The Wide, Wide World. Warner Susan

flushed high with pleasure.

      "I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other marks here too, but they are mine. These are for you."

      "Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."

      He knew from her face what she meant—not the marks.

      The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were resting from a long walk up and down the deck.

      "What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he, smiling.

      "Oh, candies," said Ellen. "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask you to take some. Will you have some, sir?"

      "Thank you. What are they?"

      "Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best."

      He took one.

      "Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen. "I don't care for them in the least."

      "Then I am more of a child than you—in this, at any rate—for I do care for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with sweets."

      "Then take some for to-morrow, sir. Please do!" said Ellen, dealing them out very freely.

      "Stop, stop!" said he, "not a bit more. This won't do. I must put some of these back again. You'll want them to-morrow, too."

      "I don't think I shall," said Ellen. "I haven't wanted to touch them to-day."

      "Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and you've been bonnetless all day. What's the reason?"

      Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal.

      "What's the matter?" said he, laughing. "Has any mischief befallen your bonnet?"

      "No, sir," said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and higher. "It was laughed at this morning."

      "Laughed at! Who laughed at it?"

      "Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter and her maid."

      "Did they? I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they think was the matter with it?"

      "I don't know, sir. They said it was outlandish, and what a figure I looked in it."

      "Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me see."

      Ellen obeyed.

      "I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets, it is true," said he, "but I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and suitable—nothing in the world! So that is what has kept you bare-headed all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what she approved, because some people that haven't probably half her sense choose to make merry with it?—is that right?" he said gently, "Is that honouring her as she deserves?"

      "No, sir," said Ellen, looking up into his face, "but I never thought of that before. I am sorry."

      "Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is right, that's enough for you; let them laugh!"

      "I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more," said Ellen, tying it on, "but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry too."

      "I am sorry for that," said her friend gravely. "Have you quite got over it, Ellen?"

      "Oh yes, sir, long ago."

      "Are you sure?"

      "I am not angry now, sir."

      "Is there no unkindness left towards the people who laughed at you?"

      "I don't like them much," said Ellen. "How can I?"

      "You cannot of course like the company of ill-behaved people, and I do not wish that you should; but you can and ought to feel just as kindly disposed towards them as if they had never offended you—just as willing and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer Miss—what's her name?—some of your candies with as hearty goodwill as you could before she laughed at you?"

      "No, sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them again."

      "Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do, if you were in earnest in the resolve you made this morning. 'If ye forgive unto men their trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will my Father forgive your trespasses!'"

      He was silent, and so was Ellen for some time. His words had raised a struggle in her mind, and she kept her face turned towards the shore, so that her bonnet shielded it from view; but she did not in the least know what she was looking at. The sun had been some time descending through a sky of cloudless splendour, and now was just kissing the mountain tops of the western horizon. Slowly and with great majesty he sank behind the distant blue line, till only a glittering edge appeared, and then that was gone. There were no clouds hanging over his setting, to be gilded and purpled by the parting rays, but a region of glory long remained, to show where his path had been.

      The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only one was thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had disappeared Ellen turned her face, bright again, towards her companion. He was intently gazing towards the hills that had so drawn Ellen's attention a while ago, and thinking still more intently, it was plain; so though her mouth had been open to speak, she turned her face away again as suddenly as it had just sought his. He saw the motion, however.

      "What is it, Ellen?" he said.

      Ellen looked again with a smile.

      "I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me."

      "Well?" said he, smiling in answer.

      "I can't like Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe as well as if they hadn't done so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing had been the matter, and be as kind and polite to them as if they had been kind and polite to me."

      "And how about the sugar-plums?"

      "The sugar-plums! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "Miss Margaret may have them all if she likes—I'm quite willing. Not but I had rather give them to you, sir."

      "You give me something a great deal better when I see you try to overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn't rest till you get rid of every bit of ill-will that you feel for this and any other unkindness you may suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know who can help you. I hope you have asked him, Ellen?"

      "I have, sir, indeed."

      "Keep asking Him, and He will do everything for you."

      A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side, leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew light from the south, so that they did not feel it at all.

      The light gradually faded away till only a silver glow in the west showed where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight was gently stealing over all the bright colours of sky, and river, and hill; now and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores.

      "You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her—"I see you are. A little more patience, my child; we shall be at our journey's end before a very great while."

      "I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I am tired. We don't go in the steamboat to-morrow, do we, sir?"

      "No, in the stage."

      "Shall you be in the stage, sir?"

      "No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together."

      "Oh,