How can I live without thee--how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined?
--MILTON.
When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother and daughter
were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was late in the
afternoon and already somewhat dark, for clouds had gathered over the
beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind rising now and then made its
voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa: as usual, seemingly
at ease; and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very
much at _her_ ease indeed, without any seeming about it. She smiled as
she met her mother's eyes.
"You have made me very happy to-day, mamma."
"I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the whole
affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you."
There was a pause.
"Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new treasures."
"I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly I should
not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been to leave you
without them. So you see you have not established a character for
carefulness in vain."
"And, mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain either. I will
try to use them in the way that I know you wish me to; that will be the
best way I can thank you."
"Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I wish you
to do and to be; and when I am away I shall please myself with thinking
that my little daughter _is_ following her mother's wishes; I shall
believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be disappointed?"
"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, who was now in her mother's arms.
"Well, my child," said Mrs. Montgomery in a lighter tone, "my gifts will
serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted to forget my lessons.
If you fail to send me letters, or if those you send are not what they
ought to be, I think the desk will cry shame upon you. And if you ever
go an hour with a hole in your stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a
string off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your work-box will make
you blush."
"Work-box, mamma?"
"Yes. Oh, I forgot; you've not seen that."
"No, mamma; what do you mean?"
"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but I thought
it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so while you were on an
exploring expedition round the store I chose and furnished one for you."
"Oh, mamma, mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands; "what
shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say anything. Mamma, it's
too much."
So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently
reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the
energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till gently drawn by the same
hand she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And
in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades
of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the
light of the fire was all that was left to them.
Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep;
her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she
was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing
through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new
possessions and bright projects--more of her mother. She was thinking
how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her
cheek lay; she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than
anything else in life could be; she thought she had rather even die so,
on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world; she
felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she
broke the silence.
"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than
Me, is not worthy of Me'?"
"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than
Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of His children."
"But then, mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how _can_ I be one of
His children? I do love you a great deal better; how can I help it,
mamma?"
"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery with a sigh,
"except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of His
people--to take away the heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh."
"But is mine a heart of stone then, mamma, because I cannot help loving
you best?"
"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the
little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I
know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than
I am, and if your heart were not hardened by sin you would see Him so;
it is only because you do not know Him that you love me better. Pray,
pray, my dear child, that He would take away the power of sin, and show
you Himself; that is all that is wanting."
"I will, mamma," said Ellen tearfully. "Oh, mamma, what shall I do
without you?"
Alas, Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question; she had no answer.
"Mamma," said Ellen after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him
at all unless I love Him _best_?"
"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother seriously.
"Mamma," said Ellen after a little, again raising her head and looking
her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to
this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do
_you_ love Him _better than you do me_?"
She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely
possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she
ventured a bold question to prove whether her mother's practice would
not contradict her theory.
But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and with a
gush of tears Ellen sunk her head again upon her bosom. She had no more
to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the _right_ of the matter,
though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular
case.
"I do indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not
make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."
"Oh, mamma, mamma," said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach
me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do,
mamma?"
With a voice that strove to be calm Mrs. Montgomery answered, "'I love
them that love Me, and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'" And
after a minute or two she added, "He who says this has promised too that
He will 'gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.'"
The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the
voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She
checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still on
her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery
did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead
that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's
eyes and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three-quarters of
an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother
and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the
knocker could gain attention.
"What is that, mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.
"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."
Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full
of sundry packages.
"Oh, mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they
are!"
The man placed his burden on the table, and withdrew.
"Oh, mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now if I only had a light--this
is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my
dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling--yes, it is, here's the
handle on top; and this is my dear work-box--not so big as the desk, nor
so little as the dressing-box. Oh, mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"
There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the
wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for _tea_. Ellen was capering
about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight
of the tea-things, and looked very grave. "Well, mamma, I'll tell you
what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the
tea the first thing before I untie a single knot; won't that be best,
mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop.
Don't you think that is wise, mamma?"
But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the tea
quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at
length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She
struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point
very gracefully, and went to bed.
She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's
disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out was not to be
thought of, and it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen
joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her
new possessions; and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear
she set about it. She first went through the desk and everything in it,
making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of
all it contained; then the dressing-box received a share, but a much
smaller share, of attention; and lastly, with fingers trembling with
eagerness she untied the packthread that was wound round the work-box,
and slowly took off cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last
was removed. The box was of satin-wood, beautifully finished, and lined
with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care it should
want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order.
"Oh, mamma, how beautiful! Oh, mamma, how good you are! Mamma, I promise
you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a
great while--every number, I do think; and needles, oh, the needles!
what a parcel of them! and, mamma! what a lovely scissors! Did you
choose it, mamma, or did it belong to the box?"
"I chose it."
"I might have guessed it, mamma, it's just like you. And here's a
thimble--fits me exactly; and an emery-bag! how pretty!--and a bodkin!
This is a great deal nicer than yours, mamma--yours is decidedly the
worse for wear;--and what's this?--oh, to make eyelet holes with, I
know. And oh, mamma, here is almost everything, I think--here are tapes,
and buttons, and hooks and eyes, and darning cotton, and silk-winders,
and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for, mamma?"
"That's a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that piece of
paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works."
"Oh, I see!" said Ellen, "how very nice that is. Well, I shall take
great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely."
One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For some time
she pleased herself with going over and over the contents of the box,
finding each time something new to like. At length she closed it, and
keeping it still in her lap, sat awhile looking thoughtfully into the
fire; till turning towards her mother she met her gaze, fixed
mournfully, almost tearfully, on herself. The box was instantly shoved
aside, and getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her. "Oh,
dear mother," she said, "I wish they were all back in the store, if I
could only keep you!"
Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart.
"Is there no help for it, mamma?"
"There is none. We know that all things shall work together for good to
them that love God."
"Then it will all be good for you, mamma, but what will it be for me?"
And Ellen sobbed bitterly.
"It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not doubt it,
Ellen. Do _you_ not doubt it either, love; but from the hand that
wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that He _may_ heal. He does not
afflict willingly. Perhaps He sees, Ellen, that you never would seek Him
while you had me to cling to."
Ellen clung to her at that moment; yet not more than her mother clung to
her.
"How happy we were, mamma, only a year ago--even a month."
"We have no continuing city here," answered her mother with a sigh. "But
there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come; and they that are
once gathered there are parted no more for ever; and all tears are wiped
from their eyes. I believe I am going fast to that home; and now my
greatest concern is that my little Ellen--my precious baby--may follow
me and come there too."
No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doctor's
steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an appearance of
composure as speedily as possible. But they could not succeed perfectly
enough to blind him. He did not seem very well satisfied, and told Ellen
he believed he should have to get another nurse,--he was afraid she
didn't obey orders.
While the doctor was there Ellen's Bible was brought in; and no sooner
was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examination as the boxes
had received. Ellen went over every part of it with the same great care
and satisfaction; but mixed with a different feeling. The words that
caught her eye as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her
mother had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a
little she rose and brought it to the sofa.
"Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, mamma; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and inside. Now,
mamma, will you please to write my name in this precious book--my name,
and anything else you please, mother. I'll bring you my new pen to write
it with, and I've got ink here--shall I?"
She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name, and the date of
the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and then she wrote
below the date--
"'I love them that love Me; and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'"
This was for Ellen; but the next words were not for her; what made her
write them?--
"'I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.'"
They were written almost unconsciously, and as if bowed by an unseen
force Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page, and her whole soul
went up with her petition--
"Let these words be my memorial, that I have trusted in Thee. And oh,
when these miserable lips are silent for ever, remember the word unto
Thy servant, upon which Thou hast caused me to hope; and be unto my
little one all Thou hast been to me. Unto Thee lift I up mine eyes, O
Thou? that dwellest in the heavens."
She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently to
Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of the cause;
she supposed that one of her mother's frequent feelings of weakness or
sickness had made her lean her head upon the Bible, and she thought no
more about it. However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes
that day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa, with
her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in
her face that it had not worn for several days.