"Ay — I daresay — that's the way of it. You can show not one bit of goodness or pleasantness to the person that does the most for you, and has all the care of you — but the first stranger that comes along, you can be all honey to them, and make yourself out too good for common folks, and go and tell great tales how you are used at home, I suppose. I am sick of it!" said Miss Fortune, setting up the hand-irons and throwing the tongs and shovel into the corner in a way that made the iron ring again. "One might as good be a step-mother at once, and done with it! Come, mother, it's time for you to go to bed." The old lady rose with the meekness of habitual submission, and went up-stairs with her daughter. Ellen had time to bethink herself while they were gone, and resolved to lose no time when her aunt came back in doing what she had to do. She would fain have persuaded herself to put it off. "It is late," she said to herself; "it isn't a good time. It will be better to go to bed now, and ask Aunt Fortune's pardon to-morrow." But conscience said, "_First_ be reconciled to thy brother." Miss Fortune came down stairs presently. But before Ellen could get any words out, her aunt prevented her. "Come, light your candle and be off — I want you out of the way; I can't do anything with half a dozen people about." Ellen rose. "I want to say something to you first, Aunt Fortune." "Say it, and be quick; I haven't time to stand talking." "Aunt Fortune," said Ellen, stumbling over her words — "I want to tell you that I know I was wrong this morning, and I am sorry, and I hope you'll forgive me." A kind of indignant laugh escaped from Miss Fortune's lips. "It's easy talking; I'd rather have acting. I'd rather see people mend their ways than stand and make speeches about them. Being sorry don't help the matter much." "But I will try not to do so any more," said Ellen. "When I see you don't, I shall begin to think there is something in it. Actions speak louder than words. I don't believe in this jumping into goodness all at once." "Well, I will try not to, at any rate," said Ellen, sighing. "I shall be very glad to see it. What has brought you into this sudden fit of dutifulness and fine talking?" "Miss Alice told me I ought to ask your pardon for what I had done wrong," said Ellen, scarce able to keep from crying; "and I know I did wrong this morning, and I did wrong the other day about the letter; and I am sorry, whether you believe it or no." "Miss Alice told you, did she? So all this is to please Miss Alice. I suppose you were afraid your friend Miss Alice would hear of some of your goings on, and thought you had better make up with me. Is that it?" Ellen answered, "No, Ma’am," in a low tone, but had no voice to say more.