silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side, leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew light from the south, so that they did not feel it at all.
The light gradually faded away till only a silver glow in the west showed where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight was gently stealing over all the bright colours of sky, and river, and hill; now and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores.
"You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her—"I see you are. A little more patience, my child; we shall be at our journey's end before a very great while."
"I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I am tired. We don't go in the steamboat to-morrow, do we, sir?"
"No, in the stage."
"Shall you be in the stage, sir?"
"No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together."
"Oh, sir," said Ellen, "I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for you."
There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly spoke again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away.
"I wish I knew where mamma is now!"
"I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me that it is well with her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember her."
"She must want me so much," said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible voice.
"She has not lost her best friend, my child."
"I know it, sir," said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the mastery; "but oh, it's just near the time when I used to make the tea for her—who'll make it now? she'll want me—oh, what shall I do?" and overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her friend's arms and sobbed aloud.
There was no reasoning against this; he did not attempt it; but with the utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as soon as he might, to soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last; with a sort of despairing submission, Ellen ceased her tears, and arose to her former position. But he did not rest from his kind endeavours till her mind was really eased and comforted; which, however, was not long before the lights of a city began to appear in the distance. And with them appeared a dusky figure ascending the stairs, which, upon nearer approach, proved by the voice to be Timmins.
"Is this Miss Montgomery?" said she; "I can't see, I am sure, it's so dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?"
"Yes," said Ellen, "it is I; do you want me?"
"If you please, miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come right down; we're almost in, she says, miss."
"I'll come directly, Miss Timmins," said Ellen. "Don't wait for me—I won't be a minute—I'll come directly."
Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the grave personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained.
"I must go," said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand "Good-bye, sir."
She could hardly say it. He drew her towards him and kissed her cheek once or twice; it was well he did, for it sent a thrill of pleasure to Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next day.
"God bless you, my child," he said gravely, but cheerfully; "and good-night!—you will feel better, I trust, when you have had some rest and refreshment."
He took care of her down the stairs, and saw her safe to the very door of the saloon, and within it; and there again took her hand and kindly bade her good-night.
Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart would break. She saw and heard nothing till Mrs. Dunscombe's voice bade her make haste and be ready, for they were going ashore in five minutes.
And in less than five minutes ashore they went.
"Which hotel, ma'am?" asked the servant who carried her baggage—"the Eagle, or Foster's?"
"The Eagle," said Mrs. Dunscombe.
"Come this way, then, ma'am," said another man, the driver of the Eagle carriage. "Now, ma'am, step in, if you please."
Mrs. Dunscombe put her daughter in.
"But it's full!" said she to the driver; "there isn't room for another one."
"Oh yes, ma'am, there is," said the driver, holding the door open; "there's plenty of room for you, ma'am—just get in, ma'am, if you please—we'll be there in less than two minutes."
"Timmins, you'll have to walk," said Mrs. Dunscombe. "Miss Montgomery, would you rather ride, or walk with Timmins?"
"How far is it, ma'am?" said Ellen.
"Oh, bless me! how can I tell how far it is? I don't know, I am sure—not far; say quick—would you rather walk or ride?"
"I would rather walk, ma'am, if you please," said Ellen.
"Very well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, getting in;—"Timmins, you know the way."
And off went the coach with its load; but tired as she was, Ellen did not wish herself along.
Picking a passage-way out of the crowd, she and Timmins now began to make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets.
It was a strange place—that she felt. She had lived long enough in the place she had left to feel at home there; but here she came to no street or crossing that she had ever seen before; nothing looked familiar; all reminded her that she was a traveller. Only one pleasant thing Ellen saw on her walk, and that was the sky; and that looked just as it did at home; and very often Ellen's gaze was fixed upon it, much to the astonishment of Miss Timmins, who had to be not a little watchful for the safety of Ellen's feet while her eyes were thus employed. She had taken a great fancy to Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased, keeping all her wonderment to herself.
"Take care, Miss Ellen!" cried Timmins, giving her arm a great pull. "I declare I just saved you out of that gutter! poor child! you are dreadfully tired, ain't you?"
"Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmins," said Ellen; "have we much further to go?"
"Not a great deal, dear; cheer up! we are almost there. I hope Mrs. Dunscombe will want to ride one of these days herself, and can't."
"Oh, don't say so, Miss Timmins," said Ellen, "I don't wish so, indeed."
"Well, I should think you would," said Timmins. "I should think you'd be fit to poison her;—I should, I know, if I was in your place."
"Oh no," said Ellen, "that wouldn't be right; that would be very wrong."
"Wrong!" said Timmins—"why would it be wrong? she hasn't behaved good to you."
"Yes," said Ellen, "but don't you know the Bible says if we do not forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven ourselves?"
"Well,
