"He did very properly in committing you to your aunt's care; and now I am very glad I have got you," Mrs. Mowbray went on cheerily. "Now we will try and get all those questions straightened out, that were troubling you. What was it? a question of duty, you said, didn't you?" Mrs. Mowbray was arranging her heterogeneous masses of books in something like external order; she put a little volume into Rotha's hand as she said the last words. It was a very small New Testament; very small, yet in the clear English printing which made it delightfully legible. "That is the best thing to solve questions of duty with," she went on. "Keep it, my dear." "O thank you, ma'am!" cried Rotha, a bright colour of pleasure rushing into her cheeks. "O thank you, ma'am! How beautiful! and how nice! But here is where I found my question," she added sorrowfully. "I dare say. It is the old story--'When the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.' What was the point this time?" "Just that point I spoke of, about aunt Serena. I do not forgive her; and in the fifth chapter of Matthew,--here it is: 'If thou bring thy gift to the altar--'" "I know," Mrs. Mowbray broke in, very busy seemingly with her books and not looking at Rotha. "Why cannot you forgive her?" "Because I am so wrong, I suppose," Rotha answered humbly. "Yes, but what has she done?" "I told you, ma'am. She kept me from seeing Mr. Southwode before he went away. She never even told me he had been at the house, nor that he was gone. I found it out. She meant I should not see him." "My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that does not seem to me a very heinous offence." "It was the very worst thing she could do; the cruelest, and the worst." "She might have thought she had good reasons." "She did not think that. She knew better. I think she wanted me all in her power." "Never think evil of people, if it is possible to think good," Mrs. Mowbray continued. "Always find a pleasant reason for the things people do, if it is possible to find one. It is quite as likely to be true, and it leaves you a great deal more comfortable." "You cannot always do that," said Rotha. "And this is one of the times? Well, what are you going to do about it? Can't you forgive your aunt, even if you think the worst?" "It would be very easy to forgive her, if I could think differently," said Rotha. "It occurs to me--Those words you began to quote,--they run, I think, 'If thy brother hath ought _against_ thee.' Is that the case here?" "Yes, ma'am, because I charged her with what she had done; and she did not excuse herself; and I thought I had a right to be angry--very angry; but when I came to those words in my reading, I remembered that though I had so much against her, she had a little against me; because I had not spoken just right. And then I knew I ought to confess it and make an apology; and I was so angry I could not."