pain. The first feeling was one of indignation and wounded pride, but
conscience told her it was all true, that she was a cross, fretful
mother, that she had not made her home a happy one, that she had been
selfish and unsympathetic and her children were getting estranged
from her. But the last few words touched her most of all. "Her
religion did not help her." Sure enough it did not, any more than a
pagan's, and she had brought dishonour on Christ. The veil had
suddenly fallen from her eyes. She excused herself from tea on plea
of a headache, telling each one who came softly to the door asking to
minister to her, that she wanted nothing but quiet. She wanted to
face this dreadful revelation all alone, and yet there came no high
resolve that hereafter everything should be different. She lay there
disconsolate, discouraged--a mere heap, it seemed to herself, weak,
purposeless, a soul who had made a failure of life, with no power to
alter it. If she might but slip out of the world entirely; it was all
turned to ashes. How small and mean her ambitions all seemed now. She
had given years of drudgery and this was the result: made her family
miserable.

Mrs. Murray was one of those who keep the inner sanctuary of their
hearts shut and barred, lest some foolish tenderness should find
expression; it was there, though, and those dreadful words her dear
eldest daughter had spoken were to her like the stab of a knife. Like
most nervous persons, her feelings were intense. Such condemnation,
remorse, and utter despair as took hold of her: it could not be
called repentance, for that has "A purpose of heart and endeavour
after new obedience." She was in the Slough of Despond. The twilight
had deepened into darkness, when sounds indicated an arrival.

"Aunt Deborah has come," Florence whispered at the door. "You lie
still, mother, and Mag and I can do everything just as nicely."

But "mother" hastily arose and met her visitor as calmly as if she
had not spent the last three hours in a tempest.

Aunt Deborah Hathaway was a dear old saint. Her name should have been
"Peace," for that word was written all over her, from the unruffled
brow and calm eyes, to the soft folds of her dove-coloured cashmere.

"Tell me all about your life, my dear," she said to Mrs. Murray, when
they were seated alone the next morning--all the rest of the family
in church.

"My life has turned out to be a failure," said Mrs. Murray, sadly.
"And what is str