The room had the austere and shining cleanness
which Athalia had called a perfume, but it was full of homely comfort.
A blue-and-white rag carpet in the centre left a border of bare floor,
painted pumpkin-yellow; there was a glittering airtight stove with
isinglass windows that shone like square, red eyes; a gay patchwork
cushion in the seat of a rocking-chair was given up to the black cat,
whose sleek fur glistened in the lamplight. Three of the sisters
knitted silently; two others rocked back and forth, their tired,
idle hands in their laps, their eyes closed; the other three yawned,
and spoke occasionally between themselves of their various tasks.
Brother Nathan read his weekly FARMER; Brother William turned over
the leaves of a hymn-book and appeared to count them with noiseless,
moving lips; Brother George cut pictures out of the back of
a magazine, yawning sometimes, and looking often at his watch.
Into this quietness Eldress Hannah's still voice came:
"I have heard from Lydia again." There was a faint stir, but no
one spoke. "The Lord is dealing with her," Eldress Hannah said;
"she is in great misery."
Brother George nodded. "That is good; He works in a mysterious way--
she's real miserable, is she? Well, well; that's good.
The mercies of the Lord are everlasting," he ended, in a satisfied voice,
and began to read again.
"Amen!--amen!" said Brother William, vaguely.
"Poor Lydy!" Brother Nathan murmured.
"And I had another letter," the Eldress proceeded,
"from that young woman who came here in August--Athalia Hall;
do you remember?--she asked two questions to the minute!
She wants to visit us.
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