"That you would forget the lesson?" inquired Mr. Wallace.
"Yes, sir."
"There is no danger of that, I think, Ellen—it is a lesson you have learned very thoroughly," said Mrs. Herbert; "and it is one," she added, "not easily forgotten."
Something more than a year had now elapsed since Mr. Villars' departure for the South, and still his return was delayed. He now wrote that he hoped by the next spring to bring the business which had taken him there to a prosperous conclusion. The property which he was endeavoring to recover had risen in value of late, and should he be successful, Mary and Ellen would possess fortune sufficient for all their reasonable wants. But as Mr. Villars, though hopeful, was not certain of success, he was still unwilling that Mary should leave H. for her Aunt Herbert's, thus relinquishing the employment she had already received there, while for the same reason he rejoiced that Ellen was under the care of one so capable of giving to her a thoroughly accomplished education as was Mrs. Herbert.
Winter passed away; spring again brought flowers and perfume and balmy airs to all—and to Ellen bright hopes. Mr. Villars had written lately more sanguinely than ever of his success, at any rate, when he wrote last, in a week the lawsuit on which all depended would be decided. He would then return, and then Mary and Ellen would meet. You have seen that during the year of their separation a great change had taken place in Ellen's character, and you will readily believe that there had also been some alteration in her personal appearance. She was now fourteen, and she had grown tall and womanly in figure, while there was far more of the glad-heartedness of early childhood shining in her face, than could have been seen there a year before. Her heavy indolent movements, too, were replaced by a springy, elastic step. In a word, Ellen was happy, and that happiness showed itself in words, and looks, and tones. No sullen resentment clouded her brow, no angry passion made her voice harsh, no bitter self-reproach for unjust thoughts and unkind speeches lay heavy upon her heart; all looked kindly on her, and Ellen no longer feared that she was not loved.
It was about three weeks after the reception of that letter from Mr. Villars to which we have alluded, that returning from an afternoon's ramble with her cousin, Ellen, on entering the piazza, saw through the open parlor window a gentleman's head. Her heart beat quickly—it might be her Uncle Villars; she approached nearer the window, and looked anxiously in—there was a lady, but too tall for Mary. Ellen forgot that Mary was seventeen, and had had a year in which to grow, since she saw her. The lady turned her head—the next moment the sisters were in each other's arms. "My own dear Mary!" "My darling Ellen!" were their only words—their feelings, who shall describe?
"And, Uncle Villars, you can live in your own house again, now, and have poor Mrs. Merrill back—can you not?" asked Ellen, after Mr. Villars had announced that he had gained the object of his southern journey.
"Yes, Ellen, for it is no longer necessary for me to be so careful of my expenditures, since you and Mary no longer want any assistance from me. The house has been unoccupied for some months, and Mrs. Merrill is already there getting every thing in readiness for us against we return."
Ellen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looking up with a merry smile, she said, "Uncle Villars, I have a puzzle that is more difficult than the fox and the goose, and nobody can help me with it but you and Aunt Herbert."
"Well, what is it, Ellen?"