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CHAPTER IX.

"Confidence openeth the lips, indulgence beameth from the

eye.

Ye commune of hopes and aspirations, the fervent breathings

of the heart.

Ye speak with pleasant interchange the treasured secrets of

affection;

And as in double solitude, ye think in each other's hearing,
A friend is above gold, precious as the stores of the mind.
Be sparing of advice by words, but teach thy lesson by

example.

There be few, O child of sensibility, who deserve to have thy confidence;

Yet weep not, for there are some, and such some live for thee."

TUPPER.

RAYMOND and Ada made their appearance at the time appointed; and the former took Minnie, according to promise, to see the wild-beasts' show; while Ada and Ethel were quickly driven from the town.

"I cannot understand how you can feel so much attachment to that dirty, smoky place. Do you never wish to leave it?" said Ada, after they had left the town behind them.

"Sometimes I confess to an almost overpowering desire for country enjoyments. I think how delightful it would be to live among green fields and woods, and hear the pleasant sound of murmuring brooks, and wander about as I chose. And I do feel no little

envy when I hear people, who have all these pleasures in their grasp, thinking the country stupid, and sighing for the gaieties of the town."

"You do not seem to care much for gaieties, Miss Woodville ?"

“No, I do not now.

I used to enjoy quiet parties very much; but since I lost dear mamma, I feel as if all these things had ceased to charm me."

"But did you ever like dancing? Miss Hackett said you gave that up before,” said Ada, kindly. "Yes, I certainly did."

"Do not think me impertinent; but will you me if you consider it wrong?

tell

Ethel's colour rose painfully. To reply sincerely (which was the only way she ever did) was not pleasant. The answer seemed to involve her throwing blame upon her father, sister, and the Raymonds, and making herself appear in an unfavourable light to Ada.

"I do not think dancing would be without its due effect on me; and therefore I think it better at once to forego any dangerous amusement," she replied, after a pause.

"It is not mere idle curiosity which impels me to ask your really candid opinion, dear Miss Woodville. I see you do not like to speak quite freely. You imagine it seems like judging others; but I should put no such construction on your opinion, I can assure you. I do not like dancing myself. I go through it as a necessary form in society; but really last night, as I watched people whirling past me, I did think it looked childish, and I wondered any one liked such amusements."

"But there is an irresistible fascination in dancing to some, which I can but too well understand, though

to spectators it does seem foolish. I know what an effort it cost me to give it up.”

"And what made you resolve to do so? I am sure you had good reasons."

"I think I had; but it appears to involve judgment on others, which I never wish. Many see harm in things which others do not. My dear mother had a peculiar aversion to dancing; she was aware of its dangers, and had known some sad instances of sin and sorrow resulting from a passionate love of this amusement. She earnestly entreated me to give it up. At first, I complied merely because I wished to please her; but I have since seen how wise she was in so early rescuing me from the temptation."

"But the mere act of dancing, can that do any harm?"

"Oh, no! there is no more evil in a quiet quadrille than a game of blind-man's buff. Harry and I thoroughly enjoy a polka together in the winter evenings; the exercise is cheering and good for us. But there seems to me a very wide difference between dancing with your brother at home, at a reasonable hour, and in a reasonable manner, to finding yourself in the arms (I may almost say) of a perfect stranger, or at all events of a person with whom you neither are nor desire to be on intimate terms. Then you are dressed gaily for the occasion; you begin generally at a late hour, and spend the time proper for repose in this amusement. Can this be right? Does not modesty shrink from all this? Many say they see no harm in it; if I do, it is most decidedly wrong to indulge in the amusement," replied Ethel, blushing deeply.

“I must say I cannot help agreeing with you,” said Ada, looking very thoughtful. A feeling had

always prevented her waltzing, and she had heard her brother say, only the evening before, that when he had seen Laura Woodville whirling round with Mr. Thornhill in a waltz, had she been possessed of the greatest beauty in the world, he would not have made her his wife.

"But supposing you only dance a quiet quadrille, is there any evil in that ?" inquired Ada.

"Not precisely evil, perhaps, except its general tendency to excitement, and leading a few steps further on; and I do not see how a Christian could, with perfect consistency, join in it, because the example alone would have a bad effect. I know many who have been influenced to dance and become extremely gay because they have found themselves associated with those who made a profession of religion; and I certainly do not think we ought to join any amusement which may be the means of doing harm to others."

"Then you consider dancing, I suppose, one of the vanities of the world, and one from which, of course, a Christian should abstain?"

"Yes, I do; and we have all promised in our baptism to give up the 'pomps and vanities of this wicked world.' Are we then keeping our baptismal vow? are we manfully fighting under Christ's banner against the world, the flesh, and the devil?"

"But what made you think this more especially was a vanity? every one does not feel it to be so."

"I believe, when people earnestly desire to know what is right, and are yet uncertain how to judge for themselves, there is but one way,-earnest prayer to God that, for the Saviour's sake, he will send the Holy Spirit, who will show us all things and teach us God's will."

"And was an answer sent to your prayers

soon?"

"In that instance there was. I had been struggling for the light of God's truth long before, but I still clung to the world; yet as soon as I made up my mind to place myself entirely in God's hands, and give him my heart, he gave me a clearer knowledge of the way wherein I should go. I now discovered a depth of meaning in passages of Scripture I had before looked upon with indifference, and doctrines hitherto difficult became clear, as my eyes were opened."

"But how could you positively know that this was the working of the Spirit?"

"I feel it. It would be impossible that I could know of myself these things."

"And do you really mean that mysterious doctrines became plain to you?"

"So plain that I was enabled implicitly to believe them, and trust in God for future wisdom, being assured that what we know not now, we shall know hereafter; and this is sufficient for us, or should be."

"But, then, you really have faith: not a dead faith, but a living, saving one, which enables you thus steadfastly to lay hold on all God says, and without doubt receive it as his word. Sometimes a sweet hope of trust and confidence in Christ steals into my heart; then I am left again in darkness, and I grow bewildered amid a maze of doctrines, and I begin to despair of ever being really a Christian."

"But, dear Miss Raymond, is it right to attempt to fathom the meaning of those things which it has not pleased God to reveal to us? Is it not right, first, to lay hold on what he has shown us, and then look for other things to be made plain in his good time?"

VOL. I.

K

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