time. About once in three years the Bishop came to us. He came when I
was twelve years old. Opinions were divided as to whether I was old
enough, but I decided the matter by saying I would rather wait till
the next opportunity.

"I may be more fit by that time," was my thought, and it was probably
not unlike some of Mr. Rampant's self-communings.

The time came, and the Bishop also; I was fifteen.

I do not know why, but nobody had proposed that Philip should be
confirmed at twelve years old. Fifteen was thought to be quite early
enough for him, and so it came about that we were confirmed together.

I am very thankful that, as it happened, I had Aunt Isobel to talk to.

"You're relieved from one perplexity at any rate," said she, when I
had been speaking of that family failing which was also mine. "You
know your weak point. I remember a long talk I had, years ago, with
Mrs. Rampant, whom I used to know very well when we were young. She
said one of her great difficulties was not being able to find out her
besetting sin. She said it always made her so miserable when clergymen
preached on that subject, and said that every enlightened Christian
must have discovered one master passion amongst the others of his
soul. She had tried so hard, and could only find a lot, none much
bigger or much less than the others. Some vanity, some selfishness,
some distrust and weariness, some peevishness, some indolence, and a
lapful of omissions. Since she married," continued my aunt, slowly
pulling her thick black eyelashes, after a fashion she had, "I believe
she has found the long-lost failing. It is impatience with Mr.