and Saturday, and Sunday passed, and the weather still kept her close prisoner. Monday brought a change, but though a cool drying wind blew all day, the ground was too wet to venture out.
On the evening of that day, as Miss Fortune was setting the table for tea, and Ellen sitting before the fire, feeling weary of everything, the kitchen door opened, and a girl somewhat larger and older than herself came in. She had a pitcher in her hand, and marching straight up to the tea-table, she said—
"Will you let granny have a little milk to-night, Miss Fortune? I can't find the cow. I'll bring it back to-morrow."
"You ha'n't lost her, Nancy?"
"Have, though," said the other; "she's been away these two days."
"Why didn't you go somewhere nearer for milk?"
"Oh, I don't know; I guess your'n is the sweetest," said the girl, with a look Ellen did not understand.
Miss Fortune took the pitcher and went into the pantry. While she was gone the two children improved the time in looking very hard at each other. Ellen's gaze was modest enough, though it showed a great deal of interest in the new object; but the broad, searching stare of the other seemed intended to take in all there was of Ellen from her head to her feet, and keep it, and find out what sort of a creature she was at once. Ellen almost shrank from the bold black eyes, but they never wavered, till Miss Fortune's voice broke the spell.
"How's your grandmother, Nancy?"
"She's tolerable, ma'am, thank you."
"Now, if you don't bring it back to-morrow, you won't get any more in a hurry," said Miss Fortune, as she handed the pitcher back to the girl.
"I'll mind it," said the latter, with a little nod of her head, which seemed to say there was no danger of her forgetting.
"Who is that, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen, when she was gone.
"She is a girl that lives up on the mountain yonder."
"But what's her name?"
"I had just as lief you wouldn't know her name. She ain't a good girl. Don't you never have anything to do with her."
Ellen was in no mind to give credit to all her aunt's opinions, and she set this down as in part at least coming from ill-humour.
The next morning was calm and fine, and Ellen spent nearly the whole of it out of doors. She did not venture near the ditch, but in every other direction she explored the ground, and examined what stood or grew upon it as thoroughly as she dared. Towards noon she was standing by the little gate at the back of the house, unwilling to go in, but not knowing what more to do, when Mr. Van Brunt came from the lane with a load of wood. Ellen watched the oxen toiling up the ascent, and thought it looked like very hard work; she was sorry for them.
"Isn't that a very heavy load?" she asked of their driver, as he was throwing it down under the apple-tree.
"Heavy? Not a bit of it. It ain't nothing at all to 'em. They'd take twice as much any day with pleasure."
"I shouldn't think so," said Ellen; "they don't look as if there was much pleasure about it. What makes them lean over so against each other when they are coming up hill?"
"Oh, that's just a way they've got. They're so fond of each other, I suppose. Perhaps they've something particular to say, and want to put their heads together for the purpose."
"No," said Ellen, half laughing, "it can't be that; they wouldn't take the very hardest time for that; they would wait till they got to the top of the hill; but there they stand just as if they were asleep, only their eyes are open, poor things."
"They're not very poor anyhow," said Mr. Van Brunt; "there ain't a finer yoke of oxen to be seen than them are, nor in better condition."
He went on throwing the wood out of the cart, and Ellen stood looking at him.
"What'll you give me if I'll make you a scup one of these days?" said Mr. Van Brunt.
"A scup?" said Ellen.
"Yes—a scup! How would you like it?"
"I don't know what it is," said Ellen.
"A scup!—maybe you don't know it by that name; some folks call it a swing."
"A swing! Oh yes," said Ellen; "now I know. Oh, I like it very much."
"Would you like to have one?"
"Yes, indeed I should, very much."
"Well, what'll you give me if I'll fix you out?"
"I don't know," said Ellen; "I have nothing to give. I'll be very much obliged to you indeed."
"Well now, come, I'll make a bargain with you; I'll engage to fix up a scup for you if you'll give me a kiss."
Poor Ellen was struck dumb. The good-natured Dutchman had taken a fancy to the little pale-faced, sad-looking stranger, and really felt very kindly disposed towards her; but she neither knew nor at that moment cared about that. She stood motionless, utterly astounded at this unheard-of proposal, and not a little indignant; but when, with a good-natured smile upon his round face, he came near to claim the kiss he no doubt thought himself sure of, Ellen shot from him like an arrow from a bow. She rushed to the house, and bursting open the door, stood with flushed face and sparkling eyes in the presence of her astonished aunt.
"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed that lady.
"He wanted to kiss me!" said Ellen, scarce knowing whom she was talking to, and crimsoning more and more.
"Who wanted to kiss you?"
"That man out there."
"What man?"
"That man that drives the oxen."
"What, Mr. Van Brunt?" And Ellen never forgot the loud ha! ha! which burst from Miss Fortune's wide-opened mouth.
"Well, why didn't you let him kiss you?"
The laugh, the look, the tone, stung Ellen to the very quick. In a fury of passion she dashed away out of the kitchen and up to her own room. And there, for a while, the storm of anger drove over her with such violence that conscience had hardly time to whisper. Sorrow came in again as passion faded, and gentler but very bitter weeping took the place of convulsive sobs of rage and mortification, and then the whispers of conscience began to be heard a little. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" cried poor Ellen in her heart; "how miserable I am without you! I never can like Aunt Fortune; it's of no use—I never can like her. I hope I sha'n't get to hate her!—and that isn't right. I am forgetting all that is good, and there's nobody to put me in mind. Oh, mamma! if I could lay my head in your lap for a minute!" Then came thoughts of her Bible and hymn-book, and the friend who had given it—sorrowful thoughts they were; and at last, humbled and sad, poor Ellen sought that great Friend she knew she had displeased, and prayed earnestly to be made a good child. She felt and owned she was not one now.
It was long after mid-day when Ellen rose from her knees. Her passion was all gone; she felt more gentle and pleasant than she had done for days; but at the bottom of her heart resentment was not all gone. She still thought she
