"It was then he came up the river, you know, Sir; and don't you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat, who was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavoured to befriend? I had forgotten it entirely till a minute or two ago." "Miss Margaret Dunscombe!" cried George Walsh, "what kind of a person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up the river?" "I don't know, nor care," said Margaret. "Somebody she picked up somewhere." "It was Mr. George Marshman!" "It wasn't." "Uncle George!" exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the group her cousin had quitted; — "_my_ uncle George? Do you know uncle George, Ellen?" "Very much — I mean — yes," said Ellen. Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It seemed to bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it, too. Mrs. Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remembered very well her son's speaking of her, and was very glad to find who it was. And now, Ellen thought, she would surely see him again some time. The next day they left Ventnor. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry to lose her new friend, and begged she would come again "as soon as she could." All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told her she must give him a large place in her heart, or he should be jealous of her "strange friend;" and Alice was charged to bring her whenever she came to see them. The drive back to Carra-carra was scarcely less pleasant than the drive out had been; and home, Ellen said, looked lovely; — that is, Alice's home, which she began to think more her own than any other. The pleasure of the past ten days, though great, had not been unmixed; the week that followed was one of perfect enjoyment. In Mr. Humphreys' household there was an atmosphere of peace and purity, that even a child could feel, and in which such a child as Ellen throve exceedingly. The drawing lessons went on with great success; other lessons were begun; there were fine, long walks, and charming sleigh-rides, and more than one visit to Mrs. Vawse; and what Ellen, perhaps, liked the best of all, the long evenings of conversation, and reading aloud, and bright fire-lights, and brighter sympathy, and intelligence, and affection. That week did them all good, and no one more than Ellen. It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune's, and begin her old life there. She went on the evening of the day John had departed. They were at supper. "Well!" said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, "have you got enough of visiting? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn't wanted, for my part." "I haven't, Aunt Fortune," said Ellen. "She's been nowhere but what's done her good," said Mr. Van Brunt; "she's reely growed handsome since she's been away." "Grown a fiddlestick!" said Miss Fortune. "She couldn't grow handsomer than she was before," said the old grandmother, hugging and kissing her little grand-daughter with great delight; — "the sweetest posie in the garden she always was!"