The Wide, Wide World | Page 2

dim figure of the lamplighter crossing the street,
from side to side, with his ladder; then he drew near enough for her to
watch him as he hooked his ladder on the lamp-irons, ran up and lit the
lamp, then shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the light
glancing on his wet oil-skin hat, rough greatcoat, and lantern, and on
the pavement and iron railings. The veriest moth could not have
followed the light with more perseverance than did Ellen's eyes, till the
lamplighter gradually disappeared from view, and the last lamp she
could see was lit; and not till then did it occur to her that there was such
a place as indoors. She took her face from the window. The room was
dark and cheerless, and Ellen felt stiff and chilly. However, she made
her way to the fire, and having found the poker, she applied it gently to
the Liverpool coal with such good effect, that a bright ruddy blaze
sprang up, and lighted the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her
experiment. "That is something like," said she, to herself; "who says I
can't poke the fire? Now, let us see if I can't do something else. Do but
see how these chairs are standing — one would think we had had a
sewing-circle here — there, go back to your places — that looks a little
better; now, these curtains must come down, and I may as well shut the
shutters too — and now this tablecloth must be content to hang straight,
and Mamma's box and the books must lie in their places, and not all
helter-skelter. Now, I wish Mamma would wake up; I should think she
might. I don't believe she is asleep either — she don't look as if she
was."
Ellen was right in this; her mother's face did not wear the look of sleep,
nor indeed of repose at all; the lips were compressed, and the brow not
calm. To try, however, whether she was asleep or no, and with the
half-acknowledged intent to rouse her at all events, Ellen knelt down by
her side, and laid her face close to her mother's on the pillow. But this
failed to draw either word or sign. After a minute or two, Ellen tried
stroking her mother's cheek very gently — and this succeeded, for Mrs.
Montgomery arrested the little hand as it passed her lips, and kissed it
fondly two or three times.
"I haven't disturbed you, Mamma, have I?" said Ellen.

Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself to a sitting posture,
and lifting both hands to her face, pushed back the hair from her
forehead and temples, with a gesture which Ellen knew meant that she
was making up her mind to some disagreeable or painful effort. Then
taking both Ellen's hands, as she still knelt before her, she gazed in her
face with a look even more fond than usual, Ellen thought, but much
sadder too; though Mrs. Montgomery's cheerfulness had always been of
a serious kind.
"What question was that you were asking me a while ago, my
daughter?"
"I thought, Mamma, I heard papa telling you this morning, or yesterday,
that he had lost that lawsuit."
"You heard right, Ellen — he has lost it," said Mrs. Montgomery,
sadly.
"Are you sorry, Mamma? — does it trouble you?"
"You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself overmuch
about the gain or the loss of money. I believe my heavenly Father will
give me what is good for me."
"Then, Mamma, why are you troubled?"
"Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle in other matters,
and leave quietly my all in His hands."
"What is the matter, dear mother? What makes you look so?"
"This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble than I ever
thought a lawsuit could — the loss of it, I mean."
"How, Mamma?"
"It has caused an entire change of all our plans. Your father says he is
too poor now to stay here any longer; and he has agreed to go soon on
some government or military business to Europe."

"Well, Mamma, that is bad; but he has been away a great deal before,
and I am sure we were always very happy."
"But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, that it is very
important for my health that I should go with him."
"Does he, Mamma? — and do you mean to go?"
"I am afraid I must, my dear child."
"Not, and leave me, mother?"
The imploring look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow with
which Ellen uttered these words, took from her mother all power of
replying. It was not necessary; her little daughter understood only too