Rotha thought, as she did not wear linen shirts, that this particular piece of mending was rather for her aunt's account than for her own. Lay it by the threads! a good afternoon's work. "I have no thimble,--" was all she said. Mrs. Busby sought her out an old thimble of her own, too big for Rotha, and it kept slipping off. The rest of the history of that afternoon is the history of a patch. How easy it is, to an unskilled hand, to put on a linen patch by a thread, let anyone who doubts convince herself by trying. Rotha basted it on, and took it off, basted it on again and took it off again; it would not lie smooth, or it would not lie straight; and when she thought it would do, and shewed it to her aunt, Mrs. Busby would point out that what straightness there was belonged only to one side, or that there was a pucker somewhere. Rotha sighed and began again. She did not like the job. Neither had she any pleasure in doing it for her aunt. Her impatience was as difficult to straighten out as the patch itself, but Rotha thought it was only the patch. Finally, and it was not long first, either, she began to grow angry. Was her aunt trying her, she questioned, to see if she would not forget herself and be ill-mannerly again? And then Rotha saw that the cross was presented to her anew, under another form. Patience, and faithful service, involving again the giving up of her own will. And here she was, getting angry already. Rotha dropped her work and hid her face in her hands, to send up one silent prayer for help. "You won't get your patch done that way," said Mrs. Busby's cold voice. Rotha took her hands down and said nothing, resolved that here too she would do what it was right to do. She gave herself to the work with patient determination, and arranged the patch so that even Mrs. Busby said it was well enough. Then she received a needle and fine thread and was instructed how to sew the piece on with very small stitches. But now the difficulty was over. Rotha had good eyes and stitched away with a good will; and so had the work done, just before the light failed too much for her to see any longer. She folded up the shirt, with a gleeful feeling that now the afternoon was over. Antoinette came up from her practising, or whatever else she had been doing, just as Rotha rose. "Aunt Serena," said the girl, and she said it pleasantly, "my stockings some of them want mending, and I have no darning cotton. If you would give me a skein of darning cotton, I could keep them in order." "Do you know how?" "Yes, ma'am, I know how to do that. Mother taught me. I can darn stockings." Mrs. Busby rummaged in her basket and handed to Rotha a ball of cotton yarn. "This is too coarse, aunt Serena," Rotha said after examining it. "Too coarse for what?" "To mend my stockings with." "It is not too coarse to mend mine."