There were bursts of song
mingled with all this, which I could not bear to hear. In the
prayer-meetings I did not mind them; here, in the midst of
festivities, they almost choked me. "I'm going home" — sounded
now so much as if it were in a strange land; and once when a
chorus of them were singing, deep and slow, the refrain, —
"In the morning —
Chil'len, in the morning —"
I had a great heartbreak, and sat down and cried behind my
sugarplums.
I can bear to think of it all now. There were years when I
could not.
After this entertainment was over, and much more stupid ones
had been given among polished people at the house, and the New
Year had swept in upon us with its fresh breeze of life and
congratulations, the winter and Miss Pinshon settled down for
unbroken sway.
I had little to help me during those months from abroad. That
is, I had nothing. My father wrote seldom. My mother's letters
had small comfort for me. They said that papa's health mended
slowly — was very delicate — he could not bear much exertion —
his head would not endure any excitement.
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