It was real smoke, and there had to be fire to make smoke. The bureau would burn first and then—after a long time she remembered that water would put out fire; what a goose she was to stand there and see the smoke grow.
She poured water into the wash-bowl, soaked the wash-cloth, and ran it carefully all along the crack.
There, it was out. Nothing to be frightened about. But she would never do it again. Aunt Rody did not know about that.
Sitting down on the foot of the bed opposite the bureau, she leaned over the red rail that formed the foot-board and watched and waited. Of course the fire was out. Yes—no—yes, there it was again—the curl of smoke; the water had done no good; the fire was too deep in for water to get through the crack; the spark had fallen away down _in_.
In despair she burst into tears; but the tears kept her eyes from watching the smoke; she brushed her eyes clear and looked; it was there, and it grew and grew, not dense, not black, but real smoke, and it kept coming and coming.
“O Father in Heaven,” she cried aloud, “_please stop it; please stop it_. I don’t know what to do.”
Still the smoke was there. Did God see it? Didn’t he care? Would he not answer because she had been so disobedient and because she had hated Aunt Rody?
“I will be good after this,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be hateful. I will give up my will to Aunt Rody _when she is right_.” It _was_ fainter; no, there it was again. Would the fire never go out?
Aunt Rody knew best. Perhaps Aunt Rody knew best about other things. Perhaps she _was_ a Christian, a real disciple, only a very queer one.
Now it was so faint, so faint she could not see it at all. It was not because the tears were in her eyes; it was gone. It _was_ gone. She felt all along the crack with her finger. It was not hot. And the smoke _was_ gone. The fire was out; it was all burned out inside that crack.
And Aunt Rody need never know. And she would never, never, never disobey Aunt Rody again. Her mother had always told her she loved her own will too much; she would never love it so much again; she would say—what would she say? She knelt on the strip of rag-carpet where she had seen the girl kneel in her “picture” and repeated softly, through fast falling tears: “Our Father, who art in Heaven; Hallowed be thy name; Thy Kingdom come: _Thy will be done_; that was it; _Thy will be done_, Thy will be done,” she repeated joyfully over and over. “Make me love Thy will best. Make my will a good will, a sweet will, _an obedient will_.”