"Why, you think of my work," the old woman continued; "I often do. The clothes are not finished when the dirt's out, and you are not a finished Christian as soon as your sin's forgiven. The clothes have to be bleached and dried, and then there comes the getting out of the creases, and so I mangle them and mangle them." "But look here," said Phebe, laughing, "you don't mean to say I have got to be mangled?" "You need not laugh, my dear, for I am quite sure if Jesus was to speak just now He'd use my old mangle for a text. I know He would; and why shouldn't He, just as well as using the woman's candle and yeast, and the man's fishing-net and pruning-knife." "I should not like to think I had to be mangled." "It's more than mangling, Miss Phebe, for if we want to put a nice polish on the clothes we use a hot iron to them. You are used to the thought of being like gold in the fire, and a lump of clay in the potter's hand: why not think of yourself as under my roller? I often and often think, as I smoothes out the marks, and stretches the corners, and turns, and turns, that is just how Jesus is doing with me." "H'm," mused Phebe, "I suppose it's another way of describing tribulation. But do you suppose everybody has tribulation?" "I do; there isn't a plant in my little garden I haven't used the scissors to." "Ah, well, I suppose we must submit." "Yes, dearie; and we must look beyond to the afterwards. When we see what the Lord has made us we shall thank Him. Why, the things that I carefully pack in the baskets are hardly like the same things I take out, they look that nice." "Do you think I shall have much tribulation, dear Mrs. Colston?" asked Phebe anxiously, placing her hand on her old friend's shoulder. "I don't know for certain; the Lord only can tell that. But," looking up lovingly into the face of her favourite, "don't you worry, He'll help you right through, sure enough." When Miss Phebe had taken her departure and the mangle had started again its painful song, the old woman said to herself: "Strikes me she will have a good deal; but it will be because the Lord wants her to be extra polished. She's real damask, she is; worth taking a good deal of trouble with. Some folks are only like dusters, and if the Lord was like me He'd not take much trouble with them. But, bless me, it's a good thing the Lord is not like me, it 'ud be a poor look-out for some folks if He was." As Miss Phebe walked home she said to herself: "I thought it was all settled, but it would seem I have only just commenced." That night she again knelt by the old arm-chair. It had always seemed she could pray best there, for it recalled the time when she had knelt at her mother's knees, and had first learnt to talk to Jesus. "Dear Lord," she prayed, "make me a true Christian; and help me to be perfectly willing to let Thee do it in whatever way you think will be best for me."