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The night has passed, and a cloudless sun looks down on the assembled thousands of Israel.  Elkanah has presented his offering at the Tabernacle, and has now gathered his family to the feast in the tent.  As is his wont, he gives to each a portion, and hilarity presides at the board.  The animated scene around them—­the white tents stretching as far as the eye can reach—­the sound of innumerable voices—­the meeting with friends—­all conspire to make every heart overflow, and the well-spread table invites to new expressions of satisfaction and delight.  But here, also, as on the journey, one heart is sad.  At Elkanah’s right hand sits Hannah, her plate filled by the hand of love with “a worthy portion;” but it stands untasted before her.  Her husband is troubled.  He has watched her struggles for self-control, and seen her vain endeavors to eat and be happy like those around her; and, divining in part the cause of her sorrow, he tenderly strives to comfort her.  “Hannah, why weepest thou? and why eatest thou not? and why is thy heart grieved?  Am I not better to thee than ten sons?” That voice of sympathy and compassion is too much.  She rises and leaves the tent to calm in solitude, as best she may, her bosom’s strife.  Why must she be thus afflicted?  Severe, indeed, and bitter are the elements which are mingled in her cup.  Jehovah has judged her.  She has been taught to believe that those who are childless are so because of His just displeasure.  Her fellow-creatures also despise her; her neighbors look suspiciously upon her.  Wherefore should it be thus?  She wanders slowly, and with breaking heart, towards the Tabernacle.  The aged Eli sits by one of the posts of the door as she enters the sacred inclosure, but she heeds him not.  She withdraws to a quiet spot, and finds at last a refuge.  She kneels, and the long pent-up sorrow has now its way; she “pours out her soul before the Lord.”  Happy, though sorrowful, Hannah!  She has learned one lesson of which the prosperous know nothing; she has learned to confide in her Maker, as she could in no other friend.  It were useless to go to her husband with the oft-told trouble.  He is ever fond and kind; but though she is childless, he is not, and he cannot appreciate the extent of her grief.  All that human sympathy can do, he will do, but human sympathy cannot be perfect.  It were worse than useless to tell him of Peninnah’s taunts and reproaches.  It would be wicked, and bring upon her Heaven’s just wrath, if she did aught to mar the peace of a happy family.  No; there is no earthly ear into which she can “pour out her soul.”  But here her tears may flow unrestrained, and she need leave nothing unsaid.