In due time Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must "spring to," as their leader said; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a long breath again, for do what she would she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone again.

"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone, "before he will be through that—before he will be able to leave Doncaster?"

"Next summer."

"And what will he do then?"

"Then he will be ordained."

"Ordained?—what is that?"

"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and appointed to it by a number of clergymen."

"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"

"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he may for a little; but papa wishes very much that before he is settled anywhere he should visit England and Scotland and see our friends there, though I hardly think John will do it unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will probably soon be called somewhere—Mr. Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."

"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, "at any rate now we must wait until next Christmas."

The winter passed away with little to mark it except the usual visits to Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed should not be when John was at home. At all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter; and it was bargained that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom; she too had become quite domesticated at Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the times she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the boat again; but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter, the latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than any one else of her age.

"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice—- I should think anybody would learn well with her; and Mr. John—I suppose he's as good, though I don't know so much about him; but he must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, mamma, for Ellen draws ten times as well as I do!"

"Perhaps that is your fault and not Mr. Sandford's," said her mother, "though I rather think you overrate the difference."

"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the little girl; "what more can I do, mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always; she never seems to think she does better than I; and she is always ready to help me and take ever so much time to show me how to do things; she is so pleasant; isn't she, mamma? I know I have heard you say she is very polite."

"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie, "and there is a grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in the society of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.

"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't say two dozen words a day."

"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is with them a great deal. Aunt Matilda," said Ellen Chauncey, "and they teach her everything, and she does learn! She must be very clever; don't you think she is, mamma? Mamma, she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about English history and arithmetic!—and did you ever hear her sing, mamma?"

"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation of others," said Mrs. Chauncey smiling, and bending forward to kiss her daughter; "but what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in history than you?"

"I don't know, mamma, unless—I wish I wasn't so fond of reading stories."

"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said Miss Sophia.

"Yes. Oh I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr. John don't let her read them, except now and then one."

"I fancy she does it though when their backs are turned," said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She! Oh, Aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first."

"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"She is a good child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Yes, mamma, and that is what I wanted to say; I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could help being polite."

"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved child."

"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."

"That's exactly what I think, mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.

Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline has not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the housework grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her downstairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing and studying; her very heart sank within her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning-wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how much yarn—and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do: she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might shine bright;" and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if overpressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such things. Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was held the more precious and used the more carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.

John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The sole other event that broke the quiet course of things (beside the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry; both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was sure felt much, though according to his general custom he said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.

The winter passed and the spring came. One fine mild pleasant afternoon early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.

"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't. All these to do!"

"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth. "Where's your aunt?"

Ellen pointed to the buttery. He immediately went to the door and rapped on it with his knuckles.

"Here, ma'am!" said he, "can't you let this child go with me? I want her along to help feed the sheep."

To Ellen's astonishment her aunt called to her through the closed door to "go along and leave the beans till she came back." Joyfully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap which would still be there to pick over when she returned; and ran to get her bonnet. In all the time she had been at Thirlwall something had always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.

They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn to a low rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this they came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky woodland that lay on the far side of the wheatfield. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the trees were beginning to show their leaves; the air was soft and spring-like. In great glee Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly told him she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were; and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again by laughing at his wastefulness; and so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and wait for her.

"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen as she came up with her hands full of anemones, "and look—there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out before now—the dear little thing! but I can't find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt."

"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.

"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of my not having been to look for flowers before this spring."

"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr. Van Brunt. "I don't know how it has."

"Oh, there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, you beauties! Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer," said he, with his half smile.

"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! how can you? but an ear of wheat's pretty too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what is that? Do you get me some of it, will you, please? Oh, how beautiful! what is it?"

"That's black birch," said he; "'tis kind o' handsome; stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon's seal—do you want some of that?"

Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and before she could rise from her stooping posture discovered some cowslips to be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail.

"Now I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she, when her hands were as full as they could hold; "I have kept you a great while; you are very good to wait for me."

They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last piece of rocky woodland came to an open hillside, sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones.

"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.

"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause they don't know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the fence. Ca-nan! ca-nan! Ca-nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan!"

This was the sheep call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it sounded; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep at the edge of the woods on the top of the hill. On the call's sounding again the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running along a narrow footpath down towards where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light hoofs in another direction turned Ellen's eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near; then the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt and the strange little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt, every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt was not a traitor, who had put on a friend's voice and lured them down there with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt gently repeating his call, went quietly up to the nearest stone and began to scatter the salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had hung out the white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt; the rocks where it was strewn were covered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice heaped up with snow, or queen cakes with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one scene of pushing and crowding; those which had not had their share of the feast forcing themselves to get at it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, the busy hustling crowd of gentle creatures; with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening; and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part still lingered upon the stones in the vain hope of yet licking a little saltness from them.

"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before. How they do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Good for them?" said he, "to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a critter that walks as I know, that it ain't good for—'cept chickens, and it's very queer it kills them."

They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her hand; and greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible, she was going home very happy! yet she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking sticks. He did not want to make any use of them, that was certain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields where there were none to be found.

"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness."

"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; "something is always happening most years."

Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.

"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly."

"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I s'pose—mightn't it?"

"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly; "why, Mr. Van Brunt, what is going to happen?"

"I declare," said he, half laughing, "you're as cute as a razor; I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I?"

"But is there?" said Ellen.

"Ha'n't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, "she never tells me anything; what is it?"

"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt, "at least I know, for I've understood as much from herself, that—I believe she is going to be married before long."

"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married!—Aunt Fortune!"

"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft of tall grass and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he carried to his mouth.

There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time.

"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Why, pretty soon, as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"

"I don't know" said Ellen in a low voice; "I couldn't help guessing."

"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without looking at her.

There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such confusion.

"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded the corner of the barn, "we have made up our minds to draw in the same yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead folks, so I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lief tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back—'afore ever you came to Thirlwall; but I was never agoing to leave my old mother without a home; so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted you should."

With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barn-yard, leaving Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the chip-yard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the beans might have been flowers and the flowers beans for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's faces most carefully for a long time; Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes; and it is a matter of great uncertainty which in fact did first look at the other. Other than this there was no manner of difference in anything without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely speechless was not a very uncommon thing.