Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in
her books. But when Sunday morning came, with its calmness and
brightness — when the business of the week was put away, and
quietness, abroad and at home, invited to recollection — then
Ellen's thoughts went back to old times, and then she missed
the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with the day. She
missed her in the morning, when the early sun streamed in
through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast-table,
where John was not to take her place. On the ride to church,
where Mr. Humphreys was now her silent companion, and every
tree in the road, and every opening in the landscape, seemed
to call for Alice to see it with her. Very much she missed her
in church. The empty seat beside her — the unused hymn-book on
the shelf— the want of her sweet voice in the singing — oh!
how it went to Ellen's heart! And Mr. Humphreys' grave,
steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind; she saw it was in
his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were
bitterly sad — her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they
could, unseen. Time softened this feeling.
While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the
village beyond, Ellen stayed at Carra-carra, and tried to
teach a Sunday-school. She determined, as far as she could, to
supply beyond the home circle the loss that was not felt only
there.
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