The Wide, Wide World | Page 9

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 sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice had trembled, and her face was now covered with her hands; but she was not weeping; she was seeking a better relief where it had long been her habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the employments which had been broken off; but neither chose to renew the conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company prevented their having another opportunity during the rest of the day.
But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of the time; friends had taken their departure; the curtains were down, the lamp lit, the little room looked cozy and comfortable; the servant had brought the tea-things, and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered, and fast drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very precious. She now lay on her couch, with her face partially shaded, and her eyes