It was curious to see the two children together; Hecla, years the older, all excitement and restlessness, like quicksilver, and Ivy, so small and young, so dignified and sensible.
Hecla really was trying to be different; but the habits of her life could not be conquered in a day or a month, and a great deal of hard fighting lay ahead, before she could hope to become as quiet and thoughtful as little Ivy was by nature. Not that Hecla did not think! She thought a great deal, but unfortunately she always seemed to give her mind to anything and everything except the present duty.
Besides much fighting, much praying for help was needed, and that was a habit which Hecla had to learn, as we all have to learn it. Praying is quite as hard as fighting, if not much harder. But the more we pray for help, the easier becomes the fighting. I think Hecla was only just beginning to learn the A B C of that great knowledge—how to pray.
Some days she really did look up and ask in her very heart that God would help her, for the sake of His dear Son; and some days she said her prayers like a lesson, and never thought about the meaning of the words.
But it often puzzled Hecla to see how things which were difficult to her were easy to Ivy; and she would wonder why. She was too young to understand the great difference that there is between different people's natures. This difference, which made it much easier for Ivy to be gentle-mannered, made it also worth a great deal more when Hecla was gentle and considerate, for with Ivy it was natural, but with Hecla it meant a hard fight and a victory. And a victory is always worth gaining. The harder the fight, the more the victory is worth.
Another thing sometimes puzzled Hecla. It was that when Ivy asked questions, the aunts never seemed to mind, and always took pains to answer her. While, if Hecla burst out with strings of questions, she was told not to chatter so much. She did not quickly find out the real reason—that Ivy asked because she really wanted to understand something, while Hecla's questions were merely because she wanted to talk, and did not care what she said or what replies came.
But, of course, little Ivy too had her faults. She was not by any means perfect. All children have faults; and so had she; though they were different in kind from Hecla's faults.
For instance, though she was pretty in her ways, and generally so sensible and reasonable, she would now and then get a sudden odd fit of obstinacy, and would utterly refuse to do something that was wished. No particular reason could be found for the little naughty fit; but there it was.
The first time this happened was two or three weeks after her arrival, when she was quite settled in and at home, and things were going smoothly and happily. Miss Anne was teaching her as usual for half-an-hour how to read, and she was spelling the easy words, one after another, when she came to the word cat.
Ivy spelt it in her slow, quiet way, as she had done before—very deliberate, and never in a hurry.