“How ugly she is!” thought Agnes.  “What business has she beside me!”

But it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with a serpent, and put out her hand to touch her.  She touched nothing.  The child, also, put out her hand—­but in the direction away from Agnes.  And that was well, for if she had touched Agnes it would have killed her.  Then Agnes said, “Who are you?” And the little girl said, “Who are you?” “I am Agnes,” said Agnes; and the little girl said, “I am Agnes.”  Then Agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, “You are ugly;” and the little girl said, “You are ugly.”

Then Agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the little girl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tugging at her own hair.  She let go; and there was the little girl again!  Agnes was furious now, and flew at her to bite her.  But she found her teeth in her own arm, and the little girl was gone—­only to return again; and each time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before.  And now Agnes hated her with her whole heart.

The moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust that the child was not another, but her Self, her Somebody, and that she was now shut up with her for ever and ever—­no more for one moment ever to be alone.  In her agony of despair, sleep descended, and she slept.

When she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, staring at her own toes.  All at once, the creature began to smile, but with such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that Agnes felt ashamed of seeing her.  Then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own body, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction.  Agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-like creature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only doing outside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she could remember, inside of her.

She turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out of existence, but for three days the odious companionship went on.  By the third day, Agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she had hitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that she had never seen the truth concerning herself before.

The next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror had vanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her.  She wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderly did the great strong arms close around her.

When she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into her cottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in clean garments, and gave her bread and milk.  When she had eaten it, she called her to her, and said very solemnly,—­

“Agnes, you must not imagine you are cured.  That you are ashamed of yourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased.  In new circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, you will be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before.  So beware of yourself.  I am going from home, and leave you in charge of the house.  Do just as I tell you till my return.”