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But we will return to that bright morning when the bell had rung merrily–when Ellen Lawton had returned from the village church to her childhood home as Ellen Gorton, and was to leave it for a new home. After entering the parlour, Mr. Gorton said,

“Now, Ellen, we will be ready to start in as few moments as possible.”

“Yes,” answered Ellen, “but I wish to go over to Aunt Mary’s, just to bid her good-bye.”

“But my dear,” answered Frederic, “there is not time;” looking at his watch.

“Just a moment,” persisted Ellen, “I will hurry. I promised Aunt Mary; she is sick and cannot leave her room.”

And, as Frederic answered not, and as Ellen’s eyes were brimful of tears, she could but half see the impatience expressed on his countenance, and hastily departed.

But, Aunt Mary had innumerable kisses to bestow upon her favourite, and many words and wishes to utter, brokenly, in a voice choked with tears; and it was many minutes ere she could tear herself away, and on her return she met several loiterers from the church, who stopped her to look, as they said, upon her sweet face once more, and list to her sweet voice again. She hurried on–Mr. Gorton met her at the door, and taking her hand, said, sternly,

“Ellen, I wish you not to delay a moment in bidding adieu to your friends–you have already kept me waiting too long.”

There was no tenderness in his voice as he uttered this, and it fell as a weight upon Ellen’s heart, already saddened at the thought of the parting with her mother and home friends, which must be now, and which was soon over.

As the carriage rolled away, Ellen grieved bitterly. Mr. Gorton, who really loved Ellen sincerely and fondly, encircled her waist with his arm, and said, kindly,

“Do you feel, Ellen, that you have made too great a sacrifice in leaving home and friends for me?”

“O, no,” answered Ellen, raising to his her love-lit countenance, “no sacrifice could be too great to make for you; but do you not know I have left all I had to love before I loved you? And they will miss me too at home, and will think of me, how often, too, when I shall be thinking of you only! Think it not strange that I weep.”

Nevertheless, Mr. Gorton did think it strange. He had no idea of the tender associations clustering around one’s home. He had no idea of the depth and richness and sweetness of a mother’s love, of a sister’s yearning fondness, for they ever had been denied him; consequently the emotions that thrilled the heart of his bride could find no response and met with no sympathy in his own. It was rather with wonder, than with any other sensation, that he regarded her sorrow. Was she not entering upon a newer and higher sphere of life? Was she not to be the mistress of a splendid mansion? Was she not to be the envied of many and many a one who had feigned every attraction and exerted every effort for the station, she was to assume; and should she weep with this in view?

Thus Mr. Gorton thought–as man often reasons.

After having proceeded a little distance, they came within view of an humble cottage, when Ellen said,

“I must stop here, Mr. Gorton, and see Grandma Nichols (she was an elderly member of the church of which Ellen was a member), and when I was last to see her, she said, as she should not be able to walk to to see me married, I must call on her, or she should think me proud. I will stop for a moment–just a moment,” she added, after a pause, observing he did not answer.

They were just opposite the cottage at that moment, yet he gave no orders to stop. With a fresh burst of tears, Ellen exclaimed,

“Please, Mr. Gorton, let me see her. I may never see her again, and she will think I did not care to bid her a last farewell.”