As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, and eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and all. She was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her hearer.

"But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I thought you would be so much surprised."

"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."

"Not!—aren't you!—why, did you know anything of this before?"

"I did not know, but I suspected. I thought it was very likely. I am very glad it is so."

"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry;—why are you glad, Alice?"

"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"

"Oh, because!—I don't know—it seems so queer!—I don't like it at all. I am very sorry indeed."

"For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the bargain?"

"Why, he, to be sure; I think he will; I don't think she will. I think he is a great deal too good. And besides—I wonder if he wants to really; it was settled so long ago—may-be he has changed his mind since."

"Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?" said Alice, smiling.

"I don't know; I don't think he seemed particularly glad."

"It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his own mind, my dear; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope so."

"But then, besides," said Ellen, with a face of great perplexity and vexation, "I don't know; it don't seem right! How can I ever? must I? do you think I shall have to call him anything but Mr. Van Brunt?"

Alice could not help smiling again.

"What is your objection, Ellie?"

"Why, because I can't! I couldn't do it somehow. It would seem so strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad, dear Alice?"

"It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head; you will know by-and-by why I am glad, Ellie."

"Well, I am glad if you are glad," said Ellen, sighing; "I don't know why I was so sorry, I couldn't help it; I suppose I shan't mind it after a while."

She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or impossibility of ever forming her lips to the words "Uncle Abraham," "Uncle Van Brunt," or barely "Uncle;" her soul rebelled against all three. "Yet if he should think me unkind, then I must; oh, rather fifty times over than that!" Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and tenderly asked—

"What is the matter, oh dear Alice? what are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will give you pain."

"Pain! you needn't be afraid of giving me pain," said Ellen, fondly, throwing her arms around her, "tell me, dear Alice; is it something I have done that is wrong? what is it?"

Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.

"What is the matter, oh dear Alice?" said Ellen, encircling Alice's head with both her arms; "oh don't cry! do tell me what it is?"

"It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie."

"But why?" said Ellen, in some alarm; "why are you sorry for me? I don't care, if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't! Never mind me; is it something that troubles you, dear Alice?"

"No, except for the effect it may have on others."

"Then I can bear it," said Ellen; "you need not be afraid to tell me, dear Alice; what is it? don't be sorry for me!"

But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not help being afraid to hear; she anxiously repeated "What is it?"

Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the uplifted face.

"Suppose, Ellie," she said at length, "that you and I were taking a journey together—a troublesome, dangerous journey—and that I had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it; would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for the rest of the way?"

"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a kind of maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going, Alice?"

"I think I am going home, Ellie, before you."

"Home?" said Ellen.

"Yes, home I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank God it is my home I am going to."

Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.

"It is your home too, love, I trust and believe," said Alice, tenderly; "we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself; I only grieve to leave you alone, and others, but God knows best. We must both look to Him."

"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly, "what do you mean? what do you mean? I don't understand you; what do you mean?"

"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"

"But Alice! but Alice, dear Alice, what makes you say so? is there anything the matter, with you?"

"Do I look well, Ellie?"

With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in Alice's face for the tokens of what she wished and what she feared. It had once or twice lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding, or walking, or any other exertion; and it had struck her that the bright spots of colour in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now as she recalled them and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew, hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to the lips.

"My poor Ellie! my poor Ellie!" said Alice, pressing her little sister to her bosom, "it must be! We must say 'the Lord's will be done'; we must not forget He does all things well."

But Ellen rallied; she raised her head again; she could not believe what Alice had told her. To her mind it seemed an evil too great to happen; it could not be! Alice saw this in her look, and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. "It must be, Ellie," she repeated.

"But have you seen somebody? have you asked somebody?" said Ellen; "some doctor?"

"I have seen, and I have asked," said Alice; "it was not necessary, but I have done both. They think as I do."

"But these Thirlwall doctors——"

"Not them; I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent physician at Randolph, the last time I went to Ventnor."

"And he said——"

"As I have told you." Ellen's countenance fell—fell.

"It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left, I know that, my dear little Ellie! You have no reason to be sorry for me; I am sorry for you: but the hand that is taking me away is one that will touch neither of us but to do us good; I know that too. We must both look away to our dear Saviour, and not for a moment doubt His love. I do not; you must not. Is it not said that 'He loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus'?"

"Yes," said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice's.

"And might He not, did it not rest with a word of His lips, to keep Lazarus from dying, and save his sisters from all the bitter sorrow his death caused them?"

Again Ellen said, "Yes," or her lips seemed to say it.

"And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why He should not, little as poor Martha and Mary could understand it. But had He at all ceased to love them when He bade all that trouble come? Do you remember, Ellie—oh how beautiful those words are!—when at last He arrived near the place, and first one sister came to Him with the touching reminder that He might have saved them from this, and then the other, weeping and falling at His feet, and repeating 'Lord, if thou hadst been here'! when He saw their tears, and more, saw the torn hearts that tears could not ease, He even wept with them too! Oh, I thank God for those words! He saw reason to strike, and His hand did not spare; but His love shed tears for them! and He is just the same now."

Some drops fell from Alice's eyes, not sorrowful ones; Ellen had hid her face.

"Let us never doubt His love, dear Ellie, and surely then we can bear whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it. I do believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I believe it will be well for me when I die, well for you, my dear, dear Ellie; well even for my father——"

She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But oh, Ellen knew what it would have been; and it suddenly startled into life all the load of grief that had been settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts had not looked that way before; now when they did, this new vision of misery was too much to bear. Quite unable to contain herself, and unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help, with a smothered burst of feeling she sprang away, out of the door, into the woods, where she would be unseen and unheard.

And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost thought she should die. Her grief had not now indeed the goading sting of impatience; she knew the hand that gave the blow, and did not raise her own against it; she believed too what Alice had been saying, and the sense of it was, in a manner, present with her in her darkest time. But her spirit died within her; she bowed her head as if she were never to lift it up again; and she was ready to say with Job, "What good is my life to me?"

It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she came in again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt's. She would have done it hurriedly and turned away; but Alice held her and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-begone little face, then clasped her close and kissed her again and again.

"Oh, Alice," sobbed Ellen on her neck, "aren't you mistaken? maybe you are mistaken?"

"I am not mistaken, my dear Ellie, my own Ellie," said Alice's clear sweet voice; "nor sorry, except for others. I will talk with you more about this. You will be sorry for me at first, and then I hope you will be glad. It is only that I am going home a little before you. Remember what I was saying to you a while ago. Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I should like to see him for a few minutes some time when he has leisure? And come to me early to-morrow, love."

Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see where she was stepping; and again and again her fulness of heart got the better of everything else, and unmindful of the growing twilight she sat down on a stone by the wayside or flung herself on the ground to let sorrows have full sway. In one of these fits of bitter struggling with pain, there came on her mind, like a sunbeam across a cloud, the thought of Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus. It came with singular power. Did He love them so well? thought Ellen—and is He looking down upon us with the same tenderness even now? She felt that the sun was shining still, though the cloud might be between; her broken heart crept to His feet and laid its burden there, and after a few minutes she rose up and went on her way, keeping that thought still close to her heart. The unspeakable tears that were shed during those few minutes were that softened outpouring of the heart that leaves it eased. Very, very sorrowful as she was, she went on calmly now and stopped no more.

It was getting dark, and a little way from the gate on the road, she met Mr. Van Brunt.

"Why, I was beginning to get scared about you," said he. "I was coming to see where you was. How come you so late?"

Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer and he could see more distinctly, his tone changed.

"What's the matter?" said he, "you ha'n't been well! what has happened? what ails you, Ellen?"

In astonishment and then in alarm, he saw that she was unable to speak, and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know what was the matter, and if he could do anything. Ellen shook her head.

"Ain't Miss Alice well?" said he; "you ha'n't heerd no bad news up there on the hill, have you?"

Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yea or nay. She recovered herself enough to give him Alice's message.

"I'll be sure and go," said he, "but you ha'n't told me yet what's the matter! Has anything happened?"

"No," said Ellen; "don't ask me—she'll tell you—don't ask me."

"I guess I'll go up the first thing in the morning, then," said he, "before breakfast."

"No," said Ellen; "better not—perhaps she wouldn't be up so early."

"After breakfast then—I'll go up right after breakfast. I was agoing with the boys up into that 'ere wheat lot, but anyhow I'll do that first. They won't have a chance to do much bad or good before I get back to them, I reckon."

As soon as possible she made her escape from Miss Fortune's eye and questions of curiosity which she could not bear to answer, and got to her own room. There the first thing she did was to find the eleventh chapter of John. She read it as she never had read it before; she found in it what she never had found before; one of those cordials that none but the sorrowing drink. On the love of Christ, as there shown, little Ellen's heart fastened; and with that one sweetening thought amid all its deep sadness, her sleep that night might have been envied by many a luxurious roller in pleasure.

At Alice's wish she immediately took up her quarters at the parsonage, to leave her no more. But she could not see much difference in her from what she had been for several weeks past; and with the natural hopefulness of childhood, her mind presently almost refused to believe the extremity of the evil which had been threatened. Alice herself was constantly cheerful, and sought by all means to further Ellen's cheerfulness! though careful at the same time to forbid, as far as she could, the rising of the hope she saw Ellen was inclined to cherish.

One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking out upon the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all the fresh greenness of the young spring. The woods were not yet in full leaf; and the light of the setting sun upon the trees bordering the other side of the lawn showed them in the most exquisite and varied shades of colour. Some had the tender green of the new leaf, some were in the red or yellow browns of the half-opened bud; others in various stages of forwardness mixing all the tints between, and the evergreens standing dark as ever, setting off the delicate hues of the surrounding foliage. This was all softened off in the distance; the very light of the spring was mild and tender compared with that of other seasons; and the air that stole round the corner of the house and came in at the open window was laden with aromatic fragrance. Alice and Ellen had been for some time silently breathing it, and gazing thoughtfully on the loveliness that was abroad.

"I used to think," said Alice, "that it must be a very hard thing to leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so, Ellie?"

"I don't know," said Ellen faintly, "I don't remember."

"I used to think so," said Alice, "but I do not now, Ellie; my feeling has changed. Do you feel so now, Ellie?"

"Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?"

"For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap again."

"I am afraid you cannot bear it."

"Yes, I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used to;" and Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead. "You are a great comfort to me, dear Ellie."

"Oh, Alice, don't say so; you'll kill me!" exclaimed Ellen, in great distress.

"Why should I not say so, love?" said Alice soothingly. "I like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by-and-by. You are a great comfort to me."

"And what have you been to me?" said Ellen, weeping bitterly.

"What I cannot be much longer; and I want to accustom you to think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know that if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me in a little while; you will not wish me back."

Ellen shook her head.

"I know you will not—after a while; and I shall leave you in good hands—I have arranged for that, my dear little sister."

The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but a mute caress answered the spirit of Alice's words.

"Look up, Ellie—look out again. Lovely—lovely! all that is—but I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our eyes are with beauty, I believe that eye has not seen, nor heart imagined, the things that God has prepared for them that love Him. You believe that, Ellie; you must not be so very sorry that I have gone to see it a little before you."

Ellen could say nothing.

"After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful world that make people happy—it is loving and being loved; and that is the reason why I am happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if He receives me—I shall be with my Saviour; I shall see Him and know Him, without any of the clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and displeasing Him now—never serving Him well nor loving Him right. I shall be glad to find myself where all that will be done with for ever. I shall be like Him! Why do you cry so, Ellie?" said Alice tenderly.

"I can't help it, Alice."

"It is only my love for you—and for two more—that could make me wish to stay here—nothing else; and I give all that up, because I do not know what is best for you or myself. And I look to meet you all again before long. Try to think of it as I do, Ellie."

"But what shall I do without you?" said poor Ellen.

"I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place, and take care of those I leave behind; will you? and they will take care of you."

"But," said Ellen, looking up eagerly, "Aunt Fortune——"

"I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about my father, if I leave you established here, to be to him, as far as you can, what I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie?"

In words it was not possible; but what silent kisses, and the close pressure of the arms round Alice's neck could say, was said.

"I am satisfied, then," said Alice presently. "My father will be your father—think him so, dear Ellie, and I know John will take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am very, very glad."

Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not say so.

"It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage, Ellie," Alice soon went on. "I foresaw she might raise some difficulties in my way, hard to remove perhaps; but now I have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing shall hinder your taking up your abode and making your home entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have loved to have you in his own house."

"I am sure he would," said Ellen, "but oh, how much rather——"

"He behaved very well about it the other morning; in a very manly, frank, kind way; showed a good deal of feeling I think, too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he should be extremely sorry to let you go; but he assured me that nothing over which he had any control should stand in the way of your good."

"He is very kind—he is very good—he is always so," said Ellen. "I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind to me as he could be."

They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out of the window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the sun went down.

"You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all, but I can leave it and can leave you—yes, both—for I would seek Jesus! He who has taught me to love Him will not forsake me now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I thank Him! Oh, I thank Him!"

Alice's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone through tears.

"Ellie, dear, you must love Him with all your heart, and live constantly in His presence. I know if you do He will make you happy in any event. He can always give more than He takes away. Oh, how good He is! and what wretched returns we make Him! I was miserable when John first went away to Doncaster; I did not know how to bear it. But now, Ellie, I think I can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All things are ours, all things; the world, and life, and death too."

"Alice," said Ellen, as well as she could, "you know what you were saying to me the other day?"

"About what, love?"

"That about—you know—that chapter——"

"About the death of Lazarus?"

"Yes. It has comforted me very much."

"So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at different times. Come, sing to me—'How firm a foundation.'"

From time to time Alice led to this kind of conversation, both for Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her go on with all her usual studies and duties; and but for these talks Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it could be true which she feared.

The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet one. It happened at far too busy a time of year, and they were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much too business-like a point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a wedding-tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a wedding-party. Miss Fortune would not have left her cheese and butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Bostons that ever were built; and she would have scorned a trip to Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished himself all the while back among his furrows and crops. So one day they were quietly married at home, the Rev. Mr. Clark having been fetched from Thirlwall for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have preferred that Mr. Humphreys should perform the ceremony; but Miss Fortune was quite decided in favour of the Thirlwall gentleman, and of course he it was.

The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this marriage, and opinions were greatly divided; some, congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the richest landholders "in town" by the junction of another fat farm to his own; some pitying him for having got more than his match within doors, and "guessing he'd missed his reckoning for once."

"If he has, then," said Sam Larkins, who heard some of these condoling remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can tell you. If she ain't a little mistaken, I wish I mayn't get a month's wages in a year to come. I tell you, you don't know Van Brunt; he's as easy as anybody as long as he don't care about what you're doing; but if he once takes a notion you can't make him gee nor haw no more than you can our near ox Timothy when he's out o' yoke; and he's as ugly a beast to manage as ever I see when he ain't yoked up. Why, bless you! there ha'n't been a thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked—she don't know it. I've heerd her," said Sam, chuckling, "I've heerd her a telling him how she wanted this thing done, and t'other, and he'd just not say a word and go and do it right t'other way. It'll be a wonder if somebody ain't considerably startled in her calculations afore summer's out."