"Well," said Mr. Villars with a good-humored smile, "if she is up, we may hope she will soon be down."
Mary did hope so, and she seated herself cheerfully by her Uncle Villars, while Mrs. Merrill poured out coffee. The nice hot cakes and Uncle Villars' pleasant chat made Mary quite forget her promise to eat slowly, until just as she was concluding her breakfast, Mrs. Merrill, approaching the door, said, "Your sister stays so long, Miss Mary, I will go and see if she wants any thing."
"I will go, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, starting up; but it was too late, and she seated herself again, exclaiming, "Oh! I am so sorry."
"Poor child," said Mr. Villars, "you look as much frightened as if you were afraid that Ellen would be beaten. Mrs. Merrill may scold a little, but cheer up, I am sure she would not hurt Ellen for the world."
"Oh no, Uncle Villars, I know she would not; it was not that which made me feel sorry."
"What was it then, child?"
Mary looked down and colored as she said, "Ellen is not used to being crossed at all, you know, Uncle Villars, and Mrs. Merrill is not used to Ellen's ways, and so they do not understand each other; and—and—I am sure when they come to you, Uncle Villars, it must worry you who always lived so quietly before we came."
Mr. Villars did not see exactly what Mary was coming to, but he answered, "It has disturbed me, my dear, very much, I acknowledge, but more for Ellen's sake than my own."
"I have seen, Uncle Villars, how very badly you felt about it; and I have been thinking—perhaps—you had better send us away."
Mary gave this advice slowly and hesitatingly, and as she looked up upon concluding it, her eyes were full of tears; for Mary loved her Uncle Villars dearly, and she was old enough to know something of her own and Ellen's situation, and to feel how sad it would be for them to be sent away from the house of their best friend to live among strangers. Mr. Villars saw the tears in Mary's eyes, and he understood all her tender and generous thoughts, and drawing her to him he laid her head on his shoulder, and putting her hair aside, kissed her forehead, calling her, "Dear child—dear child." He was silent a moment, and any one who had looked closely at him would have seen that his own eyes glistened; then he added, "It is one of my chief sorrows, Mary, that we shall be obliged to part; but not for the reason you think—not on poor Ellen's account—though I sometimes hope it may be the cause of good to her."