And with that she pulled a long face, and put on a look so exactly like her aunt that I could not forbear laughing; at which she laughed too. I don't look any more sober than I feel, however. Mr. Penrose's sermons have made me realize the things of eternity more than ever I did before, and they are dreadful to me. To be sure, there is heaven, but how am I to know it is to be my portion? How can I know that my repentance is sufficient—that my sorrow for sin is real and sincere? And I have been such a sinner! In looking back over my life, I can see nought but sin. Sin where I never suspected it before—and nothing good anywhere: and the harder I try to conquer myself, the worse I am. Lady Betty's doll is finished. She is very much pleased with it, and we have had many games of play at "making believe": she being the mother, and I by turns doctor, nurse, and aunt. "But if you are an aunt, you must be cross," said Betty, this morning: "aunts are always cross." "O no!" I answered. "By no means. My dear Aunt Magdalen was not cross, nor aunt Willson." "Aunt Jemima is—almost always, I mean," persisted Betty. "Aunt Jemima is always what?" asked the lady, who had come in softly, in time to hear Betty's words—for the door being set open for the sake of air, and Lady Jemima always walking like a cat, we had not heard her approach. "Aunt Jemima is always what?" "Cross!" answered Lady Betty, simply. "But I suppose you can't help it, can you, Aunt Jemima?" Lady Jemima colored, but she did not answer Betty directly. Presently she said, "Who made you that great doll?" "Margaret," answered Betty. "She has just finished it." And she began to display all the perfections of the rag baby. Lady Jemima looked at the clothes, and said that they were neatly made. "But, Margaret," said she, "I have come to sit with Betty while you go down to the chapel." "It is not chapel time," objected Betty; "and I don't want Margaret to go away." "But Margaret wants to say her prayers, if it is not chapel time," returned Lady Jemima. "You would not be so selfish as to keep her from them, would you? It would be much better for you to be saying your own, than to be playing with your doll at such a time." "Well, she may go, if she wants to," said Betty, rather sadly. So I went down and said my prayers in the empty chapel, out of the book Lady Jemima gave me, but I cannot say I found any great comfort therein. Lady Betty's sad, grieved face haunted me all the time, and I could think of nothing but getting back to her. When I finally returned, I found Lady Betty sitting looking out of the window, with her elbow on the sill, and her chin on her hand. Lady Jemima was reading to her out of the Bible, but I don't think she paid any attention. When Lady Jemima saw I had come back, she ceased her reading, and rose, but Lady Betty did not look round nor move. "Good-by, Betty," said Lady Jemima. "Good-by," said Betty.