As the winter wore one, a grave cheerfulness stole over the
household. Ellen little thought how much she had to do with
it. She never heard Margery tell her husband, which she often
did with great affection, that "that blessed child was the
light of the house." And those who felt it the most said
nothing. Ellen was sure, indeed, from the way in which Mr.
Humphreys spoke to her, looked at her, now and then laid his
hand on her head, and sometimes, very rarely, kissed her
forehead, that he loved her and loved to see her about; and
that her wish of supplying Alice's place was in some little
measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks were, they
said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from other
people: the least of them gladdened her heart with the feeling
that she was a comfort to him. But she never knew how much.
Deep as the gloom still over him was, Ellen never dreamed how
much deeper it would have been but for the little figure
flitting round and filling up the vacancy; how much he reposed
on the gentle look of affection, the pleasant voice, the
watchful thoughtfulness that never left anything undone that
she could do for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it
himself. She was not sure he even noticed many of the little
things she daily did or tried to do for him. Always silent and
reserved, he was more so now than ever; she saw him little,
and very seldom long at a time, unless when they were riding
to church together; he was always in his study or abroad.
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