It was a good-sized, cheerful-looking kitchen. A fine fire was burning in the enormous fire-place; the white walls and ceiling were yellow in the light of the flame. No candles were needed, and none were there. The supper-table was set, and, with its snow-white tablecloth and shining furniture, looked very comfortable indeed. But the only person there was an old woman, sitting by the side of the fire, with her back towards Ellen. She seemed to be knitting, but did not move nor look round. Ellen had come a step or two into the room, and there she stood, unable to speak or to go any further. "Can that be Aunt Fortune?" she thought; "she can't be as old as that!"
In another minute a door opened at her right, just behind the old woman's back, and a second figure appeared at the top of a flight of stairs which led down from the kitchen. She came in, shutting the door behind her with her foot; and indeed both hands were full, one holding a lamp and a knife, and the other a plate of butter. The sight of Ellen stopped her short.
"What is this? and what do you leave the door open for, child?" she said.
She advanced towards it, plate and lamp in hand, and setting her back against the door, shut it vigorously.
"Who are you? and what's wanting?"
"I am Ellen Montgomery, Maam," said Ellen timidly.
"What?" said the lady, with some emphasis.
"Didn't you expect me, Maam?" said Ellen. "Papa said he would write."
"Why, is this Ellen Montgomery?" said Miss Fortune, apparently forced to the conclusion that it must be.
"Yes, Maam," said Ellen.