The kitchen was all put in order, the hearth swept, the irons
at the fire, and Miss Fortune just pinning her ironing-blanket
on the table.
"Well — what's the matter?" she said, when she saw Ellen's
face; but as her glance reached the floor, her brow darkened.
"Mercy on me!" she exclaimed, with slow emphasis; "what on
earth have you been about? where have you been?"
Ellen explained.
"Well, you _have_ made a figure of yourself! Sit down!" said her
aunt, shortly, as she thrust a chair down on the hearth before
the fire — "I should have thought you'd have had wit enough at
your age, to keep out of the ditch."
"I didn't see any ditch," said Ellen.
"No, I suppose not," said Miss Fortune, who was energetically
twitching off Ellen's shoes and stockings with her fore finger
and thumb — "I suppose not; you were staring up at the moon or
stars, I suppose."
"It all looked green and smooth," said poor Ellen — "one part
just like another — and the first thing I knew, I was up to my
ankles."
"What were you there at all for?" said Miss Fortune, shortly
enough.
"I couldn't see where the water came from, and I wanted to
find out."
"Well you've found out enough for one day, I hope. Just look
at those stockings! Han't you got never a pair of coloured
stockings, that you must go poking into the mud with white
ones?"
"No, Ma’am."
"Do you mean to say you never wore any but white ones at
home?"
"Yes, Ma’am — I never had any others.
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