The Wide, Wide World | Page 8

to Him in whose hands they were, and
struggling to withdraw her affections from a world which she had a
secret misgiving she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's
warning had served to strengthen the resolve she had already made, that
she would not distress her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she
kept it, as far as she could. She did not let her mother see but very few
tears, and those were quiet ones; though she drooped her head like a
withered flower, and went about the house with an air of submissive
sadness, that tried her mother sorely. But when she was alone, and
knew no one could see, sorrow had its way; and then there were
sometimes agonies of grief that would almost have broken Mrs.
Montgomery's resolution, had she known them.
This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant
and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great, to
utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover, she
entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to alter
her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable thing.
But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some
days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length would come back to
her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the
roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in
Ellen's future. The thoughts which had just passed through her head
that first morning, as she stood at her window, now came back again.
Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's
absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be
crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home,"
when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to
her mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their long-desired
reward; — they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim, and even
brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was
rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been
given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known
exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly
relieved her.

"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she, one morning.
Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or
three times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up,
still smiling, and answered, "Oh, Mamma, I was thinking of different
things — things that I mean to do while you are gone."
"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.
"Oh, Mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand; I want to surprise
you with them when you come back."
A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did
not see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced
another subject.
"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"
"I do not know — I have never seen her."
"How has that happened, Mamma?"
"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been
very much confined to two or three cities, and your father's long and
repeated absences made travelling impossible to me."
Ellen thought, but she didn't say it, that it was very odd her father
should not sometimes, when he was in the country, have gone to see his
relations, and taken her mother with him.
"What is my aunt's name, Mamma?"
"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen — Fortune Emerson."
"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister!"
"So she is."
"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"

"She is only his half-sister — the daughter of his mother, not the
daughter of his father."
"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen, gravely.
"Why, my daughter?"
"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."
"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you will
depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don't forget that. If
you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do your duty, she
cannot help liking you, be she what she may; and, on the other hand, if
she have all the will in the world to love you, she cannot do it unless
you will let her — it all depends on your behaviour."
"Oh, Mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and I was
going to her."
Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's
mind. But she kept down her rising heart, and went on calmly —
"You