"Come, come," said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, "I will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, Ellen?"
But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or three times before in the course of the conversation, and she wept now rather violently.
"What is the matter, Ellen?"
"Because," sobbed Ellen, thoroughly roused, "I love them dearly! and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot forget them, and never shall; and I can never have better friends never! it's impossible Oh, it's impossible."
Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first, except to soothe her; but when she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast, he whispered
"It is right to love these people if they were kind to you; but, as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to it. Forget that you were American, Ellen you belong to me; your name is not Montgomery any more, it is Lindsay; and I will not have you call me 'uncle;' I am your father you are my own little daughter, and must do precisely what I tell you. Do you understand me?"
He would have a "yes" from her, and then added "Go and get yourself ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh."
Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words; with great effort she controlled herself, and obeyed him.
"I shall do precisely what he tells me, of course," she said to herself, as she went to get ready; "but there are some things he cannot command; nor I neither I am glad of that! Forget, indeed!"
She could not help loving her uncle; for the lips that kissed her were very kind as well as very peremptory; and if the hand that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no more inclined to despite his will than he to permit it, the harmony between them was perfect and unbroken.