the distance, all of them wearily at rest this weary Sabbath day.
However, there was one thing than which this was better, and that
was being at church, which, to this boy at least, was the very fifth
essence of dreariness.

He closed the door and went into the kitchen. That was nearly as
bad. The kettle was on the fire, to be sure, in anticipation of
tea; but the coals under it were black on the top, and it made only
faint efforts, after immeasurable intervals of silence, to break
into a song, giving a hum like that of a bee a mile off, and then
relapsing into hopeless inactivity. Having just had his dinner, he
was not hungry enough to find any resource in the drawer where the
oatcakes lay, and, unfortunately, the old wooden clock in the corner
was going, else there would have been some amusement in trying to
torment it into demonstrations of life, as he had often done in less
desperate circumstances than the present. At last he went up-stairs
to the very room in which he now was, and sat down upon the floor,
just as he was sitting now. He had not even brought his Pilgrim's
Progress with him from his grandmother's room. But, searching about
in all holes and corners, he at length found Klopstock's Messiah
translated into English, and took refuge there till Betty came home.
Nor did he go down till she called him to tea, when, expecting to
join his grandmother and the stranger, he found, on the contrary,
that he was to have his tea with Betty in the kitchen, after which
he again took refuge with Klopstock in the garret, and remained
there till it grew dark, when Betty came in search of him, and put
him to bed in the gable-room, and not in his usual chamber. In the
morning, every trace of the visitor had vanished, even to the thorn
stick which he had set down behind the door as he entered.