The bottom of the trunk was
reached at last, and then Nancy suddenly recollected her
gruel, and sprang to it. But it had grown cold again.
"This won't do," said Nancy, as she put it on the coals again
— "it must be just right; it'll warm soon, and then, Miss
Ellen, you're agoing to take it, whether or no. I hope you
won't give me the pleasure of pouring it down."
Meanwhile she opened the little door of Ellen's study closet
and went in there, though Ellen begged her not. She pulled the
door to, and stayed some time perfectly quiet. Not able to see
or hear what she was doing, and fretted beyond measure that
her work-box and writing-desk should be at Nancy's mercy, or
even feel the touch of her fingers, Ellen at last could stand
it no longer, but threw herself out of the bed, weak as she
was, and went to see what was going on. Nancy was seated
quietly on the floor, examining, with much seeming interest,
the contents of the work-box; trying on the thimble, cutting
bits of thread with the scissors, and marking the ends of the
spools — with whatever like pieces of mischief her restless
spirit could devise; but when Ellen opened the door, she put
the box from her and started up.
"My goodness me!" said she, "this'll never do. What are you
out here for? you'll catch your death with those dear little
bare feet, and we shall have the mischief to pay!"
As she said this, she caught up Ellen in her arms as if she
had been a baby, and carried her back to the bed, where she
laid her with two or three little shakes, and then proceeded
to spread up the clothes and tuck her in all round.
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