Not like
the rather _nice_ tiredness one feels when one has been working
hard either at one's own business, or, _still_ nicer, at helping
other people--the sort of pleasant fatigue with which one lays one's
head on the pillow, feeling that all the lessons are learnt, and well
learnt, for to-morrow morning, or that the bit of garden is quite,
quite clear of weeds, and father or mother will be so pleased to see
it! But to fall half asleep on the floor, or on your bed, with
wearied, swollen eyes, and panting breath and aching head, feeling or
fancying that no one loves you--that the world is all wrong, and there
is nothing sweet or bright or pretty in it, no place for you, and no
use in being alive--all these _miserable_ feelings that are the
natural and the right punishment of yielding to evil tempers,
forgetting selfishly all the pain and trouble you cause--what
_can_ be more wretched? Indeed, I often think no punishment that
can be given can be half so bad as the punishment that comes of
itself--that is joined to the sin by ties that can never be undone.
And the shame of it all! Rosy was not quite what she had been when she
first came home to her mother--she was beginning to feel ashamed when
she had yielded to her temper--and even this, though a small
improvement, was always something--one little step in the right way,
one little sign of better things.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25