"Never: but now go to your room, and wash your face, lest that should tell them that you have been grieving."
Ellen obeyed, and she removed the redness from her face, but the thoughts and feelings which her Aunt had awakened, did not depart from her mind. Ellen had heard of God's goodness and love before, but never had they been so urged upon her—never had she been made so to think about them and to feel them; and the impression was abiding, for her Aunt was ever ready to awaken her observation to new proofs of that goodness and love. She had now a new reason to endeavor to conquer her faults,—the desire to do right—to obey God and please Him.
It must not be supposed, however, that any lesson, however well remembered and deeply impressed, could overcome in a day or a week, or even a month, the habits of Ellen's whole life. On the contrary, she had yet often to exclaim, with bitter sorrow, "Oh, Aunt Herbert! do you think I ever shall do right?" But she never now thought it was the fault of others when she did wrong; and although on such occasions she was grieved, more grieved than formerly, she never long felt hopeless, for she remembered that her Aunt Herbert had once been like her, and that the same heavenly Father who had aided her aunt to overcome the evil of her nature, loved her, and would hear her prayers. Yet she still had many terrible sufferings to endure from the evil which she had so long indulged, and some of these I will relate to you.
CHAPTER XIV.
PASSION, AND ITS FRUITS.
I have said that Charles Herbert's health had never been very strong. He had in consequence been a petted child, and though Mrs. Herbert never failed to rebuke any improper temper ever manifested by him, she never checked his mirth or playfulness, even when something of the spirit of mischief entered into it. Thus, while Charles was one of the most amiable and affectionate boys in the world, he was often, to a person as irritable as Ellen, one of the most provoking.
"What shall be done to the owner of this?" exclaimed Charles, as, running up the steps to the piazza in which Ellen was standing, about ten days after her arrival, he held up a letter addressed in very legible characters to "Miss Ellen Leslie," and what was more, in characters which Ellen knew to be Mary's. "What shall be done to the owner of this?" Then answering his own interrogatory, "She shall speak a speech, sing a song, or tell a riddle."
"Charles, give me my letter," said Ellen, trying to get it from him; but he eluded her grasp, and springing on the bannister surrounding the piazza, held it far beyond her reach, while he continued to answer her demands with, "The speech, the song, or the riddle, Ellen. Surely, a letter is worth one of them, and such a long letter too, the lines are so close."
While he ran on thus, Ellen, who had commenced with entreaties, proceeded to commands, angry threatenings, and bitter accusations.