The Wide, Wide World | Page 9

must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as I am,
or as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It would be
unreasonable to look for it; and you must not think hardly of your aunt
when you find she is not your mother; but then it will be your own fault
if she does not love you, in time, truly and tenderly. See that you render
her all the respect and obedience you could render me; that is your
bounden duty; she will stand in my place while she has the care of you
— remember that, Ellen; and remember, too, that she will deserve more
gratitude at your hands for showing you kindness than I do, because
she cannot have the same feeling of love to make trouble easy."
"Oh, no, Mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so; it's that very feeling of
love that I am grateful for; I don't care a fig for anything people do for
me without that."
"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."

"Well, I'll try, Mamma."
"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in first
appearances, but never mind that; have patience; and let your motto be
(if there's any occasion), 'Overcome evil with good'. Will you put that
among the things you mean to do while I am gone?" said Mrs.
Montgomery, with a smile.
"I'll try, dear Mamma."
"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear — if you apply yourself
in your trying to the only unfailing source of wisdom and strength — to
Him without whom you can do nothing."
There was silence for a little.
"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.
"Your father says it is a very pleasant place; he says the country is
beautiful, and very healthy, and full of charming walks and rides. You
have never lived in the country; I think you will enjoy it very much."
"Then it is not a town?" said Ellen.
"No; it is not far from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt lives in the
open country. Your father says she is a capital housekeeper, and that
you will learn more, and be in all respects a great deal happier and
better off, than you would be in a boarding-school here or anywhere."
Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion very
much.
"Is there any school near?" she asked.
"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when he was
there."
"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall have while
you are gone will be writing to you. I have been thinking of it a good

deal. I mean to tell you everything — absolutely everything, Mamma.
You know there will be nobody for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's
words came out with difficulty); "and when I feel badly, I shall just
shut myself up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.
"I count upon it, my dear daughter; it will make quite as much the
pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."
"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from her eyes,
"it will be so long before my letters can get to you! The things I want
you to know right away, you won't know, perhaps, in a month."
"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when they do get
to me. Never think of that; write every day, and all manner of things
that concern you — just as particularly as if you were speaking to me."
"And you'll write to me, too, Mamma?"
"Indeed I will — when I can. But, Ellen, you say that when I am away,
and cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply my place. Perhaps
it will be so, indeed; but then, my daughter, let it make you seek that
Friend who is never far away nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God,
and he will draw nigh to you. You know he has said of his children —
'Before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will
hear.' "
"But, Mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you know he is
not my friend in the same way that he is yours." And, hiding her face
again, she added, "Oh, I wish he was!"
"You know the way to make him so, Ellen. He is willing; it only rests
with you. Oh, my child, my child! if losing your mother might be the
means of finding you that better Friend, I should be quite willing and
glad to go — for ever."
There was silence, only broken by Ellen's