Let me love them, and do
not be angry with me for it."
"But I am not satisfied to have your body here, and your heart
somewhere else."
I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling
amidst her tears, "if I had room in it for only one person."
"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, inquisitively, "did you _insinuate_ a
falsehood there?"
"No, Sir."
"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is
honesty anywhere in the world. I am satisfied, that is, half
satisfied. Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest," said
he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look as if you needed it."
"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek
upon the grateful pillow, "except one thing — if grandmother
would only forgive me too."
"You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she
does not very readily forgive; but I think we can arrange this
matter. Go you to sleep."
"I wonder," said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, "why
everybody calls me 'little;' I don't think I am very little.
Everybody says 'little.' "
Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it, when a few minutes after
he sat watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The
innocent brow, the perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to
belong to much younger years. Even Mr. Lindsay could not help
recollecting the housekeeper's comment — "Heaven's peace
within;" scarcely Ellen's own mother ever watched over her
with more fond tenderness than her adopted father did now.
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