"What is it?" said Ellen, slowly coming towards her. "Don't you see what it is?" said Miss Fortune, still holding it out. "But who is it from?" said Ellen. "Your mother." "A letter from Mamma, and not to me!" said Ellen, with changing colour. She took it quick from her aunt's hand. But her colour changed more as her eye fell upon the first words, "My dear Ellen," and turning the paper, she saw upon the back, "Miss Ellen Montgomery." Her next look was to her aunt's face, with her eye fired, and her cheek paled with anger, and when she spoke her voice was not the same. "This is _my_ letter," she said, trembling; "who opened it?" Miss Fortune's conscience must have troubled her a little, for her eye wavered uneasily. Only for a second, though. "Who opened it?" she answered; "_I_ opened it. I should like to know who has a better right. And I shall open every one that comes, to serve you for looking so; — that you may depend upon." The look, and the words, and the injury together, fairly put Ellen beside herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and livid and trembling with various feelings, — rage was not the only one, — she ran from her aunt's presence. She did not shed any tears now; she could not; they were absolutely burnt up by passion. She walked her room with trembling steps, clasping and wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking what _could_ she do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and unable to see anything but misery before her. She walked, for she could not sit down; but presently she felt that she could not breathe the air of the house; and taking her bonnet, she went down, passed through the kitchen, and went out. Miss Fortune asked where she was going, and bade her stay within doors, but Ellen paid no attention to her.