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 question to prove whether her mother's practice would not contradict her theory.
But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and with a gush of tears Ellen sunk her head again upon her bosom. She had no more to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the right of the matter, though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular case.
"I do indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."
"Oh, mamma, mamma," said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do, mamma?"
With a voice that strove to be calm Mrs. Montgomery answered, "'I love them that love Me, and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'" And after a minute or two she added, "He who says this has promised too that He will 'gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.'"
The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still on her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's eyes and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three-quarters of an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the knocker could gain attention.
"What is that, mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.
"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."
Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full of sundry packages.
"Oh, mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they are!"
The man placed his burden on the table, and withdrew.
"Oh, mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now if I only had a light—this is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling—yes, it is, here's the handle on top; and this is my dear work-box—not so big as the desk, nor so little as the dressing-box. Oh, mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"
There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for tea. Ellen was capering about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight of the tea-things, and looked very grave. "Well, mamma, I'll tell you what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the tea the first thing before I untie a single knot; won't that be best, mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop. Don't you think that is wise, mamma?"
But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the tea quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point very gracefully, and went to bed.
She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out was not to be thought of, and it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her new possessions; and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear she set about it. She first went through the desk and everything in it, making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of all it contained; then the dressing-box received a share, but a much smaller share, of attention; and lastly, with fingers trembling with eagerness she untied the packthread that was wound round the work-box, and slowly took off cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last was removed. The box was of satin-wood, beautifully finished, and lined with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care it should want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order.
"Oh, mamma, how beautiful! Oh, mamma, how good you are! Mamma, I promise you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a great while—every number, I do think; and needles, oh, the needles! what a parcel of them! and, mamma! what a lovely scissors! Did you choose it, mamma, or did it belong to the box?"
"I chose it."
"I might have guessed it, mamma, it's just like you. And here's a thimble—fits me exactly; and an emery-bag! how pretty!—and a bodkin! This is a great deal nicer than yours, mamma—yours is decidedly the worse for wear;—and what's this?—oh, to make eyelet holes with, I know. And oh, mamma, here is almost everything, I think—here are tapes, and buttons, and hooks and eyes, and darning cotton, and silk-winders, and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for, mamma?"
"That's a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that piece of paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works."
"Oh, I see!" said Ellen, "how very nice that is. Well, I shall take great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely."
One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For some time she pleased herself with going over and over the contents of the box, finding each time something new to like. At length she closed it, and keeping it still in her lap, sat awhile looking thoughtfully into the fire; till turning towards her mother she met her gaze, fixed mournfully, almost tearfully, on herself. The box was instantly shoved aside, and getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her. "Oh, dear mother," she said, "I wish they were all back in the store, if I could only keep you!"
Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart.
"Is there no help for it, mamma?"
"There is none. We know that all things shall work together for good to them that love God."
"Then it will all be good for you, mamma, but what will it be for me?" And Ellen sobbed bitterly.
"It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not doubt it, Ellen. Do you not doubt it either, love; but from the hand that wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that He may heal. He does not afflict willingly. Perhaps He sees, Ellen, that you never would seek Him while you had me to cling to."
Ellen clung to her at that moment; yet not more than her mother clung to her.
"How happy we were, mamma, only a year ago—even a month."
"We have no continuing city here," answered her mother with a sigh. "But there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come; and they that are once gathered there are parted no more for ever; and all tears are wiped from their eyes. I believe I am going fast to that home; and now my greatest concern is that my little Ellen—my precious baby—may follow me and come there too."
No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doctor's steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an appearance
