While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was perfectly calm — her violent excitement had all left her — her lip quivered a very little, sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip, and cheek, and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman, who had been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and, bending down his face towards hers, said, — "What is the matter with you, my little friend?" Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising, and clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a retired part of the deck, where they were comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears; then, taking her in his arms he endeavoured by many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted, this in some little measure relieved her. "What is all this about?" said her friend, kindly. "Nay, never mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is, and perhaps we can find some help for it." "Oh, no! you can't, Sir," said Ellen, sadly. "Well, let us see," said he — "perhaps I can. What is it that has troubled you so much?" "I have lost my mother, Sir," said Ellen. "Your mother! Lost her! — how?" "She is very ill, Sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France, to get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I do?" "Have you left your mother in the city?" "Oh yes, Sir! I left her this morning." "What is your name?" "Ellen Montgomery." "Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"