Mr. Lindsay had some reason that morning to wish that Ellen would look merrier; it was a very sober little face he saw by his side as the carriage rolled smoothly on with them towards Edinburgh; almost pale in its sadness. He lavished the tenderest kindness upon her, and, without going back by so much as a hint to the subjects of the morning, he exerted himself to direct her attention to the various objects of note and interest they were passing. The day was fine and the country, also the carriage and the horses; Ellen was dearly fond of driving; and long before they reached the city Mr. Lindsay had the satisfaction of seeing her smile break again, her eye brighten, and her happy attention fixing on the things he pointed out to her, and many others that she found for herself on the way—his horses first of all. Mr. Lindsay might relax his efforts and look on with secret triumph; Ellen was in the full train of delighted observation.

"You are easily pleased, Ellen," he said, in answer to one of her simple remarks of admiration.

"I have a great deal to please me," said Ellen.

"What would you like to see in Edinburgh?"

"I don't know, sir; anything you please."

"Then I will show you a little of the city, in the first place."

They drove through the streets of Edinburgh, both the Old and the New town, in various directions; Mr. Lindsay extremely pleased to see that Ellen was so, and much amused at the curiosity shown in her questions, which, however, were by no means as free and frequent as they might have been had John Humphreys filled her uncle's place.

"What large building is that over there?" said Ellen.

"That? that is Holyrood House."

"Holyrood! I have heard of that before; isn't that where Queen Mary's rooms are? Where Rizzio was killed?"

"Yes; would you like to see them?"

"Oh very much!"

"Drive to the Abbey. So you have read Scottish history as well as American, Ellen?"

"Not very much, sir; only the 'Tales of a Grandfather' yet. But what made me say that, I have read an account of Holyrood House somewhere, Uncle——"

"Ellen!"

"I beg your pardon, sir; I forgot; it seems strange to me," said Ellen, looking distressed.

"It must not seem strange to you, my daughter; what were you going to say?"

"I don't know, sir. Oh, I was going to ask if the silver cross is here now, to be seen?"

"What silver cross?"

"That one from which the Abbey was named, the silver rood that was given, they pretended, to—I forget now what king."

"David First, the founder of the Abbey? No, it is not here, Ellen; David the Second lost it to the English. But why do you say pretended, Ellen? It was a very real affair; kept in England for a long time with great veneration."

"Oh yes, sir; I know the cross was real; I mean it was pretended that an angel gave it to King David when he was hunting here."

"Well, how can you tell but that was so? King David was made a saint, you know."

"Oh, sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I know better than that; I know it was only a monkish trick."

"Monkish trick! which do you mean? the giving of the cross, or making the king a saint?"

"Both, sir," said Ellen, still smiling.

"At that rate," said Mr. Lindsay, much amused, "if you are such a sceptic, you will take no comfort in anything at the Abbey, you will not believe anything is genuine."

"I will believe what you tell me, sir."

"Will you? I must be careful what I say to you then, or I may run the risk of losing my own credit."

Mr. Lindsay spoke this half jestingly, half in earnest. They went over the palace.

"Is this very old, sir?" asked Ellen.

"Not very; it has been burnt and demolished and rebuilt, till nothing is left of the old Abbey of King David but the ruins of the chapel, which you shall see presently. The oldest part of the House is that we are going to see now, built by James Fifth, Mary's father, where her rooms are."

At these rooms Ellen looked with intense interest. She pored over the old furniture, the needlework of which she was told was at least in part the work of the beautiful Queen's own fingers; gazed at the stains in the floor of the bed-chamber, said to be those of Rizzio's blood; meditated over the trap-door in the passage, by which the conspirators had come up; and finally sat down in the room and tried to realise the scene which had once been acted there. She tried to imagine the poor Queen and her attendant and her favourite Rizzio sitting there at supper, and how that door, that very door, had opened, and Ruthven's ghastly figure, pale and weak from illness, presented itself, and then others; the alarm of the moment; how Rizzio knew they were come for him and fled to the Queen for protection; how she was withheld from giving it, and the unhappy man pulled away from her and stabbed with a great many wounds before her face; and there, there! no doubt, his blood fell!

"You are tired; this doesn't please you much," said Mr. Lindsay, noticing her grave look.

"Oh, it pleases me very much!" said Ellen, starting up; "I do not wonder she swore vengeance."

"Who?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"Queen Mary, sir."

"Were you thinking of her all this while? I am glad of it. I spoke to you once without getting a word. I was afraid this was not amusing enough to detain your thoughts."

"Oh yes, it was," said Ellen; "I have been trying to think all about that. I like to look at old things very much."

"Perhaps you would like to see the regalia."

"The what, sir?"

"The Royal things—the old diadem and sceptre, &c., of the Scottish kings. Well, come," said he, as he read the answer in Ellen's face, "we will go; but first let us see the old chapel."

With this Ellen was wonderfully pleased. This was much older still than Queen Mary's rooms. Ellen admired the wild melancholy look of the gothic pillars and arches springing from the green turf, the large carved window empty of glass, the broken walls; and looking up to the blue sky, she tried to imagine the time when the gothic roof closed overhead, and music sounded through the arches, and trains of stoled monks paced through them, where now the very pavement was not. Strange it seemed, and hard, to go back and realise it; but in the midst of this, the familiar face of the sky set Ellen's thoughts off upon a new track, and suddenly they were at home—on the lawn before the parsonage. The monks and the abbey were forgotten; she silently gave her hand to her uncle, and walked with him to the carriage.

Arrived at the Crown room, Ellen fell into another fit of grave attention; but Mr. Lindsay, taught better, did not this time mistake rapt interest for absence of mind. He answered questions and gave her several pieces of information, and let her take her own time to gaze and meditate.

"This beautiful sword," said he, "was a present from Pope Julius Second to James Fourth."

"I don't know anything about the Popes," said Ellen. "James Fourth?—I forget what kind of a king he was."

"He was a very good king. He was the one that died at Flodden."

"Oh, and wore an iron girdle because he had fought against his father, poor man!"

"Why 'poor man,' Ellen? He was a very royal prince. Why do you say 'poor man'?"

"Because he didn't know any better, sir."

"Didn't know any better than what?"

"Than to think an iron girdle would do him any good."

"But why wouldn't it do him any good?"

"Because, you know, sir, that is not the way we can have our sins forgiven."

"What is the way?"

Ellen looked at him to see if he was in jest or earnest. Her look staggered him a little, but he repeated his question. She cast her eyes down and answered—

"Jesus Christ said, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me.'"

Mr. Lindsay said no more.

"I wish that was the Bruce's crown," said Ellen after a while. "I should like to see anything that belonged to him."

"I'll take you to the field of Bannockburn some day; that belonged to him with a vengeance. It lies over yonder."

"Bannockburn! will you? and Stirling Castle! Oh, how I should like that!"

"Stirling Castle," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling at Ellen's clasped hands of delight; "what do you know of Stirling Castle?"

"From the history, you know, sir; and the Lord of the Isles—

'Old Stirling's towers arose in light——'"

"Go on," said Mr. Lindsay.

"'And twined in links of silver bright
Her winding river lay.'"

"That's this same river Forth, Ellen. Do you know any more?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Go on and tell me all you can remember."

"All! that would be a great deal, sir."

"Go on till I tell you to stop."

Ellen gave him a good part of the battle, with introduction to it.

"You have a good memory, Ellen," he said, looking pleased.

"Because I like it, sir; that makes it easy to remember. I like the Scots people."

"Do you!" said Mr. Lindsay, much gratified. "I did not know you liked anything on this side of the water. Why do you like them?"

"Because they never would be conquered by the English."

"So," said Mr. Lindsay, half amused and half disappointed, "the long and the short of it is, you like them because they fought the enemies you were so eager to have a blow at."

"Oh no, sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I do not mean that at all; the French were England's enemies too, and helped us besides, but I like the Scots a great deal better than the French. I like them because they would be free."

"You have an extraordinary taste for freedom! And pray, are all the American children as strong republicans as yourself?"

"I don't know, sir; I hope so."

"Pretty well, upon my word! Then I suppose even the Bruce cannot rival your favourite Washington in your esteem?"

Ellen smiled.

"Eh?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I like Washington better, sir, of course; but I like Bruce very much."

"Why do you prefer Washington?"

"I should have to think to tell you that, sir."

"Very well, think, and answer me."

"One reason, I suppose, is because he was an American," said Ellen.

"That is not reason enough for so reasonable a person as you are, Ellen; you must try again, or give up your preference."

"I like Bruce very much indeed," said Ellen musingly, "but he did what he did for himself, Washington didn't."

"Humph! I am not quite sure as to either of your positions."

"And, besides," said Ellen, "Bruce did one or two wrong things. Washington always did right."

"He did, eh? What do you think of the murder of Andre?"

"I think it was right," said Ellen firmly.

"Your reasons, my little reasoner?" asked Mr. Lindsay.

"If it had not been right, Washington would not have done it."

"Ha! ha! so at that rate you may reconcile yourself to anything that chances to be done by a favourite."

"No, sir," said Ellen, a little confused, but standing her ground, "but when a person always does right, if he happened to do something that I don't know enough to understand, I have good reason to think it is right, even though I cannot understand it."

"Very well! but apply the same rule of judgment to the Bruce, can't you?"

"Nothing could make me think the murder of the Red Comyn right, sir. Bruce didn't think so himself."

"But remember, there is a great difference in the times, those were rude and uncivilised compared to these; you must make allowance for that."

"Yes, sir, I do! but I like the civilised times best."

"What do you think of this fellow over here—what's his name?—whose monument I was showing you—Nelson?"

"I used to like him very much, sir."

"And you do not now?"

"Yes, sir, I do; I cannot help liking him."

"That is to say, you would if you could?"

"I don't think, sir, I ought to like a man merely for being great unless he was good. Washington was great and good both."

"Well, what is the matter with Nelson?" said Mr. Lindsay, with an expression of intense amusement. "I 'used to think,' as you say, that he was a very noble fellow."

"So he was, sir; but he wasn't a good man."

"Why not?"

"Why, you know, sir, he left his wife; and Lady Hamilton persuaded him to do one or two other very dishonourable things; it was a great pity!"

"So you will not like any great man that is not good as well. What is your definition of a good man, Ellen?"

"One who always does right because it is right, no matter whether it is convenient or not," said Ellen, after a little hesitation.

"Upon my word, you draw the line close. But opinions differ as to what is right; how shall we know?"

"From the Bible, sir," said Ellen quickly, with a look that half amused and half abashed him.

"And you, Ellen, are you yourself good after this nice fashion?"

"No, sir; but I wish to be."

"I do believe that. But after all, Ellen, you might like Nelson; those were only the spots in the sun."

"Yes, sir; but can a man be a truly great man who is not master of himself?"

"That is an excellent remark."

"It is not mine, sir," said Ellen, blushing; "it was told me; I did not find out all that about Nelson myself; I did not see it all the first time I read his life; I thought he was perfect."

"I know who I think is," said Mr. Lindsay, kissing her.

They drove now to his house in George Street. Mr. Lindsay had some business to attend to, and would leave her there for an hour or two. And that their fast might not be too long unbroken, Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was directed to furnish them with some biscuits in the library, whither Mr. Lindsay led Ellen.

She liked the looks of it very much. Plenty of books, old-looking comfortable furniture, pleasant light; all manner of et ceteras around, which rejoiced Ellen's heart. Mr. Lindsay noticed her pleased glance passing from one thing to another. He placed her in a deep easy-chair, took off her bonnet and threw it on the sofa, and kissing her fondly, asked her if she felt at home.

"Not yet," Ellen said; but her look said it would not take long to make her do so. She sat enjoying her rest, and munching her biscuit with great appetite and satisfaction, when Mr. Lindsay poured her out a glass of sweet wine.

The glass of wine looked to Ellen like an enemy marching up to attack her. Because Alice and John did not drink it, she had always, at first without other reason, done the same; and she was determined not to forsake their example now. She took no notice of the glass of wine, though she had ceased to see anything else in the room, and went on, seemingly as before, eating her biscuits, though she no longer knew how they tasted.

"Why don't you drink your wine, Ellen?"

"I do not wish any, sir."

"Don't you like it?"

"I don't know, sir; I have never drunk any."

"No! Taste it and see."

"I would rather not, sir, if you please. I don't care for it."

"Taste it, Ellen!"

This command was not to be disobeyed. The blood rushed to Ellen's temples as she just touched the glass to her lips and set it down again.

"Well?" said Mr. Lindsay.

"What, sir?"

"How do you like it?"

"I like it very well, sir, but I would rather not drink it."

"Why?"

Ellen coloured again at this exceedingly difficult question, and answered as well as she could, that she had never been accustomed to it, and would rather not.

"It is of no sort of consequence what you have been accustomed to," said Mr. Lindsay. "You are to drink it all, Ellen."

Ellen dared not disobey. When biscuits and wine were disposed of, Mr. Lindsay drew her close to his side, and encircling her fondly with his arms, said—

"I shall leave you now for an hour or two, and you must amuse yourself as you can. The book-cases are open—perhaps you can find something there; or there are prints in those portfolios; or you can go over the house and make yourself acquainted with your new home. If you want anything, ask Mrs. Allen. Does it look pleasant to you?"

"Very," Ellen said.

"You are at home here, daughter; go where you will and do what you will. I shall not leave you long. But before I go, Ellen, let me hear you call me father."

Ellen obeyed, trembling, for it seemed to her that it was to set her hand and seal to the deed of gift her father and mother had made. But there was no retreat; it was spoken; and Mr. Lindsay, folding her close in his arms, kissed her again and again.

"Never let me hear you call me anything else, Ellen. You are mine own now—my own child—my own little daughter. You shall do just what pleases me in everything, and let bygones be bygones. And now lie down there and rest, daughter; you are trembling from head to foot; rest and amuse yourself in any way you like till I return."

He left the room.

"I have done it now!" thought Ellen, as she sat in the corner of the sofa where Mr. Lindsay had tenderly placed her; "I have called him my father, I am bound to obey him after this. I wonder what in the world they will make me do next. If he chooses to make me drink wine every day, I must do it! I cannot help myself. That is only a little matter. But what if they were to want me to do something wrong?—they might; John never did, I could not have disobeyed him, possibly; but I could them, if it was necessary, and if it is necessary I will. I should have a dreadful time; I wonder if I could go through with it. Oh yes, I could, if it was right; and besides would rather bear anything in the world from them than have John displeased with me; a great deal rather. But perhaps after all they will not want anything wrong of me. I wonder if this is really to be my home always, and if I shall ever get home again? John will not leave me here; but I don't see how in the world he can help it, for my father and my mother, and I myself; I know what he would tell me if he was here, and I'll try to do it. God will take care of me if I follow Him; it is none of my business."

Simply and heartily commending her interests to His keeping, Ellen tried to lay aside the care of herself. She went on musing; how very different and how much greater her enjoyment would have been that day if John had been with her. Mr. Lindsay, to be sure, had answered her questions with abundant kindness and sufficient ability; but his answers did not, as those of her brother often did, skilfully draw her on from one thing to another, till a train of thought was opened which at the setting out she never dreamed of; and along with the joy of acquiring new knowledge she had the pleasure of discovering new fields of it to be explored, and the delight of the felt exercise and enlargement of her own powers, which were sure to be actively called into play. Mr. Lindsay told her what she asked, and there left her. Ellen found herself growing melancholy over the comparison she was drawing; and wisely went to the book-cases to divert her thoughts. Finding presently a history of Scotland, she took it down, resolving to refresh her memory on a subject which had gained such new and strange interest for her. Before long, however, fatigue, and the wine she had drunk, effectually got the better of studious thoughts; she stretched herself on the sofa and fell asleep.

There Mr. Lindsay found her a couple of hours afterwards under the guard of the housekeeper.

"I cam in, sir," she said, whispering; "it's mair than an hour back, and she's been sleeping just like a baby ever syne; she hasna stirred a finger. Oh, Mr. Lindsay, it's a bonny bairn, and a gude. What a blessing to the house!"

"You're about right there, I believe, Maggie; but how have you learned it so fast?"

"I canna be mista'en, Mr. George; I ken it as weel as if we had had a year auld acquentance; I ken it by thae sweet mouth and een, and by the look she gied me when you tauld her, sir, I had been in the house near as long's yoursel. And look at her eenow. There's heaven's peace within, I'm a'maist assured."

The kiss that wakened Ellen found her in the midst of a dream. She thought that John was a king of Scotland, and standing before her in regal attire. She offered him, she thought, a glass of wine, but raising the sword of state, silver scabbard and all, he with a tremendous swing of it dashed the glass out of her hands; and then as she stood abashed, he went forward with one of his old grave kind looks to kiss her. As the kiss touched her lips Ellen opened her eyes to find her brother transformed into Mr. Lindsay, and the empty glass standing safe and sound upon the table.

"You must have had a pleasant nap," said Mr. Lindsay, "you wake up smiling. Come, make haste, I have left a friend in the carriage. Bring your book along if you want it."

The presence of the stranger, who was going down to spend a day or two at "The Braes," prevented Ellen from having any talking to do. Comfortably placed in the corner of the front seat of the barouche, leaning on the elbow of the carriage, she was left to her own musings. She could hardly realise the change in her circumstances. The carriage rolling fast and smoothly on—the two gentlemen opposite to her, one her father—the strange, varied, beautiful scenes they were flitting by; the long shadows made by the descending sun; the cool evening air; Ellen, leaning back in the wide easy seat, felt as if she were in a dream. It was singularly pleasant; she could not help but enjoy it all very much; and yet it seemed to her as if she were caught in a net from which she had no power to get free, and she longed to clasp that hand that could, she thought, draw her whence and whither it pleased. "But Mr. Lindsay opposite? I have called him my father; I have given myself to him," she thought; "but I gave myself to somebody else first; I can't undo that, and I never will!" Again she tried to quiet and resign the care of herself to better wisdom and greater strength than her own. "This may all be arranged, easily, in some way I could never dream of," she said to herself; "I have no business to be uneasy. Two months ago, and I was quietly at home, and seemed to be fixed there for ever; and now, without anything extraordinary happening, here I am, just as fixed. Yes, and before that at Aunt Fortune's it didn't seem possible that I could ever get away from being her child, and yet how easily all that was managed. And just so in some way that I cannot imagine, things may open so as to let me out smoothly from this." She resolved to be patient, and take thankfully what she at present had to enjoy; and in this mood of mind the drive home was beautiful; and the evening was happily absorbed in the history of Scotland.

It was a grave question in the family that same evening whether Ellen should be sent to school. Lady Keith was decided in favour of it; her mother seemed doubtful; Mr. Lindsay, who had a vision of the little figure lying asleep on his library sofa, thought the room had never looked so cheerful before, and had near made up his mind that she should be its constant adornment the coming winter. Lady Keith urged the school plan.

"Not a boarding-school," said Mrs. Lindsay; "I will not hear of that."

"No, but a day-school; it would do her a vast deal of good, I am certain; her notions want shaking up very much. And I never saw a child of her age so much a child."

"I assure you I never saw one so much a woman. She has asked me to-day, I suppose," said he, smiling, "a hundred questions or less; and I assure you there was not one foolish or vain one among them; not one that was not sensible, and most of them singularly so."

"She was greatly pleased with her day," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I never saw such a baby-face in my life," said Lady Keith, "in a child of her years."

"It is a face of uncommon intelligence," said her brother.

"It is both," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I was struck with it the other day," said Lady Keith—"the day she slept so long upon the sofa upstairs after she was dressed; she had been crying about something, and her eyelashes were wet still, and she had that curious grave innocent look you only see in infants; you might have thought she was fourteen months, instead of fourteen years, old; fourteen and a half she says she is."

"Crying!" said Mr. Lindsay; "what was the matter?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Lindsay, "but that she had been obliged to submit to me in something that did not please her."

"Did she give you any cause of displeasure?"

"No, though I can see she has strong passions. But she is the first child I ever saw that I think I could not get angry with."

"Mother's heart half misgave her, I believe," said Lady Keith, laughing; "she sat there looking at her for an hour."

"She seems to be perfectly gentle and submissive," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, but don't trust too much to appearances," said his sister. "If she is not a true Lindsay after all, I am mistaken. Did you see her colour once or twice this morning, when something was said that did not please her?"

"You can judge nothing from that," said Mr. Lindsay; "she colours at everything. You should have seen her to-day when I told her I would take her to Bannockburn."

"Ah! she has got the right side of you; you will be able to discern no faults in her presently."

"She has used no arts for it, sister; she is a straightforward little hussy, and that is one thing I like about her, though I was as near as possible being provoked with her once or twice to-day. There is only one thing I wish was altered;—she has her head filled with strange notions—absurd for a child of her age; I don't know what to do to get rid of them."

After some more conversation, it was decided that school would be the best thing for this end, and half decided that Ellen should go.

But this half decision Mr. Lindsay found it very difficult to keep to, and circumstances soon destroyed it entirely. Company was constantly coming and going at "The Braes," and much of it of a kind that Ellen exceedingly liked to see and hear; intelligent, cultivated, well-informed people, whose conversation was highly agreeable and always useful to her. Ellen had nothing to do with the talking, so she made good use of her ears.

One evening Mr. Lindsay, a M. Villars, and M. Muller, a Swiss gentleman and a noted man of science, very much at home in Mr. Lindsay's house, were carrying on, in French, a conversation in which the two foreigners took part against their host. M. Villars began with talking about Lafayette; from him they went to the American Revolution and Washington, from them to other patriots and other republics, ancient and modern—MM. Villars and Muller taking the side of freedom, and pressing Mr. Lindsay hard with argument, authority, example, and historical testimony. Ellen as usual was fast by his side, and delighted to see that he could by no means make good his ground. The ladies at the other end of the room would several times have drawn her away, but happily for her, and also as usual, Mr. Lindsay's arm was around her shoulders, and she was left in quiet to listen. The conversation was very lively, and on a subject very interesting to her; for America had been always a darling theme; Scottish struggles for freedom were fresh in her mind; her attention had long ago been called to Switzerland and its history by Alice and Mrs. Vawse, and French history had formed a good part of her last winter's reading. She listened with the most eager delight, too much engrossed to notice the good-humoured glances that were every now and then given her by one of the speakers. Not Mr. Lindsay; though his hand was upon her shoulder or playing with the light curls that fell over her temples, he did not see that her face was flushed with interest, or notice the quick smile and sparkle of the eye that followed every turn in the conversation that favoured her wishes or foiled his—it was M. Muller. They came to the Swiss, and their famous struggle for freedom against Austrian oppression. M. Muller wished to speak of the noted battle in which that freedom was made sure, but for the moment its name had escaped him.

"Par ma foi," said M. Villars, "il m'a entiÈrement passÉ!"

Mr. Lindsay could not or would not help him out. But M. Muller suddenly turned to Ellen, in whose face he thought he saw a look of intelligence, and begged of her the missing name.

"Est-ce Morgarten, monsieur?" said Ellen, blushing.

"Morgarten! c'est Ça!" said he with a polite, pleased bow of thanks. Mr. Lindsay was little less astonished than the Duke of Argyle when his gardener claimed to be the owner of a Latin work on mathematics.

The conversation presently took a new turn with M. Villars; and M. Muller withdrawing from it addressed himself to Ellen. He was a pleasant-looking elderly gentleman; she had never seen him before that evening.

"You know French well, then?" said he, speaking to her in that tongue.

"I don't know, sir," said Ellen modestly.

"And you have heard of the Swiss mountaineers?"

"Oh yes, sir; a great deal."

He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an exquisite little painting, asking her if she knew what it was.

"It is an Alpine chÂlet, is it not, sir?"

He was pleased, and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen that Switzerland was his country; and drawing a little aside from the other talkers, he entered into a long and, to her, most delightful conversation. In the pleasantest manner, he gave her a vast deal of very entertaining detail about the country and the manners and the habits of the people of the Alps, especially in the Tyrol, where he had often travelled. It would have been hard to tell whether the child had most pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and science most pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He saw, he said, that she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and asked if she had ever heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese peasant who led on his brethren in their noble endeavours to rid themselves of French and Bavarian oppression. Ellen had never heard of him.

"You know William Tell?"

"Oh yes," Ellen said, she knew him.

"And Bonaparte?"

"Yes, very well."

He went on then to give her in a very interesting way the history of Hofer; how when Napoleon made over his country to the rule of the King of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose in mass; overcame army after army that was sent against them in their mountain fastnesses, and freed themselves from the hated Bavarian government; how, years after, Napoleon was at last too strong for them; Hofer and his companions defeated, hunted like wild beasts, shot down like them; how Hofer was at last betrayed by a friend, taken, and executed, being only seen to weep at parting with his family. The beautiful story was well told, and the speaker was animated by the eager, deep attention and sympathy of his auditor, whose changing colour, smiles, and even tears, showed how well she entered into the feelings of the patriots in their struggle, triumph, and downfall; till, as he finished, she was left full of pity for them and hatred of Napoleon. They talked of the Alps again. M. Muller put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a little painting in mosaic to show her, which he said had been given him that day. It was a beautiful piece of pietra dura work—Mont Blanc. He assured her the mountain often looked exactly so. Ellen admired it very much. It was meant to be set for a brooch or some such thing, he said, and he asked if she would keep it and sometimes wear it, to "remember the Swiss, and to do him a pleasure."

"Moi, monsieur!" said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and pleasure, "je suis bien obligÉe, mais, monsieur, je ne saurais vous remercier!"

He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch of her lips.

"Tenez, monsieur!" said Ellen, blushing, but smiling, and tendering back the mosaic.

He laughed and bowed and begged her pardon, and said she must keep it to assure him she had forgiven him; and then he asked by what name he might remember her.

"Monsieur, je m'appelle Ellen M——"

She stopped short in utter and blank uncertainty what to call herself; Montgomery she dared not; Lindsay stuck in her throat.

"Have you forgotten it?" said M. Muller, amused at her look, "or is it a secret?"

"Tell M. Muller your name, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, turning round from a group where he was standing at a little distance. The tone was stern and displeased. Ellen felt it keenly, and with difficulty, and some hesitation still, murmured—"Ellen Lindsay."

"Lindsay? Are you the daughter of my friend Mr. Lindsay?"

Again Ellen hesitated, in great doubt how to answer, but finally, not without starting tears, said—

"Oui, monsieur."

"Your memory is bad to-night," said Mr. Lindsay in her ear; "you had better go where you can refresh it."

Ellen took this as a hint to leave the room, which she did immediately, not a little hurt at the displeasure she did not think she had deserved; she loved Mr. Lindsay the best of all her relations, and really loved him. She went to bed and to sleep again that night with wet eyelashes.

Meanwhile, M. Muller was gratifying Mr. Lindsay in a high degree by the praises he bestowed upon his daughter, her intelligence, her manners, her modesty, and her French. He asked if she was to be in Edinburgh that winter, and whether she would be at school; and Mr. Lindsay declaring himself undecided on the latter point, M. Muller said he should be pleased, if she had leisure, to have her come to his rooms two or three times a week to read with him. This offer, from a person of M. Muller's standing and studious habits, Mr. Lindsay justly took as both a great compliment and a great promise of advantage to Ellen. He at once, and with much pleasure, accepted it. So the question of school was settled.

Ellen resolved the next morning to lose no time in making up her difference with Mr. Lindsay, and schooled herself to use a form of words that she thought would please him. Pride said indeed, "Do no such thing; don't go to making acknowledgments when you have not been in the wrong; you are not bound to humble yourself before unjust displeasure." Pride pleaded powerfully. But neither Ellen's heart nor her conscience would permit her to take this advice. "He loves me very much," she thought, "and perhaps he did not understand me last night; and besides, I owe him—yes, I do!—a child's obedience now. I ought not to leave him displeased with me a moment longer than I can help. And besides, I couldn't be happy so. God gives grace to the humble. I will humble myself."

To have a chance for executing this determination she went downstairs a good deal earlier than usual; she knew Mr. Lindsay was generally there before the rest of the family, and she hoped to see him alone. It was too soon even for him, however; the rooms were empty. So Ellen took her book from the table, and being perfectly at peace with herself, sat down in the window and was presently lost in the interest of what she was reading. She did not know of Mr. Lindsay's approach till a little imperative tap on her shoulder startled her.

"What were you thinking of last night? what made you answer M. Muller in the way you did?"

Ellen started up, but to utter her prepared speech was no longer possible.

"I did not know what to say," she said, looking down.

"What do you mean by that?" said he angrily. "Didn't you know what I wished you to say?"

"Yes—but—do not speak to me in that way!" exclaimed Ellen, covering her face with her hands. Pride struggled to keep back the tears that wanted to flow.

"I shall choose my own method of speaking. Why did you not say what you knew I wished you to say?"

"I was afraid—I didn't know—but he would think what wasn't true."

"That is precisely what I wish him and all the world to think. I will have no difference made, Ellen, either by them or you. Now lift up your head and listen to me," said he, taking both her hands. "I lay my commands upon you, whenever the like questions may be asked again, that you answer simply according to what I have told you, without any explanation or addition. It is true, and if people draw conclusions that are not true, it is what I wish. Do you understand me?" Ellen bowed.

"Will you obey me?" She answered again in the same mute way.

He ceased to hold her at arm's length, and sitting down in her chair drew her close to him, saying more kindly—

"You must not displease me, Ellen."

"I had no thought of displeasing you, sir," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "and I was very sorry for it last night. I did not mean to disobey you—I only hesitated——"

"Hesitate no more. My commands may serve to remove the cause of it. You are my daughter, Ellen, and I am your father. Poor child!" said he, for Ellen was violently agitated, "I don't believe I shall have much difficulty with you."

"If you will only not speak and look at me so," said Ellen; "it makes me very unhappy——"

"Hush!" said he, kissing her; "do not give me occasion."

"I did not give you occasion, sir."

"Why, Ellen!" said Mr. Lindsay, half displeased again, "I shall begin to think your Aunt Keith is right, that you are a true Lindsay. But so am I, and I will have only obedience from you—without either answering or argument."

"You shall," murmured Ellen. "But do not be displeased with me, father."

Ellen had schooled herself to say that word; she knew it would greatly please him; and she was not mistaken; though it was spoken so low that his ears could but just catch it. Displeasure was entirely overcome. He pressed her to his heart, kissing her with great tenderness, and would not let her go from his arms till he had seen her smile again; and during all the day he was not willing to have her out of his sight.

It would have been easy that morning for Ellen to have made a breach between them that would not readily have been healed. One word of humility had prevented it all, and fastened her more firmly than ever in Mr. Lindsay's affection. She met with nothing from him but tokens of great and tender fondness; and Lady Keith told her mother apart that there would be no doing anything with George; she saw he was getting bewitched with that child.