"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when
he was there."

"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall
have while you are gone will be writing to you. I have been
thinking of it a good deal. I mean to tell you everything —
absolutely everything, Mamma. You know there will be nobody
for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's words came out with
difficulty); "and when I feel badly, I shall just shut myself
up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.

"I count upon it, my dear daughter; it will make quite as much
the pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."

"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from
her eyes, "it will be so long before my letters can get to
you! The things I want you to know right away, you won't know,
perhaps, in a month."

"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when
they do get to me. Never think of that; write every day, and
all manner of things that concern you — just as particularly
as if you were speaking to me."

"And you'll write to me, too, Mamma?"

"Indeed I will — when I can. But, Ellen, you say that when I
am away, and cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply
my place. Perhaps it will be so, indeed; but then, my