But I beg and pray
of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, for it's bad for soul and
body- and the money as comes i' that way 'ull be a bad bed to lie down
on at the last, if it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, like the
white frost. And you'll excuse me being that free with you, Master
Marner, for I wish you well- I do. Make your bow, Aaron.'
Silas said 'Good-bye, and thank you, kindly', as he opened the door
for Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling relieved when she was gone-
relieved that he might weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple
view of life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer him,
was only like a report of unknown objects, which his imagination could
not fashion. The fountains of human love and divine faith had not
yet been unlocked and his soul was still the shrunken rivulet, with
only this difference, that its little groove of sand was blocked up,
and it wandered confusedly against dark obstruction.
And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr Macey and
Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in loneliness, eating
his meat in sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a
neighbourly present. In the morning he looked out on the black frost
that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the
half-icy red pool shivered under the bitter wind; but towards
evening the snow began to fall, and curtained from him even that
dreary outlook, shutting him close up with his narrow grief.
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