With the assurance from the other that she would show her plenty of ways, they set off down the lane — Ellen with a secret fear of being seen and called back — till they had gone some distance, and the house was hid from view. Then her pleasure became great. The afternoon was fair and mild, the footing pleasant, and Ellen felt like a bird out of a cage. She was ready to be delighted with every trifle; her companion could not by any means understand or enter into her bursts of pleasure at many a little thing which she of the black eyes thought not worthy of notice. She tried to bring Ellen back to higher subjects of conversion. "How long have you been here?" she asked. "Oh, a good while," said Ellen — "I don't know exactly; it's a week, I believe." "Why, do you call that a good while?" said the other. "Well, it seems a good while to me," said Ellen, sighing — "it seems as long as four, I am sure." "Then you don't like to live here much, do you?" "I had rather be at home, of course." "How do you like your aunt Fortune?" "How do I like her?" said Ellen, hesitating — "I think she's good-looking, and very smart." "Yes, you needn't tell me she's smart — everybody knows that; that ain't what I ask you — how do you _like_ her?" "How do I like her?" said Ellen, again — "how can I tell how I shall like her? I haven't lived with her but a week yet." "You might just as well ha' spoke out," said the other, somewhat scornfully; "do you think I don't know you half hate her already? and it'll be whole hating in another week more. When I first heard you'd come, I guessed you'd have a sweet time with her." "Why?" said Ellen. "Oh, don't ask me why," said the other, impatiently, "when you know as well as I do. Every soul that speaks of you, says 'poor child' and 'I'm glad I ain't her.' You needn't try to come cunning over me. I shall be too much for you, I tell you." "I don't know what you mean," said Ellen. "Oh, no, I suppose you don't," said the other, in the same tone — "of course you don't; I suppose you don't know whether your tongue is your own or somebody's else. You think Miss Fortune is an angel, and so do I — to be sure she is!" Not very pleased with this kind of talk, Ellen walked on for a while, in grave silence. Her companion meantime recollected herself; when she spoke again it was with an altered tone. "How do you like Mr. Van Brunt?" "I don't like him at all," said Ellen, reddening. "Don't you!" said the other surprised — "why, everybody likes him. What don't you like him for?" "I don't like him," repeated Ellen. "Ain't Miss Fortune queer to live in the way she does?" "What way?" said Ellen. "Why, without any help — doing all her own work, and living all alone, when she's so rich as she is." "Is she rich?" asked Ellen. "Rich! I guess she is! she's one of the very best farms in the country, and money enough to have a dozen help, if she wanted 'em. Van Brunt takes care of the farm, you know?" "Does he?" said Ellen.