"I'm afraid I am very like Lucilla!" said Meta.

"What? In wishing to be a boy, that you might be a missionary?" said Ethel. "Not in being quite so cross at home?" she added, laughing.

"I am not cross, because I have no opportunity," said Meta.

"No opportunity. Oh, Meta, if people wish to be cross, it is easy enough to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to cry for."

"Really and truly," said Meta thoughtfully, "I never do meet with any reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it cannot be right or safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contradictions."

"Well, but," said Ethel, "it is the state of life in which you are placed."

"Yes; but are we meant never to have vexations?"

"I thought you had them," said Ethel. "Margaret told me about your maid.

That would have worried some people, and made them horridly cross."

"Oh, no rational person," cried Meta. "It was so nice to think of her being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in managing for myself; besides, you know, it was just a proof how one learns to be selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I ought to spare her."

"And your school children--you were in some trouble about them?"

"Oh, that is pleasure."

"I thought you had a class you did not like?"

"I like them now--they are such steady plodding girls, so much in earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and touched by kindness. I would not give them up for anything now--they are just fit for my capacity."

"Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that you do not mind anything--which?"

"Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome excuse for minding it."

"Then it must be all your good temper."

"I don't think so," said Meta; "it is that nothing is ever disagreeable to me."

"Stay," said Ethel, "if the ill-temper was in you, you would only be the crosser for being indulged--at least, so books say. And I am sure myself that it is not whether things are disagreeable or not, but whether one's will is with them, that signifies."

"I don't quite understand."

"Why--I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself, what would have been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. I never liked any lessons as well as those I did without being obliged, and always, when there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get up an interest in it, by resolving that I will do it well, or fast, or something--if I can stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is done. Now, I think it must be the same with you, only your will is more easily set at it than mine."

"What makes me uncomfortable is, that I feel as if I never followed anything but my will."

Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pursuing some thought almost beyond her. "If our will and our duty run the same," she said, "that can't be wrong. The better people are, the more they 'love what He commands,' you know. In heaven they have no will but His."

"Oh! but Ethel," cried Meta, distressed, "that is putting it too high.

Won't you understand what I mean? We have learned so much lately about self-denial, and crossing one's own inclinations, and enduring hardness.

And here I live with two dear kind people, who only try to keep every little annoyance from my path. I can't wish for a thing without getting it--I am waited on all day long, and I feel like one of the women that are at ease--one of the careless daughters."

"I think still papa would say it was your happy contented temper that made you find no vexation."

"But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it; I never did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless I knew papa was grieved, which always did make me unhappy enough. I laughed, and went to play most saucily, whatever they did to me. If I had striven for the temper, it would be worth having, but it is my nature. And Ethel,"

she added, in a low voice, as the tears came into her eyes, "don't you remember last Sunday? I felt myself so vain and petted a thing! as if I had no share in the Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself a member--it seemed ungrateful."

Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her own had been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she sought for the answer that would only come to her mind in sense, not at first in words.

"Discipline," said she, "would not that show the willingness to have the part? Taking the right times for refusing oneself some pleasant thing."

"Would not that be only making up something for oneself?" said Meta.

"No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book," said Ethel. "I mean one can do little secret things--not read storybooks on those days, or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. It is very trumpery, but it keeps the remembrance, and it is not so much as if one did not heed."

"I'll think," said Meta, sighing. "If only I felt myself at work, not to please myself, but to be of use. Ha!" she cried, springing up, "I do believe I see Dr. May coming!"

"Let us run and meet him," said Ethel.

They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns of blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, "You both look grave, though--have they deserted you?"

"No, papa, we have been having a talk," said Ethel. "May I tell him, Meta? I want to know what he says."

Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in earnest, and there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented.

"Meta is longing to be at work--she thinks she is of no use," said Ethel; "she says she never does anything but please herself."

"Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself," said Dr.

May kindly.

"And she thinks it cannot be safe or right," added Ethel, "to live that happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could not be living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta?"

"Yes, I think it is," said Meta. "I seem to be only put here to be made much of!"

"What did David say, Meta?" returned Dr. May.

"My Shepherd is the living Lord, Nothing therefore I need; In pastures fair, near pleasant streams, He setteth me to feed."

"Then you think," said Meta, much touched, "that I ought to look on this as 'the pastures fair,' and be thankful. I hope I was not unthankful."

"Oh, no," said Ethel. "It was the wish to bear hardness, and be a good soldier, was it not?"

"Ah! my dear," he said, "the rugged path and dark valley will come in His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shepherd is giving you what is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay hold on His rod and staff in your sunny days--" He stopped short, and turned to his daughter. "Ethel, they sang that psalm the first Sunday I brought your mamma home!"

Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the father and daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret discipline, of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of clasping the staff--perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in humility in craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put on.

Dr. May spoke once again. "Don't let any one long for external trial.

The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is the great object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If the happier we are, the more we praise, then all is well."

But the serious discussion was suddenly broken off.

Others had seen Dr. May's approach, and Harry and Mary rushed down in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been forestalled.