The Guardian Angel.
One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the
corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen
thought so; and standing near, she by-and-by put her hand
gently into one of his, which was thoughtfully passing through
the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and,
quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had been doing
that day. Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and
a long rent in her dress; she merely answered, smiling, that
she had been busy.
"Too busy, I'm afraid. Come round here, and sit down. What
have you been busy about?"
Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She
coloured and hesitated. He did not press it any further.
"Mr. John," said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in
again "there is something I have been wanting to ask you
this great while "
"Why _hasn't_ it been asked this great while?"
"I didn't quite like to; I didn't know what you would say to
it."
"I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie."
"Why, you are not!" said Ellen, laughing "how you talk! but
I don't much like to ask people things."
"I don't know about that," said he, smiling; "my memory rather
seems to say that you ask things pretty often."
"Ah, yes those things; but I mean, I don't; like to ask
things when I am not quite sure how people will like it."
"You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful
in such a matter; but it is best not to be doubtful when I am
concerned."
"Well," said Ellen, "I wished very much I was going to ask
if you would have any objection to let me read one of your
sermons."
"None in the world, Ellie," said he, smiling; "but they have
never been written yet."
"Not written!"
"No there is all I had to guide me yesterday."
"A half-sheet of paper! and only written on one side! Oh, I
can make nothing of this. What is _this?_ Hebrew?"
"Short-hand."
"And is that all? I cannot understand it," said Ellen, sighing
as she gave back the paper.
"What if you were to go with me next time? They want to see
you very much at Ventnor."
"So do I want to see them," said Ellen, "very much indeed."
"Mrs. Marshman sent a most earnest request by me that you
would come to her the next time I go to Randolph."
Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration if one
might judge by her face.
"What do you say to it?"
"I should like to go, very much," said Ellen, slowly "but "
"But you do not think it would be pleasant?"
"No, no," said Ellen, laughing, "I don't mean that; but I
think I would rather not."
"Why?"
"Oh I have some reasons."
"You must give me _very_ good ones, or I think I shall overrule
your decision, Ellie."
"I have very good ones; plenty of them; only "
A glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen's
hesitation.
"I have, indeed," said she, laughing; "only I did not want to
tell you. The reason why I didn't wish to go was because I
thought I should be missed. You don't know how much I miss
you," said she, with tears in her eyes.
"That is what I was afraid of! Your reasons make against you,
Ellie."
"I hope not; I don't think they ought."
"But, Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you
once or twice than have you want what would be good for you."
"I know that! I am sure of that; but that don't alter my
feeling, you know. And besides, that isn't all."
"Who else will miss you?"
Ellen's quick look seemed to say that he knew too much
already, and that she did not wish him to know more. He did
not repeat the question, but Ellen felt that her secret was no
longer entirely her own.
"And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely?" he went on
presently.
Ellen's eyes watered at the tone in which these words were
spoken; she answered "Different things."
"The best remedy for it is prayer. In seeking the face of our
best Friend we forget the loss of others. That is what I try,
Ellie, when I feel alone; do you try it?" said he, softly.
Ellen looked up; she could not well speak at that moment.
"There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who
said, 'He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that
believeth on me shall never thirst.' "
"It troubles me," said he, after a pause, "to leave you so
much alone. I don't know that it were not best to take you
with me every week."
"Oh, no!" said Ellen, "don't think of me. I don't mind it,
indeed. I do not always feel so sometimes but I get along
very well; and I would rather stay here, indeed I would. I am
always happy as soon as Monday morning comes."
He rose up suddenly, and began to walk up and down the room.
"Mr. John "
"What Ellie?"
"I do sometimes seek His face very much when I cannot find
it."
She hid her face in the sofa cushion. He was silent a few
minutes, and then stopped his walk.
"There is something wrong, then, with you, Ellie," he said,
gently. "How has it been through the week? If you can let day
after day pass without remembering your best Friend, it may be
that when you feel the want you will not readily find Him. How
is it daily, Ellie? is seeking his face your first concern? do
you give sufficient time faithfully to your Bible and prayer?"
Ellen shook her head; no words were possible. He took up his
walk again. The silence lasted a length of time, and he was
still walking, when Ellen came to his side and laid her hand
on his arm.
"Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie?"
She weepingly answered, "Yes.". They walked a few turns up and
down.
"Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be
possible, you will give an hour _at least_ to this business,
whatever else may be done or undone?"
Ellen promised; and then with her hand in his they continued
their walk through the room till Mr. Humphreys and the
servants came in. Her brother's prayer that night Ellen never
forgot.
No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor. But
a week or two after, John smilingly told her to get all her
private affairs arranged, and to let her friends know they
need not expect to see her the next Sunday, for that he was
going to take her with him. As she saw he had made up his
mind, Ellen said nothing in the way of objecting, and, now
that the decision was taken from her, was really very glad to
go. She arranged everything, as he had said; and was ready
Saturday morning to set off with a very light heart.
They went in the sleigh. In a happy, quiet mood of mind, Ellen
enjoyed everything exceedingly. She had not been to Ventnor in
several months; the change of scene was very grateful. She
could not help thinking, as they slid along smoothly and
swiftly over the hard-frozen snow, that it was a good deal
pleasanter, for once, than sitting alone in the parlour at
home with her work-basket. Those days of solitary duty,
however, had prepared her for the pleasure of this one; Ellen
knew that, and was ready to be thankful for everything.
Throughout the whole way, whether the eye and mind silently
indulged in roving, or still better-loved talk interrupted
that, as it often did, Ellen was in a state of most unmixed
and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the slightest reason
to doubt the correctness of his judgment in bringing her. He
went in but a moment at Ventnor, and leaving her there,
proceeded himself to Randolph.
Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken
the greatest care of and enjoyed as much as possible while one
has it. Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she
had been their own child. Ellen Chauncey overwhelmed her with
joyful caresses, and could scarcely let her out of her arms by
night or by day. She was more than ever Mr. Marshman's pet;
but, indeed, she was well petted by the family. It was a very
happy visit.
Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy, not
only Mrs. Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her
brother (for his church was not the one the family attended),
but the carriage was ordered in the afternoon also; and Mrs.
Chauncey and her daughter and Miss Sophia went with her again.
When they returned, Miss Sophia, who had taken a very great
fancy to her, brought her into her own room and made her lie
down with her upon the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not
tired.
"Well, you ought to be, if you are not," said the lady. "_I_ am.
Keep away, Ellen Chauncey you can't be anywhere without
talking. You can live without Ellen for half an hour, can't
ye? Leave us a little while in quiet."
Ellen for her part was quite willing to be quiet. But Miss
Sophia was not sleepy, and it soon appeared had no intention
of being silent herself.
"Well, how do you like your brother in the pulpit?" she began.
"I like him anywhere, Ma'am," said Ellen, smiling a very
unequivocal smile.
"I thought he would have come here with you last night; it is
very mean of him! He never comes near us; he always goes to
some wretched little lodging or place in the town there
always; never so much as looks at Ventnor, unless sometimes he
may stop for a minute at the door."
"He said he would come here to-night," said Ellen.
"Amazing condescending of him! However, he isn't like anybody
else; I suppose we must not judge him by common rules. How is
Mr. Humphreys, Ellen?"
"I don't know Ma'am," said Ellen; "it is hard to tell; he
doesn't say much. I think he is rather more cheerful, if
anything, than I expected he would be."
"And how do you get along there, poor child! with only two
such grave people about you?"
"I get along very well, Ma'am," said Ellen, with what Miss
Sophia thought a somewhat curious smile.
"I believe you will grow to be as sober as the rest of them,"
said she. "How does Mr. John behave?"
Ellen turned so indubitably curious a look upon her at this,
that Miss Sophia half-laughed and went on
"Mr. Humphreys was not always as silent and reserved as he is
now; I remember him when he was different, though I don't
think he was ever much like his son. Do you ever hear about
it?"
"About what, Ma'am?"
"Oh, all about his coming to this country, and what brought
him to Carra-carra?"
"No, Ma'am."
"My father, you see, had come out long before, but the two
families had always been very intimate in England, and it was
kept up after he came away. He was a particular friend of an
elder brother of Mr. Humphreys; his estate and my
grandfather's lay very near each other; and besides, there
were other things that drew them to each other he married my
aunt, for one. My father made several journeys back and forth
in the course of years, and so kept up his attachment to the
whole family, you know; and he became very desirous to get Mr.
Humphreys over here this Mr. Humphreys, you know. He was the
younger brother younger brothers in England have generally
little or nothing; but you don't know anything about that,
Ellen. _He_ hadn't anything then but his living, and that was a
small one; he had some property left him, though, just before
he came to America."
"But, Miss Sophia," Ellen hesitated, "are you sure they
would like I should hear all this?"
"Why, yes, child! of course they would; everybody knows it.
Some things made Mr. Humphreys as willing to leave England
about that time as my father was to have him. An excellent
situation was offered him in one of the best institutions
here, and he came out. That's about let me see I was just
twelve years old, and Alice was one year younger. She and I
were just like sisters always from that time. We lived near
together, and saw each other every day, and our two families
were just like one. But they were liked by everybody. Mrs.
Humphreys was a very fine person very; oh, very! I never saw
any woman I admired more. Her death almost killed her husband:
and I think Alice I don't know; there isn't the least sign
of delicate health about Mr. Humphreys nor Mr. John not the
slightest nor about Mrs. Humphreys either. She was a very
fine woman!"
"How long ago did she die?" said Ellen.
"Five six, seven seven years ago. Mr. John had been left
in England till a little before. Mr. Humphreys was never the
same after that. He wouldn't hold his professorship any
longer; he couldn't bear society; he just went and buried
himself at Carra-carra. That was a little after we came here."
How much all this interested Ellen! She was glad, however,
when Miss Sophia seemed to have talked herself out, for she
wanted very much to think over John's sermon. And as Miss
Sophia happily fell into a doze soon after, she had a long
quiet time for it, till it grew dark, and Ellen Chauncey,
whose impatience could hold no longer, came to seek her.
John came in the evening. Ellen's patience and politeness were
severely tried in the course of it; for while she longed
exceedingly to hear what her brother and the older members of
the family were talking about animated, delightful
conversation she was sure Ellen Chauncey detained her in
another part of the room; and for a good part of the evening
she had to bridle her impatience, and attend to what she did
not care about. She did it, and Ellen Chauncey did not suspect
it; and at last she found means to draw both her and herself
near the larger group. But they seemed to have got through
what they were talking about; there was a lull. Ellen waited
and hoped they would begin again.
"You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John," said Miss
Sophia.
He bowed gravely.
"Did you know whom you had among your auditors? the and
were there;" naming some distinguished strangers in the
neighbourhood.
"I think I saw them."
"You 'think' you did! Is that an excess of pride or an excess
of modesty? Now, do be a reasonable creature, and confess that
you are not insensible to the pleasure and honour of
addressing such an audience!"
Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt for an instant in
his face, instantly succeeded by a smile.
"Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old
woman that sat at the foot of the pulpit-stairs."
"That old thing!" said Miss Sophia.
"I saw her," said Mrs. Chauncey; "poor old creature! she
seemed most deeply attentive when I looked at her."
"_I_ saw her!" cried Ellen Chauncey "and the tears were
running down her cheeks several times."
"I didn't see her," said Ellen Montgomery, as John's eye met
hers. He smiled.
"But do you mean to say," continued Miss Sophia, "that you are
absolutely careless as to who hears you?"
"I have always one hearer, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity,
that it sinks the rest into great insignificance."
"That is a rebuke," said Miss Sophia; "but nevertheless, I
shall tell you that I liked you very much this afternoon."
He was silent.
"I suppose you will tell me next," said the young lady,
laughing, "that you are sorry to hear me say so."
"I am," said he, gravely.
"Why? may I ask?"
"You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at
least as one of my hearers was concerned."
"How do you know that?"
"Do you remember what Louis the Fourteenth said to Massillon?
'Mon père, j'ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma
chapelle; j'en ai été fort content: pour vous, toutes les fois
que je vous ai entendu, j'ai été très mécontent de moi-même!'
"
Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for a moment.
"Then you really mean to be understood, that provided you fail
of your aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people
think of you?"
"As I would take a bankrupt's promissory note in lieu of told
gold. It gives me small gratification, Miss Sophia very
small indeed to see the bowing heads of the grain that yet
my sickle cannot reach."
"I agree with you most heartily," said Mr. George Marshman.
The conversation dropped; and the two gentlemen began another
in an undertone, pacing up and down the floor together.
The next morning, not sorrowfully, Ellen entered the sleigh
again, and they set off homewards.
"What a sober little piece that is!" said Mr. Howard.
"Oh! sober!" cried Ellen Chauncey; "that is because you
don't know her, Uncle Howard. She is the cheerfullest,
happiest girl that I ever saw always."
"Except Ellen Chauncey always," said her uncle.
"She is a singular child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "She is grave,
certainly, but she don't look moped at all, and I should think
she would be, to death."
"There's not a bit of moping about her," said Miss Sophia.
"She can laugh and smile as well as anybody; though she has
sometimes that peculiar grave look of the eyes that would make
a stranger doubt it. I think John Humphreys has infected; he
has something of the same look himself."
"I am not sure whether it is the eyes or the mouth, Sophia,"
said Mr. Howard.
"It is both," said Miss Sophia. "Did you ever see the eyes
look one way and the mouth another?"
"And besides," said Ellen Chauncey, "she has reason to look
sober, I am sure."
"She is a fascinating child," said Mrs. Gillespie. "I cannot
comprehend where she gets the manner she has. I never saw a
more perfectly polite child, and there she has been for
months, with nobody to speak to her but two gentlemen and the
servants. It is natural to her, I suppose; she can have nobody
to teach her."
"I am not so sure as to that," said Miss Sophia; "but I have
noticed the same thing often. Did you observe her last night,
Matilda, when John Humphreys came in? you were talking to her
at the moment; I saw her before the door was opened; I saw the
colour come, and her eyes sparkle, but she did not look
towards him for an instant, till you had finished what you
were saying to her, and she had given, as she always does, her
modest, quiet answer; and then her eye went straight as an
arrow to where he was standing."
"And yet," said Mrs. Chauncey, "she never moved towards him
when you did, but stayed quietly on that side of the room with
the young ones, till he came round to them; and it was some
time too."
"She is an odd child," said Miss Sophia, laughing. "What do
you think she said to me yesterday? I was talking to her, and
getting rather communicative on the subject of my neighbours'
affairs; and she asked me gravely the little monkey! if I
was sure they would like her to hear it? I felt quite rebuked,
though I didn't choose to let her know as much."
"I wish Mr. John would bring her every week," said Ellen
Chauncey, sighing; "it would be so pleasant to have her."
Towards the end of the winter, Mr. Humphreys began to propose
that his son should visit England and Scotland during the
following summer. He wished him to see his family and to know
his native country, as well as some of the most distinguished
men and institutions in both kingdoms. Mr. George Marshman
also urged upon him some business in which he thought he could
be eminently useful. But Mr. John declined both propositions,
still thinking he had more important duties at home. This only
cloud that rose above Ellen's horizon scattered away.
One evening it was a Monday in the twilight, John was as
usual pacing up and down the floor. Ellen was reading in the
window.
"Too late for you, Ellie."
"Yes," said Ellen; "I know; I will stop in two minutes."
But in a quarter of that time she had lost every thought of
stopping, and knew no longer that it was growing dusk.
Somebody else, however, had not forgotten it. The two minutes
were not ended, when a hand came between her and the page, and
quietly drew the book away.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Ellen, starting up. "I entirely
forgot about it!"
He did not look displeased; he was smiling. He drew her arm
within his.
"Come and walk with me. Have you had any exercise to-day?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I had a good deal to do, and I had fixed myself so nicely on
the sofa with my books; and it looked cold and disagreeable
out of doors."
"Since when have you ceased to be a fixture?"
"What! oh," said Ellen, laughing, "how shall I ever get rid
of that troublesome word? What shall I say? I had _arranged_
myself, _established_ myself, so nicely on the sofa."
"And did you think that a sufficient reason for not going
out?"
"No," said Ellen, "I did not; and I did not decide that I
would not go; and yet I let it keep me at home after all;
just as I did about reading a few minutes ago. I meant to
stop, but I forgot it, and I should have gone on I don't know
how long if you had not stopped me. I very often do so."
He paused a minute, and then said
"You must not do so any more, Ellie."
The tone, in which there was a great deal of love and
decision, wound round Ellen's heart, and constrained her to
answer immediately
"I will not I will not."
"Never parley with conscience; it is a dangerous habit."
"But then it was only "
"About trifles; I grant you; but the habit is no trifle. There
will not be a just firmness of mind and steadfastness of
action where tampering with duty is permitted even in little
things."
"I will try not to do it," Ellen repeated.
"No," said he, smiling "let it stand as at first. '_I will
not_' means something; '_I will try_' is very apt to come to
nothing, 'I will keep thy precepts with my whole heart! not
'I will _try_. ' Your reliance is precisely the same in either
case."
"I will not, John," said Ellen, smiling.
"What were you poring over so intently a while ago?"
"It was an old magazine _Blackwood's Magazine_, I believe, is
the name of it; I found two great piles of them in a closet
upstairs the other day; and I brought this one down."
"This is the first that you have read?"
"Yes; I got very much interested in a curious story there;
why?"
"What will you say, Ellie, if I ask you to leave the rest of
the two piles unopened?"
"Why, I will say that I will do it, of course," said Ellen
with a little smothered sigh of regret, however "if you wish
it."
"I do wish it, Ellie."
"Very well I'll let them alone, then. I have enough other
reading; I don't know how I happened to take that one up;
because I saw it there, I suppose."
"Have you finished Nelson yet?"
"Oh, yes! I finished it Saturday night. Oh, I like it _very_
much! I am going all over it again, though. I like Nelson very
much; don't you?"
"Yes as well as I can like a man of very fine qualities
without principle."
"Was he that?" said Ellen.
"Yes; did you not find it out? I am afraid your eyes were
blinded by admiration."
"Were they?" said Ellen. "I thought he was so very fine in
everything; and I should be sorry to think he was not."
"Look over the book again by all means, with a more critical
eye; and when you have done so, you shall give me your cool
estimate of his character."
"O me!" said Ellen. "Well but I don't know whether I can
give you a _cool_ estimate of him however, I'll try. I cannot
think coolly of him now, just after Trafalgar. I think it was
a shame that Collingwood did not anchor as Nelson told him to;
don't you? I think he might have been obeyed while he was
living at least."
"It is difficult," said John, smiling, "to judge correctly of
many actions without having been on the spot, and in the
circumstances of the actors. I believe you and I must leave
the question of Trafalgar to more nautical heads."
"How pleasant this moonlight is!" said Ellen.
"What makes it pleasant?"
"What _makes_ it pleasant! I don't know; I never thought of
such a thing. It is _made_ to be pleasant I can't tell _why;_
can anybody?"
"The eye loves light for many reasons; but all kinds of light
are not equally agreeable. What makes the peculiar charm of
these long streams of pale light across the floor? and the
shadowy brightness without?"
"You must tell," said Ellen; "I cannot."
"You know we enjoy anything much more by contrast; I think
that is one reason. Night is the reign of darkness, which we
do not love; and here is light struggling with the darkness,
not enough to overcome it entirely, but yet banishing it to
nooks and corners, and distant parts, by the side of which it
shows itself in contrasted beauty. Our eyes bless the unwonted
victory."
"Yes," said Ellen; "we only have moonlight nights once in a
while."
"But that is only one reason out of many, and not the
greatest. It is a very refined pleasure, and to resolve it
into its elements, is something like trying to divide one of
these same white rays of light into the many various-coloured
ones that go to form it; and not by any means so easy a
task."
"Then it was no wonder I couldn't answer," said Ellen.
"No; you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie."
"The moonlight is so calm and quiet," Ellen observed,
admiringly.
"And why is it calm and quiet? I must have an answer to
that."
"Because _we_ are generally calm and quiet at such times?" Ellen
ventured, after a little thought.
"Precisely! we and the world. And association has given the
moon herself the same character. Besides that, her mild, sober
light is not fitted for the purposes of active employment, and
therefore the more graciously invites us to the pleasures of
thought and fancy."
"I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it,"
said Ellen, laughing.
"And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the
pleasure we have, not only in moonlight, but in most other
things. When two things have been in the mind together, and
made any impression, the mind associates them; and you cannot
see or think of the one, without bringing back the remembrance
of the feeling of the other. If we have enjoyed the moonlight
in pleasant scenes, in happy hours, with friends that we loved
though the sight of it may not always make us directly
remember them, yet it brings with it a waft from the feeling
of the old times sweet as long as life lasts!"
"And sorrowful things may be associated too?" said Ellen.
"Yes, and sorrowful things. But this power of association is
the cause of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my
mother used to sing I cannot hear it now without being
carried swiftly back to my boyish days to the very spirit of
the time; I _feel_ myself spring over the green sward as I did
then."
"Oh, I know that is true," said Ellen. "The camellia the
white camellia, you know I like it so much ever since what
you said about it one day. I never see it without thinking of
it; and it would not seem half so beautiful but for that."
"What did I say about it?"
"Don't you remember? you said it was like what you ought to
be, and what you should be, if you ever reached heaven; and
you repeated that verse in the Revelation about 'those that
have not defiled their garments.' I always think of it. It
seems to give me a lesson."
"How eloquent of beautiful lessons all nature would be to us,"
said John, musingly, "if we had but the eye and the ear to
take them in!"
"And in that way you would heap associations upon
associations?"
"Yes; till our storehouse of pleasure was very full."
"You do that now," said Ellen. "I wish you would teach me."
"I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of
flowers you are so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you?"
"I don't know; I only think of themselves; except sometimes
they make me think of Alice."
"You know, from any works we may form some judgment of the
mind and character of their author?"
"From their writings, I know you can," said Ellen; "from what
other works?"
"From any which are not mechanical; from any in which the
mind, not the hand, has been the creating power. I saw you
very much interested the other day in the Eddystone
lighthouse; did it help you to form no opinion of Mr.
Smeaton?"
"Why, yes, certainly," said Ellen; "I admired him exceedingly
for his cleverness and perseverance; but what other works? I
can't think of any."
"There is the lighthouse, that is one thing. What do you
think of the ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it?"
Ellen half-shuddered. "I shouldn't like to go to sea, John!
But you were speaking of men's works and women's works?"
"Well, women's works; I cannot help forming some notion of a
lady's mind and character from the way she dresses herself."
"Can you? do you?"
"I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a
lady's dress that she never dreams of; the style of her
thoughts, among others."
"It is a pity ladies didn't know that," said Ellen, laughing;
"they would be very careful."
"It wouldn't mend the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things
in which people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so
it will show itself."
"But we have got a great way from the flowers," said Ellen.
"You shall bring me some to-morrow, Ellie, and we will read
them together."
"There are plenty over there now," said Ellen, looking towards
the little flower-stand, which was as full and flourishing as
ever; "but we can't see them well by this light."
"A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that
made them. They are the work of His fingers; and I cannot
consider them without being joyfully assured of the glory and
loveliness of their Creator. It is written as plainly to me in
their delicate painting, and sweet breath, and curious
structure, as in the very pages of the Bible; though, no
doubt, without the Bible I could not read the flowers."
"I never thought much of that," said Ellen. "And then, you
find particular lessons in particular flowers?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh, come here!" said Ellen, pulling him towards the flower-
stand, "and tell me what this daphne is like, you need not
see that, only smell it, that's enough; do, John, and tell
me what it is like!"
He smiled as he complied with her request, and walked away
again.
"Well, what is it?" said Ellen; "I know you have thought of
something."
"It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes
leaves upon the spirit; when it is just what it ought to be."
"My Mr. Marshman!" exclaimed Ellen.
John smiled again. "I thought of him, Ellie. And I thought,
also, of Cowper's lines:
'When one who holds communion with the skies
Has filled his urn where those pure waters rise,
Descends and dwells among us meaner things,
It is as if an angel shook his wings!' "
Ellen was silent a moment from pleasure.
"Well, I have got an association now with the daphne!" she
said, joyously; and presently added, sighing, "How much you
see in everything, that I do not see at all."
"Time, Ellie, said John; "there must be time for that. It will
come. Time is cried out upon as a great thief; it is people's
own fault. Use him but well, and you will get from his hand
more than he will ever take from you."
Ellen's thoughts travelled on a little way from this speech,
and then came a sigh, of some burden, as it seemed; and her
face was softly laid against the arm she held.
"Let us leave all that to God," said John, gently.
Ellen started. "How did you know, how _could_ you know what I
was thinking of?"
"Perhaps my thoughts took the same road," said he, smiling.
"But, Ellie, dear, let us look to that one source of happiness
that can never be dried up; it is not safe to count upon
anything else."
"It is not wonderful," said Ellen, in a tremulous voice, "if I
"
"It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up to
God as our Father who rejoice in Christ our Saviour we are
happy, whatever beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust Him,
and never doubt that, Ellie."
"But still " said Ellen.
"But, still, we will hope and pray alike in that matter; and
while we do, and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave
ourselves in our Father's hand. The joy of the knowledge of
Christ the joy the world cannot intermeddle with, the peace
it cannot take away! Let us make that our own, Ellie; and, for
the rest, put away all anxious care about what we cannot
control."
Ellen's hand, however, did not just then lie quite so lightly
on his arm as it did a few minutes ago he could feel that
and could see the glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight
as they fell. The hand was fondly taken in his; and, as they
slowly paced up and down, he went on, in low tones of kindness
and cheerfulness, with his pleasant talk, till she was too
happy in the present to be anxious about the future looked
up again and brightly into his face, and questions and answers
came as gaily as ever.