Ellen slept so soundly that for a long time she did not even dream, or at least she did not remember any dreams; but at last she thought she was back again at H., sitting with Mary in their own room, and Mary was sewing and singing as she sewed,

And Ellen tried to sing with Mary, but in spite of all her efforts she could not make a sound, and she woke with her fruitless exertions. The sun was shining brightly on her window curtains, and she soon saw she was not at Mrs. Maclean's; yet still she heard singing, and it was the very same tune which she had fancied in her dream, but there were several voices, and Mary's was not among them. The music ceased very soon after she awoke, and Ellen lay wondering who had been singing so early, and whether they sang the words as well as the tune of Mary's song. She had been awake fifteen, or perhaps twenty minutes, when her door was cautiously opened, and Mrs. Herbert entered very softly.

"Oh—you are awake, Ellen," she said, as Ellen raised her head from her pillow to see who was entering: "I have looked in upon you once or twice this morning, but you were asleep, and I would not awake you."

"But I have been awake some time now, Aunt Herbert, and I want to know who it is that has been singing, 'I will not be a butterfly;' I was dreaming about Mary's singing it, and when I first awoke and heard it, I thought she was here."

"You did not hear those words, my dear, but only the tune, which the boys and I were singing to our morning hymn."

"Morning hymn?" repeated Ellen, looking inquiringly at her aunt, as she slowly proceeded in dressing herself.

"Is that a strange thing to you, Ellen?" asked Mrs. Herbert with a smile; "I hope you will be up to-morrow in time to join us in singing it: but now your breakfast is ready," and Mrs. Herbert led the way to the room in which they had taken tea the evening before, where Ellen found George and Charles. They greeted her very affectionately, begged permission to call her Ellen, because they should then feel more at home with her, than if they were obliged to say cousin or even sister Ellen, and before they had risen from breakfast had made many plans for her amusement. Charles would have carried her off at once to see his puppy, but Mrs. Herbert stopped them.

"I must have Ellen," she said, "a little while to myself this morning. This afternoon she shall go with you, if she like."

After the boys had gone out Mrs. Herbert went with Ellen to her room, and assisted her to put it in neat order. When this was done, Ellen in turn assisted her aunt in setting the breakfast things away and arranging the parlor.

As Ellen was rather of an indolent nature, and Mary had ever been ready to do for her what she did not like to do for herself, she had scarcely ever been actively employed for so long a time; yet she did not feel at all tired, but found herself more than once, when her aunt Herbert was silent, humming,

When Mrs. Herbert's domestic arrangements were completed, she said, "Now, my love, you have been of great service to me, and I must try to be of some service to you. I cannot expect you to study to-day, but we will unpack your books, and arrange some plan for your studies, which you will then be able to commence to-morrow."

When this had been done, it still wanted two hours to the dinner time, and Mrs. Herbert proposed that Ellen should sit by her and assist her with some needle-work. "And then," she added, "we shall be able to talk more quietly than we could do while moving about. There are many things that you can tell me, of which I am anxious to hear."

Ellen was much more willing to tell than she was to sew, but she was not yet sufficiently at ease with her aunt Herbert to object to any thing she proposed, and she accordingly found her thimble and scissors, and seating herself by her aunt's side, took the work she gave her without any expression of dissatisfaction.

"And now, Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, when the work had all been so explained that there were no more questions to ask about it, "I want you to tell me something about Mary—is she like you?"

"Mary like me!" exclaimed Ellen; "oh no, Aunt Herbert, Mary is more like you than she is like me."

"Indeed! does she look like me?"

"Well, I do not mean exactly that she looks like you, but she looks pleased like you, and moves about quietly, and never seems to be out of patience: everybody loves Mary."

There was something in the tone in which these last words were said that made Mrs. Herbert raise her eyes from her work and look at her niece. Ellen caught the glance, colored, and hung her head.

"And everybody loves Ellen too, I hope," said Mrs. Herbert, with a smile.

Ellen's head drooped yet lower, and she did not answer.

"Speak, my love; you were not jealous I hope of the love which was given to Mary?"

"Oh no, Aunt Herbert, I was not jealous of Mary; that is, I did not want people not to love Mary, but I did wish that they would love me too, and not to be so cross to me."

"Poor child," said Mrs. Herbert, feelingly, "was every one cross to you?"

"No, not every one. Mary never was cross to me—nor poor papa—nor Uncle Villars; though Uncle Villars did not love me as much as he did Mary."

"And why was this, Ellen? Did you think there was any reason for it?"

Mrs. Herbert spoke very gently, but again Ellen hung her head and looked abashed.

"Do not be ashamed to tell me, my love, what you thought was the cause. I love you, Ellen, very much, and all the more for telling me so freely what you think and feel. I think it a sad thing—a very great evil, not to be loved; and perhaps the cause of this in your own case may be one which, if I knew it, I could help you to remove."

"Oh no, Aunt Herbert, nobody can help me, for it is just my own bad temper."—Ellen was now weeping, and it was amidst sobs that she continued—"I cannot help it; I am sure I try to be good, and to please people and to make them love me. I do think I try a great deal harder than Mary does, and that makes me feel so much worse when they say unkind things to me; and then I cannot be still like Mary, but I get angry and talk back to them, and that makes them dislike me more and more, and I am sure it is not my fault, for I cannot help it."

Mrs. Herbert laid aside her work, put her arm around Ellen and drew her to her side, and laying her head upon her shoulder, spoke soothingly and tenderly to her, till she ceased to weep. When Ellen's sobs were hushed, she said, "My dear child, Aunt Herbert knows how you feel and how to feel for you, for she has suffered just as you do, from just such a bad temper."

"You, aunt Herbert!" exclaimed Ellen, raising her head and looking at her aunt with surprise, "did you ever have a bad temper?"

"I had just such a temper, Ellen, as you describe; wishing to be loved, anxious to please, so anxious that I was willing to do any thing for it, except control my hasty feelings or keep back my rash words."

"And how did you get over it, aunt Herbert?"

"The first step towards my deliverance from the evil, Ellen, was feeling that it was my own fault."

Ellen's face turned very red, and she answered quickly, "How can it be my fault when I try so hard to help it?"

"My child, the fault must lie somewhere; whose is it if it is not yours?"

"I didn't make myself," said Ellen, sullenly.

"And would you say, my dear Ellen, that the fault is His who made you?"

Ellen was silent—she dared not say this with her lips—yet it was the language of her heart.

"Ellen, since you began to notice your bad temper has it not become worse?—are you not more easily made angry now than you were formerly?"

Mrs. Herbert paused, but Ellen did not answer.

"Speak, my dear Ellen, you must place confidence in me, if you would have my help in getting rid of this evil. Is it not as I say, Ellen?"

"Yes," whispered Ellen, again hiding her face on her aunt's shoulder.

"Whose fault has this been, Ellen?—has God, do you think, continued to make your temper worse and worse?"

"I have lived with such cross, ill-natured people," murmured Ellen.

"Mary has lived with the same people; has it had the same effect on her?"

Ellen was silent.

"My dear child," said Mrs. Herbert, "I have not asked these questions to give you pain. It is not to mortify you, but to give you hope, that I would have you feel the fault to be yours, for your own fault you may correct; not so with the faults of others. And now, having convinced you, I hope, that the fault is your own, the next question is, what has been your fault—shall I tell you this, my love?"

Mrs. Herbert spoke so gently—so affectionately, that Ellen could not be angry. She answered very softly, "If you please."—"What this fault was, Ellen, your own words have shown. You say you have loved others and tried to please them, but you said nothing of loving God, and trying to please Him. You do not seem to have thought that the angry feelings and hasty words which displeased your friends were an offence to Him. You have thought of your temper as an unhappiness for which you were to be pitied, rather than as a great wrong for which you were to be blamed. You have even had hard thoughts of God, as if he had caused this unhappiness. Think of His kindness and love to you, Ellen, and be ashamed of such thoughts. Who but He gave you so tender a father—so kind a sister as Mary—and so generous a friend as your Uncle Villars? Look up at the sky and see the sun which He has placed there to give light and warmth—look around you on the earth, and see the flowers which clothe it with beauty and the fruits which it produces for your gratification—and be humbled, Ellen, that you should have thought this good God unkind?" Mrs. Herbert paused, for she was overcome for a moment by her own emotions.—"Do you not feel His love, Ellen?" she asked at length.

"But he did not make all these good and beautiful things for me," said Ellen, speaking in a whisper, as if she were ashamed of her own cavils.

"If not made for your gratification, Ellen, why were you created with senses to enjoy them—why have you eyes to see, the sense of smell for this delicious perfume which the breeze is bringing to us, and taste to find pleasure in your food?—But the half of His love I have not yet told you. Do you not remember, Ellen, that knowing you to be weak—seeing that you would meet trials and temptations in the world—that you would commit great faults and endure great sufferings in consequence of those faults—He sent His son into the world to show you how these trials might be borne and these temptations resisted, to teach you that He loved you even when you were sinning and suffering, and if you would but love Him in return and strive to please Him, He would aid your weak efforts, would pardon your sins, and give you peace here and heaven hereafter? And it is in this way, dear Ellen, that you can alone hope to get rid of that bad, sinful temper which has caused you so much pain. Think much of the goodness and love of your kind heavenly Father, that you may love and strive to please Him. This will make you watchful over the first beginnings of evil, the first rising up of angry feelings in your heart, and you will strive then to overcome them before they have become strong by indulgence. Yet with all your efforts, Ellen, I do not promise you that you will not often fail; but as you learn to trust in the love of God, you will acknowledge your faults to Him even as you would to an earthly father, and humbly ask Him to pardon and help you: and He will, Ellen,—He will help you, and through His help you shall conquer all evil."

Mrs. Herbert was silent, and Ellen remained for some time with her face concealed, neither speaking nor moving; at length she whispered, "And you will try to love me, Aunt Herbert, though I have told you how bad I am."

"I love you, dear child, a thousand times better for having told me, and I will never love you less for faults which you honestly acknowledge and earnestly strive to correct."

"And you will not tell George and Charles."

"Never: but now go to your room, and wash your face, lest that should tell them that you have been grieving."

Ellen obeyed, and she removed the redness from her face, but the thoughts and feelings which her Aunt had awakened, did not depart from her mind. Ellen had heard of God's goodness and love before, but never had they been so urged upon her—never had she been made so to think about them and to feel them; and the impression was abiding, for her Aunt was ever ready to awaken her observation to new proofs of that goodness and love. She had now a new reason to endeavor to conquer her faults,—the desire to do right—to obey God and please Him.

It must not be supposed, however, that any lesson, however well remembered and deeply impressed, could overcome in a day or a week, or even a month, the habits of Ellen's whole life. On the contrary, she had yet often to exclaim, with bitter sorrow, "Oh, Aunt Herbert! do you think I ever shall do right?" But she never now thought it was the fault of others when she did wrong; and although on such occasions she was grieved, more grieved than formerly, she never long felt hopeless, for she remembered that her Aunt Herbert had once been like her, and that the same heavenly Father who had aided her aunt to overcome the evil of her nature, loved her, and would hear her prayers. Yet she still had many terrible sufferings to endure from the evil which she had so long indulged, and some of these I will relate to you.