Before Ellen's eyes were open the next morning, almost before she awoke, the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh-ride, John Humphreys, and the weather, all rushed into her mind at once, and started her half up in the bed to look out of the window. Well frosted the panes of glass were, but at the corners and edges unmistakable bright gleams of light came in.

"Oh, Alice, it's beautiful!" exclaimed Ellen; "look how the sun is shining! and 'tisn't very cold. Are we going to-day?"

"I don't know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We'll settle that at breakfast."

At breakfast it was settled. They were to go, and set off directly. Mr. Humphreys could not go with them, because he had promised to bury little John Dolan; the priest had declared he would have nothing to do with it, and the poor mother had applied to Mr. Humphreys, as being the clergyman her child had most trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that little John had persuaded her out of half her prejudices by his affectionate talk and blameless behaviour during some time past. Mr. Humphreys, therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised, however, to follow them the next, and would by no means permit them to wait for him. He said the day was fine, and they must improve it; and he should be pleased to have them with their friends as long as possible.

So the little travelling bag was stuffed with more things than it seemed possible to get into it. Among the rest Ellen brought her little red Bible, which Alice decided should go in John's pocket; the little carpet-bag could not take it. Ellen was afraid it never would be locked. By dint of much pushing and crowding, however, locked it was; and they made themselves ready. Over Ellen's merino dress and coat went an old fur tippet; a little shawl was tied round her neck; her feet were cased in a pair of warm moccasins, which belonging to Margery were of course a world too big for her, but "anything but cold," as their owner said. Her nice blue hood would protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green veil to save her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen shuffled out of Alice's room in this trim, John gave her one of his grave looks, and saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to know how she expected to get to the sleigh; he said she would want a footman indeed to wait upon her, to pick up her slippers, if she went in that fashion. However, he ended by picking her up, carried her, and set her down safely in the sleigh. Alice followed, and in another minute they were off.

Ellen's delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a corner and left the house behind out of sight; and they were speeding away along a road that was quite new to her. Ellen's heart felt like dancing for joy. Nobody would have thought it, she sat so still and quiet between Alice and her brother; but her eyes were very bright as they looked joyously about her, and every now and then she could not help smiling to herself. Nothing was wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was of winter's fairest; the blue sky as clear as if clouds had never dimmed or crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold, but not bitterly cold, nor windy; the sleigh skimmed along over the smooth frozen surface of the snow as if it was no trouble at all to Prince Charlie to draw it; and the sleigh-bells jingled and rang, the very music for Ellen's thoughts to dance to. And then with somebody she liked very much on each side of her, and pleasures untold in the prospect, no wonder she felt as if her heart could not hold any more. The green veil could not be kept on, everything looked so beautiful in that morning's sun. The long wide slopes of untrodden and unspotted snow too bright sometimes for the eye to look at; the shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and scattered trees; the very brown fences, and the bare arms and branches of the leafless trees showing sharp against the white ground and clear bright heaven; all seemed lovely in her eyes. For

"It is content of heart
Gives nature power to please."

She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And besides they were in a nice little red sleigh, with a warm buffalo robe, and Prince Charlie was a fine spirited grey that scarcely ever needed to be touched with the whip; at a word of encouragement from his driver he would toss his head and set forward with new life, making all the bells jingle again. To be sure she would have been just as happy if they had had the poorest of vehicles on runners, with old John instead; but still it was pleasanter so.

Their road at first was through a fine undulating country like that between the Nose and Thirlwall; farmhouses and patches of woodland scattered here and there. It would seem that the minds of all the party were full of the same thoughts, for after a very long silence Alice's first word, almost sigh, was—

"This is a beautiful world, John!"

"Beautiful!—wherever you can escape from the signs of man's presence and influence."

"Isn't that almost too strong?" said Alice.

He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince Charlie, who was indulging himself in a walk.

"But there are bright exceptions," said Alice.

"I believe it; never so much as when I come home."

"Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have confidence and sympathy?"

He shook his head again. "Not enough, Alice. I long for you every day of my life."

Alice turned her head quick away.

"It must be so, my dear sister," he said presently; "we can never expect to find it otherwise. There are, as you say, bright exceptions—many of them; but in almost all I find some sad want. We must wait till we join the spirits of the just made perfect, before we see society that will be all we wish for."

"What is Ellen thinking of all this while?" said Alice presently, bending down to see her face. "As grave as a judge!—what are you musing about?"

"I was thinking," said Ellen, "how men could help the world's being beautiful."

"Don't trouble your little head with that question," said John, smiling; "long may it be before you are able to answer it. Look at those snowbirds!"

By degrees the day wore on. About one o'clock they stopped at a farm-house to let the horse rest, and to stretch their own limbs, which Ellen for her part was very glad to do. The people of the house received them with great hospitality, and offered them pumpkin pies and sweet cider. Alice had brought a basket of sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was furnished with a bag of corn Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for him; so they were all well refreshed and rested and warmed before they set off again.

From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman's place, was more than thirty miles, and the longest, because the most difficult, part of the way was still before them. Ellen, however, soon became sleepy, from riding in the keen air; she was content now to have the green veil over her face, and sitting down in the bottom of the sleigh, her head leaning against Alice, and covered well with the buffalo robe, she slept in happy unconsciousness of hill and dale, wind and sun, and all the remaining hours of the way.

It was drawing towards four o'clock when Alice with some difficulty roused her to see the approach to the house and get wide awake before they should reach it. They turned from the road and entered by a gateway into some pleasure-grounds, through which a short drive brought them to the house. These grounds were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth spread of snow now; the great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and wintry; and patches of shrubbery offered little but tufts and bunches of brown twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary, but that some well-grown evergreens were clustered round the house, and others scattered here and there relieved the eye; a few holly bushes, singly and in groups, proudly displayed their bright dark leaves and red berries; and one unrivalled hemlock on the west threw its graceful shadow quite across the lawn, on which, as on itself, the white chimney-tops, and the naked branches of oaks and elms, was the faint smile of the afternoon sun.

A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid of her moccasins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of steps and into the house. They entered a large handsome square hall with a blue and white stone floor, at one side of which the staircase went winding up. Here they were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced, who threw her arms round Alice and kissed her a great many times, seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen too with such warmth that she began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and expected; told Mr. John he had behaved admirably; and then led them into a large room where was a group of ladies and gentlemen.

The welcome they got here was less lively but quite as kind. Mr. and Mrs. Marshman were fine, handsome old people, of stately presence, and most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. Ellen saw that Alice was at home here, as if she had been a daughter of the family. Mrs. Marshman also stooped down and kissed herself, telling her she was very glad she had come, and that there were a number of young people there who would be much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen could not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. John and Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of pleasant voices and a great bustle of shaking hands.

The children had all gone out to walk, and as they had had their dinner a great while ago it was decided that Ellen should take hers that day with the elder part of the family. While they were waiting to be called to dinner and everybody else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman took notice of little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his own, began a long conversation. He asked her a great many questions, some of them such funny ones that she could not help laughing, but she answered them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By the time the butler came to say dinner was ready she had almost forgotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the dining-room, begging the elder ladies would excuse him, but he felt bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He placed her on his right hand and took the greatest care of her all dinner-time; once sending her plate the whole length of the table for some particular little thing he thought she would like. On the other side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one of Mr. Marshman's daughters; a lady with a sweet, gentle, quiet face and manner that made Ellen like to sit by her. Another daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother's stately bearing; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and good-humoured.

Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed with the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and raisins, admiring the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly-cut and coloured glass, and silver decanter stands, which were reflected in it, when a door at the farther end of the room half-opened, a little figure came partly in, and holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along the table, as if seeking for some one.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Mrs. Bland told me, mamma," she began, her eye not ceasing its uneasy quest, but then breaking off and springing to Alice's side, she threw her arms around her neck, and gave her certainly the warmest of all the warm welcomes she had had that day.

"Hallo!" cried Mr. Marshman, rapping on the table, "that's too much for any one's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me just such another."

The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed him with a very good will, remarking, however, "Ah, but I've seen you before to-day, grandpapa!"

"Well, here's somebody you've not seen before," said he good-humouredly, pulling her round to Ellen. "Here's a new friend for you, a young lady from the great city, so you must brush up your country manners—Miss Ellen Montgomery, come from—pshaw! what is it? Come from——"

"London, grandpapa?" said the little girl, as with a mixture of simplicity and kindness she took Ellen's hand and kissed her on the cheek.

"From Carra-carra, sir?" said Ellen, smiling.

"Go along with you," said he, laughing, and pinching her cheek. "Take her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take good care of her. Tell Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa's guests."

The two children had not, however reached the door when Ellen Chauncey exclaimed, "Wait, oh! wait a minute! I must speak to Aunt Sophia about the bag." And flying to her side, there followed an earnest whispering, and then a nod and a smile from Aunt Sophia; and, satisfied, Ellen returned to her companion and led her out of the dining-room.

"We have both got the same name," said she, as they went along a wide corridor. "How shall we know which is which?"

"Why," said Ellen, laughing, "when you say 'Ellen' I shall know you mean me, and when I say it you will know I mean you. I shouldn't be calling myself, you know."

"Yes, but when somebody else calls 'Ellen,' we shall both have to run. Do you run when you are called?"

"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, but I do always; mamma always makes me. I thought perhaps you were like Marianne Gillespie. She waits often as much as half-a-minute before she stirs when anybody calls her. Did you come with Miss Alice?"

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much! Oh, very much!"

Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour with a glance of mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong promise of growing love.

"So do I," she answered gaily. "I am very glad she is come, and I am very glad you are come, too."

The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence of a group of young people rather older than themselves.

"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen, "this is Miss Ellen Montgomery. She came with Alice, and she is come to keep Christmas with us. Aren't you glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us when what's-her-name comes, won't there?"

Marianne shook hands with Ellen.

"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said little Ellen Chauncey, "and he says we must brush up our country manners; she's come from the great city."

"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?" inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Marianne Gillespie to prove him her brother.

"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.

"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here?"

"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Come, stand out of my way, right and left, all of you, will you, and give me a chance? Now, then!"

Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to her, bowed down to her knees; then slowly raising his head, stepped back.

"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you at Ventnor. Isn't that polite, now? Is that like what you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"

"No, sir, thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The mirth of the others redoubled.

"May I request to be informed, then," continued Gillespie, "what is the fashion of making bows in the great city?"

"I don't know," said Ellen. "I never saw a boy make a bow before."

"Humph! I guess country manners will do for you," said William, turning on his heel.

"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said another boy.

"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey. "Didn't I tell you she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen; I'll take you somewhere else!"

She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly stopped again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" she said. "I asked Aunt Sophia about the bag of moroccos, and she said she would have 'em early to-morrow morning, and then we can divide 'em right away."

"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.

"Oh no, not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then ran off again.

"I am so glad you are come," said she; "the others are all so much older, and they have all so much to do together—and now you can help me think what I will make for mamma. Hush! don't say a word about it!"

They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were gathered for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided; the elder persons were standing or sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had leisure to look about her, and her eye soon wandered from the tea-table in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman, talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently as she caught her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of recognition. John came up just then to set down his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was smiling at.

"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at what's going on."

"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John Humphreys gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile."

The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever so well-disposed, compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however, not even his sister, could keep their countenances, for the eye of the speaker had pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible, that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to," and a threat to "do something" to his tormentor.

"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in his look and tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone retaining entire gravity.

"What's all this—what's all this? What's all this laughing about?" said old Mr. Marshman, looking up.

"This young gentleman, sir," said John, "has been endeavouring—with a mouthful of arguments—to prove to us the inferiority of city manners to those learned in the country."

"Will!" said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's discomfited face; then added sternly, "I don't care where your manners were learnt, sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music."

He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept her by him, and kept her very much amused too, in his own way; then he would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good-night to their elders; and pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her as well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.

The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood fire. The very old brass-headed andirons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for comfort." A little dark mahogany bookcase in one place—an odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another: and opposite the fire an old-fashioned high post-bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; "this is where you are to sleep."

"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.

"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with Aunt Sophia; that is because the house is so full, you know; and here is your bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here. Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun."

Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for instead of a bedstead it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"

"To be sure I do," said Ellen, "always."

"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and stockings for herself."

"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.

"Why, Lester—Aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?"

"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"

"Oh yes, ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage—we live here since then."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No," said little Ellen gravely, "he never came back—he never will come back any more."

Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a minute.

"I'll tell you what!" said little Ellen, jumping up, "mamma said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring 'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?"