In a few weeks they moved to Edinburgh, where arrangements were speedily made for giving Ellen every means of improvement that masters and mistresses, books and instruments, could afford.

The house in George Street was large and pleasant. To Ellen's great joy a pretty little room opening from the first landing-place of the private staircase was assigned for her special use as a study and work-room; and fitted up nicely for her with a small book-case, a practising piano, and various et ceteras. Here her beloved desk took its place on a table in the middle of the floor, where Ellen thought she would make many a new drawing when she was by herself. Her work-box was accommodated with a smaller stand near the window. A glass door at one end of the room opened upon a small iron balcony; this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a very particular treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she arranged and arranged her little sanctum till she had all things to her mind, and it only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. "I will have that, too, some of these days," she said to herself; and resolved to deserve her pretty room by being very busy there. It was hers alone, open indeed to her friends when they chose to keep her company; but lessons were taken elsewhere; in the library or the music-room, or more frequently her grandmother's dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs. Lindsay or Lady Keith was always present.

Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole family. Not so much, however, Lady Keith's plaything as her pride; while pride had a less share in the affection of the other two, or rather perhaps was more overtopped by it. Ellen felt, however, that all their hearts were set upon her: felt it gratefully, and determined she would give them all the pleasure she possibly could. Her love for other friends, friends that they knew nothing of, American friends, was, she knew, the sore point with them; she resolved not to speak of those friends, nor allude to them, especially in any way that would show how much of her heart was out of Scotland. But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor Ellen to keep. She was unaccustomed to concealments; and in ways that she could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome truth would come up, and the sore was not healed.

One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone, and quietly stretched on her bed, very naturally Ellen's thoughts went back to the last time she had had a headache, at home, as she always called it to herself. She recalled with a straitened heart the gentle and tender manner of John's care for her; how nicely he had placed her on the sofa; how he sat by her side bathing her temples, or laying his cool hand on her forehead, and once, she remembered, his lips. "I wonder," thought Ellen, "what I ever did to make him love me so much, as I know he does?" She remembered how, when she was able to listen, he still sat beside her, talking such sweet words of kindness and comfort and amusement, that she almost loved to be sick to have such tending, and looked up at him as at an angel. She felt it all over again. Unfortunately, after she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see how she was, and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not rest till she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to tell, she did her best to get off from it, but she did not know how to evade questions; and those that were put to her indeed admitted of no evasion.

A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was remarked one morning at breakfast that Ellen was very straight and carried herself well.

"It is no thanks to me," said Ellen, smiling, "they never would let me hold myself ill."

"Who is 'they'?" said Lady Keith.

"My brother and sister."

"I wish, George," said Lady Keith, discontentedly, "that you would lay your commands upon Ellen to use that form of expression no more. My ears are absolutely sick of it."

"You do not hear it very often, Aunt Keith," Ellen could not help saying.

"Quite often enough; and I know it is upon your lips a thousand times when you do not speak it."

"And if Ellen does, we do not," said Mrs. Lindsay, "wish to claim kindred with all the world."

"How came you to take up such an absurd habit?" said Lady Keith. "It isn't like you."

"They took it up first," said Ellen; "I was too glad——"

"Yes, I daresay they had their reasons for taking it up," said her aunt; "they had acted from interested motives, no doubt; people always do."

"You are very much mistaken, Aunt Keith," said Ellen, with uncontrollable feeling; "you do not in the least know what you are talking about!"

Instantly Mr. Lindsay's fingers tapped her lips. Ellen coloured painfully, but after an instant's hesitation she said—

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Keith, I should not have said that."

"Very well," said Mr. Lindsay. "But understand, Ellen, however you may have taken it up—this habit—you will lay it down for the future. Let us hear no more of brothers and sisters. I cannot, as your grandmother says, fraternise with all the world, especially with unknown relations."

"I am very glad you have made that regulation," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I cannot conceive how Ellen has got such a way of it," said Lady Keith.

"It is very natural," said Ellen, with some huskiness of voice, "that I should say so, because I feel so."

"You do not mean to say," said Mr. Lindsay, "that this Mr. and Miss somebody—these people—I don't know their names——"

"There is only one now, sir."

"This person you call your brother—do you mean to say you have the same regard for him as if he had been born so?"

"No," said Ellen, cheek and eye suddenly firing, "but a thousand times more!"

She was exceedingly sorry the next minute after she had said this! for she knew it had given both pain and displeasure in a great degree. No answer was made. Ellen dared not look at anybody, and needed not; she wished the silence might be broken; but nothing was heard except a low "whew!" from Mr. Lindsay, till he rose up and left the room. Ellen was sure he was very much displeased. Even the ladies were too much offended to speak on the subject; and she was merely bade to go to her room. She went there, and sitting down on the floor, covered her face with her hands. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" she said to herself. "I never shall govern this tongue of mine. Oh, I wish I had not said that! they never will forgive it. What can I do to make them pleased with me again? Shall I go to my father's study and beg him—but I can't ask him to forgive me—I haven't done wrong—I can't unsay what I said. I can do nothing. I can only go in the way of my duty and do the best I can—and maybe they will come round again. But, oh, dear!"

A flood of tears followed this resolution.

Ellen kept it; she tried to be blameless in all her work and behaviour, but she sorrowfully felt that her friends did not forgive her. There was a cool air of displeasure about all they said and did; the hand of fondness was not laid upon her shoulder, she was not wrapped in loving arms, as she used to be a dozen times a day; no kisses fell on her brow or lips. Ellen felt it, more from Mr. Lindsay than both the others; her spirits sank; she had been forbidden to speak of her absent friends, but that was not the way to make her forget them; and there was scarce a minute in the day when her brother was not present to her thoughts.

Sunday came; her first Sunday in Edinburgh. All went to church in the morning; in the afternoon Ellen found that nobody was going; her grandmother was lying down. She asked permission to go alone.

"Do you want to go because you think you must? or for pleasure?" said Mrs. Lindsay.

"For pleasure!" said Ellen's tongue, her eyes opening at the same time.

"You may go."

With eager delight Ellen got ready, and was hastening along the hall to the door, when she met Mr. Lindsay.

"Where are you going?"

"To church, sir."

"Alone! What do you want to go for? No, no, I shan't let you. Come in here—I want you with me; you have been once to-day already, haven't you? You do not want to go again?"

"I do indeed, sir, very much," said Ellen, as she reluctantly followed him into the library, "if you have no objection. You know I have not seen Edinburgh yet."

"Edinburgh! that's true, so you haven't," said he, looking at her discomfited face. "Well, go, if you want to go so much."

Ellen got to the hall door, no further; she rushed back to the library.

"I did not say right when I said that," she burst forth; "that was not the reason I wanted to go. I will stay, if you wish me, sir."

"I don't wish it," said he in surprise; "I don't know what you mean—I am willing you should go if you like it. Away with you! it is time."

Once more Ellen set out, but this time with a heart full; much too full to think of anything she saw by the way. It was with a singular feeling of pleasure that she entered the church alone. It was a strange church to her, never seen but once before, and as she softly passed up the broad aisle she saw nothing in the building or the people around her that was not strange, no familiar face, no familiar thing. But it was a church, and she was alone; quite alone in the midst of that crowd; and she went up to the empty pew and ensconced herself in the far corner of it, with a curious feeling of quiet and of being at home. She was no sooner seated, however, than leaning forward as much as possible to screen herself from observation, bending her head upon her knees, she burst into an agony of tears. It was a great relief to be able to weep freely; at home she was afraid of being seen or heard or questioned; now she was alone and free, and she poured out her very heart in weeping that she with difficulty kept from being loud weeping.

"Oh how could I say that! how could I say that! Oh what would John have thought of me if he had heard it. Am I beginning already to lose my truth? am I going backward already? Oh what shall I do! what will become of me if I do not watch over myself—there is no one to help me or lead me right—not a single one—all to lead me wrong! what will become of me? But there is One who has promised to keep those that follow Him—He is sufficient, without any others—I have not kept near enough to Him! that is it; I have not remembered nor loved Him. 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' I have not! I have not! Oh, but I will! I will; and He will be with me, and help me and bless me, and all will go right with me."

With bitter tears Ellen mingled as eager prayers for forgiveness and help to be faithful. She resolved that nothing, come what would, should tempt her to swerve one iota from the straight line of truth; she resolved to be more careful of her private hour; she thought she had scarcely had her full hour a day lately; she resolved to make the Bible her only and her constant rule of life in everything; and she prayed, such prayers as a heart thoroughly in earnest can pray, for the seal to these resolutions. Not one word of the sermon did Ellen hear; but she never passed a more profitable hour in church in her life.

All her tears were not from the spring of these thoughts and feelings; some were the pouring out of the gathered sadness of the week; some came from recollections, oh, how tender and strong! of lost and distant friends. Her mother—and Alice—and Mr. Humphreys—and Margery—and Mr. Van Brunt—and Mr. George Marshman; and she longed, with longing that seemed as if it would have burst her heart, to see her brother. She longed for the pleasant voice, the eye of thousand expressions, into which she always looked as if she had never seen it before, the calm look that told he was satisfied with her, the touch of his hand, which many a time had said a volume. Ellen thought she would give anything in the world to see him and hear him speak one word. As this could not be, she resolved with the greatest care to do what would please him; that when she did see him he might find her all he wished.

She had wept herself out; she had refreshed and strengthened herself by fleeing to the stronghold of the prisoners of hope; and when the last hymn was given out she raised her head and took the book to find it. To her great surprise, she saw Mr. Lindsay sitting at the other end of the pew, with folded arms, like a man not thinking of what was going on around him. Ellen was startled, but obeying the instinct that told her what he would like, she immediately moved down the pew and stood beside him while the last hymn was singing; and if Ellen had joined in no other part of the service that afternoon, she at least did in that with all her heart. They walked home then without a word on either side. Mr. Lindsay did not quit her hand till he had drawn her into the library. There he threw off her bonnet and wrappers, and taking her in his arms, exclaimed—

"My poor little darling! what was the matter with you this afternoon?"

There was so much of kindness again in his tone, that overjoyed, Ellen eagerly returned his caress, and assured him that there was nothing the matter with her now.

"Nothing the matter!" said he, tenderly pressing her face against his own, "nothing the matter! with these pale cheeks and wet eyes? nothing now, Ellen?"

"Only that I am so glad to hear you speak kindly to me again, sir."

"Kindly? I will never speak any way but kindly to you, daughter. Come! I will not have any more tears; you have shed enough for to-day, I am sure; lift up your face and I will kiss them away. What was the matter with you, my child?"

But he had to wait a little while for an answer. "What was it, Ellen?"

"One thing," said Ellen, "I was sorry for what I had said to you, sir, just before I went out."

"What was that? I do not remember anything that deserved to be a cause of grief."

"I told you, sir, when I wanted you to let me go to church, that I hadn't seen Edinburgh yet."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, that wasn't being quite true; and I was very sorry for it!"

"Not true? yes it was; what do you mean? you had not seen Edinburgh."

"No, sir, but I mean—that was true, but I said it to make you believe what wasn't true."

"How?"

"I meant you to think, sir, that that was the reason why I wanted to go to church—to see the city and the new sights; and it wasn't at all."

"What was it then?" Ellen hesitated.

"I always love to go, sir; and besides, I believe I wanted to be alone."

"And you were not, after all," said Mr. Lindsay, again pressing her cheek to his, "for I followed you there. But, Ellen, my child, you were troubled without reason; you had said nothing that was false."

"Ah, sir, but I had made you believe what was false."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Lindsay, "you are a nice reasoner. And are you always true upon this close scale?"

"I wish I was, sir, but you see I am not. I am sure I hate everything else!"

"Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true," said Mr. Lindsay. "I wish there was a little more of it in the world. Was this the cause of all those tears this afternoon?"

"No, sir; not all."

"What beside, Ellen?" Ellen looked down, and was silent.

"Come—I must know."

"Must I tell you all, sir?"

"You must, indeed," said he, smiling; "I will have the whole, daughter."

"I had been feeling sorry all the week because you and grandmother and Aunt Keith were displeased with me."

Again Mr. Lindsay's silent caress in its tenderness seemed to say that she should never have the same complaint to make again.

"Was that all, Ellen?" as she hesitated.

"No, sir."

"Well?"

"I wish you wouldn't ask me further; please do not! I shall displease you again."

"I will not be displeased."

"I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys," said Ellen in a low tone.

"Who is that?"

"You know, sir; you say I must not call him——"

"What were you thinking of him?"

"I was wishing very much I could see him again."

"Well, you are a truth-teller," said Mr. Lindsay, "or bolder than I think you."

"You said you would not be displeased, sir."

"Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you forget these people?"

"Nothing, sir; I cannot forget them; I shouldn't deserve to have you love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, and do not be angry with me for it."

"But I am not satisfied to have your body here and your heart somewhere else."

"I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling amidst her tears, "if it had room in it for only one person."

"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay inquisitively, "did you insinuate a falsehood there?"

"No, sir!"

"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is honesty anywhere in the world. I am satisfied—that is, half-satisfied. Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest," said he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look as if you needed it."

"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek upon the grateful pillow, "except one thing—if grandmother would only forgive me too."

"You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she does not very readily forgive; but I think we can arrange this matter. Go you to sleep."

"I wonder," said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, "why everybody calls me 'little'; I don't think I am very little. Everybody says 'little.'"

Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it when, a few minutes after, he sat watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The innocent brow, the perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to belong to much younger years. Even Mr. Lindsay could not help recollecting the house-keeper's comment, "Heaven's peace within;" scarcely Ellen's own mother ever watched over her with more fond tenderness than her adopted father did now.

For several days after this he would hardly permit her to leave him. He made her bring her books and study where he was; he went out and came in with her; and kept her by his side whenever they joined the rest of the family at meals or in the evening. Whether Mr. Lindsay intended it or not, this had soon the effect to abate the displeasure of his mother and sister. Ellen was almost taken out of their hands, and they thought it expedient not to let him have the whole of her. And though Ellen could better bear their cold looks and words since she had Mr. Lindsay's favour again, she was very glad when they smiled upon her too, and went dancing about with quite a happy face.

She was now very busy. She had masters for the piano, and singing, and different branches of knowledge; she went to M. Muller regularly twice a week; and soon her riding-attendance began. She had said no more on the subject, but went quietly, hoping they would find out their mistake before long. Lady Keith always accompanied her.

One day Ellen had ridden near her usual time, when a young lady with whom she attended a German class came up to where she was resting. This lady was several years older than Ellen, but had taken a fancy to her.

"How finely you got on yesterday," said she, "making us all ashamed. Ah, I guess M. Muller helped you."

"Yes," said Ellen, smiling, "he did help me a little; he helped me with some troublesome pronunciations."

"With nothing else, I suppose? Ah, well, we must submit to be stupid. How do you do to-day?"

"I am very tired, Miss Gordon."

"Tired? Oh, you're not used to it."

"No, it isn't that," said Ellen; "I am used to it, that is the reason I am tired. I am accustomed to ride up and down the country at any pace I like; and it is very tiresome to walk stupidly round and round for an hour."

"But do you know how to manage a horse? I thought you were only just beginning to learn."

"Oh no, I have been learning this great while; only they don't think I know how, and they have never seen me. Are you just come, Miss Gordon?"

"Yes, and they are bringing out Sophronisbe for me; do you know Sophronisbe? look, that light grey, isn't she beautiful? she's the loveliest creature in the whole stud."

"Oh, I know!" said Ellen; "I saw you on her the other day; she went charmingly. How long shall I be kept walking here, Miss Gordon?"

"Why, I don't know; I should think they would find out; what does De Courcy say to you?"

"Oh, he comes and looks at me and says, 'TrÈs bien, trÈs bien,' and 'Allez comme Ça,' and then he walks off."

"Well, I declare that is too bad," said Miss Gordon, laughing. "Look here, I've got a good thought in my head; suppose you mount Sophronisbe in my place, without saying anything to anybody, and let them see what you are up to. Can you trust yourself? she's very spirited."

"I could trust myself," said Ellen; "but, thank you, I think I had better not."

"Afraid?"

"No, not at all: but my aunt and father would not like it."

"Nonsense! how should they dislike it; there's no sort of danger, you know. Come! I thought you sat wonderfully for a beginner. I am surprised De Courcy hadn't better eyes. I guess you have learned German before, Ellen? Come, will you?"

But Ellen declined, preferring her plodding walk round the ring to any putting of herself forward. Presently Mr. Lindsay came in. It was the first time he had been there. His eyes soon singled out Ellen.

"My daughter sits well," he remarked to the riding-master.

"A merveille! Mademoiselle Lindsay does ride remarquablement pour une beginner; qui ne fait que commencer. Would it be possible that she has had no lessons before?"

"Why, yes; she has had lessons—of what sort I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, going up to Ellen. "How do you like it, Ellen?"

"I don't like it at all, sir."

"I thought you were so fond of riding."

"I don't call this riding, sir."

"Ha! what do you call riding? Here, M. de Courcy, won't you have the goodness to put this young lady on another horse, and see if she knows anything about handling him?"

"With great pleasure!" M. de Courcy would do anything that was requested of him. Ellen was taken out of the ring of walkers, and mounted on a fine animal, and set by herself to have her skill tried in as many various ways as M. de Courcy's ingenuity could point out. Never did she bear herself more erectly; never were her hand and her horse's mouth on nicer terms of acquaintanceship; never, even to please her master, had she so given her whole soul to the single business of managing her horse and herself perfectly well. She knew as little as she cared that a number of persons besides her friends were standing to look at her; she thought of only two people there; Mr. Lindsay and her aunt; and the riding-master, as his opinion might affect theirs.

"C'est trÈs bien—c'est trÈs bien," he muttered—"c'est parfaitement—Monsieur, mademoiselle votre fille has had good lessons—voilÀ qui est entiÈrement comme il faut."

"Assez bien," said Mr. Lindsay smiling. "The little gipsy!"

"Mademoiselle," said the riding-master, as she paused before them, "pourquoi, wherefore have you stopped in your canter tantÔt—a little while ago—et puis rÉcommencÉ?"

"Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot."

"C'est Ça—justement!" he exclaimed.

"Have you practised leaping, Ellen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Try her, M. de Courcy. How high will you go, Ellen?"

"As high as you please, sir," said Ellen, leaning over and patting her horse's neck to hide her smile.

"How you look, child!" said Mr. Lindsay in a pleased tone. "So this is what you call riding?"

"It is a little more like it, sir."

Ellen was tried with standing and running leaps, higher and higher, till Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. de Courcy assured him that his daughter had been taught by a very accomplished rider, and there was little or nothing left for him to do; il n'y pouvait plus; but he should be very happy to have her come there to practise, and show an example to his pupils.

The very bright colour in Ellen's face as she heard this might have been mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity, it was nothing less. Not one word of this praise did she take to herself, nor had she sought for herself; it was all for somebody else; and perhaps so Lady Keith understood it, for she looked rather discomfited. But Mr. Lindsay was exceedingly pleased, and promised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather came she should have a horse and rides to her heart's content.