It was not long before the influence Delia gained over her room-mate showed itself very perceptibly. She ceased to ask instructions out of the class, lost her interest in her lessons, and contented herself with spending only as much time upon them as would save her from downright disgrace in the class. Mr. Fletcher was not slow in perceiving the change, or in attributing it to the right cause. He soon saw through Delia, and made up his mind as to her true character, but he was habitually reserved and cautious in his speech, and never expressed an opinion of a scholar, unless he was particularly requested to do so by Mrs. Pomeroy herself. So he said nothing, but contented himself with watching the course of events, hoping that a time might come when he should be able to interfere to advantage.
On the Sunday afternoon after Christmas, Emily was in the sitting room, rather listlessly turning over the book she had taken from the library. Mrs. Pomeroy was with Kitty, who, though better, was not yet able to leave her room. Alice Parker had gone to bed with a head-ache, and Janet, wrapped in furs, was walking up and down the long path in the garden, enjoying the fine mild air and the lovely prospect, sometimes reading in the Bible she carried, sometimes looking above and around her.
The house was so still that the ticking of the old clock in the hall below was distinctly heard. Even the animals seemed to feel the quiet influence of the hour, and Grip, Mr. Fletcher's dog,—short for Cornelius Agrippa,—and Posey, Mrs. Pomeroy's cat, intermitted their usual feud, and lay quietly sleeping together on one side of the grate, while Grip's master occupied the other, seated in a luxurious chair, and apparently absorbed in the contents of a great old-fashioned volume with brass clasps and corners, which, from its size and venerable appearance, might have passed for a book of magic, if such things were supposed to exist now-a-days.
Emily turned over her book and tried to read, and then looked out of the window at Janet studying her Bible, and wondered how she could be interested in a book that she must know by heart, and a prospect that she had seen almost every day for two years. Then she thought of Delia, and wondered whether she were enjoying her holidays, and how she got on with her step-mother; and then she remembered her dead aunt, and the thought came into her mind how she was passing these same holidays.
Last Christmas she had been in her own house, dispensing quiet hospitalities to her neighbors, especially the poorer ones among them, happy herself in her silent and subdued way, and making all happy about her, with every prospect of a long continuance in the same sphere. Now she was in heaven—Emily could not doubt that, remembering Mrs. Arlington's consistent Christian life and humble trust in her Redeemer—enjoying the society of angels and of friends gone before, and rejoicing in the visible presence of her God and Saviour.
The time had been when Emily would have delighted in following out the train of thought, or rather of reverie, and in picturing to herself the condition of the blessed in that glorious invisible world. Now she turned hastily from these ideas, perhaps because they suggested too vividly to her mind the contrast between her own spiritual condition a year ago, and the state in which she now found herself. With a deep sigh she turned again to her book, and as she did so, she became aware that Mr. Fletcher was observing her.
Emily turned over her book.
"You do not seem very much interested in your book," he remarked kindly. "Perhaps you would like to return it, and try something else."
"I don't care about it," she replied, pettishly enough. "The Sunday books are all stupid alike, I think. Perhaps the limit is in me," she added, rather frightened after she had spoken, as she remembered hearing that Mr. Fletcher had selected most of the books himself.