"Fully and freely, dear; but there is One, whose children you both are, whom you have grieved more. I want you both to ask Him to forgive you before you go to sleep to-night, never doubting that if you ask aright He will do so."
As the two girls went upstairs together, later on that evening, Lena gave a great sigh as she said, "Oh dear, I wish we had not taken Lucy with us this afternoon; it quite spoiled all the pleasure."
"I wish we had not left her," said Milly, in her gravest tones.
"I believe you think we are most to blame."
"We are the eldest, and she is such a little thing; if we had stayed with her she would have been good."
"Then I am most naughty, for I would go to the band. I wish one could always be good; it is so horrible after being naughty."
When Lena was alone in her room, she went to the window, and pulling up the blind, looked out, but her thoughts were not on what she saw, fair as the scene was, on which her eyes rested. Beneath her window lay the garden, now bathed in moonlight, and in the far distance was the sea, shining like a band of silver in the moon's rays. How often had she stood, as now, at this very window, thinking! Then, her thoughts had been of the parents so dimly remembered. What would they be really like? Ah, how good she would be to them, and show how much she loved them. Now they had really come; and to-day, instead of all this goodness, she had grieved her mother by her disobedience and selfishness, and the little sister of whom she had said, "She would like to give up her pleasures to,"—she had quarrelled with her, not only in word, but in very deed. The tears filled her eyes as she thus thought. She did love her mother just as much as she ever did, and—no, there was no disappointment in her, but somehow things were not quite what she had expected. She had pictured to herself a life with Mama, as something of the same kind, she had led with her Aunt, being her constant companion, and her one chief thought and care. Instead of that, she was more with her sisters than her parents. Kind and loving as Mama was to her, she was equally so to Milly and Lucy. Poor foolish child, surrounded as she was with every earthly blessing, she was not content. Instead of a happy, grateful love for all she had, she was groping after the impossible, and raising up for herself all sorts of imaginary troubles, that had no real existence but in her own wayward fancy. The opening of the door roused her, and turning round, she saw that it was her mother who had entered.
"Not in bed yet, dear?"
"No, Mama, I have been thinking," said Lena, in a very grave tone, as she pulled down the blind.
"What were the thoughts that made you look so grave, and forget to go to bed?"