CHAPTER LVI.
REDIVIVUS.
Ellen Bennet, like May Newt, was a child no longer--hardly yet a woman, or only a very young one.

Rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes, showed only that it was May--June almost, perhaps--instead of gusty March or gleaming April.
"Ellen," said Gabriel, in a low voice--while his mother, who was busily sewing, conversed in a murmuring undertone with her husband, who sat upon the sofa, slowly swinging his slippered foot--"Ellen, Lawrence Newt didn't say that he should ask Edward to his dinner on my birthday." Ellen's cheeks answered--not her lips, nor her eyes, which were bent upon a purse she was netting.
"But I think he will," added Gabriel.

"I think I have mistaken Lawrence Newt if he does not." "He is usually very thoughtful," whispered Ellen, as she netted busily.
"Ellen, how handsome Edward is!" said Gabriel, with enthusiasm.
The young woman said nothing.
"And how good!" added Gabriel.
"He is," she answered, scarcely audibly.

Then she said she had left something up stairs.

How many things are discovered by young women, under certain circumstances, to have been left up stairs! Ellen rose and left the room.
"I was saying to your father, Gabriel," said his mother, raising her voice, and still sewing, "that Edward comes here a great deal." "Yes, mother; and I am glad of it.