CHAPTER XXII.

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."