speedily as possible. But they could not succeed perfectly enough to blind him. He did not seem very well satisfied, and told Ellen he believed he should have to get another nurse—he was afraid she didn't obey orders.
While the doctor was there Ellen's Bible was brought in; and no sooner was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examination as the boxes had received. Ellen went over every part of it with the same great care and satisfaction; but mixed with a different feeling. The words that caught her eye as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her mother had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a little she rose and brought it to the sofa.
"Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, mamma; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and inside. Now, mamma, will you please to write my name in this precious book—my name, and anything else you please, mother. I'll bring you my new pen to write it with, and I've got ink here—shall I?"
She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name, and the date of the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and then she wrote below the date—
"'I love them that love Me; and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'"
This was for Ellen; but the next words were not for her; what made her write them?—
"'I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.'"
They were written almost unconsciously, and as if bowed by an unseen force Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page, and her whole soul went up with her petition—
"Let these words be my memorial, that I have trusted in Thee. And oh, when these miserable lips are silent for ever, remember the word unto Thy servant, upon which Thou hast caused me to hope; and be unto my little one all Thou hast been to me. Unto Thee lift I up mine eyes, O Thou? that dwellest in the heavens."
She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently to Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of the cause; she supposed that one of her mother's frequent feelings of weakness or sickness had made her lean her head upon the Bible, and she thought no more about it. However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes that day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa, with her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in her face that it had not worn for several days.
CHAPTER V
My child is yet a stranger in the world.
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years.
—Shakespeare.
The next day would not do for the intended shopping; nor the next. The third day was fine, though cool and windy.
"Do you think you can venture out to-day, mamma?" said Ellen.
"I am afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it; and the wind is a great deal too high for me, besides."
"Well," said Ellen, in a tone of one who is making up her mind to something, "we shall have a fine day by-and-by, I suppose, if we wait long enough; we had to wait a great while for our first shopping day. I wish such another would come round."
"But the misfortune is," said her mother, "that we cannot afford to wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be suddenly wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestir ourselves. And Miss Rice is coming in a few days; I ought to have the merino ready for her."
"What will you do, mamma?"
"I do not know, indeed, Ellen; I am greatly at a loss."
"Couldn't papa get the stuffs for you, mamma?"
"No, he's too busy; and besides, he knows nothing at all about shopping for me; he would be sure to bring me exactly what I do not want. I tried that once."
"Well, what will you do, mamma? Is there nobody else you could ask to get the things for you? Mrs. Foster would do it, mamma."
"I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, but she is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it but to be patient and let things take their course, though if a favourable opportunity should offer you would have to go, clothes or no clothes; it would not do to lose the chance of a good escort."
And Mrs. Montgomery's face showed that this possibility, of Ellen's going unprovided, gave her some uneasiness. Ellen observed it.
"Never mind me, dearest mother; don't be in the least worried about my clothes. You don't know how little I think of them or care for them. It's no matter at all whether I have them or not."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, and passed her hand fondly over her little daughter's head, but presently resumed her anxious look out of the window.
"Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, "a bright thought has just come into my head! I'll do it for you, mamma!"
"Do what?"
"I'll get the merino and things for you, mamma. You needn't smile—I will, indeed, if you will let me?"
"My dear Ellen," said her mother, "I don't doubt you would if goodwill only were wanting; but a great deal of skill and experience is necessary for a shopper, and what would you do without either?"
"But see, mamma," pursued Ellen eagerly, "I'll tell you how I'll manage, and I know I can manage very well. You tell me exactly what coloured merino you want, and give me a little piece to show me how fine it should be, and tell me what price you wish to give, and then I'll go to the store and ask them to show me different pieces, you know; and if I see any I think you would like, I'll ask them to give me a little bit of it to show you; and then I'll bring it home, and if you like it you can give me the money, and tell me how many yards you want, and I can go back to the store and get it. Why can't I, mamma?"
"Perhaps you could; but, my dear child, I am afraid you wouldn't like the business."
"Yes, I should; indeed, mamma, I should like it dearly if I could help you so. Will you let me try, mamma?"
"I don't like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, among crowds of people; I should be uneasy about you."
"Dear mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me? I am not a bit afraid. You know, mamma, I have often taken walks alone—that's nothing new; and what harm should come to me while I am in the store! You needn't be the least uneasy about me—may I go?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent.
"May I go, mamma?" repeated Ellen. "Let me go at least and try what I can do. What do you say, mamma?"
"I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty on either hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It would be a great relief to me to get this merino by any means."
"Then shall I go right away, mamma?"
"As well now as ever. You are not afraid of the wind?"
"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered upstairs
