“Ah, let us look on Mademoiselle as some one placed in close relation to you by our heavenly Father for wise purposes of His own, which He does not think it necessary to communicate to her or to you. And now eat your bread and butter.” She did so, having first given me a hearty kiss. I am always glad when fine, bright weather on a Sunday morning favours the church-goers, though I am debarred by bodily infirmities from joining the multitude on their way to the house of God, and swelling the voice of praise and thanksgiving among such as keep holy-day. And though my eyes have sometimes swelled with tears, and my heart yearned with vain longings, as I have seen the scattered parties trooping past my gate, yet more often, far more often, I have silently bidden them good speed, and mentally repeated that sweet and soothing sonnet of Mrs. Hemans— “How many blessed groups this hour are bending Through England’s primrose-meadow paths their way! Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! The halls, from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. _I_ may not tread With them these pathways; to the feverish bed Of sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.” And, since I have been no longer bound to the sick-bed, but only to the house, my thankfulness has deepened under a cheerful sense of alleviated pains and added blessings; so that I may sincerely say my home-kept Sabbaths have generally been very calm and sweet. I have made out a little routine for myself, which I adhere to pretty closely. Having early in life acquired the habit of rising betimes, I have no temptation to curtail the Sunday by lying in bed; nor is Phillis so overworked as to need, or even to wish for, an extra hour’s sleep. I therefore hear her stirring as soon as the clock strikes six; and, till she comes to afford me a little assistance at seven, I lie tranquilly cogitating on God’s mercies, lifting up my heart to Him, and almost invariably repeating that hymn of Hugh White’s, which so fitly opens the invalid’s Sunday. “Let me put on my fair attire, My Sabbath robes of richest dress, And tune my consecrated lyre, Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless. “Oh, may no spot of sin to-day My raiment, clean and white, defile! And while I tune my heartfelt lay, Bend down on me thy gracious smile. “Let holy feelings, heavenly themes, Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind; And earth’s low vanities and schemes No place nor entertainment find!