The
busy industry to which she would have been forced at home
might have roused her; as it was, nothing drew her, and
nothing could be found to draw her from her own thoughts. Her
interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their
charm. Walks and drives and staying at home were all one —
except, indeed, that she rather liked best the latter.
Appetite failed; her cheek grew colourless; and Alice began to
fear that if a stop were not soon put to this gradual sinking,
it would at last end with her life. But all her efforts were
without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to Ellen
alone.
As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again
took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone
or into a corner with it, and turn the leaves over and over;
looking out its gentle promises, and sweet comforting words to
the weak and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ —
all he said and did; all his kindness to his people, and
tender care of them; the love shown them here and the joys
prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that
one unchangeable Friend from whose love neither life nor death
can sever those that believe in him; and her heart, tossed and
shaken as it had been, began to take rest again in that happy
resting-place with stronger affection, and even with greater
joy, than ever before.
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