"No, not every one. Mary never was cross to me—nor poor papa—nor Uncle Villars; though Uncle Villars did not love me as much as he did Mary."
"And why was this, Ellen? Did you think there was any reason for it?"
Mrs. Herbert spoke very gently, but again Ellen hung her head and looked abashed.
"Do not be ashamed to tell me, my love, what you thought was the cause. I love you, Ellen, very much, and all the more for telling me so freely what you think and feel. I think it a sad thing—a very great evil, not to be loved; and perhaps the cause of this in your own case may be one which, if I knew it, I could help you to remove."
"Oh no, Aunt Herbert, nobody can help me, for it is just my own bad temper."—Ellen was now weeping, and it was amidst sobs that she continued—"I cannot help it; I am sure I try to be good, and to please people and to make them love me. I do think I try a great deal harder than Mary does, and that makes me feel so much worse when they say unkind things to me; and then I cannot be still like Mary, but I get angry and talk back to them, and that makes them dislike me more and more, and I am sure it is not my fault, for I cannot help it."
Mrs. Herbert laid aside her work, put her arm around Ellen and drew her to her side, and laying her head upon her shoulder, spoke soothingly and tenderly to her, till she ceased to weep. When Ellen's sobs were hushed, she said, "My dear child, Aunt Herbert knows how you feel and how to feel for you, for she has suffered just as you do, from just such a bad temper."
"You, aunt Herbert!" exclaimed Ellen, raising her head and looking at her aunt with surprise, "did you ever have a bad temper?"
"I had just such a temper, Ellen, as you describe; wishing to be loved, anxious to please, so anxious that I was willing to do any thing for it, except control my hasty feelings or keep back my rash words."
"And how did you get over it, aunt Herbert?"
"The first step towards my deliverance from the evil, Ellen, was feeling that it was my own fault."