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I think so too now, but then I was simply impressed by the thought that an ill-tempered person was, as Nurse expressed it, “unfit” to join in the highest religious worship. It is true that I was also impressed by her other saying, “It’s an awful thing, Miss Isobel, to be taken sudden and unprepared;” but there was a temporary compromise in my own case. I could not be a communicant till I was confirmed.

CHAPTER IV.

CASES OF CONSCIENCE–ETHICS OF ILL-TEMPER.

Confirmations were not very frequent in our little village at this time. About once in three years the Bishop came to us. He came when I was twelve years old. Opinions were divided as to whether I was old enough, but I decided the matter by saying I would rather wait till the next opportunity.

“I may be more fit by that time,” was my thought, and it was probably not unlike some of Mr. Rampant’s self-communings.

The time came, and the Bishop also; I was fifteen.

I do not know why, but nobody had proposed that Philip should be confirmed at twelve years old. Fifteen was thought to be quite early enough for him, and so it came about that we were confirmed together.

I am very thankful that, as it happened, I had Aunt Isobel to talk to.

“You’re relieved from one perplexity at any rate,” said she, when I had been speaking of that family failing which was also mine. “You know your weak point. I remember a long talk I had, years ago, with Mrs. Rampant, whom I used to know very well when we were young. She said one of her great difficulties was not being able to find out her besetting sin. She said it always made her so miserable when clergymen preached on that subject, and said that every enlightened Christian must have discovered one master passion amongst the others of his soul. She had tried so hard, and could only find a lot, none much bigger or much less than the others. Some vanity, some selfishness, some distrust and weariness, some peevishness, some indolence, and a lapful of omissions. Since she married,” continued my aunt, slowly pulling her thick black eyelashes, after a fashion she had, “I believe she has found the long-lost failing. It is impatience with Mr. Rampant, she thinks.”

I could not help laughing.

“However, Isobel, we may be sure of this, people of soft, gentle temperaments have their own difficulties with their own souls which we escape. Perhaps in the absence of such marked vices as bring one to open shame one might be slower to undertake vigorous self-improvement. You and I have no difficulty in seeing the sin lying at our door.”

“N–no,” said I.

“Well, have you?” said Aunt Isobel, facing round. “Bless me,” she added impetuously, “don’t say you haven’t if you have. Never let any one else think for you, child!”

“If you’ll only have patience and let me explain–“

“I’m patience its very self!” interrupted my aunt, “but I do hate a No that means Yes.”

My patience began to evaporate.

“There are some things, Aunt Isobel, you know, which can’t be exactly squeezed into No and Yes. But if you don’t want to be bothered I won’t say anything, or I’ll say yes or no, which ever you like.”

And I kicked the shovel. (My aunt had shoved the poker with her slipper.) She drew her foot back and spoke very gently:

“I beg your pardon, my dear. Please say what you were going to say, and in your own way.”

There is no doubt that good-humour–like bad–is infectious. I drew nearer to Aunt Isobel, and fingered the sleeve of her dress caressingly.

“You know, dear Aunt Isobel, that I should never think of saying to the Rector what I want to say to you. And I don’t mean that I don’t agree to whatever he tells us about right and wrong, but still I think if one can be quite convinced in the depths of one’s own head, too, it’s a good thing, as well as knowing that he must be right.”