Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
--SHAKESPEARE.
The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend
took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make
interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into
the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost
forgotten.
"What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the
whole; "would you like to go to your friends?"
"I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling
heart.
"Haven't any friends on board! What do you mean? Are you alone?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not exactly alone; my father put me in the care
of a lady that is going to Thirlwall; but they are strangers and not
friends."
"Are they _un_friends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers
cannot be friends too?"
"No indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was
fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting
it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir."
"Well then," he said, smiling, "will you come with me?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you,
sir."
"Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place
to sit down, where no one will trouble us."
Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though
the gentleman had done no more than merely to permit her to remain there
by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to
her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way
could be thought of.
When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness
and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been
violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of
quietude, then her thoughts grew misty, and the end of it was, she
dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He
smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the
expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head
to a better resting-place than it had chosen.
And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to
look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave
protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared
herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of
her.
After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again,
and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air
and the quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the
mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and
entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and
went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns
more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book
out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he
passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very
pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the
stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side.
"How do you like my little book?" said he.
"Oh, very much indeed, sir."
"Then you love hymns, do you?"
"Yes, I do, sir, dearly."
"Do you sometimes learn them by heart?"
"Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have
been sitting here."
"Have you?" said he. "Which are they?"
"One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir."
"And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?"
Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a
low tone, "Just what it was then, sir."
"Have you been thinking of it since?"
"I have thought of it the whole time, sir."
"And you are resolved you will obey Christ henceforth?"
"I am resolved to try, sir."
"My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. He never
yet failed any that sincerely sought Him. Have you a Bible?"
"Oh yes, sir! a beautiful one. Mamma gave it to me the other day."
He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the leaves, marked
several places in pencil.
"I am going to give you this," he said, "that it may serve to remind you
of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolution."
Ellen flushed high with pleasure.
"I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few
places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is
something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other
marks here too, but they are mine. _These_ are for you."
"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."
He knew from her face what she meant--not the _marks_.
The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with
great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were
resting from a long walk up and down the deck.
"What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he,
smiling.
"Oh, candies," said Ellen. "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask
you to take some. Will you have some, sir?"
"Thank you. What are they?"
"Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best."
He took one.
"Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen. "I don't care for them in the
least."
"Then I am more of a child than you--in this, at any rate--for I do care
for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with
sweets."
"Then take some for to-morrow, sir. Please do!" said Ellen, dealing them
out very freely.
"Stop, stop!" said he, "not a bit more. This won't do. I must put some
of these back again. You'll want them to-morrow, too."
"I don't think I shall," said Ellen. "I haven't wanted to touch them
to-day."
"Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't
you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and
you've been bonnetless all day. What's the reason?"
Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal.
"What's the matter?" said he, laughing. "Has any mischief befallen your
bonnet?"
"No, sir," said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and
higher. "It was laughed at this morning."
"Laughed at! Who laughed at it?"
"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter and her maid."
"Did they? I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they
think was the matter with it?"
"I don't know, sir. They said it was outlandish, and what a figure I
looked in it."
"Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me see."
Ellen obeyed.
"I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets, it is true," said he, "but
I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and
suitable--nothing in the world! So that is what has kept you bare-headed
all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what _she_
approved, because some people that haven't probably half her sense
choose to make merry with it?--is that right?" he said gently, "Is that
honouring her as she deserves?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, looking up into his face, "but I never thought of
that before. I am sorry."
"Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is
right, that's enough for you; let them laugh!"
"I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more," said Ellen, tying it on,
"but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry too."
"I am sorry for that," said her friend gravely. "Have you quite got over
it, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, sir, long ago."
"Are you sure?"
"I am not angry now, sir."
"Is there no unkindness left towards the people who laughed at you?"
"I don't like them much," said Ellen. "How can I?"
"You cannot of course _like_ the company of ill-behaved people, and I do
not wish that you should; but you can and ought to feel just as kindly
disposed towards them as if they had never offended you--just as willing
and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer
Miss--what's her name?--some of your candies with as hearty goodwill as
you could before she laughed at you?"
"No, sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them
again."
"Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do, if you were in earnest
in the resolve you made this morning. 'If ye forgive unto men their
trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you forgive
not men their trespasses, neither will my Father forgive your
trespasses!'"
He was silent, and so was Ellen for some time. His words had raised a
struggle in her mind, and she kept her face turned towards the shore, so
that her bonnet shielded it from view; but she did not in the least know
what she was looking at. The sun had been some time descending through a
sky of cloudless splendour, and now was just kissing the mountain tops
of the western horizon. Slowly and with great majesty he sank behind the
distant blue line, till only a glittering edge appeared, and then that
was gone. There were no clouds hanging over his setting, to be gilded
and purpled by the parting rays, but a region of glory long remained, to
show where his path had been.
The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only one was
thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had disappeared
Ellen turned her face, bright again, towards her companion. He was
intently gazing towards the hills that had so drawn Ellen's attention a
while ago, and thinking still more intently, it was plain; so though
her mouth had been open to speak, she turned her face away again as
suddenly as it had just sought his. He saw the motion, however.
"What is it, Ellen?" he said.
Ellen looked again with a smile.
"I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me."
"Well?" said he, smiling in answer.
"I can't _like_ Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe as well as if they hadn't done
so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing had been the matter,
and be as kind and polite to them as if they had been kind and polite to
me."
"And how about the sugar-plums?"
"The sugar-plums! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "Miss Margaret may have
them all if she likes--I'm quite willing. Not but I had rather give them
to you, sir."
"You give me something a great deal better when I see you try to
overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn't rest till you get rid of every bit
of ill-will that you feel for this and any other unkindness you may
suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know who can help you. I hope
you have asked him, Ellen?"
"I have, sir, indeed."
"Keep asking Him, and He will do everything for you."
A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the
fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side,
leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew
light from the south, so that they did not feel it at all.
The light gradually faded away till only a silver glow in the west
showed where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight was gently
stealing over all the bright colours of sky, and river, and hill; now
and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores.
"You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her--"I see you are. A
little more patience, my child; we shall be at our journey's end before
a very great while."
"I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I _am_ tired. We don't go in
the steamboat to-morrow, do we, sir?"
"No, in the stage."
"Shall _you_ be in the stage, sir?"
"No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together."
"Oh, sir," said Ellen, "I don't know what I should have done if it
hadn't been for you."
There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little
charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly spoke
again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away.
"I wish I knew where mamma is now!"
"I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me that it is well with
her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember
her."
"She must want me so much," said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible
voice.
"She has not lost her best friend, my child."
"I know it, sir," said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the
mastery; "but oh, it's just near the time when I used to make the tea
for her--who'll make it now? she'll want me--oh, what shall I do?" and
overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her
friend's arms and sobbed aloud.
There was no reasoning against this; he did not attempt it; but with the
utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as soon as he might, to
soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last; with a sort of despairing
submission, Ellen ceased her tears, and arose to her former position.
But he did not rest from his kind endeavours till her mind was really
eased and comforted; which, however, was not long before the lights of a
city began to appear in the distance. And with them appeared a dusky
figure ascending the stairs, which, upon nearer approach, proved by the
voice to be Timmins.
"Is this Miss Montgomery?" said she; "I can't see, I am sure, it's so
dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?"
"Yes," said Ellen, "it is I; do you want me?"
"If you please, miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come right down; we're
almost in, she says, miss."
"I'll come directly, Miss Timmins," said Ellen. "Don't wait for me--I
won't be a minute--I'll come directly."
Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the grave
personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained.
"I must go," said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand "Good-bye,
sir."
She could hardly say it. He drew her towards him and kissed her cheek
once or twice; it was well he did, for it sent a thrill of pleasure to
Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next
day.
"God bless you, my child," he said gravely, but cheerfully; "and
good-night!--you will feel better, I trust, when you have had some rest
and refreshment."
He took care of her down the stairs, and saw her safe to the very door
of the saloon, and within it; and there again took her hand and kindly
bade her good-night.
Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart would
break. She saw and heard nothing till Mrs. Dunscombe's voice bade her
make haste and be ready, for they were going ashore in five minutes.
And in less than five minutes ashore they went.
"Which hotel, ma'am?" asked the servant who carried her baggage--"the
Eagle, or Foster's?"
"The Eagle," said Mrs. Dunscombe.
"Come this way, then, ma'am," said another man, the driver of the Eagle
carriage. "Now, ma'am, step in, if you please."
Mrs. Dunscombe put her daughter in.
"But it's full!" said she to the driver; "there isn't room for another
one."
"Oh yes, ma'am, there is," said the driver, holding the door open;
"there's plenty of room for you, ma'am--just get in, ma'am, if you
please,--we'll be there in less than two minutes."
"Timmins, you'll have to walk," said Mrs. Dunscombe. "Miss Montgomery,
would you rather ride, or walk with Timmins?"
"How far is it, ma'am?" said Ellen.
"Oh, bless me! how can I tell how far it is? I don't know, I am
sure,--not far; say quick,--would you rather walk or ride?"
"I would rather walk, ma'am, if you please," said Ellen.
"Very well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, getting in;--"Timmins, you know the
way."
And off went the coach with its load; but tired as she was, Ellen did
not wish herself along.
Picking a passage-way out of the crowd, she and Timmins now began to
make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets.
It was a strange place--that she felt. She had lived long enough in the
place she had left to feel at home there; but here she came to no street
or crossing that she had ever seen before; nothing looked familiar; all
reminded her that she was a traveller. Only one pleasant thing Ellen saw
on her walk, and that was the sky; and that looked just as it did at
home; and very often Ellen's gaze was fixed upon it, much to the
astonishment of Miss Timmins, who had to be not a little watchful for
the safety of Ellen's feet while her eyes were thus employed. She had
taken a great fancy to Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased,
keeping all her wonderment to herself.
"Take care, Miss Ellen!" cried Timmins, giving her arm a great pull. "I
declare I just saved you out of that gutter! poor child! you are
dreadfully tired, ain't you?"
"Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmins," said Ellen; "have we much further
to go?"
"Not a great deal, dear; cheer up! we are almost there. I hope Mrs.
Dunscombe will want to ride one of these days herself, and can't."
"Oh, don't say so, Miss Timmins," said Ellen, "I don't wish so, indeed."
"Well, I should think you would," said Timmins. "I should think you'd be
fit to poison her;--_I_ should, I know, if I was in your place."
"Oh no," said Ellen, "that wouldn't be right; that would be very wrong."
"Wrong!" said Timmins,--"why would it be wrong? she hasn't behaved good
to you."
"Yes," said Ellen, "but don't you know the Bible says if we do not
forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven ourselves?"
"Well, I declare!" said Miss Timmins, "you beat all! But here's the
Eagle at last, and I am glad for your sake, dear."
Ellen was shown into the ladies' parlour. She was longing for a place to
rest, but she saw directly it was not to be there. The room was large,
and barely furnished; and round it were scattered part of the
carriage-load of people that had arrived a quarter of an hour before
her. They were waiting till their rooms should be ready. Ellen silently
found herself a chair and sat down to wait with the rest, as patiently
as she might. Few of them had as much cause for impatience; but she was
the only perfectly mute and uncomplaining one there. Her two companions,
however, between them, fully made up her share of fretting. At length a
servant brought the welcome news that their room was ready, and the
three marched upstairs. It made Ellen's very heart glad when they got
there, to find a good-sized, cheerful-looking bed-room, comfortably
furnished, with a bright fire burning, large curtains let down to the
floor, and a nice warm carpet upon it. Taking off her bonnet, and only
that, she sat down on a low cushion by the corner of the fire-place, and
leaning her head against the jamb, fell fast asleep almost immediately.
Mrs. Dunscombe set about arranging herself for the tea-table.
"Well!" she said, "one day of this precious journey is over!"
"Does Ellen go with us to-morrow, mamma?"
"Oh yes!--quite to Thirlwall."
"Well, you haven't had much plague with her to-day, mamma."
"No--I am sure I am much obliged to whoever has kept her out of my way."
"Where is she going to sleep to-night?" asked Miss Margaret.
"I don't know, I am sure. I suppose I shall have to have a cot brought
in here for her."
"What a plague!" said Miss Margaret. "It will lumber up the room so!
There's no place to put it. Couldn't she sleep with Timmins?"
"Oh, she _could_, of course--just as well as not, only people would make
such a fuss about it!--it wouldn't do;--we must bear it for once. I'll
try and not be caught in such a scrape again."
"How provoking!" said Miss Margaret. "How came father to do so without
asking you about it?"
"Oh, he was bewitched, I suppose--men always are. Look here, Margaret, I
can't go down to tea with a train of children at my heels. I shall leave
you and Ellen up here, and I'll send up your tea to you."
"Oh no, mamma!" said Margaret eagerly; "I want to go down with you. Look
here, mamma! she's asleep, and you needn't wake her up--that's excuse
enough. You can leave her to have tea up here, and let me go down with
you."
"Well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, "I don't care; but make haste to get ready,
for I expect every minute the tea-bell will ring."
"Timmins! Timmins!" cried Margaret, "come here and fix me--quick! and
step softly, will you? or you'll wake that young one up, and then, you
see, I shall have to stay upstairs."
This did not happen, however; Ellen's sleep was much too deep to be
easily disturbed. The tea-bell itself, loud and shrill as it was, did
not even make her eyelids tremble. After Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe were
gone down, Timmins employed herself a little while in putting all things
about the room to rights, and then sat down to take _her_ rest, dividing
her attention between the fire and Ellen, towards whom she seemed to
feel more and more kindness, as she saw that she was likely to receive
it from no one else. Presently came a knock at the door--"The tea for
the young lady," on a waiter. Miss Timmins silently took the tray from
the man and shut the door. "Well!" said she to herself, "if that ain't a
pretty supper to send up to a child that has gone two hundred miles
to-day and had no breakfast--a cup of tea, cold enough I'll warrant,
bread and butter enough for a bird, and two little slices of ham as
thick as a wafer! Well, I just wish Mrs. Dunscombe had to eat it
herself, and nothing else! I'm not going to wake her up for that, I
know, till I see whether something better ain't to be had for love or
money. So just you sleep on, darling, till I see what I can do for you."
In great indignation downstairs went Miss Timmins, and at the foot of
the stairs she met a rosy-cheeked, pleasant-faced girl coming up.
"Are you the chambermaid?" said Timmins.
"I'm _one_ of the chambermaids," said the girl, smiling; "there's three
of us in this house, dear."
"Well, I am a stranger here," said Timmins; "but I want you to help me,
and I am sure you will. I've got a dear little girl upstairs that I want
some supper for; she's a sweet child, and she's under the care of some
proud folks here in the tea-room that think it too much trouble to look
at her, and they've sent her up about supper enough for a mouse--and
she's half-starving; she lost her breakfast this morning by their
ugliness. Now ask one of the waiters to give me something nice for her,
will you?--there's a good girl."
"James!" said the girl in a loud whisper to one of the waiters who was
crossing the hall. He instantly stopped and came towards them, tray in
hand, and making several extra polite bows as he drew near.
"What's on the supper-table, James?" said the smiling damsel.
"Everything that ought to be there, Miss Johns," said the man, with
another flourish.
"Come, stop your nonsense," said the girl, "and tell me quick; I'm in a
hurry."
"It's a pleasure to perform your commands, Miss Johns. I'll give you the
whole bill of fare. There's a very fine beefsteak, fricasseed chickens,
stewed oysters, sliced ham, cheese, preserved quinces--with the usual
complement of bread and toast and muffins, and doughnuts, and new-year
cake, and plenty of butter, likewise salt and pepper, likewise tea and
coffee and sugar, likewise----"
"Hush!" said the girl. "Do stop, will you?" and then laughing and
turning to Miss Timmins, she added, "What will you have?"
"I guess I'll have some of the chickens and oysters," said Timmins;
"that will be the nicest for her, and a muffin or two."
"Now, James, do you hear?" said the chambermaid; "I want you to get me
now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and oysters and a
muffin--it's for a lady upstairs. Be as quick as you can."
"I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss Johns;
but Mrs. Custers is at the table herself."
"Very well--that's nothing; she'll think it's for somebody upstairs--and
so it is."
"Ay, but the upstairs people is Tim's business--I should be hauled over
the coals directly."
"Then ask Tim, will you? How slow you are! Now, James, if you don't I
won't speak to you again."
"Till to-morrow? I couldn't stand that. It shall be done, Miss Johns,
instantum."
Bowing and smiling, away went James, 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.