They were at the very bottom; and by the time
she had reached them, half the floor was strewn with the
various articles of her wardrobe: without minding them in her
first eagerness, Ellen pounced at the books.
"Here you are, my dear Numa Pompilius," said she, drawing out
a little French book she had just begun to read; "and here you
are, old grammar and dictionary — and here is my history —
very glad to see you, Mr. Goldsmith! — and what in the world
is this? — wrapped up as if it was something great — oh! my
expositor; I am not glad to see _you_, I am sure; never want to
look at your face or your back again. My copy-book — I wonder
who'll set copies for me now; my arithmetic, that's you! —
geography and atlas — all right; — and my slate; but dear me,
I don't believe I've such a thing as a slate-pencil in the
world; where shall I get one, I wonder? — well, I'll manage.
And that's all — that's all, I believe."
With all her heart Ellen would have begun her studying at
once, but there were all her things on the floor, silently
saying, "Put us up first."
"I declare," she said to herself, "it's too bad to have
nothing in the shape of a bureau to keep one's clothes in. I
wonder if I am to live in a trunk, as Mamma says, all the time
I am here, and have to go down to the bottom of it every time
I want a pocket-handkerchief or a pair of stockings.
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