Summoning all her courage, Ellen entered her aunt’s boudoir in the morning, and again made her request with an earnestness that almost startled Mrs. Hamilton, particularly as it was accompanied by a depression of manner, which she now did not very often permit to obtain ascendency.  With affectionate persuasiveness she demanded the reason of this extraordinary resolution, and surprise gave way to some displeasure, when she found Ellen had really none to give.  Her only entreaty was that she might not be desired to go out till the next year.

“But why, my dear Ellen?  You must have some reason for this intended seclusion.  Last year I fancied you wished much to accompany us, and I ever regretted your delicate health prevented it.  What has made you change your mind so completely?  Have you any distaste for the society in which I mingle?”

Falteringly, and almost inaudibly, Ellen answered, “None.”

“Is it a religious motive?  Do your principles revolt from the amusements which are now before you?  Tell me candidly, Ellen.  You know nothing displeases me so much as mystery?  I can forgive everything else, for then I know our relative positions, and am satisfied you are not going far wrong; but when every reason is studiously concealed, I cannot guess the truth, and I must fancy it is, at least, a mistaken notion blinding your better judgment.  I did not expect a second mystery from you, Ellen.”

Mrs. Hamilton’s expressive voice clearly denoted she was displeased, and her niece, after two or three ineffectual efforts to prevent it, finally burst into tears.

“I do not wish to be harsh with you, or accuse you unjustly,” continued her aunt, softened at the unaffected grief she beheld, “but if your reason be a good one, why do you so carefully conceal it?  You have been lately so very open with me, and appeared to regard me so truly as your friend, that your present conduct is to me not only a riddle, but a painful reflection.  Is it because your conscience forbids?  Perhaps in your solitary moments you have fancied that worldly amusements, even in the moderate way in which we regard them, unfits us for more serious considerations, and you fear perhaps to confess that such is your reason, because it will seem a reproach to me.  If such really be your motive, do not fear to confess it, my dear girl; I should be the very last to urge you to do anything that is against your idea of what is right.  To prove the fallacy of such reasoning, to show you that you may be truly religions without eccentricity, I certainly should endeavour to do, but I would not force you to go out with me till my arguments had convinced you.  I fancy, by your blushing cheek, that I have really guessed the cause of your extraordinary resolution, and sorry as I shall be if I have, yet any reason, however mistaken, is better than a continued mystery.”

“Indeed, indeed, I am not so good as you believe me,” replied Ellen, with much emotion.  “It is not the religious motive you imagine that urges me to act contrary to your wishes.  Did you know my reason, I am sure you would not blame me; but do not, pray do not command me to tell you.  I must obey, if you do, and then”—­