You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her — "I see you are. A little more patience, my child — we shall be at our journey's end before a very great while." "I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I _am_ tired. We don't go in the steamboat to-morrow, do we, Sir?" "No — in the stage." "Shall _you_ be in the stage, Sir?" "No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together." "Oh, Sir," said Ellen, "I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for you." There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly spoke again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away. "I wish I knew where Mamma is now." "I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me, that it is well with her, wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember her." "She must want me so much," said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible voice. "She has not lost her best friend, my child." "I know it, Sir," said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the mastery — "but oh! it's just near the time when I used to make the tea for her — who'll make it now? she'll want me — oh, what shall I do!" and, overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her friend's arms and sobbed aloud. There was no reasoning against this. He did not attempt it; but with the utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as soon as he might, to soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last; with a sort of despairing submission, Ellen ceased her tears, and arose to her former position. But he did not rest from his kind endeavours till her mind was really eased and comforted — which, however, was not long before the lights of the city began to appear in the distance. And with them appeared a dusky figure ascending the stairs, which, upon nearer approach, proved by the voice to be Timmins. "Is this Miss Montgomery?" said she — "I can't see, I am sure, it's so dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?" "Yes," said Ellen, "it is I; do you want me?" "If you please, Miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come right down; we're almost in, she says, Miss." "I'll come directly, Miss Timmins," said Ellen. "Don't wait for me — I won't be a minute — I'll come directly." Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the grave personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained. "I must go," said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand; "good-bye, Sir." She could hardly say it. He drew her towards him and kissed her cheek once or twice: it was well he did; for it sent a thrill of pleasure to Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next day. "God bless you, my child," he said gravely, but cheerfully; "and good-night! — you will feel better, I trust, when you have had some rest and refreshment."