I have put secular books, newspapers, work-baskets, &c., out of the way overnight; so that the room has an orderly, Sabbath-like appearance. The large Bible and little Prayer-book are on the small table beside me: some other book also at hand, in the course of Sunday reading. My canary-bird must be attended to, Sunday as well as week-day. I give him my attention as soon as I am a little rested; and perhaps remain at the window a little, looking at the flowers in the garden-borders, the little children from the hill trooping to the school with their cold dinners in their bags, and the hill itself, girdling in the prospect, and ever calling to mind the verse, “I will look unto the hill from whence cometh my help.” A widow woman, who nursed me during part of my illness, always comes to cook my dinner, and take care of me while Phillis goes to church. She gets her dinner for her pains, and sits placidly reading while the meat is roasting, now and then with an eye to the spit. Afterwards, she goes to afternoon service. She is too infirm, and too far from the church to be able to go more than once in the day. Of course, I always have a few pleasant words with Mrs. Goodey; and sometimes she tells me of some case of distress among the cottagers, which I make it my business to relieve, or get some one to look into, the first opportunity. But punctually, as the clock strikes eleven, I commence my solitary prayer service, feeling it a special pleasure, as well as duty, to offer prayer and praise at the same time that my fellow Christians pray and praise. Now, as I do not slavishly go through those portions (they are but few), which can only be appropriately used collectively (St. Chrysostom’s prayer, for instance), one would think I should arrive at the end of the morning service a good deal sooner than they do in church. Sooner, certainly, but not so much so as one might suppose. For, when thoughts wander, (and, alas! who is there among mortal men, who, in this respect, sometimes sinneth not?) I feel it incumbent on me to go over the ground again. Thus, if I repeat a clause in the litany mechanically, I feel that the least I can do is to repeat it with more attention, and something of contrition. Even the wicked king in “Hamlet” said: “My words fly up—my thoughts remain below: Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go!” Thus, of course, the more I detect inattention, the more I lengthen the service. And then again, in the lessons, I frequently read the consecutive chapters, perhaps two or three. So that, sometimes, Mrs. Goodey comes in, to my surprise, to lay the cloth, before I have finished. But, more generally, I have done earlier, and lain back on my sofa-cushion, and taken a good rest, gazing on my Sunday nosegay, and on my dear father’s portrait on the wall. I have no likeness of my mother—not even a _silhouette_; she never would have one taken: but her face is indelibly stamped on my memory and heart.