"I am sorry for that, indeed. But never mind, dear, tell me what they are. Begin with the worst, and if I haven't time to hear them all now, I'll find time another day. Begin with the worst." But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed herself at Ellen's distress, which was extreme. "Don't cry so, my child — don't cry so," she said, pressing her in her arms. "What _is_ the matter? Hardly anything in this world is so bad it can't be mended. I think I know what troubles you so — it is that your dear mother is away from you, isn't it?" "Oh, no, Ma’am!" Ellen could scarcely articulate. But, struggling with herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again, and more clearly. "The worst is, — oh! the worst is, — that I meant — I meant — to be a good child, and I have been worse than ever I was in my life before." Her tears gushed forth. "But how, Ellen?" said her surprised friend, after a pause. "I don't quite understand you. When did you 'mean to be a good child?' Didn't you always mean so? and what have you been doing?" Ellen made a great effort, and ceased crying; straightened herself — dashed away her tears, as if determined to shed no more; and presently spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then threatened to interrupt her. "I will tell you, Ma’am. That first day I left Mamma — when I was on board the steamboat, and feeling as badly as I could feel — a kind, kind gentleman — I don't know who he was — came to me, and spoke to me, and took care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him again! He talked to me a great deal — he wanted me to be a Christian — he wanted me to make up my mind to begin that day to be one — and Ma’am, I did. I did resolve with my whole heart, and I thought I should be different from that time from what I had ever been before. But I think I have never been so bad in my life as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right, I have felt wrong all the time, almost — and I can't help it. I have been passionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming; and I know it's wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh! Ma’am, I haven't changed my mind a bit — I think just the same as I did that day; I want to be a Christian more than anything else in the world, but I am not — and what shall I do?" Her face sank in her hands again. "And this is your great trouble?" said her friend. "Yes." "Do you remember who said, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'?" Ellen looked up inquiringly. "You are grieved to find yourself so unlike what you would be. You wish to be a child of the dear Saviour, and to have your heart filled with his love, and to do what will please him. Do you? — Have you gone to him day by day, and night by night, and told him so? — have you begged him to give you strength to get the better of your wrong feelings, and asked him to change you, and make you his child?" "At first I did, Ma’am," said Ellen, in a low voice.