higher, till Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. De
Courcy assured him that his daughter had been taught by a very
accomplished rider, and there was little or nothing left for
him to do; "il n'y pouvoit plus;" but he should be very happy
to have her come there to practise, and show an example to his
pupils.

The very bright colour in Ellen's face as she heard this might
have been mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity: it was
nothing less. Not one word of this praise did she take to
herself, nor had she sought for herself; it was all for
somebody else; and perhaps so Lady Keith understood it, for
she looked rather discomfited. But Mr. Lindsay was exceedingly
pleased, and promised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather
came she'd have a horse, and rides to her heart's content.

CHAPTER L.

Trials without.

Ellen might now have been in some danger of being spoiled
not, indeed, with over-indulgence, for that was not the temper
of the family  but from finding herself a person of so much
consequence. She could not but feel that in the minds of every
one of her three friends she was the object of greatest
importance; their thoughts and care were principally occupied
with her. Even Lady Keith was perpetually watching,
superintending, and admonishing; though she every now and then
remarked, with a kind of surprise, that "really she scarcely
ever had to say anything to Ellen; she thought she must know
things by instinct." To Mr. Lindsay and his mother she was the
idol of life; and except when by chance her will might cross
theirs, she had what she wished, and did what she pleased.

But Ellen happily had two safeguards which effectually kept
her from pride and presumption.

One was her love for her brother, and longing remembrance of
him. There was no one to take his place, not indeed in her
affections, for that would have been impossible, but in the
daily course of her life. She missed him in everything. She
had abundance of kindness and fondness shown her, but the
_sympathy_ was wanting. She was talked _to_, but not _with_. No
one now knew always what she was thinking of, nor, if they did,
would patiently draw out her thoughts, canvas them, set them
right, or show them wrong. No one now could tell what she was
_feeling_, nor had the art sweetly, in a way she scarce knew
how, to do away with sadness, or dulness, or perverseness, and
leave her spirits clear and bright as the noonday. With all
the petting and fondness she had from her new friends, Ellen
felt alone. She was petted and fondled as a darling possession
 a dear plaything  a thing to be cared for, taught,
governed, disposed of, with the greatest affection and
delight; but John's was a higher style of kindness, that
entered into all her innermost feelings and wants; and his was
a higher style of authority, too, that reached where theirs
could never attain  an authority Ellen always felt it utterly
impossible to dispute; it was sure to be exerted on the side
of what was right; and she could better have borne hard words
from Mr. Lindsay than a glance of her brother's eye. Ellen
made no objection to the imperativeness of her new guardians;
it seldom was called up so as to trouble her, and she was not
of late particularly fond of having her own way; but she
sometimes drew comparisons.

"I could not any sooner  I could not as soon  have disobeyed
John; and yet he never would have spoken to me as they do if I
had."

"Some pride perhaps?" she said, remembering Mr. Dundas's
words; "I should say a great deal, John isn't proud; and yet,
I don't know, he isn't proud as they are; I wish I knew what
kinds of pride are right and what wrong; he would tell me if
he was here."

"What are you in a 'brown study' about, Ellen?" said Mr.
Lindsay?

"I was thinking, Sir, about different kinds of pride; I wish I
knew the right from the wrong  or is there any good kind?"

"All good, Ellen, all good," said Mr. Lindsay, "provided you
do not have too much of it."

"Would you like me to be proud, Sir?"

"Yes," said he, laughing and pinching her cheek, "as proud as
you like, if you only don't let me see any of it."

Not very satisfactory; but that was the way with the few
questions of any magnitude Ellen ventured to ask; she was
kissed and laughed at, called metaphysical or philosophical,
and dismissed with no light on the subject. She sighed for her
brother. The hours with M. Muller were the best substitute she
had; they were dearly prized by her, and, to say truth, by
him. He had no family, he lived alone; and the visits of his
docile and intelligent little pupil became very pleasant
breaks in the monotony of his home life. Truly kind-hearted
and benevolent, and a true lover of knowledge, he delighted to
impart it. Ellen soon found she might ask him as many
questions as she pleased, that were at all proper to the
subject they were upon; and he, amused and interested, was
equally able and willing to answer her. Often when not
particularly busy, he allowed her hour to become two.
Excellent hours for Ellen. M. Muller had made his proposition
to Mr. Lindsay, partly from grateful regard for him, and
partly to gratify the fancy he had taken to Ellen on account
of her simplicity, intelligence, and good manners. This latter
motive did not disappoint him. He grew very much attached to
his little pupil; an attachment which Ellen faithfully
returned, both in kind, and by every trifling service that it
could fall in her way to render him. Fine flowers and fruit,
that it was her special delight to carry to M. Muller; little
jobs of copying, or setting in order some disorderly matters
in his rooms, where he soon would trust her to do anything; or
a book from her father's library; and once or twice when he
was indisposed, reading to him, as she did by the hour
patiently, matters that could neither interest nor concern
her. On the whole, and with good reason, the days when they
were to meet were hailed with as much pleasure, perhaps, by M.
Muller as by Ellen herself.

Her other safeguard was the precious hour alone, which she had
promised John never to lose when she could help it. The only
time she could have was the early morning, before the rest of
the family were up. To this hour, and it was often more than
an hour, Ellen was faithful. Her little Bible was extremely
precious now; Ellen had never gone to it with a deeper sense
of need; and never did she find more comfort in being able to
disburden her heart in prayer of its load of cares and wishes.
Never more than now had she felt the preciousness of that
Friend who draws closer to his children the closer they draw
to him; she had never realized more the joy of having him to
go to. It was her special delight to pray for those loved ones
she could do nothing else for; it was a joy to think that He
who hears prayer is equally present with all his people, and
that though thousands of miles lie between the petitioner and
the petitioned-for, the breath of prayer may span the distance
and pour blessings on the far-off head. The burden of thoughts
and affections gathered during the twenty-three hours, was
laid down in the twenty-fourth; and Ellen could meet her
friends at the breakfast-table with a sunshiny face. Little
they thought where her heart had been, or where it had got its
sunshine.

But notwithstanding this, Ellen had too much to remember and
regret, than to be otherwise than sober,  soberer than her
friends liked. They noticed with sorrow that the sunshine wore
off as the day rolled on; that though ready to smile upon
occasion, her face always settled again into a gravity they
thought altogether unsuitable. Mrs. Lindsay fancied she knew
the cause, and resolved to break it up.

From the first of Ellen's coming, her grandmother had taken
the entire charge of her toilet. Whatever Mrs. Lindsay's
notions in general might be as to the propriety of young girls
learning to take care of themselves, Ellen was much too
precious a plaything to be trusted to any other hands, even
her own. At eleven o'clock regularly every day she went to her
grandmother's dressing-room for a very elaborate bathing and
dressing; though not a very long one, for all Mrs. Lindsay's
were energetic. Now, without any hint as to the reason, she
was directed to come to her grandmother an hour before the
breakfast-time, to go through the course of cold-water,
sponging, and hair-gloving that Mrs. Lindsay was accustomed to
administer at eleven. Ellen heard in silence, and obeyed, but
made up her hour by rising earlier than usual, so as to have
it before going to her grandmother. It was a little difficult
at first, but she soon got into the habit of it, though the
mornings were dark and cold. After a while it chanced that
this came to Mrs. Lindsay's ears, and Ellen was told to come
to her as soon as she was out of bed in the morning.

"But Grandmother," said Ellen, "I am up a great while before
you; I should find you asleep; don't I come soon enough?"

"What do you get up so early for?"

"You know, Ma'am, I told you some time ago. I want some time
to myself."

"It is not good for you to be up so long before breakfast, and
in these cold mornings. Do not rise in future till I send for
you."

"But, Grandmother, that is the only time for me  there isn't
an hour after breakfast that I can have regularly to myself;
and I cannot be happy if I do not have some time."

"Let it be as I said," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Couldn't you let me come to you at eleven o'clock again,
Ma'am? do, Grandmother!"

Mrs. Lindsay touched her lips; a way of silencing her that
Ellen particularly disliked, and which both Mr. Lindsay and
his mother was accustomed to use.

She thought a great deal on the subject, and came soberly to
the conclusion that it was her duty to disobey. "I promised
John," she said to herself; "I will never break that promise!
I'll do anything rather. And besides, if I had not, it is just
as much my duty, a duty that no one here has a right to
command me against. I will do what I think right, come what
may."

She could not, without its coming to the knowledge of her
grandmother. A week or two after the former conversation, Mrs.
Lindsay made inquiries of Mason, her woman, who was obliged to
confess that Miss Ellen's light was always burning when she
went to call her.

"Ellen," said Mrs. Lindsay the same day, "have you obeyed me
in what I told you the other morning? about lying in bed till
you are sent for?"

"No, Ma'am."

"You are frank! to venture to tell me so. Why have you
disobeyed me?"

"Because, Grandmother, I thought it was right."

"You think it is right to disobey, do you?"

"Yes, Ma'am, if "

"If what?"

"I mean, Grandmother, there is One I must obey even before
you."

"If what?" repeated Mrs. Lindsay.

"Please do not ask me, Grandmother; I don't want to say that."

"Say it at once, Ellen."

"I think it is right to disobey if I am told to do what is
wrong," said Ellen, in a low voice.

"Are you to be the judge of right and wrong?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Who then?"

"The Bible."

"I do not know what is the reason," said Mrs. Lindsay, "that I
cannot be very angry with you. Ellen, I repeat the order I
gave you the other day. Promise me to obey."

"I cannot, Grandmother; I must have that hour; I cannot do
without it."

"So must I be obeyed, I assure you, Ellen. You will sleep in
my room henceforth."

Ellen heard her in despair; she did not know what to do.
_Appealing_ was not to be thought of. There was, as she said, no
time she could count upon after breakfast. During the whole
day and evening she was either busy with her studies or
masters, or in the company of her grandmother or Mr. Lindsay;
and if not there, liable to be called to them at any moment.
Her grandmother's expedient for increasing her cheerfulness
had marvellous ill success. Ellen drooped under the sense of
wrong, as well as the loss of her greatest comfort. For two
days she felt and looked forlorn; and smiling now seemed to be
a difficult matter. Mr. Lindsay happened to be remarkably busy
those two days, so that he did not notice what was going on.
At the end of them, however, in the evening, he called Ellen
to him, and whisperingly asked what was the matter.

"Nothing Sir," said Ellen, "only grandmother will not let me
do something I cannot be happy without doing."

"Is it one of the things you want to do because it is right,
whether it is convenient or not?" he asked, smiling. Ellen
could not smile.

"O, father," she whispered, putting her face close to his, "if
you would only get grandmother to let me do it!"

The words were spoken with a sob, and Mr. Lindsay felt her
warm tears upon his neck. He had, however, far too much
respect for his mother to say anything against her proceedings
while Ellen was present; he simply answered that she must do
whatever her grandmother said. But when Ellen had left the
room, which she did immediately, he took the matter up. Mrs.
Lindsay explained, and insisted that Ellen was spoiling
herself for life and the world by a set of dull religious
notions that were utterly unfit for a child; that she would
very soon get over thinking about her habit of morning prayer,
and would then do much better. Mr. Lindsay looked grave; but
with Ellen's tears yet wet upon his cheek, he could not
dismiss the matter so lightly, and persisted in desiring that
his mother should give up the point, which she utterly refused
to do.

Ellen, meanwhile, had fled to her own room. The moonlight was
quietly streaming in through the casement; it looked to her
like an old friend. She threw herself down on the floor, close
by the glass, and after some tears, which she could not help
shedding, she raised her head and looked thoughtfully out. It
was very seldom now that she had a chance of the kind; she was
rarely alone but when she was busy.

"I wonder if that same moon is this minute shining in at the
glass door at home?  no, to be sure it can't this minute
what am I thinking of?  but it was there, or will be there
let me see  east  west  it was there some time this
morning, I suppose, looking right into our sitting-room. Oh,
moon, I wish I was in your place for once, to look in there
too! But it is all empty now  there's nobody there  Mr.
Humphreys would be in his study  how lonely, how lonely he
must be! Oh, I wish I was back there with him!  John isn't
there, though  no matter, he will be  and I could do so much
for Mr. Humphreys in the meanwhile. He must miss me. I wonder
where John is  nobody writes to me; I should think some one
might; I wonder if I am ever to see them again. Oh, he will
come to see me surely before he goes home!  but then he will
have to go away without me again  I am fast now, fast enough
 but oh! am I to be separated from them for ever! Well! I
shall see them in heaven!"

It was a "well" of bitter acquiescence, and washed down with
bitter tears.

"Is it my bonny Miss Ellen?" said the voice of the
housekeeper, coming softly in; "is my bairn sitting a' her
lane i' the dark? Why are ye no wi' the rest o' the folk, Miss
Ellen?"

"I like to be alone, Mrs. Allen, and the moon shines in here
nicely."

"Greeting!" exclaimed the old lady, drawing nearer, "I ken it
by the sound of your voice; greeting eenow! Are ye no weel,
Miss Ellen? What vexes my bairn? Oh, but your father would be
vexed an he kenned it!"

"Never mind, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen; "I shall get over it
directly; don't say anything about it."

"But I'm wae to see you," said the kind old woman, stooping
down and stroking the head that again Ellen had bowed on her
knees; "will ye no tell me what vexes ye? Ye suld be as blithe
as a bird the lang day."

"I can't, Mrs. Allen, while I am away from my friends."

"Friends! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel,' Miss Ellen,
or better frinds? father and mother and a'; where wad ye find
thae that will love you mair?"

"Ah , but I haven't my brother!" sobbed Ellen.

"Your brither, Miss Ellen? An' wa's he?"

"He's everything, Mrs. Allen! he's everything! I shall never
be happy without him! never! never!"

"Hush, dear Miss Ellen! for the love of a' that's gude; dinna
talk that gate, and dinna greet sae! your father wad be sair
vexed to hear ye or to see ye."

"I cannot help it," said Ellen; "it is true."

"It may be sae; but dear Miss Ellen, dinna let it come to your
father's ken; ye're his very heart's idol; he disna merit
ought but gude frae ye."

"I know it, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen, weeping, "and so I do
love him  better than anybody in the world, except two. But
oh! I want my brother; I don't know how to be happy or good
either without him. I want him all the while."

"Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for mony
a day  will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn?"

"No, dear Mrs. Allen, I'll thank you. Did you know my mother?"

"Wha suld if I didna? she was brought up in my arms, and a
dear lassie. Ye're no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; ye're mair
bonny than her; and no a'thegither sae frack; though she was
douce and kind too."

"I wish," Ellen began, and stopped.

"My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve what disposes a' things for
us; and he isna weel pleased when His children fash themselves
wi' His dispensations. He has ta'en and placed you here for
your ain gude, I trust  I'm sure it's for the gude of us a'
and if ye haena a' things ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him!
dinna forget that, my ain bairn."

Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old
Scotch-woman, and when she left her, set herself to follow her
advice. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts, and smooth
her ruffled feelings, in using this quiet time to the best
advantage. At the end of half an hour she felt like another
creature, and began to refresh herself with softly singing
some of her old hymns.

The argument which was carried on in the parlour sunk at
length into silence without coming to any conclusion.

"Where is Miss Ellen?" Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that
came in.

"She is up in her room, Ma'am, singing."

"Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door."

"Tell her I want her."

"No  stop," said Mr. Lindsay;"I'll go myself."

Her door was a little ajar, and he softly opened it without
disturbing her. Ellen was still sitting on the floor before
the window, looking out through it, and in rather a low tone
singing the last verse of the hymn "Rock of Ages:"

"While I draw this fleeting breath
When my eyelids close in death
When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on thy throne
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"

Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door. Ellen paused a minute,
and then sung "Jerusalem my happy home." Her utterance was so
distinct that he heard every word. He did not move till she
had finished, and then he came softly in.

"Singing songs to the moon, Ellen?"

Ellen started, and got up from the floor.

"No, Sir; I was singing them to myself."

"Not entirely, for I heard the last one. Why do you make
yourself sober singing such sad things?"

"I don't, Sir; they are not sad to me  they are delightful,
I love them dearly."

"How came you to love them? It is not natural for a child of
your age. What do you love them for, my little daughter?"

"Oh, Sir, there are a great many reasons  I don't know how
many."

"I will have patience, Ellen; I want to hear them all."

"I love them because I love to think of the things the hymns
are about  I love the tunes dearly, and I like both the words
and the tunes better, I believe, because I have sung them so
often with friends."

"Humph! I guessed as much. Isn't that the strongest reason of
the three?"

"I don't know, Sir; I don't think it is."

"Is all your heart in America, Ellen, or have you any left to
bestow on us?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Not very much!"

"I love you, father," said Ellen, laying her cheek gently
alongside of his.

"And your grandmother, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, clasping his
arms around her.

"Yes, Sir."

But he well understood that the "yes" was fainter.

"And your aunt?  speak, Ellen."

"I don't love her as much as I wish I did," said Ellen; "I
love her a little, I suppose. Oh, why do you ask me such a
hard question, father?"

"That is something you have nothing to do with," said Mr.
Lindsay, half-laughing. "Sit down here," he added, placing her
on his knee, "and sing to me again."

Ellen was heartened by the tone of his voice, and pleased with
the request. She immediately sang with great spirit a little
Methodist hymn she had learned when a mere child. The wild air
and simple words singularly suited each other:

"O Canaan, bright Canaan,
I'm bound for the land of Canaan,
O Canaan! It is my happy, happy home!
I am bound for the land of Canaan."

"Does that sound sad, Sir?"

"Why yes,I think it does, rather, Ellen. Does it make you feel
merry?"

"Not merry, Sir it isn't merry; but I like it very much."

"The tune or the words?"

"Both, Sir."

"What do you mean by the land of Canaan?"

"Heaven, Sir."

"And do you like to think about that, at your age?"

"Why, certainly, Sir! Why not?"

"Why _do_ you?"

"Because it is a bright and happy place," said Ellen, gravely,
"where there is no darkness, nor sorrow, nor death, neither
pain nor crying; and my mother is there, and my dear Alice,
and my Saviour is there; and I hope I shall be there too."

"You are shedding tears now, Ellen."

"And if I am, Sir, it is not because I am unhappy. It doesn't
make me unhappy to think of these things  it makes me glad;
and the more I think of them the happier I am."

"You are a strange child. I am afraid your grandmother is
right, and that you are hurting yourself with poring over
serious matters that you are too young for."

"She would not think so if she knew," said Ellen, sighing. "I
should not be happy at all without that, and you would not
love me half so well, nor she either. Oh, father!" she
exclaimed, pressing his hand in both her own, and laying her
face upon it, "do not let me be hindered in that! forbid me
anything you please, but not that! the better I learn to
please my best Friend, the better I shall please you."

"Whom do you mean by 'your best friend?' "

"The Lord, my Redeemer."

"Where did you get these notions?" said Mr. Lindsay, after a
short pause.

"From my mother, first, Sir."

"She had none of them when I knew her."

"She had afterwards, then, Sir; and oh!"  Ellen hesitated
"I wish everybody had them too!"

"My little daughter," said Mr. Lindsay affectionately kissing
the cheeks and eyes which were moist again, "I shall indulge
you in this matter. But you must keep your brow clear, or I
shall revoke my grant. And you belong to me now; and there are
some things I want you to forget, and not remember  you
understand? Now, don't sing songs to the moon any more to-
night. Good night, my daughter."

"They think religion is a strange melancholy thing," said
Ellen to herself as she went to bed; "I must not give them
reason to think so  I must let my rushlight burn bright  I
must take care  I never had more need!"

And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her
head on the pillow.

Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let
Ellen have her way for a while, and begged that she might
return to her old room and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not
hear of it. Ellen had disobeyed her orders, she said; she must
take the consequence.

"She is a bold little hussy, to venture it," said Mr. Lindsay,
"but I do not think there is any naughtiness in her heart."

"No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only
those preposterous notions she has got from somebody or
other."

Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen
privately what she did the first thing after breakfast.

"Practise on the piano for an hour," she said.

"Couldn't you do it at any other time?"

"Yes, Sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother
likes to have me with her."

"Let it be done then, Ellen, in future."

"And what shall I do with the hour after breakfast, Sir?"

"Whatever you please," said he, smiling.

Ellen thanked him in the way she knew he best liked, and
gratefully resolved he should have as little cause as possible
to complain of her. Very little cause indeed did he or any one
else have. No fault could be found with her performance of
duty; and her cheerfulness was constant and unvarying. She
remembered her brother's recipe against loneliness, and made
use of it; she remembered Mrs. Allen's advice, and followed
it; she grasped the promises, "He that cometh to me shall
never hunger," and "Seek and ye shall find"  precious words
that never yet disappointed any one; and though tears might
often fall that nobody knew of, and she might not be so merry
as her friends would have liked to see her; though her
cheerfulness was touched with sobriety, they could not
complain, for her brow was always unruffled, her voice clear,
her smile ready.

After a while she was restored to her own sleeping room again,
and permitted to take up her former habits.

CHAPTER LI.

Trials within.

Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of
her life, Ellen's principles were still now and then severely
tried.

Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the
company of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded
Christian, a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal
sensible and respectable person; devotedly attached to the
family, and very fond of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved,
when she could, to get alone with her, and hear her talk of
her mother's young days: and she loved furthermore, and almost
as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no
one else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling
directly on those that she loved, she delighted to tell over
to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, and
felt, with them.

"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said
Lady Keith, one evening in the latter end of the winter.

"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment
any one that I think she could resemble without losing more
than she gained."

"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You
can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you
never will see with other people's eyes."

"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"

"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a
baby."

"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling: "you should ask M.
Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of
an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She
will go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her."

"Oh, yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not
wanting; that is not what I mean."

"She is perfectly lady-like always," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Yes, I know that, and perfectly child-like too."

"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay: "I have no fancy for your
grown-up little girls."

"Well," said Lady Keith, in despair, "you may like it; but I
tell you she is too much of a child, nevertheless, in other
ways. She hasn't an idea of a thousand things. It was only the
other day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, through the
streets, with a basket on her arm  some of that fruit for M.
Muller, I believe."

"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride
 but I don't know  I can't say I wish she had more of it."

"Oh, no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take
anything at all to make the tears come in her eyes; the other
day I didn't know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she
went on with a kitten, for half an hour or more. I wish you
had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over that. Now I
suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a
present of one."

"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay,
smiling, "I'll take breath and think about it."

"But she isn't like anybody else  she don't care for young
companions  she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family
unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You
know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her, I
know, every day regularly; and there are the Gordons, and
Carpenters, and Murrays, and M'Intoshes  she sees them
continually, but I don't think she takes a great deal of
pleasure in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."

"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay,
"and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of
your gigglers."

"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when
other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is
most merriment around her."

"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such
a low, sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring
of enjoyment. Yet, I must say, I think Catherine is half
right."

"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect
much."

Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door
opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.

"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay holding out his hand
"here's your aunt says you don't like anybody  how is it? are
you of an unsociable disposition?"

Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for
a much graver fault.

"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.

"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I
like a great many people very much."

"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith  "that is
what I complain of; and it's unnatural. Now there's the other
day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother,
and Miss M'Pherson and her brother  I heard you say you were
not sorry to get home. Now, where will you find pleasanter
young people?"

"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I do like them, Ma'am, tolerably."

"What does 'tolerably' mean?"

"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said
Ellen, "if they had talked about sensible things."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M.
Mullers."

"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who
seemed amused.

"About partners in dancing  at least the ladies did  and
dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and
the other one said  it wasn't very amusing to me."

Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen; how did you
like them?"

"I didn't like them particularly, Sir."

"What have you against _them_, Ellen?"

"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."

"Come, come; speak out."

"I didn't like their talking, Sir, any better than the ladies,
and besides that, I don't think they are very polite."

"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.

"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to
sit still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby
help me to mount. They took me up at M. Muller's, you know,
Sir; M. Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me."

Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister, which she rather
resented.

"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a
mere child; do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"

"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt
Keith."

But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been
before the door on horseback, and she had run out to give him
a message, his instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was
more a child then," she thought; "and he wasn't a stranger."

"Whom _do_ you like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked
extremely satisfied with the result of the examination.

"I like M. Muller, Sir."

"Nobody else?"

"Mrs. Allen."

"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.

"Have you come from her room just now?"

"Yes, Sir."

"What's your fancy for going there?"

"I like to hear her talk Sir, and to read to her; it gives her
a great deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."

"What do you talk about?"

"She talks to me about my mother "

"And you?"

"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing
colour.

"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr.
Lindsay.

In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a
remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's
hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held.

"Is this what you have been reading to her?"

Ellen bowed in answer.

"Who wrote all this?"

Before she could speak, he had turned to the front leaf, and
read, "To my little sister." He quietly put the book in his
pocket, and Ellen as quietly left the room.

"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are
quick enough when you see anything for yourself, but you never
will believe other people."

"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay; "only I will
not have her going to those old recollections she is so fond
of. I wish I could make her drink Lethe!"

"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I hardly know," said he, turning it over; "except it is from
that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency
over her  it is full of his notes  it is a religious work."

"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said
Mrs. Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it.
You can do it better than any one else; she is very fond of
you."

That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his
thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in
Ellen's room, and to certain other things; and perhaps he was
thinking that if religion had much to do with making her what
she was, it was a tree that bore good fruits.

"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes
so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit
perfectly grave when they were all laughing and talking around
her  it really looks singular  I don't like it  I presume
she would have thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the
other night I missed her from the younger part of the company,
where she should have been, and there she was in the other
room with M. Muller and somebody else,gravely listening to
their conversation!"

"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling; "and she looked
anything but dull or sober. I would rather have her gravity,
after all, Catherine, than anybody else's merriment I know."

"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time
when she should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the
letters!" said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, indeed!" said his sister; "and I have been in continual
fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen
the book."

"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I don't know where he is; but he was on this side of the
water, at the time Ellen came on; so she told me."

"I wish he was in Egypt!"

"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady
Keith, "if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield
orders, if any one asked for her, to tell _me_ immediately, and
not _her_ upon any account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I
am in hopes none will."

Mr. Lindsay arose, and walked up and down the room with folded
arms, in a very thoughtful style.

Ellen, with some difficulty, bore herself as usual throughout
the next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get
possession of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted
at. When another morning came she could stand it no longer;
she went, soon after breakfast, into Mr. Lindsay's study,
where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and, laying both
her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear

"Will you let me have my book again, father?"

A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.

"Go to the bookcases," said Mr. Lindsay, presently, "or to the
book-store, and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."

"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered
with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her
throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing.

"At any rate," whispered Ellen, after a minute, "you will not
destroy it, or do anything to it?  you will take care of it,
and let me have it again, won't you, Sir?"

"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."

Again Ellen paused, and then came round in front of him to
plead to more purpose.

"I will do anything in the world for you, Sir," she said,
earnestly, "if you will give me my book again."

"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling,
and pinching her cheek, "without that."

"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.

"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing, "and you
are mine, you must understand."

Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings
of passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last
the wave rolled too high, and broke. Clasping her hands to her
face, she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient
energy of expression, "Oh, it's not right! it's not right!"

"Go to your room, and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I
do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen."

Ellen was wretched. Not from grief at her loss merely; that
she could have borne; that had not even the greatest share in
her distress; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a
perfect turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier
days; under religion's happy reign, that had long ceased to be
true of her; it was only very rarely that she, or those around
her, were led to remember or suspect that it had once been the
case. She was surprised, and half frightened at herself now,
to find the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She
was utterly and exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay,
and with everybody and everything else; consequently,
conscience would not give her a moment's peace! and that day
was a long and bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties
were neglected, because she could not give her mind to them;
then they crowded upon her notice at undue times; all was
miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and
school herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost
treasure, passion would come flooding up, and drown all her
reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely weary.

But the day passed, and the night came, and she went to bed
without being able to make up her mind, and she arose in the
morning to renew the battle.

"How long is this miserable condition to last?" she said to
herself. "Till you can entirely give up your feeling of
resentment, and apologize to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience.
"Apologize! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said
conscience, "you spoke improperly; he is just displeased; and
you must make an apology before there can be any peace." "But
I said the truth  it is _not_ right! it is not right  it is
wrong; and am _I_ to go and make an apology! I can't do it."
"Yes, for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is
all your concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases
with you and yours, and he may have his own reasons for what
he has done; and he loves you very much, and you ought not to
let him remain displeased with you one moment longer than you
can help; he is in the place of a father to you, and you owe
him a child's duty."

But pride and passion still fought against reason and
conscience, and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.

"There! I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and
they will see how I look  they will see I am angry and ill-
humoured. Well, I _ought_ to be angry! But what will they think,
then, of my religion? Is my rushlight burning bright? Am I
honouring Christ now? Is _this_ the way to make his name and his
truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I have enough to
humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I
was angry."

Ellen threw herself upon her knees, and when she rose up, the
spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died
with self-justification.

The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was
afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the
table. "But it shall make no difference," she said to herself,
"they know I have offended him  it is right they should hear
what I have to say."

They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen
went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in
his, and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and
frankly confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day
before, and that she was very sorry she had displeased him,
and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly granted.

"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay as he fondly
embraced her.

"Oh no, Sir! don't call me so; I am everything in the world
but that."

"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't
you come to me before?"

"Because I couldn't, Sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."

Mr. Lindsay laughed, and kissed her, and bade her sit down and
eat her breakfast.

It was about a month after this that he made her a present of
a beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great
delight; the second was one of curious doubtful expression,
directed to his face, half tendering the watch back to him, as
she saw that he understood her.

"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather
have that than this?"

"A great deal."

"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall
not have it; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it
safe, and it shall come back to you again some time or other."

With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.

The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth of purse
and of affection both could bestow upon their darling. Early
in the season the family returned to "the Braes." Ellen liked
it there much better than in the city; there was more that
reminded her of old times. The sky and the land, though
different from those she best loved, were yet but another
expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and
on many a sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.* [*
"Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee."  GEORGE HERBERT.]
She was sorry to lose M. Muller, but she could not have kept
him in Edinburgh; he quitted Scotland about that time.

Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to
Edinburgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he
was often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have
her with him in the library, and at dinner, and during the
drive home. Ellen liked it, because it was so pleasant to him;
and besides, there was a variety about it, and the drives were
always her delight, and she chose his company at any time
rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy
day, that summer, had she and Mr. Lindsay together, and many
an odd pleasure, in the course of them, did he find or make
for her. Sometimes it was a new book, sometimes a new sight,
sometimes a new trinket. According to his promise, he had
purchased her a fine horse, and almost daily Ellen was upon
his back, and, with Mr. Lindsay, in the course of the summer,
scoured the country, far and near. Every scene of any historic
interest, within a good distance of "the Braes," was visited,
and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were
at Ellen's disposal; and to her father and grandmother she was
truly the light of the eyes.

And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even
her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her
calm, sunshiny face, and busy happy demeanour, and fancied,
though he had sometimes doubts about it, that she did not
trouble herself much with old recollections, or would, in
time, get over them. It was not so. Ellen never forgot; and
sometimes, when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was the
thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her
energies, and giving colour to her cheek. Still, as at first,
it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up
submission; it was that calmed her brow and brightened her
smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, and
repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I will see him in
heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom
of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.

Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker, and her smile less
bright, as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her
no letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day,
mourning over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her
if her friends knew her address? Ellen at first said, "to be
sure," but after a few minutes' reflection, was obliged to
confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been
just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a
matter, and very natural for her, in her grief and confusion
of mind, and inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote
immediately to Mr. Humphreys and supplied the defect, and hope
brightened again. Once before she had written, on the occasion
of the refunding her expenses. Mr. Lindsay and his mother were
very prompt to do this, though Ellen could not tell what the
exact amount might be; they took care to be on the safe side,
and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since she
came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she
understood the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt
her.

Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she
received at length one from Mr. Humphreys, a long, very kind,
and very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr.
Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly
to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his
own child up to the time that her friends took her out of his
hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave
the money, she dared not give the whole message, to Mr.
Lindsay. The bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed
and sent back to America.

Still nothing was heard from Mr. John; Ellen wondered, waited,
wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went
on, clung faster and faster to her Bible, and the refuge she
found there.

CHAPTER LII.

"Thou!"

One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected
at Mr. Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to
parties, but at home her father and grandmother never could
bear to do without her when they had company. Generally Ellen
liked it very much; not called upon to take any active part
herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet; and
often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to
conversation in which she took great pleasure. To-night,
however, it happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on
other things; and Mrs. Lindsay's woman, who had come in to
dress her, was not at all satisfied with her grave looks, and
the little concern she seemed to take in what was going on.

"I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look
somewhere; I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you
keep it down so."

"Oh, Mason, I think that'll do; it looks very well; you
needn't do anything more."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen; but you know it's your
grandmother that must be satisfied, and she will have it just
so; there, now that's going to look lovely; but, indeed, Miss
Ellen, she won't be pleased if you carry such a soberish face
downstairs  and what will the master say! Most young ladies
would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so many
people; and, indeed, it's what you should."

"I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred,"
said Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason.

"Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don't
look as if it was a funeral! There! 't ain't much trouble to
fix you, anyhow; if you'd only care a little more about it, it
would be a blessing. Stop till I fix this lace. The master
will call you his white rosebud to-night, sure enough."

"That's nothing new," said Ellen, half-smiling.

Mason left her; and feeling the want of something to raise her
spirits, Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly
turning it over, looked along its pages to catch a sight of
something cheering before she went downstairs.

"_This God is our God for ever and ever: he will be our guide
even unto death_."

"Isn't that enough?" thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in
answer. "It ought to be  John would say it was  Oh! where is
he?"

She went on, turning leaf after leaf.

"_O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!_"

"That is true, surely," she thought. "And I do trust in him
I am blessed,  I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing
come to those that trust in him but what is good for them; if
he is my God, I have enough to make me happy  I ought to be
happy  I will be happy!  I will trust him, and take what he
gives me, and try to leave, as John used to tell me, my
affairs in his hand."

For a minute tears flowed; then they were wiped away; and the
smile she gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall, was
not less bright than usual.

The company were gathered, but it was still early in the
evening when a gentleman came, who declined to enter the
drawing-room, and asked for Miss Lindsay.

"Miss Lindsay is engaged."

"An' what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?" cried the
voice of the housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, "when
ye ken as weel as I do that Miss Ellen "

The butler stopped her with saying something about "my lady,"
and repeated his answer to the gentleman.

The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from
his pocket, and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He
carried it to Lady Keith.

"What sort of a person, Porterfield?" said Lady Keith,
crumpling the paper in her fingers; and withdrawing a little
from the company.

"Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady," Porterfield answered in a
low tone.

"A gentleman?" said Lady Keith, inquiringly.

"Certain, my lady! and as up and down spoken as if he was a
prince of the blood; he's somebody that is not accustomed to
be said 'no' to for sure."

Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting, however, that she had just
left Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind, and
desired Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered,
unannounced, her eyes unwillingly verified the butler's
judgment; and to the inquiry whether he might see Miss
Lindsay, she answered very politely, though with regrets, that
Miss Lindsay was engaged.

"May I be pardoned for asking," said the stranger, with the
slightest possible approach to a smile, "whether that decision
is imperative? I leave Scotland to-morrow  my reasons for
wishing to see Miss Lindsay this evening are urgent."

Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her
countenance to keep company with her expressions of "sorrow
that it was impossible  Miss Lindsay could not have the
pleasure that evening."

"May I beg, then, to know at what hour I may hope to see her
to-morrow?"

Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a
long-given invitation, Lady Keith answered that "she would not
be in town  she would leave Edinburgh at an early hour."

The stranger bowed and withdrew; that was all the bystanders
saw. But Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she
could not help fancying read her too well, saw that in his
parting look which made her uneasy; beckoning a servant who
stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that gentleman to the
door.

The man obeyed; but the stranger did not take his cloak, and
made no motion to go.

"No, Sir! not that way," he said, sternly, as the servant laid
his hand on the lock; "show me to Miss Lindsay!"

"Miss Ellen!" said the man, doubtfully, coming back, and
thinking from the gentleman's manner that he must have
misunderstood Lady Keith; "where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?"

The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he
had just come from on the other side of the hall.

"This way, Sir, if you please; what name, Sir?"

"No name; stand back!" said the stranger as he entered.

There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at
the piano singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The
gentleman advanced quietly to the edge of the group, and stood
there without being noticed; Ellen's eyes were bent on the
floor. The expression of her face touched and pleased him
greatly; it was precisely what he wished to see. Without
having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all
its lines that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that
is never seen but where religion and discipline have done
their work well; the writing of the wisdom that looks soberly,
and the love that looks kindly, on all things. He was not sure
at first whether she were intently listening to the music, or
whether her mind was upon something far different and far
away; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment
had escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the
performer at her side; and while her eye was curiously tracing
out the pattern of the carpet, her mind was resting itself in
one of the verses she had been reading that same evening.
Suddenly, and as it seemed, from no connection with anything
in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the image of
John as she had seen him that first evening she ever saw him
at Carra-carra, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate
and espied him, standing in an attitude of waiting near the
door. Ellen at first wondered how that thought should have
come into her head just then; the next moment, from a sudden
impulse, she raised her eyes to search for the cause, and saw
John's smile.

It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face.
Lightning makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but
lightning does not stay. With a spring she reached him, and
seizing both his hands, drew him out of the door near which
they were standing; and as soon as they were hidden from view,
threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before,
however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his
hand again, and led him back along the hall to the private
staircase; she mounted it rapidly to _her room_, and there again
she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "O John! my dear
John! my dear brother!"

But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged
heart. The tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelled
from the open sources of love and memory, to keep any bounds.
And it kept none. Ellen sat down, and bowing her head on the
arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement passion of her
childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive sobs.
John might guess, from the outpouring now, how much her heart
had been secretly gathering for months past. For a little
while he walked up and down the room; but this excessive
agitation he was not willing should continue. He said nothing;
sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he quietly possessed
himself of one of her hands, and when in her excitement the
hand struggled to get away again, it was not permitted. Ellen
understood that very well, and immediately checked herself.
Better than words, the calm firm grasp of his hand quieted
her. Her sobbing stilled; she turned from the arm of the sofa,
and leaning her head upon him, took his hand in both hers and
pressed it to her lips, as if she were half beside herself.
But that was not permitted to last either, for his hand
quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen
could not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to
speak: she sat gradually quieting down into fulness of
happiness.

"I thought you never would come, John," at length Ellen half
whispered, half said.

"And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellen."

Ellen started up, and looked up now.

"Leave me! For how long? Where are you going?"

"Home."

"To America!" Ellen's heart died within her. Was _this_ the end
of all her hopes? did her confidence end _here?_  She shed no
tears now. He could see that she grew absolutely still from
intense feeling.

"What's the matter, Ellie?" said the low gentle tones she so
well remembered; "I am leaving you but for a time. I _must_ go
home now, but if I live you will see me again."

"Oh, I wish I was going with you!" Ellen exclaimed, bursting
into tears.

"My dear Ellie!" said her brother, in an altered voice,
drawing her again to his arms; "you cannot wish it more than
I!"

"I never thought you would leave me here, John."

"Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute
longer than I can help; but we must both wait, my own Ellie.
Do not cry so, for my sake!"

"Wait? till when?" said Ellen, not a little reassured.

"I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians,
and you have no right to choose for yourself."

"And when shall I?"

"In a few years."

"A few years! But in the mean time, John, what shall I do
without you? If I could see you once in a while  but there is
no one here  not a single one  to help me to keep right; no
one talks to me as you used to; and I am all the while afraid
I shall go wrong in something; what shall I do?"

"What the weak must always do, Ellie; seek for strength where
it may be had."

"And so I do, John," said Ellen, weeping; "but I want you; oh,
how much!"

"Are you not happy here?"

"Yes, I am happy; at least I thought I was half an hour ago
as happy as I can be. I have everything to make me happy,
except what would do it."

"We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow
and loneliness; you have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie?"

"No, John," said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile.

"They love you here, do they not?"

"Very much  too much."

"And you love them?"

"Yes."

"That's a doubtful 'yes.' "

"I do love my father  very much; and my grandmother too,
though not so much. I cannot help loving them;they love me so.
But they are so unlike you!"

"That is not much to the purpose, after all," said John,
smiling. "These are varieties of excellence in the world."

"Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean; it isn't a variety of
excellence. They make me do everything that they have a mind
I don't mean," she added, smiling, "that _that_ is not like you
 but you always had a reason; they are different. My father
makes me drink wine every now and then  I don't like to do
it, and he knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I
have to do it."

"That's not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they
do not make you do something wrong."

"They could not do that, I hope: and there is another thing
they cannot make me do."

"What is that?"

"Stay here when you will take me away."

There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides.

"You are grown, Ellie," said John; "you are not the child I
left you."

"I don't know," said Ellen smiling; "it seems to me I am just
the same."

"Let me see  look at me."

She raised her face, and, amidst smiles and tears, its look
was not less clear and frank than his was penetrating. "Just
the same," was the verdict of her brother's eyes a moment
afterwards. Ellen's smile grew bright as she read it there.

"Why have you never come or written before, John?"

"I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for
many months till quite lately, and I could not get your
address. I think my father was without it for a long time, and
when at last he sent it to me, the letter miscarried  never
reached me  there were delays upon delays."

"And when did you get it?"

"I preferred coming to writing."

"And now you must go home so soon!"

"I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and
it is quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week.
Mrs. Gillespie is going with me; her husband stays behind till
spring."

Ellen signed.

"I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in
Switzerland last summer  M. Muller."

"M. Muller! did you! Oh, I am very glad! I am very glad you
know him  he is the best friend I have got here, after my
father. I don't know what I should have done without him."

"I have heard him talk of you," said John, smiling.

"He has just come back; he was to be here this evening."

There was a pause again.

"It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie," said
her brother, then. "I think you belong to me more than to
anybody."

"That is exactly what I think!" said Ellen, with one of her
bright looks, and then bursting into tears; "I am very glad
you think so too! I will always do whatever you tell me  just
as I used to  no matter what anybody else says."

"Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie."

"Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy  so much
happier  if I could be doing something to please you. I wish
I was at home with you again!"

"I will bring that about, Ellie, by-and-by, if you make your
words good."

"I shall be happy then," said Ellen, her old confidence
standing stronger than ever, "because I know you will if you
say so; though how you will manage I cannot conceive. My
father, and grandmother, and aunt cannot bear to hear me speak
of America; I believe they would be glad if there wasn't such
a place in the world. They would not even let me think of it
if they could help it; I never dare mention your name, or say
a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody,
I believe. They want to have me all to themselves."

"What will they say to you then, Ellen, if you leave them to
give yourself to me?"

"I cannot help it," replied Ellen; "they must say what they
please;" and with abundance of energy, and not a few tears,
she went on: "I love them, but I have given myself to you a
great while ago; long before I was his daughter, you called me
your little sister  I can't unto that, John, and I don't want
to  it doesn't make a bit of difference that we were not born
so!"

John suddenly rose, and began to walk up and down the room.
Ellen soon came to his side, and leaning upon his arm as she
had been used to do in past times, walked up and down with
him, at first silently.

"What is it you wanted me to do, John?" she said, gently, at
length; "you said 'two or three things.' "

"One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence
with me."

"I am very glad that you will let me do that," said Ellen;
"that is exactly what I should like, but "

"What?"

"I am afraid they will not let me."

"I will arrange that."

"Very well," said Ellen, joyously, "then it will do. Oh, it
would make me so happy! And you will write to me?"

"Certainly."

"And I will tell you everything about myself; and you will
tell me how I ought to do in all sorts of things? that will be
next best to being with you. And then you will keep me right."

"I won't promise you that, Ellie," said John, smiling; "you
must learn to keep yourself right."

"I know you will, though, however you may smile. What next?"

"Read no novels."

"I never do, John. I knew you did not like it, and I have
taken good care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told
anybody why, though, they would have made me read a dozen."

"Why, Ellie!" said her brother, "you must need some care to
keep a straight line where your course lies now."

"Indeed I do, John," said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears;
"Oh, how I have felt that sometimes! And then, how I wanted
you!"

Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been
of old, and for a long time they paced up and down, the
conversation running sometimes in the strain that both loved,
and Ellen now never heard; sometimes on other matters; such a
conversation as those she had lived upon in former days, and
now drank in with a delight and eagerness inexpressible. Mr.
Lindsay would have been in dismay to have seen her uplifted
face, which, though tears were many a time there, was
sparkling and glowing with life and joy in a manner he had
never known it. She almost forgot what the morrow would bring,
in the exquisite pleasure of the instant, and hung upon every
word and look of her brother, as if her life were there.

"And in a few weeks," said Ellen at length, "you will be in
our old dear sitting-room again, and riding on the Black
Prince! and I shall be here! and it will be "

"It will be empty without you, Ellie; but we have a Friend
that is sufficient; let us love him and be patient."

"It is very hard to be patient," murmured Ellen. "But, dear
John, there was something else you wanted me to do, what is
it? You said 'two or three' things."

"I will leave that to another time."

"But why? I will do it, whatever it be  pray tell me."

"No," said he, smiling, "not now; you shall know by-and-by
the time is not yet. Have you heard of your old friend Mr. Van
Brunt?"

"No  what of him?"

"He has come out before the world as a Christian man."

"Has he?"

John took a letter from his pocket and opened it.

"You may see what my father says of him, and what he says of
you, too, Ellie; he has missed you much."

"Oh, I was afraid he would," said Ellen; "I was sure he did!"

She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John
told her she might keep it to read at her leisure.

"And how are they all at Ventnor? and how is Mrs. Vawse? and
Margery?"

"All well. Mrs. Vawse spends about half her time at my
father's."

"I am very glad of that."

"Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I could,
and said she had a home for you always at Ventnor."

"How kind she is," said Ellen; "how many friends I find
everywhere. It seems to me, John, that everybody almost loves
me."

"That _is_ a singular circumstance! However, I am no exception
to the rule, Ellie."

"Oh, I know that!" said Ellen, laughing. "And Mr. George?"

"Mr. George is well."

"How much I love him!" said Ellen. "How much I would give to
see him. I wish you could tell me about poor Captain and the
Brownie, but I don't suppose you have heard of them. Oh, when
I think of it all at home, how I want to be there! Oh, John!
sometimes lately I have almost thought I should only see you
again in heaven."

"My dear Ellie! I shall see you there, I trust; but if we live
we shall spend our lives here together first. And while we are
parted, we will keep as near as possible by praying for and
writing to each other. And what God orders, let us quietly
submit to."

Ellen had much ado to command herself at the tone of these
words and John's manner, as he clasped her in his arms and
kissed her brow and lips. She strove to keep back a show of
feeling that would distress and might displease him. But the
next moment her fluttering spirits were stilled by hearing the
few soft words of a prayer that he breathed over her head. It
was a prayer for her and for himself, and one of its petitions
was, that they might be kept to see each other again. Ellen
wrote the words on her heart.

"Are you going?"

He showed his watch.

"Well, I shall see you to-morrow."

"Shall you be here?"

"Certainly, where else should I be? What time must you set
out?"

"I need not till afternoon, but how early can I see you?"

"As early as you please. Oh, spend all the time with me you
can, John!"

So it was arranged.

"And now, Ellie, you must go downstairs and present me to Mr.
Lindsay."

"To my father!"

For a moment Ellen's face was a compound of expressions. She
instantly acquiesced, however, and went down with her brother,
her heart, it must be confessed, going very pit-a-pat indeed.
She took him into the library, which was not this evening
thrown open to company; and sent a servant for Mr. Lindsay.
While waiting for his coming, Ellen felt as if she had not the
fair use of her senses. Was that John Humphreys quietly
walking up and down the library! Mr. Lindsay's library! and
was she about to introduce her brother to the person who had
forbidden her to mention his name? There was something,
however, in Mr. John's figure and air, in his utter coolness,
that insensibly restored her spirits. Triumphant confidence in
him overcame the fear of Mr. Lindsay; and when he appeared,
Ellen, with tolerable composure, met him, her hand upon John's
arm, and said, "Father, this is Mr. Humphreys,"  _my brother_
she dared not add.

"I hope Mr. Lindsay will pardon my giving him this trouble,"
said the latter; "we have one thing in common which should
forbid our being strangers to each other. I, at least, was
unwilling to leave Scotland without making myself known to Mr.
Lindsay."

Mr. Lindsay most devoutly wished the "thing in common" had
been anything else. He bowed, and was "happy to have the
pleasure," but evidently neither pleased nor happy. Ellen
could see that.

"May I take up five minutes of Mr. Lindsay's time to explain,
perhaps to apologize," said John, slightly smiling, "for what
I have said?"

A little ashamed, it might be, to have his feeling suspected,
Mr. Lindsay instantly granted the request, and politely
invited his unwelcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance
from her brother which she understood, Ellen withdrew to the
further side of the room, where she could not hear what they
said. John took up the history of Ellen's acquaintness with
his family, and briefly gave it to Mr. Lindsay, scarce
touching on the benefits by them conferred on her, and
skilfully dwelling rather on Ellen herself, and setting forth
what she had been to them. Mr. Lindsay could not be
unconscious of what his visitor delicately omitted to hint at,
neither could he help making secretly to himself some most
unwilling admissions; and though he might wish the speaker at
the antipodes, and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too
happily given, and his fondness for Ellen too great, for him
not to be delightedly interested in what was said of her. And
however strong might have been his desire to dismiss his guest
in a very summary manner, or to treat him with haughty
reserve, the graceful dignity of Mr. Humphreys' manners made
either expedient impossible. Mr. Lindsay felt constrained to
meet him on his own ground  the ground of high-bred
frankness, and grew secretly still more afraid that his real
feelings should be discerned.

Ellen, from afar, where she could not hear the words, watched
the countenances with great anxiety, and great admiration. She
could see that while her brother spoke with his usual perfect
ease, Mr. Lindsay was embarrassed. She half-read the truth.
She saw the entire politeness where she also saw the secret
discomposure, and she felt that the politeness was forced from
him. As the conversation went on, however, she wonderingly saw
that the cloud on his brow lessened she saw him even smile;
and when at last they rose, and she drew near, she almost
thought her ears were playing her false, when she heard Mr.
Lindsay beg her brother to go in with him to the company, and
be presented to Mrs. Lindsay. After a moment's hesitation this
invitation was accepted, and they went together into the
drawing-room.

Ellen felt as if she was in a dream. With a face as grave as
usual, but with an inward exultation and rejoicing in her
brother, impossible to describe, she saw him going about among
the company, talking to her grandmother; yes, and her
grandmother did not look less pleasant than usual, recognising
M. Muller, and in conversation with other people whom he knew.
With indescribable glee, Ellen saw that Mr. Lindsay managed
most of the time to be of the same group. Never more than that
night did she triumphantly think that Mr. John could do
anything. He finished the evening there. Ellen took care not
to seem too much occupied with him; but she contrived to be
near when he was talking with M. Muller, and to hang upon her
father's arm when he was in Mr. John's neighbourhood. And when
the latter had taken leave, and was in the hall, Ellen was
there before he could be gone. And there came Mr. Lindsay too,
behind her.

"You will come early to-morrow morning, John?"

"Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphreys, will you?" said Mr.
Lindsay, with sufficient cordiality.

But Mr. Humphreys declined his invitation, in spite of the
timid touch of Ellen's fingers upon his arm, which begged for
a different answer.

"I will be with you early, Ellie," he said, however.

"And oh! John," said Ellen, suddenly, "order a horse, and let
us have one ride together; let me show you Edinburgh."

"By all means," said Mr. Lindsay, "let us show you Edinburgh;
but order no horses, Mr. Humphreys, for mine are at your
service."

Ellen's other hand was gratefully laid upon her father's arm
as this second proposal was made and accepted.

"Let us show you Edinburgh," said Ellen to herself, as she and
Mr. Lindsay slowly and gravely went back through the hall. "So
there is an end of my fine morning! But, however, how foolish
I am! John has his own ways of doing things  he can make it
pleasant in spite of everything."

She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to
cry for joy, and all sorts of feelings at once.

Good came out of evil, as it often does, and as Ellen's heart
presaged it would when she arose the next morning. The ride
was preceded by half an hour's chat between Mr. John, Mr.
Lindsay, and her grandmother; in which the delight of the
evening before was renewed and confirmed. Ellen was obliged to
look down to hide the too bright satisfaction she felt was
shining in her face. She took no part in the conversation; it
was enough to hear. She sat with charmed ears, seeing her
brother overturning all her father's and grandmother's
prejudices, and making his own way to their respect at least,
in spite of themselves. Her marvelling still almost kept even
pace with her joy. "I knew he would do what he pleased," she
said to herself; "I knew they could not help that; but I did
not dream he would ever make them like him, that I never
dreamed!"

On the ride, again, Ellen could not wish that her father were
not with them. She wished for nothing; it was all a maze of
pleasure, which there was nothing to mar but the sense that
she would, by-and-by, wake up and find it was a dream. And no
 not that either. It was a solid good and blessing, which,
though it must come to an end, she should never lose. For the
present there was hardly anything to be thought of but
enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed that Mr. Lindsay would have
enjoyed it too, but for herself; there was a little constraint
about him still, she could see. There was none about Mr. John;
in the delight of his words, and looks, and presence, Ellen
half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely; she had enough of
them; she did not for one moment wish Mr. Lindsay had less.

At last the long, beautiful ride came to an end; and the rest
of the morning soon sped away, though, as Ellen had expected,
she was not permitted to spend any part of it alone with her
brother. Mr. Lindsay asked him to dinner, but this was
declined.

Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphreys'
letter. One bit of it may be given:

"Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has
given me great pleasure. He had been a regular attendant for a
long time before. He ascribes much to your instrumentality;
but says his first thoughts (earnest ones) on the subject of
religion, were on the occasion of a tear that fell from
Ellen's eyes upon his hand one day when she was talking to him
about the matter. He never got over the impression. In his own
words, 'it scared him!' That was a dear child!  I did not
know how dear till I had lost her. I did not know how severely
I should feel her absence; nor had I the least notion when she
was with us of many things respecting her that I have learnt
since. I half hoped we should yet have her back, but that will
not be. I shall be glad to see you, my son."

The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was
the delight of Ellen's life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter
wished to put a stop to it; but Mr. Lindsay dryly said that
Mr. Humphreys had frankly spoken of it before him, and as he
made no objection then, he could not now.

Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the
third thing John wanted of her; but, whatever it were, she was
very sure she would do it!

For the gratification of those who are never satisfied, one
word shall be added, to wit, that

The seed so early sown in little Ellen's mind, and so
carefully tended by sundry hands, grew in course of time to
all the fair structure and comely perfection it had bid fair
to reach: storms and winds that had visited it, did but cause
the root to take deeper hold; and at the point of its young
maturity it happily fell again into those hands that had of
all been most successful in its culture. In other words, to
speak intelligibly, Ellen did in no wise disappoint her
brother's wishes, nor he hers. Three or four more years of
Scottish discipline wrought her no ill; they did but serve to
temper and beautify her Christian character; and then, to her
unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with the
friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them, still
more than she had been to her Scottish relations, the "light
of the eyes."

THE END.

PRINTED BY BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

Typrographical errors :

chapter 7 : =look out nearly= silently corrected as =look out
near by=

chapter 7 : =That is true= silently corrected as ="That is true=

chapter 7 : =I suppose, said her friend= silently corrected as =I
suppose," said her friend=

chapter 7 : =great many things= silently corrected as ='great
many things=

chapter 9 : =sweeping of= silently corrected as =sweeping off=

chapter 9 : =but whether it would= silently corrected as ="but
whether it would=

chapter 12 : =little brick wall= silently corrected as =little
brick walk=

chapter 13 : =Just look, said Ellen= silently corrected as =Just
look," said Ellen=

chapter 16 : =Humprey's desire= silently corrected as =Humphreys'
desire=

chapter 17 : =you'd forgot= silently corrected as =you'd forget=

chapter 17 : =than to receive."= silently corrected as =than to
receive.' "=

chapter 18 : =well behaved-cow= silently corrected as =well-
behaved cow=

chapter 18 : =when you yet to= silently corrected as =when you
get to=

chapter 20 : =shouldn't wan't= silently corrected as =shouldn't
want=

chapter 22 : =that's seven= silently corrected as
=that's seven"=

chapter 23 : =my calling to fulfil '= silently corrected as
=my calling to fulfil ' "=

chapter 27 : =cried little Ellen Chauncey?= silently corrected
as =cried little Ellen Chauncey;=

Chapter 28 : =we are going to make presents= silently corrected
as ="we are going to make presents=

Chapter 28 : =I guess I didn't!"= silently corrected as =I guess
I didn't!=

Chapter 34 : =believed this lately.= silently corrected as
=believed this lately?=

Chapter 34 : =came to him= silently corrected as =came to him.=

Chapter 35 : =have the Bible Nancy= silently corrected as =have
the Bible, Nancy=

Chapter 35 : =however; that was no matter= silently corrected as
=however, that was no matter=

Chapter 37 : =her pony's neck!= silently corrected as =her pony's
neck,=

Chapter 37 : =merino at St. Claire= silently corrected as =merino
at St. Clair=

Chapter 37 : ='he'll be along= silently corrected as ="he'll be
along=

Chapter 39 : =was runnig over= silently corrected as =was running
over=

Chapter 39 : =that receiveth it.= silently corrected as =that
receiveth it.'=

Chapter 39 : =make think look= silently corrected as =make things
look=

Chapter 43 : =truth and grace.'= silently corrected as =truth and
grace."=

Chapter 45 : =de moi-même!"= silently corrected as =de moi-même!'
"=

Chapter 48 : =châlet= silently corrected as =chalet=

Chapter 49 : =rémarquablement= silently corrected as
=remarquablement=

Chapter 49 : =récommencé= silently corrected as =recommencé=