“Never mind”—she said to herself with a kind of despairing calmness, “she ought not to expect any thing but disappointment in this world.”
But she knew she was doing wrong in giving up to such a temptation, and indulging murmuring thoughts. “God forgive me! He knows what is best”—she said half aloud, and got up with a great effort, and put down the paper window-curtains, before she lighted a candle, to try and drive them away with the darkness. Her hymn book, with its well-worn leathern binding, laid on the mantel. It had been her mother’s before it was her own, and she had learned her letters from the large capitals at the commencement of the lines. She turned to the psalms first, and looked for those that suited her present mood. She had often found comfort in their deep faith, and humble, repentant spirit. There was one she had read many times of late—
How long wilt thou forget me, Lord?
Must I for ever mourn?
How long wilt thou withdraw from me,
O, never to return!
Oh, hear, and to my longing eyes
Restore thy wonted light;
Dawn on my spirit, lest I sleep
In death’s most gloomy night.