would ask her; and why, why did Lois
wish he would not? For she perceived that the idea gave her pain. Why
should it give her pain? For herself, the thing was a fixed fact;
whatever the Bible said--and she knew pretty well what it said--for
_her_, such a marriage was an impossibility. And why should she think
about it at all? nobody else was thinking about it. Fra Angelico's
angel came back to her mind; the clear, unshadowed eyes, the pure, glad
face, the separateness from all earth's passions or pleasures, the
lofty exaltation above them. So ought she to be. And then, while this
thought was warmest, came, shutting it out, the image of Mr. Dillwyn at
the music party; what he was doing there, how he would look and speak,
how Madge would enjoy his attentions, and everything; and Lois suddenly
felt as if she herself were very much alone. Not merely alone now,
to-night; she had chosen this, and liked it; (did she like it?)--not
now, but all through her life. It suddenly seemed to Lois as if she
were henceforth to be always alone. Madge would no doubt
marry--somebody; and there was no home, and nobody to make home for
Lois. She had never thought of it before, but now she seemed to see it
all quite clearly. Mrs. Barclay's work had been, to separate her, in a
certain way, from her family and her surroundings. They fitted together
no longer. Lois knew what they did not know; she had tastes which they
did not share, but which now were become part of her being; the society
in which she had moved all her life till two years, or three years,
ago, could no longer content her. It was not inanimate nature, her
garden, her spade and her wheelbarrow, that seemed distasteful; Lois
could have gone into that work again with all her heart, and thought it
no hardship; it was the mental level at which the people lived; the
social level, in houses, tables, dress, and amusements, and manner; the
aesthetic level of beauty, and grace, and fitness, or at least the
perception of them. Lois pondered and revolved this all till she began
to grow rather dreary. Think of the Esterbrooke school, and of being
alone there! Rough, rude, coarse boys and girls; untaught, untamed,
ungovernable, except by an uncommon exertion of wisdom and will; long
days of hard labour, nights of common food and sleep, with no delicate
arrangements for either, and social refreshment utterly out of the
question. And Madge away; married, perhaps, and travelling in Europe,
and see