“Yes,” said I; it would have been impertinence to say more.

“I have found that if one fights for good behaviour, GOD makes one a present of the good feelings.  I believe you will find it so.  Even when you were a child, if you had tried to be good, and had managed to control yourself, and had not thrown the hatchet, I am quite sure you would not have hated Philip for long.  Perhaps you would have thought how much better Philip used to behave before your father and mother died, and a little elder-sisterly, motherly feeling would have mixed with your wrath at seeing him with his fat legs planted apart, and his shoulders up, the very picture of wilful naughtiness.  Perhaps you might have thought you had repulsed him a little harshly when he wanted to help, as you were his chief playmate and twin sister.”

“Please don’t,” said I.  “How I wish I had!  Indeed I don’t know how I can ever speak of hating one of the others when there are so few of us, and we are orphans.  But everybody isn’t one’s brother.  And—­oh, Aunt Isobel, at the time one does get so wild, and hard, and twisted in one’s heart!”

“I don’t think it is possible to overrate the hardness of the first close struggle with any natural passion,” said my aunt earnestly; “but indeed the easiness of after-steps is often quite beyond one’s expectations.  The free gift of grace with which GOD perfects our efforts may come in many ways, but I am convinced that it is the common experience of Christians that it does come.”

“To every one, do you think?” said I.  “I’ve no doubt it comes to you, Aunt Isobel, but then you are so good.”

“For pity’s sake don’t say I am good,” said my aunt, and she kicked down all the fire-irons; and then begged my pardon, and picked them up again.

We were silent for awhile.  Aunt Isobel sat upright with her hands folded in her lap, and that look which her large eyes wear when she is trying to see all the sides of a question.  They were dilated with a sorrowful earnestness when she spoke again.

“There may be some souls,” she said, “whose brave and bitter lot it is to conquer comfortless.  Perhaps some terrible inheritance of strong sin from the father is visited upon the son, and, only able to keep his purpose pure, he falls as fast as he struggles up, and still struggling falls again.  Soft moments of peace with GOD and man may never come to him.  He may feel himself viler than a thousand trumpery souls who could not have borne his trials for a day.  Child, for you and for me is reserved no such cross and no such crown as theirs who falling still fight, and fighting fall, with their faces Zionwards, into the arms of the Everlasting Father.  ’As one whom his mother comforteth’ shall be the healing of their wounds.”

There was a brisk knock at the door, and Philip burst in.

“Look here, Isobel, if you mean to be late for confirmation-class I’m not going to wait for you.  I hate sneaking in with the benches all full, and old Bartram blinking and keeping your place in the catechism for you with his fat forefinger.”