"They think religion is a strange melancholy thing," said Ellen to herself as she went to bed; "I must not give them reason to think so I must let my rushlight burn bright I must take care I never had more need!"
And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her head on the pillow.
Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let Ellen have her way for a while, and begged that she might return to her old room and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not hear of it. Ellen had disobeyed her orders, she said; she must take the consequence.
"She is a bold little hussy, to venture it," said Mr. Lindsay, "but I do not think there is any naughtiness in her heart."
"No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only those preposterous notions she has got from somebody or other."
Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen privately what she did the first thing after breakfast.
"Practise on the piano for an hour," she said.
"Couldn't you do it at any other time?"
"Yes, Sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother likes to have me with her."
"Let it be done then, Ellen, in future."