CHAPTER 41 The Cloud's Return After the Rain As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, and eagerly poured out the whole story—her walk and all. She was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her hearer. But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice. I thought you would be so much surprised. I am not surprised at all, Ellie. Not? Aren't you? Why? Did you know anything of this before? I did not know, but I suspected. I thought it was very likely. I am very glad it is so. Glad? Are you glad? I am so sorry. Why are you glad, Alice? Why are you sorry, Ellie? Oh, because I don't know. It seems so queer. I don't like it at all. I am very sorry, indeed. For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake. What do you mean?  Why he, to be sure, I think he will. I don't think she will. I think he is a great deal too good. And besides, I wonder if he wants to really. It was settled so long ago. Maybe he has changed his mind since. Have you any reason to think so, Ellie, said Alice, smiling? I don't know. I don't think he seemed particularly glad. It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his own mind, my dear, and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope so. But then, besides, said Ellen, with a face of great perplexity and vexation, I don't know. It don't seem right. How can I ever? Must I? Do you think I shall have to call him anything but Mr. Van Brunt? Alice could not help smiling again. What is your objection, Ellie? Why, because I can't. I couldn't do it somehow. It would seem so strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad, dear Alice? It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head. You will know by and by why I am glad, Ellie. Well, I am glad if you are glad, said Ellen, sighing. I don't know why I was so sorry, but I couldn't help it. I suppose I shan't mind it after a while.  Yet, if he should think me unkind, then I must. Oh, rather fifty times over than that. Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and tenderly asked, What is the matter, dear Alice? What are you thinking about? I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will give you pain. Pain? You needn't be afraid of giving me pain, said Ellen fondly, throwing her arms around her. Tell me, dear Alice, is it something I have done that is wrong? What is it? Alice kissed her and burst into tears. What is the matter? Oh, dear Alice, said Ellen, encircling Alice's head with both her arms. Oh, don't cry. Do tell me what it is. It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie. But why, said Ellen, in some alarm, why are you sorry for me? I don't care if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't. Never mind me. Is it something that troubles you, dear Alice? No, except for the effect it may have on others. Then I can bear it, said Ellen. You needn't be afraid to tell me, dear Alice. What is it? Don't be sorry for me. But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not help being afraid to hear. She anxiously repeated, What is it? Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the uplifted face. Suppose, Ellie, she said at length, that you and I were taking a journey together, a troublesome, dangerous journey, and that I had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it. Would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for the rest of the way? I would rather you should take me with you, said Ellen, in a kind of maze of wonder and fear. Why, where are you going, Alice? I think I am going home, Ellie, before you. Home, said Ellen. Yes, home. I feel it to be. It is not a strange land. I thank God it is my home I am going to. Ellen sat looking at her stupefied. It is your home, too, love, I trust and believe, said Alice tenderly. We shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself. I only grieve to leave you alone, and others. But God knows best. We must both look to Him. Why, Alice, said Ellen, starting up suddenly. What do you mean? What do you mean? I don't understand you. What do you mean? Do you not understand me, Ellie? But Alice, but Alice, dear Alice, what makes you say so? Is there anything the matter with you? Do I look well, Ellie? Ellen saw in Alice's face for the tokens of which she wished, and what she feared. It had, once or twice, lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding or walking or any other exertion. And it had struck her that the bright spots of color in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone, but now, as she recalled them, and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew, hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to her lips.  It must be. We must say the lords will be done. We must not forget he does all things well. But Ellen rallied. She raised her head again. She could not believe what Alice had told her. To her mind it seemed an evil too great to happen. It could not be. Alice saw this in her look, and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. It must be, Ellie, she repeated. But have you seen somebody? Have you asked somebody, said Ellen, some doctor? I have seen, and I have asked, said Alice. It was not necessary, but I have done both. They think as I do. But these throw-wall doctors. Not them. I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent physician at Randolph the last time I went to Ventnor. And he said, as I have told you, Ellen's countenance fell. It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left. I know that, my dear little Ellie. You have no reason to be sorry for me. I am sorry for you. But the hand that is taking me away is one that will touch neither of us but to do us good. I know that, too. We must both look away to our dear savior, and not for a moment doubt his love. I do not. You must not. Is it not said that he loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus? Yes, said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice's. And might he not? Did it not rest with a word of his lips to keep Lazarus from dying and save his sisters from all the bitter sorrows his death caused them? Again Ellen said yes, or her lips seemed to say it. And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why he should not. Little as poor Martha and Mary could understand it. But had he at all ceased to love them when he bade all that trouble come, do you remember, Ellie, oh how beautiful those words are when at last he arrived near the place and the first one sister came to him with the touching reminder that he might have saved them from this. And then the other, weeping and falling at his feet and repeating, Lord, if thou hadst been here. When he saw their tears and more saw the torn hearts that tears could not ease, he even wept with them, too. Oh, I thank God for those words. He saw reason to strike and his hand did not spare, but his love shed tears for them, and he is just the same now. Some drops fell from Alice's eyes, not sorrowful ones. Ellen had hid her face. Let us never doubt his love, dear Ellie, and surely then we can bear whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it. I do believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I believe it will be well for me when I die. Well for you, my dear, dear Ellie, well even for my father. She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But oh, Ellen knew what it would have been, and it suddenly startled into life all the load of grief that had been settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts had not looked that way before. Now when they did, this new vision of misery was too much to bear, quite unable to contain herself, and unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help. With a smothered burst of feeling she sprang away out of the door into the woods where she would be unseen and unheard. And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost thought she should die. Her grief had not now, indeed, the goading sting of impatience. She knew the hand that gave the blow, and did not raise her own against it. She believed, too, what Alice had been saying, and the sense of it was, in a manner, present with her in her darkest time. But her spirit died within her. She bowed her head as if she were never to lift it up again, and she was ready to say with Job, What good is my life to me? It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she came in again to kiss Alice before going to her aunts. She would have done it hurriedly, and turned away. But Alice held her, and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-be-gone little face, then clasped her close, and kissed her again and again. Oh, Alice sobbed Ellen on her neck. Aren't you mistaken? Maybe you are mistaken. I am not mistaken, my dear Ellie. My own Ellie said Alice's clear, sweet voice, nor sorry except for others. I will talk with you more about this. You will be sorry for me at first, and then I hope you will be glad. It is only that I am going home a little before you. Remember what I was saying to you a while ago. Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I should like to see him for a few minutes, sometime when he is leisure, and come to me early tomorrow, love? Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see where she was stepping, and again and again her fullness of heart got the better of everything else, and unmindful of the growing twilight. She sat down on a stone by the wayside, or flunk herself on the ground, to let sorrows have full sway. In one of these fits of bitter struggling with pain there came on her mind, like a sunbeam across the cloud, the thought of Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus. It came with singular power. Did he love them so well, thought Ellen, and is he looking down upon us with the same tenderness even now? She felt that the sun was shining still, though the cloud might be between. Her broken heart crept to his feet and laid its bird in there, and after a few minutes she rose up and went on her way, keeping that thought still close to her heart. The unspeakable tears that were shed during those few minutes were that softened outpouring of the heart that leaves it eased, very, very sorrowful as she was. She went on calmly now, and stopped no more. It was getting dark, and a little away from the gate, on the road she met Mr. Van Brunt. Why, I was beginning to get scared about you, said he. I was coming to see where you was. How come you so late? Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer, and he could see more distinctly, his tone changed. What's the matter, said he? You hand been well. What has happened? What ails you, Ellen? An astonishment, and then an alarm. He saw that she was unable to speak, and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know what was the matter, and if he could do anything. Ellen shook her head. Ain't Miss Alice well, said he? You hand here to know bad news up there on the hill, have you? Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yay or nay. She recovered herself enough to give him Alice's message. I'll be sure and go, said he.  Has anything happened? No, said Ellen. Don't ask me. She'll tell you. Don't ask me. I guess I'll go up first thing in the morning, then, said he, before breakfast. No, said Ellen. Better not. Perhaps she wouldn't be up so early. After breakfast, then. I'll go up right after breakfast. I was going with the boys up into that air wheat lot. But anyhow, I'll do that first. They won't have a chance to do much bad or good before I get back to them, I reckon. As soon as possible, she made her escape from his fortune's eye in questions of curiosity, which she could not bear to answer, and got to her own rum. There, the first thing she did was to find the 11th chapter of John. She read it as she never had read it before. She found in it what she never had found before, one of those cordials that none but the sorrowing drink. On the love of Christ, as there shone, little Ellen's heart fastened, and with that one sweetening thought, amid all its deep sadness, her sleep that night might have been envied by many a luxurious ruler in pleasure. At Ellis's wish, she immediately took up her quarters at the parsonage, to leave her no more. But she could not see much difference in her from what she had been for several weeks past, and with the natural hopefulness of childhood, her mind presently almost refused to believe the extremity of the evil which had been threatened. Ellis herself was constantly cheerful, and sought by all means to further Ellen's cheerfulness. Though careful at the same time, to forbid, as far as she could, the rising of the hope she saw Ellen was inclined to cherish. One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking out upon the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all the fresh greenness of the young spring. The woods were not yet in full leaf, and the light of the setting sun upon the trees bordering the other side of the lawn showed them in the most exquisite and varied shades of color. Some had the tender green of the new leaf, some were in the red or yellow-browns of the half-opened bud, others in various stages of forwardness, mixing all the tints between, and the evergreen standing dark as ever, setting off the delicate hues of the surrounding foliage. This was all softened off in the distance. The very light of the spring was mild and tender, compared with that of other seasons, and the air that stole around the corner of the house and came in at the open window was laid in with aromatic fragrance. Ellis and Ellen had been for some time silently breathing it, and gazing thoughtfully on the loveliness that was abroad. I used to think, said Ellis, that it must be a very hard thing to leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so, Ellie? I don't know, said Ellen faintly. I don't remember. I used to think so, said Ellis. But I do not now. Ellie, my feeling has changed. Do you feel so now, Ellie? Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Ellis? For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap again. I'm afraid you cannot bear it. Yes, I can. Sit here and let your head rest where it used to. And Ellis laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead.  Oh, Ellis, don't say so. You'll kill me, exclaimed Ellen, in great distress. Why should I not say so, love, said Ellis soothingly? I like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by and by. You are a great comfort to me. And what have you been to me, said Ellen, weeping bitterly? Would I cannot be much longer? And I want to accustom you to think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know that, if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me in a little while. You will not wish me back. Ellen shook her head. I know you will not after a while, and I shall leave you in good hands. I have arranged for that, my dear little sister. The sorrowing child, neither knew nor cared what she meant, but a mute caress answered the spirit of Ellis's words. Look up, Ellie, look out again. Lovely, lovely, all that is. But I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feast it as her eyes are with beauty. I believe that I has not seen, nor heart imagined, the things that God has prepared for them that love him. You believe that, Ellie, you must not be so very sorry that I have gone to see a little before you. Ellen could say nothing. After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor beautiful world that make people happy. It is loving and being loved, and that is the reason why I'm happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if he receives me, I shall be with my savior. I shall see him and know him, without any of the clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and displeasing him now, never serving him well, nor loving him right. I shall be glad to find myself where all that will be done with forever. I shall be like him.  I can't help it, Ellis. It is only my love for you, and for two more that could make me wish to stay here. Nothing else. And I give all that up, because I do not know what is the best for you or myself. And I look to meet you all again before long, try to think of it as I do, Ellie. But what shall I do without you, said poor Ellen? I will tell you, Ellie, you must come here and take my place, and take care of those I leave behind, will you? And they will take care of you. But, said Ellen, looking up eagerly, Aunt Fortune, I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about my father, if I leave you established here, to be to him, as far as you can, while I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie? In words it was not possible, but what silent kisses and the close pressure of the arms around Ellis's neck could say, was said. I am satisfied, then, said Ellis presently. My father will be your father. Think him so, dear Ellie. And I know John will take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am very, very glad. Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not say so. It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage, Ellie, Ellis soon went on. I foresaw she might raise some difficulties in my way, hard to remove perhaps. But now I have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing shall hinder your taking up your abode, and making your home entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have loved to have you in his own house. I am sure he would, said Ellen. But oh, how much rather. He behaved very well about it the other morning, in a very manly, frank, kind way. Showed a good deal of feeling, I think, too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he should be extremely sorry to let you go.  He is very kind, he is very good. He is always so, said Ellen. I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind to me as he could be. They were silent for a few minutes, and Ellis was looking out of the window again. The sun had set, and the coloring of all without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the sun went down. You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all. But I can leave it, and can leave you. Yes, both, for I would see Jesus. He who has taught me to love him will not forsake me now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. I thank him, oh I thank him. Ellis's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone through tears. Ellie, dear, you must love him with all your heart, and live constantly in his presence. I know if you do, he will make you happy in any event. He can always give more than he takes away. Oh, how good he is, and what wretched returns we make him. I was miserable when John first went away to Doncaster. I did not know how to bear it, but now, Ellie, I think I can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All things are ours, all things, the world and life, and death too. Ellis said, Ellen, as well as she could, you know what you were saying to me the other day? About what, love? That about, you know, that chapter? About the death of Lazarus? Yes, it has comforted me very much. So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at different times. Come, sing to me, how firm a foundation. From time to time, Ellis led to this kind of conversation, both for Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile, she made her go on with her usual studies and duties, and but for these talks, Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it could be true which she feared. The wedding of misfortune in Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet one. It happened at far too busy a time of the year, and they were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much too business like a point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a wedding tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a wedding party. Misfortune would not have left her cheese and butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Boston's that ever were built, and she would have scorned a trip to Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would have certainly have wished himself all the while back among his furrows and crops, so one day they were quietly married at home. The reverend Mr. Clark, having been fetched from Thorewell for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have preferred that Mr. Humphrey should perform the ceremony, but Misfortune was quite decided in favor of the Thorewell gentleman, and of course he it was. The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this marriage, and opinions were greatly divided. Some congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the richest landholders in town by the junction of another fat farm to his own, some pitying him for having got more than his match with indoors, and guessing he'd miss his reckoning for once. If he has then, said Sam Larkins, who heard some of these condoling remarks, it's the first time in his life I can tell you. If she ain't a little mistaken, I wish I may get a month's wage and a year to come.  He's as easy as anybody as long as he don't care about what you're doing. But if he once takes an ocean, you can't make him gene or ha, no more than you can, or near ox Timothy when he's out of yoke, and he's as ugly a beast to manage as I ever see when he ain't yoke'd up, why bless you, there ha'n't been a thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked. She don't know it. I've heard her, said Sam Chuckling. I've heard her telling him how she wanted this thing done and to other, and he'd just not say a word and go and do it right to other way. It'll be a wonder if somebody ain't considerably startled in her calculations a four summers out. End of Chapter 41. Chapter 42 of the Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The Wide, Wide World by Susan Werner. Chapter 42. One Less in the Wide, Wide World. It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphries believe that Alice was right in her notion about her health. The greatness of the evil was such that his mind refused to receive it, much as Ellen's had done. His unbelief, however, lasted longer than hers. Only with Alice as she was and talking to her on the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope she had clung to, though still, bending all her energies to the present pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice said she was, a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly, Alice's look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It was Ellen's precious reward, and in seeking to earn it, she half the time earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with Mr. Humphries. He saw much less of his daughter, and when he was with her, it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to speak to him as freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speaking to Ellen. The consequences were such as grieved her, but could not be helped. As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia Marshman came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen was almost sorry. She broke up in a measure, the sweet and peaceful way of life, she and Alice had held together ever since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make a third in their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less, and she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friends being there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in manner and temper, a very useful person in the house where one was ailing. Mrs. Voss was often there too, to her Ellen clung whenever she came as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help her. Mrs. Voss could, a great deal. Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. She said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster. She would not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from home. In August he would be quite through. The first of August he would be home. Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail much more rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too likely that, if she waited for his regular return at the first of August, she would see but little of her brother. She at last reluctantly consented that Mrs. Chauncey should write to him and from that moment counted the days. Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence respecting her. He came into her room one morning when just about to set out for Cara Cara to visit one or two of his poor parishioners. How are you today, my daughter? He asked tenderly. Easy, Papa, and happy, said Alice. You are looking better, said he. We shall have you well again among us yet. There was some sorrow for him and Alice's smile as she looked up at him and answered, Yes, Papa, in the land where the inhabitant shall no more say, I am sick. He kissed her hastily and went out. I almost wish I was in your place, Alice, said Miss Sophia. I hope I may be half as happy when my time comes. What right have you to hope so, Sophia, said Alice, rather sadly? To be sure, said the other, after a pause. You have been ten times as good as I. I don't wonder you feel easy when you look back and think how blameless your life has been. Sophia, Sophia, said Alice, you know it is not that. I never did a good thing in all my life that was not mixed and spoiled with evil. I never came up to the full measure of duty in any manner. But surely, said Miss Sophia, if one does the best one can, it will be accepted. It won't do to trust to that, Sophia. God's law requires perfection and nothing less than perfection will be received as payment of its demand. If you owe a hundred dollars and your creditor will not hold you quit for anything less than the whole sum, it is of no consequence whether you offer him 10 or 20. Why, according to that, said Miss Sophia, it makes no difference what kind of life one leads. Alice sighed and shook her head. The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God will strive to please him always. And is it of no use to strive to please him? Of no manner of use if you make that your trust. Well, I don't see what one is to trust to, said Miss Sophia, if it isn't a good life. I will answer you, said Alice, with a smile in which there is no sorrow. In some words that I love very much of an old scotchman, I think. I have taken all my good deeds and all my bad and have cast them together in a heap before the Lord. And from them all I have fled to Jesus Christ and in him alone I have sweet peace. Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look. Well, said she, I don't understand it. That is what George is always talking about. But I cannot understand him. I am very sorry you cannot, said Alice gravely. They were both silent for a little while. If all Christians were like you, said Miss Sophia, I might think more about it.  There seems to be no life nor pleasure among them. Alice thought of these lines. Their pleasures rise to things unseen, beyond the bounds of time, where neither eyes nor ears have been, nor thoughts of mortals climb. You judge, said she, like the rest of the world, of that which they see not. After all, they know best whether they are happy. What do you think of Mrs. Voss? I don't know what to think of her. She is wonderful to me. She has passed my comprehension entirely. Don't make her an example. No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your brother? George, he is happy. There is no doubt of that. He is the happiest person in the family, by all odds. But then, I think he has a natural knack at being happy. It is impossible for anything to put him out. Alice smiled and shook her head again. Sophistry, Sophia, what do you think of me? I don't see what reason you have to be anything but happy. What have I to make me so? Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers. I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I were not going to somewhere I love better? Should I be happy if I had no secure prospect of meeting with them again? Or if I were doubtful of my reception in that place wither I hoped to go? Sophia burst into tears. While I don't know, said she, I suppose you are right, but I don't understand it. Alice drew her face down to hers and whispered something in her ear. Undoubtedly, Alice had much around, as well as within her, to make a declining life happy. Mrs. Voss and Miss Marshman were two friends and nurses not to be surpassed in their different ways. Marjorie's motherly affection, her zeal and her skill left nothing for the heart to wish in her line of duty. And all that affection, taste, and kindness which abundant means could supply was at Alice's command. Still, her greatest comfort was Ellen, her constant thoughtful care, the thousand tender attentions from the roses daily gathered for her table, to the chapter she read and the hymn she sung to her, the smile that often covered a pain, the pleasant words and tone that many a time came from a sinking heart. They were Alice's daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had learned self-command in more than one school. Affection, as once before, was her powerful teacher now and taught her well. Sophia openly confessed that Ellen was the best nurse. And Marjorie, when nobody heard her, muttered blessings on the child's head. Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never stayed long. It was plain he could not bear it. It might have been difficult too for Alice to bear, but she wished for her brother. She reckoned the time for Mrs. Chauncey's letter to that one he might be looked for. But some irregularities in the course of the post office made it impossible to count with certainty upon the exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile, her failure was very rapid. Mrs. Voss began to fear he would not arrive in time. The weeks of June ran out. The roses, all but a few late kinds, blossomed and died. July came. One morning when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her close to her and said, You remember, Ellie, in the pilgrims' progress, when Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river? I think the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry, love. Listen, this is the token he seems to bring me. I have loved thee with an everlasting love. I am sure of it, Ellie. I have no doubt of it. So don't cry for me. You have been a dear comfort, my blessing. We shall love each other in heaven, Ellie. Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped from her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come back again. But she came at last and went on through all that day as she had done for weeks before. The day seemed long, for every member of the family was on the watch for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would not live to see another. It wore away, hour after hour passed without his coming, and the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she evidently wished and watched for him, and Ellen, whose affection read her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening door, the eye turned towards the window, the attitude of listening, grew feverish with her intense desire that she should be gratified. From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that John generally occupied when he was at home, directly over the sitting room, and with pleasant windows towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey, Mrs. Sophia, and Mrs. Voss were all there. Alice was lying quietly on the bed and seemed to be dozing. But Ellen noticed after lights were brought that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an inquiring look around the room. Ellen could not bear it. Slipping softly out, she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer than Alice of what she wished for. It was a perfectly still summer night, the moon shone brightly on the little lawn, and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to it, how like and how unlike. All around was just the same as it had been then. The quill moonlight upon the distant fields. The trees in the gap lit up, and then the lawn afloat of brightness. But there was no happy party gathered there now. They were scattered. One was away, one a sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight, one waiting to be gone where there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoicing them. She thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her distress. She remembered the whipper will. None was heard to-night, near or far. She was glad of it. It would have been too much. And there were no fluttering leaves. The air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the reproaches she cast upon them, and as she still gazed up towards them in their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her head of that which was more pure still and more steadfast. How long they have been shining, thought Ellen, going on just the same, from night to night, and from year to year, as if they never would come to an end. But they will come to an end. The time will come when they stop shining bright as they are. And then, when all they are swept away, then heaven will be only begun. That will never end, never. And in a few years we who were so happy a year ago and are so sorry now shall be all glad together there. This will be all over. And then she looked, and the tears sprang to her thoughts. A favorite hymn of Alice's came to her remembrance. Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode, the pavements of those heavenly courts, where I shall see my God. The father of eternal lights shall there his beams display, and not one moment's darkness mix with that unburied day. Not one moment's darkness, oh, thought little Ellen, there are a great many here, still gazing up at the bright, calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face and fell into her lap, there came trooping through Ellen's mind, many of those words she had been in the habit of reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well. And there shall be no night there, and they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign forever and ever, and there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him, and they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall be any more pain, for the former things have passed away.  While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, with a strong sense of their preciousness, and all her throbbing grief, there came to her ear through the perfect stillness of the night, the faint, far-off, not-to-be-mistaken sound of quick-coming horse's feet, nearer and nearer every second. It came with a mingled pang of pain and pleasure, both very acute. She rose instantly to her feet, and stood pressing her hand to her heart, while a quick measured beat of hoofs grew louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The minutes were few, but they were moments of intense bitterness. The tired horse stooped his head as the rider flung himself from the saddle and came to the door, where Ellen stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered, the question that lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way and uttered the words upstairs, and John rushed thither. He checked himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it, and went in as calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution was very needless. Alice knew his step, she knew his horse's step too well. She had raised herself up, and stretched out both arms towards him, before he entered. In another moment they were round his neck, and she was supported in his. There was a long, long silence. Are you happy Alice whispered her brother? Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John.   They remained so a little while without stirring, except that some whispers were exchanged too low for others to hear. And once more she raised her face to kiss him. A few minutes after, those who could look saw his color change. He felt the arms unclasp their hold, and as he laid her gently back on the pillow, they fell languidly down. The will and the power that had sustained them were gone. Alice was gone. But the departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house. There was a half smile on the sweet face of most entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a moment, closed the eyes, kissed once and again the sweet lips, and left the room. Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it. For her, wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in long, heavy slumber. From the pitch to which her spirits had been wrought by care, sorrow, and self-restraint, they now suddenly and completely sank down, naturally and happily. She lost all sense of trouble in sleep. When sleep at last left her, and she stole downstairs into the sitting room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was stirring about the house but herself. It seemed deserted. The old sitting room looked empty and forlorn. The stillness was oppressive. Ellen could not bear it. Softly opening the glass door, she went out upon the lawn where everything was sparkling in the early freshness of the summer morning. How could it look so pleasant without when all pleasantness was gone within? It pressed upon Ellen's heart. With a restless feeling of pain, she went on round the corner of the house and paced slowly along the road until she came to the footpath that led up to the place on the mountain John had called the Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that path, often traveled, and much loved by her. And slowly, with slow-dripping tears, made her way up over the moss wet with the dew and the stones and rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She passed the place where Alice had first found her. She remembered it well. There was the very stone besides which they had kneeled together and where Alice's folded hands were laid. Ellen knelt down beside it again and for a moment laid her cheek to the cold stone while her arms embraced it and a second time it was watered with tears. She rose up again quickly and went on her way, toiling up the steep path beyond till she turned to the edge of the mountain and stood on the old place where she and Alice that evening had watched the setting sun. Many a setting sun they had watched from thence. It had been a favorite place of them both to run up there for a few minutes, before or after tea, and see the sun go down at the far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one of Alice's haunts. She missed her there and the thought went keenly home that there she would come with her no more. She sat down on the stone which she called her own and leaning her head on Alice's which was close by, she wept bitterly. Yet not very long, she was too tired and subdued for bitter weeping. She raised her head again and wiping away her tears, looked abroad over the beautiful landscape, never more beautiful than then. The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. The sides and tops of the hills looking towards the east were bright with the cool brightness of the morning. Beyond and between them deep shadows lay. The sun could not yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen sat, nor at the long reach of ground at screen from his view, stretching from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley. But to the left between that and the cat's back, the rays of the sun streamed through, touching the houses of the village, showing the lake and making every tree and barn and clump of wood in the distance, stand out in bright relief. Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a warm day was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of yesterday. Now the air was fresh with a dew and sweet from hayfield and meadow and the birds were singing merrily all around. There was no answering echo in the little human heart that looked and listened. Ellen loved all things too well not to notice them even now. She felt their full beauty but she felt it sadly. She will look at it no more, she said to herself. But instantly came an answer to her thought. Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. The sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself. For the Lord shall be then everlasting light and the days of thy morning shall be ended. She is there now, thought Ellen. She is happy. Why should I be sorry for her? I am not, but oh, I must be sorry for myself. Oh, Alice, dear Alice. She wept, but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with which she was so familiar. The days of thy morning shall be ended. And again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for herself, can I not trust him with whom she trusted, she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down into the brightening valley or off to the hills that stretched away on either hand of it. Went up through the still air, the sound of the little Kara-Kara church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then stopped. It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for at that time of day. But she went back to her musings and had entirely forgotten it. Went again, clear and full through the stillness. The sound came peeling up. One, two, Ellen knew now. It went through her very heart. It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasion of the death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention. These are followed after a little pause, by a single one, if the knell is for a man or two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then follows the number of the years the person has lived, told in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing once more, the tolling begins and is kept up for some time. The strokes following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die quite away before another breaks upon the ear. Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given out, and that was long ago. The bell cannot be heard at Miss Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly told out, every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap and tried to keep from counting, but she could not, and as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her when the sound ceased. Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not trust its higher tones. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hill, from whence cometh my help. How differently that sound struck upon Ellen's ear. With an indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she slowly rose from her seat and put both her arms round the speaker's neck. Neither said a word, but to Ellen the arm that held her was more than all words. It was the dividing line between her and the world. On this side everything, on that side nothing. No word was spoken for many minutes. My dear Ellen said her brother softly. How came you here? I don't know, whispered Ellen. There was nobody there. I couldn't stay in the house. Shall we go home now? Oh yes, whenever you please. But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head. She still stood with her arm upon her brother's shoulder. The eyes of both were on the scene before them. The thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again. Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love in this world. That is his meaning. Let sorrow but bring us closer to him. Dear Alice as well, she as well. And if we are made to suffer, we know and we love the hand that has done it. Do we not, Ellen? Ellen put her hand to her face. She thought her heart would break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him and still keeping his arm round her. Slowly and soothingly went on. Think that she is happy. Think that she is safe. Think that she is with that blessed one whose face we seek at distance, satisfied with his likeness, instead of weirdly struggling with sin. Think that sweetly and easily she has got home. And it is our home too. We must weep because we are left alone. But for her I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped, but she still kept her hands to her face. Shall we go home, Ellie said her brother, after another silence. She rose up instantly and said, yes. But he held her still and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of endearment, which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand, they went down the mountain together. End of chapter 42. Chapter 43 of the wide, wide world. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. The wide, wide world by Susan Warner. Chapter 43, those that were left. The whole Marshman family arrived today from Vettnor, some to see Ellis's loved remains and all to follow them to the grave. The parsonage could not hold so many. The two Mr. Marshmans, therefore, with Major and Mrs. Glebsby, made to their quarters at Thirlwall. Marjorie's hands were full enough with those that were left. In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the room, the room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the sweet face she loved so dearly when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. Voss came up for the same purpose. All three stood some time in silence. The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. Upon the pillow and upon and about the hands, which were on the breast, were scattered some of the rich, late roses. Roses and rose buds strewn with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A single stem of the white lilies lay on the side of the bed. The rest of the flowers, a large quantity, covered the feet, seeming to have been flung there without any attempt at arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with exquisite taste and feeling. Besides the roses, there were none that were not either white or distinguished for their fragrance. The delicate white verbena, the pure fever-few, mignonette, sweet geranium, white myrtle, the rich scented heliotrope were mingled with the late blossoming damask and purple roses. No yellow flowers, no purple, except those mentioned. Even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left out by the nice hand that had called them. But the arranging of these beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted. Then, indeed, it might be questioned whether the finest heart could have bettered the effect of what the overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs. Chauncey, however, after a while, began slowly to take a flower or two from the foot and place them on other parts of the bed. Well, Mrs. Chauncey pardoned my being so bold, said Marjorie, then, who had looked down with no pleasure while this was doing. But if she had seen when those flowers had been put there, it wouldn't be her wish. I'm sure it wouldn't be her wish to stir one of them. Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew back. Why, who put them there, she asked. Miss Ellen, ma'am. Where is Ellen? I think she is sleeping, ma'am. Poor child, she's the most worried of us all, with sorrow and watching, said Marjorie, weeping. You saw her bring them up, did you? I saw her, ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live? Why, said Mrs. Chauncey gently, it's a thing one should have seen, ma'am, to understand. I don't know as I can tell it well. Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish, Marjorie went on half under her breath. Why, ma'am, the way it was, I had come up to get some linen out of the closet, for I had watched my time. Mrs. Chauncey sees I was afeard of finding Mr. John here, and I knew he was lying down just then, so. Lying down was, he said, Mrs. Voss. I did not know he had taken any rest today. It was very little he took, ma'am, indeed. Though there was need enough, I am sure. He had been up with his father the live-long blessed night, and then the first thing this morning he was away after Miss Ellen, poor child, wherever she had be taken herself to. I happened to see her before anybody was out, going round the corner of the house, and so I knew when he asked me for her. Was she going after flowers then, said Mrs. Chauncey? Oh, no, ma'am, it was a long time after. It was this morning sometime.  When somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I had come for, and leaving what I should have been doing, I was standing there, looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to see in death, and I had entirely forgotten what I was there for, ma'am, when I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming softly upstairs. I didn't want her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me, back in the closet where I was. But I had like to have got the better of me entirely, ma'am, when I see her come in with a lap full of them flowers, and looking so as she did too. But with much trouble I kept quiet.  It's the hardest thing to see a child's face look so, and the flowers all gathered up in her frock. It was odd to see her. She didn't cry. Not at all. Only once I saw her brow wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, before she put her hand up to her face and held it a little, and then she began to take out the flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose here and a rose bud there and so, and then she went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and two or three more roses on the pillow. But I could see all the while it was getting too much for her. I see very soon she wouldn't get through. She just placed two or three more, and one rose there in the hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her face. She turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed all the flowers out of her frock on the bedfoot there, that's just as they fell, and down she went on her knees, and her face and her hands on the side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen, said Marjorie Weeping. I couldn't do anything, but look at that child kneeling there and her flowers, and all beside her she used to call her sister, and that couldn't be a sister to her no more, and she's without a sister now, to be sure, poor child. She has a brother unless I am mistaken, said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak, and that's just what I was trying to tell you, ma'am. She had been there five or ten minutes without moving or more. I'm sure I don't know how long it was. I didn't think how time went. When the first thing I knew, I heard another step, and Mr. John came in. I thought and expected he was taking some sleep, but I suppose, said Marjorie Sying, he couldn't rest. I knew his step and just drew myself back further. He came just where you are, ma'am, and stood with his arms folded a long time, looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear him come in, but, however, she didn't, and they were both as still as death, one on one side, and the other on the other side, and I wondered he didn't see her, but her white dress and all, and I suppose he had no thought but for one thing. I knew the first minute he did see her when he looked over and spied her on the other side of the bed. I see his color change, and then his mouth took the look it always did whenever he sets himself to do anything. He stood a minute, and then he went round, and knelt down beside her, and softly took away one of her hands from under her face, and held it in both of his own. And then he made such a prayer. Oh, said Marjorie, her tears falling fast at the recollection. I never heard the like, I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Ellis, and he had reason enough to be sure, and for himself and Miss Ellen. I wondered to hear him, and he prayed for them too, and others, and oh, I thought I couldn't stand and hear him, and I was a fear to breathe the whole time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beautifulest prayer I did ever hear. And how did Ellen behave, said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak. She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound till he had done, and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. John put the rest of the flowers up there round her hands in the pillow. Miss Ellen hadn't put more than a half a dozen. I noticed how he kept hold of Miss Ellen's hand all the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't finish the flowers. And he told her, I saw it all, Ellie, he said. And he said, it didn't want finishing. I wondered how he should see it, but I suppose he did, however. I understood it very well. They went away downstairs after that. He has beautifully changed, said Mrs. Voss. I don't know, ma'am, said Marjorie. I've heard that said afore, but I can't say as I ever could see it. He always was the same to me. Always the honorableest, truest, noblest. My husband says he was a bit fiery, but I never could tell that the one temper was sweeter than the other. Only everybody always did what Mr. John wanted, to be sure, but he was the perfectest gentleman always. I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came, said Mrs. Chauncey. No, ma'am, said Marjorie. They were out reading under the trees for a long time. And Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way a little while ago and went to lie down. How is Mr. Humphries? Oh, I can't tell you, ma'am. He is worse than anyone knows of. I am afraid, unless Mr. John. You will not see him, ma'am. He has not been here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will go hard with my poor master. I am afraid, said Marjorie, weeping. Dear Miss Ella, said Miss Ellen was to take her place, but it would want an angel to do that. Ellen will do a great deal, said Mrs. Voss. Mr. Humphries loves her well now, I am sure. So do I, ma'am. I am sure, and so does everyone, but still. Marjorie broke off her sentence and sorrowfully went downstairs. Mrs. Chauncey moved no more flowers. Late in the afternoon of the next day, Marjorie came softly into Ellen's room. Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you? Yes, Marjorie, said Ellen, sitting up in bed. Come in, what is it? I came to ask Miss Ellen if she could do me a great favor. There's a strange gentleman come and nobody has seen him yet, and it don't seem right. He has been here this some time. Have you told Mr. John? No, Miss Ellen, he's in the library with my master and somehow I durson't go to the door. May have they wouldn't be best pleased. Would Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentleman's being here? Ellen would find it very much. There was no doubt of that. Marjorie could hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon herself. She did not say so. You are sure he is there, Marjorie? I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you, but if you wouldn't mind, I'm ashamed to have the gentleman left to himself so long. I'll do it, Marjorie.  On the way, she almost repented her willingness to oblige Marjorie. The errand was marvelously disagreeable to her. She had never gone to that room except with Alice, never entered it uninvited. She could hardly make up her mind to knock at the door, but she had promised, it must be done. The first fearful tap was too light to arouse any mortal ears. At the second, though not much better, she heard someone move, and John opened the door. Without waiting to hear her speak, he immediately drew her in, very unwillingly on her part, and led her silently up to his father. The old gentleman was sitting in his great study chair, with the book open at his side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his, and held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared to not raise her eyes. My little girl said he, very gravely, though not without a tone of kindness too.  Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word. It was impossible. She suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand that lay on the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon her head. God bless you, said he, abundantly, for all the love you showed her. Come, if you will, and be, as far as a withered heart will let you, all that she wished. All is yours, except what will be buried with her. Ellen was awed and pained very much, not because the words in manner were sad and solemn. It was the tone that distressed her. There was no tearfulness in it. It trembled a little. It seemed to come indeed from a withered heart. She shook with the effort she made to control herself. John asked her presently what she had come for. A gentleman said, Ellen, there's a gentleman, a stranger. He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. Ellen did not know whether to go to or stay. She thought from his not taking her with him, he wished her to stay. She stood doubtfully. Presently she heard steps coming back along the hall, steps of two persons. The door opened, and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen. She knew him in a moment. It was her old friend, her friend of the boat, Mr. George Marshman. Mr. Humphries rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook hands in silence. Ellen at first had shrunk out of the way to the other side of the room, and now when she saw her opportunity, she was going to make her escape. But John gently detained her, and she stood still by his side, though with a kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or time for her old friend to recognize her. He was sitting by Mr. Humphries, and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought nothing of what they were saying. With her eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr. Marshman, she was reading memory's long story over again. The same pleasant look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort her in her first sorrow. The old way of speaking, and even of moving an arm or hand, the familiar figure and face, how they took Ellen's thoughts back to the deck of that steamboat, the hymns, the talks, the love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and eventually to do her duty. It was all present again, and Ellen gazed at him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for the moment everything else. The same love and kindness were endeavoring now to say something for Mr. Humphries' relief. It was a hard task. The old gentleman heard and answered, for the most part briefly, but so as to show that his friend labored in vain. The bitterness and hardness of grief were unallied yet. It was not till John made some slight remark that Mr. Marshman turned his head that way. He looked for a moment in some surprise, and then said, his countenance lightening, is that Ellen Montgomery? Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched hand, but as she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the old look, the thought of which she had treasured up for years. It was too much. Back as in a flood to her heart, seemed to come at once all the thoughts and feelings of the time since then. The difference of this meeting from the joyful one she had so often pictured to herself, the sorrow of that time mixed with the sorrow of now, and the sense that the very hand that had wiped those first tears away was the one now laid in the dust by death. All thronged on her heart at once, and it was too much. She had scarce touched Mr. Marshman's hand, when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious. There was such an utter absence of all bitterness or harness in the tone of his grief, there was so touching an expression of submission mingled with it, that even Mr. Humphries was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued weeper there, not the only one whose tears came from a broken apart. For a few minutes, the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till Ellen recovered enough to make her escape, and then the color of sorrow was lightened, and one breast at least. Brother, said Mr. Humphries, I can hear you now better than I could a little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is good. Light in the darkness, I see it now. That child has given me a lesson. Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had followed her quitting the room. But she thought when John came to the tea table, he looked relieved. If his general kindness and tenderness of manner towards herself could have been greater than usual, she might have thought it was that night, but she only thought he felt better. Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a great comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with sorrow, he was able to make that effort for the good of the rest, which no one yet had been equal to. The whole family, except Mr. Humphries, were gathered together at this time, and his grave, cheerful, and unceasing kindness, made that by far the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding grateful to Ellen to see and hear him from the old remembrance as well as the present effect, and he had not forgotten his old kindness for her. She saw in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every way, and the feeling that she had got her old friend again and should never lose him, now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could possibly have done at that time. His own family too had not seen him in a long time, so his presence was a matter of general satisfaction. Later in the evening, Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, looking and listening. He was like a piece of old music to her. When John came to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to speak to her, she went with him to the other side of the room. Ellie, he said, in a low voice, I think my father would like to hear you sing a hymn. Do you think you could? Ellen looked up with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resolution in her countenance and said, yes, not if it will pain you too much, and not unless you think you can surely go through with it, Ellen, he said gently, no, said Ellen, I will try. Will it not give you too much pain? Do you think you can? No, I will try, she repeated. As she went along the hall, she said and resolved to herself that she would do it. The library was dark. Coming from the light, Ellen could at first see nothing. John placed her in a chair and went away himself to a little distance where he remained perfectly still. She covered her face with her hands for a minute and prayed for strength. She was afraid to try. Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and utterance. The latter, Ellen and part, caught from them. In the former, she thought herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she underrated herself. Her voice, though not indeed powerful, was low and sweet and very clear, and the entire simplicity and feeling with which she sang hymns was more effectual than any higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been very much accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth and simplicity of expression, listening with delight as she often had done and often joining in with her. Ellen had caught something of her manner. She thought nothing of all this now. She had a trying task to go through. Sing, then and there, and what should she sing? All that class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of their sorrow must be left on one side. She hardly dared think of them. Instinctively, she took up another class, that without bearing the wound would lay the bomb close to it. A few minutes of deep stillness were in the dark room, then very low and in tones it trembled a little, rose the words. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer's ear. It smooths his sorrows, heals his wounds, and drives away his fear. The tremble in her voice ceased and she went on. It makes the wounded spirit whole and comes the troubled breast. To his manna to the hungry soul and to the weary rest. By him my prayers acceptance gain, although with sin defiled, Satan accuses me in vain and I am owned a child. Weak is the effort of my heart and cold my warmest thought, but when I see thee as thou art, I'll praise thee as I ought. Till then I would thy love proclaim with every laboring breath and may the music of thy name refresh my soul and death. Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in the room. She thought of the hymn, loving kindness, but the tune and the spirit of the words was too lively. Her mother's favorite, Tis my happiness below. But Ellen could not venture that. She strove to forget it as fast as possible. She sang clearly and sweetly as ever now. Hark, my soul, it is the Lord. Tis thy Saviour hear his word. Jesus speaks and speaks to thee. Say, poor sinner, love is thou me. I delivered thee when bound and when bleeding healed thy wound, sought thee wandering, set thee right, turned thy darkness into light. Can the mother's tender care cease toward the child she bear? Yea, she may forgetful be, yet will I remember thee. Mine is Anne on changing love, higher than the heights above, deeper than the depths beneath, free and faithful, strong as death. Thou shalt see my glory soon when the work of life is done. Partner of my throne shall be. Say, poor sinner, love is thou me. Lord, it is my chief complaint that my love is weak and faint. Yet I love thee and adore, O for grace to love thee more. Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She hoped she was doing some good, and that hope enabled her, after the first trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She was not thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see the effect upon her auditors. Through the dark her eyes could only just discern a dark figure stretched upon the sofa and another standing by the mantelpiece. The room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The choice of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of Jerusalem, my happy home, but it would not do. She and Alice had too often sung it in strains of joy. Happily came to her mind, the beautiful, how firm a foundation ye saints of the Lord, et cetera. She went through all seven long verses. Still, when Ellen paused at the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite her to go on. She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed words had gone down into her very heart. Did they ever seem half so sweet before? She was cheered and strengthened and thought she could go through with the next hymn, though it had been much loved and often used, both by her mother and Alice. Jesus, lover of my soul, let me too that bosom fly, while the billows near me roll, while the tempest still is nigh. Hide me, O my Savior, hide, till the storm of life be passed, and safe into the haven guide, O receive my soul at last. Other refuge have I none, hangs my helpless soul on thee. Leave, ah, leave me not alone, still support and comfort me. All my trust on thee has stayed, all my help from thee I bring. Cover my defenseless head beneath the shadow of thy wing. Thou, O Christ, art all I want, more than all in thee I find. Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, heal the sick, and lead the blind.  Still silence, silence that spoke, Ellen did not know what it said, except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next was a favorite hymn of them all, what are these in Bray Array, et cetera. Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the words, for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She was feigned to make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. But in vain, the tender nerve was touched, there was no stilling at squivering. Ellen said, Mr. Humphries, then, after a few minutes. She rose and went to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast. Thank you, my child, he said presently, you have been a comfort to me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been sweeter. As Ellen went away back through the hall, her tears almost choked her. But for all that there was a strong throb of pleasure at her heart. I have been a comfort to him, she repeated. Oh, dear Alice, so I will. End of Chapter 43. Chapter 44 of the Wide, Wide World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, the Wide, Wide World by Susan Warner, Chapter 44, the little spirit that haunted the big house. The whole Marshman family returned to Ventnor immediately after the funeral. Mr. George accepted. He stayed with Mr. Humphries over the Sabbath and preached for him. And much to everyone's pleasure, lingered still a day or two longer. Then he was obliged to leave them. John also must go back to Doncaster for a few weeks. He would not be able to get home again before the early part of August. For the month between, and as much longer, indeed, as possible, Mrs. Marshman wished to have Ellen at Ventnor, assuring her that it was to be her home always whenever she chose to make it so. At first, neither Mrs. Marshman nor her daughters would take any denial. And old Mr. Marshman was fixed upon it. But Ellen begged with tears that she might stay at home and begin at once, as far as she could, to take Ellis's place. Her kind friends insisted that it would do her harm to be left alone for so long a time, at such a season. Mr. Humphries, at the best of times, kept very much to himself, and now he would more than ever. She would be very lonely. But how lonely he will be if I go away, said Ellen. I can't go. Finding that her heart was set upon it, and that it would be a real grief for her to go to Ventnor, John at last joined to excuse her. And he made an arrangement with Mrs. Voss instead, that she should come and stay with Ellen at the parsonage till he came back. This gave Ellen great satisfaction. And her kind Ventnor friends were obliged unwillingly to leave her. The first few days after John's departure were indeed said days, very said to everyone. It could not be otherwise. Ellen drooped miserably. She had, however, the best possible companion in her old Swiss friend. Her good sense, her steady cheerfulness, her firm principle, were always awake for Ellen's good, ever ready to comfort her, to cheer her, to prevent her from giving undue way to sorrow, to urge her to useful exertion. Affection and gratitude to the living and the dead gave powerful aid to these efforts. Ellen rose up in the morning and lay down at night with the present pressing wish to do and be for the ease and comfort of her adopted father and brother, all that it was possible for her. Very soon, so soon as she could rouse herself to anything, she began to turn over in her mind all manner of ways and means for this end. And in general, whatever Alice would have wished, what John did wish, was law to her. Marjorie said, Ellen, one day, I wish she would tell me all the things Alice used to do so that I may begin to do them, you know, as soon as I can. What things, Miss Ellen? I mean the things she used to do about the house or to help you, don't you know? All sorts of things. I want to know them all so that I may do them as she did. I want to very much.  I'd be sorry to see you, indeed. Why, no, I am not, Marjorie, said Ellen. Don't you know how I used to do it, Aunt Fortunes? Now tell me, please, dear Marjorie, if I can't do it, I won't, you know. Oh, Miss Ellen, she used to see to various things about the house. I don't know as I can tell them all directly. Some was to help me and some to please her father or Mr. John if he was at home. She thought of everyone before herself, sure enough. Well, what Marjorie, what are they? Tell me all you can remember. Why, Miss Ellen, for one thing, she used to go into the library every morning to put it in order and dust the books and papers and things. In fact, she took the charge of that room entirely. I never went into it at all, unless once or twice in the year, or to wash the windows. Ellen looked grave. She thought with herself there might be a difficulty in the way of her taking this part of Alice's daily duties. She did not feel that she had the freedom of the library. And then, said Marjorie, she used to skim the cream for me most mornings when I'd be busy and wash up the breakfast things. Oh, I forgot all about the breakfast things, exclaimed Ellen, how could I? I'll do them to be sure after this. I never thought of them, Marjorie, and I'll skim the cream, too. Dear Miss Ellen, I wouldn't want you to. I didn't mention it for that, but you was wishing me to tell you.  It was more the thoughtfulness that cared about me than the help of all she could do, though that wasn't a little. I'll get along well enough. But I should like to. It would make me happier. And don't you think I want to help you, too, Marjorie? The Lord blessed you, Miss Ellen, said Marjorie, in a sort of desperation, setting down one iron and taking up another. Don't talk in that way, or you'll upset me entirely. I ain't a bit better than a child, said she. Her tears falling fast on the sheet, she was hurriedly ironing. What else, dear Marjorie, said Ellen presently. Tell me what else? Well, Miss Ellen said Marjorie, dashing away the water from either eye. She used to look over the clothes when they went up from the wash and put them away, and mend them if there was any places wanted mending. I'm afraid I don't know how to manage that, said Ellen, very gravely. There is one thing I can do. I can darn stockings very nicely. But that's only one kind of mending. I don't know much about the other kinds. Ah, well, but she did, however, said Marjorie, searching in her basket of clothes for some particular pieces. A beautiful mender she was, to be sure. Look here, Miss Ellen. Just see that patch, the way it is put on. So evenly by a thread all round. And the stitches, see? And see the way this rent is darned down. Oh, that was the way she did everything. I can't do it, so said Ellen, sighing. But I can learn that I can do. You will teach me Marjorie, won't you? Indeed, Miss Ellen, dear. It's more than I can myself. But I will tell you who will, and that's Mrs. Voss. I am thinking it was her she learned of in the first place. But I ain't certain.  Then I'll get her to teach me, said Ellen, that will do very nicely. And now, Marjorie, what else? Oh, dear Miss Ellen, I don't know. There was a thousand little things that I'd only recollect at the minute. She'd set the table for me when my hands was uncommon full. And often she'd come out and make some little thing for the master when I wouldn't have the time to do the same myself. And I can't tell. One can't think of those things, but just at the minute. Dear Miss Ellen, I'd be sorry, indeed, to see you atrying your little hands to do all that she has done. Never mind, Marjorie, said Ellen. And she threw her arms around the kind old woman as she spoke. I won't trouble you, and you won't be troubled if I am awkward about anything at first, will you? Marjorie could only throw down her holder to return most affectionately, as well as respectfully Ellen's caress, and press a very hearty kiss upon her forehead. Ellen next went to Mrs. Voss to beg her help in the mending and patching-lined. Her old friend was very glad to see her take up anything with interest and readily agreed to do her best in the matter. So some old clothes were looked up, pieces of linen, cotton, and flannel gathered together, a large basket found to hold all these rags of shape and no shape, and for the next week or two, Ellen was indy-fatigable. She would sit making vein endeavors to arrange a large linen patch properly, till her cheeks were burning with excitement, and vent over a darn, doing her best to make invisible stitches. Till Mrs. Voss was obliged to assure her, it was quite unnecessary to take so much pains. Taking pains, however, is the sure way to success. Ellen could not rest satisfied till she had equaled Alice's patching and darning. And though when Mrs. Voss left her, she had not quite reached that point, she was bidding fair to do so in a little while. In other things, she was more at home. She could skim milk well enough, and immediately began to do it for Marjorie. She at once also took upon herself the care of the parlor cupboard, and all the things in it, which she well knew had been Alice's office. And thanks to Miss Fortune's training, even Marjorie was quite satisfied with her knee and orderly manner of doing it. Ellen begged her when the clothes came up from the wash to show her where everything went, so that for the future, she might be able to put them away. And she studied the shelves of the linen closet and the chest of drawers in Mr. Humphrey's room, till she almost knew them by heart. As to the library, she dared not venture. She saw Mr. Humphrey's at meals and at prayers, only then. He had never asked her to come into his study since the night she sang to him. And as for her asking, nothing could have been more impossible. Even when he was out of the house, out by the hour, Ellen never thought of going, where she had not been expressly permitted to go. When Mr. Van Brunt informed his wife of Ellen's purpose to desert her service and make her future home at the parsonage, the lady's astonishment was only less than her indignation. The latter not at all lessened by learning that Ellen was to become the adapted child of the house. For a while, her words of displeasure were poured forth in a torrent. Mr. Van Brunt, meantime, sang very little and standing by like a steadfast rock that the waves dashed past, not upon. She declared this was the cap-chief of Miss Humphrey's doings. She might have been wise enough to have expected as much. She wouldn't have been such a fool if she had. This was what she had let Ellen go there for, a pretty return, but she went on. She wondered who they thought they had to deal with. Did they think she was going to let Ellen go in that way? She had the first and only right to her and Ellen had no more business to go and give herself away than one of her oxen. They would find it out, she guessed pretty quick. Mr. John and all, she'd have her back in no time. What were her thoughts and feelings when, after having spent her breath, she found her husband quietly opposed to this conclusion? Words cannot tell. Her words cannot.  And then, appalled by the serenity of his manner, she left indignation on one side for the present and began to argue the matter. But Mr. Van Brunt coolly said he had promised. She might get as many help as she liked. He would pay for them and welcome, but Ellen would have to stay where she was. He had promised Miss Alice, and he wouldn't break his word, for king, lords, and commons. A most extraordinary expletive for a good Republican, which Mr. Van Brunt had probably inherited from his father and grandfather. What can waves do against a rock? Miss Fortune disdained a struggle, which must end in her own confusion and wisely kept her chagrin to herself, never even approaching the subject afterwards, with him or any other person. Ellen had left the whole matter to Mr. Van Brunt, expecting a storm and not wishing to share it. Happily, it all blew over. As the month drew to an end, and indeed long before, Ellen's thoughts began to go forward eagerly to John coming home. She had learned by this time how to mend clothes. She had grown somewhat wanted to her new round of little household duties, and everything else the want of him was felt. Study flagged, though, knowing what his wish would be, and what her duty was, she faithfully tried to go on with it. She had no heart for riding or walking by herself. She was lonely. She was sorrowful. She was weary. All Mrs. Voss's pleasant society was not worth the mere knowledge that he was in the house. She longed for his coming. He had written what day they might expect him, but when it came, Ellen found that her feeling had changed. It did not look the bright day she had expected it would. Up to that time she had thought only of herself. Now she remembered what sort of a coming home this must be to him, and she dreaded almost as much as she wished for the moment of his arrival. Mrs. Voss was surprised to see that her face was sadder that day than it had been for many past. She could not understand it. Ellen did not explain. It was late in the day before he reached home, and her anxious watch of hope and fear for the sound of his horse's feet grew very painful. She busied herself with setting the tea-table. It was all done, and she could by no means do anything else. She could not go to the door to listen there. She remembered too well the last time, and she knew he would remember it. He came at last. Ellen's feeling had judged rightly of his, for the greeting was without a word on either side, and when he left the room to go to his father, it was very, very long before he came back, and it seemed to Ellen for several days that he was more grave and talked less than even the last time he had been at home. She was sorry when Mrs. Voss proposed to leave them. But the old lady wisely said they would all feel better when she was gone, and it was so. Truly, as she was respected and esteemed on all sides, it was felt a relief by every one of the family when she went back to her mountaintop. They were left to themselves. They saw what their numbers were. There was no restraint upon looks, words, or silence. Ellen saw it once that the gentleman felt easier. That was enough to make her so. The extreme oppression that had grieved and disappointed her for the first few days after John's return gave place to a softened gravity, and the household fell again into its old ways, only that upon every brow there was a chastened air of sorrow and everything that was said a tone of remembrance, and that a little figure was going about where Alice is used to move as mistress of the house. Thanks to her brother, that little figure was an exceeding busy one. She had in the first place her household duties, and discharging which she was perfectly untiring. From the cream skimmed for marjorie, and the cups of coffee poured out every morning for Mr. Humphreys and her brother, to the famous mending, which took up often one half of Saturday. Whatever she did was done with her best diligence and care, and from love to both the dead and the living. Ellen Zeal never slackened. These things, however, filled but a small part of her time, let her be as particular as she would, and Mr. John effectually hindered her from being too particular. He soon found a plenty for both her and himself to do. Not that they ever forgot or tried to forget Alice. On the contrary, they sought to remember her, humbly, calmly, hopefully, thankfully, by diligent performance of duty, by Christian faith, by conversation and prayer. They strove to do this, and after a time succeeded. Sober that winter was, but it was very far from being an unhappy one. John said, Ellen, one day, sometime after Mrs. Voss had left them, do you think Mr. Humphries would let me go into his study every day when he is out to put it in order and desk the books? Certainly, but why does not Marjorie do it? She does, I believe, but she never used to, and I should like to do it very much if I was sure he would not dislike it. I would be careful not to disturb anything. I would leave everything just as I found it. You may go when you please and do what you please there, Ellie. But I don't like to. I couldn't without speaking to him first. I should be afraid he might come back and find me there, and he would think I hadn't had leave. And you wish me to speak to him? Is that it? Can you not muster resolution enough for that, Ellie? Ellen was satisfied, for she knew by his tone, he would do what she wanted. Father said, John, the next morning at breakfast, Ellen wishes to take upon herself the daily care of your study, but she is afraid to venture there without being assured it will please you to see her there. The old gentleman laid his hand affectionately on Ellen's head and told her she was welcome to come and go when she would. The whole house was hers. The grave kindness and tenderness of the tone and action spoiled Ellen's breakfast. She could not look at anybody, nor hold up her head for the rest of the time. As Ellis had anticipated, her brother was called to take the charge of a church at Randolph, and at the same time, another more distant was offered to him. He refused them both, rightly judging that his place for the present was at home. But the call from Randolph being pressed upon him very much, he at length agreed to preach for them during the winter, writing thither for the purpose every Saturday and returning to Cara Cara on Monday. As the winter wore on, a grave cheerfulness stole over the household. Ellen little thought how much she had to do with it. She never heard Marjorie tell her husband, which she often did with great affection, that that blessed child was the light of the house, and those who felt it the most said nothing. Ellen was sure indeed from the way in which Mr. Humphrey spoke to her, looked at her, now and then laid his hand on her head, and sometimes very rarely kissed her forehead, that he loved her and loved to see her about, and that her wish of supplying Alice's place was in some little measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks were, they said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from other people. The least of them gladdened her heart with the feeling that she was a comfort to him. But she never knew how much. Deepest the gloom still over him was, Ellen never dreamed how much deeper it would have been but for the little figure flitting round and filling up the vacancy. How much he reposed on the gentle look of affection, the pleasant voice, the watchful thoughtfulness than ever left anything undone that she could do for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it himself. She was not sure he even noticed many of the little things she daily did or tried to do for him. Always silent and reserved. He was more so now than ever. She saw him little and very seldom long at a time, unless when they were riding to church together. He was always in his study or abroad. But the trifles she thought he did not see were noted and registered and repaid with all the affection he had to give. As for Mr. John, it never came into Ellen's head to think whether she was a comfort to him. He was a comfort to her. She looked at it in quite another point of view. He had gone to his old sleeping-room upstairs, which Marjorie had settled with herself he would make his study, and for that he had taken the sitting-room. This was Ellen's study too, so she was constantly with him. And of the quietest she thought her movements would have to be. What are you stepping so softly for, said he one day, catching her hand as she was passing near him? You were busy. I thought you were busy, said Ellen. And what then? I was afraid of disturbing you. You never disturb me, said he. You need not fear it. Step as you please, and do not shut the doors carefully. I see you and hear you, but without any disturbance. Ellen found it was so. But she was an exception to the general rule. Other people disturbed him, as she had won her two occasions of knowing. Of one thing she was perfectly sure, whatever he might be doing, that he saw and heard her, and equally sure, that if anything were not right, she should sooner or later hear of it. But this was a censorship Ellen rather loved than feared. In the first place, she was never misunderstood. In the second, however ironical and severe he might be to others, and Ellen knew he could be both when there was occasion. He was never either to her. With great plainness always, but with an equally happy choice of time and manner, he either said or looked what he wished her to understand. This happened indeed, only about comparative trifles. To have seriously displeased him, Ellen would have thought the last great evil that could fall upon her in the world. One day Marjorie came into the room with a paper in her hand. Miss Ellen said she in a low tone. Here is Anthony Fox again. He has brought another of his curious letters, that he wants to know if Miss Ellen will be so good as to write out for him once. He says he has a shame to trouble you so much. Ellen was reading, comfortably ensconced in the corner of the wide sofa. She gave a glance, a most ungratified one, at the very original document in Marjorie's hand, unpromising it certainly looked. Another, dear me, I wonder if there isn't somebody else he could get to do it for him, Marjorie. I think I have had my share. You don't know what a piece of work it is to copy out one of those scrolls. It takes me ever so long in the first place to find out what he has written, and then to put it so that anyone else can make sense of it. I've got about enough of it. Don't you suppose he could find plenty of other people to do it for him? I don't know, Miss Ellen, I suppose he could. Then ask him do, won't you, Marjorie? I am so tired of it. And this is the third one, and I've got something else to do. Ask him if there isn't somebody else he can get to do it. If there isn't, I will. Tell him I am busy. Marjorie withdrew, and Ellen buried herself again in her book. Anthony Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a letter Ellen had once offered to write out and make straight for him, upon hearing Marjorie tell of his lamenting that he could not make one fit to send home to his mother. Presently Marjorie came in again, stepping this time at the table, which Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room to get away from the fire. I beg your pardon, sir, she said. I am ashamed to be so troublesome, but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has begged me, and I didn't know how to refuse him to come in and ask for a sheet of paper and a pen for him, sir. He wants to copy a letter. If Mr. John would be so good, a quill pen, sir, if you please, he cannot write with any other. No, sir, John Cooley, Ellen will do it. Marjorie looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but Ellen instantly rose up and with a burning cheek came forward and took the paper from the hand where Marjorie still held it. Ask him to wait a little while, Marjorie, she said hurriedly. I'll do it as soon as I can. Tell him in a half an hour. It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it patiently and finished it well by the end of the half hour, though with a burning cheek still and a dimness over her eyes, frequently obliged her to stop till she could clear them. It was done and she carried it out to the kitchen herself. The poor man's thanks were very warm, but that was not what Ellen wanted. She could not rest till she had got another word from her brother. He was busy. She dared not speak to him. She sat fidgeting and uneasy in the corner of the sofa till it was time to get ready for riding. She had plenty of time to make up her mind about the right and the wrong of her own conduct. During the ride he was just as usual and she began to think he did not mean to say anything more on the matter. Pleasant talk and pleasant exercise had almost driven it out of her head. When as they were walking their horses over a level place he began, by the by you are too busy, Ellie, said he. Which of your studies shall we cut off? Please, Mr. John said Ellen blushing. Don't say anything about that. I was not studying at all. I was just amusing myself for the book. I was only selfish and lazy.  Ellen's eyes filled. I was wrong, she said. I knew it at the time, at least as soon as you spoke I knew it and a little before. I was very wrong. And his keen eye saw that the confession was not out of compliment to him merely. It came from the heart. You are right now, he said, smiling. But how are your reigns? Ellen's heart was at rest again. Oh, I forgot them, said she gaily. I was thinking of something else. You must not talk when you were riding unless you can contrive to manage two things at once and no more lose command of your horse than you would of yourself. Ellen's eyes met his with all the contrition, affection and ingenuousness that even he wished to see there and they put their horses to the canter. This winter was in many ways a very precious one to Ellen. French gave her now no trouble. She was a clever arithmetician. She knew geography admirably and was tolerably at home in both English and American history. The way was cleared for the course of improvement in which her brother's hand led and helped her. He put her into Latin, carried on the study of natural philosophy they had begun the year before and which with his instructions was perfectly delightful to Ellen. He gave her some works of stronger reading than she had yet tried, besides histories in French and English and higher branches of arithmetic. These things were not crowded together so as to fatigue nor hurried through so as to overload. Carefully and thoroughly she was obliged to put her mind through every subject they entered upon and just at that age opening as her understanding was it grappled eagerly with all that he gave her as well from love to learning as from love to him. In reading two she began to take new and strong delight especially two or three new English periodicals which John sent for on purpose for her. More minds of pleasure to Ellen. There was no fiction in them either. They were as full of instruction as of interest at all times of the day and night and her intervals of busyness. Ellen might be seen with one of these in her hand nestled among the cushions of the sofa or on a little bench by the side of the fireplace in the twilight where she could have the benefit of the blaze which she loved to read by as well as ever. Sorrowful remembrances were then flown. All things present were out of view and Ellen's face was dreamingly happy. It was well there was always somebody by who whatever he might himself be doing never lost sight of her. If ever Ellen was in danger of bending too long over her studies or indulging herself too much in the sofa corner she was sure to be broken off to take an hour or two of smart exercise riding or walking or to recite some lesson and the recitations were very lively things or to read aloud or to talk. Sometimes if he saw that she seemed to be drooping or a little sad he would come and sit down by her side or call her to his find out what she was thinking about and then instead of slurring it over talk of it fairly and set it before her in such a light that it was impossible to think of it again gloomily for that day at least. Sometimes he took other ways but never when he was present allowed her long to look weary or sorrowful. He often read to her and every day made her read aloud to him. This Ellen disliked very much at first and ended with as much liking it. She had an admirable teacher. He taught her how to manage her voice and how to manage the language and both which he excelled himself and was determined that she should and besides this the reading often led to talking that Ellen delighted in always when he was making copies for her she read to him and once at any rate in the course of the day. Every day when the weather would permit the black prince and the brownie with their respective riders might be seen abroad in the country far and wide and the course of their rides Ellen's horsemanship was diligently perfected. Very often their turning place was on the top of the cat's back and the horses had a rest and Mrs. Voss had a visit before they went down again. They had long walks too by hill and dale pleasantly silent or pleasantly talkative all pleasant to Ellen. Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to Randolph. It began early Saturday morning and perhaps ended with Sunday night for all Monday was hope and expectation. Even Saturday she had not much time to mope that was the day for her great week's mending. When John was gone and her morning fairs were out of the way Ellen brought out her work basket and established her on the sofa for a quiet day's sewing without the least fear of interruption. But sewing did not always hinder thinking and then certainly the room did seem very empty and very still and the clock which they never heard the rest of the week kept ticking an ungracious reminder that she was alone.  Isn't there something I can do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your being here all by yourself. Oh, never mind Marjory said Ellen smiling. I am doing very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here Marjory, how will that do? Don't you think I am learning how to mend? It's beautiful Miss Ellen. I can't make out how you've learned so quick. I'll tell Mr. John sometime who does these things for him. No indeed Marjory, don't you? Please not Marjory. I like to do it very much indeed but I don't want he should know it nor Mr. Humphries. Now you won't Marjory will you? Miss Ellen dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as would be worrisome to you for the whole world. Aren't you tired sitting here all alone? Oh, sometimes a little said Ellen sighing. I can't help that you know. I feel it even out there in the kitchen said Marjory. I feel it lonesome hearing the house so still. I miss the want of Mr. John's step up and down the room. How fond he is of walking so to be sure. How do you manage Miss Ellen with him making his study here? Don't you have to keep uncommon quiet? No said Ellen, no quieter than I like. I do just as I have a mind to. I thought to be sure said Marjory, he would have taken upstairs for his study or the next room, one or two other. He used to be mighty particular in old times. He didn't like to have anybody round when he was busy. But I am glad he has altered. However, it is better for you Miss Ellen dear. Though I didn't know how you was ever going to make out at first. Ellen thought for a minute when Marjory was gone. Whether it could be that John was putting a force upon his liking for her sake, bearing her presence when he would rather have been without it. But she thought of it only a minute. She was sure when she recollected herself that however it happened, she was no hindrance to him in any kind of work. That she went out and came in and as he had said, he saw and heard her without any disturbance. Besides, he had said so and that was enough. Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in her books. But when Sunday morning came with its calmness and brightness, when the busyness of the week was put away and quietness, abroad and at home, invited to recollection, then Ellen's thoughts went back to old times and then she missed the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with the day. She missed her in the morning when the early sun streamed in through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast table where John was not to take her place. On the ride to church where Mr. Humphreys was now her silent companion and every tree in the road and every opening in the landscape seemed to call for Alice to see it with her. Very much she missed her in church, the empty seat beside her, the unused hymn book on the shelf, the want of her sweet voice in the singing. Oh, how it went to Ellen's heart and Mr. Humphreys grave, steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind. She saw it was in his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were bitterly sad. Her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they could unseen. Times often to this feeling. While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the village beyond, Ellen stayed at Cara Cara and tried to teach a Sunday school. She determined as far as she could to supply beyond the home circle the loss that was not felt only there. She was able, however, to gather together but her own four children whom she had constantly taught from the beginning and two others. The rest were scattered. After her lunch, which having no companion but marjorie was now a short one, Ellen went next to the two old woman that Alice had been accustomed to attend for the purpose of reading and what Ellen called preaching. These poor old people had sadly lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place they never expected to see supplied in this world and whose kindness had constantly sweetened their lives with one great pleasure a week. Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon herself as to try to do for them what Alice had done. However, she resolved and at the very first attempt, their gratitude and joy far overpaid her for the effort she had made. The practice and the motive she had soon enabled Ellen to remember and repeat faithfully the greater part of Mr. Humphrey's morning sermon. Reading the Bible to Mrs. Blackson was easy. She had often done that and to repair the loss of Alice's pleasant comments and explanations, she be thought her of her pilgrims' progress. To her delight, the old woman heard it greedily and seemed to take great comfort in it often referring to what Ellen had read before and begging to hear such a piece over again. Ellen generally went home pretty thoroughly tired, yet feeling happy, the pleasure of doing good still far overbalanced the pains. Sunday evening was another lonely time. Ellen spent it as best she could, sometimes with her Bible and prayer and then she ceased to be lonely, sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts that had sprung up out of the employments of the morning that she could not be sorrowful, sometimes she could not help being both. In any case, she was very apt when the darkness fell to take to singing hymns and it grew to be a habit with Mr. Humphries when he heard her to come out of his study and lie down upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room but that of the fire. Ellen was never better pleased than when her Sunday evenings were spent so. She sung with wonderful pleasure when she sang for him and she made it her business to fill her memory with all the beautiful hymns she ever knew or could find or that he liked particularly. With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came the thought, John will be at home today. That was enough to carry Ellen pleasantly through whatever the day might bring. She generally kept her mending of stockings for Monday morning because with that thought in her head she did not mind anything. She had no visits from our jury on Monday but Ellen sang over her work, spring about with happy energy and studied her hardest. For John and what he expected her to do made no calculations for work of which he knew nothing. He was never at home till late in the day and when Ellen had done all she had to do and set the supper table with punctilious care and a face of busy happiness it would have been a pleasure to see if there had been anyone to look at it. She would take what happened to be the favorite book and plant herself near the glass door like a very epicure to enjoy both the present and the future at once. Even then the present often made her forget the future. She would be lost in her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India or fighting Nelson's battles over again and the first news she would have of what she had set herself there to watch for would be the click of the door lock or a tap on the glass for the horse was almost always left at the further door. Back then she came from India or the Nile. Down went the book. Ellen had no more thought but for what was before her. For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative or a thoughtful mood. Whether he spoke to her and looked at her or not it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there.  End of chapter forty-four.