We cannot give an account of half the disputes between Mrs. Merrill and Ellen which were generally reported to Mr. Villars by both parties, until he was ready to go anywhere from his hitherto quiet home, in search of peace. And yet, when the difficulties in which he had become involved through Mr. Leslie began first to be perceived, and Mr. Villars to fear that he must leave his home, it seemed dearer to him than ever. Besides, he would say to himself, as he sat thinking over the threatened changes—What is to become of these poor children—and my old servants—and Mrs. Merrill—good Mrs. Merrill—who, I am sure, never expected to leave me, and is now too old to look out new friends? Distressed by such thoughts, it is no wonder if Mr. Villars looked sad, and sat silent for hours together, sometimes looking out of a window sometimes turning his eyes upon a book which he generally held in his hand, as an excuse for not talking; though it was easy to see that he was not reading,—or if he was, it must be the same page, over and over again, as he never turned a leaf. Mary had noticed all this, and it grieved her greatly, for except Ellen, there was no one now in the world whom she loved half so well as her Uncle Villars. She tried at first to amuse him by talking to him; but finding that, though he always answered her kindly, he would at such times soon leave the parlor where they were seated, and go, either to his own room or to the library, she determined not again to disturb him when he seemed so thoughtful. But though Mary ceased to talk to her Uncle Villars, she could not cease to observe him and to wish that she knew the cause of his sadness. This cause she at last thought she had discovered in the differences of Ellen and Mrs. Merrill. Vainly did poor Mary try to accommodate these differences, her efforts generally ended in making both of the disputants displeased with her. It must not be thought that Mrs. Merrill was cross and ill-tempered. On the contrary, all her difficulties with Ellen arose from her desire to do what was kind and right by an orphan girl placed in her charge, for Mr. Villars before he brought his nieces home had said, "There will of course, Mrs. Merrill, be many things in which these girls will require the attention of a woman to their conduct and their comforts. In these things I know I may trust to your goodness,"—and Mrs. Merrill was determined his trust should not be disappointed.

Mary and Ellen had walked out together one afternoon, and when they returned, laid their bonnets carelessly upon the table in the parlor. There they remained, till Mrs. Merrill came in to see the table prepared for tea. "Miss Mary, Miss Ellen, why, here are your new crape bonnets. You should always put them away as soon as you come in; crape is very expensive, my dears, and very easily injured."

Mary rose and removed the bonnets from the table. Ellen remained seated with her head bent over a piece of paper, on which she seemed to be drawing.

"Miss Ellen," said Mrs. Merrill, "did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, Mrs. Merrill, I heard you."

"I will put both bonnets away, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary; "I always put Ellen's away for her."

"Well, my dear Miss Mary, that may be very kindly meant in you, but it would be far better that your sister should learn to do without you."

Ellen did not even look up—Mary moved towards the door, with the hope that if the bonnet was once out of sight all would be quiet, but Mrs. Merrill saw the movement, and irritated by Ellen's disregard of what she said, she exclaimed, "Stop, Miss Mary; I am sorry to find fault with you, who are generally so good, but I do not think it right in you to interfere, when I would have your sister learn to wait on herself. I am sure it is for her own good. I am sure it is not for my sake I take the trouble."

Mary looked earnestly at Ellen, but the head was perseveringly bent down, and except that her face had become quite red and her pencil moved very fast, any one might have supposed that she had not heard a word of what was passing. There stood Mary, with a bonnet in each hand, perfectly irresolute, afraid to speak to Ellen lest she should cause her to say something saucy—afraid to oppose Mrs. Merrill, who it was evident was now very determined. At length she ventured to say, "Ellen is busy drawing, Mrs. Merrill—"

Before she could add another word, Ellen, who scorned to offer any apology for her inattention to Mrs. Merrill's wishes, threw aside the paper and pencil, saying, "I am not busy at all—I was only making marks on the paper, Mary."

"I knew it—knew it," said Mrs. Merrill; "you were only making marks to show me that you did not care for me.

"Give me that bonnet, Miss Mary," taking Ellen's from her as she spoke, and laying it again on the table, on which in the mean time she had arranged every thing for tea. "There—let it lie there till Mr. Villars comes in. I will see if he thinks that a proper place for a young lady's bonnet."

Ellen smiled scornfully.

"Oh, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, with tears in her eyes, "do not plague poor Uncle Villars about it."

"I assure you, Miss Mary Leslie, I am not the one to plague your Uncle Villars. Many a year I have lived with him, and a quiet home we have both had of it till now, and the same will he say, I will be bound!"

"Ellen, dear Ellen, I am sure you would not do any thing to worry our good, kind Uncle Villars; come, dear Ellen, and take your bonnet up stairs."

"Mary, I wish you would let me and my bonnet alone. I did not ask you to take it up."

"Well—but, Ellen, poor Uncle Villars looks so sad already. Do not be obstinate, dear Ellen."

"I am not going to say or do any thing to Uncle Villars, Mary, and I think it's very hard if I am to be blamed for every thing—even for his looking sad; but nobody ever finds fault with me that you do not take their part."

"Oh, Ellen"—but Ellen turned away, and Mary with a heavy heart walked off with her own bonnet as she saw her Uncle Villars entering. Now, any one who has read this scene will perceive that Mrs. Merrill, although she was right in the thing itself which she would have had Ellen do, was very wrong in her manner of enforcing it. The only right way to govern any one is by giving them confidence in your kindly feelings towards them—by love. Now, Ellen was a spoiled child, and could not have confidence in the kindly feelings of any one who thwarted her. Mr. Villars saw all this, and therefore he had great patience with Ellen, and generally soothed her into some concession to Mrs. Merrill; very little would satisfy her kind spirit; and so the storm would for the time pass over. But these storms so frequently returned, that Mr. Villars felt, unless something could be done to arouse Ellen's own mind to a conviction of the evil of her temper and a determined effort to subdue it, she must always be unhappy herself, and the cause of unhappiness to others. As Mr. Villars became more interested in Ellen, as it was natural he should do from feeling that she was now wholly dependent on him, his anxiety on this subject increased, and he often found himself imagining different methods for correcting her faults.

One of Ellen's bad habits, and that which perhaps most materially interfered with Mrs. Merrill's comfort, was late sleeping, or rather lying in bed, for Ellen was in reality not asleep for an hour before Mary could induce her to rise,—but Ellen said if she was not asleep, neither was she wide awake. You may wonder that this practice should have interfered with Mrs. Merrill's comfort, as by keeping Ellen out of the way it would seem rather to promote her quiet; but Mrs. Merrill prided herself on her orderly housekeeping, and while she was too kind to let Ellen go without her breakfast, she was greatly annoyed at having to keep the table waiting for her. Mary would have taken some breakfast to her sister in their room, and so have obviated the difficulty; but this Mrs. Merrill would on no account permit, lest the carpet or the bedclothes should be slopped with tea or greased with butter. A few mornings after the scene with the bonnet, Mary having risen as usual and dressed herself, began her efforts to arouse Ellen.

"Ellen—wake, Ellen—I hear Uncle Villars moving about in his room."

Ellen, without speaking or opening her eyes, turned over and covered herself up more closely.

Mary spoke again, "Ellen—Uncle Villars has gone down stairs—he will ring the bell for breakfast presently."

Ellen did not stir.

Mary touched her,—put her arm around her and tried to raise her; Ellen flounced off to the other side of the bed, exclaiming, "Mary, let me alone."

"Oh, Ellen, jump up—there's the breakfast bell—you know nothing puts Mrs. Merrill so much out of sorts as our being too late to breakfast with Uncle Villars."

"I do not care for Mrs. Merrill's being out of sorts—cross old woman; she might just as well let me have my breakfast up here as not. I will lie half an hour longer just to spite her."

"But, Ellen, Uncle Villars—"

"Uncle Villars does not care a pin about my getting up, if he only has you to sit by him; you know that as well as I do."

"Well, I care, Ellen—"

"Oh do, Mary—go, and eat your breakfast, and let me alone."

Another ring of the breakfast bell hurried Mary off, exclaiming, "Make haste, Ellen, and you may get down yet before we are done—I will eat very slowly."

The affectionate kiss with which Mr. Villars saluted Mary was followed by the question, "Where is Ellen?"

"Miss Ellen is not awake yet, I suppose, Miss Mary."

Mary at that moment heard Ellen's step on the floor above, and answered quickly, "Oh, yes, Mrs. Merrill, she is awake and up."

"Well," said Mr. Villars with a good-humored smile, "if she is up, we may hope she will soon be down."

Mary did hope so, and she seated herself cheerfully by her Uncle Villars, while Mrs. Merrill poured out coffee. The nice hot cakes and Uncle Villars' pleasant chat made Mary quite forget her promise to eat slowly, until just as she was concluding her breakfast, Mrs. Merrill, approaching the door, said, "Your sister stays so long, Miss Mary, I will go and see if she wants any thing."

"I will go, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, starting up; but it was too late, and she seated herself again, exclaiming, "Oh! I am so sorry."

"Poor child," said Mr. Villars, "you look as much frightened as if you were afraid that Ellen would be beaten. Mrs. Merrill may scold a little, but cheer up, I am sure she would not hurt Ellen for the world."

"Oh no, Uncle Villars, I know she would not; it was not that which made me feel sorry."

"What was it then, child?"

Mary looked down and colored as she said, "Ellen is not used to being crossed at all, you know, Uncle Villars, and Mrs. Merrill is not used to Ellen's ways, and so they do not understand each other; and—and—I am sure when they come to you, Uncle Villars, it must worry you who always lived so quietly before we came."

Mr. Villars did not see exactly what Mary was coming to, but he answered, "It has disturbed me, my dear, very much, I acknowledge, but more for Ellen's sake than my own."

"I have seen, Uncle Villars, how very badly you felt about it; and I have been thinking—perhaps—you had better send us away."

Mary gave this advice slowly and hesitatingly, and as she looked up upon concluding it, her eyes were full of tears; for Mary loved her Uncle Villars dearly, and she was old enough to know something of her own and Ellen's situation, and to feel how sad it would be for them to be sent away from the house of their best friend to live among strangers. Mr. Villars saw the tears in Mary's eyes, and he understood all her tender and generous thoughts, and drawing her to him he laid her head on his shoulder, and putting her hair aside, kissed her forehead, calling her, "Dear child—dear child." He was silent a moment, and any one who had looked closely at him would have seen that his own eyes glistened; then he added, "It is one of my chief sorrows, Mary, that we shall be obliged to part; but not for the reason you think—not on poor Ellen's account—though I sometimes hope it may be the cause of good to her."

At this moment the parlor door was thrown open, and Ellen entered hastily. She was followed by Mrs. Merrill, neither of them wearing very placid faces. Mr. Villars, not desiring to hear the complaints on either side, rose from table, and still holding Mary's hand, said, as he gave Ellen his morning kiss, "Eat your breakfast, my dear, and then come to the library; you will find Mary there, and I have something to tell you."