"And so do I feel tired and uncomfortable," I answered; "and I have a headache, beside, but you would not like me to be as unkind to you as you are to me. Such conduct does not make you feel any better, does it?" "I don't know," she said, pondering, instead of saying yes or no at once, as any other child would. "Sometimes I think it does. But then that would not be any excuse, would it, Margaret?" "I think not," said I. "Beside that I don't believe it does you any good. The more you allow yourself to speak crossly and impatiently, the easier it is to be cross and impatient next time." "Well, I will try to be good," she answered, drawing a long breath; "but oh, Margaret, you don't know how hard it is!" "Indeed I do, sweetheart!" I said, kissing her upturned face. "I'll tell you what, I don't believe it is one bit harder for you than it is for me." She seemed a little comforted at that, and presently went to sleep, and I escaped to my room, feeling almost desperate. I was ready to say with the wicked man in the Scripture, "What profit shall we have if we pray unto Him!" My prayers of late had seemed so destitute of any real devotion, and had seemed to bring me so little help. Still I knew it was not right to neglect them, however I might feel. So, it being Friday night, I said the Litany, as my custom is. At the prayer "for all who travel by land or water," I surprised myself by bursting into tears and weeping freely, and my heart seemed to be a little lightened of the intolerable weight which lay upon it. I slept well, and arose feeling somewhat refreshed in body, and under a strange calmness of spirit, such as I never felt under any trouble before. I seemed, without any effort of mine own, to be settled upon the ground of God's unchanging love, and to be made sure that all would be well, however He should see fit to order the matter. After breakfast my Lady came in to stay with Betty, bringing her work, and telling me to go out for a long walk, to refresh myself. I was only too glad to do so, and bent my steps to Corby-End. As I entered Madam's room, I found her just opening a great packet of letters, while Will Atkins stood at the side of the fire. The first look at his face told me that he brought naught but good news, which Madam confirmed, looking up with her sweet smile at the moment of my entrance, and saying: "You see I am well employed, dear heart. I have at last news from London of my runaway boy!" The sudden relief overcame me, as the trouble had never done, and I sank down and swooned clear away—a thing I never did in all my life before. When I opened mine eyes again, I was lying on the couch, and Prudence was fussing over me with hartshorn and burnt feathers, and what not. "She is better now!" said Madam's tender voice. "Leave her to me, good Prudence, and by and by bring some little refreshment."