I could not turn it thither without first taking it apart; and for this a bed-key was necessary.  “Well,” thought I, “it is worth the trouble;” so I procured a bed-key; and at length—­at length—­two of the screws yielded to my efforts.  The others, however, would not yield.  I tried and tried, but without avail; and, wearied and disappointed, I stood wondering what I should do.  Just then, the door opened; and “Aunty,” an old lady whose kindness and sound sense had already won my regard, stepped in.  “What is the matter?” she exclaimed—­“why, what has the child been about?” “I was trying to turn my bedstead so,” said I, ruefully pointing towards the table; and I went on to explain why I had done so.  “I dare say thou wouldst find it more convenient so,” answered Aunty; “but it is quite beyond thy strength.”  “I see it is,” sighed I.  “I would have it turned for thee” she said; “but that is the most troublesome bedstead in the house:  no one can do anything with it except John Lawton, and he won’t be home till Monday.”  “What shall I do?” asked I.  “I’ll get Mary to come up and help thee fix it as it was before,” answered Aunty.  I drew a long breath.  “Oh, never mind,” said she, soothingly; “it is not quite so convenient this way, to be sure, but—­” “I’m not thinking of the inconvenience now,” interrupted I, “but of the time I’ve wasted.  Why, I’ve spent nearly four hours over that foolish old bedstead.  I was to have taken tea with Miss Mansell this afternoon, and I had expected to learn a good French lesson besides:  but now the morning is gone, and a profitable time I’ve made of it!” “I should not wonder if it prove one of the most profitable mornings of thy life.” rejoined the old lady, “and teach thee a lesson more valuable than thy French or thy music either.”  “What is that?” inquired I.  “To let well enough alone.” answered Aunty—­and she smiled and nodded slowly as she spoke.  “I’ll let well enough alone after this, I promise you,” said I.  “People of thy ardent temperament seldom learn to do it in one lesson,” replied she; “but the sooner thou dost learn it, the better it will be for thy happiness.  However, I’ll go now and send Mary to help thee.”  Mary came:  but it was nearly two hours before my room resumed its usual neat appearance.

Some three months after, I learned that a young lady whom I had unwillingly offended, by declining to receive her as a room-mate, had spoken of me disparagingly, and greatly misrepresented various little incidents of our every-day intercourse.  Surprised and indignant, I at once resolved to “have a talk with her;” but first I made known my disquietude to Aunt Rachel.  “What shall I do?” asked I, in conclusion.  “Not much,” she answered.  “Take no notice of it.  I see she has been talking ill of thee; but she can do thee little or no real injury.  Those who know thee won’t believe her,” “But those who don’t know me—­” interrupted I.  “Won’t trouble themselves much about it,” she replied; “and if ever