"What'll you give me if I'll make you a scup one of these days?" said Mr. Van Brunt. "A scup?" said Ellen. "Yes--a scup! How would you like it?" "I don't know what it is," said Ellen. "A scup!--maybe you don't know it by that name; some folks call it a swing." "A swing! Oh yes," said Ellen; "now I know. Oh, I like it very much." "Would you like to have one?" "Yes, indeed I should, very much." "Well, what'll you give me if I'll fix you out?" "I don't know," said Ellen; "I have nothing to give. I'll be very much obliged to you indeed." "Well now, come, I'll make a bargain with you; I'll engage to fix up a scup for you if you'll give me a kiss." Poor Ellen was struck dumb. The good-natured Dutchman had taken a fancy to the little pale-faced, sad-looking stranger, and really felt very kindly disposed towards her; but she neither knew nor at that moment cared about that. She stood motionless, utterly astounded at this unheard-of proposal, and not a little indignant; but when, with a good-natured smile upon his round face, he came near to claim the kiss he no doubt thought himself sure of, Ellen shot from him like an arrow from a bow. She rushed to the house, and bursting open the door, stood with flushed face and sparkling eyes in the presence of her astonished aunt. "What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed that lady. "He wanted to kiss me!" said Ellen, scarce knowing whom she was talking to, and crimsoning more and more. "Who wanted to kiss you?" "That man out there." "What man?" "That man that drives the oxen." "What, Mr. Van Brunt?" And Ellen never forgot the loud ha! ha! which burst from Miss Fortune's wide-opened mouth. "Well, why didn't you let him kiss you?" The laugh, the look, the tone, stung Ellen to the very quick. In a fury of passion she dashed away out of the kitchen and up to her own room. And there, for a while, the storm of anger drove over her with such violence that conscience had hardly time to whisper. Sorrow came in again as passion faded, and gentler but very bitter weeping took the place of convulsive sobs of rage and mortification, and then the whispers of conscience began to be heard a little. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" cried poor Ellen in her heart; "how miserable I am without you! I never can like Aunt Fortune; it's of no use--I never can like her. I hope I sha'n't get to hate her!--and that isn't right. I am forgetting all that is good, and there's nobody to put me in mind. Oh, mamma! if I could lay my head in your lap for a minute!" Then came thoughts of her Bible and hymn-book, and the friend who had given it--sorrowful thoughts they were; and at last, humbled and sad, poor Ellen sought that great Friend she knew she had displeased, and prayed earnestly to be made a good child. She felt and owned she was not one now.