She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the house-door after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone forth on their sleighing expedition, and Ellen waked to find herself quite alone.

She could not long have doubted that her aunt was away, even if she had not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the shed-door—the stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could be with Miss Fortune anywhere about the premises. The old grandmother must have been abed and asleep too, for a cricket under the hearth, and a wood-fire in the chimney had it all to themselves, and made the only sounds that were heard; the first singing out every now and then in a very contented and cheerful style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps and sparks that just served to make one take notice how very quietly and steadily it was burning.

Miss Fortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of neatness. Not a speck of dust could be supposed to lie on the shining painted floor; the back of every chair was in its place against the wall. The very hearth-stone shone, and the heads of the large iron nails in the floor were polished to steel. Ellen sat a while listening to the soothing chirrup of the cricket and the pleasant crackling of the flames. It was a fine cold winter's day. The two little windows at the far end of the kitchen looked out upon an expanse of snow; and the large lilac bush that grew close by the wall, moved lightly by the wind, drew its icy fingers over the panes of glass. Wintry it was without; but that made the warmth and comfort within seem all the more. Ellen would have enjoyed it very much if she had had any one to talk to; as it was she felt rather lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn; but it had set her off upon a long train of thought; and with her head resting on her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the other hand with the hymn-book lying listlessly in her lap, and eyes staring into the fire, she was sitting the very picture of meditation when the door opened and Alice Humphreys came in. Ellen started up.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I'm all alone."

"Left alone, are you?" said Alice, as Ellen's warm lips were pressed again and again to her cold cheeks.

"Yes, Aunt Fortune's gone out. Come and sit down here in the rocking-chair. How cold you are. Oh, do you know she is going to have a great bee here Monday evening. What is a bee?"

Alice smiled. "Why," said she, "when people here in the country have so much of any kind of work to do that their own hands are not enough for it, they send and call in their neighbours to help them—that's a bee. A large party in the course of a long evening can do a great deal."

"But why do they call it a bee?"

"I don't know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for the time. 'As busy as a bee,' you know."

"Then they ought to call it a hive and not a bee, I should think. Aunt Fortune is going to ask sixteen people. I wish you were coming."

"How do you know but I am?"

"Oh, I know you aren't. Aunt Fortune isn't going to ask you."

"You are sure of that, are you?"

"Yes, I wish I wasn't. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by something she said."

"You mustn't get vexed so easily, my child. Don't let every little untoward thing roughen your temper."

"But I couldn't help it, dear Miss Alice; it was about you. I don't know whether I ought to tell you; but I don't think you'll mind it, and I know it isn't true. She said she didn't want you to come because you were one of the proud set."

"And what did you say?"

"Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, 'It's no such thing;' but I didn't say it."

"I am glad you were so wise. Dear Ellen, that is nothing to be vexed about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I trust Miss Fortune is mistaken. I shall try and find some way to make her change her mind. I am glad you told me."

"I am so glad you are come, dear Alice!" said Ellen again. "I wish I could have you always." And the long, very close pressure of her two arms about her friend said as much. There was a long pause. The cheek of Alice rested on Ellen's head which nestled against her; both were busily thinking, but neither spoke; and the cricket chirped and the flames crackled without being listened to.

"Miss Alice," said Ellen, after a long time, "I wish you would talk over a hymn with me."

"How do you mean, my dear?" said Alice, rousing herself.

"I mean, read it over and explain it. Mamma used to do it sometimes. I have been thinking a great deal about her to-day, and I think I'm very different from what I ought to be. I wish you would talk to me and make me better, Miss Alice."

Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face that was uplifted to her, and presently said—

"I am afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother, Ellen. What hymn shall we take?"

"Any one—this one if you like. Mamma likes it very much. I was looking it over to-day.

"'A charge to keep I have—
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky.'"

Alice read the first line and paused.

"There now," said Ellen, "what is a charge?"

"Don't you know that?"

"I think I do, but I wish you would tell me."

"Try to tell me first."

"Isn't it something that is given one to do?—I don't know exactly."

"It is something given one in trust, to be done or taken care of. I remember very well once when I was about your age my mother had occasion to go out for half-an-hour, and she left me in charge of my little baby sister; she gave me a charge not to let anything disturb her while she was away, and to keep her asleep if I could. And I remember how I kept my charge too. I was not to take her out of the cradle, but I sat beside her the whole time; I would not suffer a fly to light on her little fair cheek; I scarcely took my eyes from her; I made John keep pussy at a distance; and whenever one of the little round dimpled arms was thrown out upon the coverlet, I carefully drew something over it again."

"Is she dead?" said Ellen timidly, her eyes watering in sympathy with Alice's.

"She is dead, my dear; she died before we left England."

"I understand what a charge is," said Ellen, after a little while, "but what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have I to keep?"

"The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part of it. 'A God to glorify.'"

"To glorify!" said Ellen doubtfully.

"Yes—that is to honour—to give Him all the honour that belongs to Him."

"But can I honour Him?"

"Most certainly; either honour or dishonour; you cannot help doing one."

"I!" said Ellen again.

"Must not your behaviour speak either well or ill for the mother who has brought you up?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Very well; when a child of God lives as he ought to do, people cannot help having high and noble thoughts of that glorious One whom he serves, and of that perfect law he obeys. Little as they may love the ways of religion, in their own secret hearts they cannot help confessing that there is a God, and that they ought to serve Him. But a worldling, and still more an unfaithful Christian, just helps people to forget there is such a Being, and makes them think either that religion is a sham, or that they may safely go on despising it. I have heard it said, Ellen, that Christians are the only Bible some people ever read; and it is true; all they know of religion is what they get from the lives of its professors; and oh, were the world but full of the right kind of example, the kingdom of darkness could not stand. 'Arise, shine!' is a word that every Christian ought to take home."

"But how can I shine?" asked Ellen.

"My dear Ellen!—in the faithful, patient, self-denying performance of every duty as it comes to hand—'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'"

"It is very little that I can do," said Ellen.

"Perhaps more than you think, but never mind that. All are not great stars in the Church; you may be only a little rushlight. See you burn well!"

"I remember," said Ellen, musing, "mamma once told me when I was going somewhere that people would think strangely of her if I didn't behave well."

"Certainly. Why, Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon after I saw you."

"Did you?" said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face; "what was it? Was it good? ah, do tell me!"

"I am not quite sure of the wisdom of that," said Alice, smiling; "you might take home the praise that is justly her right and not yours."

"Oh no, indeed," said Ellen, "I had rather she should have it than I. Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice—I know it was good, at any rate."

"Well, I will tell you," said Alice, "at all risks. I thought your mother was a lady, from the honourable notions she had given you; and from your ready obedience to her, which was evidently the obedience of love, I judged she had been a good mother in the true sense of the term. I thought she must be a refined and cultivated person, from the manner of your speech and behaviour; and I was sure she was a Christian, because she had taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead you in it."

The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen gave way, long before Alice had done, to a burst of tears.

"It makes me so glad to hear you say that," she said.

"The praise of it is your mother's, you know, Ellen."

"I know it; but you make me so glad!" And hiding her face in Alice's lap, she fairly sobbed.

"You understand now, don't you, how Christians may honour or dishonour their Heavenly Father?"

"Yes, I do; but it makes me afraid to think of it."

"Afraid? It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great honour and happiness for us to be permitted to honour Him—

'A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky.'

Yes, that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never forget it, dear Ellen! And whatever would hinder you, have nothing to do with it. 'What will it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'—

'To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfil—'"

"What is 'the present age'?" said Ellen.

"All the people who are living in the world at this time."

"But, dear Alice, what can I do to the present age?"

"Nothing to the most part of them certainly; and yet, dear Ellen, if your little rushlight shines well there is just so much the less darkness in the world, though perhaps you light only a very little corner. Every Christian is a blessing to the world, another grain of salt to go towards sweetening and saving the mass."

"That is very pleasant to think of," said Ellen, musing.

"Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant it would be to do anything for Him! how many ways we should find of honouring Him by doing good."

"I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it," said Ellen.

"You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No one is so poor or so young but he has one talent at least to use for God."

"I wish I knew what mine is," said Ellen.

"Is your daily example as perfect as it can be?"

Ellen was silent and shook her head.

"Christ pleased not Himself, and went about doing good; and He said, 'If any man serve Me, let him follow Me.' Remember that. Perhaps your aunt is unreasonable and unkind; see with how much patience and perfect sweetness of temper you can bear and forbear; see if you cannot win her over by untiring gentleness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no improvement to be made here?"

"Oh me, yes!" answered Ellen, with a sigh.

"Then your old grandmother. Can you do nothing to cheer her life in her old age and helplessness? Can't you find some way of giving her pleasure? some way of amusing a long tedious hour now and then?"

Ellen looked very grave; in her inmost heart she knew this was a duty she shrank from.

"He 'went about doing good.' Keep that in mind. A kind word spoken—a little thing done to smooth the way of one, or lighten the load of another—teaching those who need teaching—entreating those who are walking in the wrong way. Oh, my child, there is work enough!—

'To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfil;
O may it all my powers engage
To do my Maker's will.

Arm me with jealous care,
As in Thy sight to live;
And oh! thy servant, Lord, prepare
A strict account to give.'"

"An account of what?" said Ellen.

"You know what an account is. If I give Thomas a dollar to spend for me at Carra-carra, I expect he will give me an exact account when he comes back, what he has done with every shilling of it. So must we give an account of what we have done with everything our Lord has committed to our care—our hands, our tongue, our time, our minds, our influence; how much we have honoured Him, how much good we have done to others, how fast and how far we have grown holy and fit for heaven."

"It almost frightens me to hear you talk, Miss Alice."

"Not frighten, dear Ellen—that is not the word; sober we ought to be, mindful to do nothing we shall not wish to remember in the great day of account. Do you recollect how that day is described? Where is your Bible?"

She opened at the twentieth chapter of the Revelation.

"'And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven flew away; and there was found no place for them.

"'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them; and they were judged every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.

"'And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.'"

Ellen shivered. "That is dreadful!" she said.

"It will be a dreadful day to all but those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life; not dreadful to them, dear Ellen."

"But how shall I be sure, dear Alice, that my name is written there? and I can't be happy if I am not sure."

"My dear child," said Alice tenderly, as Ellen's anxious face and glistening eyes were raised to hers, "if you love Jesus Christ you may know you are His child, and none shall pluck you out of His hand."

"But how can I tell whether I do love him really? sometimes I think I do, and then again sometimes I am afraid I don't at all."

Alice answered in the words of Christ: "'He that hath My commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.'"

"Oh, I don't keep His commandments!" said Ellen, the tears running down her cheeks.

"Perfectly, none of us do. But, dear Ellen, that is not the question. Is it your heart's desire and effort to keep them? Are you grieved when you fail? There is the point. You cannot love Christ without loving to please Him."

Ellen rose, and putting both arms round Alice's neck, laid her head there, as her manner sometimes was, tears flowing fast.

"I sometimes think I do love Him a little," she said, "but I do so many wrong things. But He will teach me to love Him if I ask Him, won't He, dear Alice?"

"Indeed He will, dear Ellen," said Alice, folding her arms round her little adopted sister, "indeed He will. He has promised that. Remember what He told somebody who was almost in despair: 'Fear not; only believe.'"

Alice's neck was wet with Ellen's tears; and after they had ceased to flow, her arms kept their hold and her head its resting-place on Alice's shoulder for some time. It was necessary at last for Alice to leave her.

Ellen waited till the sound of her horse's footsteps died away on the road; and then, sinking on her knees beside her rocking-chair, she poured forth her whole heart in prayers and tears. She confessed many a fault and shortcoming that none knew but herself, and most earnestly besought help that "her little rushlight might shine bright." Prayer was to little Ellen what it is to all that know it—the satisfying of doubt, the soothing of care, the quieting of trouble. She had knelt down very uneasy; but she knew that God has promised to be the hearer of prayer, and she rose up very comforted, her mind fixing on those most sweet words Alice had brought to her memory: "Fear not; only believe." When Miss Fortune returned Ellen was quietly asleep again in her rocking-chair, with her face very pale, but calm as an evening sunbeam.

"Well, I declare if that child ain't sleeping her life away!" said Miss Fortune. "She's slept this whole blessed forenoon; I suppose she'll want to be alive and dancing the whole night to pay for it."

"I can tell you what she'll want a sight more," said Mr. Van Brunt, who had followed her in; it must have been to see about Ellen, for he was never known to do such a thing before or since; "I'll tell you what she'll want, and that's a right hot supper. She eat as nigh as possible nothing at all this noon. There ain't much danger of her dancing a hole in your floor this some time."