A day so begun seldom grows bright of itself. There is a sunshine which can scatter even such clouds, but Amy did not look up to that; it did not seem to shine for her; it never does, if you will not look up. She felt very discontented and ill-used; it seemed as if no one cared for her, and everything worked together to torment her; and so things got darker and darker, and Amy’s temper more bitter and her heart sorer every moment.
At last her mother went out, and Kitty was sent to the bakehouse, and Amy was left alone to rock the cradle and watch that the kettle did not boil over.
Amy had much rather not have been left alone just then; her own thoughts were not at all pleasant; but as she was alone she could not help thinking. At first she thought how unkind every one was, and of all the wrongs she had had to bear,—of Kitty’s laziness, of her mother’s rebukes, and then of her beautiful rose, and the naughty baby. “Kitty and the baby might do just what they liked, but if she did the least thing wrong she was scolded and punished.” But this thought of the rose led her back to Mrs. Mordaunt’s lesson on Sunday. Had the good seed borne good fruit this week,—this week that was to have been the beginning of a new life? Had it led her to overcome one fault, to be a step nearer to God and goodness than before? Yet she had prayed and tried. What was then wanting? She was afraid she never should be God’s happy child, she was so full of faults, and no one helped her to overcome them; and yet it was wretched to be as she was. What should she do?
So she sat rocking the cradle, and thinking of her resolutions and her failures until the tears rolled fast over her cheeks, and all the proud heart within her was melted into sorrow. As she sat thus, her elbows on her knees and her hands hiding her face, she heard a gentle voice at the door. She looked up. It was Mrs. Mordaunt asking for her mother. Amy was ashamed to be seen crying, and rose quickly, and answered as briskly as she could. But Mrs. Mordaunt saw she was unhappy, and she came forward, and laying her hand kindly on her shoulder she asked what was the matter.
Amy’s tears flowed faster than ever now, and as soon as she could speak she sobbed out in a faint voice, “O ma’am, I cannot do right,—I cannot be good.” Mrs. Mordaunt sat down beside her and said, “Don’t despair, my child; you know the little song you sing in school. Try again and again until you succeed. Every one succeeds who goes on trying.”
“But I have tried again and again,” said poor Amy, “and I only get worse and worse. In the very moment when I want it, the strength goes away.”
“Our own strength always will,” said the lady. “Have you remembered to ask God for his strength? Do you remember what I told you about the little seed? its enemies are stronger than itself, but God is stronger than its enemies.”
“I have prayed, ma’am,” said Amy mournfully, “but I am ashamed to ask God any more. I have done what he tells us not so very often, I am afraid he never can love me;” and Amy cried bitterly.
“My child,” said Mrs. Mordaunt, taking her hand, “if you had disobeyed your mother, and she were angry with you, would you run away from the house in the night, and choose rather to starve or die of cold than ask her forgiveness?”
Amy was silent.