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Updated: May 16, 2025
"O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind There sweeps a strain, Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind The power of pain." The girl in the white dress did not sing. She swallowed often. The voice of the child at her side soared easily. "And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea, I see Christ walk; And come to me, and tenderly, Divinely, talk."
It was but the middle of the day, and he had risen and had his cup of tea laced with brandy and crowned with brandy, so that the jaded man was comparatively fresh, but irritable to the last nerve, each jarring nerve twanging like harpstrings, sending electric thrills of vexation and rage over his whole body at the cross of every straw.
Ellen was annoyed again at the interruption; the harpstrings were jarring yet, and gave fresh discord to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her vexation be seen; she went immediately and held the cotton, and, as soon as it was done, set down again to her drawing. Before ten minutes had passed, Margery came to set the table for dinner; Ellen's papers and desk must move.
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