"When I see you don't I shall begin to think there is something in it. Actions speak louder than words. I don't believe in this jumping into goodness all at once." "Well, I will try not to, at any rate," said Ellen, sighing. "I shall be very glad to see it. What has brought you into this sudden fit of dutifulness and fine talking?" "Miss Alice told me I ought to ask your pardon for what I had done wrong," said Ellen, scarce able to keep from crying; "and I know I did wrong this morning, and I did wrong the other day about the letter; and I am sorry, whether you believe it or no." "Miss Alice told you, did she? So all this is to please Miss Alice. I suppose you were afraid your friend Miss Alice would hear of some of your goings on, and thought you had better make up with me. Is that it?" Ellen answered, "No, ma'am," in a low tone, but had no voice to say more. "I wish Miss Alice would look after her own affairs, and let other people's houses alone. That's always the way with your pieces of perfection; they're eternally finding out something that isn't as it ought to be among their neighbours. I think people that don't set up for being quite such great things get along quite as well in the world." Ellen was strongly tempted to reply, but kept her lips shut. "I'll tell you what," said Miss Fortune, "if you want me to believe that all this talk means something, I'll tell you what you shall do. You shall just tell Mr. Van Brunt to-morrow about it all, and how ugly you have been these two days, and let him know you were wrong and I was right. I believe he thinks you cannot do anything wrong, and I should like him to know it for once." Ellen struggled hard with herself before she could speak; Miss Fortune's lips began to wear a scornful smile. "I'll tell him!" said Ellen at length; "I'll tell him I was wrong, if you wish me to." "I _do_ wish it. I like people's eyes to be opened. It'll do him good, I guess, and you too. Now have you anything more to say?" Ellen hesitated: the colour came and went; she knew it wasn't a good time, but how could she wait? "Aunt Fortune," she said, "you know I told you I behaved very ill about that letter--won't you forgive me?" "Forgive you, yes, child; I don't care anything about it." "Then will you be so good as to let me have my letter again?" said Ellen timidly. "Oh, I can't be bothered to look for it now; I'll see about it some other time; take your candle and go to bed now, if you've nothing more to say." Ellen took her candle and went. Some tears were wrung from her by hurt feeling and disappointment; but she had the smile of conscience, and as she believed, of Him whose witness conscience is. She remembered that "great rock in a weary land," and she went to sleep in the shadow of it.