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or two tears rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman who had been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending down his face towards hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my little friend?"
Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted, this in some little measure relieved her.
"What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and perhaps we can find some help for it."
"Oh no, you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly.
"Well, let us see," said he, "perhaps I can. What is it that has troubled you so much?"
"I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen.
"Your mother! Lost her!—how?"
"She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I do?"
"Have you left your mother in the city?"
"Oh yes, sir! I left her this morning."
"What is your name?"
"Ellen Montgomery."
"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"
"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."
"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"
"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to me as if it was for ever."
"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"
"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."
"Do you know why He sends it? He is the God of love—He does not trouble us willingly—He has said so;—why does He ever make us suffer? do you know?"
"No, sir."
"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it away—perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter—or else He hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.
"How do you know that you are not?"
"Because I do not love the Saviour."
"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"
"I am afraid not, sir."
"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"
"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."
"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"
"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared or thought about Him?"
Ellen was silent.
"Is it so?—would you, do you think?"
"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help it?"
"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to you, 'My daughter, give Me thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"
Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words, clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone—
"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"
"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."
"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."
"You pray to Him, don't you?"
"Yes, sir; but not so."
"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;—we are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what He should do for him?—he answered, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"
A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.
"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought to make you love Him with all your heart?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you please."
"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, sir;—everything, I think."
"I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.
"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"
Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.
"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was careless about them?"
"No indeed, sir."
"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or pain where your good was concerned;—she would sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours!"
Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said nothing.
"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help