The Wide, Wide World

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much! Oh, very much!"

Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour with a glance of mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong promise of growing love.

"So do I," she answered gaily. "I am very glad she is come, and I am very glad you are come, too."

The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence of a group of young people rather older than themselves.

"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen, "this is Miss Ellen Montgomery. She came with Alice, and she is come to keep Christmas with us. Aren't you glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us when what's-her-name comes, won't there?"

Marianne shook hands with Ellen.

"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said little Ellen Chauncey, "and he says we must brush up our country manners; she's come from the great city."

"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?" inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Marianne Gillespie to prove him her brother.

"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.

"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here?"

"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Come, stand out of my way, right and left, all of you, will you, and give me a chance? Now, then!"

Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to her, bowed down to her knees; then slowly raising his head, stepped back.

"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you at Ventnor. Isn't that polite, now? Is that like what you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"

"No, sir, thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The mirth of the others redoubled.

"May I request to be informed, then," continued Gillespie, "what is the fashion of making bows in the great city?"

"I don't know," said Ellen. "I never saw a boy make a bow before."

"Humph! I guess country manners will do for you," said William, turning on his heel.

"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said another boy.

"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey. "Didn't I tell you she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen; I'll take you somewhere else!"

She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly stopped again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" she said. "I asked Aunt Sophia about the bag of moroccos, and she said she would have 'em early to-morrow morning, and then we can divide 'em right away."

"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.

"Oh no, not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then ran off again.

"I am so glad you are come," said she; "the others are all so much older, and they have all so much to do together – and now you can help me think what I will make for mamma. Hush! don't say a word about it!"

They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were gathered for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided; the elder persons were standing or sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had leisure to look about her, and her eye soon wandered from the tea-table in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman, talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently as she caught her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of recognition. John came up just then to set down his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was smiling at.

"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at what's going on."

"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John Humphreys gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile."

The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever so well-disposed, compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however, not even his sister, could keep their countenances, for the eye of the speaker had pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible, that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to," and a threat to "do something" to his tormentor.

"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in his look and tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone retaining entire gravity.

"What's all this – what's all this? What's all this laughing about?" said old Mr. Marshman, looking up.

"This young gentleman, sir," said John, "has been endeavouring – with a mouthful of arguments – to prove to us the inferiority of city manners to those learned in the country."

"Will!" said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's discomfited face; then added sternly, "I don't care where your manners were learnt, sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music."

He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept her by him, and kept her very much amused too, in his own way; then he would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good-night to their elders; and pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her as well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.

The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood fire. The very old brass-headed andirons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for comfort." A little dark mahogany bookcase in one place – an odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another: and opposite the fire an old-fashioned high post-bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; "this is where you are to sleep."

"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.

"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with Aunt Sophia; that is because the house is so full, you know; and here is your bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here. Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun."

Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for instead of a bedstead it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"

"To be sure I do," said Ellen, "always."

"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and stockings for herself."

"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.

"Why, Lester – Aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?"

"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"

"Oh yes, ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage – we live here since then."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No," said little Ellen gravely, "he never came back – he never will come back any more."