confinement she had endured, the constant control she exercised for fear she should add to her mother's irritation, combined with the extreme delicacy of natural constitution, had s

hful eye the expression of her countenance denoted constant suffering, the heedless and superficial observer would condemn it as peevishness, and so unnatural to a young child, that nothing but confirmed ill-temper could have produced it. The soft, beautifully-formed black eye was too large for her other features, and the sallowness of her complexion, the heavy tresses of very dark hair, caused her to be remarked as a very plain child, which in rea

rrival could not remove it-why she felt so giddy and weak as to render walking painful, the poor child could not have told, but, unable at length to go farther, s

? What has happened to grieve y

feel-feel-as if I had not so much strength as I ha

"You are looking paler than I ever saw you before; let me call my father. You know he is always plea

all he said to me the last time I saw him, and, indeed, I ha

d Arthur, finding all his efforts at consolation ineffectual, contented himself with putt

he said, kindly; "your mo

as her tears would permit; "she has been very i

g particular

unt. Mamma was very much ag

to tell me; but you must not imagine evils, Ellen. I know you have done, and are doing, the duty of a good, affectionate child, nursing your suffering mother, bearing with intervals of impatience, which her invalid state occasions, and giving up all your own wishes to

llen; "then I can not be good, though indeed I try to be so, for I do not

ph that I told you a few Sundays ago. God so loved him, as to give him the power of foretelling future events, and enabling him to do a great deal of good, but when he was taken away from his father and sold as a slave and cast into prison among cruel strangers, he could not have been very happy, Ellen. Yet still, young as he was, little more th

he tears which were checked in the eagerness with which she had listened, seeme

r his father he might have been spoiled by too great indulgence, and never become as good as he afterward was. Perhaps in his solitary prison he might even have regretted that his father had not treated them all alike, as then the angry feelings of his brothers would not have been called forth. So you see, be

o full of intelligence and meaning, that the whole countenance seemed lighted up. "Then do you think mamma will re

t she will recover to love you on earth, but if indeed it be God's will that she should go to Him, she will look

Ellen, in a low, half-frightened voice; and little did Mr. Myrvin imagine

have lost are permitted to watch over and love us still, and that they see us, and are often near us, thou

addressing him courteously, apologized for his intrusi

ld only lay claim to one; the

ative, whom her mother's ill-judged words had taught her actually to dread. Mr. Myrvin gladly welcomed him, and, in the interest of the conversation which followed, fo

filled with thankfulness, not only that she was permitted thus to tend a sister, whom neither error, nor absence, nor silence could estrange from her heart, but that she was spared long enough for her gentle influence and enduring love to have some effect in changing her train of thought, calming that fearful irritability, and by slow degrees permitting her to look with resignation and penitent hope to that hour which no human effort could avert. That Mr. Myrvin should seek Mrs. Hamilton's society and delight in conversing with her, Mrs. Fortescue considered so perfectly natural, that the

h as you please, and do not mind me. With Emmeline near me, I can restrain irritability which must have frightened you away. I know she is right. Oh,

Fortescue, by slow degrees, became interested in the conversations between him and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and so a change

ancy, when it seemed as if neither death nor care could ever have assailed one so bright and lovely, Edward, before he sou

igh, as he left the room; "I know he has what you and your husband will think faults, bu

d do you think when your children become mine I shall show any difference between the

I little deserved it. But my poor Edward, it is so hard to part with him,

en to him I will be. I have won the devoted affection of all my own darlings, and I do not f

e not yours already; but Ellen you will have more tr

hould not have fancied Ellen cold; she is timid, but

from her birth. I never could feel the same toward her as I did towar

Eleanor, that you have equally studied the characters of both your children? because

impressions, perfectly ridiculous. The disposition for good or bad, loving or unloving, is theirs from the moment of their birth, and what human efforts can alter that? Why, the very infancy of my children was different; Edward was always laughing, and animated, and happy; Ellen fretful and peevish, and so heavy that she never seemed even to know when I entered the room, wh

the trembling hands evinced the agitation always called for by the mention of

e? Did I not bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave? Did I not throw shame and misery upon him by my conduct to the ill-fated one he had chosen for my husb

ful task prevented all actual interference with them, except the endeavor by kindly notice to win their confidence and love. His mother's illness and his uncle's presence, besides, for the present, his perfect freedom with regard to employment, had deprived Edward of all inclination to rebel or exert his self-will, and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton both felt that he certainly had fewer faults, than was generally the consequence of unlimited indulgence. Whether Ellen's extreme attention to her mother, her silent but ever ready help when her aunt required it, proceeded from mere cold duty, or really had its origin in affection, Mrs. Hamilton could not satisfactorily decide. Her sister had avowed partiality, but that neglect and unkindness could have been shown to such an extent by a mother as to create the cold ex

entreaties, and sometimes even her aunt's to go and play, and long to fold her to her heart, and confess she had been cruelly unjust, and that she did love her now almost as much as Edward, but she was much too weak to do more than feel. And Ellen remained unconscious of the change, except that now and then, as she would bring her nourishment or ben

hey could be no comfort to her, for she did not know them. The evening of the fourth day she recovered sufficiently to partake of the sacrament with her sister and Mr. Hamilton, and then entreat that her children might

tartled and terrified him, that he uttered a loud cry, and throwing himself beside her, sobbed upon her bosom. Mrs. Fortescue was fearfull

, I know-I feel I have not, and it is too late now to atone. I can only pray God to bless you, and raise you up a kinder parent than I have been! Bless, bless you both." Faintness overpowered he

lence, broken only by Edward's low and half-suffocated sobs. And he knew not, guessed not, the grief that was impending. He only felt that his mother was worse, not better, as he had believed she would and must be, when his aunt arrived. He had never seen death, though Ellen had and he had passionately and willfully refused either to listen or to believe in his uncle's and Mr. Myrvin's gentle attempts to prepare him for his loss. T

er own deep sorrow, she drew her orphan nephew closer to her, and said, in a low

oked at her

has thought it better to remove her from us, and take

ened voice, and half hiding his face in his aunt's dres

enabled her to speak, and smile, and live, was

gh his angry words grieved and hurt her (for she knew she did love her mother most fondly, her idea of her own extreme inferiority acquitted her unconsciously of all injustice toward her, and made her believe that she had loved Edward best only because he was so much better than herself), his very grief caused her to love and admire him still more, and to believe that she really did not feel as much as he did. And yet before they quitted Llangwillan, which they did the second day after Mrs. Fortescue's funeral, Edward could laugh and talk as usual-except when any object recalled his mother; and poor Ellen felt that though she had fancied she was not happy before, she was much more unhappy now. Her fancy naturally vivid, and rendered more so from her having been left so much to herself, dwelt morbidly on all that had passed in her mother's illness, on every caress, every unusual word of affection, and on Mr. Myrvin's assurance that she would love her in Heaven; the promise she had made to love and help Edward returned to her memory again and again, and each time with th

en had quitted her little bed and was in the churchyard by her mother's grave. She sat there thinking so i

show you I had not forgotten my promise." And he displayed some

look so sad-what is the matter? Does not Mr.

are of the flowers also himself. I am only sorry you are going away,

and see us sometimes-and you will like that, will you not?" Arthur did not seem quite sure whether he would like it or not; but they continued talking till his task was completed, and Arthur, at Ellen's earnest request, for she suddenly feared her aunt would be displeased at he

hink of his mother, for the least reference to her would fill his eyes with tears and completely check his joy-but still delight predominated. Ellen felt more and more the wish to shrink into her self, for the farther they left Llangwillan, the more painfully she missed Mr. Myrvin and his son, and the more she shrunk from encountering strangers. Edward she knew would speedily find companions to love, and to be lov