He was
never at home till late in the day; and when Ellen had done
all she had to do, and set the supper-table with punctilious
care, and a face of busy happiness it would have been a
pleasure to see if there had been any one to look at it, she
would take what happened to be the favourite book, and plant
herself near the glass door, like a very epicure, to enjoy
both the present and the future at once. Even then, the
present often made her forget the future; she would be lost in
her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India, or fighting
Nelson's battles over again; and the first news she would have
of what she had set herself there to watch for, would be the
click of the door-lock or a tap on the glass, — for the horse
was almost always left at the further door. Back then she came
from India or the Nile; down went the book; Ellen had no more
thought but for what was before her.
For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness
was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative
or a thoughtful mood; whether he spoke to her and looked at
her or not; it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there.
She was perfectly satisfied merely to sit down near him,
though she did not get a word by the hour together.
CHAPTER XLV.
The Guardian Angel.
One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the
corner of the sofa.
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