Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of her life, Ellen's principles were still now and then severely tried.

Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the company of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded Christian, a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal sensible and respectable, person, devotedly attached to the family, and very fond of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved, when she could, to get alone with her, and hear her talk of her mother's young days; and she loved furthermore, and almost as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no one else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling directly on those that she loved, she delighted to tell over to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, and felt, with them.

"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said Lady Keith one evening in the latter end of the winter.

"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment any one that I think she could resemble without losing more than she gained."

"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you never will see with other people's eyes."

"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"

"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a baby."

"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling; "you should ask M. Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She will go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her."

"Oh yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not wanting; that is not what I mean."

"She is perfectly ladylike always," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Yes, I know that, and perfectly childlike too."

"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay; "I have no fancy for your grown-up little girls."

"Well!" said Lady Keith in despair, "you may like it; but I tell you she is too much of a child nevertheless in other ways. She hasn't an idea of a thousand things. It was only the other day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, through the streets with a basket on her arm, with some of that fruit for M. Muller, I believe."

"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride; but I don't know, I can't say I wish she had more of it."

"Oh no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take anything at all to make the tears come in her eyes; the other day I didn't know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she went on with a kitten for half-an-hour or more. I wish you had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over that. Now I suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a present of one."

"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "I'll take breath and think about it."

"But she isn't like anybody else; she don't care for young companions; she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her I know every day regularly; and there are the Gordons and Carpenters and Murrays and Mackintoshes, she sees them continually, but I don't think she takes a great deal of pleasure in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."

"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay, "and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of your gigglers."

"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is most merriment around her."

"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such a low sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring of enjoyment. Yet I must say I think Catherine is half right."

"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect much."

Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.

"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, holding out his hand; "here's your aunt says you don't like anybody. How is it? are you of an unsociable disposition?"

Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for a much graver fault.

"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.

"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I like a great many people very much."

"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith; "that is what I complain of, and it's unnatural. Now there's the other day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother, and Miss MacPherson and her brother, I heard you say you were not sorry to get home. Now where will you find pleasanter young people?"

"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I do like them, ma'am, tolerably."

"What does 'tolerably' mean?"

"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said Ellen, "if they had talked about sensible things."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M. Mullers."

"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who seemed amused.

"About partners in dancing, at least the ladies did, and dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and the other one said; it wasn't very amusing to me."

Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen, how did you like them?"

"I didn't like them particularly, sir."

"What have you against them, Ellen?"

"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."

"Come, come—speak out."

"I didn't like their talking, sir, any better than the ladies'; and besides that, I don't think they were very polite."

"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.

"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to sit still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby help me to mount. They took me up at M. Muller's, you know, sir; M. Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me."

Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister which she rather resented.

"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a mere child; do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"

"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt Keith."

But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been before the door on horseback, and she had run out to give him a message, his instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was more a child then," she thought, "and he wasn't a stranger."

"Whom do you like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked extremely satisfied with the result of the examination.

"I like M. Muller, sir."

"Nobody else?"

"Mrs. Allen."

"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.

"Have you come from her room just now?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's your fancy for going there?"

"I like to hear her talk, sir, and to read to her; it gives her a great deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."

"What do you talk about?"

"She talks to me about my mother——"

"And you?"

"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing colour.

"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay.

In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held.

"Is this what you have been reading to her?"

Ellen bowed in answer.

"Who wrote all this?"

Before she could speak he had turned to the front leaf and read, "To my little sister." He quietly put the book in his pocket; and Ellen as quietly left the room.

"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are quick enough when you see anything for yourself, but you never will believe other people."

"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay, "only I will not have her going back to those old recollections she is so fond of. I wish I could make her drink Lethe!"

"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I hardly know," said he, turning it over, "except it is from that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency over her—it is full of his notes—it is a religious work."

"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said Mrs. Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it. You can do it better than any one else; she is very fond of you."

That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in Ellen's room, and to certain other things; and perhaps he was thinking that if religion had much to do with making her what she was, it was a tree that bore good fruits.

"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit perfectly grave when they were all laughing and talking around her—it really looks singular—I don't like it—I presume she would have thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the other night, I missed her from the younger part of the company, where she should have been, and there she was in the other room with M. Muller and somebody else, gravely listening to their conversation!"

"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "and she looked anything but dull or sober; I would rather have her gravity, after all, Catherine, than anybody else's merriment, I know."

"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time when she should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the letters," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, indeed," said his sister, "and I have been in continual fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen the book."

"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I don't know where he is; but he was on this side of the water at the time Ellen came on; so she told me."

"I wish he was in Egypt!"

"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady Keith, "if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield orders, if any one asked for her, to tell me immediately, and not her upon any account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I am in hopes none will."

Mr. Lindsay rose and walked up and down the room with folded arms in a very thoughtful style.

Ellen with some difficulty bore herself as usual throughout the next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get possession of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted at. When another morning came she could stand it no longer; she went soon after breakfast into Mr. Lindsay's study, where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and laying both her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear—

"Will you let me have my book again, father?"

A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.

"Go to the book-case," said Mr. Lindsay presently, "or to the book-store, and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."

"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing.

"At any rate," whispered Ellen after a minute, "you will not destroy it, or do anything to it?—you will take care of it, and let me have it again, won't you, sir?"

"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."

Again Ellen paused; and then came round in front of him to plead to more purpose.

"I will do anything in the world for you, sir," she said earnestly, "if you will give me my book again."

"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling and pinching her cheek, "without that."

"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.

"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing; "and you are mine, you must understand."

Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings of passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last the wave rolled too high and broke. Clasping her hands to her face, she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient energy of expression, "Oh, it's not right! it's not right!"

"Go to your room and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen."

Ellen was wretched. Not for grief at her loss merely; that she could have borne; that had not even the greatest share in her distress; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a perfect turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier days; under religion's happy reign that had long ceased to be true of her; it was only very rarely that she or those around her were led to remember or suspect that it had once been the case. She was surprised and half-frightened at herself now, to find the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She was utterly and exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay, and consequently with everybody and everything else; consequently conscience would not give her a moment's peace; consequently that day was a long and bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties were neglected, because she could not give her mind to them; then they crowded upon her notice at undue times; all was miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and school herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost treasure passion would come flooding up and drown all her reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely weary.

But the day passed and the night came, and she went to bed without being able to make up her mind; and she arose in the morning to renew the battle.

"How long is this miserable condition to last!" she said to herself. "'Till you can entirely give up your feeling of resentment, and apologise to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience. "Apologise! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said conscience; "you spoke improperly; he is justly displeased; and you must make an apology before there can be any peace." "But I said the truth—it is not right—it is not right! it is wrong; and am I to go and make an apology? I can't do it." "Yes, for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is all your concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases with you and yours, and he may have his own reasons for what he has done; and he loves you very much, and you ought not to let him remain displeased with you one moment longer than you can help—he is in the place of a father to you, and you owe him a child's duty."

But pride and passion still fought against reason and conscience, and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.

"There, I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and they will see how I look, they will see I am angry and ill-humoured. Well, I ought to be angry. But what will they think then of my religion? is my rushlight burning bright? am I honouring Christ now? is this the way to make His name and His truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I have enough to humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I was angry."

Ellen threw herself upon her knees; and when she rose up the spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died with self-justification.

The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the table. "But it shall make no difference," she said to herself, "they know I have offended him, it is right they should hear what I have to say."

They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in his, and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and frankly confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day before, and that she was very sorry she had displeased him, and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly granted.

"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, as he fondly embraced her.

"Oh no, sir! don't call me so, I am everything in the world but that."

"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't you come to me before?"

"Because I couldn't, sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."

Mr. Lindsay laughed and kissed her, and bade her sit down and eat her breakfast.

It was about a month after this that he made her a present of a beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great delight; the second was one of curious doubtful expression, directed to his face, half tendering the watch back to him as she saw that he understood her.

"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather have that than this?"

"A great deal!"

"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall not have it; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it safe and it shall come back to you again some time or other."

With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.

The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth, of purse and of affection both, could bestow upon their darling. Early in the season the family returned to "The Braes." Ellen liked it there much better than in the city; there was more that reminded her of old times. The sky and the land, though different from those she best loved, were yet but another expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and on many a sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.[1] She was sorry to lose M. Muller, but she could not have kept him in Edinburgh; he quitted Scotland about that time.

Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to Edinburgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he was often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have her with him in the library and at dinner and during the drive home. Ellen liked it because it was so pleasant to him; and besides, there was a variety about it, and the drives were always her delight, and she chose his company at any time rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy day that summer had she and Mr. Lindsay together; and many an odd pleasure in the course of them did he find or make for her. Sometimes it was a new book, sometimes a new sight, sometimes a new trinket. According to his promise, he had purchased her a fine horse; and almost daily Ellen was upon his back, and with Mr. Lindsay in the course of the summer scoured the country far and near. Every scene of any historic interest within a good distance of "The Braes" was visited, and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were at Ellen's disposal; and to her father and grandmother she was truly the light of their eyes.

And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her calm and sunshiny face and busy, happy demeanour, and fancied, though he sometimes had doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself much with old recollections, or would in time get over them. It was so. Ellen never forgot; and sometimes when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was the thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her energies and giving colour to her cheeks. Still, as at first, it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up submission; it was that calmed her brow and brightened her smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, and repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I will see him in heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.

Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker and her smile less bright as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her no letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day, mourning over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her if her friends knew her address? Ellen at first said, "to be sure," but after a few minutes' reflection was obliged to confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a matter, and very natural for her, in her grief and confusion of mind and inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote immediately to Mr. Humphreys and supplied the defect; and hope brightened again. Once before she had written, on the occasion of the refunding her expenses. Mr. Lindsay and his mother were very prompt to do this, though Ellen could not tell what the exact amount might be; they took care to be on the safe side, and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since she came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she understood the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt her.

Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she received at length one from Mr. Humphreys—a long, very kind, and very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr. Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his own child up to the time that her friends took her out of his hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave the money—she dared not give the whole message—to Mr. Lindsay. The bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed and sent back to America.

Still nothing was heard from Mr. John. Ellen wondered, waited, wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went on, clung faster and faster to her Bible and the refuge she found there.