REWARD OF TRUTHFULNESS.
LET us, now, look forward to a period when Ellen has remained with her
aunt four summers, and is almost seventeen years of age. She has grown
taller by two inches than her elder sister, and is a fine, rosy-looking
girl.
In her studies she has advanced until, at her graduation from an
academy in P—, she attained the highest rank. And yet there is nothing
especially brilliant about this young country maiden, except her
flashing black eyes and the rich plaits of her abundant hair when the
sun strikes upon them. She is a simple, warm-hearted, enthusiastic
girl, as unlike her quiet Cousin Mary as possible, and yet bound to her
in the strong love which both of them cherish for their Saviour.
During all these years, she has never once returned to her city home;
but she has not remained a stranger to her father. He has spent long
weeks with her, and two years in succession has accompanied her and her
Cousin Mary to a distant State, where they had relatives. But now, he
wrote his sister, his health was feeble, and he absolutely yearned for
the company of his daughter at home.
Ellen shed some tears at the thought of parting from friends who had
become so dear, but realized at once that duty required her to do all
she could for her father's comfort. How she was to conduct herself away
from the influences for good which now surrounded her; how she would
resist the temptations to worldliness it a large city, were questions
which frequently arose in her mind, but which, like all other trials,
she left at the foot of the cross.
At this time, it was decided that at the close of another week, her
father was to come and conduct her home. She had begged for this
postponement because it was just at the commencement of Frank's college
vacation, a time long anticipated for the execution of many cherished
plans.
The cousins had, during the day, been very busy in tying straw around
their favorite bushes, digging up dahlia-bulbs, and preparing the
garden for the approaching frost, but had now finished supper, attended
family prayers, and had drawn up around the cheerful fire, presenting a
home scene reminding one of the familiar words of Cowper:
"Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast;
Let fall the curtains; wheel the sofa round."
"Now, Frank, don't forget to make my garden during your spring
vacation!" exclaimed Ellen, with a laugh. "Because I shall be here for
a long visit in the summer, and I shall want it to look beautifully."
Frank, for a wonder, looked absorbed in his own thoughts; but she was
not the girl to let him off.
"If my garden don't look as handsome as Mary's," she went on, after
giving his sleeve a playful pull, "I shall know you've forgotten all
about me, and I shall—"
A quick, peculiar, earnest glance from under his long lashes rather
confused the laughing miss, and she stopped abruptly, with a deep blush.
"It's altogether likely we shall forget you," he said, with an air of
perfect gravity. "We shall have so much in P— to distract our thoughts
from our friends. You, in the city, going constantly into company,
receiving attention from nobody knows who, and going to no one knows
how many parties a week, will probably think of us more frequently and
remember us much longer."
"You may joke about it as much as you like, Frank," she rejoined,
rather more warmly than the occasion called for; "but I know you don't
believe any such thing! I'm sure you and Aunt Collins and Mary and
everybody knows that this is the dearest home I ever had: and that
nothing but my feeling that father needs me makes me happy at all,
when I think of leaving it. I love every old stump of a tree and every
brown cottage in this dear quiet country place better than all the fine
houses and parks there are in the city. And, beside all that, here is
Uncle Collins always ready to pull my teeth when they ache, and aunty,
dear aunty, to tell me my faults so kindly that I'm afraid I don't feel
half bad enough about them, and Mary to love, and you to—"
"To tease," he added, gravely, interrupting her.
"No,—infinitive mode, present tense, passive voice,—'to be teased,' if
you please," she added, gayly. "You'll be sorry, sir, when I'm gone,
you didn't appreciate my society better; and you'll be glad, if you
have any feeling left, to come to B— and see me. Oh, Frank, I hope it
isn't wicked, but I really wish you were my own brother! I should be so
glad if you were obliged to go with me to the city; for I shall so need
somebody to tell me a great many things."
The young collegian made a wry face, and, during the remainder of the
evening, scarcely spoke.
The few days which intervened before she was to leave passed rapidly
away. Together the cousins visited every nook, hill, and streamlet
of their favorite haunts. They talked much of the past, but spoke
little of the future. Mary, in her own peculiar way, was continually
suggesting some pleasant and improving theme for conversation, and
Ellen was constantly regretting that she had not profited better by
this dear friend's lovely example.
Frank's conduct was variable: sometimes he was very lively and full of
fun; and then, again, his sister's eyes would be fixed upon him with
tender reproach, as he answered some question of hers or Ellen's with
impatience or bitterness.
To both the doctor and his wife, it was with keen regret that they
parted with one who had become to them like an own child. They gave
her much good advice; her aunt, especially, talked with her long and
earnestly of the duties that were before her, and the necessity of
keeping her own heart with all diligence, if she would hope to show
those around her that she loved her Saviour.
Of Alice, too, they spoke, and of Aunt Clarissa. Mrs. Collins advised
her niece to be obliging and attentive to these relatives, to convince
them by her conduct of her desire to please them, so far as she could
do so without violating her own conscience, or the duties she owed her
God.
On the evening Mr. Saunders arrived, her uncle commended her—
"The child who is to leave those who love her so fondly—to the
kind care of her heavenly Father." Asking him to be her protector,
her guide, her portion for evermore.
Then they retired to her aunt's chamber, where, with a burst of tears,
Ellen exclaimed,—
"To-morrow night I shall hear no prayer! Oh, how shall I act when left
to myself?"
"You will have an ever-present Friend, my dear child," said her aunt,
suppressing her own emotion. "Go to him freely with all the trials that
afflict you. Ask his help as you would ask that of your earthly father.
Remember you are his child, adopted into his family, and have a claim
upon the promises for support and protection, with which the Bible is
filled."
"Dear aunt, what do I not owe you?" sobbed the weeping girl. "Think
what I was when I came here! No one but you would have loved a wicked
liar. I cannot bear to think of it!"
"There was One who loved you far better than I did; One who gave his
life that you might be saved from the consequences of all your sins;
One who will go with you to-morrow, and remain with you as long as you
desire his presence. Oh, Ellen, keep near to him by prayer! He knows
all the trials to which you will be subjected in your Christian course.
For your sake, he became a Man of sorrows that he might know how to
succor you when you are tempted. You are very, very dear to all of
us, Ellen. We shall miss you every hour of the day; and every time we
gather around the family altar we shall implore a blessing for you."
Morning dawned,—a blustering, November morning, the dull leaden sky
adding to the gloom which surrounded the family as they gathered, at an
unusually early hour, around the table for breakfast.
"You must remember your promise, Mary, to make us a long visit this
winter, and we'll have a very pleasant time," said Mr. Saunders, as he
uttered a few parting words and waited for the carriage. "And Frank has
a standing invitation to make our house his home whenever he can leave
his studies."