A week passed away, and nothing occurred in the little school to make Mary think again of her fears. Ellen seemed to like being a teacher; and if she laughed and talked and played with her pupils a little more than was quite consistent with her new dignity, they liked her all the better for it, and learned, from a wish to please her, more than they would perhaps have done if more constrained. As for Mary, Mrs. Maclean said, "It was just a wonder to see how that young bit of a thing, that was nothing but a child herself, would sit sewing so steady like, and never seem to be thinking of any thing but her work; and yet if any of the young ones got in a snarl, and Miss Ellen's voice only sounded quick like, she was up in a minute, and helped them so quietly along that they hardly knowed that she was a helping till they got through."

Ellen had even exerted herself to rise early, that she might be ready for her scholars; but the second Monday morning after the commencement of her labors she seemed to find this an unusually difficult task, and when Mary, who had been some time below stairs, came back to tell her that it was eight o'clock and breakfast was ready, and unless she dressed herself quickly the children would be there before their room was in order, she exclaimed, "Those children! I am sure I wish I had never seen them or heard of them. It is bad enough to have to teach the stupid things, without being obliged to get up at daybreak for them."

"Daybreak, Ellen!" said Mary, moving the window-curtain and letting in a stream of sunshine.

"Well, I don't care what time it is, Mary, it is earlier than I choose to get up, and earlier than I would get up, if it was not for them; and there would be some comfort in it if one thought they would ever learn any thing: but for such a stupid set!"

"Stupid, Ellen!—why Mrs. Maclean and I have just been saying what bright intelligent children they were."

"Well," said Ellen, who had now talked herself into a really angry mood, "I suppose they do not learn because they have such a stupid teacher in me. I dare say if you will hear their lessons, they will do better."

"No, Ellen, I think they do learn—learn more with you than they would do with a grave, quiet person like me."

"I do think, Mary, you are the most contradictory person I ever saw in my life. When I hoped the children might be clever, you were sure they would be stupid; and now that I think them stupid, you have found out that they are wonderfully intelligent."

Mary finding that whatever she said tended only to increase Ellen's displeasure, did not remind her that the fears she had expressed had been quite as much of the impatience of the teacher as of the stupidity of the scholars.

Mrs. Maclean's call to breakfast on this morning was quickly and gladly obeyed by Mary, for she thought Ellen's irritation would subside sooner if she was alone. At any rate, thought Mary, when Ellen comes to say her prayers, her ill-humor will pass away. With this hope she went to the breakfast table, and when Ellen followed, received her so cheerfully, that her frowns soon began to wear away and the tones of her voice to grow more pleasant. They had not yet risen from the table when Anna Melville rushed in, sparkling with joyous expectation.

"Mary and Ellen, papa is going to carry us to see the caravan of animals at N., and if you were not going to have school to-day, he would carry you with us. Must you have school? Can't you manage so as to go?"

Mary was delighted at the prospect of such a pleasure for Ellen, and she answered quickly, "We cannot both go, Anna—but Ellen can."

"I am sure, Mary, I don't see how I can go any more than you. Any one would think, to hear you, that I did nothing at all in the school."

"You know, Ellen, that I cannot mean that, for you do a great deal more than I, but I can take your place and give you a holiday for one day."

"Yes, and have Uncle Villars think when he comes back again that I have done nothing but amuse myself while you were at work. I thank you, Anna—but I cannot go to see caravans. I must stay and keep school."

Anna stood irresolute.

"Mary, cannot you go?" said she at last.

"Thank you, Anna," said Mary, "but I should not enjoy it unless Ellen could go too."

"Mary, I beg you will not stay at home on my account."

Anna saw that neither of the sisters was going, and she bade them good morning, and left the house with a much more serious face and more sedate step than that with which she entered it, for ill-humor has the property of making all unhappy who come within its reach. As Anna opened the door, Mr. Maclean's market-cart drove up with Susy and Martha. The children stood for a moment, after leaving the cart, to look at her, and before she was out of hearing Ellen was calling from the house, "Susy, Martha, if you stand all day staring there I might as well have pleased myself by going with Anna Melville, as have stayed at home to teach you."

"Did you want to go, Miss Ellen?"

"That is of no consequence," said Ellen, "for if I wanted to go ever so much I could not."

"Oh yes—but you could," said the kind-hearted girls; "now do go, and we'll get our lessons just the same, and say them all to you to-morrow."

"That may suit you just as well, but your father would hardly be willing to pay his money if you were left to get your lessons by yourselves."

"Oh, I'm sure my papa wouldn't mind about it."

Ellen impatiently pushed the child nearest to her into the room, saying, "I do wish you would go to your lessons, and hush talking about what does not concern you!"

It will readily be believed that Mary had to help Ellen and the children through many a "snarl," to borrow Mrs. Maclean's significant, though not very elegant expression, on this day. But the evil did not stop there. Three of the girls were sent home weeping and indignant, to complain that Ellen Leslie had called them by some unkind or disgraceful epithet. These girls brought back the next morning messages from their parents, intimating that they were sent to school to Mary Leslie, and that it was hoped she would teach them herself. Poor Mary! she scarce knew how to meet this difficulty. To comply with the request would grievously wound and displease Ellen, who had really, till this unlucky day, given no just cause of complaint; not to comply with it would as certainly displease several of those on whose support her school depended. But better lose their support—better lose any thing, Mary said to herself, than create unkind feelings between Ellen and myself. So she tried to pacify the children and satisfy the parents without making any change in the arrangements of the school.—Perhaps, had Ellen seconded her efforts, she would have succeeded, but Ellen could not forget the mortification she had received from this affair, and scarce a day passed that she did not by some petulant word or action increase the dissatisfaction of her pupils or their parents, till one by one they were withdrawn. With them went the most certain profits of the sisters; yet it was with real satisfaction that Mary saw the door close upon the last scholar who left them, for she hoped now to see Ellen again cheerful and pleased as when they first came to Mrs. Maclean's. She turned smilingly towards her from the window at which she was standing, to express her satisfaction, and was surprised to find her weeping bitterly.

"Ellen, my own dear little sister, what is the matter? Surely you are not sorry that those children are gone who have plagued you so."

"No, Mary, I am not sorry they are gone, but I am sorry that I made them go. I know they all hate me, Mary, and their fathers and mothers hate me."

"Ellen—my dear Ellen—people don't hate each other for such little things."

"Oh yes, Mary—I heard the children say they hated me. Nobody will ever love me, and I can't help it—I am sure I can't help it; for I try to be good like you—but I can't, Mary—I can't. I wish I was dead, and buried with poor papa and mamma."

"Ellen—my dear Ellen! this is very wicked and very cruel, Ellen. You know that I love you, Ellen—that I love you dearly—better than I love any thing else in the world, and yet you want to die and leave me here by myself: what would I do without my own little sister!" Mary's voice became choked, and she too sobbed aloud. Ellen felt then that she had indeed been wicked and cruel to desire any thing which might grieve this loving sister. From this time she did try, and try successfully, to control her temper towards Mary herself, rarely being betrayed into any petulance towards her; or, if she were, endeavoring the next moment to atone for it, by double tenderness of manner and speech. But, impressed with the conviction that she was disliked by all others, she became daily more and more irritable towards them, more and more careless and defying in her manner, till she created the very dislike she had at first only fancied. Naturally affectionate, Ellen could not but suffer under a consciousness of this dislike, and hence the gloomy dissatisfaction which I noticed in her countenance on my first visit to Mary and herself after my return to H——.