This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen — weeks to which she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled away, in busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother. The passions, which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasions, were, for the present, kept effectually in check. She could not forget that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long time at least; and this consciousness, always present to her mind, forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her. Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power to overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise; so that in spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and daughter enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew that sorrow was at hand. All this while there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman's servant did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time he came with some fine larks; next was a superb grouse; then woodcock again. Curiosity strove with astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind. "Mamma," she said, after she had admired the grouse for five minutes, "I cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is." "I am sorry for that," replied Mrs. Montgomery, gravely, "for I see no possible way of your doing it." "Why, Mamma, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name is? He must know it." "Certainly not; it would be very dishonourable." "Would it, Mamma? — why?" "This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name; he wrote his note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not to disclose it. Don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked him, the first time he came? Now this shows the old gentleman wishes to keep it secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very unworthy return for his kindness." "Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; but would it be _dishonourable_, Mamma?" "Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about other people which does not concern you, and which they wish to keep from you. Remember that, my dear daughter." "I will, Mamma. I'll never do it, I promise you." "Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that some higher interest do not oblige you to go on. That is true politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the same; and _not_ to do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour." "Well, Mamma, I don't care what his name is — at least I won't try to find out; but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew how much I feel obliged to him." "Very well; write him and tell him so." "Mamma!" said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide — "can I? — would you?" "Certainly — if you like. It would be very proper."