"She is a good child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, Mamma, and that is what I wanted to say. I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could help being polite."
"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved child."
"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."
"That's exactly what I think, Mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.
Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline had not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the house-work grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head, that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her down-stairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing, and studying; her very heart sunk with her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning- wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how much yarn and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do; she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might shine bright;" and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if over-pressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such things; Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was held the more precious, and used the more carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.
John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The only other event that broke the quiet course of things (besides the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry, both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was sure felt much, though, according to his general custom, he said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.
The winter passed and the spring came. One fine, mild, pleasant afternoon, early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans, which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.
"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't. All these to do!"
"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth.
"Where's your aunt?"