CHAPTER XX.
THE HOUR OF DAWN.
Slowly light came, the thinnest dawn, Not sunshine, to my night; A new, more spiritual thing, An advent of pure light.
All grief has its limits, all chastenings their pause; Thy love and our weakness are sorrow's two laws.
The winter that followed seemed very long and uneventful.

After Sister Madeline went away, my days settled themselves into the routine in which they continued to revolve for many months.

I was as lonely as formerly, save for the companionship of well-chosen books, and for the direction of another mind, which I felt to be the truest support and guidance.

I was taught to bend to my uncle's wishes, and to give up constant church-going, and visiting among the poor, which would have been such a resource and occupation to me.

And so my life, outwardly, was very little changed from former years--years that I had found almost insupportable, without any sorrow; and yet, strange to say, I was not unhappy.
My hours were full of little duties, little rules.