“I am very sorry, Philip dear,” said I; “please go without me, and I’ll come on as quickly as I can.  Thank you very much for coming to remind me.”

“There’s no such awful hurry,” said Philip in a mollified tone; “I’ll wait for you down-stairs.”

Which he did, whistling.

Aunt Isobel and I are not demonstrative, it does not suit us.  She took hold of my arms, and I laid my head on her shoulder.

“Aunt Isobel, GOD help me, I will fight on to the very end.”

“HE will help you,” said Aunt Isobel.

I could not look at her face and doubt it.  Oh, my weak soul, never doubt it more!

CHAPTER V.

CELESTIAL FIRE—­I CHOOSE A TEXT.

We were confirmed.

As Aunt Isobel had said, I was spared perplexity by the unmistakable nature of my weakest point.  There was no doubt as to what I should pray against and strive against.  But on that day it seemed not only as if I could never give way to ill-temper again, but as if the trumpery causes of former outbreaks could never even tempt me to do so.  As the lines of that ancient hymn to the Holy Ghost—­“Veni Creator”—­rolled on, I prayed humbly enough that my unworthy efforts might yet be crowned by the sevenfold gifts of the Spirit; but that a soul which sincerely longed to be “lightened with celestial fire” could be tempted to a common fit of sulks or scolding by the rub of nursery misdeeds and mischances, felt then so little likely as hardly to be worth deprecating on my knees.

And yet, when the service was over, the fatigue of the mental strain and of long kneeling and standing began to tell in a feeling that came sadly near to peevishness.  I spent the rest of the day resolutely in my room and on my knees, hoping to keep up those high thoughts and emotions which had made me feel happy as well as good.  And yet I all but utterly broke down into the most commonplace crossness because Philip did not do as I did, but romped noisily with the others, and teased me for looking grave at tea.

I just did not break down.  So much remained alive of the “celestial fire,” that I kept my temper behind my teeth.  Long afterwards, when I learnt by accident that Philip’s “good resolve” on the occasion had been that he would be kinder to “the little ones,” I was very glad that I had not indulged my uncharitable impulse to lecture him on indifference to spiritual progress.

That evening Aunt Isobel gave me a new picture for my room.  It was a fine print of the Crucifixion, for which I had often longed, a German woodcut in the powerful manner of Albert Duerer, after a design by Michael Angelo.  It was neither too realistic nor too mediaeval, and the face was very noble.  Aunt Isobel had had it framed, and below on an illuminated scroll was written—­“What are these wounds in Thine Hands?  Those with which I was wounded in the house of My friends.”