Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last night of shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried and new world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close, knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say. People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and when they tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they would only count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be always sensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has me in its grip this evening.
Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lord comes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, not in Him—never in Him!
Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of a home shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence?
[CHAPTER IV.]
RAILWAY IMAGININGS.
THE SAME.
February 25. Evening.
"SO you leave us—a—to-day, my dear Constance, and—ahem—proceed to your new sphere of work. I am sure I may say—a—that you carry with you our best wishes—my wife's and mine, I should say."
N.B. * I have a great deal to write of first impressions in my new home, but Craven's utterances come up irresistibly, and insist on first attention.
* N. B.—nota bene