"My dear child, you have only just started. Why, even the daisies don't come up all at once: flowers and fruits that do, don't come to much."
"If that is what you mean," Phebe replied, with a sigh of relief, "I don't mind."
"Why, you think of my work," the old woman continued; "I often do. The clothes are not finished when the dirt's out, and you are not a finished Christian as soon as your sin's forgiven. The clothes have to be bleached and dried, and then there comes the getting out of the creases, and so I mangle them and mangle them."
"But look here," said Phebe, laughing, "you don't mean to say I have got to be mangled?"
"You need not laugh, my dear, for I am quite sure if Jesus was to speak just now He'd use my old mangle for a text. I know He would; and why shouldn't He, just as well as using the woman's candle and yeast, and the man's fishing-net and pruning-knife."
"I should not like to think I had to be mangled."
"It's more than mangling, Miss Phebe, for if we want to put a nice polish on the clothes we use a hot iron to them. You are used to the thought of being like gold in the fire, and a lump of clay in the potter's hand: why not think of yourself as under my roller? I often and often think, as I smoothes out the marks, and stretches the corners, and turns, and turns, that is just how Jesus is doing with me."
"H'm," mused Phebe, "I suppose it's another way of describing tribulation. But do you suppose everybody has tribulation?"
"I do; there isn't a plant in my little garden I haven't used the scissors to."
"Ah, well, I suppose we must submit."