CHAPTER XXI.
Footsteps of Angels.
The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, a light step crossed the shed, and the great door opening gently, in walked Miss Alice Humphreys. The room was all "redd up," and Miss Fortune and her mother sat there at work; one picking over white beans at the table, the other in her usual seat by the fire, and at her usual employment, which was knitting. Alice came forward and asked the old lady how she did.
"Pretty well! oh!, pretty well!" she answered, with the look of bland good-humour her face almost always wore "and glad to see you, dear. Take a chair."
Alice did so, quite aware that the other person in the room was not glad to see her.
"And how goes the world with you, Miss Fortune?"
"Humph! it's a queer kind of world, I think," answered that lady, drily, sweeping some of the picked beans into her pan: "I get a'most sick of it, sometimes."
"Why, what's the matter?" said Alice, pleasantly; "may I ask?
Has anything happened to trouble you?"
"Oh, no!" said the other, somewhat impatiently; "nothing that's any matter to anyone but myself; it's no use speaking about it."
"Ah! Fortune never would take the world easy," said the old woman, shaking her head from side to side; "never would; I never could get her to."
"Now, do hush, mother, will you!" said the daughter, turning round upon her with startling sharpness of look and tone; " 'take the world easy!' you always did; I am glad I ain't like you."
"I don't think it's a bad way, after all," said Alice; "what's the use of taking it hard, Miss Fortune?"
"The way one goes on!" said that lady, picking away at her beans very fast, and not answering Alice's question; "I'm tired of it; toil, toil, and drive, drive, from morning to night and what's the end of it all?"
"Not much," said Alice, gravely, "if our toiling looks no further than this world. When we go we shall carry nothing away with us. I should think it would be very wearisome to toil only for what we cannot keep, nor stay long to enjoy."
"It's a pity you warn't a minister, Miss Alice," said Miss
Fortune, drily.
"Oh, no, Miss Fortune," said Alice, smiling, "the family would be overstocked. My father is one, and my brother will be another a third would be too much. You must be so good as to let me preach without taking orders."
"Well, I wish every minister was as good a one as you'd make," said Miss Fortune, her hard face giving way a little; "at any rate, nobody'd mind anything you'd say, Miss Alice."
"That would be unlucky, in one sense," said Alice; "but I believe I know what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would dream the world went very hard with you. I don't know anybody, I think, lives in more independent comfort and plenty, and has things more to her mind. I never come to the house that I am not struck with the fine look of the farm, and all that belongs to it."
"Yes," said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times; "Mr. Van Brunt is a good farmer very good there's no doubt about that."
"I wonder what he'd do," said Miss Fortune, quickly and sharply, as before, "if there warn't a head to manage for him! Oh, the farm's well enough, Miss Alice tain't that; every one knows where his own shoe pinches."
"I wish you'd let me into the secret, then, Miss Fortune; I'm a cobbler by profession."
Miss Fortune's ill-humour was giving way, but something disagreeable seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow darkened.
"I say it's a poor kind of world, and I'm sick of it! One may slave, and slave one's life out for other people, and what thanks do you get? I'm sick of it."
"There's a little body up-stairs, or I'm much mistaken, who will give you very sincere thanks for every kindness shown her."
Miss Fortune tossed her head, and brushing the refuse beans into her lap, she pushed back her chair with a jerk, to go to the fire with them.
"Much you know about her, Miss Alice! Thanks, indeed! I haven't seen the sign of such a thing since she's been here, for all I have worked and worked, and had plague enough with her, I am sure. Deliver me from other people's children, say I!"
"After all, Miss Fortune," said Alice, soberly, "it is not what we do for people that makes them love us or, at least, everything depends on the way things are done. A look of love, a word of kindness, goes further towards winning the heart than years of service, or benefactions mountain high, without them."
"Does she say I am unkind to her?" asked Miss Fortune, fiercely.
"Pardon me," said Alice, "words on her part are unnecessary; it is easy to see from your own that there is no love lost between you, and I am very sorry it is so."
"Love, indeed!" said Miss Fortune, with great indignation; "there never was any to lose, I can assure you. She plagues the very life out of me. Why, she hadn't been here three days before she went off with that girl Nancy Vawse, that I had told her never to go near, and was gone all night; that's the time she got in the brook. And if you'd seen her face when I was scolding her about it! it was like seven thunderclouds. Much you know about it! I dare say she's very sweet to you; that's the way she is to everybody beside me; they all think she's too good to live; and it just makes me mad!"
"She told me herself," said Alice, "of her behaving ill another time, about her mother's letter."
"Yes that was another time. I wish you'd seen her!"
"I believe she saw and felt her fault in that case. Didn't she ask your pardon? she said she would."
"Yes," said Miss Fortune, drily "after a fashion."
"Has she had her letter yet?"
"No."
"How is she to-day?"
"Oh, she's well enough she's sitting up. You can go up and see her."
"I will, directly," said Alice. "But now, Miss Fortune, I am going to ask a favour of you will you do me a great pleasure?"
"Certainly, Miss Alice if I can."
"If you think Ellen has been sufficiently punished for her ill-behaviour if you do not think it right to withhold her letter still will you let me have the pleasure of giving it to her? I should take it as a great favour to myself."
Miss Fortune made no kind of reply to this, but stalked out of the room, and in a few minutes stalked in again with the letter, which she gave to Alice, only saying shortly
"It came to me in a letter from her father."
"You are willing she should have it?" said Alice.
"Oh, yes! do what you like with it."
Alice now went softly up stairs. She found Ellen's door a little ajar, and looking in, could see Ellen seated in a rocking-chair between the door and the fire, in her double gown, and with her hymn-book in her hand. It happened that Ellen had spent a good part of that afternoon in crying for her lost letter; and the face that she turned to the door, on hearing some slight noise outside, was very white and thin indeed. And though it was placid, too, her eye searched the crack of the door with a keen wistfulness that went to Alice's heart. But as the door was gently pushed open, and the eye caught the figure that stood behind it, the sudden and entire change of expression took away all her powers of speech. Ellen's face became radiant; she rose from her chair, and as Alice came silently in, and kneeling down to be near her, took her in her arms, Ellen put both hers round Alice's neck, and laid her face there; one was too happy and the other too touched, to say a word.
"My poor child!" was Alice's first expression.
"No, I ain't," said Ellen, tightening the squeeze of her arms round Alice's neck; "I am not poor at all now."
Alice presently rose, sat down in the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her lap; and Ellen rested her head on her bosom, as she had been wont to do of old time on her mother's.
"I am too happy," she murmured. But she was weeping, and the current of tears seemed to gather force as it flowed. What was little Ellen thinking of just then? Oh, those times gone by! when she had sat just so; her head pillowed on another as gentle breast; kind arms wrapped round her, just as now; the same little, old double-gown; the same weak, helpless feeling; the same committing herself to the strength and care of another; how much the same, and, oh! how much not the same! and Ellen knew both. Blessing, as she did, the breast on which she leaned, and the arms whose pressure she felt, they yet reminded her sadly of those most loved and so very far away; and it was an odd mixture of relief and regret, joy and sorrow, gratified and ungratified affection, that opened the sluices of her eyes. Tears poured.
"What is the matter, my love?" said Alice, softly.
"I don't know," whispered Ellen.
"Are you so glad to see me? or so sorry? or what is it?"
"Oh, glad and sorry both, I think!" said Ellen, with a long breath, and sitting up.
"Have you wanted me so much, my poor child?"
"I cannot tell you how much," said Ellen, her words cut short.
"And didn't you know that I have been sick, too? What did you think had become of me? Why, Mrs. Vawse was with me a whole week, and this is the very first day I have been able to go out. It is so fine to-day, I was permitted to ride Sharp down."
"Was that it?" said Ellen. "I did wonder, Miss Alice I did wonder very much why you did not come to see me, but I never liked to ask Aunt Fortune, because "
"Because what?"
"I don't know as I ought to say what I was going to; I had a feeling she would be glad about what I was sorry about."
"Don't know that you ought to say," said Alice. "Remember, you are to study English with me."
Ellen smiled a glad smile.
"And you have had a weary two weeks of it, haven't you, dear?"
"Oh," said Ellen, with another long-drawn sigh, "how weary! Part of that time, to be sure, I was out of my head; but I have got so tired lying here all alone; Aunt Fortune coming in and out, was just as good as nobody."
"Poor child!" said Alice, "you have had a worse time than I."
"I used to lie and watch that crack in the door, at the foot of my bed," said Ellen, "and I got so tired of it I hated to see it; but when I opened my eyes I couldn't help looking at it, and watching all the little ins and outs in the crack, till I was as sick of it as could be; and that button too, that fastens the door, and the little round mark the button has made, and thinking how far the button went round. And then, if I looked towards the windows, I would go right to counting the panes, first up and down, and then across and I didn't want to count them, but I couldn't help it; and watching to see through which pane the sky looked brightest. Oh! I got so sick of it all! There was only the fire that I didn't get tired of looking at; I always liked to lie and look at that, except when it hurt my eyes. And oh! how I wanted to see you, Miss Alice! You can't think how sad I felt that you didn't come to see me. I couldn't think what could be the matter."
"I should have been with you, dear, and not have left you, if
I had not been tied at home myself."
"So I thought, and that made it seem so very strange. But oh! don't you think," said Ellen, her face suddenly brightening "don't you think Mr. Van Brunt came up to see me last night? Wasn't it good of him? He even sat down and read to me only think of that! And isn't he kind? he asked if I would like a rocking-chair, and of course I said yes, for these other chairs are dreadful they break my back; and there wasn't such a thing as a rocking-chair in Aunt Fortune's house she hates 'em, she says; and this morning, the first thing I knew, in walked Mr. Van Brunt with this nice rocking-chair. Just get up and see how nice it is; you see the back is cushioned, and the elbows, as well as the seat; it's queer-looking, ain't it? but it's very comfortable. Wasn't it good of him?"
"It was very kind, I think. But do you know, Ellen, I am going to have a quarrel with you?"
"What about?" said Ellen. "I don't believe it's anything very bad, for you look pretty good-humoured, considering."
"Nothing very bad," said Alice, "but still enough to quarrel about. You have twice said 'ain't ' since I have been here."
"Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "is that all?"
"Yes," said Alice, "and my English ears don't like it at all."
"Then they shan't hear it," said Ellen, kissing her. "I don't know what makes me say it I never used to. But I've got more to tell you I've had more visitors. Who do you think came to see me? you'd never guess Nancy Vawse! Mr. Van Brunt came in the very nick of time, when I was almost worried to death with her. Only think of her coming up here unknown to every body! And she stayed an age, and how she did go on! She cracked nuts on the hearth; she got every stitch of my clothes out of my trunk, and scattered them over the floor; she tried to make me drink gruel, till, between us we spilled a great parcel on the bed; and she had begun to tickle me when Mr. Van Brunt came. Oh! wasn't I glad to see him! And when Aunt Fortune came up and saw it all, she was as angry as she could be; and she scolded and scolded, till at last I told her it was none of my doing I couldn't help it at all and she needn't talk so to me about it; and then she said it was my fault, the whole of it! that if I hadn't scraped acquaintance with Nancy, when she had forbidden me all this would never have happened."
"There is some truth in that, isn't there, Ellen?"
"Perhaps so; but I think it might all have happened whether or no; and, at any rate, it is a little hard to talk so to me about it now, when it's all over, and can't be helped. Oh, I have been so tired to-day, Miss Alice! Aunt Fortune has been in such a bad humour."
"What put her in a bad humour?"
"Why, all this about Nancy in the first place; and then I know she didn't like Mr. Van Brunt's bringing the rocking-chair for me she couldn't say much, but I could see by her face. And then Mrs. Van Brunt's coming I don't think she liked that. Oh, Mrs. Van Brunt came to see me this morning, and brought me a custard. How many people are kind to me, everywhere I go."
"I hope, dear Ellen, you don't forget whose kindness sends them all."
"I don't, Miss Alice; I always think of that now; and it seems, you can't think how pleasant, to me sometimes."
"Then I hope you can bear unkindness from one poor woman who, after all, isn't as happy as you are without feeling any ill-will towards her in return."
"I don't think I feel ill-will towards her," said Ellen; "I always try as hard as I can not to; but I can't like her, Miss Alice; and I do get out of patience. It's very easy to put me out of patience, I think; it takes almost nothing, sometimes."
"But, remember, 'charity suffereth long, and is kind.' "
"And I try all the while, dear Miss Alice, to keep down my bad feelings," said Ellen, her eyes watering as she spoke; "I try, and pray to get rid of them, and I hope I shall by-and-by; I believe I am very bad."
Alice drew her closer.
"I have felt very sad part of to-day," said Ellen, presently; "Aunt Fortune, and my being so lonely, and my poor letter, altogether; but part of the time I felt a great deal better. I was learning that lovely hymn do you know it, Miss Alice?
'Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am.' "
Alice went on:
" 'I have a rich, almighty Friend,
Jesus the Saviour is his name,
He freely loves, and without end.'
"Oh, dear Ellen, whoever can say that, has no right to be unhappy. No matter what happens, we have enough to be glad of."
"And then I was thinking of those words in the Psalms 'Blessed is the man' stop, I'll find it; I don't know exactly how it goes; 'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven; whose sin is covered.' "
"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Alice. "It is a shame that any trifles should worry much those whose sins are forgiven them, and who are the children of the great King. Poor Miss Fortune never knew the sweetness of those words. We ought to be sorry for her, and pray for her, Ellen; and never, never, even in thought, return evil for evil. It is not like Christ to do so."
"I will not, I will not, if I can help it," said Ellen.
"You can help it; but there is only one way. Now, Ellen, dear, I have three pieces of news for you, that I think you will like. One concerns you, another myself, and the third concerns both you and myself. Which will you have first?"
"Three pieces of good news!" said Ellen, with opening eyes; "I think I'll have my part first."
Directing Ellen's eyes to her pocket, Alice slowly made the corner of the letter show itself. Ellen's colour came and went quick as it was drawn forth; but when it was fairly out, and she knew it again, she flung herself upon it with a desperate eagerness Alice had not looked for; she was startled at the half-frantic way in which the child clasped and kissed it, weeping bitterly at the same time. Her transport was almost hysterical. She had opened the letter, but she was not able to read a word; and quitting Alice's arms, she threw herself upon the bed, sobbing in a mixture of joy and sorrow that seemed to take away her reason. Alice looked on surprised a moment, but only a moment, and turned away.
When Ellen was able to begin her letter, the reading of it served to throw her back into fresh fits of tears. Many a word of Mrs. Montgomery's went so to her little daughter's heart, that its very inmost cords of love and tenderness were wrung. It is true, the letter was short and very simple; but it came from her mother's heart; it was written by her mother's hand; and the very old remembered hand-writing had mighty power to move her. She was so wrapped up in her own feelings, that through it all she never noticed that Alice was not near her, that Alice did not speak to comfort her. When the letter had been read time after time, and wept over again and again, and Ellen at last was folding it up for the present, she bethought herself of her friend, and turned to look after her. Alice was sitting by the window, her face hid in her hands; and as Ellen drew near, she was surprised to see that her tears were flowing, and her breast heaving. Ellen came quite close, and softly laid her hand on Alice's shoulder. But it drew no attention.
"Miss Alice," said Ellen, almost fearfully, "dear Miss Alice" and her own eyes filled fast again "what is the matter? won't you tell me? Oh! don't do so! please don't!"
"I will not," said Alice, lifting her head; "I am sorry I have troubled you, dear; I am sorry, I could not help it."
She kissed Ellen, who stood anxious and sorrowful by her side, and brushed away her tears. But Ellen saw she had been shedding a great many.
"What is the matter, dear Miss Alice? what has happened to trouble you? won't you tell me?" Ellen was almost crying herself.
Alice came back to the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her arms again; but she did not answer her. Leaning her face against Ellen's forehead, she remained silent. Ellen ventured to ask no more questions; but lifting her hand once or twice caressingly to Alice's face, she was distressed to find her cheek wet still. Alice spoke at last.
"It isn't fair not to tell you what is the matter, dear Ellen, since I have let you see me sorrowing. It is nothing new, nor anything I would have otherwise if I could. It is only that I have had a mother once, and have lost her; and you brought back the old time so strongly, that I could not command myself."
Ellen felt a hot tear drop upon her forehead, and again ventured to speak her sympathy only by silently stroking Alice's cheek.
"It is all past now," said Alice; "it is all well. I would not have her back again. I shall go to her, I hope, by-and-by."
"Oh, no! You must stay with me," said Ellen, clasping both arms around her.
There was a long silence, during which they remained locked in each other's arms.
"Ellen, dear," said Alice, at length, "we are both motherless, for the present, at least both of us almost alone: I think God has brought us together to be a comfort to each other. We will be sisters while He permits us to be so. Don't call me Miss Alice any more. You shall be my little sister, and I will be your elder sister, and my home shall be your home as well."
Ellen's arms were drawn very close round her companion at this, but she said nothing, and her face was laid in Alice's bosom. There was another very long pause. Then Alice spoke in a livelier tone.
"Come, Ellen! look up! you and I have forgotten ourselves; it isn't good for sick people to get down in the dumps. Look up, and let me see these pale cheeks. Don't you want something to eat?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, faintly.
"What would you say to a cup of chicken-broth?"
"Oh, I should like it very much!" said Ellen, with new energy.
"Margery made me some particularly nice, as she always does; and I took it into my head a little might not come amiss to you; so I resolved to stand the chance of Sharp's jolting it all over me, and I rode down with a little pail of it on my arm. Let me rake open these coals, and you shall have some directly."
"And did you come without being spattered?" said Ellen.
"Not a drop. Is this what you use to warm things in? Never mind, it has had gruel in it; I'll set the tin pail on the fire; it won't hurt it."
"I am so much obliged to you," said Ellen, "for do you know I have got quite tired of gruel, and panada I can't bear."
"Then I am very glad I brought it."
While it was warming, Alice washed Ellen's gruel cup and spoon; and presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Ellen eating the broth with that keen enjoyment none know but those that have been sick and are getting well. She smiled to see her gaining strength almost in the very act of swallowing.
"Ellen," said she, presently, "I have been considering your dressing-table. It looks rather doleful. I'll make you a present of some dimity, and when you come to see me you shall make a cover for it, that will reach down to the floor and hide those long legs."
"That wouldn't do at all," said Ellen; "Aunt Fortune would go off into all sorts of fits."
"What about?"
"Why, the washing, Miss Alice to have such a great thing to wash every now and then. You can't think what a fuss she makes if I have more than just so many white clothes in the wash every week."
"That's too bad," said Alice. "Suppose you bring it up to me it wouldn't be often and I'll have it washed for you if you care enough about it to take the trouble."
"Oh, indeed I do!" said Ellen: "I should like it very much, and I'll get Mr. Van Brunt to no, I can't, Aunt Fortune won't let me; I was going to say, I would get him to saw off the legs and make it lower for me, and then my dressing-box would stand so nicely on the top. Maybe I can yet. Oh, I never showed you my boxes and things."
Ellen brought them all out, and displayed their beauties. In the course of going over the writing-desk, she came to the secret drawer, and a little money in it.
"Oh, that puts me in mind!" she said. "Miss Alice, this money is to be spent for some poor child; now, I've been thinking Nancy has behaved so to me, I should like to give her something, to show her that I don't feel unkindly about it what do you think will be a good thing?"
"I don't know, Ellen I'll take the matter into consideration."
"Do you think a Bible would do?"
"Perhaps that would do as well as anything; I'll think about it."
"I should like to do it, very much," said Ellen, "for she has vexed me wonderfully."
"Well, Ellen, would you like to hear my other pieces of news? or have you no curiosity?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Ellen; "I had forgotten it entirely; what is it, Miss Alice?"
"You know, I told you one concerns only myself, but it is great news to me. I learnt this morning that my brother will come to spend the holidays with me. It is many months since I have seen him."
"Does he live far away?" said Ellen.
"Yes he has gone far away to pursue his studies, and cannot come home often. The other piece of news is, that I intend, if you have no objection, to ask Miss Fortune's leave to have you spend the holidays with me too."
"Oh, delightful!" said Ellen, starting up, and clapping her hands, and then throwing them round her adopted sister's neck; "dear Alice, how good you are!"
"Then I suppose I may reckon upon your consent," said Alice "and I'll speak to Miss Fortune, without delay."
"Oh, thank you, dear Miss Alice; how glad I am! I shall be happy all the time from now till then thinking of it. You aren't going?"
"I must."
"Ah, don't go yet! Sit down again; you know you're my sister don't you want to read Mamma's letter?"
"If you please, Ellen I should like it very much."
She sat down, and Ellen gave her the letter, and stood by while she read it, watching her with glistening eyes; and though, as she saw Alice's fill, her own overflowed again, she hung over her still to the last; going over every line this time with a new pleasure:
"New York, Saturday, Nov. 22, 18 .
"MY DEAR ELLEN, "I meant to have written to you before, but have been scarcely able to do so. I did make one or two efforts which came to nothing; I was obliged to give it up before finishing anything that could be called a letter. To- day I feel much stronger than I have at any time since your departure.
"I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour in the day, nor a half hour, that the want of you does not come home to my heart; and I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This separation is a very hard thing to bear. But the hand that has arranged it does nothing amiss; we must trust Him, my daughter, that all will be well. I feel it is well; though sometimes the thought of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing committed to his care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh! my daughter, never forget to pray; never slight it. It is almost my only refuge, now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often how often through years gone by when heart-sick and faint I have fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the sorrows of life. And keep this letter, that, if ever you are like to forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again.
"My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I drink it mechanically, and set down my cup, remembering only that the dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no more. My child my child! words are poor to express the heart's yearnings, my spirit is near you all the time.
"Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you went, came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me. He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear Ellen, had for its immediate cause your proper and ladylike behaviour in the store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that, though I have seen him so many times, I am still perfectly ignorant of his name.
"We set sail Monday, in the England. Your father has secured a nice state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on the broad ocean, with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and probably much too sick to look at those. Never mind that; the sickness is good for me.
"I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first conveyance.
"And now, my dear baby my precious child farewell! May the blessings of God be with you! Your affectionate mother,
"E. MONTGOMERY."
"You ought to be a good child, Ellen," said Alice, as she dashed away some tears. "Thank you for letter me see this; it has been a great pleasure to me."
"And now," said Ellen, "you feel as if you knew Mamma a little."
"Enough to honour and respect her very much. Now, good-bye, my love; I must be at home before it is late. I will see you again before Christmas comes."
CHAPTER XXII.
Shows how Mr. Van Brunt could be sharp upon some things.
To Ellen's sorrow, she was pronounced next morning well enough to come downstairs; her aunt averring that "it was no use to keep a fire burning up there for nothing." She must get up and dress in the cold, again; and winter had fairly set in now; the 19th of December rose clear and keen. Ellen looked sighingly at the heap of ashes and the dead brands in the fireplace, where the bright little fire had blazed so cheerfully the evening before. But regrets did not help the matter, and shivering she began to dress as fast as she could. Since her illness, a basin and pitcher had been brought into her room, so the washing at the spout was ended for the present; and, though the basin had no place but a chair, and the pitcher must stand on the floor, Ellen thought herself too happy. But how cold it was! The wind swept past her windows, giving wintry shakes to the panes of glass, and through many an opening in the wooden framework of the house it came in and saluted Ellen's bare arms and neck. She hurried to finish her dressing, and wrapping her double-gown over all, went down to the kitchen. It was another climate there. A great fire was burning, that it quite cheered Ellen's heart to look at; and the air seemed to be full of coffee and buckwheat cakes; Ellen almost thought she should get enough breakfast by the sense of smell.
"Ah! here you are," said Miss Fortune. "What have you got that thing on for?"
"It was so cold up-stairs," said Ellen, drawing up her shoulders. The warmth had not got inside of her wrapper yet.
"Well, 'tain't cold here; you'd better pull it off right away. I've no notion of people's making themselves tender. You'll be warm enough directly. Breakfast'll warm you."
Ellen felt almost inclined to quarrel with the breakfast that was offered in exchange for her comfortable wrapper; she pulled it off, however, and sat down without saying anything. Mr. Van Brunt put some cakes on her plate.
"If breakfast's agoing to warm you," said he, "make haste and get something down; or drink a cup of coffee you're as blue as skim milk."
"Am I?" said Ellen, laughing; "I feel blue, but I can't eat such a pile of cakes as that, Mr. Van Brunt."
As a general thing, the meals at Miss Fortune's were silent solemnities; an occasional consultation, or a few questions and remarks about farm affairs, being all that ever passed. The breakfast this morning was a singular exception to the common rule.
"I am in a regular quandary," said the mistress of the house, when the meal was about half over.
Mr. Van Brunt looked up for an instant, and asked, "what about?"
"Why, how I am ever going to do to get those apples and sausage-meat done? If I go to doing 'em myself, I shall about get through by spring."
"Why don't you make a bee?" said Mr. Van Brunt.
"Ain't enough of either on 'em to make it worth while. I ain't agoing to have all the bother of a bee without some thing to show for't."
"Turn'em both into one," suggested her counsellor, going on with his breakfast.
"Both?"
"Yes let'em pare apples in one room and cut pork in t'other."
"But I wonder who ever heard of such a thing before," said Miss Fortune, pausing with her cup of coffee half-way to her lips. Presently, however, it was carried to her mouth, drunk off, and set down with an air of determination.
"I don't care," said she, "if it never was heard of. I'll do it for once anyhow. I'm not one of them to care what folks say. I'll have it so! But I won't have 'em to tea, mind you I'd rather throw apples and all into the fire at once. I'll have but one plague of setting tables, and that. I won't have 'em to tea. I'll make it up to 'em in the supper, though."
"I'll take care to publish that," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"Don't you go and do such a thing," said Miss Fortune, earnestly. "I shall have the whole country on my hands. I won't have but just as many on 'em as'll do what I want done; that'll be as much as I can stand under. Don't you whisper a word of it to a living creature. I'll go round and ask 'em myself to come Monday evening."
"Monday evening; then I suppose you'd like to have up the sleigh this afternoon. Who's acoming?"
"I don't know; I han't asked 'em yet."
"They'll every soul come that's asked that you may depend; there ain't one on 'em that would miss of it for a dollar."
Miss Fortune bridled a little at the implied tribute to her housekeeping.
"If I was some folks, I wouldn't let people know I was in such a mighty hurry to get a good supper," she observed, rather scornfully.
"Humph!" said Mr. Van Brunt; "I think a good supper ain't a bad thing, and I've no objection to folk's knowing it."
"Pshaw! I didn't mean you," said Miss Fortune; "I was thinking of those Lawsons, and other folks."
"If you're agoing to ask them to your bee, you ain't of my mind."
"Well, I am, though," replied Miss Fortune; "there's a good many hands of 'em; they can turn off a good lot of work in an evening; and they always take care to get me to their bees. I may as well get something out of them in return, if I can."
"They'll reckon on getting as much as they can get o' you, if they come, there's no sort of doubt in my mind. It's my belief Mimy Lawson will kill herself some of these days upon green corn. She was at home to tea one day last summer, and I declare I thought "
What Mr. Van Brunt thought he left his hearers to guess.
"Well, let them kill themselves if they like," said Miss Fortune; "I am sure I am willing; there'll be enough; I ain't agoing to mince matters when once I begin. Now, let me see. There's five of the Lawsons to begin with I suppose they'll all come Bill Huff and Jany, that's seven "
"That Bill Huff is as good-natured a fellow as ever broke ground," remarked Mr. Van Brunt. "Ain't better people in the town than them Huffs are."
"They're well enough," said Miss Fortune. "Seven and the
Hitchcocks, there's three of them, that'll make ten "
"Dennison's ain't far from there," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Dan
Dennison's a fine hand at a'most anything, in-doors or out."
"That's more than you can say for his sister. Cilly Dennison gives herself so many airs, it's altogether too much for plain country folks. I should like to know what she thinks herself. It's a'most too much for my stomach to see her flourishing that watch and chain."
"What's the use of troubling yourself about other people's notions?" said Mr. Van Brunt. "If folks want to take the road, let them have it. That's my way. I am satisfied, provided they don't run me over."
" 'Tain't my way, then, I'd have you to know," said Miss
Fortune; "I despise it! And 'tain't your way, neither, Van
Brunt; what did you give Tom Larkens a cowhiding for?"
" 'Cause he deserved it, if ever a man did," said Mr. Van Brunt, quite rousing up; "he was treating that little brother of his'n in a way a boy shouldn't be treated; and I am glad I did it. I gave him notice to quit before I laid a finger on him. He warn't doing nothing to me."
"And how much good do you suppose it did?" said Miss Fortune, rather scornfully.
"It did just the good I wanted to do. He has seen fit to let little Billy alone ever since."
"Well, I guess I'll let the Dennisons come," said Miss Fortune; "that makes twelve and you and your mother are fourteen. I suppose that man Marshchalk will come dangling along after the Hitchcocks."
"To be sure he will; and his aunt, Miss Janet, will come with him, most likely."
"Well there's no help for it," said Miss Fortune. "That makes sixteen."
"Will you ask Miss Alice?"
"Not I; she's another of your proud set. I don't want to see anybody that thinks she's going to do me a great favour by coming."
Ellen's lips opened, but wisdom came in time to stop the words that were on her tongue. It did not, however, prevent the quick little turn of her head, which showed what she thought, and the pale cheeks were for a moment bright enough.
"She is, and I don't care who hears it," repeated Miss Fortune. "I suppose she'd look as sober as a judge, too, if she saw cider on the table; they say she won't touch a drop ever, and thinks it's wicked; and if that ain't setting one's self up for better than other folks, I don't know what is."
"I saw her paring apples at the Huffs', though," said Mr. Van Brunt, "and as pleasant as anybody; but she didn't stay to supper."
"I'd ask Mrs. Vawse, if I could get word to her," said Miss Fortune; "but I can never travel up that mountain. If I get a sight of Nancy, I'll tell her."
"There she is, then," said Mr. Van Brunt, looking towards the little window that opened into the shed. And there, indeed, was the face of Miss Nancy pressed flat against the glass, peering into the room! Miss Fortune beckoned to her.
"That is the most impudent, shameless, outrageous piece of .
What were you doing at the window?" said she as Nancy came in.
"Looking at you, Miss Fortune," said Nancy coolly. "What have you been talking about, this great while? If there had only been a pane of glass broken, I needn't have asked."
"Hold your tongue," said Miss Fortune, "and listen to me."
"I'll listen, Maam," said Nancy; "but it's no use to hold my tongue. I do try sometimes, but I never could keep it long."
"Have you done?"
"I don't know, Maam," said Nancy, shaking her head; "it's just as it happens."
"You tell your granny I am going to have a bee here next
Monday evening, and ask her if she'll come to it."
Nancy nodded. "If it's good weather," she added, conditionally.
"Stop, Nancy!" said Miss Fortune "here!" for Nancy was shutting the door behind her. "As sure as you come here Monday night without your grandma, you'll go out of the house quicker than you come in; see if you don't!"
With another gracious nod and smile, Nancy departed.
"Well," said Mr. Van Brunt, rising, "I'll despatch this business down-stairs, and then I'll bring up the sleigh. The pickle's ready, I suppose."
"No, it ain't," said Miss Fortune, "I couldn't make it yesterday; but it's all in the kettle, and I told Sam to make a fire down-stairs, so you can put it on when you do down. The kits are all ready, and the salt, and everything else."
Mr. Van Brunt went down the stairs that led to the lower kitchen; and Miss Fortune, to make up for lost time, set about her morning's work with even an uncommon measure of activity. Ellen, in consideration of her being still weak, was not required to do anything. She sat and looked on, keeping out of the way of her bustling aunt as far as it was possible; but Miss Fortune's gyrations were of that character, that no one could tell five minutes beforehand what she might consider "in the way." Ellen wished for her quiet room again. Mr. Van Brunt's voice sounded downstairs in tones of business; what could he be about? it must be very uncommon business that kept him in the house. Ellen grew restless with the desire to go and see, and to change her aunt's company for his; and no sooner was Miss Fortune fairly shut up in the buttery at some secret work, than Ellen gently opened the door at the head of the lower stairs, and looked down. Mr. Van Brunt was standing at the bottom, and looked up.
"May I come down there, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen, softly.
"Come down here? to be sure you may! You may always come straight where I am, without asking any questions."
Ellen went down. But before she reached the lowest step she stopped with almost a start, and stood fixed with such a horrified face, that neither Mr. Van Brunt nor Sam Larkens, who was there, could help laughing.
"What's the matter?" said the former "they're all dead enough, Miss Ellen; you needn't be scared."
Three enormous hogs, which had been killed the day before, greeted Ellen's eyes. They lay in different parts of the room, with each a cob in his mouth. A fourth lay stretched upon his back on the kitchen table, which was drawn out into the middle of the floor. Ellen stood fast on the stair.
"Have they been killed!" was her first astonished exclamation, to which Sam responded with another burst.
"Be quiet, Sam Larkens!" said Mr. Van Brunt. "Yes, Miss Ellen, they've been killed, sure enough."
"Are these the same pigs I used to see you feeding with corn,
Mr. Van Brunt?"
"The identical same ones," replied that gentleman, as, laying hold of the head of the one on the table, and applying his long sharp knife with the other hand, he, while he was speaking, severed it neatly and quickly from the trunk. "And very fine porkers they are; I ain't ashamed of 'em."
"And what's going to be done with them now?" said Ellen.
"I am just going to cut them up and lay them down. You never see nothing of the kind before, did you?"
"No," said Ellen. "What do you mean by 'laying them down,' Mr.
Van Brunt?"
"Why, laying 'em down in salt for pork and hams. You want to see the whole operation, don't you? Well, here's a seat for you. You'd better fetch that painted coat o' yourn and wrap round you, for it ain't quite so warm here as up-stairs; but it's getting warmer. Sam, just you shut that door to, and throw on another log."
Sam built up as large a fire as could be made under a very large kettle that hung in the chimney. When Ellen came down in her wrapper, she was established close in the chimney corner; and when Mr. Van Brunt, not thinking her quite safe from the keen currents of air that would find their way into the room, despatched Sam for an old buffalo robe that lay in the shed. This he himself with great care wrapped round her, feet and chair and all, and secured it in various places with old forks. He declared then she looked for all the world like an Indian, except her face; and, in high good-humour both, he went to cutting up the pork, and Ellen from out of her buffalo robe watched him.
It was beautifully done. Even Ellen could see that, although she could not have known if it had been done ill. The knife, guided by strength and skill, seemed to go with the greatest ease and certainty just where he wished it; the hams were beautifully trimmed out; the pieces fashioned clean; no ragged cutting; and his quick-going knife disposed of carcass after carcass with admirable neatness and celerity. Sam meanwhile arranged the pieces in different parcels at his direction, and minded the kettle, in which a great boiling and scumming was going on. Ellen was too much amused for a while to ask any questions. When the cutting up was all done, the hams and shoulders were put in a cask by themselves, and Mr. Van Brunt began to pack down the other pieces in the kits, strewing them with an abundance of salt.
"What's the use of putting all that salt with the pork, Mr.
Van Brunt?" said Ellen.
"It wouldn't keep good without that; it would spoil very quick."
"Will the salt make it keep?"
"All the year round as sweet as a nut."
"I wonder what is the reason of that," said Ellen. "Will salt make everything keep good?"
"Everything in the world if it only has enough of it, and is kept dry and cool."
"Are you going to do the hams in the same way?"
"No; they're to go in that pickle over the fire."
"In this kettle? what is in it?" said Ellen.
"You must ask Miss Fortune about that; sugar, and salt, and saltpetre, and molasses, and I don't know what all."
"And will this make the hams so different from the rest of the pork?"
"No; they've got to be smoked after they have laid in that for a while."
"Smoked!" said Ellen; "how?"
"Why, han't you been in the smoke-house? The hams has to be taken out of the pickle and hung up there! and then we make a little fire of oak chips, and keep it burning night and day."
"And how long must they stay in the smoke?"
"Oh, three or four weeks or so."
"And then they are done?"
"Then they are done."
"How very curious?" said Ellen. "Then it's the smoke that gives them that nice taste? I never knew smoke was good for anything before."
"Ellen!" said the voice of Miss Fortune, from the top of the stairs "come right up here, this minute! you'll catch your death!"
Ellen's countenance fell.
"There's no sort of fear of that, Maam," said Mr. Van Brunt, quietly; "and Miss Ellen is fastened up so, she can't get loose; and I can't let her out just now."
The upper door was shut again pretty sharply, but that was the only audible expression of opinion with which Miss Fortune favoured them.
"I guess my leather curtains keep off the wind, don't they?" said Mr. Van Brunt.
"Yes, indeed they do," said Ellen; "I don't feel a breath; I am as warm as a toast too warm, almost. How nicely you have fixed me up, Mr. Van Brunt!"
"I thought that 'ere old buffalo had done its work," he said; "but I'll never say anything is good for nothing again. Have you found out where the apples are, yet?"
"No," said Ellen.
"Han't Miss Fortune showed you? Well, it's time you'd know. Sam, take that little basket and go fill it at the bin; I guess you know where they be, for I believe you put 'em there."
Sam went into the cellar, and presently returned with the basket nicely filled. He handed it to Ellen.
"Are all these for me?" she said in surprise.
"Every one on 'em," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"But I don't like to," said Ellen; "what will Aunt Fortune say?"
"She won't say a word," said Mr. Van Brunt; "and don't you say a word neither, but whenever you want apples, just go to the bin and take 'em. I give you leave. It's right at the end of the far cellar, at the left-hand corner; there are the bins and all sorts of apples in 'em. You've got a pretty variety there, han't you?"
"Oh! all sorts," said Ellen "and what beauties! and I love apples very much red, and yellow, and speckled, and green what a great monster!"
"That's a Swar; that ain't as good as most of the others; those are Seek-no-furthers."
"Seek-no-further!" said Ellen; "what a funny name. It ought to be a mighty good apple. I shall seek no further, at any rate. What is this?"
"That's as good an apple as you've got in the basket; that's a real Orson pippin a very fine kind. I'll fetch you some up from home some day, though, that are better than the best of these."
The pork was all packed; the kettle was lifted off the fire;
Mr. Van Brunt was wiping his hands from the salt.
"And now, I suppose I must go," said Ellen, with a little sigh.
"Why, I must go," said he; "so I suppose I may as well let you out of your tent first."
"I have had such a nice time," said Ellen; "I had got so tired of doing nothing up-stairs. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt. But," said she, stopping as she had taken up her basket to go, "aren't you going to put the hams in the pickle?"
"No," said he, laughing, "it must wait to get cold first. But you'll make a capital farmer's wife, there's no mistake."
Ellen blushed, and ran up stairs with her apples. To bestow them safely in her closet was her first care; the rest of the morning was spent in increasing weariness and listlessness. She had brought down her little hymn-book, thinking to amuse herself with learning a hymn, but it would not do; eyes and head both refused their part of the work; and when at last Mr. Van Brunt came in to a late dinner, he found Ellen seated flat on the hearth before the fire, her right arm curled round the hard wooden bottom of one of the chairs, and her head pillowed upon that, fast asleep.
"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Van Brunt, "what's become of that 'ere rocking-cheer?"
"It's upstairs, I suppose. You can fetch it if you've a mind to," answered Miss Fortune, drily enough.
He did so immediately; and Ellen barely waked up to feel herself lifted from the floor, and placed in the friendly rocking-chair; Mr. Van Brunt remarking, at the same time, that "it might be well enough to let well folks lie on the floor and sleep on cheers, but cushions warn't a bit too soft for sick ones."
Among the cushions Ellen went to sleep again with a much better prospect of rest; and either sleeping or dozing, passed away the time for a good while.
CHAPTER XXIII.
How Miss Fortune went out and pleasure came in.
She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the house-door after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone forth on their sleighing expedition, and Ellen waked to find herself quite alone.
She could not have doubted that her aunt was away, even if she had not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the shed door the stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could be with Miss Fortune anywhere about the premises. The old grandmother must have been abed and asleep, too, for a cricket under the hearth, and the wood fire in the chimney, had it all to themselves, and made the only sounds that were heard; the first singing out every now and then in a very contented and cheerful style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps and sparks, that just served to make one take notice how very quickly and steadily it was burning.
Miss Fortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of neatness. Not a speck of dust could be supposed to lie on the shining painted floor; the back of every chair was in its place against the wall. The very hearth-stones shone, and the heads of the large iron nails in the floor were polished to steel. Ellen sat a while listening to the soothing chirrup of the cricket, and the pleasant crackling of the flames. It was a fine, cold winter's day. The two little windows at the far end of the kitchen looked out upon an expanse of snow; and the large lilac-bush that grew close by the wall, moved lightly by the wind, drew its icy fingers over the panes of glass. Wintry it was without, but that made the warmth and comfort within seem all the more. Ellen would have enjoyed it very much if she had had any one to talk to; as it was, she felt rather lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn; but it had set her off upon a long train of thought; and with her head resting on her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the other hand with the hymn-book lying listlessly in her lap, and eyes staring into the fire, she was sitting the very picture of meditation, when the door opened, and Alice Humphreys came in. Ellen started up.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I'm all alone."
"Left alone, are you?" said Alice, as Ellen's warm lips were pressed again and again to her cold cheeks.
"Yes, aunt Fortune's gone out. Come and sit down here in the rocking-chair. How cold you are! Oh, do you know she is going to have a great bee here Monday evening? What is a bee?"
Alice smiled. "Why," said she, "when people here in the country have so much of any kind of work to do that their own hands are not enough for it, they send and call in their neighbours to help them that's a bee. A large party in the course of a long evening can do a great deal."
"But why do they call it a bee?"
"I don't know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for the time. 'As busy as a bee,' you know."
"Then they ought to call it a hive, and not a bee, I should think. Aunt Fortune is going to ask sixteen people. I wish you were coming!"
"How do you know but I am?"
"Oh, I know you aren't. Aunt Fortune isn't going to ask you."
"You are sure of that, are you?"
"Yes, I wish I wasn't. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by something she said!"
"You mustn't get vexed so easily, my child. Don't let every little untowards thing roughen your temper."
"But I couldn't help it, dear Miss Alice; it was about you. I don't know whether I ought to tell you; but I don't think you'll mind it, and I know it isn't true. She said she didn't want you to come because you were one of the proud set."
"And what did you say?"
"Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, 'It's no such thing;' but I didn't say it."
"I am glad you were so wise. Dear Ellen, that is nothing to be vexed about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I trust Miss Fortune is mistaken. I shall try and find some way to make her change her mind. I am glad you told me."
"I am so glad you are come, dear Alice!" said Ellen again. "I wish I could have you always!" And the long, very close pressure of her two arms about her friend, said as much. There was a long pause. The cheek of Alice rested on Ellen's head, which nestled against her; both were busily thinking, but neither spoke; and the cricket chirped, and the flames crackled, without being listened to.
"Miss Alice," said Ellen, after a long time "I wish you would talk over a hymn with me."
"How do you mean, my dear?" said Alice, rousing herself.
"I mean, read it over and explain it. Mamma used to do it sometimes. I have been thinking a great deal about her to-day; and I think I'm very different from what I ought to be. I wish you would talk to me, and make me better, Miss Alice."
Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face that was uplifted to her, and presently said
"I am afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother,
Ellen. What hymn shall we take?"
"Any one this one, if you like. Mamma likes it very much. I was looking it over to-day:
'A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save
And fit it for the sky.' "
Alice read the first line, and paused.
"There, now," said Ellen "what is a charge?"
"Don't you know that?"
"I think I do, but I wish you would tell me."
"Try to tell me first."
"Isn't it something that is given to one to do? I don't know exactly."
"It is something given one in trust to be done, or taken care of. I remember very well once, when I was about your age, my mother had occasion to go out for half an hour, and she left me in charge of my little baby sister; she gave me a charge not to let anything disturb her while she was away, and to keep her asleep if I could. And I remember how I kept my charge, too. I was not to take her out of the cradle, but I sat beside her the whole time; I would not suffer a fly to light on her little fair cheek; I scarcely took my eyes from her; I made John keep pussy at a distance; and whenever one of the little, round, dimpled arms was thrown out upon the coverlet, I carefully drew something over it again."
"Is she dead?" said Ellen, timidly, her eyes watering in sympathy with Alice's.
"She is dead, my dear; she died before we left England."
"I understand what a charge is," said Ellen, after a little; "but what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have I to keep?"
"The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part of it. 'A God to glorify.' "
"To glorify?" said Ellen, doubtfully.
"Yes, that is, to honour to give him all the honour that belongs to him."
"But can I honour Him?"
"Most certainly; either honour or dishonour; you cannot help doing one."
"I!" said Ellen, again.
"Must not your behaviour speak either well or ill for the mother who has brought you up?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Very well; when a child of God lives as he ought to do, people cannot help having high and noble thoughts of that glorious One whom he serves, and of that perfect law he obeys. Little as they may love the ways of religion in their own secret hearts, they cannot help confessing that there is a God, and that they ought to serve him. But a worldling, and still more, an unfaithful Christian, just helps people to forget there is such a Being, and makes them think either that religion is a sham, or that they may safely go on despising it. I have heard it said, Ellen, that Christians are the only Bible some people ever read; and it is true; all they know of religion is what they get from the lives of its professors; and oh! were the world but full of the right kind of example, the kingdom of darkness could not stand. 'Arise, shine!' is a word that every Christian ought to take home."
"But how can I shine?" asked Ellen.
"My dear Ellen in the faithful, patient, self-denying performance of every duty as it comes to hand 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' "
"It is very little that I can do," said Ellen.
"Perhaps more than you think but never mind that. All are not great stars in the church; you may be only a little rushlight see you burn well."
"I remember," said Ellen, musing, "Mamma once told me, when I was going somewhere, that people would think strangely of her if I didn't behave well."
"Certainly. Why, Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon after I saw you."
"Did you?" said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face "what was it? was it good? ah! do tell me!"
"I am not quite sure of the wisdom of that," said Alice, smiling: "you might take home the praise that is justly her right and not yours."
"Oh no, indeed," said Ellen; "I had rather she should have it than I. Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice I know it was good, at any rate."
"Well, I will tell you," said Alice, "at all risks. I thought your mother was a lady, from the honourable notions she had given you; and, from your ready obedience to her, which was evidently the obedience of love, I judged she had been a good mother in the true sense of the term. I thought she must be a refined and cultivated person, from the manner of your speech and behaviour; and I was sure she was a Christian, because she had taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead you in it."
The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen gave way, long before Alice had done, to a burst of tears.
"It makes me so glad to hear you say that!" she said.
"The praise of it is your mother's, you know, Ellen."
"I know it but you make me so glad!" And hiding her face in
Alice's lap, she fairly sobbed.
"You understand now, don't you, how Christians may honour or dishonour their Heavenly Father?"
"Yes, I do; but it makes me afraid to think of it."
"Afraid! It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great honour and happiness for us to be permitted to honour Him
'A never-dying soul to save
And fit it for the sky.'
Yes that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never forget it, dear Ellen! And whatever would hinder you, have nothing to do with it. 'What shall it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'
'To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfil ' "
"What is 'the present age?' " said Ellen.
"All the people who are living in the world at this time."
"But, dear Alice, what can I do to the present age?"
"Nothing to the most part of them, certainly; and yet, dear Ellen, if your little rushlight shines well, there is just so much the less darkness in the world though perhaps you light only a very little corner. Every Christian is a blessing to the world another grain of salt to go towards sweetening and saving the mass."
"That is very pleasant to think of," said Ellen, musing.
"Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant it would be to do anything for him! how many ways we should find of honouring him by doing good."
"I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it," said Ellen.
"You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No one is so poor or so young but he has one talent at least to use for God."
"I wish I knew what mine is," said Ellen.
"Is your daily example as perfect as it can be?"
Ellen was silent, and shook her head.
"Christ pleased not himself, and went about doing good; and he said, 'If any man serve me, let him follow me.' Remember that. Perhaps your aunt is unreasonable and unkind see with how much patience and perfect sweetness of temper you can bear and forbear; see if you cannot win her over by untiring gentleness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no improvement to be made here?"
"Oh me, yes!" answered Ellen, with a sigh.
"Then your old grandmother. Can you do nothing to cheer her life in her old age and helplessness? can't you find some way of giving her pleasure some way of amusing a long and tedious hour, now and then?"
Ellen looked very grave; in her inmost heart she knew this was a duty she shrank from.
"He 'went about doing good.' Keep that in mind. A kind word spoken a little thing to smooth the way of one, or lighten the load of another teaching those who need teaching entreating those who are walking in the wrong way. Oh! my child, there is work enough!