“‘It seems almost too late to begin now, Mary—my habits are all formed—I should find it very hard work to change indeed. My dear, when I was a little girl like you, was the time to do that.’
“‘And must it spoil all your life, and Uncle’s, and Cora’s, and John’s, and Robbie’s?’ I said, not thinking how my words would affect her.
“‘So it does, my dear,’ said Auntie despondingly. ‘Oh, Mary, our lives have all been spoiled—they have been a mistake—all the years before me will not make it right. Never let a failing overcome you, never give up to it. Learn the meaning of self-control, then learn to practise it—when you are young. Take out all the germs of evil when they are young and tender, for after a while, it is like taking your life, to dig out the strong, knotted roots.’
“So I tried to remember that—and my terror of becoming, like poor aunt Marion, the victim of any weakness, kept me on the watch continually.
“And how uncomfortable she was herself! She missed so much happiness or pleasure because she could not be ready in time. She was always too late for church. She scarcely ever finished any work, because some of the materials were lost or destroyed before it was half done. And every day, something neglected, many things undone, reproached her.
“I remember one time, in particular, when her failing caused much vexation and trouble. A very dear and near friend of Uncle Bell’s had died. He was anxious that the whole family should attend the funeral, which was to take place in the morning. We were all ready—Cora, Robert, John, Willie, Uncle Bell and myself—the carriage was at the gate, the coachman holding the horses’ heads, but still Aunt Marion did not appear. Uncle began to pace back and forth—a sure sign of impatience with him—Robbie was fretting and wondering why his mother did not come, and we had grown quite weary of waiting, when I ran up stairs to see what was the matter.
“A scene of confusion presented itself. The bureau drawers were all pulled out, the closet doors all opened, a bandbox was on the bed, a pitcher in the middle of the room, on the floor, brushes and combs on the chairs, and a heap of garments over the sofa. Aunt Marion herself, arrayed in bonnet and shawl, was limping about the room, with one foot shod, and a face of great perplexity.
“‘Auntie, we’ve all been ready for ten minutes. What is the matter?’ I asked.
“‘I can’t find my other boot—I’ve looked in every place,’ was the answer.
“‘Can’t you wear another one?’