Mrs. Murray was one of those who keep the inner sanctuary of their hearts shut and barred, lest some foolish tenderness should find expression; it was there, though, and those dreadful words her dear eldest daughter had spoken were to her like the stab of a knife.  Like most nervous persons, her feelings were intense.  Such condemnation, remorse, and utter despair as took hold of her:  it could not be called repentance, for that has “A purpose of heart and endeavour after new obedience.”  She was in the Slough of Despond.  The twilight had deepened into darkness, when sounds indicated an arrival.

“Aunt Deborah has come,” Florence whispered at the door.  “You lie still, mother, and Mag and I can do everything just as nicely.”

But “mother” hastily arose and met her visitor as calmly as if she had not spent the last three hours in a tempest.

Aunt Deborah Hathaway was a dear old saint.  Her name should have been “Peace,” for that word was written all over her, from the unruffled brow and calm eyes, to the soft folds of her dove-coloured cashmere.

“Tell me all about your life, my dear,” she said to Mrs. Murray, when they were seated alone the next morning—­all the rest of the family in church.

“My life has turned out to be a failure,” said Mrs. Murray, sadly.  “And what is strange, I have only just now found it out.”

Then drawn on by the loving sympathy expressed, she unburdened her heart to Aunt Deborah, keeping back nothing.  “But then, what am I telling all this to you for?  Nobody can help me.  I have at times realised that I was growing very irritable, and was ashamed of it.  Then I would resolve that I would not do so any more, but my resolves are like ropes of sand.  I get started and can’t stop.  I think if human beings were like sewing-machines, and when they get out of order, could have some skilful hand just put a drop of oil here and there, and loosen the tension or something, it would be so good.  But things do annoy me so, sometimes it seems as if Satan himself planned things out to vex me.

“I make no doubt,” said Aunt Deborah, “but that Satan is busy enough, but sometimes I think he gets more set down to his account than rightfully belongs.  He couldn’t accomplish half he does with us if we didn’t help him.  We put ourselves in such a condition that it is easy for him to carry us captive.  But you said ’nobody could help you.’  Now I believe I can help you.  I came very near being shipwrecked once myself on these very rocks you have struck.  It will never do to give up, and go to groaning when we get into trouble.  What you want is to get out of it.  To help you in the best way, you must give me an old woman’s privilege, and let me speak my mind freely.  I think I know the secret of the trouble.  Your nerves are sick—­people used to think that meant hysterics, but they know better now.  You are overworking these sick nerves.  The first thing to be done is for you to get relief