The voyage was peaceful and prosperous; in due time the whole party found themselves safe in London. Ever since they set out Ellen had been constantly gaining on Mrs. Gillespie's good will; the major hardly saw her but she had something to say about that "best-bred child in the world." "Best-hearted too, I think," said the major; and even Mrs. Gillespie owned that there was something more than good-breeding in Ellen's politeness. She had good trial of it; Mrs. Gillespie was much longer ailing than any of the party; and when Ellen got well, it was her great pleasure to devote herself to the service of the only member of the Marshman family now within her reach. She could never do too much. She watched by her, read to her, was quick to see and perform all the little offices of attention and kindness where a servant's hand is not so acceptable; and withal never was in the way nor put herself forward. Mrs. Gillespie's own daughter was much less helpful. Both she and William, however, had long since forgotten the old grudge, and treated Ellen as well as they did anybody; rather better. Major Gillespie was attentive and kind as possible to the gentle, well-behaved little body that was always at his wife's pillow; and even Lester, the maid, told one of her friends "she was such a sweet little lady, that it was a pleasure and gratification to do anything for her." Lester acted this out; and in her kindly disposition Ellen found very substantial comfort and benefit throughout the voyage.

Mrs. Gillespie told her husband she should be rejoiced if it turned out that they might keep Ellen with them, and carry her back to America; she only wished it were not for Mr. Humphreys but herself. As their destination was not now Scotland but Paris, it was proposed to write to Ellen's friends to ascertain whether any change had occurred, or whether they still wished to receive her. This, however, was rendered unnecessary. They were scarcely established in their hotel, when a gentleman from Edinburgh, an intimate friend of the Ventnor family, and whom Ellen herself had more than once met there, came to see them. Mrs. Gillespie bethought herself to make inquiries of him.

"Do you happen to know a family of Lindsays in George Street, Mr. Dundas?"

"Lindsays? Yes, perfectly well. Do you know them?"

"No; but I am very much interested in one of the family. Is the old lady living?"

"Yes, certainly; not very old either, not above sixty or sixty-five; and as hale and alert as at forty. A very fine old lady."

"A very large family?"

"Oh no; Mr. Lindsay is a widower this some years, with no children; and there is a widowed daughter lately come home—Lady Keith. That's all."

"Mr. Lindsay—that is the son?"

"Yes. You would like them. They are excellent people—excellent family—wealthy—beautiful country seat on the south bank of the Tyne, some miles out of Edinburgh. I was down there two weeks ago;—entertain most handsomely and agreeably, two things that do not always go together. You meet a pleasanter circle nowhere than at Lindsay's."

"And that is the whole family?" said Mrs. Gillespie.

"That is all. There were two daughters married in America some dozen or so years ago. Mrs. Lindsay took it very hard, I believe; but she bore up, and bears up now as if misfortune had never crossed her path; though the death of Mr. Lindsay's wife and son was another great blow. I don't believe there is a grey hair on her head at this moment. There is some peculiarity about them perhaps, some pride too; but that is an amiable weakness," he added, laughing, as he rose to go. "Mrs. Gillespie, I am sure, will not find fault with them for it."

"That's an insinuation, Mr. Dundas; but look here, what I am bringing to Mrs. Lindsay in the shape of a granddaughter."

"What, my old acquaintance, Miss Ellen! Is it possible? My dear madam, if you had such a treasure for sale, they would pour half their fortune into your lap to purchase it, and the other half at her feet."

"I would not take it, Mr. Dundas."

"It would be no mean price, I assure you, in itself, however it might be comparatively. I give Miss Ellen joy."

Miss Ellen took none of his giving.

"Ah, Ellen, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, when he was gone, "we shall never have you back in America again. I give up all hopes of it. Why do you look so solemn, my love? You are a strange child; most girls would be delighted at such a prospect opening before them."

"You forget what I leave, Mrs. Gillespie."

"So will you, my love, in a few days; though I love you for remembering so well those that have been kind to you. But you don't realise yet what is before you."

"Why, you'll have a good time, Ellen," said Marianne; "I wonder you are not out of your wits with joy. I should be."

"You may as well make over the Brownie to me, Ellen," said William; "I expect you'll never want him again."

"I cannot, you know, William; I lent him to Ellen Chauncey."

"Lent him!—that's a good one. For how long?"

Ellen smiled, though sighing inwardly to see how very much narrowed was her prospect of ever mounting him again. She did not care to explain herself to those around her. Still, at the very bottom of her heart lay two thoughts in which her hope refuged itself. One was a peculiar assurance that whatever her brother pleased, nothing could hinder him from accomplishing; the other, a like confidence that it would not please him to leave his little sister unlooked after. But all began to grow misty, and it seemed now as if Scotland must henceforth be the limit of her horizon.

Leaving their children at a relation's house, Major and Mrs. Gillespie accompanied her to the north. They travelled post, and arriving in the evening at Edinburgh, put up at a hotel in Princes Street. It was agreed that Ellen should not seek her new home till the morrow; she should eat one more supper and breakfast with her old friends, and have a night's rest first. She was very glad of it. The Major and Mrs. Gillespie were enchanted with the noble view from their parlour windows; while they were eagerly conversing together, Ellen sat alone at the other window, looking out upon the curious Old Town. There was all the fascination of novelty and beauty about that singular picturesque mass of buildings, in its sober colouring, growing more sober as the twilight fell; and just before outlines were lost in the dusk, lights began feebly to twinkle here and there, and grew brighter and more as the night came on, till their brilliant multitude were all that could be seen where the curious jumble of chimneys and house-tops and crooked ways had shown a little before. Ellen sat watching this lighting up of the Old Town, feeling strangely that she was in the midst of new scenes indeed, entering upon a new stage of life; and having some difficulty to persuade herself that she was really Ellen Montgomery. The scene of extreme beauty before her seemed rather to increase the confusion and sadness of her mind. Happily, joyfully, Ellen remembered, as she sat gazing over the darkening city and its brightening lights, that there was One near her who could not change; that Scotland was no remove from Him; that His providence as well as His heaven was over her there; that there, not less than in America, she was His child. She rejoiced, as she sat in her dusky window, over His words of assurance, "I am the good Shepherd and know My sheep, and am known of Mine;" and she looked up into the clear sky (that at least was home-like), in tearful thankfulness, and with earnest prayer that she might be kept from evil. Ellen guessed she might have special need to offer that prayer. And as again her eye wandered over the singular bright spectacle that kept reminding her she was a stranger in a strange place, her heart joyfully leaned upon another loved sentence, "This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our Guide even unto death."

She was called from her window to supper.

"Why, how well you look!" said Mrs. Gillespie; "I expected you would have been half tired to death. Doesn't she look well?"

"As if she was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy," said Major Gillespie kindly; "and yet she must be all three."

Ellen was all three. But she had the rest of a quiet mind.

In the same quiet mind, a little fluttered and anxious now, she set out in the post-chaise the next morning with her kind friends to No.—George Street. It was their intention, after leaving her, to go straight on to England. They were in a hurry to be there; and Mrs. Gillespie judged that the presence of a stranger at the meeting between Ellen and her new relations would be desired by none of the parties. But when they reached the house they found the family were not at home; they were in the country—at their place on the Tyne. The direction was obtained, and the horses' heads turned that way. After a drive of some length, through what kind of a country Ellen could hardly have told, they arrived at the place.

It was beautifully situated; and through well-kept grounds they drove up to a large, rather old-fashioned, substantial-looking house. "The ladies were at home;" and that ascertained, Ellen took a kind leave of Mrs. Gillespie, shook hands with the Major at the door, and was left alone for the second time in her life to make her acquaintance with new and untried friends. She stood for one second looking after the retreating carriage—one swift thought went to her adopted father and brother far away, one to her Friend in heaven—and Ellen quietly turned to the servant and asked for Mrs. Lindsay.

She was shown into a large room where nobody was, and sat down with a beating heart while the servant went upstairs; looking with a strange feeling upon what was to be her future home. The house was handsome, comfortably, luxuriously furnished; but without any attempt at display. Things rather old-fashioned than otherwise; plain, even homely in some instances; yet evidently there was no sparing of money in any line of use or comfort; nor were reading and writing, painting and music, strangers there. Unconsciously acting upon her brother's principle of judging of people from their works, Ellen, from what she saw gathered around her, formed a favourable opinion of her relations; without thinking of it, for indeed she was thinking of something else.

A lady presently entered and said that Mrs. Lindsay was not very well. Seeing Ellen's very hesitating look, she added, "Shall I carry her any message for you?"

This lady was well-looking and well-dressed; but somehow there was something in her face or manner that encouraged Ellen to an explanation; she could make none. She silently gave her her father's letter, with which the lady left the room.

In a minute or two she returned and said her mother would see Ellen upstairs, and asked her to come with her. This then must be Lady Keith! but no sign of recognition! Ellen wondered, as her trembling feet carried her upstairs, and to the door of a room where the lady motioned her to enter; she did not follow herself.

A large, pleasant dressing-room; but Ellen saw nothing but the dignified figure and searching glance of a lady in black, standing in the middle of the floor. At the look which instantly followed her entering, however, Ellen sprang forward, and was received in arms that folded her as fondly and as closely as ever those of her own mother had done. Without releasing her from their clasp, Mrs. Lindsay presently sat down; and placing Ellen on her lap, and for a long time without speaking a word, she overwhelmed her with caresses, caresses often interrupted with passionate bursts of tears. Ellen herself cried heartily for company, though Mrs. Lindsay little guessed why. Along with the joy and tenderness arising from the finding a relation that so much loved and valued her, and along with the sympathy that entered into Mrs. Lindsay's thoughts, there mixed other feelings. She began to know, as if by instinct, what kind of a person her grandmother was. The clasp of the arms that were about her said as plainly as possible, "I will never let you go!" Ellen felt it; she did not know in her confusion whether she was glad or most sorry; and this uncertainty mightily helped the flow of her tears.

When this scene had lasted some time Mrs. Lindsay began with the utmost tenderness to take off Ellen's gloves, her cape (her bonnet had been hastily thrown off long before), and smoothing back her hair, and taking the fair little face in her hands, she looked at it and pressed it to her own, as indeed something most dearly prized and valued. Then saying, "I must lie down; come in here, love," she led her into the next room, locked the door, made Ellen stretch herself on the bed; and placing herself beside her, drew her close to her bosom again, murmuring, "My own child, my precious child, my Ellen, my own darling, why did you stay away so long from me? tell me!"

It was necessary to tell; and this could not be done without revealing Miss Fortune's disgraceful conduct. Ellen was sorry for that; she knew her mother's American match had been unpopular with her friends; and now what notions this must give them of one at least of the near connections to whom it had introduced her. She winced under what might be her grandmother's thoughts. Mrs. Lindsay heard her in absolute silence, and made no comment; and at the end again kissed her lips and cheeks, and embracing her, Ellen felt, as a recovered treasure that would not be parted with. She was not satisfied till she had drawn Ellen's head fairly to rest on her breast, and then her caressing hand often touched her cheek, or smoothed back her hair softly, now and then asking slight questions about her voyage and journey; till, exhausted from excitement more than fatigue, Ellen fell asleep.

Her grandmother was beside her when she awoke, and busied herself with evident delight in helping her to get off her travelling clothes and put on others; and then she took her downstairs and presented her to her aunt.

Lady Keith had not been at home, nor in Scotland, at the time the letters passed between Mrs. Montgomery and her mother; and the result of that correspondence respecting Ellen had been known to no one except Mrs. Lindsay and her son. They had long given her up; the rather as they had seen in the papers the name of Captain Montgomery among those lost in the ill-fated Duc d'Orleans. Lady Keith therefore had no suspicion who Ellen might be. She received her affectionately, but Ellen did not get rid of her first impression.

Her uncle she did not see until late in the day, when he came home. The evening was extremely fair, and having obtained permission, Ellen wandered out into the shrubbery; glad to be alone, and glad for a moment to exchange new faces for old; the flowers were old friends to her, and never had looked more friendly than then. New and old both were there. Ellen went on softly from flower-bed to flower-bed, soothed and rested, stopping here to smell one, or there to gaze at some old favourite or new beauty, thinking curious thoughts of the past and the future, and through it all taking a quiet lesson from the flowers; when a servant came after her with a request from Mrs. Lindsay that she would return to the house. Ellen hurried in; she guessed for what, and was sure as soon as she opened the door and saw the figure of a gentleman sitting before Mrs. Lindsay. Ellen remembered well she was sent to her uncle as well as her grandmother, and she came forward with a beating heart to Mrs. Lindsay's outstretched hand, which presented her to this other ruler of her destiny. He was very different from Lady Keith, her anxious glance saw that at once—more like his mother. A man not far from fifty years old; fine-looking and stately like her. Ellen was not left long in suspense; his look instantly softened as his mother's had done; he drew her to his arms with great affection, and evidently with very great pleasure; then held her off for a moment while he looked at her changing colour and downcast eye, and folded her close in his arms again, from which he seemed hardly willing to let her go, whispering as he kissed her, "You are my own child now, you are my little daughter, do you know that, Ellen? I am your father henceforth; you belong to me entirely, and I belong to you; my own little daughter!"

"I wonder how many times one may be adopted?" thought Ellen that evening; "but to be sure, my father and my mother have quite given me up here, that makes a difference; they had a right to give me away if they pleased. I suppose I do belong to my uncle and grandmother in good earnest, and I cannot help myself. Well! but Mr. Humphreys seems a great deal more like my father than my Uncle Lindsay. I cannot help that, but how they would be vexed if they knew it!"

That was profoundly true.

Ellen was in a few days the dear pet and darling of the whole household, without exception and almost without limit. At first, for a day or two, there was a little lurking doubt, a little anxiety, a constant watch, on the part of all her friends, whether they were not going to find something in their newly acquired treasure to disappoint them; whether it could be that there was nothing behind to belie the first promise. Less keen observers, however, could not have failed to see very soon that there was no disappointment to be looked for; Ellen was just what she seemed, without the shadow of a cloak in anything. Doubts vanished; and Ellen had not been three days in the house when she was taken home to two hearts at least in unbounded love and tenderness. When Mr. Lindsay was present he was not satisfied without having Ellen in his arms or close beside him; and if not there she was at the side of her grandmother.

There was nothing, however, in the character of this fondness, great as it was, that would have inclined any child to presume upon it. Ellen was least of all likely to try; but if her will, by any chance, had run counter to theirs, she would have found it impossible to maintain her ground. She understood this from the first with her grandmother; and in one or two trifles since had been more and more confirmed in the feeling that they would do with her and make of her precisely what they pleased, without the smallest regard to her fancy. If it jumped with theirs, very well; if not, it must yield. In one matter Ellen had been roused to plead very hard, and even with tears, to have her wish, which she verily thought she ought to have had. Mrs. Lindsay smiled and kissed her, and went on with the utmost coolness in what she was doing, which she carried through without in the least regarding Ellen's distress or showing the slightest discomposure; and the same thing was repeated every day, till Ellen got used to it. Her uncle she had never seen tried; but she knew it would be the same with him. When Mr. Lindsay clasped her to his bosom Ellen felt it was as his own; his eye always seemed to repeat, "my own little daughter;" and in his own manner love was mingled with as much authority. Perhaps Ellen did not like them much the worse for this, as she had no sort of disposition to displease them in anything; but it gave rise to sundry thoughts, however, which she kept to herself; thoughts that went both to the future and the past.

Lady Keith, it may be, had less heart to give than her mother and brother, but pride took up the matter instead; and according to her measure Ellen held with her the same place she held with Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay; being the great delight and darling of all three; and with all three, seemingly, the great object in life.

A few days after her arrival, a week or more, she underwent one evening a kind of catechising from her aunt as to her former manner of life; where she had been and with whom since her mother left her; what she had been doing; whether she had been to school, and how her time was spent at home, &c., &c. No comments whatever were made on her answers, but a something in her aunt's face and manner induced Ellen to make her replies as brief and to give her as little information in them as she could. She did not feel inclined to enlarge upon anything, or to go at all further than the questions obliged her; and Lady Keith ended without having more than a very general notion of Ellen's way of life for three or four years past. This conversation was repeated to her grandmother and uncle.

"To think," said the latter the next morning at breakfast—"to think that the backwoods of America should have turned us out such a little specimen of——"

"Of what, uncle?" said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, I shall not tell you that," said he.

"But it is extraordinary," said Lady Keith, "how after living among a parcel of thick-headed and thicker tongued Yankees she could come out and speak pure English in a clear voice; it is an enigma to me."

"Take care, Catherine," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, "you are touching Ellen's nationality; look here," said he, drawing his fingers down her cheek.

"She must learn to have no nationality but yours," said Lady Keith somewhat shortly.

Ellen's lips were open, but she spoke not.

"It is well you have come out from the Americans, you see, Ellen," pursued Mr. Lindsay; "your aunt does not like them."

"But why, sir?"

"Why," said he gravely, "don't you know that they are a parcel of rebels who have broken loose from all loyalty and fealty, that no good Briton has any business to like?"

"You are not in earnest, uncle?"

"You are, I see," said he, looking amused. "Are you one of those who make a saint of George Washington?"

"No," said Ellen, "I think he was a great deal better than some saints. But I don't think the Americans were rebels."

"You are a little rebel yourself. Do you mean to say you think the Americans were right?"

"Do you mean to say you think they were wrong, uncle?"

"I assure you," said he, "if I had been in the English army I would have fought them with all my heart."

"And if I had been in the American army I would have fought you with all my heart, Uncle Lindsay."

"Come, come," said he, laughing, "you fight! you don't look as if you would do battle with a good-sized mosquito."

"Ah, but I mean if I had been a man," said Ellen.

"You had better put in that qualification. After all, I am inclined to think it may be as well for you on the whole that we did not meet. I don't know but we might have had a pretty stiff encounter, though."

"A good cause is stronger than a bad one, uncle."

"But Ellen, these Americans forfeited entirely the character of good friends to England and good subjects to King George."

"Yes, but it was King George's fault, uncle; he and the English forfeited their characters first."

"I declare," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, "if your sword had been as stout as your tongue, I don't know how I might have come off in that same encounter."

"I hope Ellen will get rid of these strange notions about the Americans," said Lady Keith discontentedly.

"I hope not, Aunt Keith," said Ellen.

"Where did you get them?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, sir?"

"These notions?"

"In reading, sir; reading different books; and talking."

"Reading! so you did read in the backwoods?"

"Sir!" said Ellen, with a look of surprise.

"What have you read on this subject?"

"Two lives of Washington, and some in the Annual Register, and part of Graham's United States; and one or two other little things."

"But those gave you only one side, Ellen; you should read the English account of the matter."

"So I did, sir; the Annual Register gave me both sides; the bills and messages were enough."

"What Annual Register?"

"I don't know, sir; it is English; written by Burke, I believe."

"Upon my word! And what else have you read?"

"I think that's all about America," said Ellen.

"No, but about other things?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir," said Ellen, smiling; "a great many books; I can't tell them all."

"Did you spend all your time over your books?"

"A good deal, sir, lately; not so much before."

"How was that?"

"I couldn't, sir. I had a great many other things to do."

"What else had you to do?"

"Different things," said Ellen, hesitating from the remembrance of her aunt's manner the night before.

"Come, come! answer me."

"I had to sweep and dust," said Ellen, colouring, "and set tables and wash and wipe dishes, and churn, and spin, and——"

Ellen heard Lady Keith's look in her "could you have conceived it?"

"What shall we do with her?" said Mrs. Lindsay; "send her to school or keep her at home?"

"Have you never been to school, Ellen?"

"No, sir; except for a very little while, more than three years ago."

"Would you like it?"

"I would a great deal rather study at home, sir, if you will let me."

"What do you know now?"

"Oh, I can't tell, sir," said Ellen; "I don't know anything very well, unless——"

"Unless what?" said her uncle, laughing; "come! now for your accomplishments."

"I had rather not say what I was going to, uncle; please don't ask me."

"Yes, yes," said he; "I shan't let you off. Unless what?"

"I was going to say, unless riding," said Ellen, colouring.

"Riding! And pray how did you learn to ride? Catch a horse by the mane and mount him by the fence and canter off bare-backed? was that it? eh?"

"Not exactly, sir," said Ellen, laughing.

"Well, but about your other accomplishments. You do not know anything of French, I suppose?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

"Where did you get that?"

"An old Swiss lady in the mountains taught me."

"Country riding and Swiss French," muttered her uncle.

"Did she teach you to speak it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Lindsay and his mother exchanged glances, which Ellen interpreted, "Worse and worse."

"One thing at least can be mended," observed Mr. Lindsay. "She shall go to De Courcey's riding-school as soon as we get to Edinburgh."

"Indeed, uncle, I don't think that will be necessary."

"Who taught you to ride, Ellen?" asked Lady Keith.

"My brother."

"Humph! I fancy a few lessons will do you no harm," she remarked.

Ellen coloured and was silent.

"You know nothing of music, of course?"

"I cannot play, uncle."

"Can you sing?"

"I can sing hymns."

"Sing hymns! That's the only fault I find with you, Ellen, you are too sober. I should like to see you a little more gay, like other children."

"But, uncle, I am not unhappy because I am sober."

"But I am," said he. "I do not know precisely what I shall do with you; I must do something!"

"Can you sing nothing but hymns?" said Lady Keith.

"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen, with some humour twinkling about her eyes and mouth, "I can sing 'Hail Columbia'!"

"Absurd," said Lady Keith.

"Why, Ellen," said her uncle, laughing, "I did not know you could be so stubborn; I thought you were made up of gentleness and mildness. Let me have a good look at you, there's not much stubbornness in those eyes," he said fondly.

"I hope you will never salute my ears with your American ditty," said Lady Keith.

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Lindsay, "she shall sing what she pleases, and the more the better."

"She has a very sweet voice," said her grandmother.

"Yes, in speaking, I know; I have not heard it tried otherwise; and very nice English it turns out. Where did you get your English, Ellen?"

"From my brother," said Ellen, with a smile of pleasure.

Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded. "Whom do you mean by that?"

"The brother of the lady who was so kind to me." Ellen disliked to speak the loved names in the hearing of ears to which she knew they would be unlovely.

"How was she so kind to you?"

"Oh, sir! in everything—I cannot tell you; she was my friend when I had only one beside; she did everything for me."

"And who was the other friend?—your aunt?"

"No, sir."

"This brother?"

"No, sir; that was before I knew him."

"Who then?"

"His name was Mr. Van Brunt."

"Van Brunt! Humph! And what was he?"

"He was a farmer, sir."

"A Dutch farmer, eh? how came you to have anything to do with him?"

"He managed my aunt's farm, and was a great deal in the house."

"He was! And what makes you call this other your brother?"

"His sister called me her sister—and that makes me his."

"It is very absurd," said Lady Keith, "when they are nothing at all to her, and ought not to be."

"It seems then you did not find a friend in your aunt, Ellen? eh?"

"I don't think she loved me much," said Ellen in a low voice.

"I am very glad we are clear of obligation on her score," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Obligation! And so you had nothing else to depend on, Ellen, but this man—this Van something—this Dutchman? What did he do for you?"

"A great deal, sir;" Ellen would have said more, but a feeling in her throat stopped her.

"Now just hear that, will you?" said Lady Keith. "Just think of her in that farm-house, with that sweeping and dusting woman and a Dutch farmer, for these three years!"

"No," said Ellen, "not all the time; this last year I have been——"

"Where, Ellen?"

"At the other house, sir."

"What house is that?"

"Where that lady and gentleman lived that were my best friends."

"Well, it's all very well," said Lady Keith, "but it is past now; it is all over; you need not think of them any more. We will find you better friends than any of these Dutch Brunters or Grunters."

"Oh, Aunt Keith!" said Ellen, "if you knew——" But she burst into tears.

"Come, come," said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, "I will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, Ellen?"

But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or three times before in the course of the conversation, and she wept now rather violently.

"What is the matter, Ellen?"

"Because," said Ellen, thoroughly roused, "I love them dearly! and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot forget them, and never shall; and I can never have better friends—never! it's impossible—oh, it's impossible."

Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first except to soothe her; but when she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast he whispered—

"It is right to love these people if they were kind to you, but as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to it. Forget that you were American, Ellen, you belong to me; your name is not Montgomery any more, it is Lindsay; and I will not have you call me 'uncle'—I am your father; you are my own little daughter, and must do precisely what I tell you. Do you understand me?"

He would have a "yes" from her, and then added, "Go and get yourself ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh."

Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words; with great effort she controlled herself and obeyed him.

"I shall do precisely what he tells me, of course," she said to herself, as she went to get ready; "but there are some things he cannot command; nor I neither; I am glad of that! Forget indeed!"

She could not help loving her uncle; for the lips that kissed her were very kind as well as very peremptory; and if the hand that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no more inclined to dispute his will than he to permit it, the harmony between them was perfect and unbroken.