So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till, gently drawn by the same hand, she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the light of the fire was all that was left to them. Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep; her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new possessions and bright projects — more of her mother. She was thinking how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her cheek lay — she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than anything else in life could be — she thought she had rather even die so, on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world — she felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she broke the silence. "Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me?' " "It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of his children." "But then, Mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how _can_ I be one of his children? I do love you a great deal better: how can I help it, Mamma?" "You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a sigh, "except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of his people — to take away the heart of stone, and give them a heart of flesh." "But is mine a heart of stone, then, Mamma, because I cannot help loving you best?" "Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than I am; and if your heart were not hardened by sin, you would see him so; it is only because you do not know him that you love me better. Pray, pray, my dear child, that he would take away the power of sin, and show you himself; that is all that is wanting." "I will, Mamma," said Ellen, tearfully. "Oh, Mamma, what shall I do without you?" Alas! Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question — she had no answer. "Mamma," said Ellen, after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him at all unless I love him _best?_" "I dare not say that you can," answered her mother, seriously. "Mamma," said Ellen, after a little, again raising her head, and looking her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do _you_ love him _better than you do me?_"