industrious, and happy; not a care to distress you, not a trouble to take away your colour; but now Charles would not know you again." "Charles!" thought Ellen, while a strange feeling, not unmingled with indignant comparison, swelled her heart, and gave a transient colour to her cheek. "What is Charles to me? Why am I always to be teased about him? They will teach me to hate, instead of loving him." "Well, Ellen, may I suppose you will take my advice?" "Certainly, Ma'am," said Ellen, with a deep sigh; "but," added she, hesitating, "you know, Ma'am, Mr. Mordaunt said he would be here this evening. You would not wish me--it would look very particular, very rude." "Never mind that. Come, you say you have done all you had to do in the dairy, so put on your hat, take your work, and come and dine with us like a good girl, as you used to be; you can leave word you were obliged to go out, and the sooner you let him see you are determined to avoid him the better." Ellen dared not refuse; she hesitated some excuse about her father's dining alone, which Mrs. Ross obviated by saying he would only run home, and take his dinner, and out again, and would not want her. Waiting, therefore, while poor Ellen put on her hat, and bathed her eyes, she dragged her away with her, and kept her all day at the Parsonage. Nay, under pretence of finishing their work, she would not suffer either Ellen or Joanna to stir out, though the weather was beautiful. Late in the evening Mr. Ross came in; he spoke with such particular kindness, and in so soothing a tone to Ellen, that the tears, which she had with difficulty restrained all day, ran down her cheeks, and she hastily rose, under pretence of looking at the moon, and went to the open window: there leaning her head over the window-seat, into which the jasmine crept, she hoped the torrents of tears she was shedding might fall unobserved; but the good Ross, who had followed her, and now stood at a small distance from her, perceived, by her air and action, that she was weeping, though no one else noticed it; for Ellen's was "Mute, silent sorrow, free from female noise, Such as the majesty of grief destroys." He was distressed to see her sorrow, and gently approaching, he took her hand, (while she, half starting, turned her head aside) and said, "My dear Ellen, I lament to see you so dejected; assure yourself, we love you as our own child, and would in all things consult your happiness. But reflect, my dear, on the change a few short weeks have produced: this man, this Mordaunt; nay, blush not, Ellen; for who can doubt it is on his account you weep--I own him elegant in person, polished in manners, "Complete in person and in mind, With all good grace to grace a gentleman!"