And he opened a little wicket, which Ellen managed to stumble through.
"Now," said he, "go straight up to that door yonder, and open it, and you'll see where to go. Don't knock, but just pull the latch and go in."
And he went off to his oxen. Ellen at first saw no door, and did not even know where to look for it; by degrees, as her head became clearer, the large dark shadow of the house stood before her, and a little glimmering light of a path seemed to lead onward from where she stood. With unsteady steps Ellen pursued it till her foot struck against the stone before the door. Her trembling fingers found the latch, lifted it, and she entered. All was dark; but at the right a window showed light glimmering within. Ellen made toward it, and groping, came to another door-latch. This was big and clumsy; however, she managed it, and pushing open the heavy door, went in.
It was a good-sized cheerful-looking kitchen. A fine fire was burning in the enormous fireplace; the white walls and ceiling were yellow in the light of the flame. No candles were needed, and none were there. The supper table was set, and with its snow-white tablecloth and shining furniture, looked very comfortable indeed. But the only person there was an old woman, sitting by the side of the fire, with her back towards Ellen. She seemed to be knitting, but did not move nor look round. Ellen had come a step or two into the room, and there she stood, unable to speak or to go any further. "Can that be Aunt Fortune?" she thought; "she can't be as old as that!"
In another minute a door opened at her right, just behind the old woman's back, and a second figure appeared at the top of a flight of stairs which led down from the kitchen. She came in, shutting the door behind her with her foot; and indeed, both hands were full, one holding a lamp and a knife, and the other a plate of butter. The sight of Ellen stopped her short.
"What is this? and what do you leave the door open for, child?" she said.
She advanced towards it, plate and lamp in hand, and setting her back against the door, shut it vigorously.
"Who are you? and what's wanting?"
"I am Ellen Montgomery, ma'am," said Ellen timidly.
"What?" said the lady, with some emphasis.
"Didn't you expect me, ma'am?" said Ellen; "papa said he would write."
"Why, is this Ellen Montgomery?" said Miss Fortune, apparently forced to the conclusion that it must be.
"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen.
Miss Fortune went to the table and put the butter and the lamp in their places. "Did you say your father wrote to tell me of your coming?"
"He said he would, ma'am," said Ellen.
"He didn't! Never sent me a line. Just like him! I never yet knew Morgan Montgomery do a thing when he promised he would."
Ellen's face flushed, and her heart swelled. She stood motionless.
"How did you get down here to-night?"
"I came in Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart," said Ellen.
"Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart! Then he's got home, has he?" And hearing at that instant a noise outside, Miss Fortune swept to the door, saying as she opened it, "Sit down, child, and take off your things."
The first command at least Ellen obeyed gladly; she did not feel enough at home to comply with the second. She only took off her bonnet.
"Well, Mr. Van Brunt," said Miss Fortune at the door, "have you brought me a barrel of flour?"
"No, Miss Fortune," said the voice of Ellen's charioteer, "I've brought you something better than that."
"Where did you find her?" said Miss Fortune, something shortly.
"Up at Forbes's."
"What have you got there?"
"A trunk. Where is it to go?"
"A trunk! Bless me! it must go upstairs; but how it is ever to get there, I am sure I don't know."
"I'll find a way to get it there, I'll engage, if you'll be so good as to open the door for me, ma'am."
"Indeed you won't! That'll never do! With your shoes!" said Miss Fortune, in a tone of indignant housewifery.
"Well, without my shoes then," said Mr. Van Brunt, with a half giggle, as Ellen heard the shoes kicked off. "Now, ma'am, out of my way; give me a road."
Miss Fortune seized the lamp, and opening another door, ushered Mr. Van Brunt and the trunk out of the kitchen and up, Ellen saw not whither. In a minute or two they returned, and he of the ox-cart went out.
"Supper's just ready, Mr. Van Brunt," said the mistress of the house.
"Can't stay, ma'am, it's so late; must hurry home." And he closed the door behind him.
"What made you so late?" asked Miss Fortune of Ellen.
"I don't know, ma'am—I believe Mr. Van Brunt said the blacksmith had kept him."
Miss Fortune bustled about a few minutes in silence, setting some things on the table and filling the teapot.
"Come," she said to Ellen, "take off your coat and come to the table. You must be hungry by this time. It's a good while since you had your dinner, ain't it? Come, mother."
The old lady rose, and Miss Fortune taking her chair, set it by the side of the table next the fire. Ellen was opposite to her, and now, for the first time, the old lady seemed to know that she was in the room. She looked at her very attentively, but with an expressionless gaze which Ellen did not like to meet, though otherwise her face was calm and pleasant.
"Who is that?" inquired the old lady presently of Miss Fortune, in a half whisper.
"That's Morgan's daughter," was the answer.
"Morgan's daughter! Has Morgan a daughter?"
"Why, yes, mother; don't you remember I told you a month ago he was going to send her here?"
The old lady turned again with a half shake of her head towards Ellen. "Morgan's daughter," she repeated to herself softly; "she's a pretty little girl—very pretty. Will you come round here and give me a kiss, dear?"
Ellen submitted. The old lady folded her in her arms and kissed her affectionately. "That's your grandmother, Ellen," said Miss Fortune, as Ellen went back to her seat.
Ellen had no words to answer. Her aunt saw her weary, down look, and soon after supper proposed to take her upstairs. Ellen gladly followed her. Miss Fortune showed her to her room, and first asking if she wanted anything, left her to herself. It was a relief. Ellen's heart had been brimful and ready to run over for some time, but the tears could not come then. They did not now, till she had undressed and laid her weary little body on the bed; then they broke forth in an agony. "She did not kiss me! she didn't say she was glad to see me!" thought poor Ellen. But weariness this time was too much for sorrow and disappointment. It was but a few minutes, and Ellen's brow was calm again, and her eyelids still, and with the tears wet upon her cheeks, she was fast asleep.
CHAPTER
