don't know, Mamma; it looked so lovely and peaceful that pure blue spread over my head, and the little white clouds flying across it I loved to look at it; it seemed to do me good."
"Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made it?"
"No, Mamma," said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now speaking with difficulty; "I did think of Him; perhaps that was the reason."
"And what did you think of Him, daughter?"
"I hoped, Mamma I felt I thought he would take care of me," said Ellen, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms around her mother.
"He will, my dear daughter, he will, if you will only put your trust in Him, Ellen."
Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few minutes succeeded.
"Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my 'putting my trust' in Him?"
"Don't you trust me, Ellen?"
"Certainly, Mamma."
"How do you trust me? in what?"
"Why, Mamma, in the first place I trust every word you say entirely I know nothing could be truer; if you were to tell me black is white, Mamma, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. Then everything you tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, perfectly. And I always feel safe when you are near me, because I know you'll take care of me. And I am glad to think I belong to you, and you have the management of me entirely, and I needn't manage myself, because I know I can't; and if I could, I'd rather you would, Mamma."
"My daughter, it is just so it is just so that I wish you to trust in God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder by far than I am, even if I could always be with you; and what will you do when I am away from you? And what would you do, my child, if I were to be parted from you forever?"
"Oh, Mamma!" said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her arms round her mother again "Oh, dear Mamma, don't talk about it!"
Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears fell on Ellen's head as she did so, but that was all, and she said no more. Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety of the preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the sofa, and lay quite still. Ellen placed herself on a little bench at her side, with her back to the head of the sofa, that her mother might not see her face; and, possessing herself of one of her hands, sat with her little head resting upon her mother, as quiet as she. They remained thus for two or three hours without speaking; and Mrs. Montgomery was part of the time slumbering; but now and then a tear ran down the side of the sofa, and dropped on the carpet where Ellen sat: and now and then her lips were softly pressed to the hand she held, as if they would grow there.
The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Dr. Green found his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect; and his sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times between the mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He made no remark upon it, however, but continued for some moments a pleasant chatty conversation which he had begun with Mrs. Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him; he had rather taken a fancy to her.
"Well, Miss Ellen," he said, rubbing one of her hands in his, "what do you think of this fine scheme of mine?"
"What scheme, Sir?"
"Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to get well; what do you think of it, eh?"
"Will it make her quite well, do you think, Sir?" asked Ellen, earnestly.
" 'Will it make her well?' to be sure it will. Do you think I don't know better than to send people all the way across the ocean for nothing? Who do you think would want Dr. Green if he sent people on wild-goose-chases in that fashion?"
"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, Sir?" asked Ellen.
"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of business to say to you; you know you agreed to be my little nurse. Mrs. Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite as well as she ought to be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken proper care of her; she looks to me as if she had been too much excited. I've a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort you understand? Now mind, Mrs. Nurse," said the doctor, changing his tone "she must not be excited you must take care that she is not it isn't good for her. You mustn't let her talk too much, or laugh much, or cry at all, on any account; she mustn't be worried in the least will you remember? Now, you know what I shall expect of you; you must be very careful; if that piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned, one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences. Good-bye," said he, shaking Ellen's hand; "you needn't look sober about it; all you have to do is to let your Mamma be as much like an oyster as possible; you understand? Good-bye." And Dr. Green took his leave.
"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself, as he went down stairs (he was a humane man) "I wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side! That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child! poor child!"
Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the doctor's advice, and determined to follow it. By common consent, as it seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of sorrow to the other's mind; though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It was not spoken of; indeed, little of any kind was spoken of, but that never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless employed, during this interval, in preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring to resign herself and her child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to withdraw her affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not distress her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far as she could. She did not let her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet ones; though she drooped her head like a withered flower, and went about the house with an air of submissive sadness, that tried her mother sorely. But when she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had its way; and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution, had she known them.
This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great, to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover, she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length would come back to her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had just passed through her head that first morning, as she stood at her window, now came back again. Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home," when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to her mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their long-desired reward; they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim, and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly relieved her.
"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she, one morning.
Ellen
