Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor; and it was also settled that his children should not leave it till after New Year. This was less their own wish than his; he said Alice wanted the change, and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides the earnest pleading of the whole family was not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this, though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor—she could not feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She tried to think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to prevent her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow wider.

About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole family; but the hour of dinner and the distance prevented any one from going in the afternoon. The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the house, most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look in the library for her friends. They were there, and alone; Alice half reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms; he was reading or talking to her; there was a book in his hand.

"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near; "aren't you well, dear Alice?—Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I know——"

She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a pleased face, her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of Cologne water in the other.

"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; "I can't open it; I guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's delicious. Mamma used to have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, dear Alice, won't you eat these?—do!—try one."

"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she smilingly took a grape.

"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till I wanted it. Eat them all, dear Alice, please do!"

"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."

"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"

Ellen took, however, as precious payment Alice's look and kiss; and then with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother and sister might like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go, for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not want any company. At last with her little Bible she placed herself on the old sofa in the hall above stairs, which was perfectly well warmed, and for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed like Sunday; and the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half-an-hour or so, to her dismay she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children came trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading or thinking was out of the question.

"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!" said Marianne Gillespie.

"One can play games on a Sunday," answered her brother, "Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, I think."

"William! William!" sounded the shocked voice of little Ellen Chauncey, "you're a real wicked boy!"

"Well now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say, I should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie abed and sleep, or for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for grandpa to talk politics, or for mother to talk about the fashions?—there was she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this morning doing everything but make a dress. Now, which is the worst?"

"Oh, William! William! for shame! for shame!" said little Ellen again.

"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey! will you?" said Marianne sharply; "and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is good for yourself. I don't care whether it's right or wrong, I do get dolefully tired with doing nothing."

"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep all Sunday."

"I'll tell you what," said George, "I know a game we can play, and no harm, either, for it's all out of the Bible."

"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.

"I don't believe it's good for anything if it is out of the Bible," said Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"

"I ain't staring," said Ellen indignantly, "but I don't believe it is right to play it, if it is out of the Bible."

"Well, it is though," said George. "Now listen; I'll think of somebody in the Bible, some man or woman, you know; and you may all ask me twenty questions about him to see if you can find out who it is."

"What kind of questions?"

"Any kind of questions, whatever you like."

"That will improve your knowledge of Scripture history," said Gilbert.

"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the time," said little Ellen.

"Or bad people and what they did," said William.

"But I don't know enough about people and things in the Bible," said Margaret; "I couldn't guess."

"Oh, never mind; it will be all the more fun," said George. "Come! let's begin. Who'll take somebody?"

"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey; "but Ellen—where's Ellen? we want her."

"No, we don't want her! we've enough without her; she won't play!" shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered, however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could she withstood her little friend's entreaties, and very unwillingly at last yielded and went with her downstairs.

"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told Ellen what the game is; who's going to begin?"

"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of somebody. Man or woman?"

"Man."

"Young or old?"

"Why, he was young first and old afterwards."

"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister. "Besides, you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert?"

"Humph! why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."

"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"

"Upon my honour!"

"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss Hawthorn.

"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder—a very respectable person indeed."

"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you he wasn't anything in particular; what kind of a person was he, Gilbert?"

"A very good man."

"Handsome or ugly?"

"History don't say."

"Well, what does it say?" said George; "what did he do?"

"He took a journey once upon a time."

"What for?"

"Do you mean why he went, or what was the object of his going?"

"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Well, what was the object of his going?"

"He went after a wife."

"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen Chauncey.

"No, it wasn't Samson either."

"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said George. "That king—what's his name?—that married Esther?"

The children screamed. "He didn't go after a wife, George; his wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"

"No, he didn't go after a wife either," said Gilbert; "he married two of them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find them. You had better go on with your questions. You have had eight already. If you don't look out you won't catch me. Come!"

"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen Chauncey.

"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.

"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.

"He did not fail."

"Did he bring home his wife, then? You said he wasn't married."

"He never was that I know of; but he brought home a wife notwithstanding."

"But how funny you are, Gilbert," said little Ellen. "He had a wife and he hadn't a wife; what became of her?"

"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions; take care."

"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret; "what was he, Gilbert?"

"He was a Damascene."

"A what?"

"Of Damascus—of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you?"

"Fiddle!" said Marianne; "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or after the Flood?"

"After. I should think you might have known that."

"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne. "We shall have to give it up."

"No, no, not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his wife?"

"Too close a question."

"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"

"Never."

"Was she willing to go with him?"

"Very willing. Ladies always are when they go to be married."

"And what became of her?"

"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."

"But you said he wasn't married."

"Well, what then? I didn't say she married him."

"Whom did she marry?"

"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."

"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.

"Several days' journey; I don't know how far."

"How did they travel?"

"On camels."

"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.

There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels in the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her.

The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert at last told them his thought. It was Eleazar, Abraham's steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.

"Why haven't you guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to Ellen Montgomery.

"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was some time ago."

"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single question," said George.

"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen Chauncey.

"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice proper-behaved boys and girls to be playing on Sunday; she is very sorry she could not help being amused."

"Do you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.

"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.

Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she would say. She coloured, and looked down at her little Bible which was still in her hand. It encouraged her.

"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think it is quite right to play such plays, or any plays."

She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not? Why not?"

"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things; and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that; and I have a kind of feeling that I ought not to do it."

"Well, I hope you'll act according to your feelings then," said William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had better go somewhere else though, for we are going on; we have been learning to be good long enough for one day. Come! I have thought of somebody."

Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half sneer she saw in the look and manner of the others as well as in William's words. She wished for no better than to go away, but as she did so her bosom swelled and the tears started and her breath came quicker. She found Alice lying down and asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out again and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession of the sofa and tried to read again; reading somehow did not go well, and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the unkindness of the children; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any part of Sunday in such games; what Alice would think of it, and John, and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that dear mother was with her; and then she wondered how she was passing this very one—while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what she was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there only were such things as oracles that could tell truly, how much she would like to ask about her.

"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.

She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he was lying in the window seat.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," said Ellen.

"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my little sister?"

He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about different things; nothing is the matter," said Ellen.

"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"

"I don't know," said she, laughing; "there weren't any till I came here. I was thinking just now about mamma."

He said no more, still, however, keeping her beside him.

"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes' musing look out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if there were such things as oracles—don't you, Mr. John?"

"No."

"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen?"

"I do know a great deal about it."

"About what is going to happen?"

He smiled.

"Yes, a great deal, Ellie, enough to give me work for all the rest of my life."

"Oh, you mean from the Bible!—I was thinking of other things."

"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie; I am very glad to know those the Bible teaches us."

"But it doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"

"Go to the window and tell me what you see."

"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking a grave look out.

"Well, what in general?"

"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes; and the sun is shining on everything just as it did the day we came; and there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue sky."

"Now, look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll—they shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment; and it and all the works that are therein shall be burned up."

As he spoke Ellen's fancy tried to follow, to picture the ruin and desolation of all that stood so fair and seemed to stand so firm before her; but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the window.

"Do you believe it?" said John.

"Yes," said Ellen, "I know it; but I think it is very disagreeable to think about it."

"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side, "very disagreeable—very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But we know more—read here."

Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.

"'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, neither come into mind.'"

"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen; "shall we forget all about them?"

"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall not want to think of these."

Ellen's eyes sought the window again.

"You are thinking that it is hardly possible," said John, with a smile.

"I suppose it is possible," said Ellen, "but——"

"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, and sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin there; sorrow and sighing shall flee away; love to each other and love to their blessed King will fill all hearts, and His presence will be with them. Don't you see that even if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be far, far more lovely than this can ever be with the shadow of sin upon it?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen. "I know whenever I feel wrong in any way nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much."

"Very well," said John. "I see you understand me. I like to think of that land, Ellen—very much."

"Mr. John," said Ellen, "don't you think people will know each other again?"

"Those that love each other here? I have no doubt of it."

Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better; and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother and sister now; Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of His service, even here—till thoughts grew too strong for words, and silence again stole upon the group. The short winter day came to an end; the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn; and from where she sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered with the moonlight which began to steal in at the window. It was very, very beautiful: yet she could think now without sorrow that all this should come to an end, because of that new heaven and new earth wherein righteousness should dwell.

"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice, "or rather I have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes in my life. John said the reason was because every one tasted of you."

"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.

"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on; "except for my headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did; and you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! there has been many a day lately when I would gladly have had a headache for the power of laying my head on your shoulder."

"And if mamma had not gone away I should never have known you," said Ellen. "I wish she never had gone, but I am very, very glad for this."

She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for Marianne. It was done with the gracefulness that could only come from a spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.