The Wide, Wide World. Warner Susan
Oh, I forgot you've not seen that."
"No, Mamma what do you mean?"
"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but I thought it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so while you were on an exploring expedition round the store, I chose and furnished one for you."
"Oh Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands, "what shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say anything. Mamma, it's too much."
So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till, gently drawn by the same hand, she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the light of the fire was all that was left to them.
Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep; her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new possessions and bright projects more of her mother. She was thinking how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her cheek lay she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than anything else in life could be she thought she had rather even die so, on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world she felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she broke the silence.
"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me?' "
"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of his children."
"But then, Mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how can I be one of his children? I do love you a great deal better: how can I help it, Mamma?"
"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a sigh, "except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of his people to take away the heart of stone, and give them a heart of flesh."
"But is mine a heart of stone, then, Mamma, because I cannot help loving you best?"
"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than I am; and if your heart were not hardened by sin, you would see him so; it is only because you do not know him that you love me better. Pray, pray, my dear child, that he would take away the power of sin, and show you himself; that is all that is wanting."
"I will, Mamma," said Ellen, tearfully. "Oh, Mamma, what shall
I do without you?"
Alas! Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question she had no answer.
"Mamma," said Ellen, after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him at all unless I love him best?"
"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother, seriously.
"Mamma," said Ellen, after a little, again raising her head, and looking her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do you love him better than you do me?"
She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she ventured a bold question, to prove whether her mother's practice would not contradict her theory.
But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and, with a gush of tears, Ellen sank her head again upon her bosom. She had no more to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the right of the matter, though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular case.
"I do, indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."
"Oh, Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do, Mamma?"
With a voice that strove to be calm, Mrs. Montgomery answered, " 'I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me.' " And after a minute or two, she added, "He who says this has promised, too, that he will 'gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.' "
The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still, on her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's eyes, and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three- quarters of an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the knocker could gain attention.
"What is that, Mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.
"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."
Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full of sundry packages.
"Oh, Mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they are!"
The man placed his burden on the table and withdrew.
"Oh, Mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now, if I only had a light this is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling yes, it is, here's the handle on top; and this is my dear workbox not so big as the desk, nor so little as the dressing-box. Oh, Mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"
There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for tea. Ellen was capering about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight of the tea things, and looked very grave. "Well, Mamma, I'll tell you what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the tea the first thing, before I untie a single knot; won't that be best, Mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop. Don't you think that is wise, Mamma?
But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the tea quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point very gracefully, and went to bed.
She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out was not to be thought of, and it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her new possessions; and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear, she set about it. She first went through the desk and everything in it, making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of all it contained; then the dressing-box received a share, but a much smaller share, of attention; and lastly, with fingers trembling with eagerness, she untied the pack- thread that was wound round the workbox, and slowly took off cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last was removed. The box was of satinwood, beautifully finished, and lined with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care it should want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order.
"Oh, Mamma, how beautiful! Oh, Mamma, how good you are! Mamma, I promise you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a great while every number, I do think; and needles, oh, the needles! what a parcel of them! and, Mamma, what a lovely scissors! Did you choose it, Mamma, or did it belong to the box?"
"I chose it."
"I might have guessed it, Mamma, it's just like you. And here's a thimble fits me exactly! and an emery-bag! how pretty! and a bodkin! this is a great nicer than yours, Mamma yours is decidedly the worse for wear; and what's this? oh, to make eyelet-holes with, I know. And oh, Mamma! here