so still and cold.... But from six to
eight I recall a different state of things. The beginning of it was a
sermon preached one Sunday morning at Hallow Church by Mr. (now
Archdeacon) Phillpots. Of this I even now retain a distinct impression.
It was to me a very terrible one, dwelling much on hell and judgment,
and what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living God.
No one ever knew it, but this sermon haunted me, and day and night it
crossed me. I began to pray a good deal, though only night and morning,
with a sort of fidget and impatience, almost angry at feeling so
unhappy, and wanting and expecting a new heart and have everything put
straight and be made happy, all at once."

All this time she could not bear being "talked to," or prayed with,
though she kept up a custom of going by herself every Sunday afternoon
to a quiet room, and after reading a chapter in the New Testament would
kneel down and pray; after that she "usually felt soothed and
less naughty."

She appears even as a child to have appreciated very keenly the beauties
of nature, and in the spring of 1845 she was most anxious to be made "a
Christian before the summer comes" so that she might enjoy God's works
as she believed a Christian alone could do.

Another soothing influence upon her spirited nature was the presence of
any one whom she felt to be more than commonly holy, "not among those
nearest and dearest to me at home," she confesses: "how perversely I
overlooked them!--but any very pious clergyman or other manifest and
shining Christian." "All this while," she continues, "I don't think any
one could have given the remotest guess at what passed in my mind, or
have given me credit for a single serious thought. I knew I was 'a
naughty child,'--never entertained any doubts on the subject; in fact I
almost enjoyed my naughtiness in a savage desperate kind of way because
I utterly despaired of getting any better, except by being 'made a
Christian,' which as months passed on, leaving me rather worse than
better, was a less and less hoped-for, though more and more
longed-for change."

When she was nearly nine years old, Mr. Havergal was appointed to the
rectory of St. Nicholas, Worcester, and thither the family removed. Soon
after their arrival, a sermon by the curate upon the text, "Fear not,
little flock," aroused her from the feeling of self-satisfaction into
which she had drifted. Having a favourable opportunity, she unburden