The offended expression that came into Charlotte's face pleased me much better than its preceding one of levity and indifference.
"Well, I must say I see no just reason why you should accuse me of so bad a fault as selfishness any more than Mechie," she exclaimed, warmly. "I may be indolent, if not liking disagreeable trouble is being so, but selfish I am certainly not; or if I am, so is everybody else, for I see no difference between me and others, excepting, perhaps, that I am more good-natured."
"Now, listen to me, Miss Lotty, and judge for yourself if I am right or wrong. You say you are not selfish, and you question being indolent because you only don't like disagreeable trouble. You are not indolent? Then what is it, in the first place, makes you such a sluggard in your duties to your God that if it were not for others there's scarce a morning you'd be down in time for the Bible and prayers? You know very well, too, that your poor aunt is a deal better in this place from the change than she was before, and yet you have done nothing but grumble and complain, and that because things aren't so straight and pleasant or so gay as at Fern Bank. Isn't that selfish? And hasn't it to do with indolence? You haven't many servants to be attending to you here, and that obliges you to attend to yourself and to wait upon your aunt—at least, you ought to wait upon her, and you can't help feeling and seeing that you ought, whether you choose to do so or not. Then you haven't a carriage to be driving you out in whenever you fancy it, and that obliges you to walk, which you don't like either; and the conclusion of all is, that if you could make us all go home this minute, you would gladly. And if you could avoid doing anything that gives you trouble and get other people to do all for you, you would be quite contented and very good tempered, and think yourself all the while one of the most amiable, obliging young ladies at the Cape. But is that what you have been taught to be, Miss Lotty? Is that the sort of life which is pleasing in God's sight? Oh, child! child! remember what our blessed Saviour's example was while on earth—how he spent the whole of every day in teaching and benefitting poor human beings, pleasing not himself in anything except in doing good."
"Dear me!" sighed Charlotte, wearily, passing her hands over her face after a fashion of her own; "now I do wish that all that is pleasant wasn't wrong, and all that's wrong—Well, no matter; it can't be helped, I suppose. I will try and be better, if only just to please you, dear old nursey; see if I don't!" and, jumping up, she threw her arms round Susan's neck and impetuously kissed her check several times. "There! dear old thing; don't scold any more."
Susan, with whom Charlotte was secretly at heart the favourite, warmly returned her embrace, and her eyes filled with tears as she said earnestly, "If I did not love you two children as though you were my own, I shouldn't grieve over your faults so much, nor scold you so much, maybe; but don't you say that, dear—don't encourage them hard thoughts against the all-wise, all-merciful God, for it is against God we grumble when we murmur at the dispensation of his laws on earth."
"What thoughts, you dear old scold?" and Lotty laid her soft young cheek caressingly against Susan's.
"Why, that everything pleasant is wrong, and—"
"Well, but is it not so, nursey? I declare, I rarely, if ever, do anything pleasant, or wish to do it, that I don't find out that it is in some way wrong, and things I generally dislike you tell me are right;" and Charlotte hid her face on Susan's shoulder.
"It is true, dear, that many besides yourself have that notion about right and wrong, but then they are unthinking, foolish-headed young things like you" (Charlotte did not look particularly flattered by this definition of herself), "or, if they are older, they are no wiser. But come! get into bed, both of you, and I'll just set that error to rights in your mind, then leave you to go to sleep."