ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind as her eyes went over and over the words to which he had pointed:—
"Behold the Saviour at the door,
He gently knocks—has knocked before—
Has waited long—is waiting still—
You treat no other friend so ill.
Oh lovely attitude!—He stands
With open heart and outstretched hands.
Oh matchless kindness!—and He shows
This matchless kindness to His foes.
Admit Him—for the human breast
Ne'er entertained so kind a guest.
Admit Him—for the hour's at hand
When at His door, denied you'll stand.
Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
Slay every foe, and conquer sin.
Here now to Thee I all resign—
My body, soul, and all are Thine."
The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding were the very speech of her heart.
Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor.
"Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?" Ellen looked up.
"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?"
"Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again.
"And how have you decided, my child?"
"I will try to do as you said, sir."
"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please Him, from this day forward?"
"I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently.
"God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his hand over her head; "but do not cry any more—you have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now."
And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her: and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely by.
CHAPTER VIII
Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
—Shakespeare.
The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost forgotten.
"What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the whole; "would you like to go to your friends?"
"I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling heart.
"Haven't any friends on board! What do you mean? Are you alone?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not exactly alone; my father put me in the care of a lady that is going to Thirlwall; but they are strangers and not friends."
"Are they unfriends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers cannot be friends too?"
"No indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir."
"Well then," he said, smiling, "will you come with me?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you, sir."
"Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place to sit down, where no one will trouble us."
Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though the gentleman had done no more than merely to permit her to remain there by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way could be thought of.
When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of quietude, then her thoughts grew misty, and the end of it was, she dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head to a better resting-place than it had chosen.
And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of her.
After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again, and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air and the quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side.
"How do you like my little book?" said he.
"Oh, very much indeed, sir."
"Then you love hymns, do you?"
"Yes, I do, sir, dearly."
"Do you sometimes learn them by heart?"
"Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have been sitting here."
"Have you?" said he. "Which are they?"
"One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir."
"And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?"
Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a low tone, "Just what it was then, sir."
"Have you been thinking of it since?"
"I
