Mr. Villars had now been gone six months, and the business which had taken him south, and which he had not supposed would detain him half so long, was not yet completed. Colonel Melville heard from him frequently, for to him he expressed all his wishes respecting his children, as he always called Mary and Ellen. Soon after the school was given up, he wrote to ask that Colonel Melville would let him know all he could learn about it, as Mary's account of her reasons for discontinuing her teaching was so confused and imperfect, that he was afraid there was something which she had not liked to tell. Before Colonel Melville had found time to reply to this letter, he received another from Mr. Villars to say that he had already learned all which he had requested him to ascertain, from Ellen, who had of her own accord written a full statement of the whole business, for fear, as she wrote, that he might blame Mary if he did not know all. "Poor child," Mr. Villars wrote to his friend, "her letter is a very sad one. Few things can be more sad than to see childhood, the brightest and most joyous period, the holiday of our lives, made miserable by evil passions. And yet, with all its sadness, Ellen's letter gave me pleasure, for it shows that she is beginning to feel the influence of that discipline from which, you know, I hope so much for her. She is beginning to learn the secrets of her own heart—to see that from the evil there, arises much of the suffering she endures. She must yet see more of this—feel more hopeless, more despondent—learn that there is no rest for her on earth—no rest for her anywhere except in making it the most earnest desire of her heart and effort of her life to do right—in a perfect willingness, when she has done this, to leave every thing which concerns her to the care of her Heavenly Father, and in such entire trust in that Heavenly Father's goodness, that even when she suffers she shall feel that it is his love which corrects her faults."

Perhaps you would like to see something of the letter which made Mr. Villars feel at once so much grieved and so hopeful for poor Ellen. I have it with me, and will extract a few sentences from it for your perusal. After giving a very fair account of the school, of the pleasure she at first felt in it, of the pains she took to please and improve the children, she relates very truly all which took place on that unlucky Monday morning—how reluctant she was to rise—how fretted with Mary for trying to persuade her that things were not so bad as she felt them to be—how disappointed that she could not go with Anna Melville, yet how unwilling to let it appear by her going that she was of no consequence at all, but that Mary could do just as well without her—how dissatisfied with herself for all these things—how that dissatisfaction made her impatient with the children—and how that morning's impatience was deepened into dislike by their resentment—their readiness, as she said, to give her up just for one cross word—their thinking so much more of Mary, who had never done any thing for them, than of her who had taken so much trouble with them. After this account Ellen adds, "And so it is always, Uncle Villars—everybody loves Mary without her caring for it or trying to make them love her; and I want them to love me, and do every thing I can to make them love me, and yet they never do,—nobody but Mary. Even you, Uncle Villars, though you were always very kind to me, did not love me as you loved Mary. I know it is because she is so good, and I have such a wicked, bad temper. But, Uncle Villars, I cannot help my temper—indeed I cannot, for I have tried very often, very often indeed. Many a time I have said to myself, when I got up in the morning—I will be good and kind to everybody to-day, and I will not say a cross word, or give an angry look, let them serve me ever so badly, but when people tease and worry me I forget it all. And so now, Uncle Villars, since I cannot help it, I mean to try not to care about it at all—not to love anybody except Mary, who loves me so much that I never get angry with her now, and you who were always so kind to me."

The letter here broke off abruptly, and was continued again several days after in these words: "What I was writing to you the other day, Uncle Villars, made me feel so bad that I had to put down my pen and cry. Since that, I have hardly thought of any thing else, and I am more and more convinced that it all comes from my bad temper; but that is no comfort, since I cannot help it. I am afraid you will think me very wicked, but I cannot help wishing I was dead. I think, then, when people saw me lying so pale and still, and knew that I could never say an angry word again, they would feel sorry for having been so hard upon me, and they would look kindly at me and speak kindly of me. I think of these things a great deal, but do not tell Mary so, for it would distress her. I am almost sorry for having written all about these feelings to you, Uncle Villars; but my letter must go now, for it has taken me a great deal of time to write so long a one, and I want you to know all about the school, for fear, as I said before, you should blame Mary."

About a month after Colonel Melville had received the letters of which I have spoken from Mr. Villars, I met Mrs. Maclean in one of my morning walks.

"And how are Mary and Ellen Leslie this morning, Mrs. Maclean?" asked I.

"Middling, ma'am, middling," replied Mrs. Maclean; "Miss Mary's looking a little pale, but I think it's trouble more than sickness."

"Trouble! why, I hope nothing has happened to disturb her."

"Nothing more than usual, ma'am; but that sister of hers is enough to worry out a saint; and I'm sure that's Miss Mary, if there ever was one."

"I fear Ellen is no favorite with you, Mrs. Maclean."

"Indeed, ma'am, and she was a very great favorite when first she came to me, for she was a lively, sprightly thing as ever I seed, but when she gets in her tantrums, she's more than mortal flesh can bear."

"But what do you mean by her tantrums, for I acknowledge I have never seen any thing in her which did not appear to me very excusable in a spoiled child."

"Well, ma'am, it may be so; that spoiled child may excuse it all; but, as I said, it's very hard for them to bear that didn't spoil her. Now, only this morning she asked me quite civil like for some more sugar in her tea; and I, to be just as civil as she, said, 'Come, help yourself, for I am afraid I won't suit you.'—Says she, 'I'm sure I'm not so very hard to be suited, and if you don't choose to help me I can go without.' And then I was mad at her perverse ways, and I said, 'Well, and if you can't put out your hand and help yourself, you can go without.' 'Yes,' says she, 'that's a very good excuse to save your sugar.' And then she keeps a-throwing out her insinuations of my stinginess, and how sorry her Uncle Villars would be for boarding them where they couldn't get enough to eat and drink; till I answered her, and says, 'Well, I'm sure he can't be no sorrier than I, for I would rather eat but one meal a-day in peace and quiet, than to take my good, hearty, three meals a-day with you quarrelling over them.' With that, up she gets, and says, 'I won't take my meals at anybody's table that don't wish me to, and I will never eat another meal at your table if I starve to death;' and sure enough, off she went up stairs without her breakfast. I shouldn't have minded that much, but poor Miss Mary went without her breakfast too, and had a good cry besides."