Aunt Deborah Hathaway was a dear old saint. Her name should have been
"Peace," for that word was written all over her, from the unruffled
brow and calm eyes, to the soft folds of her dove-coloured cashmere.

"Tell me all about your life, my dear," she said to Mrs. Murray, when
they were seated alone the next morning--all the rest of the family
in church.

"My life has turned out to be a failure," said Mrs. Murray, sadly.
"And what is strange, I have only just now found it out."

Then drawn on by the loving sympathy expressed, she unburdened her
heart to Aunt Deborah, keeping back nothing. "But then, what am I
telling all this to you for? Nobody can help me. I have at times
realised that I was growing very irritable, and was ashamed of it.
Then I would resolve that I would not do so any more, but my resolves
are like ropes of sand. I get started and can't stop. I think if
human beings were like sewing-machines, and when they get out of
order, could have some skilful hand just put a drop of oil here and
there, and loosen the tension or something, it would be so good. But
things do annoy me so, sometimes it seems as if Satan himself planned
things out to vex me.

"I make no doubt," said Aunt Deborah, "but that Satan is busy enough,
but sometimes I think he gets more set down to his account than
rightfully belongs. He couldn't accomplish half he does with us if we
didn't help him. We put ourselves in such a condition that it is
easy for him to carry us captive. But you said 'nobody could help
you.' Now I believe I can help you. I came very near being
shipwrecked once myself on these very rocks you have struck. It will