She fled into the parlor with a question from Aunt Rody pursuing her; her cheeks were burning, and she was trembling with shame and anger.
Why couldn’t Aunt Rody leave her alone? Sometimes she almost hated Aunt Rody. A corner of the stiff, long, horse-hair sofa was her retreat; it was often her retreat; she called it her valley of humiliation.
In her lesson to-day she found the loveliest thing. Aunt Affy was teaching her that the Bible was a treasure-house.
“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”
All men know—just by loving—not by doing any great hard thing—by loving—but that was hard, if it meant bearing with Aunt Rody’s misunderstanding and sharpness and fault-finding, and being always on the watch to find evil in you.
But “all men know” was the comfort of it; she need not pray in prayer meeting as Miss Kenney did, nor do the wonderful things the disciples did; all men would know that she wanted to be a Christian, if she tried to be loving.
She repeated the words of Christ in a soft monotone, her small Bible in her hand, and her head pillowed on her hair on the hard sofa-arm.
Aunt Affy pushed the door wider and entered, bringing a glass half filled with crab-apple jelly.
“I saved your custard—it’s on the hanging shelf in the cellar,” she said, opening the door of the chimney cupboard to set the glass in its own space in the row of jelly glasses.
“Aunt Affy,” lifting her tumbled head, and with grave eyes asking her question: “what is—who is a disciple?”