Mary was silent. Not even to her mother had she felt at liberty to relate the incident which had occurred many weeks before, when Ellen wept so bitterly. She was just debating the question, whether she ought to do so, when the young girl entered. They both noticed that she was excited; her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were crimson.
"Come here, my dear!" exclaimed the lady, a sudden gush of tenderness toward the motherless child for a moment overpowering her. "We were just talking of you, and we think you are neither as well in health, nor as happy, as when you first came to us. We love you, dear Ellen, and thought we could make you happy; but if we cannot, perhaps we ought to send you back to your father."
Ellen eagerly caught her aunt's hand, and pressed it to her lips. Oh, how she longed to throw herself into her kind arms, and confess all!
"If I only had Aunt Clarissa's letter, with money enough to pay the bill, I would do so," she thought; "but I fear she would despise me."
Don't blame this child too much, reader. You perhaps have always been watched by a tender Christian mother, who has kindly pointed out your faults, and taught you that the first step toward curing was to confess them. Aunt Clarissa had taken the best care of which she was capable of her body; had seen her well, even fashionably, clothed, but had never inquired into the state of her heart; while her father, busied in acquiring wealth for his children, had wholly neglected their moral culture until, frightened at the result, he shrank from the responsibility he had incurred.
Mrs. Collins waited patiently for her niece to speak: but though Ellen kept repeating the words, "It is not your fault that I am not well. I do love you dearly!" Yet she gave no reason for her too evident unhappiness.
"I must inquire more particularly into this. There is something I do not understand," the lady said to her daughter as, with a sudden start, Ellen left the room.
In the evening, as the family, including Frank, who had just returned from school, were seated around the table, Mary entered, portfolio in hand. "Ellen," she said, with an anxious flush, "have you taken a piece of paper from my drawer?"
The young girl started, gave one searching glance into her cousin's face, and then faltered, "No, I haven't."
"You are welcome to as much paper as you wish," she added, misunderstanding the expression of distress; "but I have lost one sheet on which I had made a memorandum of books my teacher gave me. I have searched every place I can think of, but I cannot find it; and I was so sure I put it in my portfolio."