And
almost daily, John had up Sharp and gave Ellen a regular
lesson. She often thought, and sometimes looked, what she had
once said to him, "I wish I could do something for _you_, Mr.
John;" but he smiled at her, and said nothing.
At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home,
and in many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The
thought had been kept from weighing upon her by the thousand
pleasures that filled up every moment of his stay; she could
not be sad then, or only for a minute; hope threw off the
sorrow as soon as it was felt; and she forgot how time flew.
But when his visit was over, and she went back to her old
place and her old life at her aunt's, the old feeling came
back in greater strength. She began again to count the days
and the weeks; to feel the bitter unsatisfied longing. Tears
would drop down upon her Bible; tears streamed from her eyes
when she prayed that God would make her mother well and bring
her home to her quickly — oh! quickly! — and little Ellen's
face began to wear once more something of its old look.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The cloud overhead.
One day in the early part of September, she was standing in
front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the
road. With her back against the open gate, she was gently
moving it to and fro, half-enjoying the weather and the scene,
half-indulging the melancholy mood which drove her from the
presence of her bustling aunt.
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