MRS. ANSTRUTHER'S ADVICE.

A YEAR slipped quickly away, as years do when one is happy and healthy. Hannah had not been so happy for a long time, for though she had taught herself to be content to live without any one or anything to love, it was an unnatural life, and she had been growing harsh and bitter of spirit without knowing it.

Ellen was as happy as a creature so timid and repressed could be, and even came out of her shell sometimes as the peaceful months went by, and was sometimes seen to smile. Once she was actually heard to laugh at the pranks of a kitten which had strayed into the yard, and which, finding himself a welcome guest, condescended to remain with his hosts.

Poor Hannah, who hated cats, welcomed the little wretch because Ellen took so kindly to it, and that first good hearty laugh was occasioned by kit's persevering attempts to make Hannah notice him. She was working, and he jumped on her lap; she pushed him off. He mounted the table and sat before her, purring loudly. She drove him away. He got into her work-basket unperceived, so that when she put in her hand for her scissors, she encountered the warm soft thing, and exclaimed—

"Bother the kitten, he's everywhere at once!" as she tumbled him out on the floor.

Finally, having sulked in a corner for some little time, kit rushed out, tail erect, eyes shining and ears laid back, scrambled up Hannah's back and held on by her shoulders, looking as wild and saucy as only a spoilt pet kitten can look. Hannah tried in vain to dislodge him, and at last called to Ellen—

"Do take him away, Ellen! I declare I think he's possessed."

And Ellen laughed till she cried, and had not strength enough to seize master kit.

As the time passed, Hannah sometimes felt that she ought to begin teaching Ellen something. But, like many other active-minded women, she much preferred doing the work of her house with her own capable hands to seeing it less well done by a beginner. Moreover, she disliked the trouble of teaching—things were very pleasant as they were, and Ellen needed a pleasant time in which to forget the sadness of her childhood. So she let things go on, turning a deaf ear to Mrs. Collins, who really could not understand how any one, having at hand a child bound to obey, should go on trotting up and down, doing every little thing herself, and spoiling that charity foundling, who would certainly forget herself and set up for a lady.

Of this last misfortune there was as yet no outward sign. Poor Ellen! She basked in the unwonted sunshine of kindness, and loved Hannah heartily.

One change only did Hannah make, when August came round for the second time, since Ellen left Armine's Trust. She decided that the girl should go and come alone to and from her daily school. It was not far, and she could go the whole way by very quiet streets. Ellen was taller, and walked with a firmer step. She had quite lost the terrified, wide-eyed gaze with which she had at first regarded her fellow mortals, and there was no danger of any evil-disposed urchin grabbing her hat.

For all her improvement, Ellen did not like the change at all. But Mrs. Cartwright laughed at her, and encouraged Hannah to persist. And no harm happened to her, so she became reconciled to her lonely walks, after a time.

How long Hannah would have gone on thus letting the child amuse herself all day while she worked hard I do not know. But early in October Mrs. Anstruther, whom she had not seen since that June day, now a year and a half ago, wrote to her.

"6, — Square, Kensington.

"DEAR HANNAH,

"I am at home again at last; come and tell me about the child. Bring her with you, if possible. I want you about my lace.

"Yours, "G. ANSTRUTHER.

"P.S.—Wednesday, at one o'clock."

"Here's a treat for you, Ellen Mrs. Anstruther—you remember her, don't you? She says she has just come home, and wants me about her lace, and I am to bring you. You never saw such a beautiful house as that! Just wait till you see the white figures in the hall, statues they call them; there's a boy taking a thorn out of his foot, and two boys wrestling, and a boy with wings and a bow and arrow. And then the carpets! You sink in them like moss. It will be quite a sight for you."

"But you know I shall be at school, Mrs. Rule dear."

Hannah had at one time thought of telling the child to call her Aunt Hannah.

"But, after all, I'm not her aunt," she thought, so she never told her to call her that, or anything else. And Ellen picked up "Mrs. Rule" from the neighbours, and added "dear" on her own account.

"As to school, that's very easily managed. Just you run to Mrs. Cartwright and tell her you won't be with her to-morrow—this is Tuesday, and Mrs. Anstruther names Wednesday."

"But I had rather go to school."

"You're afraid of Mrs. Anstruther? Indeed, Ellen, you're afraid of most things. But you must get over that some time, and Mrs. Anstruther's just the kindest lady I know, and I knew her when she was younger than you are, Ellen. Oh, we'll all have to go when 'she' tells us. Put on your hat and cape now, and go to Mrs. Cartwright."

Ellen sighed, but obeyed, presently coming back with her hat crooked and her cape wrong side out.

"I'm going now, Mrs. Rule dear," said she, in a melancholy tone.

Hannah laid hold of her and gave her a tender little shake.

"And a pretty figure you are to go anywhere. Oh, Ellen, Ellen, when will you use your eyes?"

She straightened the hat and turned the cape, and then gave the child a hearty kiss.

Ellen looked up, with her eyes full of tears.

"She 'won't' want to send me back to Armine's Trust? You won't let her?"

"She has no notion of such a thing—and you're my child, you know."

"Your very own, just as kit is mine?"

"Well, no, not quite like that. Kit is a beast, and you're a child—you have a soul, you know, and kit hasn't. You belong to God, as kit belongs to you, and so do I. But He gives you to me to take care of."

"Just like Moses, that Pharaoh's daughter gave to his mother to bring up for her. But when I'm brought up, I'll be yours still—there's no one like you."

"If you don't go now, it will be dark, and you won't like that, my brave young woman. Away with you—I'll have tea ready when you come home."

When the time came to set out next day, Hannah took special pains to make Ellen look her very best. Her hair was now a nice length, and was of a really pretty reddish-brown colour and very thick. Her face had lost the pasty, sallow look it used to have, she had a white skin and a pink pair of cheeks, and held herself erect. The expression of her face, and indeed of her whole person, was so changed that no one would have known her for the same child. She looked alive, and she looked happy. The miserable, shrinking, shuffling little creature, Ellen August, was quite lost in this nicely-dressed, pleasant-looking girl, Ellen Rule.

"There's Mrs. Collins tapping on the window to you, Mrs. Rule dear."

"She may tap, then. She only wants to know where we're going; and we've no time to waste. We'll tell her in the evening. Poor soul! Curiosity's like a disease with her. Why, here she comes after us! What is it, Mrs. Collins? I'm in haste."

"Are you going—"

"I haven't time to tell you where I'm going. You come to tea to-night, and I'll tell you all about it."

Mrs. Collins smiled indulgently, saying, "You're always in a hurry, Mrs. Rule! But I'll come round if possible." And she retreated, well pleased.

"Why does she say 'if possible,' when she's certain to come?" inquired Ellen, who was beginning to make up for lost time by asking perpetual questions.

"Well, if she falls downstairs and breaks her leg in the mean time, she won't come, you know."

"No—that's true! Do you like Mrs. Collins, Mrs. Rule dear? 'I' don't!"

"To my shame I say it, I don't like her as well as I ought."

"Why ought you? She isn't really a nice woman, I think."

"She's our neighbour, though."

Ellen meditated, and then said, "Is that why you're always kind to her?"

"That's why I always 'ought' to be. As you know, I give her a snappy word many a time. Here comes the 'bus—it's too far to walk the whole way."

"Are we really to go in the 'bus?" said Ellen, in great glee. It was quite an event to her, and she felt as important as if entering her own carriage.

In due time they arrived at Mrs. Anstruther's fine house, and were admitted. The servant asked Hannah to wait a moment till he found out if his mistress were ready, and Hannah took the opportunity to point out the boy with the thorn in his foot to Ellen. But, to her amusement, Ellen looked shocked.

"Why has he no clothes on?" she said.

"Oh, he's only stone, you see! Stone statues never do, or but seldom, have clothes."

"Then I don't like stone statues," was Ellen's decided reply.

"My mistress is in the morning-room, Mrs. Rule. You can go up now."

So up they went, and found the lady sitting before her davenport, on which lay piles of envelopes, and heaps of circulars, which she was folding and popping into the envelopes with wonderful quickness. But she got up and came to meet them.

"So here you are, Hannah! I am glad to see your good old face again. Have you wondered what had become of me? I've been to America—sit down, will you not?—But do you mean to tell me that this is the child I brought you?—Mary—Mary, was it not?"

"Ellen, ma'am; and we call her Ellen Rule."

"Ellen—yes, to be sure—Ellen August. Well, I should not have known her. You have worked wonders, Hannah."

"Indeed, then, ma'am, I've only left her in peace."

Ellen looked up and smiled.

"She and I are very fond of each other," Hannah went on.

"Does she go to school?"

"Yes, ma'am, and is coming on very well. Mrs. Cartwright—that's her teacher—says that you were very kind to her once."

"Cartwright? I remember the name, I think, but one meets with so many. All these societies work away, but there never seem to be fewer who are in need of help. It would depress me dreadfully, if I had time to think of it. And things go so wrong! I belong to a society for sending children to America—orphans, of course—and soon after I last saw you, we heard that some of these children were not being kindly used, and some of us went out to see. Such a quantity of trouble as we had, you would not believe! And now we must keep a person out there, for nothing but to see that the children get fair play. Oh, Hannah, you are the very person we want—should you not like to go?"

Ellen clasped her hands in mute dismay, but Hannah's answer relieved her.

"No, ma'am; I'm too old to take to new ways. And I'm too ignorant for such work as that. You need not look at me, Ellen; I'm not thinking of it."

"Oh, you could take Ellen with you! However, if you do not like the idea, never mind. Come to my dressing-room, Hannah; I want to show you my unfortunate flounce. I wore it several times in New York—the point flounce, you know—and a big stupid man put his foot through it. And what do you think he said?—

"'I'm afraid I've torn your trimmings, miss!'

"Think of my point being called trimmings? I am afraid part of it is past even your mending, Hannah. You stay here, little Ellen; here is a book with pictures to amuse you."

"But—but—" cried Ellen, miserably.

"I'll come back very soon," said Hannah. "Don't you frighten yourself, now."

"Is she as nervous as ever, Hannah?" Mrs. Anstruther asked, as she shut the door of her dressing-room.

"Oh, not at all, ma'am! At first, the poor child was afraid of everything, and most, of me. One day I said, 'Make haste, child!' rather sharp, and down she fell on the floor, all in a quake. I thought she'd faint. Indeed, it's been a great help to me to learn to speak gently, but she's not a bit afraid of me now."

"I never saw such an improvement! You must have a genius for being nice with children. Hannah, you would be such a 'splendid' matron for Armine's Trust. That tiresome Mrs. Marner is to retire soon on a pension, and I could have you appointed. Old Peters—if that was his name—died lately, so now we can get rid of her."

"Ah, Miss Geraldine, you're just your old self, the same as when you were no bigger than my little Ellen! You were never without a plan for everybody."

"If all my plans turned out as well as that of getting you to take poor little Ellen, I should be a very successful person! But I must confess that some of them turn out great failures. But we can only try!"

"Yes, ma'am. But you're a great lady, and both rich and clever. Now, if I were to try these things that you speak of, I would most likely be one of your failures, ma'am. I have my own place, and a neighbour or two that would miss me, and Ellen to care for. And if I left it to go to America, or to Armine's Trust, 'that' little place would be empty, and maybe I couldn't fill the big place. For it don't follow, because I can do pretty well for little Ellen, that I can manage a whole school-ful of girls."

"Hannah, you're a rock of sense! Now, shall you be offended if I offer you some help for Ellen's dress?"

"Yes, I will, ma'am. I have all I need."

"Oh, you proud woman! Well, if ever you want help, you know where to come for it. Do you mean to bring her up to be a teacher?"

"No, ma'am; I think she'll be happier just to learn all that I know, of work, and cooking, and washing—by-and-by. She has no turn for book-learning, beyond just the common."

"Then you have begun, I suppose, to teach her at home? She ought to be a great help to you."

"Well, indeed, ma'am, I have taught her nothing yet. Somehow, I let her look on—she is very young still."

Mrs. Collins would have been highly pleased could she have heard the lecture Mrs. Anstruther gave her old servant. That Ellen would grow up idle, selfish, and good for nothing; that she would never be a really handy woman unless she began young; that Hannah was much to blame, and must at once follow Mrs. Anstruther's advice. To all this Hannah listened with respectful attention, and quietly promised to think of it.

"Now, you had better do more than think, Hannah, for I shall keep my eye upon you. I shall come sometimes to see how you are getting on. I have no 'idea' of letting my good Hannah bring up this girl to be a heart-break to her by-and-by. Well, here is the lace; you had better take it all, for it wants a looking over. Now I must run, Hannah, for I am to lunch with a friend, and go with her to a committee—The Seamstress Aid Society—so good-bye. But I shall come and see that you are doing right about Ellen."

"Please, ma'am, how many committees do you belong to?"

"I really—do not exactly know. Ah I see! You think I shall never have time to pay you that visit. But I shall! You know I always get my own way."

"Mostly, indeed, ma'am; and, indeed, 'tis a kind way, so there's no harm done if you do get it. Come, Ellen, let us get home, and see what's the matter with this beautiful lace."

They were soon walking along the broad pavement of the square.

"Well, Ellen, did you enjoy your visit?"

"I don't think I did," Ellen replied. "Mrs. Anstruther's voice made me remember that day when they took me to the board-room, and then she bundled me up in a big shawl and carried me off. Ah, it was a good day for me really, but I nearly died of the fright. And when she looked at me, I felt so like that old time again that I looked down for the red frock."

"You'll come to be fond of her yet. No one could help it. She was one of the three little ladies in Mrs. Bulteel's nursery, and always the brightest little soul, with a great mind to have her own way, but so coaxing in getting it, that one came to think it was the best."

"What's become of the other two, Mrs. Rule, dear?"

"Miss Erminia married a lord—Lord Cannock—and she's out in India with him. Miss Phyllis is dead; she was the prettiest of them, but she never had good health."

"Why did you leave them, when you were so fond of them?"

"I didn't leave them, but I got too old for nurserymaid. You see, there was a grand nurse, and I was under her, but it was only a place for a girl. My poor Fanny had it after me. Then I went into the kitchen, as I wished to learn cooking. And afterwards the mistress got me a fine place as cook. But I never was so happy as in the nursery. I did well enough until mother died, and Fanny—if poor Fanny 'is' dead. Ellen, never you forget what I say to you, don't lead a selfish life. You see, you have no one but me, and maybe some day you'll be left alone as I was. But mind you try to be kind and helpful; it's miserable, besides being wrong, to live all for one's self. Why, what's the matter?"

For Ellen was stumbling along as if she did not see where she was going, which was the exact truth, as one does not see well when tears are running down one's cheeks, and one cannot find one's pocket-handkerchief.

"What is it, Ellen? Are you feeling sick, dear?"

"Oh, I hope—I hope I may die before you! I never had any one to love me before, and 'tis only your goodness makes you love me—no one ever will again. To be left alone! Oh, I—"

"Come, now, my child! Here's my handkerchief, dry your eyes; I can't have people staring at us. When we get home, we'll talk it over; but you must not behave like this in the street."

Ellen, rather quenched by this address, dried her eyes and succeeded in quieting herself. She was soon safe in the 'bus, where she entirely recovered her self-control. They reached home, and Hannah set things going for the kind of "tea" that worthy Mrs. Collins delighted in. All being in a fair state of progress, Hannah sat down and looked at Ellen, who stood in the window fondling Kit.

"Ellen, child, come here."

"Are you angry with me?" Ellen said, creeping towards her.

"No, dear, no. You'll soon learn more sense than to stop and cry in the public streets, which is a thing respectable folk, like you and me, must not do. But what we were talking of that set you crying—about being selfish, you know—that's what I want to speak about again. You didn't mean it so, Ellen, but what you said sounded to me a bit selfish."

"It's because I love you so, that I would rather die before you do," said Ellen, slowly.

"I'm sure that's how you see it, dear; but really, you know, 'tis more like loving yourself. I shall be an old woman, when you are still young and strong, and you would care for me as I do for you now. Don't you see, honey, that I would be less able to do alone then, than you would? I'm very bad at talking, but you think it over, and you'll see. Moreover, 'tis all in God's hands, and it seems to me it may be wrong to be wishing about it, one way or the other. But, indeed, I'm very ignorant."

Soon afterwards Mrs. Collins arrived, and proceeded to cross-question Hannah about her excursion that day. Ellen seldom talked much when Mrs. Collins was present, but on this occasion she was more silent than ever, for her mind was quite full of the thoughts that Hannah had set before it. She heard the two voices without hearing what they said, till roused by Mrs. Collins raising hers to a complaining cry, while Hannah's sounded less soft and purring than usual.

"And I will say, Mrs. Rule, that me, that has been your neighbour all these years, has a right to take it very ill to have my honesty called in question at this time of day."

"Nonsense and folly!" said Hannah. "I don't question your honesty at all. What I said was that it would not be honest of me. And no more it would."

"A body's eyes can't hurt a thing, Mrs. Rule. If you think your precious lace would be the worse for showing it to me, it must be that you think I'd harm it—steal a bit, maybe!"

"Nonsense!" said Hannah again.

"I'll leave it to the child here, if she has sense enough to take it in. Ellen, I asked her to show me the beautiful lace, and where 'tis torn—the lace she brought home to-day. By her account, pounds and pounds' worth of lace and fine 'broidery passes through her hands, and though I'm longing to see them, never once did she show me as much as a penny edging. And now she's boasting about this lace of Mrs. Anstruther's, and I mentioned that I'd like to see it, and says she, I make it a rule always, I never do that. I never showed things I had charge of to any one, and I never will; it wouldn't be honest! Did you ever hear anything more insulting?"

"What's the use of asking Ellen? She knows I never do show anything to any one. These things are very valuable and much thought of, and they don't belong to me; so I don't think that I've any right to make a show of them. Let that be an end of it, Mrs. Collins."

Mrs. Collins, who had very imprudently promised her next door neighbour a particular description of the "very next fine lace Mrs. Rule showed her,"—as if she had seen other laces, but had not examined them closely enough to describe them—was exceedingly angry. To describe an imaginary lace would not do, as Mrs. Hall had been a lace-maker in her youth, and knew all about lace.

"An end let it be, Mrs. Rule!" she said, rising and shaking the crumbs off her apron. "Another bit would choke me, after the language I have received. I will wish you a good evening, ma'am."

Hannah laughed.

"Open the door for her, Ellen, child. Good evening, Mrs. Collins; you'll think better of me to-morrow, and it was a comfort that we didn't quarrel till you'd had your tea."

Ellen let the disgusted Mrs. Collins out, and shut the door, saying—

"You have 'my' leave to stay away. Isn't she cross, Mrs. Rule, dear?"

"Poor old soul!" said Hannah. "Next to a good tea I think she likes a quarrel."