"No, my child, you are wrong, all wrong. If all was right inside, the other
things you speak of would not disturb you so, if they should happen to go
wrong."

"Why, mother, wouldn't they disturb me at all?"

"They might, occasionally, but not near as much. Do you remember that our
clock went wrong last winter?"

"Yes, ma'am; we couldn't tell what time it was, and it used to strike all
sorts of ways."

"What do you suppose made the clock act so, Angeline? It goes well enough
now, you know."

"I believe Mr Mercer said one of the wheels was out of order."

"That was all. It was not the weather--not because we forgot to wind it
up--not because things did not go right in the room. Now, your mind is
something like a clock. If it is kept in order, it will run pretty well, I
guess--no matter whether it rains or shines--whether it is winter or
summer. Milton says, very beautifully, in his poem called the 'Paradise
Lost,'

"'The mind is its own place, and of itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'

"He means by this, that our happiness or unhappiness depends more upon what
is within us than it does upon what is without. And he is right. Do you
understand, my child?"