leaving the girls giggling on the staircase and highly gratified.
"He always does what I want him to," said the good-humoured chambermaid; "but he generally makes a fuss about it first. He'll be back directly with what you want."
Till he came, Miss Timmins filled up the time with telling her new friend as much as she knew about Ellen and Ellen's hardships, with which Miss Johns was so much interested that she declared she must go up and see her; and when James in a few minutes returned with a tray of nice things, the two women proceeded together to Mrs. Dunscombe's room. Ellen had moved so far as to put herself on the floor with her head on the cushion for a pillow, but she was as sound asleep as ever.
"Just see now!" said Timmins; "there she lies on the floor—enough to give her her death of cold. Poor child, she's tired to death, and Mrs. Dunscombe made her walk up from the steamboat to-night rather than do it herself; I declare I wished the coach would break down, only for the other folks. I am glad I have got a good supper for her though—thank you, Miss Johns."
"And I'll tell you what, I'll go and get you some nice hot tea," said the chambermaid, who was quite touched by the sight of Ellen's little pale face.
"Thank you," said Timmins, "you're a darling. This is as cold as a stone."
While the chambermaid went forth on her kind errand, Timmins stooped down by the little sleeper's side. "Miss Ellen!" she said; "Miss Ellen! wake up, dear—wake up and get some supper—come! you'll feel a great deal better for it; you shall sleep as much as you like afterwards."
Slowly Ellen raised herself and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked, looking bewildered.
"Here, dear," said Timmins; "wake up and eat something—it will do you good."
With a sigh, poor Ellen arose and came to the fire. "You're tired to death, ain't you?" said Timmins.
"Not quite," said Ellen. "I shouldn't mind that if my legs would not ache so—and my head too."
"Now I'm sorry!" said Timmins; "but your head will be better for eating, I know. See here, I've got you some nice chicken and oysters, and I'll make this muffin hot for you by the fire; and here comes your tea. Miss Johns, I'm your servant, and I'll be your bridesmaid with the greatest pleasure in life. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, just you put yourself on that low chair, and I'll fix you off."
Ellen thanked her, and did as she was told. Timmins brought another chair to her side, and placed the tray with her supper upon it, and prepared her muffin and tea; and having fairly seen Ellen begin to eat, she next took off her shoes, and seating herself on the carpet before her, she made her lap the resting-place for Ellen's feet, chafing them in her hands and heating them at the fire, saying there was nothing like rubbing and roasting to get rid of the leg-ache. By the help of the supper, the fire, and Timmins, Ellen mended rapidly. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the latter for her kindness.
"Now just don't say one word about that," said Timmins; "I never was famous for kindness, as I know; but people must be kind sometimes in their lives, unless they happen to be made of stone, which I believe some people are. You feel better, don't you?"
"A great deal," said Ellen. "Oh, if I only could go to bed now!"
"And you shall," said Timmins. "I know about your bed, and I'll go right away and have it brought in." And away she went.
While she was gone, Ellen drew from her pocket her little hymn-book, to refresh herself with looking at it. How quickly and freshly it brought back to her mind the friend who had given it, and his conversations with her, and the resolve she had made; and again Ellen's whole heart offered the prayer she had repeated many times that day—
"Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
Slay every foe, and conquer sin."
Her head was still bent upon her little book when Timmins entered. Timmins was not alone; Miss Johns and a little cot bedstead came in with her. The latter was put at the foot of Mrs. Dunscombe's bed, and speedily made up by the chambermaid, while Timmins undressed Ellen; and very soon all the sorrows and vexations of the day were forgotten in a sound, refreshing sleep. But not till she had removed her little hymn-book from the pocket of her frock to a safe station under her pillow; it was with her hand upon it that Ellen went to sleep; and it was in her hand still when she was waked the next morning.
The next day was spent in a wearisome stage-coach, over a rough jolting road. Ellen's companions did nothing to make her way pleasant, but she sweetened theirs with her sugar-plums. Somewhat mollified, perhaps, after that, Miss Margaret condescended to enter into conversation with her, and Ellen underwent a thorough cross-examination as to all her own and her parents' affairs, past, present, and future, and likewise as to all that could be known of her yesterday's friend, till she was heartily worried and out of patience.
It was just five o'clock when they reached her stopping-place. Ellen knew of no particular house to go to; so Mrs. Dunscombe set her down at the door of the principal inn of the town, called the "Star" of Thirlwall.
The driver smacked his whip, and away went the stage again, and she was left standing alone beside her trunk before the piazza of the inn, watching Timmins, who was looking back at her out of the stage window, nodding and waving good-bye.
CHAPTER IX
Gadsby. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?
2nd Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee.
—King Henry IV.
Ellen had been whirled along over the roads for so many hours—the rattle of the stage-coach had filled her ears for so long—that now, suddenly still and quiet, she felt half stunned. She stood with a kind of dreamy feeling, looking after the departing stage-coach. In it there were three people whose faces she knew, and she could not count a fourth within many a mile. One of those was a friend, too, as the fluttering handkerchief of poor Miss Timmins gave token still. Yet Ellen did not wish herself back in the coach, although she continued to stand and gaze after it as it rattled off at a great rate down the little street, its huge body lumbering up and down every now and then, reminding her of sundry uncomfortable jolts; till the horses making a sudden turn to the right, it disappeared round a corner. Still for a minute Ellen watched the whirling cloud of dust it had left behind; but then the feeling of strangeness and loneliness came over her, and her heart sank. She cast a look up and down the street. The afternoon was lovely; the slant beams of the setting sun came back from gilded windows, and the houses and chimney-tops of the little town were in a glow; but she saw nothing bright anywhere—in all the glory of the setting sun the little town looked strange and miserable. There was no sign of her having been expected; nobody was waiting to meet her. What was to be done next? Ellen had not the slightest idea.
Her heart growing fainter and fainter, she turned again to the inn. A tall, awkward young countryman, with a cap set on one side of his head, was busying himself with sweeping the floor of the piazza, but in a very leisurely manner; and between every two strokes of his broom he was casting long looks at Ellen, evidently wondering who she was and what she could want there. Ellen saw it, and hoped he would ask her in words, for she could not answer his looks of curiosity, but she was disappointed. As he reached the end of the piazza, and gave his broom two or three knocks against the edge of the boards to clear it of dust, he indulged himself with one good long finishing
