I have said that Charles Herbert's health had never been very strong. He had in consequence been a petted child, and though Mrs. Herbert never failed to rebuke any improper temper ever manifested by him, she never checked his mirth or playfulness, even when something of the spirit of mischief entered into it. Thus, while Charles was one of the most amiable and affectionate boys in the world, he was often, to a person as irritable as Ellen, one of the most provoking.

"What shall be done to the owner of this?" exclaimed Charles, as, running up the steps to the piazza in which Ellen was standing, about ten days after her arrival, he held up a letter addressed in very legible characters to "Miss Ellen Leslie," and what was more, in characters which Ellen knew to be Mary's. "What shall be done to the owner of this?" Then answering his own interrogatory, "She shall speak a speech, sing a song, or tell a riddle."

"Charles, give me my letter," said Ellen, trying to get it from him; but he eluded her grasp, and springing on the bannister surrounding the piazza, held it far beyond her reach, while he continued to answer her demands with, "The speech, the song, or the riddle, Ellen. Surely, a letter is worth one of them, and such a long letter too, the lines are so close."

While he ran on thus, Ellen, who had commenced with entreaties, proceeded to commands, angry threatenings, and bitter accusations.

"I'll tell your mother, sir, that you took my letter from me; stole it, for it is stealing to take other people's things. I would not be so mean; but I will see what she will say to you, sir; I will see if she will let you take every thing away from me, and ill treat me, just because I have not anybody to take my part," and overcome by passion, Ellen burst into tears.

In an instant Charles was at her side. "Oh, Ellen, don't cry; here is your letter. I am sure, Ellen, I did not mean to make you feel so bad by my foolish play; take your letter, Ellen."

"I won't take it," said Ellen, passionately, "I won't take it. I know why you give it to me now; you think your mother is coming, and you don't want me to tell her; but I will, sir."

Ellen had not time to say more, for Mrs. Herbert stood before them.

"Ellen—Charles, what is the matter?"

"Charles took my letter, and would not give it to me, though I begged him, till he thought you were coming, and then he wanted me to take it, that I might not tell you; but I would not take it from him, for I think it is very hard if he is just to take my things, and keep them as long as he likes, and then give them back to me, and never get even a scolding for it," was Ellen's passionate reply.

"Mother, you know that I was only playing with Ellen," was the explanation of Charles.

"It is not a kind spirit that finds sport in another's suffering, Charles."—Charles hung his head, pained and abashed by his mother's rebuke.—"There is your letter, Ellen. I think I may promise for Charles that he will never again pain you and displease his mother by such thoughtless conduct, and we will forgive him now."

But Ellen's anger had been too thoroughly aroused to be so easily appeased, and many hours had passed before her face lost its resentful expression, or her manners their cold reserve towards Charles.

Not far from Mrs. Herbert's house the lake set up into the land, forming a deep but narrow bay, and dividing her farm into two almost equal parts. Across this bay was laid a rude bridge only two planks in width, and with no defence but a slender hand-rail on the sides. It was of course never used by horsemen, but was sufficiently safe for foot-passengers. On the farther side of this bay lived the man who attended to Mrs. Herbert's farming business. The dairy had also been built near his house, for the convenience of his wife, who attended to it. To this dairy was a favorite walk with the children, the good-natured Mrs. Smith never failing to treat them to some of its products.

Ellen had been about five weeks with her aunt when she and Charles set out together on this walk. The sun was only an hour high, yet it was still warm, and she sauntered slowly along. Charles had lately become very expert in walking on stilts. As this was a very recent accomplishment, he was still very vain of it, and might generally be seen looking over the heads of people taller than himself. Especially did Charles pride himself on his ability to go on stilts over the bridge, which was in reality as safe for him as the dry ground, so long as he kept steadily on. On the afternoon of which we are speaking, he was elevated as usual, and would at one time stride rapidly on before Ellen, and then turn and come slowly back to her, and then wheel around and around her, ever, as he went and came, discoursing, not of what he could do, but of what his brother George could, for proud as he might be of his own powers, Charles was always ready to acknowledge that George excelled him. Ellen's temper was perhaps a little influenced by the sultry weather. However this may be, she certainly did not feel very pleasantly, and had more than once during their walk evinced considerable impatience. Several times she begged that Charles would not wheel around her so, as it made her dizzy—that he would keep farther off, as she was afraid of his stilts striking her—and at length she exclaimed, "Do, Charles, talk about something else besides what George can do. I am sick of hearing of it. I wonder if there is any thing that you think he cannot do."

Charles was vexed at this disrespect to George, and there was a little malice in the reply, "Yes, I don't think George can write poetry, as some other people I know can. I found some poetry this morning," he added, looking archly at Ellen, "and I am sure you will like it when you see it published in the G—— Mirror."

Ellen's face became crimson. Did any of my young readers ever attempt to write poetry? If so, they have only to remember how carefully they concealed their first effort, how much abashed they were at the idea of its being seen, how sensitive to the least appearance of ridicule, to understand the cause of Ellen's blush. Ellen had made more than one effort, but there was only one of her productions which she had ever thought of sufficient importance to preserve. This was a piece addressed to Mary, which she had kept with the hope that she might one day gather courage to send it to her. She had supposed it safe at the very bottom of the black silk bag which she carried on her arm, but she now began to fear, from the manner of Charles, that he had in some way got it. In this she was right. Ellen had not been so careful as she supposed in putting the paper into her bag, and afterwards, in drawing her handkerchief out, it had fallen unperceived upon the floor. Here Charles had found it. He read it, and saw by the handwriting it was Ellen's. Remembering the letter scene, he faithfully resolved not to tease her about it, but after he should have shown it to George, to give it to her without saying a word of his acquaintance with the contents. Ellen had vexed him now, however, and it was impossible to avoid making use of such an excellent mode of punishment. Charles saw Ellen's blush, but this proof of his power only stimulated him to fresh mischief. He stopped, and taking off his cap drew the paper from the inner side of the crown lining, where it had been carefully placed to secure it from the observation of others. Ellen, in the mean time, desirous of appearing quite unconcerned, passed on to the bridge, and was already upon it when Charles overtook her, exclaiming, "Stop, Ellen: what are you running off for? stop and hear it," which only made Ellen walk the faster.

"Well," said Charles, "you have no idea what you are losing," and he commenced repeating a piece of doggerel which had been manufactured by some boy he had known in G——

The artifice was successful. Ellen, relieved from her fears, turned round with a smile to listen, and Charles, planting his stilts in such a manner that she could not pass him in either direction without approaching nearer to the edge of the narrow bridge than she would like to do, held a paper in his hand high above her reach, and read from it in a loud voice, and with much flourish and parade—

"Let me go, Charles," exclaimed Ellen, endeavoring in vain to pass.

"Let me pass," almost shrieked Ellen, mad with anger, and losing all control of herself. "I will not stay to be laughed at," and she began with all her strength to push against one of the stilts.

"Oh! Ellen, just hear this line—'Whose patient love—'Stop, stop, Ellen, you'll throw me into the water," cried Charles hurriedly, as he felt the stilt yielding to the efforts of Ellen, to whom increasing anger lent new vigor. Ellen pushed on, either not hearing or not heeding. Perhaps she had not time to stay her hand, for it was but a moment and the stilt had passed off the bridge. Then came a crashing sound, as the hand-rail yielded beneath the weight of Charles—then a sharp cry of terror—a sudden plash—and Ellen stood alone upon the bridge, gazing in wild dismay upon the waters which had closed silently over the just now gay and animated boy.

But Ellen had not been the only spectator of this scene. The cry of Charles had been echoed from the bank. There had been a quick rush of some one to the spot where Ellen stood. She was conscious of a plunge into the water, on which her eyes were riveted with a stupifying, bewildering horror. How long it was she knew not—it seemed to her very, very long—ere George, for it was he who made the rush and the plunge, was seen swimming to the shore, bearing with him a body, which appeared to have no power to support itself, but rested a lifeless weight on his supporting arm. Ellen followed his every movement with a fixed, wild stare—she saw him land, still clasping one arm around that body—then her Aunt Herbert met him, and helped him to carry it. Ellen had not seen her before, but she now remembered that echoing cry, and knew that it had been hers. In all this time Ellen had uttered no sound—made no movement; but now Mrs. Herbert called her. Ellen drew near—near enough to see that still, pale face, with the bright eyes closed and the dripping hair hanging around it—to see the clinched hand, in which a remnant yet remained of the worthless paper for which she had done this. Ellen covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, and her voice was gentle as ever, though melancholy and full of pity, "he may live yet; at least let us not think of ourselves till we have done all we can for him. Run, Ellen, to Mr. Smith's—send him for the doctor—quick, quick, Ellen—then home—have a fire made—blankets got ready—send the first person you meet to help George and me in bearing—God grant," she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting herself and letting her head drop for a moment on the cold face which rested on her bosom, "God grant we may not be bearing the dead!"

Ellen flew rather than ran to Mr. Smith's, repeating to herself on the way the words which had put new life into her, "He may live—he may live." On the way she met a laborer, whom she sent forward to join her aunt and George. Her message to Mr. Smith delivered, she waited not to answer one of the many questions urged upon her, she did not seem to hear them, but rushing back, passed the sad, slow procession about half way, and had the fire made, the bed and blankets prepared, before they arrived. Then came the agony for her. To see that lifeless body, as she was called upon to help her aunt—to touch those cold limbs—to watch and wait in vain for some token of returning life—some mark that she was not henceforward to regard herself as a murderer—this was agony indeed.

Under Mrs. Herbert's direction all the usual restoratives for persons rescued from drowning were resorted to, and even before the physician who had been sent for appeared, some warmth was restored to the limbs, and a faint tinge of color to the cheeks. Oh the joy of that first hope of success—the yet greater joy, when those lips, which they had feared were sealed forever, unclosed, and a feeble voice proceeded from them murmuring "Mother."

"He is safe enough now," said the physician. Up to this moment Ellen had not made a sound expressive of her feelings. She was deadly pale, and had any one touched her, they would have found that she was scarcely less cold than the limbs she was chafing; but she was perfectly still. Now, however, as the physician's welcome words reached her ear, she clasped her hands together, uttered one cry, and would have fallen, had not George caught her. She was taken to her own apartment, and the doctor having given her a composing draught, ordered her to be put immediately to bed. Notwithstanding this, fever came on, and before morning Mrs. Herbert was called from her now quietly sleeping boy to the delirious Ellen. Ellen's constant cry during this delirium was, "I have killed him—I have killed him," repeated in every variety of tone, now low and plaintive, now wild and phrensied. At length, towards morning, she fell asleep.

Mrs. Herbert having seen that Charles was still quiet, and having obtained George's promise to call her if he awoke and inquired for her, returned to Ellen's room, and lay down beside her. Ellen continued to sleep for several hours, at first uttering low moans, and muttering to herself, as if disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but afterwards becoming quite still, and sleeping easily and naturally. Mrs. Herbert had arisen, and was seated beside her when she awoke, which she did with a start. She gazed for a moment at her aunt with some wildness in her countenance, but as Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her, this expression passed away, and putting out her hand to her, she said, "Aunt Herbert, I have had such a dreadful dream. I dreamed that I killed Charles. It is not true," she exclaimed quickly, "is it?" and Ellen raised herself on her elbow, and looked searchingly into her Aunt's face.

"No, my dear Ellen—Charles is almost well again."

"Almost well again," she repeated, and then was silent for some minutes, during which she lay with her eyes closed. At length tears began to steal down her cheeks, and in a low, tremulous voice, Ellen said, "I remember all now, Aunt Herbert: I hoped it was a dream; but I remember it all now, and I know that if you and George had not been walking that way just then, Charles would have been drowned, and I should have killed him—have killed your child—my own dear cousin Charles. Aunt Herbert, do you not wish I had never come to you?"

"So far from it, dear Ellen, that the more proof I have of the strength of this evil in your nature, the more rejoiced I am that by coming to me you have given me the power of helping you to subdue it. You were the occasion of very bitter suffering to me yesterday evening, Ellen; and yet, now that God in His mercy has restored my child, I can be thankful even for this lesson to you, if it influence you as I hope and believe it will—if you learn from it to dread anger as the beginning of murder. Human passion, Ellen, is like a raging sea, to which only the infinite God can say, 'hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther, and here shall thy waves be stayed.'"

Ellen remained quite still. Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks; but she did not, as was usual with her when agitated, weep violently. She seemed softened, subdued, humbled.

After some minutes had passed thus, she said, "Aunt Herbert, it seems as if I never could forget yesterday evening; and as if, so long as I remembered it, I never could be angry again. But I have so often thought I was cured, that I am afraid; do pray for me, Aunt Herbert—pray to God that I may never forget."

Mrs. Herbert was accustomed to pray with her children morning and evening, and she now knelt by Ellen's bed, and in the simple language of a child revealing its feelings to a father, poured out before God all those feelings of which Ellen's heart and hers were full. Fervently did she thank Him for having given them back, as if from the very grave, her beloved boy; for having saved the dear child beside her from the wretchedness of having taken away the life of another; and earnestly, solemnly did she pray that he would cast out from her that evil spirit, which, if it were indulged, would destroy her soul's life—would take from her that eternal life which the blessed Saviour had come into the world to reveal as the portion of all those who loved God and obeyed His commands.

Mrs. Herbert did not suffer either Ellen or Charles to rise on this day. When they met the next morning, nothing could be more touching than the humility with which Ellen entreated the forgiveness of Charles, and the generosity with which he declared that it was all his own fault, and that he never would tease her again.