"Remember, dear Ellen," she said, "that your mother was a Christian woman, who early dedicated her son to his Saviour. What may those prayers not have done for him even in the last moments of his life?"
This was the saddest hour Ellen had ever known,—warm and ardent in her attachments to an extreme. Now that Joseph had gone, she tortured herself with thinking how little she had ever labored for his best good.
"If I had done my duty, had been a truthful, obedient child," she would exclaim, with a fresh burst of grief, "this dreadful sorrow would never have come upon us! Now father has no son, and I have no brother."
"Except Frank," murmured Mary. "We have all adopted you, darling."
The impulsive girl put her arms around her cousin's neck, and embraced her tenderly.
It was not, however, until Frank's return from school, that Ellen regained her wonted cheerfulness.
Dr. Collins made a great pet of her; and the first time he saw her smile in return to some sally of wit from his son, he said that a ton's weight seemed lifted off his breast.
"I miss my birdie's merry songs," he said, tapping her cheek. "Now that you are beginning to look like yourself, I shall hope to hear them again."
Frank's presence had a cheering effect on the whole finally. He had so much to relate about his school, and told his jokes in such a dry, off-hand manner, that no one could help laughing.
There were times, however, when he and Ellen sat together in the bay window, that he listened tearfully to her account of her brother,—how bright and intelligent he was; how capable under Aunt Collins's care, of becoming a useful man,—and showed her that with all his heart, he sympathized in her sorrow.