"If Aunt Fortune should be in a bad humour — and say something to vex me — but I'll not be vexed. But it will be very hard to help it; — but I _will not_ be vexed; — I have done wrong, and I'll tell her so, and ask her to forgive me; — it will be hard — but I'll do it — I'll say what I ought to say, and then, however she takes it, I shall have the comfort of knowing I have done right." "But," said conscience, "you must not say it stiffly and proudly; you must say it humbly and as if you really felt and meant it." "I will," said Ellen. She paused in the shed, and looked through the window, to see what was the promise of things within. Not good; her aunt's step sounded heavy and ominous; Ellen guessed she was not in a pleasant state of mind. She opened the door — no doubt of it — the whole air of Miss Fortune's figure, to the very handkerchief that was tied round her head, spoke displeasure. "She isn't in a good mood," said Ellen, as she went upstairs to leave her bonnet and cape there; — "I never knew her to be good-humoured when she had that handkerchief on." She returned to the kitchen immediately. Her aunt was busied in washing and wiping the dishes. "I have come home rather late," said Ellen, pleasantly; — "shall I help you, Aunt Fortune?" Her aunt cast a look at her. "Yes, you may help me. Go and put on a pair of white gloves, and a silk apron, and then you'll be ready." Ellen looked down at herself. "Oh, my merino! I forgot about that. I'll go and change it." Miss Fortune said nothing, and Ellen went. When she came back, the things were all wiped, and as she was about to put some of them away, her aunt took them out of her hands, bidding her "go and sit down!" Ellen obeyed, and was mute; while Miss Fortune dashed round with a display of energy there seemed to be no particular call for, and speedily had everything in its place, and all straight and square about the kitchen. When she was, as a last thing, brushing the crumbs from the floor into the fire, she broke the silence again. The old grandmother sat in the chimney corner, but she seldom was very talkative in the presence of her stern daughter. "What did you come home for, to-night? Why didn't you stay at Mr. Humphreys'?" "Miss Alice didn't ask me." "That means, I suppose, that you would if she had?" "I don't know, Ma’am; Miss Alice wouldn't have asked me to do anything that wasn't right." "Oh, no! — of course not! — Miss Alice is a piece of perfection; everybody says so; and I suppose you'd sing the same song who haven't seen her three times." "Indeed I would," said Ellen; "I could have told that in one seeing. I'd do anything in the world for Miss Alice."