not — I will not!" she resolved to herself as she got out of
bed, though the tears fell faster as she said so. Dressing was
sad work to Ellen to-day; it went on very heavily. Tears
dropped into the water as she stooped her head to the basin;
and she hid her face in the towel to cry, instead of making
the ordinary use of it. But the usual duties were dragged
through at last, and she went to the window. "I'll not go down
till papa is gone," she thought — "he'll ask me what is the
matter with my eyes."

Ellen opened the window. The rain was over; the lovely light
of a fair September morning was beautifying everything it
shone upon. Ellen had been accustomed to amuse herself a good
deal at this window, though nothing was to be seen from it but
an ugly city prospect of back walls of houses, with the yards
belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street. But she had
watched the people that showed themselves at the windows, and
the children that played in the yards, and the women that went
to the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with
the neighbourhood; and though they were for the most part
dingy, dirty, and disagreeable — women, children, houses, and
all — she certainly had taken a good deal of interest in their
proceedings. It was all gone now. She could not bear to look
at them; she felt as if it made her sick; and turning away her
eyes, she lifted them to the bright sky above her head, and
gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot that
there was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white
clouds were chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that
was blowing away Ellen's hair from her face, and cooling her
hot cheeks. That wind could not have been long in coming from