But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted to either share or soothe Ellen's agitation. She lay in suffering silence; till after some time she said faintly "Ellen, my love, I cannot bear this much longer."
Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. She arose, sorry and ashamed that she should have given occasion for them, and tenderly kissing her mother, assured her, most sincerely and resolutely, that she would not do so again. In a few minutes she was calm enough to finish making the tea, and having toasted another piece of bread, she brought it to her mother. Mrs. Montgomery swallowed a cup of tea, but no toast could be eaten that night.
Both remained silent and quiet awhile after this, till the clock struck ten. "You had better go to bed, my daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Do you think you can read me a little before you go?"
"Yes, indeed, Mamma;" and Ellen brought the book. "Where shall I read?"
Ellen began it, and went through it steadily and slowly, though her voice quivered a little.
" 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
" 'He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
" 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
" 'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
" 'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.' "
Long before she had finished, Ellen's eyes were full, and her heart too. "If I only could feel these words as Mamma does!" she said to herself. She did not dare look up till the traces of tears had passed away; then she saw that her mother was asleep. Those first sweet words had fallen like balm upon the sore heart; and mind and body had instantly found rest together.
Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead, and stole quietly out of the room to her own little bed.
Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she slept late on the following morning. The great dressing-bell waked her. She started up with a confused notion that something was the matter: there was a weight on her heart that was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring it all back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control the evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still, and she was careful to allow no sound to escape her that could reach the ears of her mother, who slept in the next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her no more with useless expressions of sorrow to keep it to herself as much as possible. But this very thought, that she must keep it to herself, gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the convulsive clasp of her little arms round the pillow plainly showed that it needed none.