"Well," said Miss Fortune, "I hope you feel better for your long stay up stairs." "I do, Ma’am," said Ellen — "a great deal better." "What have you been about?" "I have been writing, Ma’am." "Writing what?" "I have been writing to Mamma." Perhaps Miss Fortune heard the trembling of Ellen's voice, or her sharp glance saw the lip quiver and eyelid droop. Something softened her. She spoke in a different tone; asked Ellen if her tea was good; took care she had plenty of the bread and butter, and excellent cheese, which was on the table; and, lastly cut her a large piece of the pumpkin-pie. Mr. Van Brunt, too, looked once or twice at Ellen's face, as if he thought all was not right there. He was not so sharp as Miss Fortune, but the swollen eyes and tear-stains were not quite lost upon him. After tea, when Mr. Van Brunt was gone, and the tea things cleared away, Ellen had the pleasure of finding out the mystery of the brass kettle and the white maple bark. The kettle now stood in the chimney corner. Miss Fortune, seating herself before it, threw in all Ellen's stockings except one pair, which she flung over to her, saying, "There — I don't care if you keep that one." Then tucking up her sleeves to the elbows, she fished up pair after pair out of the kettle, and wringing them out, hung them on chairs to dry. But, as Ellen had opined, they were no longer white, but of a fine slate colour. She looked on in silence, too much vexed to ask questions. "Well, how do you like that?" said Miss Fortune, at length, when she had got two or three chairs round the fire, pretty well hung with a display of slate-coloured cotton legs. "I don't like it at all," said Ellen. "Well, _I_ do. How many pair of white stockings would you like to drive into the mud, and let me wash out every week?" "_You_ wash!" said Ellen, in surprise — "I didn't think of _your_ doing it." "Who did you think _was_ going to do it? There's nothing in this house but goes through my hand, I can tell you, and so must you. I suppose you've lived all your life among people that thought a great deal of wetting their little finger! but I'm not one of 'em, I guess you'll find." Ellen was convinced of that already. "Well, what are you thinking of?" said Miss Fortune, presently. "I'm thinking of my nice white darning cotton," said Ellen. "I might just as well not have had it." "Is it wound, or in the skein?" "In the skein." "Then just go right up and get it. I'll warrant I'll fix it so that you'll have a use for it." Ellen obeyed, but musing rather uncomfortably what else there was of hers that Miss Fortune could lay hands on. She seemed in imagination to see all her white things turning brown. She resolved she would keep her trunk well locked up; but what if her keys should be called for?