"And so, Miss Anna," said he, as he entered the parlor in which we were sitting after dinner, "you had a party last night. Pray, why was not I invited? Mary Leslie made me quite envious, I assure you, by telling me of the enjoyment you had."
"And what did Ellen say?" asked the talkative and thoughtless Emma Melville.
"Oh, Ellen! I never mind her reports, for if they are not agreeable, I always suppose something has happened to put her out of temper. Poor child! poor child!"
This exclamation was made with deep feeling, and we were all grave and silent till Mr. Villars, turning to me, said, "I must not let you, ma'am, who are a stranger to her, suppose that our little Ellen has no good in her. She is, I assure you, a very affectionate child, and though she is so ready to fancy herself neglected or ill treated, and so quick to resent it, she is very grateful for kindness, and you have quite won her heart by your efforts to amuse her last evening."
"I am pleased," I replied, "to have made so agreeable an impression, but I was repaid for my efforts by the interest she excited. I believe what you say, sir, that she is affectionate and grateful—indeed, that her feelings are as quick as her temper. Forgive me if I add, that it seems to me it must be in some degree the fault of those to whom her education has been confided, that, with such qualities, she is not more pleasing and amiable."
"You are right, ma'am, it is their fault. I have done my best to correct it, but all in vain. She has been spoiled from her very birth, for her mother's health had even then begun to fail, and she was quite unequal to the management of so spirited a child. Ellen was but four years old when that gentle mother died, Mary was seven—"
"Is it possible," said I, interrupting him in my surprise, "that there is so much difference in their ages?"
"Yes," he answered, "three years. Mary is now thirteen, though she does not look like it, and Ellen is only ten. Well, as I was about to tell you, Mary at seven was a sedate, quiet, thoughtful child, and Mrs. Leslie, when she became sensible that she could not live long, used to talk much to her of Ellen's claims on her kindness, and dependence upon her tenderness, when she should be gone from them. She taught her to pray morning and evening that God would make her gentle and kind to her little sister, as her mother had been to them both. Mary, I am sure, has never forgotten or omitted that prayer."
"Poor Mary!" said I, "these were very sad thoughts and heavy cares for one so young."
"So they were, ma'am, and so I once ventured to tell Mrs. Leslie. Never shall I forget her reply. 'Ah, brother!' said she—she had always called me brother from the time of my marriage with her sister—'ah, brother! a mother, and a mother near death, sees far more clearly the dangers of her children than any other can do. My gentle Mary has a strength of character you little dream of, and though never very gay, she will not long remain unreasonably sad; but my poor Ellen,—with a nature so affectionate that she cannot be happy unless she is loved, and a temper so passionate that she will often try the forbearance of her best friends almost beyond endurance,—how much suffering is before her! Do not blame me, if before I go from her, I strive to make Mary's love for her such as her mother's would have been—such as not even her faults shall be able to overcome. Mary's path through life will be smooth, she must support Ellen through her rough and thorny way.' I did not feel that all this was right," continued Mr. Villars, "for I think that every one should bear the consequences of their own faults; but I could not argue with a dying woman, and I comforted myself that all would come right,—that Mary would forget all this, and scold and cross her sister, just as other elder sisters do," tapping Anna Melville playfully on the head as he spoke, "or that Mr. Leslie would control her. But I was mistaken, it has never come right. Mary, I verily believe, has never crossed Ellen's wishes in her life; and if Mr. Leslie has ever attempted to do so, she has almost always stormed or coaxed him out of his design,—more frequently stormed, for she has not patience for coaxing."