“At one time,” Aunt Affy went on with her fervent, glad faith, “I was moved to cry out: ‘O, Lord, do not leave me, I shall fall, I cannot keep myself, there is nothing to keep myself _in_ me.’ I awoke that night again and again with the same cry in my heart, the same agony on my lips. ‘How _can_ he leave me?’ I asked myself over and over. ‘It is not like him; especially when I have begged him to stay.’ Was I in the shadow of a temptation that was to come? The next day the temptation came; for one overpowering instant I was left to wonder if he _had_ left me; then I knew that he was perfect truth as well as perfect love; I said: ‘Lord, I am very simple, be simple with me.’ Then the wave rolled over me, not touching me. I was tempted—tempted to unbelief; but _was_ I tempted? Did the temptation come near enough for that? I could only say over and over, _Lord, I believe in thee_. My temptation came and he did not leave me.” “Affy, you are supernatural. You have supernatural experiences,” replied Mrs. Evans in a tone of awe, and considerable displeasure. “You and I do not know what other people in Bensalem are going through,” was the gentle remonstrance. “I hope not through such terrible things as that.” “I hoped I was helping you,” said Aunt Affy, grieved. “That doesn’t help. It doesn’t help _me_. I’d be afraid to pray for faith if I knew it was to prepare me for trouble.” “Would you rather be unprepared for trouble?” was the quiet question. “I’d rather the trouble wouldn’t come.” “Then you would rather God wouldn’t have his way with you.” “I don’t like _that_ way, I confess, but I have to have trouble like everybody else. You have had as little of it—the worst kind I mean, as anybody ever had—your troubles have been spiritual troubles, and you are having your own way now about everything.” “Yes, too much. I’m afraid every day of being a selfish, careless woman. A dozen times a day I wonder what Rody would say to me if she only knew what we are doing; selling the milk for instance. Sometimes I stop in the middle of something as if her hand were on my shoulder. Your sister can come next week, then?” “As far as I know; she’ll be ten times better help than Judith; she’s strong and used to sickness. She can _lift_ Rody, and that’s what you want. I thought the parsonage folks had spoilt Judith for you by making her too much of a lady.” “Judith is not spoiled,” was the quiet rejoinder.