The Wide, Wide World. Warner Susan

expression. However, though sadly disappointed, she submitted with a very good grace to what could not be helped. First setting down the little cat out of the basket it seemed to like so ill, and giving it one farewell pat and squeeze, she turned to the kind old lady who stood watching her, and throwing her arms around her neck, silently spoke her gratitude in a hearty hug and kiss.

      "Good-bye, ma'am," said she; "I may come and see them some time again, and see you, mayn't I?"

      "Indeed you shall, my darling," said the old woman, "just as often as you like;—just as often as you can get away. I'll make 'Brahm bring you home sometimes. 'Brahm, you'll bring her, won't you?"

      "There's two words to that bargain, mother, I can tell you; but if I don't, I'll know the reason on't."

      And away they went. Ellen drew two or three sighs at first, but she could not help brightening up soon. It was early—not sunrise; the cool freshness of the air was enough to give one new life and spirit; the sky was fair and bright; and Mr. Van Brunt marched along at a quick pace. Enlivened by the exercise, Ellen speedily forgot everything disagreeable; and her little head was filled with pleasant things. She watched where the silver light in the east foretold the sun's coming. She watched the silver changed to gold, till a rich yellow tint was flung over the whole landscape; and then broke the first rays of light upon the tops of the western hills—the sun was up. It was a new sight to Ellen.

      "How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed.

      "Yes," said Mr. Van Brunt, in his slow way, "it'll be a fine day for the field. I guess I'll go with the oxen over to that 'ere big meadow."

      "Just look," said Ellen, "how the light comes creeping down the side of the mountain—now it has got to the wood—Oh, do look at the tops of the trees! Oh! I wish mamma was here."

      Mr. Van Brunt didn't know what to say to this. He rather wished so too for her sake.

      "There," said Ellen, "now the sunshine is on the fence, and the road, and everything. I wonder what is the reason that the sun shines first upon the top of the mountain, and then comes so slowly down the side; why don't it shine on the whole at once?"

      Mr. Van Brunt shook his head in ignorance. "He guessed it always did so," he said.

      "Yes," said Ellen, "I suppose it does, but that's the very thing—I want to know the reason why. And I noticed just now, it shone in my face before it touched my hands. Isn't it queer?"

      "Humph!—there's a great many queer things, if you come to that," said Mr. Van Brunt philosophically.

      But Ellen's head ran on from one thing to another, and her next question was not so wide of the subject as her companion might have thought.

      "Mr. Van Brunt, are there any schools about here?"

      "Schools?" said the person addressed. "Yes, there's plenty of schools."

      "Good ones?" said Ellen.

      "Well, I don't exactly know about that. There's Captain Conklin's. That had ought to be a good 'un. He's a regular smart man, they say."

      "Whereabouts is that?" said Ellen.

      "His school? It's a mile or so the other side of my house."

      "And how far is it from your house to Aunt Fortune's?"

      "A good deal better than two mile, but we'll be there before long. You ain't tired, be you?"

      "No," said Ellen. But this reminder gave a new turn to her thoughts, and her spirits were suddenly checked. Her former brisk and springing step changed to so slow and lagging a one that Mr. Van Brunt more than once repeated his remark that he saw she was tired.

      If it was that, Ellen grew tired very fast. She lagged more and more as they neared the house, and at last quite fell behind, and allowed Mr. Van Brunt to go in first.

      Miss Fortune was busy about the breakfast, and as Mr. Van Brunt afterwards described it, "looking as if she could have bitten off a tenpenny nail," and indeed as if the operation would have been rather gratifying than otherwise. She gave them no notice at first, bustling to and fro with great energy, but all of a sudden she brought up directly in front of Ellen, and said—

      "Why didn't you come home last night?"

      The words were jerked out rather than spoken.

      "I got wet in the brook," said Ellen, "and Mrs. Van Brunt was so kind as to keep me."

      "Which way did you go out of the house yesterday?"

      "Through the front door."

      "The front door was locked."

      "I unlocked it."

      "What did you go out that way for?"

      "I didn't want to come this way."

      "Why not?" Ellen hesitated.

      "Why not?" demanded Miss Fortune, still more emphatically than before.

      "I didn't want to see you, ma'am," said Ellen, flushing.

      "If ever you do so again!" said Miss Fortune in a kind of cold fury. "I've a great mind to whip you for this, as ever I had to eat."

      The flush faded on Ellen's cheek, and a shiver visibly passed over her—not from fear. She stood with downcast eyes and compressed lips, a certain instinct of childish dignity warning her to be silent. Mr. Van Brunt put himself in between.

      "Come, come!" said he, "this is getting to be too much of a good thing. Beat your cream, ma'am, as much as you like, or if you want to try your hand on something else you'll have to take me first, I promise you."

      "Now don't you meddle, Van Brunt," said the lady sharply, "with what ain't no business o' yourn."

      "I don't know about that," said Mr. Van Brunt. "Maybe it is my business; but meddle or no meddle, Miss Fortune, it is time for me to be in the field, and if you ha'n't no better breakfast for Miss Ellen and me than all this here, we'll just go right away hum again; but there's something in your kettle there that smells uncommonly nice, and I wish you'd just let us have it and no more words."

      No more words did Miss Fortune waste on any one that morning. She went on with her work and dished up the breakfast in silence, and with a face that Ellen did not quite understand, only she thought she had never in her life seen one so disagreeable. The meal was a very solemn and uncomfortable one. Ellen could scarcely swallow, and her aunt was near in the same condition. Mr. Van Brunt and the old lady alone despatched their breakfast as usual, with no other attempts at conversation than the common mumbling on the part of the latter, which nobody minded, and one or two strange grunts from the former, the meaning of which, if they had any, nobody tried to find out.

      There was a breach now between Ellen and her aunt that neither could make any effort to mend. Miss Fortune did not renew the disagreeable conversation that Mr. Van Brunt had broken off. She left Ellen entirely to herself, scarcely speaking to her, or seeming to know when she went out or came in. And this lasted day after day. Wearily they passed. After one or two, Mr. Van Brunt seemed to stand just where he did before in Miss Fortune's good graces, but not Ellen. To her, when others were not by, her face wore constantly something of the same cold, hard, disagreeable expression it had put on after Mr. Van Brunt's interference—a look that Ellen came to regard with absolute abhorrence. She kept away by herself as much as she could; but she did not know what to do with her time, and for want of something better often spent it in tears. She went to bed cheerless night after night, and arose spiritless morning after morning, and this lasted till Mr. Van Brunt more than once told his mother that "that poor little thing was going wandering about like a ghost, and growing thinner and paler every day, and he didn't know what she would come to if she went on so."

      Ellen longed now for a letter with unspeakable longing, but none came. Day after day brought new disappointment, each day more hard to bear. Of her only friend, Mr. Van Brunt, she saw little. He was much away in the fields during the fine weather, and when it rained Ellen herself was prisoner at home, whither he never came but at meal times. The old grandmother was very much disposed to make much of her;