The same room, somewhat altered in appearance. The casement windows are closed. There is no portrait there, and no table towards the centre. The long sofa stands left, down, slanted towards the wall: and before it, a covered cradle. Up by the window sits UPPIE, reading through her spectacles. -- She holds a Bible open before her and moves her finger along, conscientiously, prompting her memory in a sonorous chanting voice; trying the hard words with some difficulty, but final satisfaction.
'My soul also is sore troubled: . . . but . . . how long wilt thou punish me?'. . . Five. 'For in death no man remembereth thee: and who will give thee thanks in the pit?' Six. 'I am weary of my groaning: every night wash I my bed: and water my couch with my tears.' Seven. -- 'My beauty is gone for very trouble; and worn away because of mine enemies.' (Wipes her eye-glasses, and slowly turns a few pages.) 'The tabernacles