She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she ventured a bold question, to prove whether her mother's practice would not contradict her theory. But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and, with a gush of tears, Ellen sank her head again upon her bosom. She had no more to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the _right_ of the matter, though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular case. "I do, indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen." "Oh, Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do, Mamma?" With a voice that strove to be calm, Mrs. Montgomery answered, " 'I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me.' " And after a minute or two, she added, "He who says this has promised, too, that he will 'gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.' " The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still, on her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's eyes, and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three- quarters of an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the knocker could gain attention. "What is that, Mamma?" said Ellen, starting up. "Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love." Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full of sundry packages. "Oh, Mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they are!" The man placed his burden on the table and withdrew. "Oh, Mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now, if I only had a light — this is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling — yes, it is, here's the handle on top; and this is my dear workbox — not so big as the desk, nor so little as the dressing-box. Oh, Mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?" There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for _tea_. Ellen was capering about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight of the tea things, and looked very grave. "Well, Mamma, I'll tell you what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the tea the first thing, before I untie a single knot; won't that be best, Mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop. Don't you think that is wise, Mamma?