_Hon._--Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?
_Butler._--Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir,
Up or down, all's one to me.
--GOOD-NATURED MAN.
One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected at Mr.
Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home
her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they
had company. Generally Ellen liked it very much; not called upon to take
any active part herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet;
and often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to
conversation, in which she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it
happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things; and Mrs.
Lindsay's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied
with her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what
was going on.
"I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look somewhere;
I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you keep it down so."
"Oh, Mason, I think that'll do; it looks very well; you needn't do
anything more."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it's your grandmother that
must be satisfied, and she will have it just so; there, now that's going
to look lovely; but indeed, Miss Ellen, she won't be pleased if you
carry such a soberish face downstairs, and what will the master say!
Most young ladies would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so
many people, and indeed it's what you should."
"I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred," said
Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason.
"Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don't look as if
it was a funeral it was. There! 'tain't much trouble to fix you, anyhow;
if you'd only care a little more about it, it would be a blessing. Stop
till I fix this lace. The master will call you his white rose-bud
to-night, sure enough."
"That's nothing new," said Ellen, half smiling.
Mason left her; and feeling the want of something to raise her spirits,
Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it over, looked
along its pages to catch a sight of something cheering before she went
downstairs.
"_This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our guide even unto
death._"
"Isn't that enough?" thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in answer. "It
ought to be, John would say it was; oh! where is he?"
She went on turning leaf after leaf.
"_O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!_"
"That is true surely," she thought. "And I do trust in Him; I am
blessed; I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing come to those
that trust in Him but what is good for them; if He is my God, I have
enough to make me happy; I ought to be happy; I will be happy; I will
trust Him, and take what He gives me; and try to leave, as John used to
tell me, my affairs in His hand."
For a minute tears flowed; then they were wiped away; and the smile she
gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not less bright than
usual.
The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening, when a
gentleman came who declined to enter the drawing-room, and asked for
Miss Lindsay.
"Miss Lindsay is engaged."
"An' what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?" cried the voice of the
housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, "when ye ken as weel as I do
that Miss Ellen----"
The butler stopped her with saying something about "my lady," and
repeated his answer to the gentleman.
The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from his pocket,
and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried it to Lady Keith.
"What sort of a person, Porterfield?" said Lady Keith, crumpling the
paper in her fingers, and withdrawing a little from the company.
"Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady," Porterfield answered, in a low tone.
"A gentleman?" said Lady Keith inquiringly.
"Certain, my lady! and as up and down spoken as if he was a prince of
the blood; he's somebody that is not accustomed to be said 'no' to, for
sure."
Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting, however, that she had just left
Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind, and desired
Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered, unannounced, her
eyes unwillingly verified the butler's judgment; and to the inquiry
whether he might see Miss Lindsay she answered very politely, though
with regrets, that Miss Lindsay was engaged.
"May I be pardoned for asking," said the stranger, with the slightest
possible approach to a smile, "whether that decision is imperative? I
leave Scotland to-morrow--my reasons for wishing to see Miss Lindsay
this evening are urgent."
Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her countenance to
keep company with her expressions of "sorrow that it was
impossible--Miss Lindsay could not have the pleasure that evening."
"May I beg then to know at what hour I may hope to see her to-morrow?"
Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long-given
invitation, Lady Keith answered that she would not be in town--she would
leave Edinburgh at an early hour.
The stranger bowed and withdrew; that was all the bystanders saw. But
Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she could not help fancying
read her too well, saw that in his parting look which made her uneasy:
beckoning a servant who stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that
gentleman to the door.
The man obeyed; but the stranger did not take his cloak, and made no
motion to go.
"No, sir! not that way," he said sternly, as the servant laid his hand
on the lock; "show me to Miss Lindsay!"
"Miss Ellen?" said the man doubtfully, coming back, and thinking from
the gentleman's manner that he must have misunderstood Lady Keith;
"where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?"
The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he had just
come from on the other side of the hall.
"This way, sir, if you please; what name, sir?"
"No name--stand back!" said the stranger, as he entered.
There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at the piano
singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The gentleman advanced
quietly to the edge of the group and stood there without being noticed;
Ellen's eyes were bent on the floor. The expression of her face touched
and pleased him greatly; it was precisely what he wished to see. Without
having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines
that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but
where religion and discipline have done their work well; the writing of
the wisdom that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly, on all
things. He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to
the music or whether her mind was upon something far different and far
away; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment had
escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the performer at her
side; and while her eye was curiously tracing out the pattern of the
carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of the verses she had been
reading that same evening. Suddenly, and as it seemed from no connection
with anything in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the
image of John as she had first seen him that first evening she ever saw
him at Carra-carra, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and
espied him standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at
first wondered how that thought should have come into her head just
then; the next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her eyes to
search for the cause, and saw John's smile.
It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face. Lightning
makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but lightning does not
stay. With a spring she reached him, and seizing both his hands drew him
out of the door near which they were standing; and as soon as they were
hidden from view threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before,
however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again,
and led him back along the hall to the private staircase; she mounted it
rapidly to _her room_; and there again she threw herself into his arms,
exclaiming, "Oh, John! my dear John! my dear brother!"
But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. The
tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelled from the open sources
of love and memory to keep any bounds. And it kept none. Ellen sat down
and, bowing her head on the arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement
passion of her childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive
sobs. John might guess from the outpouring how much her heart had been
secretly gathering for months past. For a little while he walked up and
down the room; but this excessive agitation he was not willing should
continue. He said nothing; sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he
quietly possessed himself of one of her hands; and when in her
excitement the hand struggled to get away again, it was not permitted.
Ellen understood that very well and immediately checked herself. Better
than words, the calm firm grasp of his hand quieted her. Her sobbing
stilled; she turned from the arm of the sofa, and leaning her head upon
him took his hand in both hers and pressed it to her lips as if she were
half beside herself. But that was not permitted to last either, for his
hand quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could
not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak; she sat
gradually quieting down into fulness of happiness.
"I thought you never would come, John," at length Ellen half whispered,
half said.
"And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellie."
Ellen started up and looked up now.
"Leave me! For how long? Where are you going?"
"Home."
"To America?" Ellen's heart died within her. Was _this_ the end of all
her hopes? did her confidence end _here_? She shed no tears now. He
could see that she grew absolutely still from intense feeling.
"What's the matter, Ellie?" said the low gentle tones she so well
remembered; "I am leaving you but for a time. I _must_ go home now, but
if I live you will see me again."
"Oh, I wish I was going with you!" Ellen exclaimed, bursting into tears.
"My dear Ellie!" said her brother in an altered voice, drawing her again
to his arms, "you cannot wish it more than I."
"I never thought you would leave me here, John."
"Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute longer
than I can help; but we must both wait, my own Ellie. Do not cry so, for
my sake!"
"Wait? till when?" said Ellen, not a little reassured.
"I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, and you
have no right to choose for yourself."
"And when shall I?"
"In a few years."
"A few years! But in the meantime, John, what shall I do without you? If
I could see you once in a while, but there is no one here, not a single
one to help me to keep right; no one talks to me as you used to; and I
am all the while afraid I shall go wrong in something; what shall I do?"
"What the weak must always do, Ellie--seek for strength where it may be
had."
"And so I do, John," said Ellen, weeping; "but I want you, oh, how
much!"
"Are you not happy here?"
"Yes, I am happy, at least I thought I was half-an-hour ago, as happy as
I can be. I have everything to make me happy except what would do it."
"We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow and
loneliness--you have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie?"
"No, John," said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile.
"They love you here, do they not?"
"Very much--too much."
"And you love them?"
"Yes."
"That's a doubtful 'yes.'"
"I do love my father--very much; and my grandmother too, though not so
much. I cannot help loving them, they love me so. But they are so unlike
you!"
"That is not much to the purpose, after all," said John, smiling. "There
are varieties of excellence in the world."
"Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean; it isn't a variety of excellence.
They make me do everything they have a mind; I don't mean," she added,
smiling, "that _that_ is not like you, but you always had a reason; they
are different. My father makes me drink wine every now and then; I don't
like to do it, and he knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I
have to do it."
"That is not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they do not
make you do something wrong."
"They could not do that, I hope; and there is another thing they cannot
make me do."
"What is that?"
"Stay here when you will take me away."
There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides.
"You are grown, Ellie," said John, "you are not the child I left you."
"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling. "It seems to me I am just the
same."
"Let me see--look at me!"
She raised her face, and amidst smiles and tears its look was not less
clear and frank than his was penetrating. "Just the same," was the
verdict of her brother's eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen's smile grew
bright as she read it there.
"Why have you never come or written before, John?"
"I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for many
months until quite lately, and I could not get your address. I think my
father was without it for a long time, and when at last he sent it to
me, the letter miscarried--never reached me--there were delays upon
delays."
"And when did you get it?"
"I preferred coming to writing."
"And now you must go home so soon!"
"I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and it is
quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week--Mrs. Gillespie
is going with me--her husband stays behind till spring."
Ellen sighed.
"I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzerland last
summer--M. Muller."
"M. Muller! did you? Oh, I am very glad! I am very glad you know him--he
is the best friend I have got here, after my father. I don't know what I
should have done without him."
"I have heard him talk of you," said John, smiling.
"He has just come back; he was to be here this evening."
There was a pause again.
"It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie," said her brother
then. "I think you belong to me more than to anybody."
"That is exactly what I think!" said Ellen, with one of her bright
looks, and then bursting into tears. "I am very glad you think so too! I
will always do whatever you tell me--just as I used to--no matter what
anybody else says."
"Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie."
"Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy--so much happier if I
could be doing something to please you. I wish I was at home with you
again!"
"I will bring that about, Ellie, by-and-by, if you make your words
good."
"I shall be happy then," said Ellen, her old confidence standing
stronger than ever, "because I know you will if you say so. Though how
you will manage it I cannot conceive. My father and grandmother and
aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of America. I believe they would be
glad if there wasn't such a place in the world. They would not even let
me think of it if they could help it; I never dare mention your name, or
say a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody, I
believe. They want to have me all to themselves."
"What will they say to you then, Ellie, if you leave them to give
yourself to me?"
"I cannot help it," replied Ellen, "they must say what they please;" and
with abundance of energy, and not a few tears, she went on, "I love
them, but I had given myself to you a great while ago; long before I was
his daughter you called me your little sister--I can't undo that, John,
and I don't want to--it doesn't make a bit of difference that we were
not born so!"
John suddenly rose and began to walk up and down the room. Ellen soon
came to his side, and leaning upon his arm, as she had been used to do
in past times, walked up and down with him, at first silently.
"What is it you wanted me to do, John?" she said gently at length; "you
said 'two or three' things?"
"One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence with me."
"I am very glad that you will let me do that," said Ellen, "that is
exactly what I should like, but----"
"What?"
"I am afraid they will not let me."
"I will arrange that."
"Very well," said Ellen joyously, "then it will do. Oh, it will make me
so happy! And you will write to me?"
"Certainly!"
"And I will tell you everything about myself; and you will tell me how I
ought to do in all sorts of things; that will be next best to being with
you. And then you will keep me right."
"I won't promise you that, Ellie," said John, smiling, "you must learn
to keep yourself right."
"I know you will, though, however you may smile. What next?"
"Read no novels."
"I never do, John. I knew you did not like it, and I have taken good
care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told anybody why, though,
they would have made me read a dozen."
"Why, Ellie!" said her brother, "you must need some care to keep a
straight line where your course lies now."
"Indeed I do, John," said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears; "oh, now
I have felt that sometimes! And then how I wanted you!"
Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been taken of
old, and for a long time they paced up and down; the conversation
running sometimes in the strain that both loved and Ellen now never
heard; sometimes on other matters; such a conversation as those she had
lived upon in former days, and now drank in with a delight and eagerness
inexpressible. Mr. Lindsay would have been in dismay to have seen her
uplifted face, which, though tears were many a time there, was sparkling
and glowing with life and joy in a manner he had never known it. She
almost forgot what the morrow would bring, in the exquisite pleasure of
the instant, and hung upon every word and look of her brother as if her
life were there.
"And in a few weeks," said Ellen, at length, "you will be in our own
dear sitting-room again, and riding on the Black Prince! and I shall be
here! and it will be----"
"It will be empty without you, Ellie! but we have a friend that is
sufficient; let us love Him and be patient."
"It is very hard to be patient," murmured Ellen. "But, dear John, there
was something else you wanted me to do? what is it? you said 'two or
three' things."
"I will leave that to another time."
"But why? I will do it, whatever it be--pray tell me."
"No," said he, smiling, "not now; you shall know by-and-by--the time is
not yet. Have you heard of your old friend, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"No--what of him?"
"He has come out before the world as a Christian man."
"Has he?"
John took a letter from his pocket and opened it.
"You may see what my father says of him; and what he says of you too,
Ellie; he has missed you much."
"Oh, I was afraid he would," said Ellen, "I was sure he did!"
She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John told her she
might keep it to read at her leisure.
"And how are they all at Ventnor? and how is Mrs. Vawse? and Margery?"
"All well. Mrs. Vawse spends about half her time at my father's."
"I am very glad of that!"
"Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I could, and said
she had a home for you always at Ventnor."
"How kind she is," said Ellen; "how many friends I find everywhere. It
seems to me, John, that almost everybody loves me."
"That _is_ a singular circumstance! However, I am no exception to the
rule, Ellie."
"Oh, I know that," said Ellen, laughing. "And Mr. George?"
"Mr. George is well."
"How much I love him!" said Ellen. "How much I would give to see him. I
wish you could tell me about poor Captain and the Brownie, but I don't
suppose you have heard of them. Oh, when I think of it all at home, how
I want to be there! Oh, John, sometimes lately I have almost thought I
should only see you again in heaven."
"My dear Ellie! I shall see you there, I trust; but if we live we shall
spend our lives here together first. And while we are parted we will
keep as near as possible by praying for and writing to each other. And
what God orders let us quietly submit to."
Ellen had much ado to command herself at the tone of these words and
John's manner, as he clasped her in his arms and kissed her brow and
lips. She strove to keep back a show of feeling that would distress and
might displease him. But the next moment her fluttering spirits were
stilled by hearing the few soft words of a prayer that he breathed over
her head. It was a prayer for her and for himself, and one of its
petitions was that they might be kept to see each other again. Ellen
wrote the words on her heart.
"Are you going?"
He showed his watch.
"Well, I shall see you to-morrow!"
"Shall you be here?"
"Certainly; where else should I be? What time must you set out?"
"I need not till afternoon, but--How early can I see you?"
"As early as you please. Oh, spend all the time with me you can, John!"
So it was arranged.
"And now, Ellie, you must go downstairs and present me to Mr. Lindsay."
"To my father!"
For a moment Ellen's face was a compound of expressions. She instantly
acquiesced, however, and went down with her brother, her heart, it must
be confessed, going very pit-a-pat indeed. She took him into the
library, which was not this evening thrown open to company, and sent a
servant for Mr. Lindsay. While waiting for his coming, Ellen felt as if
she had not the fair use of her senses. Was that John Humphreys quietly
walking up and down the library?--Mr. Lindsay's library? and was she
about to introduce her brother to the person who had forbidden her to
mention his name? There was something, however, in Mr. John's figure and
air, in his utter coolness, that insensibly restated her spirits.
Triumphant confidence in him overcame the fear of Mr. Lindsay; and when
he appeared, Ellen with tolerable composure met him, her hand upon
John's arm, and said, "Father, this is Mr. Humphreys"--_my brother_ she
dared not add.
"I hope Mr. Lindsay will pardon my giving him this trouble," said the
latter; "we have one thing in common which should forbid our being
strangers to each other. I, at least, was unwilling to leave Scotland
without making myself known to Mr. Lindsay."
Mr. Lindsay most devoutly wished the "thing in common" had been anything
else. He bowed, and was "happy to have the pleasure," but evidently
neither pleased nor happy. Ellen could see that.
"May I take up five minutes of Mr. Lindsay's time to explain, perhaps to
apologise," said John, slightly smiling, "for what I have said?"
A little ashamed, it might be, to have his feeling suspected, Mr.
Lindsay instantly granted the request, and politely invited his
unwelcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance from her brother which
she understood, Ellen withdrew to the further side of the room, where
she could not hear what they said. John took up the history of Ellen's
acquaintance with his family, and briefly gave it to Mr. Lindsay, scarce
touching on the benefits by them conferred on her, and skilfully
dwelling rather on Ellen herself and setting forth what she had been to
them. Mr. Lindsay could not be unconscious of what his visitor
delicately omitted to hint at, neither could he help making secretly to
himself some most unwilling admissions; and though he might wish the
speaker at the antipodes, and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too
happily given, and his fondness for Ellen too great, for him not to be
delightedly interested in what was said of her. And however strong might
have been his desire to dismiss his guest in a very summary manner, or
to treat him with haughty reserve, the graceful dignity of Mr.
Humphreys' manners made either expedient impossible. Mr. Lindsay felt
constrained to meet him on his own ground--the ground of high-bred
frankness, and grew secretly still more afraid that his real feelings
should be discerned.
Ellen from afar, where she could not hear the words, watched the
countenances with great anxiety and great admiration. She could see
that while her brother spoke with his usual perfect ease, Mr. Lindsay
was embarrassed. She half read the truth. She saw the entire politeness
while she also saw the secret discomposure, and she felt that the
politeness was forced from him. As the conversation went on, however,
she wonderingly saw that the cloud on his brow lessened--she saw him
even smile; and when at last they rose, and she drew near, she almost
thought her ears were playing her false when she heard Mr. Lindsay beg
her brother to go in with him to the company and be presented to Mrs.
Lindsay. After a moment's hesitation this invitation was accepted, and
they went together into the drawing room.
Ellen felt as if she was in a dream. With a face as grave as usual, but
with an inward exultation and rejoicing in her brother impossible to
describe, she saw him going about among the company, talking to her
grandmother--yes, and her grandmother did not look less pleasant than
usual--recognising M. Muller, and in conversation with other people whom
he knew. With indescribable glee Ellen saw that Mr. Lindsay managed most
of the time to be of the same group. Never more than that night did she
triumphantly think that Mr. John could do anything. He finished the
evening there. Ellen took care not to seem too much occupied with him;
but she contrived to be near when he was talking with M. Muller, and to
hang upon her father's arm when he was in Mr. John's neighbourhood. And
when the latter had taken leave, and was in the hall, Ellen was there
before he could be gone. And there came Mr. Lindsay too behind her!
"You will come early to-morrow morning, John?"
"Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphreys, will you?" said Mr. Lindsay, with
sufficient cordiality.
But Mr. Humphreys declined this invitation, in spite of the timid touch
of Ellen's fingers upon his arm, which begged for a different answer.
"I will be with you early, Ellie," he said, however.
"And oh! John," said Ellen suddenly, "order a horse and let us have one
ride together; let me show you Edinburgh."
"By all means," said Mr. Lindsay, "let us show you Edinburgh; but order
no horses, Mr. Humphreys, for mine are at your service."
Ellen's other hand was gratefully laid upon her father's arm as this
second proposal was made and accepted.
"Let _us_ show you Edinburgh," said Ellen to herself, as she and Mr.
Lindsay slowly and gravely went back through the hall. "So there is an
end of my fine morning! But, however, how foolish I am! John has his own
ways of doing things--he can make it pleasant in spite of everything."
She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to cry for
joy and all sorts of feelings at once.
Good came out of evil, as it often does, and as Ellen's heart presaged
it would when she arose the next morning. The ride was preceded by
half-an-hour's chat between Mr. John, Mr. Lindsay, and her grandmother;
in which the delight of the evening before was renewed and confirmed.
Ellen was obliged to look down to hide the too bright satisfaction that
she felt was shining in her face. She took no part in the conversation,
it was enough to hear. She sat with charmed ears, seeing her brother
overturning all her father's and grandmother's prejudices, and making
his own way to their respect at least, in spite of themselves. Her
marvelling still almost kept even pace with her joy. "I knew he would do
what he pleased," she said to herself. "I knew they could not help that;
but I did not dream he would ever make them _like_ him--that I never
dreamed!"
On the ride again, Ellen could not wish that her father were not with
them. She wished for nothing; it was all a maze of pleasure, which there
was nothing to mar but the sense that she would by-and-by wake up and
find it was a dream. And no, not that either. It was a solid good and
blessing, which, though it must come to an end, she should never lose.
For the present there was hardly anything to be thought of but
enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed that Mr. Lindsay would have enjoyed it
too, but for herself; there was a little constraint about him still, she
could see. There was none about Mr. John; in the delight of his words
and looks and presence, Ellen half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely;
she had enough of them, she did not for one moment wish Mr. Lindsay had
less.
At last the long, beautiful ride came to an end; and the rest of the
morning soon sped away, though, as Ellen had expected, she was not
permitted to spend any part of it alone with her brother. Mr. Lindsay
asked him to dinner, but this was declined.
Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphreys' letter.
One bit of it may be given.
"Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has given me
great pleasure. He has been a regular attendant for a long time before.
He ascribes much to your instrumentality; but says his first thoughts
(earnest ones) on the subject of religion were on the occasion of a tear
that fell from Ellen's eye upon his hand one day when she was talking to
him about the matter. He never got over the impression. In his own
words, 'it scared him!' That was a dear child! I did not know how dear
till I had lost her. I did not know how severely I should feel her
absence; nor had I the least notion, when she was with us, of many
things respecting her that I have learned since. I half hoped we should
yet have her back, but that will not be. I shall be glad to see you, my
son."
The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was the delight
of Ellen's life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter wished to put a stop to
it; but Mr. Lindsay drily said that Mr. Humphreys had frankly spoken of
it before him, and as he had made no objection then, he could not now.
Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the third thing
John wanted of her; but whatever it were, she was very sure she would do
it!
For the gratification of those who are never satisfied, one word shall
be added, to wit, that--
The seed so early sown in little Ellen's mind, and so carefully tended
by sundry hands, grew in the course of time to all the fair structure
and comely perfection it had bid fair to reach; storms and winds that
had visited it did but cause the root to take deeper hold; and at the
point of its young maturity it happily fell again into those hands that
had of all been most successful in its culture. In other words, to speak
intelligibly, Ellen did in no wise disappoint her brother's wishes, nor
he hers. Three or four more years of Scottish discipline wrought her no
ill; they did but serve to temper and beautify her Christian character;
and then, to her unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with
the friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them still more
than she had been to her Scottish relations, the "light of the eyes."
THE END
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Black Rock Ralph Connor
Thelma Marie Corelli
Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe
Essays (1st and 2nd series in one volume) Ralph Waldo Emerson
Beulah Augusta J. Evans
Macaria Augusta J. Evans
Inez Augusta J. Evans
The First Violin Jessie Fothergill
The Marble Faun Nathaniel Hawthorne
Bitter Sweet J. G. Holland
Elsie Venner Oliver Wendell Holmes
The Sketch Book Washington Irving
Tales From Shakespeare Charles and Mary Lamb
Evangeline Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Hiawatha Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Lucile Owen Meredith
Black Beauty Anna Sewell
Ishmael Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
Self-Raised Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth
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The Wide Wide World Susan Warner
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John Jerningham's Journal
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_Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_
Rendered into English verse by Edward Fitzgerald. A correct version of
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_No Field Collection is Complete Without this Book_
A LITTLE BOOK _of_ TRIBUNE VERSE
_By_ EUGENE FIELD
Compiled and edited by JOSEPH G. BROWN, formerly city editor of the
_Denver Tribune_, and an intimate friend and associate of the poet
during the several years in which he was on the staff of that paper.
This volume resurrects a literary treasure which has been buried for
many years in the forgotten files of a newspaper, and it is, as nearly
as it has been possible to make, an absolutely complete collection of
the hitherto unpublished poems of the gifted author.
These poems are the early products of Field's genius. They breathe the
spirit of Western life of twenty years ago. The reckless cowboy, the
bucking broncho, the hardy miner, the English tenderfoot, the coquettish
belle, and all the foibles and extravagances of Western social life, are
depicted with a naivete and satire, tempered with sympathy and pathos,
which no other writer could imitate.
The book contains nearly three hundred pages, including an interesting
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Transcriber's notes:
Alternative spelling and hyphenation has been retained as it appears in
the original publication.
The oe-ligature is represented as [oe].