The Wide, Wide World

"Oh no, not at all; but I always had a notion you would not be easily pleased in the choice of favourites."

"Easily! When a simple, intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased."

"Twelve or thirteen!" said Miss Sophia; "what are you thinking about? Alice says she is only ten or eleven."

"In years, perhaps."

"How gravely you take me up!" said the young lady, laughing. "My dear Mr. John, 'in years perhaps,' you may call yourself twenty, but in everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty."

As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back; the former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud that all the moroccos had been in the fire. They had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it after dinner; and a second search was made in vain. John went to the library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there; but the pleasant light of the room, where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the moonlight, when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole in noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought the room empty; till in passing slowly down toward the fire, she came upon him in the window. Her start first let him know she was there; she would have run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away.

"Running away from your brother, Ellie!" said he kindly. "What is the matter?"

Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.

"I know all, Ellie," said he, still very kindly; "I have seen all; why do you shun me?"

Ellen said nothing; the big tears began to run down her face and frock.

"You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen," he said, drawing her close to him; "you did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair the wrong; neither man nor woman can do more than that."

But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever.

"Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come! lift up your head and let me see you smile again."

Ellen lifted her head, but could not her eyes, though she tried to smile.

"I want to talk to you a little about this," said he. "You know you gave me leave to be your brother; will you let me ask you a question or two?"

"Oh yes; whatever you please," Ellen said.

"Then sit down here," said he, making room for her on the wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand, and speaking very gently. "You said you saw when you took the morocco; I don't quite understand; how was it?"

"Why," said Ellen, "we were not to look, and we had gone three times round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it; and I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just before I shut my eyes, I happened to see the corner of it sticking up, and then I took it."

"With your eyes open?"

"No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for it, and wished it back."

"You will wonder at me, perhaps, Ellie," said John, "but I am not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before; it has only made you see what you are – very, very weak, quite unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you; so it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would not have done as you did?"

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I was sorry a minute after."

"And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen; "it wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day."

"Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help we cannot stand a moment."

Ellen sobbed; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said, "But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie."

The sobs ceased; he saw his words had taken hold.

"Is it right," he said softly, "that we should be more troubled about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonoured Him?"

Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished.

"You understand me, I see," said he. "Be humbled in the dust before Him; the more the better; but whenever we are greatly concerned, for our own sakes, about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too little of God and what will please Him."

"I am very sorry," said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to drop again; "I am very wrong, but I couldn't bear to think what Alice would think, and you, and all of them – "

"Here's Alice to speak for herself," said John.

As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them.

"All's well again," said Alice, "and we're going in to tea."

He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things, so pleasantly that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and Marianne to call them to tea; so the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be.

She behaved very well; her face was touchingly humble that night; and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party was quite divided; and not the least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself with spirits; the secret of which perhaps was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that "it was Christmas Eve!"

CHAPTER XXIX

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure.
Kings may be blest, but they were glorious,
O'er all the ills o' life victorious.

    – Burns.

Christmas morning was dawning grey, but it was still far from broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering, "Ellen! Ellen!" in a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in night-gown and night-cap, and barefooted too, with a face brimful of excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise, and asked what the matter was.

"I am going to look at my stocking," whispered her visitor; "don't you want to get up and come with me? it's just here in the other room – come! don't make any noise."

"But what if you should find nothing in it?" said Ellen laughingly, as she bounded out of bed.

"Ah, but I shall, I know; I always do; never fear. Hush! step ever so softly; I don't want to wake anybody."

"It's hardly light enough for you to see," whispered Ellen, as the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room.

"Oh yes, it is; that's all the fun. Hush! don't make a bit of noise – I know where it hangs – mamma always puts it at the back of her big easy chair – come this way – here it is! Oh, Ellen! there's two of 'em! There's one for you! there's one for you."

In a tumult of delight one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of her little bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her with all her heart, declaring she was so glad she didn't know what to do.

"But how shall we know which is which?"

"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.