"Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for mony a day will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn?"
"No, dear Mrs. Allen, I'll thank you. Did you know my mother?"
"Wha suld if I didna? she was brought up in my arms, and a dear lassie. Ye're no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; ye're mair bonny than her; and no a'thegither sae frack; though she was douce and kind too."
"I wish," Ellen began, and stopped.
"My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve what disposes a' things for us; and he isna weel pleased when His children fash themselves wi' His dispensations. He has ta'en and placed you here for your ain gude, I trust I'm sure it's for the gude of us a' and if ye haena a' things ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him! dinna forget that, my ain bairn."
Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old Scotch-woman, and when she left her, set herself to follow her advice. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts, and smooth her ruffled feelings, in using this quiet time to the best advantage. At the end of half an hour she felt like another creature, and began to refresh herself with softly singing some of her old hymns.
The argument which was carried on in the parlour sunk at length into silence without coming to any conclusion.
"Where is Miss Ellen?" Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that came in.
"She is up in her room, Ma'am, singing."
"Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door."