“It is like Good Friday!” said she, as the resemblance to the crown of thorns struck her more and more strongly.
“Well, why not, my dear?” said her uncle, as she shrunk closer to him in a sort of alarm. “Would Christmas be worth observing if it were not for Good Friday?”
“Yes, it is right uncle; but somehow it is melancholy.”
“Where are those verses that say—let me see—
‘And still Thy Church’s faith Shall link,
In all her prayer and praise,
Thy glory with Thy death.’
So you see, Henrietta, you have been guided to do quite right.”
Henrietta gave a little sigh, but did not answer: and Beatrice said, “It is a very odd thing, whenever any work of art—or, what shall I call it?—is well done, it is apt to have so much more in it than the author intended. It is so in poetry, painting, and everything else.”
“There is, perhaps, more meaning than we understand, when we talk of the spirit in which a thing is done,” said her father: “But have you much more to do? Those columns look very well.”
“O, are you come to help us, papa?”
“I came chiefly because grandmamma was a good deal concerned at your not coming home to luncheon. You must not be out the whole morning again just at present. I have some sandwiches in my pocket for you.”