“I think still papa would say it was your happy contented temper that made you find no vexation.”
“But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it; I never did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew papa was grieved, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and went to play most saucily, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel,” she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, “don’t you remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing! as if I had no share in the Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself a member—it seemed ungrateful.”
Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words. “Discipline,” said she, “would not that show the willingness to have the part? Taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing.”
“Would not that be only making up something for oneself?” said Meta.
“No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book,” said Ethel. “I mean one can do little secret things—not read storybooks on those days, or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it keeps the remembrance, and it is not so much as if one did not heed.”
“I’ll think,” said Meta, sighing. “If only I felt myself at work, not to please myself, but to be of use. Ha!” she cried, springing up, “I do believe I see Dr. May coming!”
“Let us run and meet him,” said Ethel.
They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, “You both look grave, though—have they deserted you?”
“No, papa, we have been having a talk,” said Ethel. “May I tell him, Meta? I want to know what he says.”
Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in earnest, and there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented.