Nobody came, and in later years, this hour always stood out as one of the worst and bitterest phases through which she had had to pass. Worse even than when she had first learned Cecilia's true state; worse than the morning of Cecilia's death. For then she had had the help of kind faces and voices around, though they could not touch her sorrow: and now she was utterly alone. Minutes had never dragged past with such slowness. If one afternoon were so interminable, what would the whole of life be? thought the poor girl in her distress.
Past, present, and future were blended into one murky cloud of darkness. Burning tears crept at intervals through her closed eyelids, and an occasional sob fought for utterance: but Lettice dared not let the struggling passion have way. Once to yield would have been to lose all mastery over herself.
Then through the parched Sahara of her woe came a murmur, breathed softly like the voice of an organ in the far distance, with familiar words, which yet she had not particularly remarked—
"When the Lord saw her, HE . . . said unto her, Weep not."
In response, a rain of tears fell; but this time they brought a measure of relief. As they lessened, she seemed to hear again—
"HE said unto her, Weep not."
"O how can I help it? I am so alone—so alone?"
Yet once more the quiet murmur sounded—
"HE said . . . Weep not."
Lettice sat up, and gazed around with dim eyes.