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"No--but when you came back."

"It wasn't my purpose anyway," said Mrs. Copley. "I should never stir from my place if I had to move the way you have kept me moving. My head is in a whirl."

"I'll take hold and turn it round the other way."

"I think it is quite likely you will! I should like to know what you mean to do with us, now you have got us here."

"Keep you here."

"What are you going to do with yourself, Mr. Copley?"

"There are always so many uses that I can make of myself, more than I have time for, that I cannot tell which I shall take hold of first."

With which utterance he quitted the room, almost before it was fairly out of his mouth. The two left behind sat and looked at the room, and then at each other.

"What are we going to do now, Dolly?" Mrs. Copley asked in evidently dismayed uncertainty.

"I don't know, mother."

"How long do you suppose your father will be contented to stay in this house?"

"I have no means of guessing, mother. I don't know why we are here at all."

"We had to go somewhere, I suppose, when we came to London--just for the first; but I can't stay _here_, Dolly!"

"Of course not, mother."

"Then where are we going to? It is all very well to say 'of course not;' but where can we go, Dolly?"

"I have been thinking about it, mother, dear, but I have not found out yet. If we knew how long father wanted to stay in London"----

"It is no use asking that. I can tell you beforehand. He don't know himself. But it is my belief he'll find something or other to make him want to stay here the rest of his life."

"O mother, I hope not!"

"It is no use speaking to him about it, Dolly. Even if he knew, he would not own it, but that's my belief; and I can't bear London, Dolly.

A very few days of this noise and darkness would just put me back where I was before we went away. I know it would."

"This is a darker day than common; they are not all so."

"They are all like gloom itself, compared to where we have been. I tell you, Dolly, I cannot stand it. After Sorrento, I cannot bear this."

"It's my belief, mother, you want home and Roxbury air. Why don't you represent that to father, forcibly?"

"Dolly, I never put myself in the way of your father's pleasure. He must take his pleasure; and he likes London. How he can, I don't see; but he does, and so do a great many other people; it may be a want of taste in me; I daresay it is; but I shall not put myself in the way of his pleasure. I'll stand it as long as I can, and when I cannot stand it any longer, I'll die. It will come to an end some time."

"Mother, don't talk so! We'll coax father to finish up his business and go home to Roxbury. I am quite setting my heart on it. Only you have patience a little, and don't lose courage. I'll talk to father as soon as I get a chance."

"What a dirty place this is!" was Mrs. Copley's next remark.

"Yes. It is not like the rocks and the sea. A great city must be more or less so, I suppose."

"I believe great cities are a mistake. I believe they were not meant to be built. They don't agree with me, anyway. Well, I'll lie down on that old sofa there--it's hard enough to have been one of Job's troubles--and see if I can get to sleep."

Dolly drew a soft shawl over her, and sat down to keep watch alone. The familiar London sounds were not cheering to the ears which had been so lately listening to the lap of the waves and the rustling of the myrtle branches. And the dingy though comfortable London lodging-house was a poor exchange for the bay of Sorrento and the bright rooms full of the scents of orange flowers and roses and carnations. Dolly gave way a little and felt very down-hearted. Not merely for this change of her outside world, indeed; Dolly was not so weak; only in this case the outward symbolised the inward, and gave fitting form and imagery for it. The grime and confusion of London streets, to Dolly's fancy, were like the evil ways which she saw close upon her; and as roses and myrtles, so looked a fair family life of love and right-doing. Why not?--when He, who is Love itself and Righteousness immaculate, declares of Himself,--"I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys." I do not think those words occurred to Dolly that night, but other Bible words did, after a while. Promises of the life that shall be over all the earth one day, when the wilderness and the desert places shall be no longer desolate or barren, but shall "rejoice and blossom as the rose;" when to the Lord's people, "the sun shall no longer be their light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light" to them; when "sorrow and sighing shall flee away," and "the days of their mourning shall be ended." The words were like a lovely chime of bells,--or like the breath from a whole garden of roses and orange flowers,--or like the sunset light on the bay of Naples; or anything else most majestic, sweet, and fair. What if there were shadowed places to go through first?--And a region of shadow Dolly surely knew she had entered now. She longed for her father to come home; she wanted to consult with him about their arrangements, and so arrive at some certainty respecting what she had to do and expect. But Dolly knew that an early coming home was scarce to be hoped for; and she providently roused her mother at ten o'clock, and persuaded her to go to bed. Then Dolly waited alone in truth, with not even her sleeping mother's company; very sad at heart, and clutching, as a lame man does his stick, at some of the words of comfort she knew. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me." The case was not quite so bad, nor so good, with her as that; but the words were a strong staff to lean upon, nevertheless.

And those others: "Because he hath set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high, because he hath known My name.

He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble;"... And, "There shall no evil happen to the just." Dolly stayed her heart on such words, while she waited for her father's coming. As it grew later and yet later she doubted whether she ought to wait. She was waiting however when he came, between twelve and one, but nearer the latter. She listened to his step on the stair, and knew all was not right; and when he opened the door, she saw. Her father had surely been taking wine or something; his face was flushed, his eyes were excited, and his manner was wandering.

"Dolly!--What are you here for?"

"I waited for you, father. I wanted to have a talk with you. But it's too late now," Dolly said, trembling.

"Too late--yes, of course. Go to bed. That's the thing for you. London is a great place, Dolly!"

Alas! His expression of satisfaction was echoed in her heart by an anathema. It was no time then to say anything. Dolly went to bed and cried herself to sleep, longing for that sunshiny time of which it is promised to the Lord's people--"Thy sun shall no more go down by day;"

and thankful beyond all power of words to express, even then in her sorrow, that another sun had even already risen upon her, in the warm light of which no utter darkness was possible.

It was a day or two before, with her best watching, she could catch an opportunity to speak to her father. The second morning Mrs. Copley had headache and staid in bed, and Dolly and Mr. Copley were at breakfast alone.

"How long, father, do you think you may find affairs to keep you in England?" Dolly began with her father's first cup of coffee.

"As long as I like, my dear. There is no limit. In England there are always things going on to keep a man alive, and to keep him busy."

"Isn't that true in America equally?"

"I don't think so. I never found it so. Oh, there is enough to do there; but you don't find the same facilities, nor the same men to work with; and you don't know what to do with your money there when you have got it. England is the place! for a man who wants to live and to enjoy life."

"It isn't for a woman," said Dolly. "At least, not for one woman.

Father, don't you know mother is longing to go home, to Roxbury?"

"Dolly, she is longing for something or other impossible, every day of her life."

"But it would do her a great deal of good to be back there."

"It would do me a great deal of harm."

There was a pause here during which Dolly meditated, and Mr. Copley buttered pieces of toast and swallowed them with ominous despatch.

Dolly saw he would be soon through his breakfast at that rate.

"But, father," she began again, "are we to spend all the rest of our lives in England?"

"My dear, I don't know anything about the future. I never look ahead.

The day is as much as I can see through. I advise you to follow my example."

"What are mother and I to do, then? We cannot stay permanently here, in this house."

"What's the matter with it?"

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