This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great, to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover, she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length _would_ come back to her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had just passed through her head that first morning, as she stood at her window, now came back again. Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home," when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to her mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their long-desired reward; — they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim, and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly relieved her. "What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she, one morning. Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or three times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still smiling, and answered, "Oh, Mamma, I was thinking of different things — things that I mean to do while you are gone." "And what are these things?" inquired her mother. "Oh, Mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand; I want to surprise you with them when you come back." A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced another subject. "Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?" "I do not know — I have never seen her." "How has that happened, Mamma?" "Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been very much confined to two or three cities, and your father's long and repeated absences made travelling impossible to me." Ellen thought, but she didn't say it, that it was very odd her father should not sometimes, when he _was_ in the country, have gone to see his relations, and taken her mother with him. "What is my aunt's name, Mamma?" "I think you must have heard that already, Ellen — Fortune Emerson." "Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister!" "So she is." "Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?" "She is only his half-sister — the daughter of his mother, not the daughter of his father." "I am very sorry for that," said Ellen, gravely. "Why, my daughter?"