"I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour in the day, nor a half hour, that the want of you does not come home to my heart; and I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This separation is a very hard thing to bear. But the hand that has arranged it does nothing amiss; we must trust Him, my daughter, that all will be well. I feel it is well; though sometimes the thought of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing committed to his care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh! my daughter, never forget to pray; never slight it. It is almost my only refuge, now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often — how often — through years gone by — when heart-sick and faint — I have fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the sorrows of life. And keep this letter, that, if ever you are like to forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again. "My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I drink it mechanically, and set down my cup, remembering only that the dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no more. My child — my child! — words are poor to express the heart's yearnings, — my spirit is near you all the time. "Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you went, came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me. He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear Ellen, had for its immediate cause your proper and ladylike behaviour in the store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that, though I have seen him so many times, I am still perfectly ignorant of his name. "We set sail Monday, in the _England_. Your father has secured a nice state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on the broad ocean, with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and probably much too sick to look at those. Never mind that; the sickness is good for me. "I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first conveyance. "And now, my dear baby — my precious child — farewell! May the blessings of God be with you! — Your affectionate mother, "E. MONTGOMERY." "You ought to be a good child, Ellen," said Alice, as she dashed away some tears. "Thank you for letter me see this; it has been a great pleasure to me." "And now," said Ellen, "you feel as if you knew Mamma a little." "Enough to honour and respect her very much. Now, good-bye, my love; I must be at home before it is late. I will see you again before Christmas comes."