“Come out o’ here, children,” said the nurse, who had been seeking them.  “Your aunt told me not to let you come into this part of the house; this was her nursery once, and her only child died here.”

The children followed their nurse, and ever afterward the thought of death was connected with that part of the house.  Often as they looked in their aunt’s face they remembered the empty crib and the drooping plumes.

Time does not always fly with youth; yet it passed along until Ellen had attained her sixteenth year, and William his eighteenth year.  Ellen shared all her brother’s studies, and their excellent tutor stored their minds with useful information.  Their uncle superintended their education, with the determination that it should be a thorough one.  William did not intend studying a profession; his father’s will allowed him to decide between this, or assuming, at an early age, the care of his large estate, with suitable advisers.

Ellen made excellent progress in all her studies.  Her aunt was anxious she should learn music, and wished her to go to Richmond or to Alexandria for that purpose, but Ellen begged off; she thought of the old piano and its cracked keys, and desired not to be separated from her brother, professing her dislike to any music, but her old nurse’s Methodist hymns.

William was tall and athletic for his age, passionate when roused by harshness or injustice, but otherwise affectionate in his disposition, idolizing his sister.  His uncle looked at him with surprise when he saw him assume the independence of manner, which sat well upon him; and his aunt sometimes checked herself, when about to reprove him for the omission of some unimportant form of politeness, which in her days of youth was essential.  Ellen dwelt with delight upon the approaching time, when she would be mistress of her brother’s establishment, and as important as she longed to be, on that account.  Though she looked upon her uncle’s house as a large cage, in which she had long fluttered a prisoner, she could not but feel an affection for it; her aunt and uncle often formal, and uselessly particular, were always substantially kind.  It was a good, though not a cheerful home, and the young look for joy and gaiety, as do the flowers for birds and sunshine.  Ellen was to be a ward of her uncle’s until she was of age, but was to be permitted to reside with her brother, if she wished, from the time he assumed the management of his estate.

The young people laid many plans for housekeeping.  William had not any love affair in progress, and as yet his sister’s image was stamped on all his projects for the future.

Two years before Ellen came to Exeter, William stood under his sister’s window, asking her what he should bring her from C——­, the neighboring town.  “Don’t you want some needles,” he said, “or a waist ribbon, or some candy? make haste, Ellen; if I don’t hurry, I can’t come home to-night.”