“Papa said your temperament and your health were against you!”
“Did he say that?” was the eager question. “Well there are a hundred things—I sometimes have such headaches that I can hardly tell where I am, and if anything bothers me I feel as if I could stamp on it, crush it out of existence. And if it is a person—”
“Oh,” I cried, “don’t please! That is murder in one’s heart.”
“And when any one annoys Stuart he laughs at him, flings, jeers and exasperates. It is his way, yet every one thinks he has a lovely temper. He makes others angry. I have seen him get half a class by the ears, and in such a mess that no one knew what was the matter.—I do not believe I ever in my life set about making another person angry. But I cannot stand such things. They stir up all the bad blood in me.”
“So you need patience, first of all.”
“But I can’t stop to think.”
“Ah, that is just it. Stopping to think saves us. And when we have our great Captain to remember, and are endeavoring to walk in the path He marked out for us, it makes it easier. We are trying for the sake of one we love.”
“What else do I want?”
“Don’t ask me, please,” I entreated.
“Yes. I shall not let you evade me. Write me some copies to take with me. Patience—what next?”