I suppose my mother thought there was no use in argument, for after a moment's silence, she began to talk of somewhat else, and then she proposed that we should have a music lesson to quiet our spirits. The girls agreed, and we got out our music and sang several hymns and songs, and practised some new chants and anthems which my mother had got in a parcel from London. For my Uncle Charles and Aunt Jem still continued their kindness toward us, though they were a little vexed that my mother should have refused their offer, and only a few days before we had received from them a great parcel containing books, music, tea and coffee and chocolate, and I know not what pretty trinkets and laces for me. Then, when we were in rather a better frame, my mother talked to us in her gentle, serious way of those consolations which were so dear to her own heart, and of that inward experience of the presence and the love of the dear Lord which was able to support and console under all trials. Rosamond drank in the discourse like water, but I could see that Meg was impatient under it. The truth was that her religion at that time was all outward—a matter of forms and ceremonies, of fasts and feasts. She made a merit of always using the right collect on the right day, and never reading the Psalms but in their appointed order; but to the spiritual treasures concealed in those Psalms and collects, her eyes were not at that time opened. This she has since told me herself. That evening Andrew came down to our house and had a long audience with my mother. I did not see him, but maman told me the substance of the conversation. He wished to renew the engagement, and have things placed upon their former footing, but this my mother positively refused. Andrew begged to see me, and my mother came to tell me so, but I would not go down. "I cannot see him now. Perhaps I may after a time, but at present it is impossible. Tell him that I agree to all you have said, but I cannot see him." "I do not myself think it best," said my mother. "Let matters rest for the present." So Andrew went away and I did not see him. Looking back at this time, I must say I think I behaved pretty well. I was as nearly broken-hearted as any poor girl ever was, but I strove against my sorrow, and tried in every way to keep myself occupied that I need not have time to brood. I had very bitter thoughts of Andrew, of his family, and even of Providence itself, but I did strive against them. I went to my school, and to Margaret's also twice in the week, for she could not quite manage the knitting, though she was improving. I read to poor Lois, and to an old blind sailor who lived in one of the cottages, and in every way strove to keep my thoughts occupied. My mother was all judicious kindness, knowing just when to help and when to let me alone; but with all my efforts and helps, I passed many sad hours.