“‘Well——,’ began Auntie, relentingly, but the rest cried out, indignantly,
“‘Then we’ll stay too; ’tisn’t fair.’
“‘How can you be so foolish, Marion? Send those children all to bed. Mary don’t know what is best for her,’ interposed Uncle, and we were sent away. I ran up to my room; I threw myself on the floor; I panted, and sobbed, and moaned.
“‘Oh, papa, papa, take me away; I cannot, cannot bear it. Oh, I cannot—so cruel—so wicked. Oh, papa, papa!’
“‘Why what is the matter?’ inquired Cora, with much concern.
“‘Oh,’ said Robbie, who had come to the door at the prospect of a scene, ‘this is our nice, good girl—our pattern, grandmamma said: but you see she can be like other people when she gets her temper up.’
“Conviction came to me. I ceased to sob. I answered not a word to his taunts, though they cut deep, for right sure was I that he never would have uttered them, but for the one unkind word I had given him in the evening, in return for his kindness. Surely every wrong word or thought or deed, or even look, brings its own punishment—and who can count the harm wrought by once giving up to anger? the harm not only to ourselves but to others? My forgetfulness, my impatience was causing my cousin to sin grievously—to go to sleep with anger in his heart, instead of lifting it to God in prayer.
“I was not yet willing to yield. This desire to know of my dear father’s welfare was turning into a strong purpose of having my own will. Self-will was my bane, though I was only half conscious of it. My own way, my own wishes, seemed best. My dear father’s gentle, loving sway had never seemed irksome. I had known nothing of this germ of evil in my own heart, which was to grow and blossom and bear fruit in anger, in wrong doing, in deceit—and so had not yet strength to resist it. The weed was taking root firmly, displacing the flowers of gentleness, truth, obedience, slowly but surely, and poisoning my thoughts of duty to God and man with its breath. I had been conquered by it in all the deeds of that day.
“I undressed myself, inwardly chafing against what I was pleased to think Uncle Bell’s oppression, and contrasting papa’s indulgence with it. ‘He would not have made me come up here, when I wanted so to hear it all,’ I said to myself, with the hot tears on my cheeks. ‘He would not have been so cruel, so unkind. I will not stay here—I will write to him to-morrow. They are all so wicked—so wrong—I shall be like them if I stay. I am getting like them now,’ I continued, with a sudden fear that struck me like a chill, and I paused, and threw myself on my knees, and poured out a fervent prayer to be kept, through God’s mercy, in the straight path.
“Wave after wave of sorrow, trouble, self-reproach, and penitence passed over me.