"It was not of my past conduct, I was thinking at this moment, aunt Emmeline—it was—"
"What, love? tell me without reserve."
"That I never, never can return in the smallest degree all I owe to you," replied Ellen, with a sudden burst of emotion, most unusual to her controlled and gentle character; "I never can do any thing to evince how gratefully, how intensely I feel all the kindness, the goodness you have shown me from the first moment you took me to your home—an unhappy, neglected, ailing child, and this year more, more than ever. My own poor mother left me in my dangerous illness, and what have you not done to give me back not merely physical, but mental health? Day and night you watched beside me, forgetting all the care, the misery, my conduct had caused you, only thinking, only seeking, to give me back to health and happiness. Oh, aunt Emmeline, your very household can evince gratitude and love, in the performance of their respective duties—I can do nothing, never can. If I only could."
"Do you remember the fable of the lion and the mouse, my dear Ellen, and Miss Edgeworth's still prettier story on the same subject?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, more affected than she chose to betray, though she drew her niece closer to her, and kissed her fondly. "I hope I shall never be caught in a net, nor exposed to such horrors and danger as poor Madame de Fleury in the French Revolution; but for all that, and unlikely as it seems now, my dear child, you may have many an opportunity to return all that you so gratefully feel you owe me. Do not let any such thought worry you; but believe me, when I assure you that affection and confidence are the only return I require, united, as they are in you, with such an earnest desire, and such persevering efforts to become all your best friends can wish you."
She was interrupted by the entrance of Emmeline, with a small parcel in her hand.
"Mamma, this has just arrived from Exeter for you; with an apologizing message from Mr. Bennet, saying, it should have been here last night, as he promised, but he could not get the articles from London in time. I am so very curious as to what it possibly can be, that I would bring it to you myself."
"Any other time I would punish your constant curiosity, Emmeline, by refusing to gratify it. I can not do so now, however, for I should punish myself as well. I did want it most particularly this morning; but I am glad it was not delayed till the day was quite over. Your uncle and I did not forget your birthday, my dear Ellen, though it seemed so." And opening the parcel as she spoke, a very pretty jewel-case appeared, containing the watch, cross, and all the other trinkets Ellen had placed in Mrs. Langford's hand, and never had had the courage to inquire for, and the few her aunt had kept for her, but so prettily arranged and beautifully burnished, that she would scarcely have known them again.
"Did you never feel any curiosity as to the fate of your trinkets, my love, that you have never asked about them?"
"I knew they were in better hands than my own," replied Ellen, with a quivering lip. "I felt I had no further right to them, after attempting to part with them."
"I know there are some very painful associations connected with these trinkets, my dear Ellen, and, therefore, I would not return them to your own care, till I could add to them a birthday-gift," and, lifting the upper tray, she took out a gold chain, and a pair of bracelets of chaste and beautiful workmanship—"that the sad memories of the one may be forgotten in the pleasant thoughts of the other. I have only one condition to make," she added, in an earnest lower tone, as Ellen tried to speak her thanks, but could only cling to her aunt's neck and weep. "If ever again you are tempted to dispose of them, dearest, promise me to bring them to me, for my valuation first."