Mary, I have already said, had nursed her father through his long, tedious illness. She had seen him grow weaker and weaker, and she was therefore in some degree prepared to see him die. But with Ellen it was very different. Mary always tried to save her pain. She would not let her spend much time in the sick-room; and indeed, though Mr. Leslie was a very fond father, and was always glad to see Ellen, he never wished her to remain long,—for, if she thought him very ill, she would weep so passionately that it agitated him, and if she thought him better, she would be very noisy in her gladness. Then, if she attempted to do any thing for him, she would move in such a hurried manner, that it was awkwardly done, if she succeeded in doing it at all. All this proceeded from Ellen's never having learned in any way to control her feelings. It was love for her father which made Ellen weep or laugh, and caused her to move in haste when she was told to hand him any thing; but Mary loved her father quite as well as Ellen, and when she saw him suffering, tears would often stream down her cheeks, yet she would keep down every sound which could call his attention to her sorrows. If he was more comfortable, you might tell it as soon as you entered the room by the bright smile upon her face, yet she never disturbed his repose by loud talking and laughing, and though delighted when called on to serve him, she knew, that really to serve him, she must move very quietly. This was what is called self-control, and without it let me tell you, my young friends, that however kind your feelings may be, however good your intentions, you will never make yourselves either useful or agreeable to others. Poor Ellen! she had it not—she had never learned to control either her temper or her feelings, and you will see how sadly she suffered in consequence.

I have told you that Mary, from being much with her father, was in some degree prepared for his death, while to Ellen it was quite unexpected. I need not tell you that to both of them it was a very sad event,—the youngest of you can feel how very sorrowful it would be to part with the father who has played with and patted you, who has nursed you in sickness, and taken care of you in health, and been kind and loving to you always,—to part with him, not for a day, or a week, or a month, or a year,—but for as long as you live,—not to have him go where, though you cannot see him, you may hear from him and know that he is well and happy, and still cares for you, but to have him lie down in the grave, the still grave, from which no voice of love can come to you. But perhaps, if you were obliged to part with your father, you would have a tender mother left to sooth you and take care of you; but Mary and Ellen Leslie had not this comfort, and when they saw their father carried out in his coffin, they might have felt that, except their kind Uncle Villars, there was no one who would care very much if they were laid alongside of him. As you grow older you will discover that persons who grieve together, who sorrow for the same things, love each other far more dearly than those who are only glad together. I cannot very well explain to you why this is, but we all feel it,—and Mary and Ellen Leslie felt it, as they lay the night after the funeral folded in each other's arms, helpless, and but for one kind heart, friendless orphans.

Yet even then poor Ellen had a grief which was all her own. "Oh, Mary! you were never in a passion with poor papa, and said angry words to him and grieved him. Oh, dear Mary! do you think he remembers them now?"

Dear children who read this little book, hear me and forget not my words,—this is the bitterest grief of all, to feel that you have given pain to that kind heart which is gone from you, which never can come back to hear your repentance or forgive your injustice. Save yourself from such sorrow by kindness and gentleness to your friends, and obedience to your parents while they are with you.

Mr. Villars soon removed these children from their now sad home to his smaller and humbler, but more cheerful residence. Mr. Villars had never been engaged in any business. His property was small, and while his wealthier friend and brother-in-law, Mr. Leslie, had surrounded his family with elegancies and luxuries, he had been obliged to content himself with comforts. I say obliged to content himself, but I do not know that Mr. Villars ever desired more. Indeed, I should have thought him an unreasonable man if he had,—every thing around him was so neat, so perfectly comfortable, and all was kept in order so quietly by the very best old housekeeper in the country, who had lived with him ever since his wife's death, and who thoroughly understood his ways. It was no slight praise to good old Mrs. Merrill, his housekeeper, to say that she understood Mr. Villars' ways, for I assure you they were by no means so easy to understand as those of most people. Mr. Villars had lived so long alone, with nobody's tastes to consult but his own, that he had acquired all the set habits which people generally suppose to belong only to an old bachelor. He was thought very whimsical, and certainly often did things which to the rest of the world seemed very odd; and though, when he gave his reasons, every one was compelled to acknowledge them to be very good, they were often such as would have been thought of by few but himself. Mrs. Merrill was a very kind woman, and received Mary and Ellen with great tenderness, but she too had her oddities as well as Mr. Villars. Like most persons who have had little to do with children, she was constantly afraid of their getting into some trouble or mischief, and she watched these girls, the youngest of whom was then twelve years old, with as much care as if they were only four or five. Even Mary felt this unusual degree of attention to be an unpleasant restraint, but to poor Ellen, who had all her life done just as she pleased, it was perfectly intolerable, and she could not restrain the expression of her impatience under it.

"Be very careful of the light, Miss Mary, and do not put it so near the curtains, my dear," said Mrs. Merrill, on the second evening that Mary and Ellen Leslie had passed in their new home, as she was giving them their night lamp, after they had said good-night to their uncle.

"I will be very careful, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary with a smile.

"And Miss Ellen, I am busy just now and cannot go with you to your room, but your sister will untie your clothes, I dare say, if you ask her kindly, and I will come by-and-by, and see that they are nicely folded and put away."

"I always fold my clothes myself," was the somewhat ungracious reply to the good woman's well-meant offer.

As the sisters entered their room Ellen shot the bolt of her door, exclaiming, "There, we are safe from that teasing Mrs. Merrill!"

"Oh, Ellen! she is very kind, and we must not forget, my dear sister, that there are not many in the world now, who take interest enough in us to care what we do." Ellen was softened and went tearfully to bed. Mary soon followed her, and they were just comfortably arranged when some one tried to enter, and finding the door bolted, tapped.

"Who is that?" exclaimed Ellen impatiently.

"It is only I, Miss Ellen," answered Mrs. Merrill, "I have come to put the light out and cover you up nicely."

"The light is out and we are covered," was the peevish reply which arose above Mary's "Thank you, Mrs. Merrill, we are in bed already."

"Oh, Ellen! how could you speak so angrily, and hurt the kind old woman's feelings." Ellen could not bear to hurt anybody's feelings, and the next moment she was out of bed, had unbolted the door, and was running barefooted through the hall, calling to Mrs. Merrill. Mrs. Merrill was half way down stairs, but she came back, hurried and alarmed, exclaiming breathlessly, "What is the matter, my dear, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, ma'am," said Ellen very respectfully and penitently, "except that Mary said that I had hurt your feelings, and I am very sorry for it. I only meant to say we were in bed already."

"Hurt my feelings—oh dear, no! poor child! and did she make you get up for that," putting her hand kindly on Ellen's head as she spoke—"oh no! you did not hurt my feelings—I never mind what children say."

Ellen flirted off and jumped into bed more angry than ever, that Mrs. Merrill should have thought Mary had made her get up to speak to her, and that she should think her of so little consequence as not to mind what she said.