"Ellen, dear," said Alice, as she poured out Ellen's second cup of tea, "have we run through the list of your troubles?"

"Oh no, Miss Alice, indeed we haven't; but we have got through the worst."

"Is the next one so bad it would spoil our supper?"

"No," said Ellen; "it couldn't do that, but it's bad enough though; it's about my not going to school. Miss Alice, I promised myself I would learn so much while mamma was away, and surprise her when she came back, and instead of that, I am not learning anything. I don't mean not learning anything," said Ellen, correcting herself; "but I can't do much. When I found Aunt Fortune wasn't going to send me to school, I determined I would try to study by myself; and I have tried, but I can't get along."

"Well, now, don't lay down your knife and fork and look so doleful," said Alice, smiling, "this is a matter I can help you in. What are you studying?"

"Some things I can manage well enough," said Ellen, "the easy things; but I cannot understand my arithmetic without some one to explain it to me; and French I can do nothing at all with, and that is what I wanted to learn most of all; and often I want to ask questions about my history."

"Suppose," said Alice, "you go on studying by yourself as much and as well as you can, and bring your books up to me two or three times a week; I will hear and explain and answer questions to your heart's content, unless you should be too hard for me. What do you say to that?"

Ellen said nothing to it, but the colour that rushed to her cheeks, the surprised look of delight, were answer enough.

"It will do, then," said Alice, "and I have no doubt we shall untie the knot of those arithmetical problems very soon. But, Ellen, my dear, I cannot help you in French, for I do not know it myself. What will you do about that?"

"I don't know, ma'am; I am sorry."

"So am I, for your sake. I can help you in Latin, if that would be any comfort to you."

"It wouldn't be much comfort to me," said Ellen, laughing; "mamma wanted me to learn Latin, but I wanted to learn French a great deal more. I don't care about Latin, except to please her."

"Permit me to ask if you know English?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, I hope so; I knew that a great while ago."

"Did you? I am very happy to make your acquaintance then, for the number of young ladies who do know English is, in my opinion, remarkably small. Are you sure of the fact, Ellen?"

"Why yes, Miss Alice."

"Will you undertake to write me a note of two pages that shall not have one fault of grammar, nor one word spelt wrong, nor anything in it that is not good English? You may take for a subject the history of this afternoon."

"Yes, ma'am, if you wish it. I hope I can write a note that long without making mistakes."

Alice smiled.

"I will not stop to inquire," she said, "whether that long is Latin or French; but, Ellen, my dear, it is not English."

Ellen blushed a little, though she laughed too.

"I believe I have got into the way of saying that by hearing Aunt Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt say it; I don't think I ever did before I came here."

"What are you so anxious to learn French for?"

"Mamma knows it, and I have often heard her talk French with a great many people; and papa and I always wanted to be able to talk it too; and mamma wanted me to learn it; she said there were a great many French books I ought to read."

"That last is true, no doubt. Ellen, I will make a bargain with you,—if you will study English with me, I will study French with you."

"Dear Miss Alice," said Ellen, caressing her, "I'll do it without that; I'll study anything you please."

"Dear Ellen, I believe you would. But I should like to know it for my own sake; we'll study it together; we shall get along nicely, I have no doubt; we can learn to read it, at least, and that is the main point."

"But how shall we know what to call the words?" said Ellen doubtfully.

"That is a grave question," said Alice, smiling. "I am afraid we should hit upon a style of pronunciation that a Frenchman would make nothing of. I have it!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands—"where there's a will there's a way—it always happens so. Ellen, I have an old friend upon the mountain who will give us exactly what we want, unless I am greatly mistaken. We'll go and see her; that is the very thing!—my old friend Mrs. Vawse."

"Mrs. Vawse!" repeated Ellen; "not the grandmother of that Nancy Vawse?"

"The very same. Her name is not Vawse; the country people call it so, and I being one of the country people have fallen into the way of it; but her real name is Vosier. She was born a Swiss, and brought up in a wealthy French family, as the personal attendant of a young lady to whom she became exceedingly attached. This lady finally married an American gentleman; and so great was Mrs. Vawse's love to her, that she left country and family to follow her here. In a few years her mistress died; she married; and since that time she has been tossed from trouble to trouble; a perfect sea of troubles;—till now she is left like a wreck upon this mountain top. A fine wreck she is! I go to see her very often, and next time I will call for you, and we will propose our French plan; nothing will please her better, I know. By the way, Ellen, are you as well versed in the other common branches of education as you are in your mother tongue?"

"What do you mean, Miss Alice?"

"Geography, for instance; do you know it well?"

"Yes, ma'am, I believe so; I am sure I have studied it till I am sick of it."

"Can you give me the boundaries of Great Thibet or Peru?"

Ellen hesitated.

"I had rather not try," she said; "I am not sure. I can't remember those queer countries in Asia and South America half so well as Europe and North America."

"Do you know anything about the surface of the country in Italy or France; the character and condition of the people; what kind of climate they have, and what grows there most freely?"

"Why no, ma'am," said Ellen; "nobody ever taught me that."

"Would you like to go over the atlas again, talking about all these matters, as well as the mere outlines of the countries you have studied before?"

"Oh yes, dearly!" exclaimed Ellen.

"Well, I think we may let Margery have the tea-things. But here is Captain's cake."

"Oh, may I give him his supper?" said Ellen.

"Certainly. You must carve it for him; you know I told you he is very particular. Give him some of the egg, too—he likes that. Now, where is the Captain?" Not far off; for scarcely had Alice opened the door and called him once or twice, when with a queer little note of answer, he came hurriedly trotting in.

"He generally has his supper in the outer kitchen," said Alice, "but I grant him leave to have it here to-night as a particular honour to him and you."

"How handsome he is! and how large!" said Ellen.

"Yes, he is very handsome, and more than that he is very sensible for a cat. Do you see how prettily his paws are marked? Jack used to say he had white gloves on."

"And white boots too," said Ellen. "No, only one leg is white; pussy's boots aren't mates. Is he good-natured?"

"Very—if you don't meddle with him."

"I don't call that being good-natured," said Ellen, laughing.

"Nor I; but truth obliges me to say the Captain does not permit anybody to take liberties with him. He is a character, Captain Parry. Come out on the lawn, Ellen, and we will let Margery clear away."

"What a pleasant face Margery has," said Ellen, as the door closed behind them; "and what a pleasant way she has of speaking. I like to hear her—the words come out so clear, and I don't know how, but not like other people."

"You have a quick ear, Ellen; you are very right. Margery had lived too long in England before she came here to lose her trick of speech afterwards. But Thomas speaks as thick as a Yankee, and always did."

"Then Margery is English?" said Ellen.

"To be sure. She came over with us twelve years ago for the pure love of my father and mother, and I believe now she looks upon John and me as her own children. I think she could scarcely love us more if we were so in truth. Thomas—you haven't seen Thomas yet, have you?"

"No."

"He is an excellent good man in his way, and as faithful as the day is long; but he isn't equal to his wife. Perhaps I am partial. Margery came to America for the love of us, and Thomas came for the love of Margery; there's a difference."

"But, Miss Alice!—--"

"What, Miss Ellen?"

"You said Margery came over with you?"

"Yes, is that what makes you look so astonished?"

"But then you are English, too?"

"Well, what of that? You won't love me the less, will you?"

"Oh no," said Ellen; "my own mother came from Scotland, Aunt Fortune says."

"I am English born, Ellen, but you may count me half American if you like, for I have spent rather more than half my life here. Come this way, Ellen, and I'll show you my garden. It is some distance off, but as near as a spot could be found fit for it."

They quitted the house by a little steep path leading down the mountain, which in two or three minutes brought them to a clear bit of ground. It was not large, but lying very prettily among the trees, with an open view to the east and south-east. On the extreme edge and at the lower end of it was fixed a rude bench, well sheltered by the towering forest trees. Here Alice and Ellen sat down.

It was near sunset, the air cool and sweet, the evening light upon field and sky.

"How fair it is!" said Alice musingly. "How fair and lovely! Look at those long shadows of the mountains, Ellen, and how bright the light is on the far hills. It won't be so long. A little while more, and our Indian summer will be over; and then the clouds, the frost, and the wind, and the snow. Well, let them come."

"I wish they wouldn't, I am sure," said Ellen. "I am sorry enough they are coming."

"Why? All seasons have their pleasures. I am not sorry at all. I like the cold very much."

"I guess you wouldn't, Miss Alice, if you had to wash every morning where I do."

"Why, where is that?"

"Down at the spout."

"At the spout! What is that, pray?"

"The spout of water, ma'am, just down a little way from the kitchen door. The water comes in a little long, very long trough from a spring at the back of the pig-field, and at the end of the trough, where it pours out, is the spout."

"Have you no conveniences for washing in your room?"

"Not a sign of such a thing, ma'am. I have washed at the spout ever since I have been here," said Ellen, laughing in spite of her vexation.

"And do the pigs share the water with you?"

"The pigs? Oh no, ma'am. The trough is raised up from the ground on little heaps of stones. They can't get at the water, unless they drink at the spring, and I don't think they do that, so many big stones stand around it."

"Well, Ellen, I must say that it is rather uncomfortable, even without any danger of four-footed society."

"It isn't so bad just now," said Ellen, "in this warm weather, but in that cold time we had a week or two back, do you remember, Miss Alice?—just before the Indian summer began?—oh, how disagreeable it was! Early in the morning, you know, the sun scarcely up, and the cold wind blowing my hair and my clothes all about, and then that board before the spout, that I have to stand on, is always kept wet by the spattering of the water, and it's muddy besides and very slippery—there's a kind of green stuff comes upon it, and I can't stoop down for fear of muddying myself. I have to tuck my clothes round me and bend over as well as I can, and fetch up a little water to my face in the hollow of my hand, and of course I have to do that a great many times before I get enough. I can't help laughing," said Ellen, "but it isn't a laughing matter for all that."

"So you wash your face in your hands, and have no pitcher but a long wooden trough? Poor child! I am sorry for you. I think you must have some other way of managing before the snow comes."

"The water is bitterly cold already," said Ellen. "It's the coldest water I ever saw. Mamma gave me a nice dressing-box before I came away, but I found very soon this was a queer place for a dressing-box to come to. Why, Miss Alice, if I take out my brush or comb I haven't any table to lay them on but one that's too high, and my poor dressing-box has to stay on the floor. And I haven't a sign of a bureau; all my things are tumbling about in my trunk."

"I think if I were in your place I would not permit that, at any rate," said Alice. "If my things were confined to my trunk I would have them keep good order there, at least."

"Well, so they do," said Ellen; "pretty good order. I didn't mean 'tumbling about' exactly."

"Always try to say what you mean exactly. But now, Ellen love, do you know I must send you away? Do you see the sunlight has quitted those distant hills? And it will be quite gone soon. You must hasten home."

Ellen made no answer. Alice had taken her on her lap again, and she was nestling there with her friend's arms wrapped around her. Both were quite still for a minute.

"Next week, if nothing happens, we will begin to be busy with our books. You shall come to me on Tuesday and Friday; and all the other days you must study as hard as you can at home, for I am very particular, I forewarn you."

"But suppose Aunt Fortune should not let me come?" said Ellen, without stirring.

"Oh, she will. You need not speak about it; I'll come down and ask her myself, and nobody ever refuses me anything."

"I shouldn't think they would," said Ellen.

"Then don't you set the first example," said Alice laughingly. "I ask you to be cheerful and happy, and grow wiser and better every day."

"Dear Miss Alice! How can I promise that?"

"Dear Ellen, it is very easy. There is One who has promised to hear and answer you when you cry to Him; He will make you in His own likeness again; and to know and love Him and not be happy is impossible. That blessed Saviour!" said Alice; "oh, what should you and I do without Him, Ellen? 'As rivers of waters in a dry place; as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.' How beautiful! how true! how often I think of that."

Ellen was silent, though entering into the feeling of the words.

"Remember Him, dear Ellen; remember your best friend. Learn more of Christ, our dear Saviour, and you can't help but be happy. Never fancy you are helpless and friendless while you have Him to go to. Whenever you feel wearied and sorry, flee to the shadow of that great rock; will you? and do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am—yes, ma'am," said Ellen, as she lifted her lips to kiss her friend. Alice heartily returned the kiss, and pressing Ellen in her arms, said—

"Now, Ellen, dear, you must go; I dare not keep you any longer. It will be too late now, I fear, before you reach home."

Quick they mounted the little path again, and soon were at the house; and Ellen was putting on her things.

"Next Tuesday, remember—but before that! Sunday—you are to spend Sunday with me; come bright and early."

"How early?"

"Oh, as early as you please—before breakfast—and our Sunday morning breakfasts aren't late, Ellen; we have to set off betimes to go to church."

Kisses and good-byes; and then Ellen was running down the road at a great rate, for twilight was beginning to gather, and she had a good way to go.

She ran till out of breath; then walked a while to gather breath; then ran again. Running down hill is a pretty quick way of travelling; so before very long she saw her aunt's house at a distance. She walked now. She had come all the way in good spirits, though with a sense upon her mind of something disagreeable to come; when she saw the house this disagreeable something swallowed up all her thoughts, and she walked leisurely on, pondering what she had to do, and what she was like to meet in the doing of it.

"If Aunt Fortune should be in a bad humour—and say something to vex me—but I'll not be vexed. But it will be very hard to help it; but I will not be vexed; I have done wrong, and I'll tell her so, and ask her to forgive me; it will be hard—but I'll do it—I'll say what I ought to say, and then, however she takes it, I shall have the comfort of knowing I have done right." "But," said conscience, "you must not say it stiffly and proudly; you must say it humbly, and as if you really felt and meant it." "I will," said Ellen.

She paused in the shed and looked through the window to see what was the promise of things within. Not good; her aunt's step sounded heavy and ominous; Ellen guessed she was not in a pleasant state of mind. She opened the door—no doubt of it—the whole air of Miss Fortune's figure, to the very handkerchief that was tied round her head, spoke displeasure.

"She isn't in a good mood," said Ellen, as she went upstairs to leave her bonnet and cape there; "I never knew her to be good-humoured when she had that handkerchief on."

She returned to the kitchen immediately. Her aunt was busied in washing and wiping the dishes.

"I have come home rather late," said Ellen pleasantly; "shall I help you, Aunt Fortune?"

Her aunt cast a look at her.

"Yes, you may help me. Go and put on a pair of white gloves and a silk apron, and then you'll be ready."

Ellen looked down at herself. "Oh, my merino! I forgot about that. I'll go and change it."

Miss Fortune said nothing, and Ellen went.

When she came back the things were all wiped, and as she was about to put some of them away, her aunt took them out of her hands, bidding her "go and sit down!"

Ellen obeyed and was mute; while Miss Fortune dashed round with a display of energy there seemed to be no particular call for, and speedily had everything in its place and all straight and square about the kitchen. When she was, as a last thing, brushing the crumbs, from the floor into the fire, she broke the silence again. The old grandmother sat in the chimney-corner, but she seldom was very talkative in the presence of her stern daughter.

"What did you come home for to-night? Why didn't you stay at Mr. Humphreys'?"

"Miss Alice didn't ask me."

"That means, I suppose, that you would if she had?"

"I don't know, ma'am; Miss Alice wouldn't have asked me to do anything that wasn't right."

"Oh no! of course not;—Miss Alice is a piece of perfection; everybody says so; and I suppose you'd sing the same song, who haven't seen her three times."

"Indeed I would," said Ellen; "I could have told that in one seeing. I'd do anything in the world for Miss Alice."

"Ay—I dare say, that's the way of it. You can show not one bit of goodness or pleasantness to the person that does the most for you and has all the care of you, but the first stranger that comes along you can be all honey to them, and make yourself out too good for common folks, and go and tell great tales how you are used at home, I suppose. I am sick of it!" said Miss Fortune, setting up the andirons and throwing the tongs and shovel into the corner, in a way that made the iron ring again. "One might as good be a stepmother at once, and done with it! Come, mother, it's time for you to go to bed."

The old lady rose with the meekness of habitual submission, and went upstairs with her daughter. Ellen had time to bethink herself while they were gone, and resolved to lose no time when her aunt came back in doing what she had to do. She would fain have persuaded herself to put it off. "It is late," she said to herself, "it isn't a good time. It will be better to go to bed now, and ask Aunt Fortune's pardon to-morrow." But conscience said, "First be reconciled to thy brother."

Miss Fortune came down presently. But before Ellen could get any words out, her aunt prevented her.

"Come, light your candle and be off; I want you out of the way; I can't do anything with half-a-dozen people about."

Ellen rose. "I want to say something to you first, Aunt Fortune."

"Say it and be quick; I haven't time to stand talking."

"Aunt Fortune," said Ellen, stumbling over her words—"I want to tell you that I know I was wrong this morning, and I am sorry, and I hope you'll forgive me."

A kind of indignant laugh escaped from Miss Fortune's lips.

"It's easy talking; I'd rather have acting. I'd rather see people mend their ways than stand and make speeches about them. Being sorry don't help the matter much."

"But I'll try not to do so any more," said Ellen.

"When I see you don't I shall begin to think there is something in it. Actions speak louder than words. I don't believe in this jumping into goodness all at once."

"Well, I will try not to, at any rate," said Ellen, sighing.

"I shall be very glad to see it. What has brought you into this sudden fit of dutifulness and fine talking?"

"Miss Alice told me I ought to ask your pardon for what I had done wrong," said Ellen, scarce able to keep from crying; "and I know I did wrong this morning, and I did wrong the other day about the letter; and I am sorry, whether you believe it or no."

"Miss Alice told you, did she? So all this is to please Miss Alice. I suppose you were afraid your friend Miss Alice would hear of some of your goings on, and thought you had better make up with me. Is that it?"

Ellen answered, "No, ma'am," in a low tone, but had no voice to say more.

"I wish Miss Alice would look after her own affairs, and let other people's houses alone. That's always the way with your pieces of perfection; they're eternally finding out something that isn't as it ought to be among their neighbours. I think people that don't set up for being quite such great things get along quite as well in the world."

Ellen was strongly tempted to reply, but kept her lips shut.

"I'll tell you what," said Miss Fortune, "if you want me to believe that all this talk means something, I'll tell you what you shall do. You shall just tell Mr. Van Brunt to-morrow about it all, and how ugly you have been these two days, and let him know you were wrong and I was right. I believe he thinks you cannot do anything wrong, and I should like him to know it for once."

Ellen struggled hard with herself before she could speak; Miss Fortune's lips began to wear a scornful smile.

"I'll tell him!" said Ellen at length; "I'll tell him I was wrong, if you wish me to."

"I do wish it. I like people's eyes to be opened. It'll do him good, I guess, and you too. Now have you anything more to say?"

Ellen hesitated: the colour came and went; she knew it wasn't a good time, but how could she wait?

"Aunt Fortune," she said, "you know I told you I behaved very ill about that letter—won't you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, yes, child; I don't care anything about it."

"Then will you be so good as to let me have my letter again?" said Ellen timidly.

"Oh, I can't be bothered to look for it now; I'll see about it some other time; take your candle and go to bed now, if you've nothing more to say."

Ellen took her candle and went. Some tears were wrung from her by hurt feeling and disappointment; but she had the smile of conscience, and as she believed, of Him whose witness conscience is. She remembered that "great rock in a weary land," and she went to sleep in the shadow of it.

The next day was Saturday. Ellen was up early, and after carefully performing her toilet duties, she had a nice long hour before it was time to go downstairs. The use she made of this hour had fitted her to do cheerfully and well her morning work; and Ellen would have sat down to breakfast in excellent spirits if it had not been for her promised disclosure to Mr. Van Brunt. It vexed her a little. "I told Aunt Fortune—that was all right; but why I should be obliged to tell Mr. Van Brunt I don't know. But if it convinces Aunt Fortune that I am in earnest, and meant what I say, then I had better."

Mr. Van Brunt looked uncommonly grave, she thought; her aunt, uncommonly satisfied. Ellen had more than half a guess at the reason of both; but make up her mind to speak, she could not, during all breakfast time. She ate without knowing what she was eating.

Mr. Van Brunt at length, having finished his meal without saying a syllable, arose and was about to go forth, when Miss Fortune stopped him. "Wait a minute, Mr. Van Brunt," she said, "Ellen has something to say to you. Go ahead, Ellen."

Ellen felt, rather than saw, the smile with which these words were spoken. She crimsoned and hesitated.

"Ellen and I had some trouble yesterday," said Miss Fortune, "and she wants to tell you about it." Mr. Van Brunt stood gravely waiting.

Ellen raised her eyes, which were full, to his face. "Mr. Van Brunt," she said, "Aunt Fortune wants me to tell you what I told her last night—that I knew I behaved as I ought not to her yesterday, and the day before, and other times."

"And what made you do that?" said Mr. Van Brunt.

"Tell him," said Miss Fortune, colouring, "that you were in the wrong and I was in the right—then he'll believe it, I suppose."

"I was wrong," said Ellen.

"And I was right," said Miss Fortune.

Ellen was silent. Mr. Van Brunt looked from one to the other.

"Speak," said Miss Fortune; "tell him the whole if you mean what you say."

"I can't," said Ellen.

"Why, you said you were wrong," said Miss Fortune; "that's only half of the business; if you were wrong I was right; why don't you say so, and not make such a shilly-shally piece of work of it?"

"I said I was wrong," said Ellen, "and so I was; but I never said you were right, Aunt Fortune; and I don't think so."

These words, though moderately spoken, were enough to put Miss Fortune in a rage.

"What did I do that was wrong?" she said; "come, I should like to know. What was it, Ellen? Out with it; say everything you can think of; stop and hear it, Mr. Van Brunt; come, Ellen, let's hear the whole!"

"Thank you, ma'am, I've heerd quite enough," said that gentleman, as he went out and closed the door.

"And I have said too much," said Ellen. "Pray forgive me, Aunt Fortune. I shouldn't have said that if you hadn't pressed me so; I forgot myself a moment. I am sorry I said that."

"Forgot yourself!" said Miss Fortune: "I wish you'd forget yourself out of my house. Please to forget the place where I am for to-day, anyhow; I've got enough of you for one while. You had better go to Miss Alice and get a new lesson, and tell her you are coming on finely."

Gladly would Ellen indeed have gone to Miss Alice, but as the next day was Sunday she thought it best to wait. She went sorrowfully to her own room. "Why couldn't I be quiet?" said Ellen. "If I had only held my tongue that unfortunate minute! What possessed me to say that?"

Strong passion—strong pride—both long unbroken; and Ellen had yet to learn that many a prayer and many a tear, much watchfulness, much help from on high, must be hers before she could be thoroughly dispossessed of these evil spirits. But she knew her sickness; she had applied to the Physician; she was in a fair way to be well.

One thought in her solitary room that day drew streams of tears down Ellen's cheeks. "My letter—my letter! what shall I do to get you!" she said to herself. "It serves me right; I oughtn't to have got in a passion; oh, I have got a lesson this time."