It was not when the fever was on her and delirium high that Ellen most felt the want she then so pitifully made known. There were other times, when her head was aching, and weary and weak she lay still there, oh, how she longed then for the dear wonted face; the old quiet smile that carried so much of comfort and assurance with it; the voice that was like heaven's music; the touch of that loved hand to which she had clung for so many years! She could scarcely bear to think of it sometimes. In the still wakeful hours of night, when the only sound to be heard was the heavy breathing of her aunt asleep on the floor by her side, and in the long solitary day, when the only variety to be looked for was Miss Fortune's flitting in and out, and there came to be a sameness about that, Ellen mourned her loss bitterly. Many and many were the silent tears that rolled down and wet her pillow; many a long-drawn sigh came from the very bottom of Ellen's heart; she was too weak and subdued now for violent weeping. She wondered sadly why Alice did not come to see her; it was another great grief added to the former. She never chose, however, to mention her name to her aunt. She kept her wonder and her sorrow to herself--all the harder to bear for that. After two weeks Ellen began to mend, and then she became exceeding weary of being alone and shut up to her room. It was a pleasure to have her Bible and hymn-book lying upon the bed, and a great comfort when she was able to look at a few words; but that was not very often, and she longed to see somebody and hear something besides her aunt's dry questions and answers. One afternoon Ellen was sitting, alone as usual, bolstered up in bed. Her little hymn-book was clasped in her hand; though not equal to reading, she felt the touch of it a solace. Half dozing, half waking, she had been perfectly quiet for some time, when the sudden and not very gentle opening of the room door caused her to start and open her eyes. They opened wider than usual, for instead of her Aunt Fortune it was the figure of Miss Nancy Vawse that presented itself. She came in briskly, and shutting the door behind her advanced to the bedside. "Well," said she, "there you are! Why, you look smart enough. I've come to see you." "Have you?" said Ellen uneasily. "Miss Fortune's gone out, and she told me to come and take care of you; so I'm going to spend the afternoon." "Are you?" said Ellen again. "Yes--ain't you glad? I knew you must be lonely, so I thought I'd come." There was a mischievous twinkle in Nancy's eyes. Ellen for once in her life wished for her aunt's presence. "What are you doing?" "Nothing," said Ellen. "Nothing indeed? It's a fine thing to lie there and do nothing. You won't get well in a hurry, I guess, will you? You look as well as I do this minute. Oh, I always knew you was a sham." "You are very much mistaken," said Ellen indignantly; "I have been very sick, and I am not at all well yet."