The Sunday with Alice met all Ellen's hopes. She wrote a very long letter to her mother, giving the full history of the day. How pleasantly they had ridden to church on the pretty grey pony, she half the way, and Alice the other half, talking to each other all the while; for Mr. Humphreys had ridden on before. How lovely the road was, "winding about round the mountain, up and down," and with such a wide, fair view, and "part of the time close along by the edge of the water." This had been Ellen's first ride on horseback. Then the letter described the little Carra-carra church, Mr. Humphreys' excellent sermon, "every word of which she could understand;" Alice's Sunday School, in which she was sole teacher, and how Ellen had four little ones put under her care; and told how while Mr. Humphreys went on to hold a second service at a village some six miles off, his daughter ministered to two infirm old women at Carra-carra, reading and explaining the Bible to the one, and to the other, who was blind, repeating the whole substance of her father's sermon. "Miss Alice told me that nobody could enjoy a sermon better than that old woman, but she cannot go out, and every Sunday Miss Alice goes and preaches to her, she says." How Ellen went home in the boat with Thomas and Margery, and spent the rest of the day and night also at the parsonage; and how polite and kind Mr. Humphreys had been. "He's a very grave-looking man indeed," said the letter, "and not a bit like Miss Alice; he is a great deal older than I expected."

This letter was much the longest Ellen had ever written in her life; but she had set her heart on having her mother's sympathy in her new pleasures, though not to be had but after the lapse of many weeks and beyond a sad interval of land and sea. Still, she must have it; and her little fingers travelled busily over the paper hour after hour, as she found time, till the long epistle was finished. She was hard at work at it on Tuesday afternoon when her aunt called her down; and obeying the call, to her great surprise and delight she found Alice seated in the chimney corner and chatting away with her old grandmother, who looked remarkably pleased. Miss Fortune was bustling round as usual, looking at nobody, though putting in her word now and then.

"Come, Ellen," said Alice, "get your bonnet; I am going up the mountain to see Mrs. Vawse, and your aunt has given leave for you to go with me. Wrap yourself up well, for it is not warm."

Without waiting for a word of answer, Ellen joyfully ran off.

"You have chosen rather an ugly day for your walk, Miss Alice."

"Can't expect pretty days in December, Miss Fortune. I am only too happy it doesn't storm; it will by to-morrow, I think. But I have learned not to mind weathers."

"Yes, I know you have," said Miss Fortune. "You'll stop up on the mountain till supper-time, I guess, won't you?"

"Oh yes; I shall want something to fortify me before coming home after such a long tramp. You see I have brought a basket along. I thought it safest to take a loaf of bread with me, for no one can tell what may be in Mrs. Vawse's cupboard, and to lose our supper is not a thing to be thought of."

"Well, have you looked out for butter, too? for you'll find none where you're going. I don't know how the old lady lives up there, but it's without butter, I reckon."

"I have taken care of that, too, thank you, Miss Fortune. You see I'm a far-sighted creature."

"Ellen," said her aunt, as Ellen now, cloaked and hooded, came in, "go into the buttery and fetch out one of them pumpkin pies to put in Miss Alice's basket."

"Thank you, Miss Fortune," said Alice, smiling, "I shall tell Mrs. Vawse who it comes from. Now, my dear, let's be off; we have a long walk before us."

Ellen was quite ready to be off. But no sooner had she opened the outer shed door than her voice was heard in astonishment.

"A cat! What cat is this? Miss Alice! look here; here's the Captain, I do believe."

"Here is the Captain, indeed," said Alice. "Oh, pussy, pussy, what have you come for?"

Pussy walked up to his mistress, and stroking himself and his great tail against her dress, seemed to say that he had come for her sake, and that it made no difference to him where she was going.

"He was sitting as gravely as possible," said Ellen, "on the stone just outside the door, waiting for the door to be opened. How could he have come there?"

"Why, he has followed me," said Alice; "he often does; but I came quick, and I thought I had left him at home to-day. This is too long an expedition for him. Kitty, I wish you had stayed at home."

Kitty did not think so; he was arching his neck and purring in acknowledgment of Alice's soft touch.

"Can't you send him back?" said Ellen.

"No, my dear, he is the most sensible of cats, no doubt, but he could by no means understand such an order. No, we must let him trot on after us, and when he gets tired I will carry him; it won't be the first time by a good many."

They set off with a quick pace, which the weather forbade them to slacken. It was somewhat as Miss Fortune had said, an ugly afternoon. The clouds hung cold and grey, and the air had a raw chill feeling that betokened a coming snow. The wind blew strong too, and seemed to carry the chillness through all manner of wrappers. Alice and Ellen, however, did not much care for it; they walked and ran by turns, only stopping once in a while when poor Captain's uneasy cry warned them they had left him too far behind. Still he would not submit to be carried, but jumped down whenever Alice attempted it, and trotted on most perseveringly. As they neared the foot of the mountain they were somewhat sheltered from the wind, and could afford to walk more slowly.

"How is it between you and your Aunt Fortune now?" said Alice.

"Oh, we don't get on well at all, Miss Alice, and I don't know exactly what to do. You know I said I would ask her pardon. Well, I did, that same night after I got home, but it was very disagreeable. She didn't seem to believe I was in earnest, and wanted me to tell Mr. Van Brunt that I had been wrong. I thought that was rather hard; but at any rate I said I would; and next morning I did tell him so; and I believe all would have done well if I could only have been quiet; but Aunt Fortune said something that vexed me, and almost before I knew it I said something that vexed her dreadfully. It was nothing very bad, Miss Alice, though I ought not to have said it; and I was sorry two minutes after, but I just got provoked; and what shall I do, for it's so hard to prevent it?"

"The only thing I know," said Alice, with a slight smile, "is to be full of that charity which among other lovely ways of showing itself has this—that it is 'not easily provoked.'"

"I am easily provoked," said Ellen.

"Then you know one thing at any rate that is to be watched and prayed and guarded against; it is no little matter to be acquainted with one's own weak points."

"I tried so hard to keep quiet that morning," said Ellen, "and if I only could have let that unlucky speech alone—but somehow I forgot myself, and I just told her what I thought."

"Which it is very often best not to do."

"I do believe," said Ellen, "Aunt Fortune would like to have Mr. Van Brunt not like me."

"Well," said Alice—"what then?"

"Nothing, I suppose, ma'am."

"I hope you are not going to lay it up against her?"

"No, ma'am—I hope not."

"Take care, dear Ellen, don't take up the trade of suspecting evil; you could not take up a worse; and even when it is forced upon you, see as little of it as you can, and forget as soon as you can what you see. Your aunt, it may be, is not a very happy person, and no one can tell but those that are unhappy how hard it is not to be unamiable too. Return good for evil as fast as you can; and you will soon either have nothing to complain of or be very well able to bear it."

They now began to go up the mountain, and the path became in places steep and rugged enough. "There is an easier way on the other side," said Alice, "but this is the nearest for us." Captain Parry now showed signs of being decidedly weary, and permitted Alice to take him up. But he presently mounted from her arms to her shoulder, and to Ellen's great amusement kept his place there, passing from one shoulder to the other, and every now and then sticking his nose up into her bonnet as if to kiss her.

"What does he do that for?" said Ellen.

"Because he loves me and is pleased," said Alice. "Put your ear close, Ellen, and hear the quiet way he is purring to himself—do you hear?—that's his way; he very seldom purrs aloud."

"He's a very funny cat," said Ellen, laughing.

"Cat," said Alice—"there isn't such a cat as this to be seen. He's a cat to be respected, my old Captain Parry. He is not to be laughed at, Ellen, I can tell you."

The travellers went on with goodwill; but the path was so steep and the way so long, that when about half way up the mountain they were fain to follow the example of their four-footed companion, and rest themselves. They sat down on the ground. They had warmed themselves with walking, but the weather was as chill and disagreeable and gusty as ever; every now and then the wind came sweeping by, catching up the dried leaves at their feet and whirling and scattering them off to a distance—winter's warning voice.

"I never was in the country before when the leaves were off the trees," said Ellen. "It isn't so pretty, Miss Alice, do you think so?"

"So pretty? No, I suppose not, if we were to have it all the while; but I like the change very much."

"Do you like to see the leaves off the trees?"

"Yes—in the time of it. There's beauty in the leafless trees that you cannot see in summer. Just look, Ellen—no, I cannot find you a nice specimen here, they grow too thick; but where they have room the way the branches spread and ramify, or branch out again, is most beautiful. There's first the trunk—then the large branches—then those divide into smaller ones; and those part and part again into smaller and smaller twigs, till you are canopied as it were with a network of fine stems. And when the snow falls gently on them—Oh, Ellen, winter has its own beauties. I love it all; the cold, and the wind, and the snow, and the bare forests, and our little river of ice. What pleasant sleigh-rides to church I have had upon that river. And then the evergreens—look at them; you don't know in summer how much they are worth; wait till you see the hemlock branches bending with a weight of snow, and then if you don't say the winter is beautiful, I'll give you up as a young lady of bad taste."

"I dare say I shall," said Ellen; "I am sure I shall like what you like. But, Miss Alice, what makes the leaves fall when the cold weather comes?"

"A very pretty question, Ellen, and one that can't be answered in a breath."

"I asked Aunt Fortune the other day," said Ellen, laughing very heartily—"and she told me to hush up and not be a fool; and I told her I really wanted to know, and she said she wouldn't make herself a simpleton if she was in my place; so I thought I might as well be quiet."

"By the time the cold weather comes, Ellen, the leaves have done their work and are no more needed. Do you know what work they have to do?—do you know what is the use of leaves?"

"Why, for prettiness, I suppose," said Ellen, "and to give shade—I don't know anything else."

"Shade is one of their uses, no doubt, and prettiness too; He who made the trees made them 'pleasant to the eyes' as well as 'good for food.' So we have an infinite variety of leaves; one shape would have done the work just as well for every kind of tree, but then we should have lost a great deal of pleasure. But, Ellen, the tree could not live without leaves. In the spring the thin sap which the roots suck up from the ground is drawn into the leaves; there by the help of the sun and air it is thickened and prepared in a way you cannot understand, and goes back to supply the wood with the various matters necessary for its growth and hardness. After this has gone on some time the little vessels of the leaves become clogged and stopped up with earthy and other matter; they cease to do their work any longer; the hot sun dries them up more and more, and by the time the frost comes they are as good as dead. That finishes them, and they drop off from the branch that needs them no more. Do you understand all this?"

"Yes, ma'am, very well," said Ellen; "and it's exactly what I wanted to know, and very curious. So the trees couldn't live without leaves?"

"No more than you could without a heart and lungs."

"I am very glad to know that," said Ellen. "Then how is it with the evergreens, Miss Alice? Why don't their leaves die and drop off too?"

"They do; look how the ground is carpeted under that pine tree."

"But they stay green all winter, don't they?"

"Yes; their leaves are fitted to resist frost; I don't know what the people in cold countries would do else. They have the fate of all other leaves, however; they live awhile, do their work, and then die; not all at once, though; there is always a supply left on the tree. Are we rested enough to begin again?"

"I am," said Ellen; "I don't know about the Captain. Poor fellow! he's fast asleep. I declare it's too bad to wake you up, pussy. Haven't we had a pleasant little rest, Miss Alice? I have learnt something while we have been sitting here."

"That is pleasant, Ellen," said Alice, as they began their upward march—"I would I might be all the while learning something."

"But you have been teaching, Miss Alice, and that's as good. Mamma used to say it is more blessed to give than to receive."

"Thank you, Ellen," said Alice, smiling; "that ought to satisfy me certainly."

They bent themselves against the steep hill again and pressed on. As they rose higher they felt it grow more cold and bleak; the woods gave them less shelter, and the wind swept round the mountain head and over them with great force, making their way quite difficult.

"Courage, Ellen!" said Alice, as they struggled on; "we'll soon be there."

"I wonder," said the panting Ellen, as making an effort she came up alongside of Alice—"I wonder why Mrs. Vawse will live in such a disagreeable place."

"It is not disagreeable to her, Ellen; though I must say I should not like to have too much of this wind."

"But does she really like to live up here better than down below where it is warmer?—and all alone too?"

"Yes, she does. Ask her why, Ellen, and see what she will tell you. She likes it so much better that this little cottage was built on purpose for her ten years ago, by a good old friend of hers, a connection of the lady whom she followed to this country."

"Well," said Ellen, "she must have a queer taste—that is all I can say."

They were now within a few easy steps of the house, which did not look so uncomfortable when they came close to it. It was small and low, of only one storey, though it is true the roof ran up very steep to a high and sharp gable. It was perched so snugly in a niche of the hill that the little yard was completely sheltered with a high wall of rock. The house itself stood out more boldly, and caught pretty well near all the winds that blew; but so, Alice informed Ellen, the inmate likes to have it.

"And that roof," said Alice, "she begged Mr. Marshman when the cottage was building that the roof might be high and pointed; she said her eyes were tired with the low roofs of this country, and if he would have it made so it would be a great relief to them."

The odd roof Ellen thought was pretty. But they now reached the door, protected with a deep porch. Alice entered and knocked at the other door. They were bade to come in. A woman was there stepping briskly back and forth before a large spinning-wheel. She half turned her head to see who the comers were, then stopped her wheel instantly, and came to meet them with open arms.

"Miss Alice! dear Miss Alice, how glad I am to see you."

"And I you, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, kissing her. "Here's another friend you must welcome for my sake—little Ellen Montgomery."

"I am very glad to see Miss Ellen," said the old woman, kissing her also; and Ellen did not shrink from the kiss, so pleasant were the lips that tendered it; so kind and frank the smile, so winning the eye; so agreeable the whole air of the person. She turned from Ellen again to Miss Alice.

"It's a long while that I have not seen you, dear—not since you went to Mrs. Marshman's. And what a day you have chosen to come at last!"

"I can't help that," said Alice, pulling off her bonnet, "I couldn't wait any longer. I wanted to see you dolefully, Mrs. Vawse."

"Why, my dear? what's the matter? I have wanted to see you, but not dolefully."

"That's the very thing, Mrs. Vawse; I wanted to see you to get a lesson of quiet contentment."

"I never thought you wanted such a lesson, Miss Alice. What's the matter?"

"I can't get over John's going away."

Her lip trembled and her eye was swimming as she said so. The old woman passed her hands over the gentle head and kissed her brow.

"So I thought—so I felt, when my mistress died; and my husband; and my sons, one after the other. But now I think I can say with Paul, 'I have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith to be content.' I think so; maybe that I deceive myself; but they are all gone, and I am certain that I am content now."

"Then surely I ought to be," said Alice.

"It is not till one looses one's hold of other things and looks to Jesus alone that one finds how much He can do. 'There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother;' but I never knew all that meant till I had no other friends to lean upon; nay, I should not say no other friends; but my dearest were taken away. You have your dearest still, Miss Alice."

"Two of them," said Alice faintly; "and hardly that now."

"I have not one," said the old woman, "I have not one; but my home is in heaven, and my Saviour is there preparing a place for me. I know it—I am sure of it—and I can wait a little while, and rejoice all the while I am waiting. Dearest Miss Alice—'none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate;' don't you believe that?"

"I do surely, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, wiping away a tear or two, "but I forget it sometimes; or the pressure of present pain is too much for all that faith and hope can do."

"It hinders faith and hope from acting—that is the trouble. 'They that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.' I know that is true, of my own experience; so will you, dear."

"I know it, Mrs. Vawse—I know it all; but it does me good to hear you say it. I thought I should become accustomed to John's absence, but I do not at all; the autumn winds all the while seem to sing to me that he is away."

"My dear love," said the old lady, "it sorrows me much to hear you speak so; I would take away this trial from you if I could; but He knows best. Seek to live nearer to the Lord, dear Miss Alice, and He will give you much more than He has taken away."

Alice again brushed away some tears.

"I felt I must come and see you to-day," said she, "and you have comforted me already. The sound of your voice always does me good. I catch courage and patience from you, I believe."

"'As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.' How did you leave Mr. and Mrs. Marshman? and has Mr. George returned yet?"

Drawing their chairs together, a close conversation began. Ellen had been painfully interested and surprised by what went before, but the low tone of voice now seemed to be not meant for her ear, and turning away her attention, she amused herself with taking a general survey.

It was easy to see that Mrs. Vawse lived in this room, and probably had no other to live in. Her bed was in one corner; cupboards filled the deep recesses on each side of the chimney, and in the wide fireplace the crane and the hooks and trammels hanging upon it showed that the bedroom and sitting-room was the kitchen too. Most of the floor was covered with a thick rag carpet; where the boards could be seen they were beautifully clean and white, and everything else in the room in this respect matched with the boards. The panes of glass in the little windows were clean and bright as panes of glass could be made; the hearth was clean swept up; the cupboard doors were unstained and unsoiled, though fingers had worn the paint off; dust was nowhere. On a little stand by the chimney corner lay a large Bible and another book, close beside stood a cushioned arm-chair. Some other apartment there probably was where wood and stores were kept; nothing was to be seen here that did not agree with a very comfortable face of the whole. It looked as if one might be happy there; it looked as if somebody was happy there; and a glance at the old lady of the house would not alter the opinion. Many a glance Ellen gave her as she sat talking with Alice; and with every one she felt more and more drawn towards her. She was somewhat under the common size, and rather stout; her countenance most agreeable; there was sense, character, sweetness in it. Some wrinkles no doubt were there too; lines deep-marked that spoke of sorrows once known. Those storms had all passed away; the last shadow of a cloud had departed; her evening sun was shining clear and bright towards the setting; and her brow was beautifully placid, not as though it never had been, but as if it never could be ruffled again. Respect no one could help feeling for her; and more than respect one felt would grow with acquaintance. Her dress was very odd, Ellen thought. It was not American, and what it was she did not know, but supposed Mrs. Vawse must have a lingering fancy for the costume as well as for the roofs of her fatherland. More than all her eye turned again and again to the face, which seemed to her in its changing expression winning and pleasant exceedingly. The mouth had not forgotten to smile, nor the eye to laugh; and though this was not often seen, the constant play of feature showed a deep and lively sympathy in all Alice was saying, and held Ellen's charmed gaze; and when the old lady's looks and words were at length turned to herself she blushed to think how long she had been looking steadily at a stranger.

"Little Miss Ellen, how do you like my house on the rock here?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen; "I like it very much, only I don't think I should like it so well in winter."

"I am not certain that I don't like it then best of all. Why would you not like it in winter?"

"I shouldn't like the cold, ma'am, and to be alone."

"I like to be alone: but cold? I am in no danger of freezing, Miss Ellen. I make myself very warm—keep good fires—and my house is too strong for the wind to blow it away. Don't you want to go out and see my cow? I have one of the best cows that ever you saw; her name is Snow; there is not a black hair upon her; she is all white. Come, Miss Alice; Mr. Marshman sent her to me a month ago; she's a great treasure, and worth looking at."

They went across the yard to the tiny barn or outhouse, where they found Snow nicely cared for. She was in a warm stable, a nice bedding of straw upon the floor, and plenty of hay laid up for her. Snow deserved it, for she was a beauty, and a very well-behaved cow, letting Alice and Ellen stroke her and pat her and feel of her thick hide, with the most perfect placidity. Mrs. Vawse meanwhile went to the door to look out.

"Nancy ought to be home to milk her," she said; "I must give you supper and send you off. I've no feeling nor smell if snow isn't thick in the air somewhere; we shall see it here soon."

"I'll milk her," said Alice.

"I'll milk her!" said Ellen; "I'll milk her! Ah, do let me; I know how to milk; Mr. Van Brunt taught me, and I have done it several times. May I? I should like it dearly."

"You shall do it surely, my child," said Mrs. Vawse. "Come with me, and I'll give you the pail and the milking-stool."

When Alice and Ellen came in with the milk they found the kettle on, the little table set, and Mrs. Vawse very busy at another table.

"What are you doing, Mrs. Vawse, may I ask?" said Alice.

"I'm just stirring up some Indian meal for you; I find I have not but a crust left."

"Please to put that away, ma'am, for another time. Do you think I didn't know better than to come up to this mountain-top without bringing along something to live upon while I am here? Here's a basket, ma'am, and in it are divers things; I believe Margery and I between us have packed up enough for two or three suppers, to say nothing of Miss Fortune's pie. There it is—sure to be good, you know; and here are some of my cakes that you like so much, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, as she went on pulling the things out of the basket; "there is a bowl of butter—that's not wanted, I see—and here is a loaf of bread; and that's all. Ellen, my dear, this basket will be lighter to carry down than it was to bring up."

"I am glad of it, I am sure," said Ellen; "my arm hasn't done aching yet, though I had it so little while."

"Ah, I am glad to hear that kettle singing," said their hostess. "I can give you good tea, Miss Alice; you'll think so, I know, for it's the same Mr. John sent me. It is very fine tea; and he sent me a noble supply, like himself," continued Mrs. Vawse, taking some out of her little caddy. "I ought not to say I have no friends left; I cannot eat a meal that I am not reminded of two good ones. Mr. John knew one of my weak points when he sent me that box of Souchong."

The supper was ready, and the little party gathered round the table. The tea did credit to the judgment of the giver and the skill of the maker, but they were no critics that drank it. Alice and Ellen were much too hungry and too happy to be particular. Miss Fortune's pumpkin pie was declared to be very fine, and so were Mrs. Vawse's cheese and butter. Eating and talking went on with great spirit, their old friend seeming scarce less pleased or less lively than themselves. Alice proposed the French plan, and Mrs. Vawse entered into it very frankly; it was easy to see that the style of building and of dress to which she had been accustomed in early life were not the only things remembered kindly for old time's sake. It was settled they should meet as frequently as might be, either here or at the parsonage, and become good Frenchwomen with all convenient speed.

"Will you wish to walk so far to see me again, little Miss Ellen?"

"Oh yes, ma'am!"

"You won't fear the deep snow, and the wind and cold, and the steep hill?"

"Oh no, ma'am, I won't mind them a bit; but, ma'am, Miss Alice told me to ask you why you loved better to live up here than down where it is warmer. I shouldn't ask if she hadn't said I might."

"Ellen has a great fancy for getting at the reason of everything, Mrs. Vawse," said Alice, smiling.

"You wonder anybody should choose it, don't you, Miss Ellen?" said the old lady.

"Yes, ma'am, a little."

"I'll tell you the reason, my child. It is for the love of my old home and the memory of my young days. Till I was as old as you are, and a little older, I lived among the mountains and upon them; and after that for many a year they were just before my eyes every day, stretching away for more than one hundred miles, and piled up one above another, fifty times as big as any you ever saw; these are only molehills to them. I loved them—oh, how I love them still! If I have one unsatisfied wish," said the old lady, turning to Alice, "it is to see my Alps again; but that will never be. Now, Miss Ellen, it is not that I fancy, when I get to the top of this hill, that I am among my own mountains, but I can breathe better here than down in the plain. I feel more free; and in the village I would not live for gold, unless that duty bade me."

"But all alone, so far from everybody?" said Ellen.

"I am never lonely; and, old as I am, I don't mind a long walk or a rough road any more than your young feet do."

"But isn't it very cold?" said Ellen.

"Yes, it is very cold; what of that? I make a good blazing fire, and then I like to hear the wind whistle."

"Yes, but you wouldn't like to have it whistling inside as well as out," said Alice. "I will come and do the listing and caulking for you in a day or two. Oh, you have it done without me. I am sorry."

"No need to be sorry, dear; I am glad—you don't look fit for any troublesome jobs."

"I am fit enough," said Alice. "Don't put up the curtains; I'll come and do it."

"You must come with a stronger face, then," said her old friend; "have you wearied yourself with walking all this way?"

"I was a little weary," said Alice, "but your nice tea has made me up again."

"I wish I could keep you all night," said Mrs. Vawse, looking out, "but your father would be uneasy. I am afraid the storm will catch you before you get home; and you aren't fit to breast it. Little Ellen, too, don't look as if she was made of iron. Can't you stay with me?"

"I must not—it wouldn't do," said Alice, who was hastily putting on her things; "we'll soon run down the hill. But we are leaving you alone. Where's Nancy?"

"She'll not come if there's a promise of a storm," said Mrs. Vawse; "she often stays out all night."

"And leaves you alone!"

"I am never alone," said the old lady quietly; "I have nothing to fear; but I am uneasy about you, dear. Mind my words; don't try to go back the way you came; take the other road; it's easier; and stop when you get to Mrs. Van Brunt's; Mr. Van Brunt will take you the rest of the way in his little waggon."

"Do you think it is needful?" said Alice doubtfully.

"I am sure it is best. Hasten down. Adieu, mon enfant."

They kissed and embraced her and hurried out.