you send these things at once?" said Mrs. Montgomery; "I particularly wish to have them at home as early in the day as possible."
The man promised. Mrs. Montgomery paid the bill, and she and Ellen left the store.
They walked a little way in silence.
"I cannot thank you, mamma," said Ellen.
"It is not necessary, my dear child," said Mrs. Montgomery, returning the pressure of her hand; "I know all that you would say."
There was as much sorrow as joy at that moment in the heart of the joy fullest of the two.
"Where are we going now, mamma?" said Ellen again, after a while.
"I wished and intended to have gone to St. Clair & Fleury's, to get you some merino and other things; but we have been detained so long already that I think I had better go home. I feel somewhat tired."
"I am very sorry, dear mamma," said Ellen; "I am afraid I kept you too long about that desk."
"You did not keep me, daughter, any longer than I chose to be kept. But I think I will go home now, and take the chance of another fine day for the merino."
CHAPTER IV
How can I live without thee—how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined?
—Milton.
When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother and daughter were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was late in the afternoon and already somewhat dark, for clouds had gathered over the beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind rising now and then made its voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa: as usual, seemingly at ease; and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very much at her ease indeed, without any seeming about it. She smiled as she met her mother's eyes.
"You have made me very happy to-day, mamma."
"I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the whole affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you."
There was a pause.
"Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new treasures."
"I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly I should not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been to leave you without them. So you see you have not established a character for carefulness in vain."
"And, mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain either. I will try to use them in the way that I know you wish me to; that will be the best way I can thank you."
"Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I wish you to do and to be; and when I am away I shall please myself with thinking that my little daughter is following her mother's wishes; I shall believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be disappointed?"
"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, who was now in her mother's arms.
"Well, my child," said Mrs. Montgomery in a lighter tone, "my gifts will serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted to forget my lessons. If you fail to send me letters, or if those you send are not what they ought to be, I think the desk will cry shame upon you. And if you ever go an hour with a hole in your stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a string off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your work-box will make you blush."
"Work-box, mamma?"
"Yes. Oh, I forgot; you've not seen that."
"No, mamma; what do you mean?"
"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but I thought it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so while you were on an exploring expedition round the store I chose and furnished one for you."
"Oh, mamma, mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands; "what shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say anything. Mamma, it's too much."
So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till gently drawn by the same hand she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the light of the fire was all that was left to them.
Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep; her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new possessions and bright projects—more of her mother. She was thinking how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her cheek lay; she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than anything else in life could be; she thought she had rather even die so, on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world; she felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she broke the silence.
"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me'?"
"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of His children."
"But then, mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how can I be one of His children? I do love you a great deal better; how can I help it, mamma?"
"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery with a sigh, "except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of His people—to take away the heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh."
"But is mine a heart of stone then, mamma, because I cannot help loving you best?"
"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than I am, and if your heart were not hardened by sin you would see Him so; it is only because you do not know Him that you love me better. Pray, pray, my dear child, that He would take away the power of sin, and show you Himself; that is all that is wanting."
"I will, mamma," said Ellen tearfully. "Oh, mamma, what shall I do without you?"
Alas, Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question; she had no answer.
"Mamma," said Ellen after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him at all unless I love Him best?"
"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother seriously.
"Mamma," said Ellen after a little, again raising her head and looking her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do you love Him better than you do me?"
She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she ventured a bold
