CHAPTER 28 SCRAPTS OF MOROCO AND TALK Left alone in the strange room with a flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They often traveled that road it is true, but now perhaps the very home look of everything, where yet she was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve. Last Christmas Eve, oh mama. Little Ellen Chansey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, began the business of undressing. Don't you love Christmas time, said she? I think it's the pleasantest in all the year. We always have a house full of people, and such fine times. But then in summer I think that's the pleasantest. I suppose they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking? No, said Ellen. Don't you? Why, I always did, ever since I can remember. I used to think when I was a little girl, you know, said she laughing. I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up my stocking as near as the fireplace as I could. But I know better than that now. I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you? He's nobody, said Ellen. Oh, yes he is. He's a great many people.  My Santa Claus is Mama, and Grand Papa, and Grand Mama, and Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda, and I thought I should have had Uncle George to this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come. I like him best of all my uncles. I never had anybody but Mama to give me presents, said Ellen, and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times. I used to have presents for Mama and Grand Papa too, both Christmas and New Year, but now I have grown so old Mama only gives me something Christmas, and Grand Papa, only New Year. It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a stocking will hold them much longer. But oh, we've got such a fine plan in our heads, said little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with open eyes and great energy. We are going to make presents this year. We children, won't it be fine? We are going to make what we like for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it. And then, New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins, we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine?  Who is it for, said Ellen? Oh, Mama, you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had rather it should be for Mama. I thought of making her a needle-book with white backs and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them, he could paint beautifully, and having her name and something else written very nicely inside. How do you think that would do? I should think it would do very nicely, said Ellen, very nicely indeed. I wish Uncle George was at home, though, to write it for me. He writes so beautifully. I can't do it well enough. I'm afraid I can't either, said Ellen. Perhaps somebody else can. I don't know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, and besides, I don't want her to know anything about it. But there's another thing I don't know how to fix, and that's the edges of the leaves, the leaves for the needles. They must be fixed, somehow. I can show you how to do that, said Ellen Brightening. Mama had a needle-book that was given to her that had the edges beautifully fixed, and I wanted to know how it was done, and she showed me. I'll show you that. It takes a good while, but that's no matter. Oh, thank you, how nice that is. Oh, no, that's no matter. And then it will do very well, won't it? Now, if I can only catch Gilbert in a good humor. He isn't my cousin. He's Marianne's cousin. That big boy you saw downstairs. He's so big he won't have anything to say to me, sometimes. But I guess I'll get him to do this. Don't you want to make something for somebody? Ellen had one or two feverish thoughts on the subject since the beginning of the conversation. But she only said, it's no matter. You know I haven't got anything here. And besides, I shall not be here till new year. Not here till new year?  Indeed, you aren't going away before that. I know you aren't. I heard Grandmama and Aunt Sophia talking about it. Say you will stay here till new year. Do. I should like to very much indeed, said Ellen, if Alice does. In the midst of half a dozen kisses with which her little companion rewarded the speech, somebody close by said pleasantly. What time of night do you suppose it is? The girls started. There was Mrs. Chauncey.  I hope you haven't heard what we've been talking about. Not a word, said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling. But as tomorrow will be long enough to talk in, hadn't you better go to bed now? Her daughter obeyed immediately, after one more hug to Ellen, and telling her she was so glad she had come. Mrs. Chauncey stayed to see Ellen in bed and pressed one kind, motherly kiss upon her face. So tenderly the Ellen's eyes were moistened as she withdrew. But in her dreams that night, the rosy, sweet face, blue eyes, and little plump figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest part. She slept till Alice was obliged to wake in her the next morning, and then got up with her head in a charming confusion of pleasures past and pleasures to come, things known and unknown, to be made for everybody's New Year's presents, linen collars and painted needle books, and no sooner was breakfast over than she was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey a particularly splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of needle-book leaves. Deep in this they were still an hour afterwards, and in the comparative merits of purple and rose color, when a little hubbub arose at the other end of the room, on the arrival of a newcomer. Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped it, exclaiming, there she is, now for the bag, and pulled Ellen along with her towards the party. A young lady was in the midst of it, talking so fast that she had not time to take off her cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen's, however, she came to a sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen's face certainly showed no pleasure. Margaret's darkened with a very disagreeable surprise. My goodness! Ellen Montgomery, how on earth did you get here? Do you know her, asked one of the girls, as the two Ellen's went off after Aunt Sophia? Do I know her? Yes, just enough, exactly. How did you get here? Miss Humphreys brought her. Who's Miss Humphreys? Hush, said Marianne, lowering her tone. That's her brother in the window. Whose brother? Hers or Miss Humphreys? Miss Humphreys, did you never see her? She is here, or has been here a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her fourth daughter, and she is just as much at home as if she was, and if she brought her here. And she's at home, too, I suppose. Well, it's no business of mine. What do you know of her? Oh, enough. That's just it. Don't want to know any more. Well, you needn't, but what's the matter with her? Oh, I don't know. I'll tell you some other time. She's a conceited little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river. That's how I come to know about her. Ma said it was the last child she would be bothered with in that way. Eventually the two girls came back, bringing word to clear the table, for Aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccos. As soon as she came, Ellen Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest question. Certainly, Aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the contents of the bag, and her little niece delightedly told Ellen she was to have her share as well as the rest. The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco, of all sizes and colors, which were hastily turned over and examined with eager hands and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be sure, but others showed a breadth and length of beauty, which was declared to be first rate and fine, and one beautiful large piece of morocco in particular was made up in imagination by two or three of the party, and in many different ways. Marianne wanted it for a book cover. Margaret declared she could make a lovely reticule with it, and Ellen could not help thinking it would make a very pretty needle-box, such as one she had seen in the possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice. "'Well, what's to be done now?' said Miss Sophia, or am I not to know?' "'Oh, you're not to know, you're not to know, Aunt Sophia,' cried the girls.  They're going to make—' He was laid hold of forcibly by the whole present, screaming and laughing, and stopped short from finishing his speech. "'Well, then, I'll take my departure,' said Miss Sophia, but how will you manage to divide all these scraps?' "'Suppose we were to put them in the bag again, and you hold the bag, and we were to draw them out without looking,' said Ellen Chauncey, as we used to do with the sugar-plums. As no better plan was thought of, this was agreed upon, and little Ellen shutting up her eyes very tight, stuck in her hand, and pulled out a little bit of green Morocco about the size of a dollar. Ellen Montgomery came next, then Margaret, then Marianne, then their mutual friend Isabelle Hawthorne. Each had to take her turn a great many times, and at the end of the drawing the pieces were found to be pretty equally divided among the party, with the exception of Ellen, who, beside several other good pieces, had drawn the famous blue. "'That will do very nicely,' said little Ellen Chauncey. "'I'm glad you have got that, Ellen. Now, Aunt Sophie, one thing more. You know the silks and ribbons you promised us.' "'Bless me, I haven't done yet, eh? Well, you shall have them. But we are all going out to walk now. I'll give them to you this afternoon. Come put these away, and get on your bonnets and cloaks.' A hard measure, but it was done. After the walk came dinner, after dinner, Aunt Sophie had to be found and waited on, till she had fairly sought out and delivered to their hands the wished for bundles of silks and satins. It gave great satisfaction. "'But how shall we do about dividing these, so little Ellen? Shall we draw lots again?' "'No, Ellen,' said Marianne. "'That won't do, because we might every one get just the thing we do not want. I want one color or stuff to go with my Morocco, and you might want another to go with yours. And you might get mine, and I might get yours. We had best each choose and turn what we like, beginning at Isabel.' "'Very well, so little Ellen,' I'm agreed. "'Anything for a quiet life,' said George Walsh. "'But this business of choosing was found to be very long and very difficult. Each one was so fearful of not taking the exact piece she wanted most. The elder members of the family began together for dinner, and several came and stood round the table where the children were. Little noticed by them, they were so wrapped up in silks and satins. Ellen seemed the least interested person at table, and had made her selections with the least delay and difficulty. And now, as it was not her turn, sat very soberly looking on, with her head resting on her hand. "'I declare it's too vexatious,' said Margaret Dunskohm. "'Here I've got this beautiful piece of blue satin, and I can't do anything with it. It just matches that blue morocco. It's a perfect match. I could have made a splendid thing of it, and I have got some cordon tassels that would just do. I declare it's too bad.' Ellen's color changed. "'Well, choose,' Margaret,' said Marianne. "'I don't know what to choose, that's the thing. What can one do with red and purple morocco and blue satin? I might as well give up. I have a great notion to take this piece of yellow satin and dress up a Turkish style to frighten the next young one I meet with.' I wish you would, Margaret, and give it to me when it's done,' cried little Ellen Chauncey. "'Tain't made yet,' said the other dryly. Ellen's color had changed and changed, her hand twitched nervously, and she glanced uneasily from Margaret's store of fine-rate to her own. "'Come, choose,' Margaret,' said Ellen Chauncey. "'I dare say Ellen wants the blue morocco as much as you do.' "'No, I don't,' said Ellen abruptly, throwing it over the table to her. "'Take it, Margaret. You may have it.' "'What do you mean?' said the other astounded. "'I mean you may have it,' said Ellen. "'I don't want it.' "'Well, I'll tell you what,' said the other. "'I'll give you yellow satin for it, or some of my red morocco.' "'No, I had rather not,' repeated Ellen. "'I don't want it. You may have it.' "'Very generously done,' remarked Miss Sophia. "'I hope you'll all take the lesson in the art of being obliging.' "'Quite a noble little girl,' said Mrs. Glebspie.' "'Ellen crimsoned.' "'No, ma'am, I'm not indeed,' she said, looking at them with eyes that were filling fast. "'Please don't say so. I don't deserve it.' "'I shall say what I think, my dear,' said Mrs. Glebspie, smiling. "'But I'm glad you add the grace of modesty to that of generosity. It is the more uncommon of the two.' "'I am not modest. I am not generous. You mustn't say so,' cried Ellen. She struggled. The blood rushed to the surface, suffusing every particle of skin that could be seen. Then left it, as with eyes cast down she went on. "'I don't deserve to be praised. It was more Margaret's than mine. I oughtn't to have kept it at all. For I saw a little bit when I put my hand in. I didn't mean to, but I did.' Raising her eyes hastily to Ellis's face, they met those of John, who was standing behind her. She had not counted upon him for one of her listeners. She knew Mrs. Glebspie, Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Ellis had hurt her. But this was one drop too much. Her head sunk. She covered her face a moment, and then made her escape out of the room, before even Ellen could follow her. There was a moment's silence. Ellis seemed to have some difficulty not to follow Ellen's example. Margaret pouted. Mrs. Chauncey's eyes filled with tears, and her little daughter seemed divided between doubt and dismay. Her first move, however, was to run off in pursuit of Ellen. Ellis went after her. "'Here's a beautiful example of honor and honesty for you,' said Margaret Dunskoma, length. "'I think it is,' observed John quietly. "'An uncommon instance,' said Mrs. Chauncey. "'I'm glad everybody thinks so,' said Margaret solemnly. "'I hope I shan't copy it, that's all.' "'I think you are in no danger,' said John again. "'Very well,' said Margaret, who between her desire of speaking and her desire of concealing her vexation did not know what to do with herself. "'Everybody must judge for himself, I suppose. I've got enough of her for my part.' "'Where did you ever see her before?' said Isabel Hawthorne. "'Oh, she came up the river with us. Mama had to take care of her. She was with us two days.' "'And didn't you like her?' "'No, I guess I didn't. She was a perfect plague. All the day on board the steamboat, she scarcely came near us. We couldn't pretend to keep sight of her. Mama had to send her maid out to look after her. I don't know how many times. She scraped acquaintance with some strange man on board, and liked his company better than ours. For she stayed with him the whole blessed day, waking and sleeping. Of course Mama didn't like it at all. She didn't go to a single meal with us, you know. Of course, that wasn't proper behavior. No, indeed, said Isabel. "'I suppose,' said John Quillie. She chose the society she thought the pleasantest. Probably Miss Margaret's politeness was more than she had been accustomed to. Margaret coloured, not quite knowing what to make of the speaker or of his speech. It would take much to make me believe, said gentle Mrs. Chauncey, that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as that little girl evidently has could take pleasure in improper company. Margaret had a reply at her tongue's end, but she had also an uneasy feeling that there were eyes not far off, too keen of sight to be baffled. She kept silence till the group dispersed, and she had an opportunity of whispering in Mary Ann's ear, that that was the very most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life. "'What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of Alice's, Mr. John,' said Mrs. Marshman's youngest daughter. You quite surprise me.' "'Did you think me a mishanthrope, Miss Sophia?' "'Oh, no, not at all. But I always had a notion you would not be easily pleased in the choice of favourites. Easily when a simple intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased.' "'Twelve or thirteen,' said Miss Sophia, what are you thinking about? Alice says she is only a ten or eleven. In years perhaps. How gravely you take me up,' said the young lady, laughing. "'My dear Mr. John, in years perhaps you may call yourself twenty, but in everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty.' As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back. The former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud that all the marocos had been in the fire. They had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it after dinner, and a second search was made in vain. John went to the library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there, but the pleasant light of the room where only the fire was burning invited a stay. He sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the moonlight when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole a noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought the room empty. Till and passing slowly down towards the fire, she came upon him in the window. Her first start let him know she was there. She would have run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away. Moving away from your brother, Ellie, said he kindly, what is the matter? Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent. I know all, Ellie, said he, still very kindly. I have seen all. Why do you shun me? Ellen said nothing. The big tears began to run down her face and frock. You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen, he said, drawing her close to him. You did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair the wrong. Neither man nor woman can do more than that. But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever. Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come, lift up your head, and let me see you smile again. Ellen lifted her head, but could not her eyes, though she tried to smile. I want to talk to you a little about this, said he.  Will you let me ask you a question or two? Oh, yes, whatever he pleased, Ellen said. And sit down here, said he, making room for her on the wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand, and speaking very gently. You said you saw when you took the Morocco. I don't quite understand. How was it? Why, said Ellen, we were not to look, and we had gone three times round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it. And I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just before I shut my eyes. I happened to see the corner of it sticking up, and then I took it.  No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for it, and wished it back. You will wonder at me perhaps, Ellie, said John, but I'm not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before. It has only made you see what you are. Very, very weak, quite unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you. So it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would not have done as you did. No, indeed, said Ellen. I was sorry a minute after. And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since. Oh, yes, said Ellen. It wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day. Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in future keep close to our dear Savior, without whose help we cannot stand a moment. Ellen sobbed, and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said, but you have not been thinking much about him, Ellie. The sob ceased. He saw his words had taken hold. Was it right, he said softly, that we should be more troubled about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonored him? Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished. You understand me, I see, said he. Be humbled in the dust before him, the more the better. But whenever we are greatly concerned for our own sakes about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too little of God, and what will please him. I am very sorry, said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to drop again. I am very wrong, but I couldn't bear to think what Alice would think, and you, and all of them. Here's Alice to speak for herself, said John. As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them. All swell again, said Alice, and we are going into tea. He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things so pleasantly that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman and Mary Ann to call them to tea. So the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be. She behaved very well, her face was touchingly humble that night, and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging an inch, but as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party was quite divided, and not the least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself with spirits, the secret of which perhaps, was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening, whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that it was Christmas Eve. CHAPTER XXIX Stackings, to which the bablu was nothing. Christmas morning was dawn and gray, but it was still far from broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering, Ellen, Ellen, in a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in nightgown and nightcap, and barefooted, too, with the face brimful of excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise, and asked what the matter was. I am going to look at my stocking, whispered her visitor. Don't you want to get up and come with me? It's just here in the other room. Come, don't make any noise. But what if you should find nothing in it, said Ellen, laughingly, as she bounded out of bed? But I shall, I know. I always do. Never fear. Hush! Step ever so softly. I don't want to wake anybody. It's hardly light enough for you to see, whispered Ellen, as the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room. Oh, yes it is. That's all the fun. Hush! Don't make a bit of noise. I know where it hangs. Mama always puts it at the back of her big, easy chair. Come this way. Here it is. Oh, Ellen, there's two of them. There's one for you. In a tumult of delight, one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of her bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her, with all her heart, declaring she was so glad she didn't know what to do. But how shall we know which is which? Perhaps they are both alike, said Ellen. No, at any rate, once for me, and to others for you. Stop. Here are pieces of paper with our names on, I guess. Let's turn the chair a little bit to the light. There. Yes. Ellen. M. O. N. There. That's yours. My name doesn't begin with an M, and this is mine. Another cape around the room, and then she brought up in front of the chair, where Ellen was still standing. I wonder what's in them, she said. I want to look, and I don't want to. Come. You begin. But that's no stocking of mine, said Ellen, a smile gradually breaking upon her sober little face. Mine leg never was as big as that. Stuff, doesn't it? Said Ellen Chauncey. Oh, do make haste, and see what is in yours. I want to know so. I don't know what to do. Well, will you take out of yours, as fast as I take out of mine? Well. Oh, mysterious delight in delightful mystery, of the stuffed stockings. Ellen's trembling fingers saw the top, and then very suddenly left it. I can't think what it is, said she, laughing. It feels so funny. Oh, never mind. Make haste, said Ellen Chauncey. It won't hurt you, I guess.  Splendid, isn't it, said Ellen Chauncey? Now for mine. It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch. So far so good, said she, now for the next. The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar-plums. Well, that's fine, isn't it, said Ellen Chauncey? Yours is tied with white ribbon, and mine with blue. That's all the difference. Oh, and your paper's red, and mine is purple. Yes, and the pictures are different, said Ellen. Well, I had rather they would be different, wouldn't you? I think it's just as pleasant. One's as big as the other at any rate. Come, what's next?  Oh, I wonder who gave me this, she said. It's just what I wanted. How pretty! Oh, I'm so glad! I guess who it was. Oh, look here, said the other Ellen, who had been diving into her stocking. I've got a ball. This is just what I wanted, too. George told me if I'd get one, he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice ball. I'm glad I've got it. Why, here is another great round thing in my stocking. What can it be? They wouldn't give me two balls, said she, chuckling. So there is in minds, said Ellen. Maybe they're apples? They aren't. They wouldn't give us apples. Besides, it is soft. Pull it out and see. And they are oranges, said Ellen, laughing. I never felt such a soft orange, said little Ellen, Chauncey. Come, Ellen, stop laughing and let's see. They were two great scarlet satin pin cushions, with E-C and E-M, very neatly stuck in pins. Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we, said Ellen? Who gave us these? I know, said little Ellen, Chauncey, Mrs. Bland. She was very kind to make one for me, said Ellen. Now for the next. Her next thing was a little bottle of cologne water. I can tell who put that in, said her friend, Aunt Sophia. I know her little bottles of cologne water. Do you love cologne water? Aunt Sophia's is delicious. Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction. Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with, said she. Raisins and almonds, I declare, and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good Christmas? What are you about, you monkeys, cried the voice of Aunt Sophia, from the dressing-room door. Alice, Alice, do look at them.  It is lucky it is Christmas day. If it was any other in the year, we should have you both sick in bed. As it is, I suppose you will go scot-free. Laughing and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed together. And for an hour afterwards, the two kept up a most animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the painted needle-book was entirely decided upon in this consultation. Also two or three other matters, and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since daybreak by the time they came down to breakfast. After breakfast, Ellen applied secretly to Alice, to know if she could write very beautifully. She exceedingly wanted something done. I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so super-fine, but John can do it for you. Can he? Do you think he would? I'm sure he will, if you ask him. But I don't like to ask him, said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at the window. Nonsense, he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him. Well, you won't say anything about it? Certainly not. John accordingly went near, and said gently, Mr. Humphreys—but he did not seem to hear her. Mr. Humphreys, a little louder, he has not arrived yet, said John, looking round gravely. He spoke so gravely, that Ellen could not tell whether he were joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of countenance. Whom do you want to speak to, said he, smiling? I wanted to speak to you, sir, said Ellen, if you are not too busy. Mr. Humphreys is always busy, said he, shaking his head. But Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for you whatever you please to ask him. Then Mr. John, said Ellen, laughing, if you please, I wanted to ask you to do something for me, very much indeed, if you are not too busy. Ellis said I shouldn't disturb you. Not at all.  What is it? I want you, if you will be so good, said Ellen, to write a little bit for me on something very beautifully. Very beautifully. Well, come to the library, we will see. But it is a great secret, said Ellen. You won't tell anybody. Tortures shan't draw it from me, when I know what it is, said he, with one of his comical looks. In high glee Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol-board which were to form the backs of the needle-book, and brought them to the library, and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other, the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and round about, as the fancy of the writer should choose. Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needle-book, said John, as he carefully mended his pen? Stop, said Ellen, I'll tell you in a minute. On this one the front you know is to go, to my dear mother, many happy New Years. And on this side, from her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey. You know, she added, Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's Day, nor anybody else. Find me, said John, if I am asked any questions, they shall find me as obscure as an oracle. What is an oracle, sir? Why, said John, smiling, this pen won't do yet. The old heathens believed there were certain spots on earth to which some of their gods had more favor than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come near to them, and would even deign to answer their questions. And did they, said Ellen, did they what? Did they answer their questions? Did who answer their questions? See, oh, to be sure, said Ellen, there were no such gods. But what made people think they answered them? And how could they ask questions? I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests to increase their power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and priestesses. The questions were put through them, and they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence, who could pay them well, by making splendid gifts to the God. But I should think the people would have thought the priest or priestess had made up the answers themselves. Perhaps they did sometimes, but people had not the Bible then, and did not know as much as we know. It was now unnatural to think the gods would care a little for the poor people that lived on earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the answers of the oracle that helped to deceive. How was it, said Ellen? How could they manage? And what was the oracle? The oracle was either the answer itself or the God who was supposed to give it, or the place where it was given, and there were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak tree, and people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman, who pretended to be put into a kind of fit, tearing her hair and beating her breast. But suppose the oracle made a mistake. What would the people think then? The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come true in any event. I don't see how they could do that, said Ellen. Very well, just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some question. I'll answer you. But you can't tell what's going to happen. No matter, you ask me truly, and I'll answer you oracorally. That means like an oracle, I suppose, said Ellen. Well, Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I'm going to give her new year? She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day. But, said Ellen, laughing, that isn't fair. You haven't answered me. Perhaps somebody else will give her something, and then she might be pleased with that and not with mine. Exactly. But the oracle never means to be understood. Well, I won't come to you, said Ellen. I don't like such answers. Now for the needle-book. Breathlessly she looked on while the skillful pen did its work, and her exclamations of delight and admiration when the first cover was handed to her were not loud but deep. It will do then, will it?  There now. Ellen Chauncey, I suppose, must be in hieroglyphics. And what, said Ellen? I mean, written in some difficult character. Yes, said Ellen. But what was that, you said? Hieroglyphics. Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked up and smiled. Do you want to know what that means? Yes, if you please, said Ellen. The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. From hieroglyphics they went to pyramids. And Ellen had got to the top of one, and was enjoying the prospect and imagination when she suddenly came down to tell John of her stuff stocking and its contents. The pen went on again, and came to the end of the writing by the time Ellen had got to the toe of the stocking. Wasn't it very strange they should give me so many things, said she, people that don't know me? Why no, said John smiling. I cannot say I think it was very strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands?  Her grateful affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid. Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rows in the butterfly, which, finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very ready to do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery of the leaves, which was by no means the business of an hour. A very happy Christmas day was that, with their needles and thimbles and rose-colored silk, they kept by themselves in a corner, or in the library, out of the way, and sweetening their talk with a sugar-plum now and then, neither tongues nor needles knew any flagging. It was wonderful what they found so much to say. But there was no lack. Ellen Chansey especially was inexhaustible. Several times to that day the cologne battle was handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball tried, and the new scissors extolled as just the thing for their work. Ellen attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and hieroglyphics, but was feigned to give it up. Little Ellen showed a decided preference for American, not to say ventnor subjects, where she felt more at home. Then came Mr. Humphries, and Ellen was glad, both for her own sake, and because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came the great Merry Christmas dinner, when the girls had not talked to themselves out, but tired themselves with working. Young and old dined together to-day, and the children not set by themselves, but scattered among the grown-up people. And as Ellen was nicely placed between Alice and little Ellen Chansey, she enjoyed it all very much. The large, long table surrounded with happy faces, tones of cheerfulness, and looks of kindness, and lively talk, the suburb display of plate and glass in China, the stately dinner, and last, but not least, the plum pudding. There was sparkling wine too, and a great deal of drinking of health. But Ellen noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in water. So when old Mr. Marshman called her to hold out her glass, she held it out to be sure, and let him fill it. But she lifted her tumbler of water to her lips instead, after making him a very low bow. Mr. Marshman laughed at her a great deal, and asked her if she was a proselyte to the new notions. And Ellen laughed with him, without having the least idea of what he meant, and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant too, when they went into the drawing room to take coffee. The young ones were permitted to have coffee tonight as a great favor. Old Mrs. Marshman had the two little ones on either side of her, and was so kind, and held Ellen's hand in her own, and talked to her about her mother, till Ellen loved her. After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old joined in them. They played the old curiosity shop, and Ellen thought Mr. John's curiosities could not be matched. They played the old family coach, Mr. Howard Marshman being the manager, and Ellen laughed till she was tired. She was the coach door, and he kept her opening and shutting, and swinging and breaking it seemed all the while, though most of the rest were worked just as hard. When they were well tired, they sat down to rest and hear music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and Mrs. Gillespie, and Ms. Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard, sometimes alone, sometimes three or four, or all together. At last came ten o'clock, and the young ones were sent off, and from beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken and unquouted pleasure. Ellen's last act was to take another look at her cologne bottle, gloves, pin cushion, grapes, and paper of sugar plums, which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer. End of chapter 29. Chapter 30 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World, by Susan Warner, chapter 30. Sunday at Ventnor Mr. Humphries was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor, and it was also settled that his children should not leave it till afternoon year. This was less their own wish than his. He said Alice wanted the change, and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides, the earnest pleadings of the whole family were not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this, though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor. She could not feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her. She almost thought Margaret Dunskone was at the bottom of it all, but she recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She tried to think nothing about it, and in truth it was not able to prevent her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow wider. About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning the whole family, but the hour of dinner and the distance prevented anyone from going in the afternoon. The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the house, most in their own rooms. Ellen, with some difficulty, made her escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look in the library for her friends. They were there and alone. Ellis half reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms. He was reading or talking to her. There was a book in his hand. Is anything the matter, said Ellen, as she drew near? Aren't you well, dear Ellis? Headache? Oh, I am sorry. Oh, I know. She darted away.  Won't you open that, please, Mr. John, said she? I can't open it. I guess it will do her good. For Ellen says it's delicious. Mama used to have cologne water for her headaches.  Do, try one. Hasn't that bottle been opened yet, said Ellis, as she smilingly took a grape? Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till I wanted it. Eat them all, dear Ellis, please do. But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of the bunch. And here are a great too many for me. Yes, I have. I've eaten two. I don't want them. I give them all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal, rather. Ellen took, however, as precious payment, Ellis's look and kiss. And then, with a delicate consciousness, that perhaps the brother and sister might like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go, for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not want any company. At last, with her little Bible, she placed herself on the old sofa in the hall above stairs, which was perfectly well-warmed. And for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed like Sunday. And the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half an hour or so, to hurt us May, she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children came trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading or thinking was out of the question. What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday, said Marianne Gillespie. One can play games on a Sunday, answered her brother. Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, I think.  Well now said William, how am I wicked? Now say, I should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie in bed and sleep? Or for Uncle Howard to read novels? Or for Grandpa to talk politics? Or for mother to talk about the fashions? There were she and Miss Whatzer name for ever so long this morning, doing everything but make a dress. Now which is the worst? Oh, William, William, for shame, for shame, said little Ellen again. Do hush, Ellen Chauncey, will you? said Marianne sharply. And you had better hush, too, William, if you know it is good for you. I don't care whether it's right or wrong. I do get dolefully tired with doing nothing. Oh, so do I, said Margaret Yawning. I wish one could sleep all Sunday. I'll tell you what, said George. I know a game we can play and no harm, either, for it's all out of the Bible. Oh, do you, let's hear it, George, cried the girls. I don't believe it is good for anything if it is out of the Bible, said Margaret. Now, stare, Ellen Chauncey, do. I ain't staring, said Ellen, indignantly, but I don't believe it is right to play it if it is out of the Bible. Well, it is, though, said George. Now, listen, I'll think of somebody in the Bible, some man or woman you know, and you all may ask me 20 questions about him to see if you can find out who it is. What kind of questions? Any kind of questions, whatever you like. That will improve your knowledge of scripture history, said Gilbert. To be sure, an exercise or memory, said Isabel Hawthorne. Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the time, said little Ellen, or bad people and what they did, said William. But I don't know enough about people and things in the Bible, said Margaret. I couldn't guess. Oh, never mind. It will be all the more fun, said George. Come, let's begin. Who will take somebody? Oh, I think this will be fine, said little Ellen Chauncey. But Ellen, where's Ellen? We want her. No, we don't want her. We've enough without her. She won't play, shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered, however. Ellen had left her sofa before this and was found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could, she withstood her little friends and treaties and very unwillingly at last yielded and went with her downstairs. Now we are ready, said little Ellen Chauncey. I have told Ellen what the game is. Who's going to begin? We have begun, said William. Gilbert has thought of somebody, man or woman. Man, younger old. Why, he was young first and old afterwards. Push-jaw, William.  Besides, you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert? Humpf. Well, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much. Are you answering truly, Gilbert? Upon my honour. Was he in a high or low station of life? asked Miss Hawthorne. Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder. A very respectable person indeed. But we are not getting on, said Margaret. According to you, he wasn't anything in particular. What kind of a person was he, Gilbert? A very good man. Handsome or ugly? History don't say. Well, what does it say, said George? What did he do? He took a journey once upon a time. What for? Do you mean why he went? Or what was the object of his going? Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it? I beg your pardon? Well, what was the object of his going? He went after a wife. Samson, Samson, shouted William and Isabelle and Ellen Chauncey. No, it wasn't Samson either. I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife, said George. That king, what's his name? That married Esther. The children screamed. He didn't go after a wife, George. His wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob? No, he didn't go after a wife either, said Gilbert. He married two of them, but he didn't go to his uncles to find them.  You have had eight already.  Did he get the wife that he went after, asked Ellen Chauncey? He was never married that I know of, said Gilbert. What was the reason he failed, said Isabelle? He did not fail. Did he bring home his wife, then? You said he wasn't married. He never was that I know of, but he brought home a wife, notwithstanding.  He had a wife, and he hadn't a wife. What became of her? She lived and flourished. Twelve questions, take care. Nobody asked what country he was of, said Margaret. What was he, Gilbert? He was a damaskine. A what? Of Damascus. Of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you? Fiddle, said Marianne. I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or after the flood? After. I should think you might have known that. Well, I can't make out anything about him, said Marianne. We shall have to give it up. No, no, not yet, said William. Where did he go after his wife? Too close a question. Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before? Never. Was she willing to go with him? Very willing. Ladies always are when they go to be married. And what became of her? She was married and lived happily, as I told you. But you said he wasn't married. Well, what then? I didn't say she married him. Whom did she marry? That is asking the whole. I can't tell you. Had they far to go, asked Isabel? Several days' journey. I don't know how far. How did they travel? On camels. Was it the Queen of Sheba, said little Ellen? There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought. And poor little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey. She remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels and the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her. The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless, and Gilbert at last told them his thought. It was Eliezer, Abraham Steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac. Why haven't you guessed, little Momchance, said Gilbert to Ellen Montgomery? I have guessed it, Ellen. I knew who it was some time ago. Then why didn't you say so? Did you have an asked a single question, said George? No, you have an asked a single question, said Ellen Chauncey. She is a great deal too good for that, said William. She thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice, proper behaved boys and girls to be playing on Sunday. She is very sorry she could not help being amused. Do you think it is wicked, Ellen? asked her little friend. Do you think it isn't right, said George Walsh? Ellen hesitated. She saw they were all waiting to hear what she would say.  It encouraged her. I don't want to say anything rude, she began. I don't think it is quite right to play such plays or any plays. She was attacked with impatient cries of why not, why not? Because, said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, I think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things, and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that, and I have a kind of feeling that I ought not to do it. Well, I hope you'll act according to your feeling, then, said William. I am sure nobody has any objection. You would better go somewhere else, though, for we are going on. We have been learning to be good long enough for one day. Come, I have thought of somebody. Ellen could not help feeling her and sorry at the half sneer she saw in the look and manner of the others, as well as in William's words. She wished for no better than to go away, but as she did so her bosoms swelled, and the tears started and her breath came quicker. She found Alice lying down in asleep, Miss Sophia beside her, so she stole out again and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession of the sofa and tried to read again. Reading somehow did not go well, and she felt amusing on what had just passed. She thought of the unkindness of the children, how sure she was it was wrong to spend any part of Sunday in such games, what Alice would think of it, and John, and her mother, and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when the dear mother was with her. And then she wondered how she was passing this very one, while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what she was doing in that faraway land, and she thought if there only were such things as oracles that could tell truly how much she should like to ask about her. Ellen said the voice of John from the window. She started up. She had thought she was alone, but there he was lying in the window-seat. What are you doing? Nothing, said Ellen. Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my little sister? He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. What were you thinking about? I was thinking about different things. Nothing is the matter, said Ellen. Then what are those tears in your eyes for? I don't know, said she, laughing. There weren't any till I came here. I was thinking just now about Mama. He said no more, still, however, keeping her beside him. I should think, said Ellen, presently, after a few minutes musing look out the window. It would be very pleasant if there were such things as oracles, don't you, Mr. John? No, but wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen? I do know a great deal about it. About what is going to happen? He smiled.  Oh, you mean from the Bible. I was thinking of other things. It is best not to know the other things, Ellie. I'm very glad to know those the Bible teaches us. But it doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?  I don't see anything in particular, said Ellen, after taking a grave look out. Well, what in general? Why there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes, and the sun is shining on everything, just as it did the day we came. And there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue sky. Now look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll. They shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment. And it, and all the works that are therein shall be burned up. As he spoke, Ellen's fancy tried to follow, to picture the rune and desolation of all that stood so fair, and seemed to stand so firm before her. But the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and cloudless. She was baffled. She turned from the window. Do you believe it, said John? Yes, said Ellen. I know it, but I think it is very disagreeable to think about. It would be, Ellie said he, bringing her again to his side. Very disagreeable. Very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But we know more. Read here. Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place. Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, neither come into mind. Why won't they be remembered, said Ellen? Shall we forget all about them? No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant, that we shall not want to think of these. Ellen's eyes sat the window again. You are thinking that is hardly possible, said John with a smile. I suppose it is possible, said Ellen, but—but lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin. And sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin there. Sorrow and sighing shall flee away. Love to each other, and love to their blessed King, will fill all hearts, and his presence will be with them. Don't you see that, even if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be far, far more lovely than this can ever be, with the shadow of sin upon it? Oh yes, said Ellen, I know whenever I feel wrong in any way. Nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much. Very well, said John. I see you understand me. I like to think of that land, Ellen, very much. Mr. John, said Ellen, don't you think people will know each other again? Those that love each other here, I have no doubt of it. Before either John or Ellen had broken the long-musing fit that followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better, and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother and sister now. Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it, of their dead mother, but not much of her, of the glory of their King and the joy of his service even here, till thoughts grew too strong for words, and silence again still upon the group. The short winter day came to an end, the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows laid now on the lawn, and from where she sat, Ellen could see the great hemlock, all silvered with the moonlight, which began to steal in at the window. It was very, very beautiful, yet she could not think now, without sorrow, that all this should come to an end, because of that new heaven and new earth wherein righteousness shall dwell. We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie, said Alice, or rather I have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes in my life. John said the reason was because everyone tasted of you. I am very glad, said Ellen, laughing. There is no evil without some good, Alice went on. Except for my headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did. And you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack, there has been many a day lately when I would have gladly had a headache for the power of laying my head on your shoulder. And if Mama had not gone away, I should never have known you, said Ellen. I wish she never had gone, but I am very, very glad for this. She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped to Alice around the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for Marianne. It was done with a gracefulness that could only come from a spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and for the time were shamed into better behavior. The evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy. End of CHAPTER XXXI The next day it happened that the young people were amusing themselves with talking in a room where John Humphries, walking up and down, was amusing himself with thinking. And in the course of his walk he began to find their amusement rather disturbing to his. The children were all grouped closely around Margaret Dunscombe, who was entertaining them with a long and very detailed account of a wedding and great party at Randolph, which she had had the happiness of attending. Eagerly fighting her battles over again and pleased with the rapt attention of her hearers, the speaker forgot herself and raised her voice much more than she meant to do. As every turn of his walk brought John nearer, there came to his ears sufficient bits and scraps of Margaret's story to give him a very fair sample of the whole. And he was sorry to see Ellen among the rest, and as the rest hanging upon her lips and drinking in what seemed to him to be very poor nonsense. Her gown was all blue satin, trimmed here, and so, you know, with the most exquisite lace, as deep as that, and on the shoulders and here, you know, it was looped up with the most lovely bunches of—here John lost the sense. When he came near again, she had got upon a different topic. Miss Simmons, as I, what did you do that for? Why, says she, how could I help it? I saw Mr. Pain coming, and I thought I'd get behind you, and so. The next time the speaker was saying with great animation, and lo and behold, when I was in the midst of all my pleasure, up comes a little gentleman of about his dimensions. He had not taken many turns, when he saw that Margaret's nonsense was branching out right and left into worse than nonsense. Ellen said he, suddenly, I want you in the library. My conscience, said Margaret, as he left the room, King John II and no less. Don't go on till I come back, said Ellen. I won't be three minutes. Just wait for me." She found John seated at one of the tables in the library, sharpening a pencil. Ellen said he, in his usual manner, I want you to do something for me. She waited eagerly to hear what, but instead of telling her, he took a piece of drawing paper, and began to sketch something. John stood by, wondering and impatient to the last degree, not caring, however, to show her impatience, though her very feet were twitching to run back to her companions. Ellen said, John, as he finished the old stump of a tree, with only one branch left on it, and a little bit of ground at the bottom, did you ever try your hand at drawing? No, said Ellen. Then sit down here, said he, rising from his chair, and let me see what you can make of that. But I don't know how, said Ellen. I will teach you. There was a piece of paper, and this pencil is sharp enough. Is that chair too low for you? He placed another, and with extreme unwillingness, and some displeasure, Ellen sat down. It was on her tongue to ask if another time would not do. But somehow she could not get the words out. John showed her how to hold her pencil, how to place her paper, where to begin, and how to go on, and then went to the other end of the room, and took up his walk again. Ellen at first felt more inclined to drive her pencil through the paper than to make quiet marks upon it. However, necessity was upon her. She began her work, and once fairly begun, it grew delightfully interesting. Her vexation went off entirely. She forgot Margaret and her story, the wrinkles on the old trunk smoothed those on her brow, and those troublesome leaves at the branch end brushed away all thoughts of everything else. Her cheeks were burning with intense interest when the library door burst open, and the whole trip of children rushed in. They wanted Ellen for a round game in which all their number were needed. She must come directly. I can't come just yet, said she. I must finish this first. Afterwards we'll do just as well, said George. Come, Ellen, do. You can finish it afterwards. No, I can't, said Ellen. I can't leave till it's done. Why, I thought Mr. John was here. I didn't see him go out. I'll come in a little while. Did he set you about that precious piece of business, said William? Yes. I declare, said Margaret, he's fitter to be the Grand Turk than anyone else I know. I don't know who the Grand Turk is, said Ellen. I'll tell you, said William, putting his mouth close to her ear, and speaking in a disagreeable loud whisper. It's the biggest gobbler in the yard.  That's it exactly, said Margaret, always starting about. He isn't a bit, said Ellen, very angry. I've seen people a great deal more like gobblers than he is. Well, said William, reddening in his turn. I had rather, at any rate, be a good turkey gobbler than one of those outlandish birds that have an appetite for stones and glass and bits of Morocco and such things. Come, let us leave her to do the Grand Turk's bidding. Come, Ellen Chauncey, you mustn't stay to interrupt her. We want you. They left her alone. Ellen had colored. But William's words did not hit very sore. Since John's talk with her about the matter referred to, she had thought of it humbly and wisely. It is only pride that makes such fault-finding very hard to bear. She was very sorry, however, that they had fallen out again, and that her own passion, as she feared, had been the cause. A few tears had to be wiped away before she could see exactly how the old tree stood. Then, taking up her pencil, she soon forgot everything in her work. It was finished, and with head now on one side, now on the other. She was looking at her picture with very great satisfaction when her eye caught the figure of John standing before her. Is it done, said he? It is done, said Ellen, smiling, as she rose up to let him come. He set on to look at it. It is very well, he said, better than I expected. It is very well indeed. Is this your first trial, Ellen? Yes, the first. You found it pleasant work? Oh, very, very pleasant. I like it dearly. Then I will teach you. This shows you have a taste for it, and that is precisely what I wanted to find out. I will give you an easier copy next time. I rather expected, when you sat down, said he, smiling, that the old tree would grow a good deal more crooked under your hands than I meant it to be. Ellen blushed exceedingly. I do believe, Mr. John, she said, stammering, that you know everything I am thinking about. I might do that, Ellen, without being as wise as an oracle, but I do not expect to make any very painful discoveries in that line. Ellen thought, if he did not, it would not be her fault. She truly repented her momentary anger and hasty speech to William. Not that he did not deserve it, or that it was not true, but it was unwise, and had done mischief, and it was not a bit like peacemaking, nor meek at all, Ellen said to herself. She had been reading that morning the fifth chapter of Matthew, and it ran in her head. Blessed are the meek, blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. She strove to get back a pleasant feeling towards her young companions, and prayed that she might not be angry at anything they should say. She was tried again at tea-time. Miss Sophia had quitted the table, bidding William hand to the donuts to those who could not reach them. Mary Ann took a great while to make her choice. Her brother grew impatient. Well, I hope you have suited yourself, said he. Come, Miss Montgomery, don't you be as long. My arm is tired.  No, Ellen said, John, who none of the children thought was near. It would be ungenerous. I wouldn't deprive Master William of his best arguments. What do you mean by my argument, said William sharply? Generally, those which are the most difficult to take in, answered his tormentor with perfect gravity. Ellen tried to keep from smiling, but could not, and others of the party did not try. William and his sister were enraged, the more because John had said nothing they could take hold of, or even repeat. Gilbert made common cause with them. I wish I was grown up for once, said William. Will you fight me, sir, asked Gilbert, who was a matter of three years older, and well grown enough. His question received no answer, and was repeated. No, sir. Why not, sir? I am afraid you'd lay me up with a sprained ankle, said John, and I should not get back to Doncaster as quickly as I must. It is very mean of him, said Gilbert, as John walked away. I could whip him, I know. Who's that, said Mr. Howard Marshman? John Humphries. John Humphries? You had better not meddle with him, my dear fellow. It would be no particular proof of wisdom. Why, he is no such great affairs, said Gilbert. He's tall enough to be sure, but I don't believe he is heavier than I am. You don't know in the first place how to judge of the size of a perfectly well-made man, and in the second place, I was not a match for him a year ago. So you may judge. I do not know precisely. He went on to the lady who was walking with. What it takes to rouse John Humphries, but when he is roused, he seems to me to have strength enough for twice his bone and muscle. I have seen him do curious things once or twice. That quiet, Mr. Humphries? Humph, said Mr. Howard. Gunpowder is pretty quiet stuff, so long as it keeps cool. The next day, another matter happened to disturb Ellen. Margaret had received an elegant pair of earrings as a Christmas present, and was showing them for the admiration of her young friends. Ellen's did not satisfy her. Ain't they splendid, said she? Tell the truth now, Ellen Montgomery.  They are very pretty, said Ellen, but I don't think I care much for such things. I would rather have the money. Oh, you avaricious! Mr. Marshman, cried Margaret, as the old gentleman was just then passing through the room. Here's Ellen Montgomery, says she'd rather have money than anything else for her present. He did not seem to hear her, and went out without making any reply. Oh, Margaret, said Ellen, shocked and distressed. How could you? How could you? What will Mr. Marshman think? Margaret answered she didn't care what he thought. Ellen could only hope he had not heard. But a day or two after, when either Ellen or her friends were present, Mr. Marshman asked who it was that had told him Ellen Montgomery would like money better than anything else for her new year's present. It was I, said Margaret. It sounds very unlike her to say so, remarked Mrs. Johnson. Did she say so, inquired Mr. Marshman? I understood her so, said Margaret. I understood her to say she wouldn't care for anything else. I am disappointed in her, said the old gentleman. I wouldn't have believed it. I do not believe it, said Mrs. Johnson quietly. There has been some mistake. It was hard for Ellen now to keep to what she thought right. Disagreeable feelings would rise when she remembered the impoliteness, the half sneer, the whole taunt, and the real unkindness of several of the young party. She found herself ready to be irritated, inclined to dislike the sight of those, even wishing to visit some sort of punishment upon them. But Christian principle had taken strong hold in little Ellen's heart. She fought her evil tempers manfully. It was not an easy battle to gain. Ellen found that resentment and pride had roots deep enough to keep her pulling up the chutes for a good while. She used to get alone when she could, to read a verse, if no more of her Bible and pray. She could forgive William and Margaret more easily then. Solitude and darkness saw many a prayer and tear of hers that week. As she struggled thus to get rid of sin and to be more like what would please God, she grew humble and happy. Never was such a struggle carried on by faith in him without success. And after a time, though a twinge of the old feeling might come, it was very slight. She would bid William and Margaret good morning and join them in any enterprise of pleasure or business, where the brow is unclouded as the sun. They, however, were too conscious of having behaved unbecomingly towards her little stranger guest to be overfond of her company. For the most part, she and Ellen Chauncey were left to each other. Meanwhile, the famous needle-book was in a fair way to be finished. Great dismay had at first been excited in the breast of the intended giver by the discovery that Yobart had consulted in what seemed to be a very extraordinary fancy and making the rose a yellow one. Ellen did her best to comfort her. She asked Alice and found there were such things as yellow roses, and they were very beautiful too. And besides, it would match so nicely the yellow butterfly on the other leaf. I had rather it wouldn't match, said Ellen Chauncey, and it don't match the rose-colored silk besides. Are the yellow roses sweet? No, said Ellen, but this couldn't have been a sweet rose at any rate, you know. Oh, but, said the other, bursting into a fresh passion of inconsolable tears. I wanted it should be the picture of a sweet rose, and I think he might have put up a purple butterfly. Yellow butterflies are so common. I had a great deal rather have had a purple butterfly and a red rose. What cannot be cured, however, must be endured. The tears were dried in course of time, and the needle-book, with its yellow pictures and pink edges, was very neatly finished. Ellen had been busy too on her own account. Alice had got a piece of fine linen for her from Miss Sophia. The collar for Mr. Van Brunt had been cut out, and Ellen, with great pleasure, had made it. The stitching, the strings, and the very buttonhole after infinite pains were all finished by Thursday night. She had also made a needle case for Alice, not of so much pretension as the other one. This was green Morocco, lined with crimson satin, no leaves, but ribbon stitched in to hold papers of needles, and a place for a bodkin. Ellen worked very hard at this. It was made with the extremist care, and made beautifully. Ellen Chauncey admired it very much, and anew lamented the uncouth variety of colors in her own. It was a grave question whether pink or yellow ribbon should be used for the latter. Ellen Montgomery recommended pink. She herself inclined to yellow, and, tired of doubting, at last resolved to split the difference, and put one string of each color. Ellen thought that did not mend matters, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Besides the needle case for Alice, she had snatched the time whenever she could get away from Ellen Chauncey to work at something for her. She had begged Alice's advice and help, and between them, out of Ellen's scraps of Morocco and silk, they had manufactured a little bag of all the colors of the rainbow, and very pretty and tasteful with all. Ellen thought it a shade of gray, and was unbounded in her admiration. It lay folded up in white paper in a locked drawer, ready for New Year's Day. In addition to all these pieces of business, John had begun to give her drawing lessons, according to his promise. These became Ellen's delight. She would willingly have spent much more time upon them than he would allow her. It was the most loved employment of the day. Her teacher's skill was not greater than the perfect gentleness and kindness with which he taught. Ellen thought of Mr. Howard's speech about gunpowder. She could not understand it. "'What is your conclusion on the whole?' asked John one day, as he stood beside her, mending a pencil. "'Why?' said Ellen, laughing and blushing. "'How could you guess what I was thinking about, Mr. John? "'Not very difficult when you were eyeing me so hard.' "'I was thinking,' said Ellen. "'I don't know whether it is right in me to tell it, "'because somebody said you, "'Well, we're like gunpowder. "'Very kind of somebody, "'and so you have been in doubt of an explosion.' "'No, I don't know. "'I wondered what he meant.' "'Never believe what you hear said of people, Ellen. "'Judge for yourself. "'Look here, that house has suffered "'from a severe gavel of wind, I should think. "'All the uprights are slanting off to the right. "'Can't you set it up straight?' "'Ellen laughed at the tumbledown condition of the house, "'as thus pointed out to her, and said about reforming it. "'It was Thursday afternoon that Ellis and Ellen "'were left alone in the library, "'several of the family having been called out "'to receive some visitors. "'Ellis had excused herself, "'and Ellen, as soon as they were gone, "'nustled up to her side. "'How pleasant it is to be alone together, dear Ellis. "'I don't have you even at night now. "'It is very pleasant, dear Ellie. "'Home will not look disagreeable again, will it, "'even after all our gaiety here? "'No, indeed, at least, your home won't. "'I don't know what mine will. "'Oh, me, I had almost forgotten Aunt Fortune. "'Never mind, dear Ellie. "'You and I have each something to bear. "'We must be brave and bear it manfully. "'There is a friend that sticketh closer "'than a brother, you know. "'We shan't be unhappy if we do our duty and love him.' "'How soon is Mr. John going away? "'Not for all next week, and so long as he stays, "'I don't mean that you shall leave me. "'Ellen cried for joy. "'I can manage it with Miss Fortune, I know,' said Ellis. "'These fine drawing lessons must not be interrupted. "'John is very much pleased with your performances.' "'Is,' he said, Ellen, delighted, "'I have taken all the pains I could.' "'That is the sure way to success, Ellie. "'But, Ellie, I want to ask you something. "'What was that you said to Margaret Dunskohm "'about wanting money for a New Year's present? "'You know it, then?' cried Ellen, starting up. "'Oh, I'm so glad. "'I wanted to speak to you about it, "'so I didn't know what to do. "'And I thought I oughtn't to. "'What shall I do about it, dear Ellis? "'How did you know? "'George said you were not there.' "'Mrs. Tronsy told me. "'She thought there had been some mistake or something wrong. "'How was it, Ellen?' "'Why,' said Ellen. "'She was showing us her earrings "'and asking us what we thought of them. "'And she asked me if I wouldn't like to have such a pair. "'And I thought I would a great deal rather "'have the money they cost to buy other things with, "'you know, that I would like better, and I said so. "'And just then Mr. Marshman came in, "'and she called out to him loud "'that I wanted money for a present, "'or would like it better than anything else "'or something like that. "'Oh, Ellis, how I felt. "'I was frightened. "'But then I hoped Mr. Marshman did not hear her, "'for he did not say anything. "'But the next day George told me all about "'what she had been saying in there. "'And, oh, it made me so unhappy,' said poor Ellen, "'looking very dismal. "'What will Mr. Marshman think of me? "'He will think I expected a present, "'and I never dreamed of such a thing. "'It makes me ashamed to speak of it, even. "'And I can't bear, he should think so. "'I can't bear it. "'What shall I do, dear Ellis?' "'I don't know what you can do, dear Ellie, "'but be patient. "'Mr. Marshman will not think anything "'very hard of you, I dare say. "'But I think he does already. "'He hasn't kissed me since that as he did before. "'I know he does, and I don't know what to do. "'How could Margaret say that? "'Oh, how could she? "'It was very unkind. "'What can I do?' said Ellen again after a pause, "'and wiping away a few tears. "'Couldn't Mrs. Tronsy tell Mr. Marshman "'not to give me anything, for that I never expected it, "'and would a great deal rather not? "'Why, no, Ellie. "'I do not think that would be exactly the best "'or most dignified way. "'What, then, dear Ellis? "'I'll do just as you say. "'I would just remain quiet. "'But, Ellen says the things are all put "'on the plates in the morning. "'And if there should be money on mine, "'I don't know what I should do. "'I should feel so badly. "'I couldn't keep it, Ellis. "'I couldn't. "'Very well, you need not, "'but remain quiet in the meanwhile. "'And if it should be so, then say what you please, "'only take care that you say it in the right spirit "'and in a right manner. "'Nobody can hurt you much, my child, "'while you keep the even path of duty. "'Poor Margaret is her own worst enemy. "'Then if there should be money in the morning, "'I may tell Mr. Marshman the truth about it? "'Certainly, only do not be in haste. "'Speak gently. "'Oh, I wish everybody would be kind and pleasant always, "'said poor Ellen, but half-comforted. "'What a sigh there was, said John, coming in. "'What is the matter with my little sister? "'Some of the minor trials of life, John,' "'said Ellis with a smile. "'What is the matter, Ellie? "'Oh, something you can't help, said Ellen. "'And something I mustn't know. "'Well, to change the scene, "'suppose you go with me to visit the greenhouse "'and hot houses. "'Have you seen them yet?' "'No,' said Ellen, as she eagerly sprang forward "'to take his hand. "'Ellen promised to go with me, but we have been so busy. "'Will you come, Ellis?' "'Not I,' said Ellis. "'I wish I could, but I shall be wanted elsewhere. "'By whom, I wonder, so much is by me,' said her brother. "'However, after tomorrow, I will have you all to myself.' "'As he and Ellen were crossing the hall, "'they met Mrs. Marshman. "'Where are you going, John?' said she. "'Where I ought to have been before, ma'am, "'to pay my respects to Mr. Hutchinson. "'You have not seen him yet? "'That is very ungrateful of you. "'Hutchinson is one of your warmest friends and admirers. "'There are few people he mentions with so much respect, "'or that he is so glad to see, as Mr. John Humphreys. "'A distinction I owe, I fear, principally to my English blood,' said John, shaking his head. "'It is not altogether that,' said Mrs. Marshman, laughing. "'Though I do believe I'm the only Yankee "'good Hutchinson has ever made up his mind entirely to like. "'But go and see him. "'Do. He will be very much pleased.' "'Who is Mr. Hutchinson?' said Ellen, as they went on. "'He is the gardener, or rather the head gardener. "'He came out with his master some thirty or forty years ago, "'but his old English prejudice will go to the grave with him, "'I believe.' "'But why don't you like the Americans?' John laughed. "'It would never do for me to attempt to answer that "'question, Ellie. "'Fond of going to the bottom of things as you are. "'We should just get to hard fighting about tea time, "'and should barely make peace by midday tomorrow "'at the most moderate calculation. "'You shall have an answer to your question, however.' Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait for his promised answer. As they entered the large and beautifully kept greenhouse, Hutchinson came from the further end of it to meet them, an old man of most respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and then slipped his pruning knife into his left hand to leave the right at liberty for John, who shook it cordially. "'And why haven't you been to see me before, Mr. John? "'I've thought it rather out of you. "'Miss Alice has come several times. "'The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. "'You look flourishing here. "'Why, yes, sir, pretty middling, with indoors. "'But I don't like the climate, Mr. John. "'I don't like the climate, sir. "'There's no country like England, I believe, "'for my business. "'Ears a fine rose, sir, if you'll step a bit this way. "'Quite a new kind. "'I got it over last autumn, the Palmerston it is. "'Those are fine buds, sir.' "'The old gentleman was evidently much pleased "'to see his visitor, and presently plunged him "'deep into English politics, "'for which he seemed to have lost no interest "'by forty years' life in America. "'As Ellen could not understand what they were talking about, "'she quitted genocide, and went wandering about by herself. "'From the moment the sweet aromatic smell "'of the plants had greeted her, "'she had been in a high state of delight, "'and now, lost to all the world beside, "'from the mystery of one beautiful "'and strange green thing to another, "'she went wandering and admiring, "'and now and then timidly advancing her nose "'to see if something glorious was something sweet, too. "'She could hardly leave a superb cactus, "'in the petals of which there was such a singular "'blending of scarlet and crimson, "'as to almost dazzle her sight. "'And if the pleasure of smell could intoxicate, "'she would have reeled away from a luxuriant "'Daphne odorata in full flower, "'over which she feasted for a long time. "'The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her. "'Some rough and brown-streaked, "'some shining as if they were varnished, "'others of hair-like delicacy of structure, all lovely. "'Although she stood still with admiration, "'and almost held her breath before a white camellia. "'What does that flower make you think of "'Ellensa John coming up? "'His friend the gardener had left him "'to seek a newspaper in which he wished "'to show him a paragraph. "'I don't know, said Ellen. "'I couldn't think of anything but itself. "'It reminds me of what I ought to be, "'and of what I shall be if I ever see heaven. "'It seems to me the emblem of a sinless, pure spirit, "'looking up in fearless spotlessness. "'Do you remember what was said "'to the old church of Sardis? "'Thou hast a few names that have not defiled their garments, "'and they shall walk with me in white, "'for they are worthy.' "'The tears rushed to Ellen's eyes. "'She felt she was so very unlike this. "'But Mr. Hutchinson, coming back, "'prevented anything more from being said. "'She looked at the white camellia. "'It seemed to speak to her. "'That's the paragraph, sir,' said the old gardener, "'giving the paper to John. "'Ears a little lady that is fond of flowers, "'if I don't make a mistake. "'This is somebody I've not seen before. "'Is this the little lady Miss Helen was telling me about? "'I presume so, said John. "'She is Miss Ellen Montgomery, a sister of mine, "'Mr. Hutchinson, and Mr. Marshman's guest.' "'By both names entitled to my greatest respect,' "'said the old man, stepping back "'and making a very low bow to Ellen, "'with his hand upon his heart, "'at which she could not help laughing. "'I am very glad to see Miss Helen. "'What can I do to make her remember old Hutchinson? "'Would Miss Helen, like a bouquet?' "'Ellen did not venture to say yes, "'but her blush and sparkling eyes answered him. "'The old gardener understood her, "'and was as good as his word. "'He began with cutting a beautiful sprig "'of a large purple geranium, then a slip of lemon myrtle. "'Ellen watched him as the bunch grew in his hand "'and could hardly believe her eyes, "'as one beauty after another was added "'to what became a most elegant bouquet. "'And most sweet, too, to her joy. "'The delicious dafty and fragrant lemon blossom "'went to make part of it. "'Her thanks, when it was given her, "'were made with few words, but with all her face, "'the old gardener smiled, "'and was quite satisfied that his gift was not thrown away. "'He afterward showed them his houses, "'where Ellen was astonished and very much interested "'to see ripe oranges and lemons in abundance, "'and pine, too, such as she had been eating "'since she came to Ventnor, "'thinking nothing less than that they grew so near home. "'The grapes had all been cut. "'There was to be quite a party at Ventnor "'in the evening of New Year's Day. "'Ellen knew this and destined her precious flowers "'for Alice's adornment. "'How to keep them in the meanwhile?' "'She consulted Mr. John, "'and according to his advice, "'took them to Mrs. Bland, the housekeeper, "'to be put in water, "'and kept in a safe place for her till the time. "'She knew Mrs. Bland, "'for Ellen, Chauncey, and she had often gone "'to her room to work, "'where none of the children would find in trouble them. "'Mrs. Bland promised to take famous care of the flowers, "'and said she would do it with the greatest pleasure. "'Mr. Marshman's guests,' she added, smiling, "'must have everything they wanted. "'What does that mean, Mrs. Bland?' said Ellen. "'Why, you see, Mrs. Ellen, "'there's a great deal of company always coming, "'and some is Ms. Gillespie's friends, "'and some Mr. Howard's, "'and some to see Ms. Sophia more particularly, "'and some belong to Mrs. Marshman, "'or the whole family maybe, "'but now and then Mr. Marshman "'has an old English friend or so "'that he sets the greatest store by, "'and then he calls his guests, "'and the best in the house is hardly good enough "'for them, or the country, either. "'And so I am one of Mr. Marshman's guests at Ellen? "'I didn't know what it meant.' "'She saved out one little piece of rose geranium "'from her flowers for the gratification of her own nose, "'and skipped away through the hall "'to rejoin her companions, very lighthearted indeed.' End of Chapter 31. Chapter 32 of The Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner, Chapter 32. The Banknote and George Washington. New Year's morning dawned. How I wish breakfast was over, thought Ellen, as she was dressing. However, there is no way of getting over this life, but by going through it. So when the bell rang, she went down as usual. Mr. Marshman had decreed that he would not have a confusion of gifts at the breakfast table. Other people might make presents in their own way. They must not interfere with his. Needle cases, bags, and so forth must therefore wait another opportunity, and Ellen Chansey decided it would just make the pleasure so much longer, and was a great improvement on the old plan. Happy New Year's and pleasant greetings were exchanged as the party gathered in the breakfast room. Pleasure sat on all faces except Ellen's, and many of them were a broad smile as they sat down to table. For the napkins were in singular disarrangement this morning. Instead of being neatly folded up on the plates in their usual fashion, they were in all sorts of disorder, sticking up in curious angles, some high, some low, some half-folded, some quite unfolded, according to the size and shape of that which they covered. It was worthwhile to see that long tableful and the faces of the company before yet a napkin was touched. An anxious glance at her own showed Ellen that it lay quite flat. Alice's, which was next, had an odd little rising in the middle as if there were a small dumpling under it. Ellen was in an agony for this pause to come to an end. It was broken by some of the older persons, and then in a trice every plate was uncovered.  Ellen dreaded at first to look at her plate. She bethought her, however, that if she waited long, she would have to do it with all eyes upon her. She lifted the napkin slowly. Yes, just as she feared, there lay a clean banknote, of what value she could not see, for confusion covered her, the blood rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She could not have spoken, and happily it was no time then, everybody else was speaking. She could not have been heard.  She did not know what Alice had received. She understood nothing that was going on, till Alice touched her and said gently, Mr. Marshman is speaking to you, Ellen. Sir, said Ellen, starting. You need not look so terrified, said Mr. Marshman, smiling. I only asked you if your bill was a counterfeit. Something seems to be wrong about it. Ellen looked at her plate and hesitated. Her lip trembled. What is it, continued the old gentleman, is anything the matter? Ellen desperately took up the bill and with burning cheeks marched to his end of the table. I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I had a great deal rather not, if you please. If you will please to be so good as to let me give it back to you, I should be very glad. Why, hoity-toity, said the old gentleman, what's all this? What's the matter? Don't you like it? I thought I was doing the very thing that would please you best of all. I am very sorry you should think so, sir, said Ellen, who had recovered a little breath, but had the greatest difficulty to keep back her tears. I never thought of such a thing as you're giving me anything, sir, till somebody spoke of it, and I had rather never have anything in the world than that you should think what you thought about me. What did I think about you?  And didn't you say so? Indeed I didn't, sir, said Ellen, with a sudden fire. I never thought of such a thing. What did you say, then? Margaret was showing us her earrings, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have some like them, and I couldn't help thinking I would a great deal rather have the money they would cost to buy something for Alice. And just when I said so, you came in, sir, and she said what she did. I was very much ashamed. I wasn't thinking of you, sir, at all, nor of New Year. Then you would like something else better than money? No, sir, nothing at all, if you please. If you only be so good as to not give me this, I will be very much obliged to you, indeed. And please not to think I could be so shameful as you thought I was. Ellen's face was not to be withstood. The old gentleman took the bill from her hand. I will never think anything of you, said he, but what is the very tip-top of honorable propriety. But you make me ashamed now. What am I going to do with this? Here have you come and made me a present, and I feel very awkward indeed. I don't care what you do with it, sir, said Ellen, laughing, though an imminent danger of bursting into tears. I am very glad it is out of my hands.  You must give me half a dozen kisses at least, to prove that you have forgiven me for making so great a blunder. Half a dozen is too many at once, said Ellen Gailey, three now and three tonight. So she gave the old gentleman three kisses, but he caught her in his arms, and gave her a dozen at least, after which he found out that the waiter was holding a cup of coffee at his elbow. And Ellen went back to her place with a very good appetite for her breakfast. After breakfast, the needle cases were delivered. Both gave the most entire satisfaction. Mrs. Chauncey assured her daughter that she would quite asleep have a yellow as a red rose on the cover, and that she liked the inscription extremely, which the little girl acknowledged to have been a joint device of her own and Ellen's. Ellen's bag gave great delight and was paraded all over the house. After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and when she had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not give her for a good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers, a sweet gift still to be made. Why not make it now? Why should not Alice have the pleasure of them all day? A bright thought. Ellen ran forthwith to the housekeeper's room, and after a long admiring look at her treasures, carried them, glass and all, to the library, where Alice and John often were in the morning alone. Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the flowers were smelled and admired afresh. Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Ellie, except Mr. Marshman's gift. And what was at Alice, I haven't seen it yet. Alice pulled out of her pocket a small round Morroco case, the very thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under the napkin, and opened it. It's Mr. John, exclaimed Ellen, oh, how beautiful. Neither of her ears could help laughing. It is very fine, Ellie, said Alice, you are quite right. Now I know what was the business that took John to Randolph every day, and kept him there so long, while I was wondering at him unspeakably. Kind, kind, Mr. Marshman. Did Mr. John get anything? Ask him, Ellie. Did you get anything, Mr. John, said Ellen, going up to him where he was reading on the sofa? I got this, said John, handing her a little book which lay beside him. What is this? Wimes, weems, life of Washington. Washington, he was. May I look at it? Certainly. She opened the book and presently sat down on the floor where she was, by the side of the sofa. Whatever she had found within the leaves of the book, she had certainly lost herself. An hour passed, Ellen had not spoken or moved except to turn over leaves. Ellen, said John, she looked up, her cheeks colored high. What have you found there, said he, smiling? Oh, a great deal, but did Mr. Marshman give you this? No. Oh, said Ellen, looking puzzled. I thought you said you got this this morning. No, I got it last night. I got it for you, Ellie. For me, said Ellen, her color deepening very much. For me, did you? Oh, thank you.  It is only an answer to one of your questions. This, is it? I don't know what I am sure. Oh, I wish I could do something to please you, Mr. John. You shall, Ellie. You shall give me a brother's right again. Blushingly, Ellen approached her lips to receive one of his grave kisses, and then, not at all displeased, went down on the floor and was lost in her book. Oh, the long joy of that New Year's Day. How shall it be told? The pleasure of that delightful book in which she was wrapped the whole day, even when called off as she often was by Ellen Chauncey, to help her in 50 little matters of business or pleasure. These were attended to, and faithfully and cheerfully, but the book was in her head all the while. And this pleasure was mixed with Alice's pleasure, the flowers and the miniature, and Mr. Marshman's restored kindness. She never met John's or Alice's eye that day without a smile. Even when she went to be dressed, her book went with her, and was laid on the bed with insight, ready to be taken up the moment she was at liberty. Ellen Chauncey lent her a white frock, which was found to answer very well with a tuck let out, and Alice herself dressed her. While this was doing, Margaret Dunscone put her head in at the door to ask Anne, Miss Sophia's maid, if she was almost ready to come and curl her hair. Indeed, I can't say that I am Miss Margaret's at Anne. I've something to do for Miss Humphreys, and Miss Sophia hasn't so much as done the first thing towards beginning to get ready yet. It'll be a good hour and more. Margaret went away, exclaiming impatiently, that she could get nobody to help her, and would have to wait till everybody was downstairs. A few minutes after, she heard Ellen's voice at the door of her room, asking if she might come in. Yes, who's that? What do you want? I'll fix your hair if you'll let me, said Ellen. You? I don't believe you can. Oh, yes, I can. I used to do mamas very often. I am not afraid, if you'll trust me. Well, thank you, I don't care if you try, then, said Margaret, seating herself. It won't do any harm at any rate, and I want to be downstairs before anybody gets here. I think it's half the fun to see them come in. Bless me, you're dressed in already. Margaret's hair was in long, thick curls. It was not a trifling matter to dress them. Ellen plotted through it patiently and faithfully, taking great pains, and doing the work well, and then went back to Alice. Margaret's thanks, not very gracefully given, would have been a poor reward for the loss of three quarters of an hour of pleasure, but Ellen was very happy in having done right. It was no longer time to read. They must go downstairs. The New Year's party was a nondescript, young and old together, a goodly number of both were gathered from Randolph and the neighboring country.  It was a very happy evening to Ellen. For a good part of it, Mr. Marshman took possession of her, or kept her near him. And his extreme kindness would alone have made the evening past pleasantly. She was sure he was her firm friend again. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Tronsy found occasion to ask her about her journey up the river, without at all mentioning Margaret, or what she had said. Ellen answered that she had come with Mrs. Dunskone and her daughter. Did you have a pleasant time, asked Mrs. Tronsy? Why, no, ma'am, said Ellen. I don't know. It was partly pleasant, and partly unpleasant. What made it so love? I had left Mama that morning, and that made me unhappy. But you said it was partly pleasant. Oh, that was because I had such a good friend on board, said Ellen, her face lighting up, as his image came before her. Who was that? I don't know, ma'am, who he was. A stranger to you? Yes, ma'am, I never saw him before. I wish I could see him again. Where did you find him? I didn't find him. He found me, when I was sitting up on the highest part of the boat. And your friends with you? What friends? Mrs. Dunskone and her daughter. No, ma'am, they were down in the cabin. And what business had you to be wandering about the boat alone, said Mr. Marshman, good-humoredly? They were strangers, sir, said Ellen, coloring a little. Well, so was this man, your friend, a stranger too, wasn't he? Oh, he was a very different stranger, said Ellen, smiling, and he wasn't a stranger long besides. Well, you must tell me more about him. Come, I'm curious. What sort of a strange friend was this? He wasn't a strange friend, said Ellen, laughing. He was a very, very good friend. He took care of me the whole day. He was very good and very kind. What kind of a man, said Mrs. Chauncey, a gentleman? Oh, yes, ma'am, said Ellen, looking surprised at the question. I'm sure he was. What did he look like? And Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct. What did he wear, coat or cloak? Coat, dark brown, I think. This was the end of October, wasn't it? Ellen thought a moment and answered, yes. And you don't know his name? No, ma'am, I wish I did. I can tell you, said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling. He is one of my best friends too, Ellen. It is my brother, Mr. George Marshman. How Ellen's face crimzoned, Mr. Marshman asked how she knew. It was then he came up the river, you know, sir, and don't you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat, who was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavored to be friend? I had forgotten it entirely till a moment or two ago. Mrs. Margaret Dunscum, cried George Walsh. What kind of a person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up the river? I don't know nor care, said Margaret. Somebody should picked up somewhere. It was Mr. George Marshman. It wasn't— Uncle George exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the group her cousin had quitted. My Uncle George? Do you know Uncle George, Ellen? Very much. I mean, yes, said Ellen. Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It seemed to bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it too. Mrs. Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remembered very well her son's speaking of her, and was very glad to find who it was. And now Ellen thought she would surely see him again sometime. The next day they left Fentner. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry to lose her new friend, and begged she would come again as soon as she could. All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told her she must give him a large place in her heart, or he should be jealous of her strange friend, and Alice was charged to bring her whenever she came to see them. The drive back to Cara Cara was scarcely less pleasant than the drive out had been. And home, Ellen said, looked lovely—that is, Alice's home—which she began to think more of her own than any other. The pleasure of the past ten days, though great, had not been unmixed. The week that followed was one of perfect enjoyment. In Mr. Humphrey's household there was an atmosphere of peace and purity that even a child could feel, and in which such a child as Ellen throwed exceedingly. The drawing lessons went on with great success. Other lessons were begun. There were fine long walks and charming sleigh rides, and more than one visit to Mrs. Voss. It was what Ellen perhaps liked the best of all—the long evenings of conversation and reading aloud, and bright firelights, and brighter sympathy and intelligence and affection. That week did them all good, and no one more than Ellen. It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune's and begin her old life there. She went on the evening of the day John had departed. They were at supper. Well, said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, have you got enough of visiting? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn't wanted for my part. I have an Aunt Fortune, said Ellen. She's been nowhere but what's done her good, said Mr. Van Brunt. She's really grown handsome since she's been away. Grown a fiddle-stick, said Miss Fortune. She couldn't grow handsomer than she was before, said the old grandmother, hugging and kissing her little granddaughter with great delight. The sweetest posy in the garden she always was. Mr. Van Brunt looked as if he entirely agreed with the old lady. That, while it made some amends for Miss Fortune's dryness, perhaps increased it. She remarked that she thanked heaven she could always make herself contented at home, which Ellen could not help thinking was a happiness for the rest of the world. In the matter of the caller it was hard to say whether the giver or receiver had the most satisfaction. Ellen had begged him not to speak of it to her Aunt, and accordingly, one Sunday, when he came there with the Don, both he and she were in a state of exquisite delight. Miss Fortune's attention was at last aroused. She made a particular review of him, and ended it by declaring that he looked uncommonly dandified, but she could not make out what he had done to himself. A remark which transported Mr. Van Brunt and Ellen beyond all bounds of prudence. Nancy's Bible which had been purchased for her at Randolph was given to her at the first opportunity. Ellen anxiously watched her as she slowly turned it over. Her face showing, however, very decided approbation of the style of the gift. She shook her head once or twice, and then said, What did you give this to me for, Ellen? Because I wanted to give you something for New Year, said Ellen, and I thought that would be the best thing. If you would only read it, it would make you so happy and good. You are good, I believe, said Nancy, but I don't expect ever to be myself. I don't think I could be. You might as well teach a snake not to wriggle. I am not good at all, said Ellen, were none of us good, and the tears rose to her eyes, but the Bible will teach us how to be. If you only read it, please, Nancy, do. Say you will read a little every day. You don't want me to make a promise I shouldn't keep, I guess, do you? No, said Ellen. Well, I shouldn't keep that, so I won't promise it. But I tell you what I will do. I'll take precious fine care of it, and keep it always for your sake. Well, said Ellen, sighing, I'm glad you will even do so much as that. But Nancy, before you begin to read the Bible, you may have to go where you never can read it, nor be happy, nor good, either. Nancy made no answer, but walked away, Ellen thought, rather more soberly than usual. This conversation had cost Ellen some effort. It had not been made without a good deal of thought and some prayer. She could not hope she had done much good, but she had done her duty. And it happened that Mr. Van Brunt, standing behind the angle of the wall, had heard every word. End of Chapter 32