rt grew heavy; I
failed to remember my father's faults, but thought of his great patience
with me in the years agone, and all my old-time love for him renewed
itself. Why, oh, why, would they not love me a little in return!
Certainly I had never striven to be lovable. But see the love some have
lavished upon them without striving for it! Why was I ugly and nasty and
miserable and useless--without a place in the world?

CHAPTER NINE

Aunt Helen's Recipe

"Dear me, Sybylla, not in bed yet, and tears, great big tears! Tell me
what is the cause of them."

It was aunt Helen's voice; she had entered and lit the lamp.

There was something beautifully sincere and real about aunt Helen. She
never fussed over any one or pretended to sympathize just to make out how
nice she was. She was real, and you felt that no matter what wild or
awful rubbish you talked to her it would never be retailed for any one's
amusement--and, better than all, she never lectured.

She sat down beside me, and I impulsively threw my arms around her neck
and sobbed forth my troubles in a string. How there was no good in the
world, no use for me there, no one loved me or ever could on account of
my hideousness.

She heard me to the end and then said quietly, "When you are fit to
listen I will talk to you."

I controlled myself instantly and waited expectantly. What would she say?
Surely not that tame old yarn anent this world being merely a place of
probation, wherein we were allowed time to fit ourselves for a beautiful
world to come. That old tune may be all very well for old codgers
tottering on the brink of the grave, but to young persons with youth and
romance and good health surging through their veins, it is most boresome.
Would she preach that it was flying in the face of providence to moan
about my appearance? it being one of the greatest blessings I had, as it
would save me from countless temptations to which pretty girls are born.
That was another piece of old croaking of the job's comforter order, of
which I was sick unto death, as I am sure there is not an ugly person in
the world who thinks her lack of beauty a blessing to her. I need not
have feared aunt Helen holding forth in that strain. She always said
something brave and comforting which made me ashamed of myself and my
selfish conceited egotism.

"I understand you, Sybylla," she said slowly and distinctly, "but you must
not be a coward. There is any amount of love a