bench, which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on the
cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of
her bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a
bit of her face, while she could look out near by as well as
from the deck. Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the
voice of Mrs. Dunscombe, saying in rather an undertone, but
laughing too, "What a figure she does cut in that outlandish
bonnet!"

Ellen had no particular reason to think _she_ was meant, and yet
she did think so. She remained quite still, but with raised
colour and quickened breathing waited to hear what would come
next. Nothing came at first, and she was beginning to think
she had perhaps been mistaken, when she plainly heard Margaret
Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper —

"Mamma, I wish you could contrive some way to keep her in the
cabin — can't you? she looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet
kind of a thing, that anybody would think she had come out of
the woods; — and no gloves too; I shouldn't like to have the
Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to us; — can't you, Mamma?"

If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would
hardly have been greater. The lightning of passion shot
through every vein. And it was not passion only: there was
hurt feeling and wounded pride; and the sorrow of which her
heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh. The child
was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the
most pressing thought — to be where tears could burst and her
heart could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed