"Grahame, do not heed her," interposed her husband, laughing; "she fancies there is something extraordinary about Ellen, which she can not comprehend; and I feel certain that imagination has been playing with my wife's sober judgment, and that our little niece is a very ordinary child, only rather more sad and quiet than is usual at her age, which may be easily accounted for by her early trials and constant ill-health. So I solve what my wife pronounces a mystery. She has so few fancies, however, that I do not quarrel with this, for it has all the charm of novelty." There were more than usual subjects of thought on the minds of all the young inmates of Oakwood, before they went to sleep that night. Percy's, Herbert's, and Emmeline's were all peculiarly happy and peaceful. Caroline's were not so agreeable. Praise lavished on others never gave her pleasure: the question would always come, Why did she not receive it too? It was very hard that she so seldom received it, and self-love was always ready to accuse her parents of some degree of partiality rather than herself of unworthiness. But these thoughts only came when she was alone; the moment she heard her father's voice, or met her mother's smile, they fled from her till they were pertinaciously recalled. Ellen thought mostly of Herbert. She had been as curious as the rest to know where he had been, though she had not said so much about it. But that it was for some good, kind deed she had never doubted. "No wonder Mary loves him so much," she said internally; "but how can I ever hope he will love one so often naughty as I am. If Edward be so much superior, what must Herbert be? How I wish I were his sister, and then he would love me, deserving or not."