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CHAPTER XXIX
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure.
Kings may be blest, but they were glorious,
O'er all the ills o' life victorious.
– Burns.
Christmas morning was dawning grey, but it was still far from broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering, "Ellen! Ellen!" in a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in night-gown and night-cap, and barefooted too, with a face brimful of excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise, and asked what the matter was.
"I am going to look at my stocking," whispered her visitor; "don't you want to get up and come with me? it's just here in the other room – come! don't make any noise."
"But what if you should find nothing in it?" said Ellen laughingly, as she bounded out of bed.
"Ah, but I shall, I know; I always do; never fear. Hush! step ever so softly; I don't want to wake anybody."
"It's hardly light enough for you to see," whispered Ellen, as the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room.
"Oh yes, it is; that's all the fun. Hush! don't make a bit of noise – I know where it hangs – mamma always puts it at the back of her big easy chair – come this way – here it is! Oh, Ellen! there's two of 'em! There's one for you! there's one for you."
In a tumult of delight one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of her little bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her with all her heart, declaring she was so glad she didn't know what to do.
"But how shall we know which is which?"
"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.
"No – at any rate one's for me, and t'other's for you. Stop! here are pieces of paper, with our names on, I guess – let's turn the chair a little bit to the light – there – yes! – Ellen – M-o-n – there, that's yours; my name doesn't begin with an M; and this is mine!"
Another caper round the room, and then she brought up in front of the chair where Ellen was still standing.
"I wonder what's in 'em," she said; "I want to look, and I don't want to. Come, you begin."
"But that's no stocking of mine," said Ellen, a smile gradually breaking upon her sober little face; "my leg never was as big as that."
"Stuffed, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Oh, do make haste, and see what is in yours. I want to know, so I don't know what to do."
"Well, will you take out of yours as fast as I take out of mine?"
"Well!"
Oh, mysterious delight, and delightful mystery, of the stuffed stocking! Ellen's trembling fingers sought the top, and then very suddenly left it.
"I can't think what it is," said she, laughing; "it feels so funny."
"Oh, never mind! make haste," said Ellen Chauncey; "it won't hurt you, I guess."
"No, it won't hurt me," said Ellen; "but – "
She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes.
"Splendid! isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Now for mine."
It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.
"So far, so good," said she. "Now for the next."
The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar-plums.
"Well, that's fine, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey; "yours is tied with white ribbon and mine with blue; that's all the difference. Oh, and your paper's red and mine is purple."
"Yes, and the pictures are different," said Ellen.
"Well, I had rather they would be different, wouldn't you? I think it's just as pleasant. One's as big as the other, at any rate. Come – what's next!"
Ellen drew out a little bundle, which being opened proved to be a nice little pair of dark kid gloves.
"Oh, I wonder who gave me this," she said; "it's just what I wanted. How pretty! Oh, I am so glad. I guess who it was."
"Oh, look here," said the other Ellen, who had been diving into her stocking, "I've got a ball – this is just what I wanted too; George told me if I'd get one he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice ball. I'm glad I have got it. Why, here is another great round thing in my stocking! what can it be? they wouldn't give me two balls," said she, chuckling.
"So there is in mine!" said Ellen. "Maybe they're apples."
"They aren't! they wouldn't give us apples; besides, it is soft. Pull it out and see."
"Then they are oranges," said Ellen, laughing.
"I never felt such a soft orange," said little Ellen Chauncey. "Come, Ellen! stop laughing, and let's see."
They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and E. M. very neatly stuck in pins.
"Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we?" said Ellen. "Who gave us these?"
"I know," said little Ellen Chauncey; "Mrs. Bland."
"She was very kind to make one for me," said Ellen. "Now for the next!"
The next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water.
"I can tell who put that in," said her friend; "Aunt Sophia. I know her little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love Cologne water? Aunt Sophia's is delicious."
Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction.
"Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with," said she; "raisins and almonds, I declare! and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good Christmas?"
"What are you about, you monkeys?" cried the voice of Aunt Sophia from the dressing-room door. "Alice, Alice! do look at them. Come right back to bed, both of you. Crazy pates! It is lucky it is Christmas day – if it was any other in the year we should have you both sick in bed; as it is, I suppose you will go scot free."
Laughing and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed together; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the painted needle-book was entirely decided upon in this consultation; also two or three other matters; and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since daybreak by the time they came down to breakfast.
After breakfast Ellen applied secretly to Alice to know if she could write very beautifully; she exceedingly wanted something done.
"I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine; but John can do it for you."
"Can he? Do you think he would?"
"I am sure he will if you ask him."
"But I don't like to ask him," said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at the window.
"Nonsense! he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him."
"Well, you won't say anything about it?"
"Certainly not."
Ellen accordingly went near and said gently, "Mr. Humphreys," but he did not seem to hear her. "Mr. Humphreys!" – a little louder.
"He has not arrived yet," said John, looking round gravely.
He spoke so gravely that Ellen could not tell whether he was joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of countenance. "Whom do you want to speak to?" said he, smiling.
"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said Ellen, "if you are not now too busy."
"Mr. Humphreys is always busy," said he, shaking his head, "but Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for you whatever you please to ask him."
"Then, Mr. John," said Ellen, laughing, "if you please, I wanted to ask you to do something for me very much indeed, if you are not too busy; Alice said I shouldn't disturb you."
"Not at all; I've been long enough over this stupid newspaper. What is it?"
"I want you, if you will be so good," said Ellen, "to write a little bit for me on something, very beautifully."
"'Very beautifully!' Well – come to the library; we will see."
"But it is a great secret," said Ellen; "you won't tell anybody?"
"Tortures shan't draw it from me – when I know what it is," said he, with one of his comical looks.
In high glee Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to form the backs of the needle-book, and brought them to the library; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer should choose.
"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needle-books?" said John, as he carefully mended his pen.
"Stop!" said Ellen, "I'll tell you in a minute – on this one, the front, you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;' – and on this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know," she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's day; nor anybody else."
"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions they shall find me as obscure as an oracle."
"What is an oracle, sir?"
"Why," said John, smiling, "this pen won't do yet – the old heathens believed there were certain spots of earth to which some of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."
"And they did?" said Ellen.
"Did they what?"
"Did they answer their questions?"
"Did who answer their questions?"
"The – oh! to be sure," said Ellen, "there were no such gods. But what made people think they answered them? and how could they ask questions?"
"I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests to increase their power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and priestesses; the questions were put through them; and they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence who could pay them well by making splendid gifts to the god."
"But I should think the people would have thought the priests or priestesses had made up the answer themselves."
"Perhaps they did sometimes. But people had not the Bible then, and did not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural to think the gods would take care a little for the poor people that lived on the earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the answers of the oracle that helped to deceive."
"How was it?" said Ellen; "how could they manage? and what was the oracle?"
"The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was supposed to give it, or the place where it was given; and there were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak tree, and the people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman who pretended to be put into a kind of fit – tearing her hair and beating her breast."
"But suppose the oracle made a mistake? – what would the people think then?"
"The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come true in any event."
"I don't see how they could do that," said Ellen.
"Very well – just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some question; I'll answer you."
"But you can't tell what's going to happen?"
"No matter – you ask me truly and I'll answer you oracularly."
"That means, like an oracle, I suppose!" said Ellen. "Well – Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her for her New Year?"
"She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day."
"Ah, but," said Ellen, laughing, "that isn't fair; you haven't answered me; perhaps somebody else will give her something, and then she might be pleased with that and not with mine."
"Exactly – but the oracle never means to be understood."
"Well, I won't come to you," said Ellen. "I don't like such answers. Now for the needle-book!"
Breathlessly she looked on while the skilful pen did its work; and her exclamations of delight and admiration when the first cover was handed to her were not loud but deep.
"It will do, then, will it? Now, let us see – 'From her dear little daughter,' there – now 'Ellen Chauncey' I suppose must be in hieroglyphics."
"In what?" said Ellen.
"I mean written in some difficult character."
"Yes," said Ellen. "But what was that you said?"
"Hieroglyphics!"
Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked up and smiled.
"Do you want to know what that means?"
"Yes, if you please," said Ellen.
The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. From hieroglyphics they went to the pyramids; and Ellen had got to the top of one and was enjoying the prospect (in imagination), when she suddenly came down to tell John of her stuffed stocking and its contents. The pen went on again, and came to the end of the writing by the time Ellen had got to the toe of the stocking.
"Wasn't it very strange they should give me so many things?" said she; "people that don't know me?"
"Why, no," said John, smiling, "I cannot say I think it was very strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands?"
"This is all; and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. John."
Her grateful affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid.
Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rose and the butterfly, which, finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very ready to do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery of the leaves, which was by no means the business of an hour.
A very happy Christmas day was that. With their needles and thimbles, and rose-coloured silk, they kept by themselves in a corner, or in the library, out of the way; and sweetening their talk with a sugar-plum now and then, neither tongues nor needles knew any flagging. It was wonderful how they found so much to say, but there was no lack. Ellen Chauncey especially was inexhaustible. Several times too that day the Cologne bottle was handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball tried, and the new scissors extolled as "just the thing for their work." Ellen attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and hieroglyphics, but was fain to give it up; little Ellen showed a decided preference for American, not to say Ventnor, subjects, where she felt more at home.
Then came Mr. Humphreys; and Ellen was glad, both for her own sake and because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came the great merry Christmas dinner, when the girls had, not talked themselves out, but tired themselves with working. Young and old dined together to-day, and the children not set by themselves, but scattered among the grown-up people; and as Ellen was nicely placed between Alice and little Ellen Chauncey, she enjoyed it all very much. The large long table surrounded with happy faces; tones of cheerfulness and looks of kindness, and lively talk; the superb display of plate and glass and china; the stately dinner; and last but not least, the plum-pudding. There was sparkling wine too, and a great deal of drinking of healths; but Ellen noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in water; so when old Mr. Marshman called to her to "hold out her glass," she held it out to be sure and let him fill it, but she lifted her tumbler of water to her lips instead, after making him a very low bow. Mr. Marshman laughed at her a great deal, and asked her if she was "a proselyte to the new notions;" and Ellen laughed with him, without having the least idea what he meant, and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant too when they went into the drawing-room to take coffee. The young ones were permitted to have coffee to-night as a great favour. Old Mrs. Marshman had the two little ones on either side of her; and was so kind, and held Ellen's hand in her own, and talked to her about her mother, till Ellen loved her.
After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old joined in them. They played the Old Curiosity Shop; and Ellen thought Mr. John's curiosities could not be matched. They played the Old Family Coach, Mr. Howard Marshman being the manager, and Ellen laughed till she was tired; she was the coach door, and he kept her opening and shutting and swinging and breaking, it seemed all the while, though most of the rest were worked just as hard. When they were well tired they sat down to rest and hear music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and Mrs. Gillespie, and Miss Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard; sometimes alone, sometimes three or four or altogether.
At last came ten o'clock and the young ones were sent off; and from beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken and unclouded pleasure. Ellen's last act was to take another look at her Cologne bottle, gloves, pin-cushion, grapes, and paper of sugar-plums, which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer.
CHAPTER XXX
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whose glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades.
– Cowper.
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.
