I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could.  She, good thoughtful child, never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for my safety.  She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and troubles; but a mother’s observing eye easily perceived that she was not happy.  On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious.  When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter.  But I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave.  Finally, I ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was continually going on in the house.  She was sent to the store very often for rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they had to call her to pour out the liquor for them.  “But for all that,” said she, “Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can’t help liking him.  I feel sorry for him.”  I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and Benjamin a home, and send them to school.  She was always desirous not to add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till years afterwards that Mr. Thorne’s intemperance was not the only annoyance she suffered from him.  Though he professed too much gratitude to my grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild.

I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon.  One Sunday, I found Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house.  “O, mother,” said she, “I’ve been waiting for you this long time.  I’m afraid Mr. Thorne has written to tell Dr. Flint where you are.  Make haste and come in.  Mrs. Hobbs will tell you all about it!”

The story was soon told.  While the children were playing in the grape-vine arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which he tore up and scattered about.  Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time, and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and carried them to the children, saying, “I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been writing to.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, and don’t care,” replied the oldest of the children; “and I don’t see how it concerns you.”

“But it does concern me,” replied Ellen; “for I’m afraid he’s been writing to the south about my mother.”

They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her.  They were no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, “I declare, Ellen, I believe you are right.”