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“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.”

“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.