en
refuge, where men lived in careless abundance, knowing and needing
nothing of that trust, which, for him, had been turned to bitterness.
The little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, that
frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to create for him the
blackness of night.

His first movement after the shock had been to work in his loom; and he
went on with this unremittingly, never asking himself why, now he was
come to Raveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of
Mrs. Osgood's table-linen sooner than she expected--without
contemplating beforehand the money she would put into his hand for the
work. He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without
reflection. Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to
become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of
his life. Silas's hand satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, and
his eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves
under his effort. Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in
his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, to
fetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire;
and all these immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to
reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. He
hated the thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his
love and fellowship toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the
future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him.
Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its old narrow pathway
was closed, and affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had
fallen on its keenest nerves.

But at last Mrs. Osgood's table-linen was finished, and Silas was paid
in gold. His earnings in his native town, where he worked for a
wholesale dealer, had been after a lower rate; he had been paid weekly,
and of his weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of
piety and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had five
bright guineas put into his hand; no man expected a share of them, and
he loved no man that he should offer him a share. But what were the
guineas to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving? It
was needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to him to feel
them in his palm, and look at their bright faces, which were all his
own: it was another element of life, li