look in her. Could you have conceived it? What shall we do with her, said Mrs. Lindsay, send her to school or keep her at home. Have you never been to school, Ellen? No, sir, except for a very little while, more than three years ago. Would you like it? I would a great deal rather study at home, sir, if you will let me. What do you know now? Oh, I can't tell, sir, said Ellen. I don't know anything very well, unless— Unless what, said her uncle, laughing. Come, now for your accomplishments. I had rather not say what I was going to, uncle. Please don't ask me. Yes, yes, said he.  Unless what? I was going to say, unless writing, said Ellen, coloring. Writing, and pray, how did you learn to ride? Catch a horse by the main, and mount him by the fence, and canter off bear-backed? Was that it, eh? Not exactly, sir, said Ellen, laughing. Well, but about your other accomplishments. You do not know anything of French, I suppose. Yes, I do, sir. Where did you get that? An old Swiss lady in the mountains taught me. Country riding in Swiss French, muttered her uncle. Did she teach you to speak it? Yes, sir. Mr. Lindsay and his mother exchanged glances. Which Ellen interpreted, worse and worse. One thing, at least, can be mended, observed Mr. Lindsay. She shall go to DeCorsi's riding school, as soon as we get to Edinburgh. Indeed, uncle, I don't think that will be necessary. Who taught you to ride, Ellen? Asked Lady Keith. My brother. Humph. I fancy a few lessons will do you no harm, she remarked. Ellen colored, and was silent. You know nothing of music, of course. I cannot play, uncle. Can you sing? I can sing hymns. Sing hymns? That's the only fault I find with you, Ellen.  I should like to see you a little more gay, like other children. But, uncle, I am not unhappy because I am sober. But I am, said he. I do not know precisely what I shall do with you. I must do something. Can you sing nothing but hymns? asked Lady Keith.  I can sing Hail Columbia. Absurd, said Lady Keith. Why, Ellen, said her uncle, laughing. I did not know you could be so stubborn. I thought you were made up of gentleness and mildness. Let me have a good look at you. There's not much stubbornness in those eyes, he said fondly. I hope you will never salute my ears with your American ditty, said Lady Keith. Tut, tut, said Mr. Lindsay. She shall sing what she pleases, and the more the better. She has a very sweet voice, said her grandmother. Yes, and speaking, I know. I have not heard it tried otherwise. And very nice English, it turns out. Where did you get your English, Ellen? From my brother, said Ellen, with a smile of pleasure. Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded. Whom do you mean by that? The brother of the lady that was so kind to me. Ellen disliked to speak the loved names in the hearing of ears, to which she knew they would be unlovely. How was she so kind to you? Oh, sir, in everything. I cannot tell you. She was my friend when I had only one beside. She did everything for me. And who was your other friend, your aunt? No, sir. This brother? No, sir. That was before I knew him. Who, then? His name was Mr. Van Brunt. Van Brunt, hump, and what was he? He was a farmer, sir. A Dutch farmer, eh? How came you to have anything to do with him? He managed my aunt's farm, and was a great deal in the house. He was. And what makes you call this other your brother? His sister called me her sister, and that makes me his. It is very absurd, said Lady Keith, when they are nothing at all to her, and ought not to be. It seems, then, you did not find a friend in your aunt, Ellen, eh? I don't think she loved me much, said Ellen, in a low voice. I am very glad we are clear of obligation on her score, said Mrs. Lindsay. Obligation, and so you had nothing else to depend on, Ellen, but this man, this Van something, this Dutchman? What did he do for you? A great deal, sir. Ellen would have said more, but a feeling in her throat stopped her. Now just hear that, will you, said Lady Keith? Just think of her in that farmhouse, with that sweeping and dusting woman, and a Dutch farmer, for these three years. No, said Ellen. Not all the time. This last year I have been. Where, Ellen? At the other house, sir. What house is that? Where that lady and gentleman lived, that were my best friends. Well, it's all very well, said Lady Keith, but it is past now. It is all over. You need not think of them any more. We will find you better friends than any of these Dutch brunters or grunters. Oh, Aunt Keith, said Ellen, if you knew. But she burst into tears. Come, come, said Mr. Vanzee, taking her into his arms. I will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, Ellen? But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or three times before in the course of the conversation, and she wept now rather violently. What is the matter, Ellen? Because, sobbed Ellen, thoroughly roused. I loved them dearly, and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot forget them, and never shall. And I can never have better friends. Never. It's impossible. Oh, it's impossible. Mr. Vanzee said nothing at first, except to soothe her. But when she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast, he whispered, It is right to love these people if they were kind to you. But as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to it. Forget that you were American, Ellen. You belong to me. Your name is not Montgomery any more. It is Vanzee. And I will not have you call me uncle. I am your father.  Do you understand me? He would have a yes from her, and then added, Go and get yourself ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh. Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words. With great effort she controlled herself, and obeyed him. I shall do precisely what he tells me of course, she said to herself, as she went to get ready. But there are some things he cannot command, nor I neither. I am glad of that. Forget indeed. She could not help loving her uncle, for the lips that kissed her were very kind, as well as very preemptory. And if the hand that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no more inclined to despise his will than he to permit it, the harmony between them was perfect and unbroken. End of Chapter 47