everything but her bonnet and gloves; and then stood leaning
against the bed-post, for she could not sit down, watching
with most intense anxiety to hear her father's step come out
of the room and go down-stairs. Every minute seemed too long
to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could not
contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard
the roll of carriage-wheels, which came to the door and then
stopped, and immediately her father opening the door to come
out. Without waiting any longer, Ellen opened her own, and
brushed past him into the room he had quitted. Mrs. Montgomery
was still lying on the bed, for her husband has insisted on
her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to
receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable
expression, Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them.
But then neither of them spoke or wept. What could words say?
Heart met heart in that agony, for each knew all that was in
the other. No — not quite all. Ellen did not know that the
whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was tasting
then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her
pain after this parting should be over. His after-work — the
parting between soul and body — would be welcome, rather; yes,
very welcome. Mrs. Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this
was the last embrace between them. She knew it would be the
very last time that dear little form would ever lie on her
bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed to her
that soul and body must part company too, when they should be
rent asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this; _she_ did not
think it was the last time; — but she was a child of very high
spirit and violent passions, untamed at all by sorrow's
discipline; and in proportion violent was the tempest excited