"My ugly temper," said Rotha to herself; "my wickedness and badness."
What help?
Yes, there was help, she knew, she believed. She brought her Bible and turned to the marked passages, brushing away the tears that she might see to read them. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them—" Well, said Rotha, I will keep them from this time on.—Forgive and all? said something in her heart. Yes, forgive and all. I will forgive!—But you cannot?—Then I will ask help.
And she did. Earnestly, tearfully, ardently, for a long time. She felt as if her heart were a stone. She had to go to bed at last, feeling no better. But that she would be a true servant of God, Rotha was determined.
So came Christmas morning on; clear, cold, bright and still. Rotha awaked at the bell summons. Her first thought was of last night's determination, to which she held fast; the next thought was, that it was Christmas day, and she must look at her gloves and Russia leather bag. She sprang up, and had half dressed herself before she remarked, lying on the empty bed opposite her own, some peculiar-looking packages done up as usual in brown paper. They must belong to Mrs. Mowbray and have got there by mistake, she thought; and she went over to verify her supposition. No, to her enormous surprise she saw her own name.
More Christmas things! Rotha hurried her dressing; she dared not stop to open anything till that was done; and then an inner voice said, You will not have much time for your prayers. Her heart beating, she turned away and knelt down. And she would not cut short her prayers, either. She besought help to forgive; she asked earnestly to be made "a new creature"; for the old creature, she felt, would never forgive, to the end of time. She rose then, brushing the moisture from her eyes, and went over to look at those mysterious packages. One was light, square, and shallow; the other evidently a book, and heavy. She opened the lesser package first. Behold, a dozen cambrick handkerchiefs, and upon them a little bright blue silk neck tie. Rotha needed those articles very much; she was ready to scream for joy. The other package now; hands trembling unfolded it. Brown paper, silk paper,—and one of Bagster's octavo Bibles with limp covers was revealed. Rotha was an ardent lover of the beautiful and the perfect; her own Bible was an old volume, much worn by handling, bearing the marks of two generations' use and wear; this was the perfection of a book in every respect. Rotha was struck dumb and still, and nothing but tears could give due vent to her feelings; they were tears of great joy, of repentance, of new purpose, and of very conscious inability to do anything of herself that would be good. She had sunk on her knees to let those tears have the accompaniment of prayer; she rose up again and clasped the Bible in her arms, in heartiest love to it.
Breakfast was late that morning, and she had time for examining her gifts and for getting a little composed before she had to go down stairs. She went then quite sedately to all appearance. It was to her as if the world had turned round two or three times since last night; other people, however, she observed, had not at all lost their heads and were very much as usual; except that they were dressed for going to church, and had the pleasant freedom of holiday times in their looks and manner. Only Mrs. Mowbray was really festive. She was sparkling with spirits, and smiling with the joy of doing kindness, past and future. Rotha sat next her at the table; and there was a gleam of amusement and intelligence in her eye as she asked her, over her coffee cup, whether Santa Claus had come down her chimney? She gave Rotha no time to answer, but ran on with a question to some one else; only a few minutes after, as she put a chop upon Rotha's plate, gave her a look full of affectionate kindness which said that she understood all and no words were necessary.
It was time to go to church when breakfast and prayers were over. Immediately after church, Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha took a carriage and drove out to the Old Coloured Home; all the packages of tea and sugar going along; as also a perfect stack of sponge cakes. Arrived at the place, Mrs. Mowbray's first demand was to know whether "the milk" had been delivered, and where "the tobacco" was. Then followed a scene, a succession of scenes rather, that could never be forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray went all through the rooms, dealing out to each poor creature among the women a half pound package of tea, a pound of sugar, a half pint of milk, and a sizeable sponge cake.
"My dear," she whispered to Rotha, who attended and helped her, "they think all the world of a bit of cake! They never get it now, you know."
"Don't they get milk?"