When John was gone, and her
morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her
work-basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet
day's sewing without the least fear of interruption. But
sewing did not always hinder thinking. And then, certainly,
the room did seem very empty, and very still; and the clock,
which she never heard the rest of the week, kept ticking an
ungracious reminder that she was alone. Ellen would sometimes
forget it, in the intense interest of some nice little piece
of repair which must be exquisitely done in a wrist-band or a
glove; and then perhaps Margery would softly open the door and
come in.
"Miss Ellen, dear, you're lonesome enough; isn't there
something I can do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your
being here all by yourself."
"Oh, never mind, Margery," said Ellen, smiling — "I am doing
very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here,
Margery — how will that do? — don't you think I am learning to
mend?"
"It's beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can't make out how you've
learned so quick. I'll tell Mr. John some time who does these
things for him."
"No, indeed, Margery! don't you. _Please_ not, Margery. I like
to do it very much, indeed, but I don't want he should know
it, nor Mr. Humphreys. Now you won't, Margery, will you?"
"Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as
would be worrisome to you, for the whole world.
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