“Are you joking?” said she. “No, as serious as possible. It is no joking matter.” “Well, I thought you were too kind to do so. And, dear me! I feel a great deal better for this talk. Things don’t look so dark; and yet they have not in the least altered.” “Only a different hue is thrown over them. That makes all the difference sometimes;—and answers as well as if the things _were_ altered; as long as we can make the hue last.” “Only,” said she, beginning to chafe a little, again, “one cannot bear to be put upon.” “Ah,” said I, gently putting my hand on her arm, “_the Christian will even bear to be put upon_, be it ever so much, and, for his Master’s sake, bear it patiently; and when he _has_ so far subdued his feelings as to be able so to do, how glorious the triumph, the happiness, and peace that will take possession of his heart!”[3] “Oh!” said she, after a moment’s deep pause, “what a cordial! How _could_ you say it? What a mind you must have!” “Not at all,” stammered I, feeling dreadfully stupid and humiliated. “_Could_ you say it all over again? I have such a poor head, and would so gladly retain it. You can’t, I suppose. Ah! well—‘the Christian can bear to be put upon,’—that was the text—that’s enough. It will bring all the rest to mind—the general effect, that is.” “And you’ll try to _act_ upon it?” “Yes. I really will. I give you my word. Only it isn’t at all fair all the effort should be on one side. But I’ll try, though I’m sure I shall break down.” “Oh no! I hope better things of you!” “Ah, you don’t know me—I’m such a poor, weak creature. I don’t like _him_ to say so, though,” she added, laughing, with one of those sudden transitions which seemed natural to her. “Here comes the donkey-chair. I thank you _very_ much for your great kindness.” “Mine? oh, don’t name it. It has been all on the other side! What is the line of poetry about ‘An angel unawares——’” “In the Bible,” suggested I, provoked at being tempted to smile. “Oh yes! (what a shame!) ‘thereby entertained,’ and so on. Which is just what I’ve done, you know. Oh, I’m so sorry you’ll go. Do look in again some day. I have very few friends; for some people look down on me, and I look down on some other people. And so I get no society at all. Baby wants you to kiss him. ‘Ta, ta, Mrs. Cheerlove.’ Pretty fellow!” (kissing him rapturously). “Mind you don’t get the hem of your dress draggled as you go down the steps. There now, the scraper has torn your braid! Mind your foot does not catch in it, and throw you on your face. I’ll have that scraper mended against you come next. Mr. Ringwood has spoken of it several times. You’ve done me so much good, you can’t think! more than a glass of wine!”