I Fear my story has seemed hitherto sad and gloomy to my young readers; but this could not be avoided, for over the fairest scenes and happiest circumstances, one such uncontrolled temper as Ellen's will spread sorrow and gloom. This temper was no longer uncontrolled, and what has since passed of her life is in beautiful and delightful contrast with its earlier portion. I say her temper was no longer uncontrolled. Her nature was as sensitive as ever—as quick to feel joy or pain, pleasure or displeasure; but Ellen had learned to rule these feelings, and not to be ruled by them—not to speak or act as they dictated, till satisfied that the speech or the action was right.

I cannot deny myself the pleasure of relating one or two scenes, which may illustrate the effect of this change upon the happiness of Ellen's future life.

The bloom of spring and the sultriness of summer had given place to the varied foliage and cool bracing breeze of November. It was a bright but cool day, and a cheerful fire blazed in the open fireplace of Mrs. Herbert's parlor. Around it were seated all her own family, and Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, who were spending the day with her. All the ladies of the party had some employment for the fingers. Mrs. Wallace had brought her knitting, Mrs. Herbert was sewing on a shirt, and on Ellen's lap lay a half-stitched wristband, which had just been put down at the request of Charles, that she might sew a ball for him. Mr. Wallace loved children, and was very observant of them. For some minutes he had silently watched Ellen, interested by the patience with which she had listened to the manifold directions of both her cousins, and once, when her work seemed nearly completed, had taken it all out, to make some alterations which had occurred to George as desirable. As she gave Charles the ball and resumed her wristband, Mr. Wallace said, "Ellen, do you remember at what time you came here?"

"Yes, sir; in May last."

"But what time in May?"

"I do not know what day of the month, sir," said Ellen, looking up with some surprise at her friend.

"It was the tenth of May," said Mr. Wallace; "and now do you know what day of the month this is?"

"The tenth of November, sir, I believe."

"You are right, it is the tenth, and your six months of trial are finished. You can now fairly judge between your home here and in H——; and as I shall be obliged to return to H—— in a week or two, on the same business which caused my visit there in the spring, if you desire to return, we can again be fellow-travellers. What say you to it, Ellen?"

Ellen glanced rapidly at her Aunt Herbert, and meeting her eyes fixed on her earnestly, tenderly, turned hers as quickly to the floor. She remained silent, but her cheek, now red, now pale, and the quivering motion of her lips, showed her agitation.

"Speak, my love," said Mrs. Herbert, laying her hand on Ellen's, "speak just as you feel. You have a perfect right to choose your home, and whatever the choice may be, none can complain."

"Oh, Ellen," began Charles, who did not altogether approve of his mother's neutrality, but a look from Mrs. Herbert silenced him.

Ellen opened her lips more than once as if to speak, but seemed unable to utter a word. Suddenly she turned again to her aunt, and passing her arms around her neck, hid her face upon her bosom. Mrs. Herbert folded her arms around her, and in a voice which in spite of herself faltered, asked, "Do you stay with us, Ellen?"

"Yes," said Ellen, looking up with a face on which there were both smiles and tears.

George seized her hand and shook it warmly, while Charles shouted for joy; and in the exuberance of his delight, threw his ball first to the ceiling and then across the room, making it pass in its second transit so near Mrs. Wallace's head that the old lady started and dropped her knitting.

"And what shall I tell Mary, Ellen?" asked Mr. Wallace.

"That she must come to me, sir."

"I shall say that you have not forgotten her."

"Forgotten Mary!" exclaimed Ellen; "oh no—tell her I never thought so much of her goodness to me or loved her so dearly as I do now. Oh, how happy I shall be when she comes!—but I cannot leave Aunt Herbert," and Ellen again put her arm around her aunt's neck.

"You are my daughter now, and daughters, you know, do not leave their mothers willingly even for their sisters," said Mrs. Herbert, with an affectionate smile.

Ellen returned the smile as she answered, "Yes, and that is not all."

"What more is there, Ellen?" asked Mr. Wallace.

"Why, I first learned to be happy here, sir; and I am afraid if I went away, that—that—"

"That you would forget the lesson?" inquired Mr. Wallace.

"Yes, sir."

"There is no danger of that, I think, Ellen—it is a lesson you have learned very thoroughly," said Mrs. Herbert; "and it is one," she added, "not easily forgotten."

Something more than a year had now elapsed since Mr. Villars' departure for the South, and still his return was delayed. He now wrote that he hoped by the next spring to bring the business which had taken him there to a prosperous conclusion. The property which he was endeavoring to recover had risen in value of late, and should he be successful, Mary and Ellen would possess fortune sufficient for all their reasonable wants. But as Mr. Villars, though hopeful, was not certain of success, he was still unwilling that Mary should leave H. for her Aunt Herbert's, thus relinquishing the employment she had already received there, while for the same reason he rejoiced that Ellen was under the care of one so capable of giving to her a thoroughly accomplished education as was Mrs. Herbert.

Winter passed away; spring again brought flowers and perfume and balmy airs to all—and to Ellen bright hopes. Mr. Villars had written lately more sanguinely than ever of his success, at any rate, when he wrote last, in a week the lawsuit on which all depended would be decided. He would then return, and then Mary and Ellen would meet. You have seen that during the year of their separation a great change had taken place in Ellen's character, and you will readily believe that there had also been some alteration in her personal appearance. She was now fourteen, and she had grown tall and womanly in figure, while there was far more of the glad-heartedness of early childhood shining in her face, than could have been seen there a year before. Her heavy indolent movements, too, were replaced by a springy, elastic step. In a word, Ellen was happy, and that happiness showed itself in words, and looks, and tones. No sullen resentment clouded her brow, no angry passion made her voice harsh, no bitter self-reproach for unjust thoughts and unkind speeches lay heavy upon her heart; all looked kindly on her, and Ellen no longer feared that she was not loved.

It was about three weeks after the reception of that letter from Mr. Villars to which we have alluded, that returning from an afternoon's ramble with her cousin, Ellen, on entering the piazza, saw through the open parlor window a gentleman's head. Her heart beat quickly—it might be her Uncle Villars; she approached nearer the window, and looked anxiously in—there was a lady, but too tall for Mary. Ellen forgot that Mary was seventeen, and had had a year in which to grow, since she saw her. The lady turned her head—the next moment the sisters were in each other's arms. "My own dear Mary!" "My darling Ellen!" were their only words—their feelings, who shall describe?

"And, Uncle Villars, you can live in your own house again, now, and have poor Mrs. Merrill back—can you not?" asked Ellen, after Mr. Villars had announced that he had gained the object of his southern journey.

"Yes, Ellen, for it is no longer necessary for me to be so careful of my expenditures, since you and Mary no longer want any assistance from me. The house has been unoccupied for some months, and Mrs. Merrill is already there getting every thing in readiness for us against we return."

Ellen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looking up with a merry smile, she said, "Uncle Villars, I have a puzzle that is more difficult than the fox and the goose, and nobody can help me with it but you and Aunt Herbert."

"Well, what is it, Ellen?"

"Why, how am I to stay with Aunt Herbert and George and Charles, and yet go with you and Mary?—One thing is certain, I cannot part with any of you."

"I have thought of this myself, Ellen, and I have a plan for the accomplishment of your wishes, if you can win your Aunt Herbert's consent to it."

"What is it?" exclaimed Ellen, eagerly.

"That she should remove to H., which was her own early home, and which offers much greater advantages for the education of her sons and their entrance into life, than their present situation."

"That would be delightful," said Ellen.

The day after this conversation, Mrs. Herbert was walking with Mr. Villars over to the Dairy Farm, as the residence of Farmer Smith was called. In passing the bridge she related to him the circumstances attending the fall and rescue of Charles—the great distress of Ellen, and the unremitting and successful efforts she had since made to overcome that evil nature which had so nearly produced such fatal consequences.

"Since that time," continued Mrs. Herbert, "though I have seen Ellen's temper tried, and her anger excited, I have only known that it was so by the sudden sparkle of the eye, or the quick flush of the cheek. She knows the danger of yielding for a moment, and you can see on such occasions that her whole nature is aroused to resist the evil, to subdue the passion. Of late these conflicts with herself are very rare, for she grows every day more gentle and forbearing. I cannot express to you, Mr. Villars, how dear she has become to me. To her cousins she is a patient, affectionate sister, to me a tender and devoted daughter; our home will long be darkened by her departure. How can I let her go from us—yet how can I ask you and her sister to give her up!"

Mrs. Herbert spoke with deep emotion, and Mr. Villars felt that there could not be a more fortunate moment for his proposal. When Mrs. Herbert first heard it, she shook her head, and looking around her said, "I cannot part with this place, Mr. Villars, it has too many endearing associations."

"If by parting with it you mean selling it, there is no necessity for your doing so; let Mr. Smith, whom you know to be an honest man, continue to farm it as he now does: you can even spend part or the whole of every summer here, for travelling costs little now. The board which, as the guardian of Mary and Ellen, I should feel bound to pay you, would meet any difference in the expense of your establishment here and in H——; and the advantages which your care would ensure to them, I would endeavor to repay to your boys in the direction of their education and the advancement of their objects in life."

And Mrs. Herbert consented, and Ellen's puzzle was solved.

It was decided that Mrs. Herbert should remove in the following October. In the mean time Mary and Ellen would both remain with her, while Mr. Villars would return to H——, to make the necessary arrangements for her reception there. Mrs. Merrill had been delighted at being recalled as Mr. Villars' housekeeper; her happiness was complete when she learned that he was again to live alone. Mr. Villars took care, however, that Mrs. Herbert's house should be so near his own that no weather should prevent daily intercourse between her family and himself. In this house, when I next visited H——, I found my young friends established.

Ellen I soon discovered was as great a favorite with her young companions, and as welcome a guest at their gatherings, as her sister Mary. Calling at Mrs. Herbert's one morning, I found Ellen and Mary dressed for a walk, which I insisted they should not give up on account of my visit; so after chatting a while with me, they went out. After they reached the door Ellen turned around, saying earnestly, "Remember, Uncle Villars."

"Yes, gipsy," said Mr. Villars playfully; "and do you remember that I mean to say no to your very next request, just to prove that I have a will of my own."

Ellen did not seem much disturbed by this threat, for she laughed gayly as she closed the door.

"I suspect, sir," said I, "that it is difficult to tell which has most influence now, the sun or the wind," alluding to the names which he had formerly given the sisters.

"No—no," replied he, "the truth is, they are both suns now, and the consequence is, that they make me do just what they please."

THE END.