She often thought, and sometimes looked, what she had once said to him, "I wish I could do something for _you_, Mr. John;" but he smiled at her, and said nothing. At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home, and in many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The thought had been kept from weighing upon her by the thousand pleasures that filled up every moment of his stay; she could not be sad then, or only for a minute; hope threw off the sorrow as soon as it was felt; and she forgot how time flew. But when his visit was over, and she went back to her old place and her old life at her aunt's, the old feeling came back in greater strength. She began again to count the days and the weeks; to feel the bitter unsatisfied longing. Tears would drop down upon her Bible; tears streamed from her eyes when she prayed that God would make her mother well and bring her home to her quickly — oh! quickly! — and little Ellen's face began to wear once more something of its old look. CHAPTER XXXIV. The cloud overhead. One day in the early part of September, she was standing in front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the road. With her back against the open gate, she was gently moving it to and fro, half-enjoying the weather and the scene, half-indulging the melancholy mood which drove her from the presence of her bustling aunt. The gurgling sound of the brook a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her ear than Miss Fortune's sharp tones. By-and-by a horseman came in sight at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What made Ellen look at him so sharply? Poor child! she was always expecting news. At first she could only see that the man rode a white horse; then, as he came nearer, an odd looped-up hat showed itself — and something queer in his hand — what was it? who is it? — the old newsman! Ellen was sure. Yes — she could now see the saddle-bags, and the white horsetail set in a handle, with which he was brushing away the flies from his horse; the tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow withal. He was a venerable old figure, with all his oddities; clad in a suit of snuff brown, with a neat, quiet look about him, he and the saddle-bags and the white horse jogged on together as if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other. In an ecstasy of fear and hope, Ellen watched the pace of the old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the gate. Her breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she was trembling from head to foot. _Would_ he stop, or was he going on? Oh! the long agony of two minutes! He stopped. Ellen went towards him. "What little gal is this?" said he. "I am Ellen Montgomery, Sir," said Ellen, eagerly, "Miss Fortune's niece — I live here." "Stop a bit," said the old man, taking up his saddle-bags; "Miss Fortune's niece, eh? Well, I believe as I've got somethin' for her — somethin' here. Aunt well, eh?" "Yes, Sir."