The house in George street was large and pleasant. To Ellen's great joy, a pretty little room opening from the first landing-place of the private staircase was assigned for her special use as a study and work-room, and fitted up nicely for her with a small bookcase, a practising piano, and various etceteras. Here her beloved desk took its place on a table in the middle of the floor, where Ellen thought she would make many a new drawing when she was by herself. Her work-box was accommodated with a smaller stand near the window. A glass door at one end of the room opened upon a small iron balcony; this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a very particular treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she arranged and arranged her little sanctum till she had all things to her mind, and it only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. "I will have that, too, some of these days," she said to herself; and resolved to deserve her pretty room by being very busy there. It was hers alone, open indeed to her friends when they chose to keep her company; but lessons were taken elsewhere in the library, or the music-room, or more frequently her grandmother's dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs. Lindsay or Lady Keith was always present.
Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole family. Not so much, however, Lady Keith's plaything as her pride; while pride had a less share in the affection of the other two, or rather, perhaps, was more over-topped by it. Ellen felt, however, that all their hearts were set upon her, felt it gratefully, and determined she would give them all the pleasure she possibly could. Her love for other friends, friends that they knew nothing of, American friends, was, she knew, the sore point with them; she resolved not to speak of any of those friends, nor allude to them, especially in any way that should show how much of her heart was out of Scotland. But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor Ellen to keep. She was unaccustomed to concealments; and in ways that she could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome truth would come up, and the sore was not healed.
One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone, and quietly stretched out on her bed, very naturally Ellen's thoughts went back to the last time she had a headache at home, as she always called it to herself. She recalled with a straitened heart the gentle and tender manner of John's care for her; how nicely he had placed her on the sofa; how he sat by her side bathing her temples, or laying his cool hand on her forehead, and once, she remembered, his lips. "I wonder," thought Ellen, "what I ever did to make him love me so much, as I know he does!" She remembered how, when she was able to listen, he still sat beside her, talking such sweet words of kindness, and comfort, and amusement, that she almost loved to be sick to have such tending, and looked up at him as at an angel. She felt it all over again. Unfortunately, after she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see how she was, and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not rest till she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to tell, she did her best to get off from it, but she did not know how to evade questions; and those that were put to her indeed admitted of no evasion.
A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was remarked one morning at breakfast that Ellen was very straight, and carried herself well.
"It is no thanks to me," said Ellen, smiling, "they never would let me hold myself ill."
"Who is 'they'?" said Lady Keith.
"My brother and sister."
"I wish, George," said Lady Keith, discontentedly, "that you would lay your commands upon Ellen to use that form of expression no more. My ears are absolutely sick of it."
"You do not hear it very often, aunt Keith," Ellen could not help saying.
"Quite often enough; and I know it is upon your lips a thousand times when you do not speak it."