Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They often travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home look of everything, where yet she was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. "To-morrow will be Christmas eve—last Christmas eve—oh, mamma!"

Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, began the business of undressing.

"Don't you love Christmas time?" said she. "I think it's the pleasantest in all the year; we always have a house full of people, and such fine times. But then in summer I think that's the pleasantest. I s'pose they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Why, I always did ever since I can remember. I used to think, when I was a little girl, you know," said she, laughing, "I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up my stocking as near the fireplace as I could; but I know better than that now; I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you?"

"He's nobody," said Ellen.

"Oh yes, he is; he's a great many people; he's whoever gives you anything. My Santa Claus is mamma, and grandpapa, and grandmamma, and Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda; and I thought I should have had Uncle George too this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come; I like him the best of all my uncles."

"I never had anybody but mamma to give me presents," said Ellen, "and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times."

"I used to have presents from mamma and grandpapa too, both Christmas and New Year; but now I have grown so old, mamma only gives me something Christmas and grandpapa only New Year. It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a stocking would hold 'em much longer. But oh! we've got such a fine plan in our heads," said little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with open eyes and great energy; "we are going to make presents this year—we children. Won't it be fine? We are going to make what we like for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it; and then New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins, we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine? I'm so glad you are here, for I want you to tell me what I shall make."

"Who is it for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, mamma; you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had rather it should be for mamma. I thought of making her a needle-book with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them—he can paint beautifully—and having her name and something else written very nicely inside. How do you think that would do?"

"I should think it would do very nicely," said Ellen, "very nicely indeed."

"I wish Uncle George was at home, though, to write it for me; he writes so beautifully; I can't do it well enough."

"I am afraid I can't either," said Ellen. "Perhaps somebody else can."

"I don't know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, and besides, I don't want her to know anything about it. But there's another thing I don't know how to fix, and that's the edges of the leaves—the leaves for the needles; they must be fixed somehow."

"I can show you how to do that," said Ellen, brightening. "Mamma had a needle book that was given to her that had the edges beautifully fixed; and I wanted to know how it was done, and she showed me. I'll show you that. It takes a good while, but that's no matter."

"Oh, thank you; how nice that is! Oh no, that's no matter. And then it will do very well, won't it? Now, if I can only catch Gilbert in a good-humour—he isn't my cousin, he's Marianne's cousin—that big boy you saw downstairs—he's so big he won't have anything to say to me sometimes—but I guess I'll get him to do this. Don't you want to make something for somebody?"

Ellen had had one or two feverish thoughts on this subject since the beginning of the conversation; but she only said—

"It's no matter—you know I haven't got anything here; and besides, I shall not be here till New Year."

"Not here till New Year! yes, you shall," said little Ellen, throwing herself upon her neck; "indeed you aren't going away before that. I know you aren't; I heard grandmamma and Aunt Sophia talking about it. Say you will stay here till New Year—do."

"I should like to very much indeed," said Ellen, "if Alice does."

In the midst of half-a-dozen kisses with which her little companion rewarded this speech, somebody close by said pleasantly—

"What time of night do you suppose it is?"

The girls started; there was Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed her little daughter, springing to her feet, "I hope you haven't heard what we have been talking about?"

"Not a word," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "but as to-morrow will be long enough to talk in, hadn't you better go to bed now?"

Her daughter obeyed her immediately, after one more hug to Ellen, and telling her she was so glad she had come. Mrs. Chauncey stayed to see Ellen in bed, and press one kind motherly kiss upon her face, so tenderly that Ellen's eyes were moistened as she withdrew. But in her dreams that night the rosy sweet face, blue eyes, and little plump figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest part.

She slept till Alice was obliged to waken her the next morning, and then got up with her head in a charming confusion of pleasures past and pleasures to come—things known and unknown to be made for everybody's New Year presents—linen collars and painted needle-books; and no sooner was breakfast over than she was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey a particularly splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of needle-book leaves. Deep in this they were still an hour afterwards, and in the comparative merits of purple and rose-colour, when a little hubbub arose at the other end of the room on the arrival of a new-comer. Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped it, exclaiming, "There she is! now for the bag!" and pulled Ellen along with her towards the party. A young lady was in the midst of it, talking so fast that she had not time to take off her cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen's, however, she came to a sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen's face certainly showed no pleasure; Margaret's darkened with a very disagreeable surprise.

"My goodness, Ellen Montgomery, how on earth did you get here?" said Margaret.

"Do you know her?" asked one of the girls, as the two Ellens went off after "Aunt Sophia."

"Do I know her? Yes, just enough—exactly. How did she get here?"

"Miss Humphreys brought her."

"Who's Miss Humphreys?"

"Hush!" said Marianne, lowering her tone; "that's her brother in the window."

"Who's brother?—hers or Miss Humphreys'?"

"Miss Humphreys'. Did you never see her? She is here, or has been here, a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her fourth daughter, and she is just as much at home as if she was; and she brought her here."

"And she's at home too, I suppose. Well, it's no business of mine."

"What do you know of her?"

"Oh, enough—that's just it—don't want to know any more."

"Well, you needn't; but what's the matter with her?"

"Oh, I don't know; I'll tell you some other time; she's a conceited little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river, that's how I come to know about her. Ma said it was the last child she would be bothered with in that way."

Presently the two girls came back, bringing word to clear the table, for Aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccos. As soon as she came Ellen Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest question. "Certainly!" Aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the contents of the bag; and her little niece delightedly told Ellen she was to have her share as well as the rest.

The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco of all sizes and colours, which were hastily turned over and examined with eager hands and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be sure, but others showed a breadth and length of beauty which was declared to be "first-rate" and "fine," and one beautiful large piece of blue morocco in particular was made up in imagination by two or three of the party in as many different ways. Marianne wanted it for a book-cover, Margaret declared she could make a lovely reticule with it, and Ellen could not help thinking it would make a very pretty needle-box, such a one as she had seen in the possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice.

"Well, what's to be done now?" said Miss Sophia, "or am I not to know?"

"Oh, you're not to know—you're not to know, Aunt Sophia," cried the girls; "you mustn't ask."

"I'll tell you what they are going to do with 'em," said George Walsh, coming up to her with a mischievous face, and adding in a loud whisper, shielding his mouth with his hand; "they're going to make pr——"

He was laid hold of forcibly by the whole party screaming and laughing, and stopped short from finishing his speech.

"Well then, I'll take my departure," said Miss Sophia; "but how will you manage to divide all these scraps?"

"Suppose we were to put them in the bag again, and you hold the bag, and we were to draw them out without looking," said Ellen Chauncey, "as we used to do with the sugar-plums."

As no better plan was thought of this was agreed upon, and little Ellen, shutting up her eyes very tight, stuck in her hand and pulled out a little bit of green morocco about the size of a dollar. Ellen Montgomery came next; then Margaret, then Marianne, then their mutual friend Isabel Hawthorn. Each had to take her turn a great many times, and at the end of the drawing the pieces were found to be pretty equally divided among the party, with the exception of Ellen, who, besides several other good pieces, had drawn the famous blue.

"That will do very nicely," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I am glad you have got that, Ellen. Now, Aunt Sophy! one thing more—you know the silks and ribbons you promised us."

"Bless me! I haven't done yet, eh? Well, you shall have them, but we are all going out to walk now; I'll give them to you this afternoon. Come! put these away, and get on your bonnets and cloaks."

A hard measure! but it was done. After the walk came dinner; after dinner Aunt Sophia had to be found and waited on, till she had fairly sought out and delivered to their hands the wished-for bundles of silks and satins. It gave great satisfaction.

"But how shall we do about dividing these?" said little Ellen; "shall we draw lots again?"

"No, Ellen," said Marianne, "that won't do, because we might every one get just the things we do not want. I want one colour or stuff to go with my morocco, and you want another to go with yours; and you might get mine and I might get yours. We had best each choose in turn what we like, beginning at Isabel."

"Very well," said little Ellen, "I'm agreed."

"Anything for a quiet life," said George Walsh.

But this business of choosing was found to be very long and very difficult, each one was so fearful of not taking the exact piece she wanted most. The elder members of the family began to gather for dinner, and several came and stood round the table where the children were, little noticed by them, they were so wrapped up in silks and satins. Ellen seemed the least interested person at the table, and had made her selections with the least delay and difficulty; and now, as it was not her turn, sat very soberly looking on with her head resting on her hand.

"I declare it's too vexatious!" said Margaret Dunscombe; "here I've got this beautiful piece of blue satin, and can't do anything with it; it just matches that blue morocco—it's a perfect match—I could have made a splendid thing of it, and I have got some cord and tassels that would just do—I declare it's too bad."

Ellen's colour changed.

"Well, choose, Margaret," said Marianne.

"I don't know what to choose—- that's the thing. What can one do with red and purple morocco and blue satin? I might as well give up. I've a great notion to take this piece of yellow satin and dress up a Turkish doll to frighten the next young one I meet with."

"I wish you would, Margaret, and give it to me when it's done," cried little Ellen Chauncey.

"Tain't made yet," said the other dryly.

Ellen's colour had changed and changed; her hand twitched nervously, and she glanced uneasily from Margaret's store of finery to her own.

"Come, choose, Margaret," said Ellen Chauncey; "I dare say Ellen wants the blue morocco as much as you do."

"No, I don't!" said Ellen abruptly, throwing it over the table to her; "take it, Margaret, you may have it."

"What do you mean?" said the other astounded.

"I mean you may have it," said Ellen; "I don't want it."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said the other, "I'll give you yellow satin for it—or some of my red morocco?"

"No, I had rather not," repeated Ellen; "I don't want it—you may have it."

"Very generously done," remarked Miss Sophia; "I hope you'll all take a lesson in the art of being obliging."

"Quite a noble little girl," said Mrs. Gillespie.

Ellen crimsoned. "No, ma'am, I'm not indeed," she said, looking at them with eyes that were filling fast, "please don't say so—I don't deserve it."

"I shall say what I think, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, smiling, "but I'm glad you add the grace of modesty to that of generosity; it is the more uncommon of the two."

"I am not modest! I am not generous! you mustn't say so," cried Ellen. She struggled; the blood rushed to the surface, suffusing every particle of skin that could be seen; then left it, as with eyes cast down she went on—"I don't deserve to be praised! it was more Margaret's than mine. I oughtn't to have kept it at all, for I saw a little bit when I put my hand in. I didn't mean to, but I did!"

Raising her eyes hastily to Alice's face, they met those of John, who was standing behind her. She had not counted upon him for one of her listeners; she knew Mrs. Gillespie, Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Alice had heard her, but this was the one drop too much. Her head sank; she covered her face a moment, and then made her escape out of the room before even Ellen could follow her.

There was a moment's silence. Alice seemed to have some difficulty not to follow Ellen's example. Margaret pouted; Mrs. Chauncey's eyes filled with tears, and her little daughter seemed divided between doubt and dismay. Her first move, however, was to run off in pursuit of Ellen. Alice went after her.

"Here's a beautiful example of honour and honesty for you!" said Margaret Dunscombe, at length.

"I think it is," said John quietly.

"An uncommon instance," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"I'm glad everybody thinks so," said Margaret sullenly; "I hope I shan't copy it, that's all."

"I think you are in no danger," said John again.

"Very well," said Margaret, who, between her desire of speaking and her desire of concealing her vexation, did not know what to do with herself; "everybody must judge for himself, I suppose; I've got enough of her, for my part."

"Where did you ever see her before?" said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Oh, she came up the river with us—mamma had to take care of her—she was with us two days."

"And didn't you like her?"

"No, I guess I didn't! she was a perfect plague. All the day on board the steamboat she scarcely came near us; we couldn't pretend to keep sight of her; mamma had to send her maid out to look after her I don't know how many times. She scraped acquaintance with some strange man on board, and liked his company better than ours, for she stayed with him the whole blessed day, waking and sleeping: of course mamma didn't like it at all. She didn't go a single meal with us; you know of course that wasn't proper behaviour."

"No, indeed," said Isabel.

"I suppose," said John coolly, "she chose the society she thought the pleasantest Probably Miss Margaret's politeness was more than she had been accustomed to."

Margaret coloured, not quite knowing what to make of the speaker or his speech.

"It would take much to make me believe," said gentle Mrs. Chauncey, "that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as that little girl evidently has, could take pleasure in improper company."

Margaret had a reply at her tongue's end, but she had also an uneasy feeling that there were eyes not far off too keen of sight to be baffled; she kept silence till the group dispersed, and she had an opportunity of whispering in Marianne's ear that "that was the very most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life."

"What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of Alice's, Mr. John," said Mrs. Marshman's youngest daughter. "You quite surprise me."

"Did you think me a misanthrope, Miss Sophia?"

"Oh no, not at all; but I always had a notion you would not be easily pleased in the choice of favourites."

"Easily! When a simple, intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased."

"Twelve or thirteen!" said Miss Sophia; "what are you thinking about? Alice says she is only ten or eleven."

"In years, perhaps."

"How gravely you take me up!" said the young lady, laughing. "My dear Mr. John, 'in years perhaps,' you may call yourself twenty, but in everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty."

As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back; the former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud that all the moroccos had been in the fire. They had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it after dinner; and a second search was made in vain. John went to the library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there; but the pleasant light of the room, where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the moonlight, when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole in noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought the room empty; till in passing slowly down toward the fire, she came upon him in the window. Her start first let him know she was there; she would have run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away.

"Running away from your brother, Ellie!" said he kindly. "What is the matter?"

Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.

"I know all, Ellie," said he, still very kindly; "I have seen all; why do you shun me?"

Ellen said nothing; the big tears began to run down her face and frock.

"You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen," he said, drawing her close to him; "you did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair the wrong; neither man nor woman can do more than that."

But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever.

"Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come! lift up your head and let me see you smile again."

Ellen lifted her head, but could not her eyes, though she tried to smile.

"I want to talk to you a little about this," said he. "You know you gave me leave to be your brother; will you let me ask you a question or two?"

"Oh yes; whatever you please," Ellen said.

"Then sit down here," said he, making room for her on the wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand, and speaking very gently. "You said you saw when you took the morocco; I don't quite understand; how was it?"

"Why," said Ellen, "we were not to look, and we had gone three times round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it; and I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just before I shut my eyes, I happened to see the corner of it sticking up, and then I took it."

"With your eyes open?"

"No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for it, and wished it back."

"You will wonder at me, perhaps, Ellie," said John, "but I am not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before; it has only made you see what you are—very, very weak, quite unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you; so it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would not have done as you did?"

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I was sorry a minute after."

"And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen; "it wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day."

"Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help we cannot stand a moment."

Ellen sobbed; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said, "But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie."

The sobs ceased; he saw his words had taken hold.

"Is it right," he said softly, "that we should be more troubled about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonoured Him?"

Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished.

"You understand me, I see," said he. "Be humbled in the dust before Him; the more the better; but whenever we are greatly concerned, for our own sakes, about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too little of God and what will please Him."

"I am very sorry," said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to drop again; "I am very wrong, but I couldn't bear to think what Alice would think, and you, and all of them——"

"Here's Alice to speak for herself," said John.

As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them.

"All's well again," said Alice, "and we're going in to tea."

He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things, so pleasantly that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and Marianne to call them to tea; so the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be.

She behaved very well; her face was touchingly humble that night; and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party was quite divided; and not the least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself with spirits; the secret of which perhaps was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that "it was Christmas Eve!"