The cloudy tent-door was closed, the sun was not "at home" to
me, as I went down to life on the second day of March, 1860.
Sophie seemed stupid and commonplace that morning. Aaron had a
headache, (that theologic thorn, I know,) and Sophie must go and sit
beside him, and hold the thread of his Sunday's discourse to paper,
whilst with wrapped brow and vision-seeing eyes he told her what his
people ought to do.
Good Sophie! I forgave her, when she put sermons away, and came down
to talk a little to me. It is easy to forgive people for goodness to
others, when they are good to one's self _just afterwards_.
"Do you know any Herbert in Redleaf?" I ventured to ask, with as
careless a tone as I knew.
"No, Anna;--let me think;--I thought I knew,--but no, it is not
here. Why?"
"It doesn't matter. I thought there might be a person with that
name.--Don't you get very tired of this hum-drum life?"
"But it isn't hum-drum in the least, except in bee-time, and on
General-Training days."
"Oh, Sophie! you know what I mean."
"Well, I confess to liking a higher development of intellectual nature
than I find in Redleaf, but I feel that I belong to it, I ought to be
here; and feeling atones for much lack of mind,--it gets up higher,
nearer into the soul.
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