CHAPTER I.

The valley of humiliation.

“Merle, I may be a little old-fashioned in my notions; middle-aged people never adjust their ideas quite in harmony with you young folk, but in my day we never paused to count fifty at a full stop.”

Aunt Agatha’s voice startled me with its reproachful irritability.  Well, I had deserved that little sarcasm for I must confess that I had been reading very carelessly.  My favourite motto was ringing in my ears, “Laborare est orare.”

Somehow the words had set themselves to resonant music in my brain; it seemed as though I were chanting them inwardly all the time I was climbing down the steep hill with Christiana and her boys. Laborare est orare. And this is what I was reading on that still, snowy Sunday afternoon:  “But we will come again to this Valley of Humiliation.  It is the best and most fruitful piece of ground in all these parts.  It is a fat ground, and, as you see, consisteth much in meadows, and if a man was to come here in the summertime as we do now, if he knew not anything before thereof, and if he delighted himself in the sight of his eyes, he might see that which would be delightful to him.  Behold how green this valley is, also how beautiful with lilies!  I have known many labouring men that have got good estates in this Valley of Humiliation.”

“Merle,” observed Aunt Agatha, a little dryly, “we may as well leave off there, for it seems that you and I are to have our estate among the labouring men in this very valley.”

Aunt Agatha was a clever woman, and could say shrewd things sometimes, but she never spoke a truer word than this; but my wits were no longer wool-gathering.

“What a pity you stopped me just then,” I remarked, somewhat sententiously; “we have missed the purest gem of the allegory.  ’He that is down need fear no fall; he that is low no pride.’” But here a hand was lifted in protesting fashion.

“Put the marker in the page, child, and spare me the rest; that is in favour of your argument, not mine,” for a weary discussion had been waged between us for two whole hours—­a discussion that had driven Aunt Agatha exhausted to the couch, but which had only given me a tingling feeling of excitement, such as a raw recruit might experience at the sight of a battlefield.  Aunt Agatha’s ladylike ideas lay dead and wounded round her while I had made that last impetuous charge.

“I am of age, a free Englishwoman, living in a free country, and not all the nineteenth century prejudices, though they are thick as dragons’ teeth, shall prevent me, Merle Fenton, of sane mind and healthy body, from doing what I believe to be my duty.”

“Humph, I am rather doubtful of the sanity; I always told you that you were too independent and strong-minded for a girl; but what is the use of preaching to deaf ears?” continued Aunt Agatha, in a decidedly cross voice, as she arranged the cushions comfortably.