CHAPTER XIV.
PASSION, AND ITS FRUITS.
I have said that Charles Herbert's health had never been very strong. Hehad in consequence been a petted child, and though Mrs. Herbert neverfailed to rebuke any improper temper ever manifested by him, she neverchecked his mirth or playfulness, even when something of the spirit ofmischief entered into it. Thus, while Charles was one of the mostamiable and affectionate boys in the world, he was often, to a person asirritable as Ellen, one of the most provoking.
"What shall be done to the owner of this?" exclaimed Charles, as,running up the steps to the piazza in which Ellen was standing, aboutten days after her arrival, he held up a letter addressed in verylegible characters to "Miss Ellen Leslie," and what was more, incharacters which Ellen knew to be Mary's. "What shall be done to theowner of this?" Then answering his own interrogatory, "She shall speak aspeech, sing a song, or tell a riddle."
"Charles, give me my letter," said Ellen, trying to get it from him; buthe eluded her grasp, and springing on the bannister surrounding thepiazza, held it far beyond her reach, while he continued to answer herdemands with, "The speech, the song, or the riddle, Ellen. Surely, aletter is worth one of them, and such a long letter too, the lines areso close."
While he ran on thus, Ellen, who had commenced with entreaties,proceeded to commands, angry threatenings, and bitter accusations.
"I'll tell your mother, sir, that you took my letter from me; stole it,for it is stealing to take other people's things. I would not be somean; but I will see what she will say to you, sir; I will see if shewill let you take every thing away from me, and ill treat me, justbecause I have not anybody to take my part," and overcome by passion,Ellen burst into tears.
In an instant Charles was at her side. "Oh, Ellen, don't cry; here isyour letter. I am sure, Ellen, I did not mean to make you feel so bad bymy foolish play; take your letter, Ellen."
"I won't take it," said Ellen, passionately, "I won't take it. I knowwhy you give it to me now; you think your mother is coming, and youdon't want me to tell her; but I will, sir."
Ellen had not time to say more, for Mrs. Herbert stood before them.
"Ellen--Charles, what is the matter?"
"Charles took my letter, and would not give it to me, though I beggedhim, till he thought you were coming, and then he wanted me to take it,that I might not tell you; but I would not take it from him, for I thinkit is very hard if he is just to take my things, and keep them as longas he likes, and then give them back to me, and never get even ascolding for it," was Ellen's passionate reply.
"Mother, you know that I was only playing with Ellen," was theexplanation of Charles.
"It is not a kind spirit that finds sport in another's suffering,Charles."--Charles hung his head, pained and abashed by his mother'srebuke.--"There is your letter, Ellen. I think I may promise for Charlesthat he will never again pain you and displease his mother by suchthoughtless conduct, and we will forgive him now."
But Ellen's anger had been too thoroughly aroused to be so easilyappeased, and many hours had passed before her face lost its resentfulexpression, or her manners their cold reserve towards Charles.
Not far from Mrs. Herbert's house the lake set up into the land, forminga deep but narrow bay, and dividing her farm into two almost equalparts. Across this bay was laid a rude bridge only two planks in width,and with no defence but a slender hand-rail on the sides. It was ofcourse never used by horsemen, but was sufficiently safe forfoot-passengers. On the farther side of this bay lived the man whoattended to Mrs. Herbert's farming business. The dairy had also beenbuilt near his house, for the convenience of his wife, who attended toit. To this dairy was a favorite walk with the children, thegood-natured Mrs. Smith never failing to treat them to some of itsproducts.
Ellen had been about five weeks with her aunt when she and Charles setout together on this walk. The sun was only an hour high, yet it wasstill warm, and she sauntered slowly along. Charles had lately becomevery expert in walking on stilts. As this was a very recentaccomplishment, he was still very vain of it, and might generally beseen looking over the heads of people taller than himself. Especiallydid Charles pride himself on his ability to go on stilts over thebridge, which was in reality as safe for him as the dry ground, so longas he kept steadily on. On the afternoon of which we are speaking, hewas elevated as usual, and would at one time stride rapidly on beforeEllen, and then turn and come slowly back to her, and then wheel aroundand around her, ever, as he went and came, discoursing, not of what hecould do, but of what his brother George could, for proud as he might beof his own powers, Charles was always ready to acknowledge that Georgeexcelled him. Ellen's temper was perhaps a little influenced by thesultry weather. However this may be, she certainly did not feel verypleasantly, and had more than once during their walk evincedconsiderable impatience. Several times she begged that Charles would notwheel around her so, as it made her dizzy--that he would keep fartheroff, as she was afraid of his stilts striking her--and at length sheexclaimed, "Do, Charles, talk about something else besides what Georgecan do. I am sick of hearing of it. I wonder if there is any thing thatyou think he cannot do."
Charles was vexed at this disrespect to George, and there was a littlemalice in the reply, "Yes, I don't think George can write poetry, assome other people I know can. I found some poetry this morning," headded, looking archly at Ellen, "and I am sure you will like it when yousee it published in the G---- Mirror."
Ellen's face became crimson. Did any of my young readers ever attempt towrite poetry? If so, they have only to remember how carefully theyconcealed their first effort, how much abashed they were at the idea ofits being seen, how sensitive to the least appearance of ridicule, tounderstand the cause of Ellen's blush. Ellen had made more than oneeffort, but there was only one of her productions which she had everthought of sufficient importance to preserve. This was a piece addressedto Mary, which she had kept with the hope that she might one day gathercourage to send it to her. She had supposed it safe at the very bottomof the black silk bag which she carried on her arm, but she now began tofear, from the manner of Charles, that he had in some way got it. Inthis she was right. Ellen had not been so careful as she supposed inputting the paper into her bag, and afterwards, in drawing herhandkerchief out, it had fallen unperceived upon the floor. Here Charleshad found it. He read it, and saw by the handwriting it was Ellen's.Remembering the letter scene, he faithfully resolved not to tease herabout it, but after he should have shown it to George, to give it to herwithout saying a word of his acquaintance with the contents. Ellen hadvexed him now, however, and it was impossible to avoid making use ofsuch an excellent mode of punishment. Charles saw Ellen's blush, butthis proof of his power only stimulated him to fresh mischief. Hestopped, and taking off his cap drew the paper from the inner side ofthe crown lining, where it had been carefully placed to secure it fromthe observation of others. Ellen, in the mean time, desirous ofappearing quite unconcerned, passed on to the bridge, and was alreadyupon it when Charles overtook her, exclaiming, "Stop, Ellen: what areyou running off for? stop and hear it," which only made Ellen walk thefaster.
"Well," said Charles, "you have no idea what you are losing," and hecommenced repeating a piece of doggerel which had been manufactured bysome boy he had known in G----
"The gardens were full of bright young greens, The patches were full of corn and beans."
The artifice was successful. Ellen, relieved from her fears, turnedround with a smile to listen, and Charles, planting his stilts in such amanner that she could not pass him in either direction withoutapproaching nearer to the edge of the narrow bridge than she would liketo do, held a paper in his hand high above her reach, and read from itin a loud voice, and with much flourish and parade--
"To Mary.
Companion of my early years, Who shared my joys, who soothed my tears."
"Let me go, Charles," exclaimed Ellen, endeavoring in vain to pass.
"Who smiled when othe
rs' looks grew dark?"
"Let me pass," almost shrieked Ellen, mad with anger, and losing allcontrol of herself. "I will not stay to be laughed at," and she beganwith all her strength to push against one of the stilts.
"Oh! Ellen, just hear this line--'Whose patient love--'Stop, stop,Ellen, you'll throw me into the water," cried Charles hurriedly, as hefelt the stilt yielding to the efforts of Ellen, to whom increasinganger lent new vigor. Ellen pushed on, either not hearing or notheeding. Perhaps she had not time to stay her hand, for it was but amoment and the stilt had passed off the bridge. Then came a crashingsound, as the hand-rail yielded beneath the weight of Charles--then asharp cry of terror--a sudden plash--and Ellen stood alone upon thebridge, gazing in wild dismay upon the waters which had closed silentlyover the just now gay and animated boy.
But Ellen had not been the only spectator of this scene. The cry ofCharles had been echoed from the bank. There had been a quick rush ofsome one to the spot where Ellen stood. She was conscious of a plungeinto the water, on which her eyes were riveted with a stupifying,bewildering horror. How long it was she knew not--it seemed to hervery, very long--ere George, for it was he who made the rush and theplunge, was seen swimming to the shore, bearing with him a body, whichappeared to have no power to support itself, but rested a lifelessweight on his supporting arm. Ellen followed his every movement with afixed, wild stare--she saw him land, still clasping one arm around thatbody--then her Aunt Herbert met him, and helped him to carry it. Ellenhad not seen her before, but she now remembered that echoing cry, andknew that it had been hers. In all this time Ellen had uttered nosound--made no movement; but now Mrs. Herbert called her. Ellen drewnear--near enough to see that still, pale face, with the bright eyesclosed and the dripping hair hanging around it--to see the clinchedhand, in which a remnant yet remained of the worthless paper for whichshe had done this. Ellen covered her face with her hands and shuddered."Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, and her voice was gentle as ever, thoughmelancholy and full of pity, "he may live yet; at least let us not thinkof ourselves till we have done all we can for him. Run, Ellen, to Mr.Smith's--send him for the doctor--quick, quick, Ellen--then home--have afire made--blankets got ready--send the first person you meet to helpGeorge and me in bearing--God grant," she exclaimed, suddenlyinterrupting herself and letting her head drop for a moment on the coldface which rested on her bosom, "God grant we may not be bearing thedead!"
Ellen flew rather than ran to Mr. Smith's, repeating to herself on theway the words which had put new life into her, "He may live--he maylive." On the way she met a laborer, whom she sent forward to join heraunt and George. Her message to Mr. Smith delivered, she waited not toanswer one of the many questions urged upon her, she did not seem tohear them, but rushing back, passed the sad, slow procession about halfway, and had the fire made, the bed and blankets prepared, before theyarrived. Then came the agony for her. To see that lifeless body, as shewas called upon to help her aunt--to touch those cold limbs--to watchand wait in vain for some token of returning life--some mark that shewas not henceforward to regard herself as a murderer--this was agonyindeed.
Under Mrs. Herbert's direction all the usual restoratives for personsrescued from drowning were resorted to, and even before the physicianwho had been sent for appeared, some warmth was restored to the limbs,and a faint tinge of color to the cheeks. Oh the joy of that first hopeof success--the yet greater joy, when those lips, which they had fearedwere sealed forever, unclosed, and a feeble voice proceeded from themmurmuring "Mother."
"He is safe enough now," said the physician. Up to this moment Ellen hadnot made a sound expressive of her feelings. She was deadly pale, andhad any one touched her, they would have found that she was scarcelyless cold than the limbs she was chafing; but she was perfectly still.Now, however, as the physician's welcome words reached her ear, sheclasped her hands together, uttered one cry, and would have fallen, hadnot George caught her. She was taken to her own apartment, and thedoctor having given her a composing draught, ordered her to be putimmediately to bed. Notwithstanding this, fever came on, and beforemorning Mrs. Herbert was called from her now quietly sleeping boy to thedelirious Ellen. Ellen's constant cry during this delirium was, "I havekilled him--I have killed him," repeated in every variety of tone, nowlow and plaintive, now wild and phrensied. At length, towards morning,she fell asleep.
Mrs. Herbert having seen that Charles was still quiet, and havingobtained George's promise to call her if he awoke and inquired for her,returned to Ellen's room, and lay down beside her. Ellen continued tosleep for several hours, at first uttering low moans, and muttering toherself, as if disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but afterwards becomingquite still, and sleeping easily and naturally. Mrs. Herbert had arisen,and was seated beside her when she awoke, which she did with a start.She gazed for a moment at her aunt with some wildness in hercountenance, but as Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her, this expression passedaway, and putting out her hand to her, she said, "Aunt Herbert, I havehad such a dreadful dream. I dreamed that I killed Charles. It is nottrue," she exclaimed quickly, "is it?" and Ellen raised herself on herelbow, and looked searchingly into her Aunt's face.
"No, my dear Ellen--Charles is almost well again."
"_Almost_ well again," she repeated, and then was silent for someminutes, during which she lay with her eyes closed. At length tearsbegan to steal down her cheeks, and in a low, tremulous voice, Ellensaid, "I remember all now, Aunt Herbert: I hoped it was a dream; but Iremember it all now, and I know that if you and George had not beenwalking that way just then, Charles would have been drowned, and Ishould have killed him--have killed your child--my own dear cousinCharles. Aunt Herbert, do you not wish I had never come to you?"
"So far from it, dear Ellen, that the more proof I have of the strengthof this evil in your nature, the more rejoiced I am that by coming to meyou have given me the power of helping you to subdue it. You were theoccasion of very bitter suffering to me yesterday evening, Ellen; andyet, now that God in His mercy has restored my child, I can be thankfuleven for this lesson to you, if it influence you as I hope and believeit will--if you learn from it to dread anger as the beginning of murder.Human passion, Ellen, is like a raging sea, to which only the infiniteGod can say, 'hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther, and here shall thywaves be stayed.'"
Ellen remained quite still. Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks; butshe did not, as was usual with her when agitated, weep violently. Sheseemed softened, subdued, humbled.
After some minutes had passed thus, she said, "Aunt Herbert, it seems asif I never could forget yesterday evening; and as if, so long as Iremembered it, I never could be angry again. But I have so often thoughtI was cured, that I am afraid; do pray for me, Aunt Herbert--pray to Godthat I may never forget."
Mrs. Herbert was accustomed to pray with her children morning andevening, and she now knelt by Ellen's bed, and in the simple language ofa child revealing its feelings to a father, poured out before God allthose feelings of which Ellen's heart and hers were full. Fervently didshe thank Him for having given them back, as if from the very grave, herbeloved boy; for having saved the dear child beside her from thewretchedness of having taken away the life of another; and earnestly,solemnly did she pray that he would cast out from her that evil spirit,which, if it were indulged, would destroy her soul's life--would takefrom her that eternal life which the blessed Saviour had come into theworld to reveal as the portion of all those who loved God and obeyed Hiscommands.
Mrs. Herbert did not suffer either Ellen or Charles to rise on this day.When they met the next morning, nothing could be more touching than thehumility with which Ellen entreated the forgiveness of Charles, and thegenerosity with which he declared that it was all his own fault, andthat he never would tease her again.
CHAPTER XV.
A PLEASANT CONCLUSION.
I Fear my story has seemed hitherto sad and gloomy to my young readers;but this could not be avoided, for over the fairest scenes and happiestcircumstances, one such unco
ntrolled temper as Ellen's will spreadsorrow and gloom. This temper was no longer uncontrolled, and what hassince passed of her life is in beautiful and delightful contrast withits earlier portion. I say her temper was no longer _uncontrolled_. Hernature was as sensitive as ever--as quick to feel joy or pain, pleasureor displeasure; but Ellen had learned to rule these feelings, and not tobe ruled by them--not to speak or act as they dictated, till satisfiedthat the speech or the action was right.
I cannot deny myself the pleasure of relating one or two scenes, whichmay illustrate the effect of this change upon the happiness of Ellen'sfuture life.
The bloom of spring and the sultriness of summer had given place to thevaried foliage and cool bracing breeze of November. It was a bright butcool day, and a cheerful fire blazed in the open fireplace of Mrs.Herbert's parlor. Around it were seated all her own family, and Mr. andMrs. Wallace, who were spending the day with her. All the ladies of theparty had some employment for the fingers. Mrs. Wallace had brought herknitting, Mrs. Herbert was sewing on a shirt, and on Ellen's lap lay ahalf-stitched wristband, which had just been put down at the request ofCharles, that she might sew a ball for him. Mr. Wallace loved children,and was very observant of them. For some minutes he had silently watchedEllen, interested by the patience with which she had listened to themanifold directions of both her cousins, and once, when her work seemednearly completed, had taken it all out, to make some alterations whichhad occurred to George as desirable. As she gave Charles the ball andresumed her wristband, Mr. Wallace said, "Ellen, do you remember at whattime you came here?"
"Yes, sir; in May last."
"But what time in May?"
"I do not know what day of the month, sir," said Ellen, looking up withsome surprise at her friend.
"It was the tenth of May," said Mr. Wallace; "and now do you know whatday of the month this is?"
"The tenth of November, sir, I believe."
"You are right, it is the tenth, and your six months of trial arefinished. You can now fairly judge between your home here and in H----;and as I shall be obliged to return to H---- in a week or two, on thesame business which caused my visit there in the spring, if you desireto return, we can again be fellow-travellers. What say you to it,Ellen?"
Ellen glanced rapidly at her Aunt Herbert, and meeting her eyes fixed onher earnestly, tenderly, turned hers as quickly to the floor. Sheremained silent, but her cheek, now red, now pale, and the quiveringmotion of her lips, showed her agitation.
"Speak, my love," said Mrs. Herbert, laying her hand on Ellen's, "speakjust as you feel. You have a perfect right to choose your home, andwhatever the choice may be, none can complain."
"Oh, Ellen," began Charles, who did not altogether approve of hismother's neutrality, but a look from Mrs. Herbert silenced him.
Ellen opened her lips more than once as if to speak, but seemed unableto utter a word. Suddenly she turned again to her aunt, and passing herarms around her neck, hid her face upon her bosom. Mrs. Herbert foldedher arms around her, and in a voice which in spite of herself faltered,asked, "Do you stay with us, Ellen?"
"Yes," said Ellen, looking up with a face on which there were bothsmiles and tears.
George seized her hand and shook it warmly, while Charles shouted forjoy; and in the exuberance of his delight, threw his ball first to theceiling and then across the room, making it pass in its second transitso near Mrs. Wallace's head that the old lady started and dropped herknitting.
"And what shall I tell Mary, Ellen?" asked Mr. Wallace.
"That she must come to me, sir."
"I shall say that you have not forgotten her."
"Forgotten Mary!" exclaimed Ellen; "oh no--tell her I never thought somuch of her goodness to me or loved her so dearly as I do now. Oh, howhappy I shall be when she comes!--but I cannot leave Aunt Herbert," andEllen again put her arm around her aunt's neck.
"You are my daughter now, and daughters, you know, do not leave theirmothers willingly even for their sisters," said Mrs. Herbert, with anaffectionate smile.
Ellen returned the smile as she answered, "Yes, and that is not all."
"What more is there, Ellen?" asked Mr. Wallace.
"Why, I first learned to be happy here, sir; and I am afraid if I wentaway, that--that--"
"That you would forget the lesson?" inquired Mr. Wallace.
"Yes, sir."
"There is no danger of that, I think, Ellen--it is a lesson you havelearned very thoroughly," said Mrs. Herbert; "and it is one," she added,"not easily forgotten."
Something more than a year had now elapsed since Mr. Villars' departurefor the South, and still his return was delayed. He now wrote that hehoped by the next spring to bring the business which had taken him thereto a prosperous conclusion. The property which he was endeavoring torecover had risen in value of late, and should he be successful, Maryand Ellen would possess fortune sufficient for all their reasonablewants. But as Mr. Villars, though hopeful, was not certain of success,he was still unwilling that Mary should leave H. for her Aunt Herbert's,thus relinquishing the employment she had already received there, whilefor the same reason he rejoiced that Ellen was under the care of one socapable of giving to her a thoroughly accomplished education as was Mrs.Herbert.
Winter passed away; spring again brought flowers and perfume and balmyairs to all--and to Ellen bright hopes. Mr. Villars had written latelymore sanguinely than ever of his success, at any rate, when he wrotelast, in a week the lawsuit on which all depended would be decided. Hewould then return, and then Mary and Ellen would meet. You have seenthat during the year of their separation a great change had taken placein Ellen's character, and you will readily believe that there had alsobeen some alteration in her personal appearance. She was now fourteen,and she had grown tall and womanly in figure, while there was far moreof the glad-heartedness of early childhood shining in her face, thancould have been seen there a year before. Her heavy indolent movements,too, were replaced by a springy, elastic step. In a word, Ellen washappy, and that happiness showed itself in words, and looks, and tones.No sullen resentment clouded her brow, no angry passion made her voiceharsh, no bitter self-reproach for unjust thoughts and unkind speecheslay heavy upon her heart; all looked kindly on her, and Ellen no longerfeared that she was not loved.
It was about three weeks after the reception of that letter from Mr.Villars to which we have alluded, that returning from an afternoon'sramble with her cousin, Ellen, on entering the piazza, saw through theopen parlor window a gentleman's head. Her heart beat quickly--it mightbe her Uncle Villars; she approached nearer the window, and lookedanxiously in--there was a lady, but too tall for Mary. Ellen forgot thatMary was seventeen, and had had a year in which to grow, since she sawher. The lady turned her head--the next moment the sisters were in eachother's arms. "My own dear Mary!" "My darling Ellen!" were their onlywords--their feelings, who shall describe?
"And, Uncle Villars, you can live in your own house again, now, and havepoor Mrs. Merrill back--can you not?" asked Ellen, after Mr. Villars hadannounced that he had gained the object of his southern journey.
"Yes, Ellen, for it is no longer necessary for me to be so careful ofmy expenditures, since you and Mary no longer want any assistance fromme. The house has been unoccupied for some months, and Mrs. Merrill isalready there getting every thing in readiness for us against wereturn."
Ellen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looking up with a merrysmile, she said, "Uncle Villars, I have a puzzle that is more difficultthan the fox and the goose, and nobody can help me with it but you andAunt Herbert."
"Well, what is it, Ellen?"
"Why, how am I to stay with Aunt Herbert and George and Charles, and yetgo with you and Mary?--One thing is certain, I cannot part with any ofyou."
"I have thought of this myself, Ellen, and I have a plan for theaccomplishment of your wishes, if you can win your Aunt Herbert'sconsent to it."
"What is it?" exclaimed Ellen, eagerly.
"That she should remove to H.
, which was her own early home, and whichoffers much greater advantages for the education of her sons and theirentrance into life, than their present situation."
"That would be delightful," said Ellen.
The day after this conversation, Mrs. Herbert was walking with Mr.Villars over to the Dairy Farm, as the residence of Farmer Smith wascalled. In passing the bridge she related to him the circumstancesattending the fall and rescue of Charles--the great distress of Ellen,and the unremitting and successful efforts she had since made toovercome that evil nature which had so nearly produced such fatalconsequences.
"Since that time," continued Mrs. Herbert, "though I have seen Ellen'stemper tried, and her anger excited, I have only known that it was so bythe sudden sparkle of the eye, or the quick flush of the cheek. Sheknows the danger of yielding for a moment, and you can see on suchoccasions that her whole nature is aroused to resist the evil, to subduethe passion. Of late these conflicts with herself are very rare, for shegrows every day more gentle and forbearing. I cannot express to you, Mr.Villars, how dear she has become to me. To her cousins she is a patient,affectionate sister, to me a tender and devoted daughter; our home willlong be darkened by her departure. How can I let her go from us--yet howcan I ask you and her sister to give her up!"
Mrs. Herbert spoke with deep emotion, and Mr. Villars felt that therecould not be a more fortunate moment for his proposal. When Mrs. Herbertfirst heard it, she shook her head, and looking around her said, "Icannot part with this place, Mr. Villars, it has too many endearingassociations."
"If by parting with it you mean selling it, there is no necessity foryour doing so; let Mr. Smith, whom you know to be an honest man,continue to farm it as he now does: you can even spend part or the wholeof every summer here, for travelling costs little now. The board which,as the guardian of Mary and Ellen, I should feel bound to pay you, wouldmeet any difference in the expense of your establishment here and inH----; and the advantages which your care would ensure to them, I wouldendeavor to repay to your boys in the direction of their education andthe advancement of their objects in life."
And Mrs. Herbert consented, and Ellen's puzzle was solved.
It was decided that Mrs. Herbert should remove in the following October.In the mean time Mary and Ellen would both remain with her, while Mr.Villars would return to H----, to make the necessary arrangements forher reception there. Mrs. Merrill had been delighted at being recalledas Mr. Villars' housekeeper; her happiness was complete when she learnedthat he was again to live alone. Mr. Villars took care, however, thatMrs. Herbert's house should be so near his own that no weather shouldprevent daily intercourse between her family and himself. In this house,when I next visited H----, I found my young friends established.
Ellen I soon discovered was as great a favorite with her youngcompanions, and as welcome a guest at their gatherings, as her sisterMary. Calling at Mrs. Herbert's one morning, I found Ellen and Marydressed for a walk, which I insisted they should not give up on accountof my visit; so after chatting a while with me, they went out. Afterthey reached the door Ellen turned around, saying earnestly, "Remember,Uncle Villars."
"Yes, gipsy," said Mr. Villars playfully; "and do you remember that Imean to say no to your very next request, just to prove that I have awill of my own."
Ellen did not seem much disturbed by this threat, for she laughed gaylyas she closed the door.
"I suspect, sir," said I, "that it is difficult to tell which has mostinfluence now, the sun or the wind," alluding to the names which he hadformerly given the sisters.
"No--no," replied he, "the truth is, they are both suns now, and theconsequence is, that they make me do just what they please."
THE END.
Aunt Kitty's Tales Page 55
