“Meta is longing to be at work—she thinks she is of no use,” said Ethel; “she says she never does anything but please herself.”
“Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself,” said Dr. May kindly.
“And she thinks it cannot be safe or right,” added Ethel, “to live that happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could not be living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta?”
“Yes, I think it is,” said Meta. “I seem to be only put here to be made much of!”
“What did David say, Meta?” returned Dr. May.
“My Shepherd is the living Lord,
Nothing therefore I need;
In pastures fair, near pleasant streams,
He setteth me to feed.”
“Then you think,” said Meta, much touched, “that I ought to look on this as ‘the pastures fair,’ and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful.”
“Oh, no,” said Ethel. “It was the wish to bear hardness, and be a good soldier, was it not?”
“Ah! my dear,” he said, “the rugged path and dark valley will come in His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shepherd is giving you what is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay hold on His rod and staff in your sunny days—” He stopped short, and turned to his daughter. “Ethel, they sang that psalm the first Sunday I brought your mamma home!”
Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the father and daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline, of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of clasping the staff—perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in humility in craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put on.