Edith flew to her room almost as fast as if she had been on the “Flying Trunk,” in the Fairy Tale.  When there, she could not read, and in displeasure with herself and with every one, dashed the little volume away and cried long and bitterly.  Edith had not been an insensible spectator of the constantly and self-denying gentle conduct of Emilie.  Her example, far more than her precepts, had affected her powerfully, but she had much to contend with, and it seemed to her as if at the very times she meant to be kind and gentle something occurred to put her out.  “I will try, oh, I will try,” said Edith again and again, “but it is such hard work.”—­Yes, Edith, hard enough, and work which even Emilie can scarcely help you in.  You wrestle against a powerful and a cruel enemy, and you need great and powerful aid; but you have read your Bible Edith, and again and again has Emilie said to you, “of yourself you can do nothing.”

Edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the influence of the calm lovely summer’s sky, and within the sound of Emilie’s clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to Edith to love and to be loving.  She could love Fred, she could even bear a rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from John, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this attack of Fred’s about the book, was not to be borne, not by Edith, at least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that Emilie did not come to comfort her; “but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman, with her scalt foot, I dare say,” said Edith, “and she would only tell me I was wrong if she were here—­oh dear! oh dear me!” and here she sobbed again.

Solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; Emilie knew that, and she did quite right to leave Edith alone.  It was time she should listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare Edith.  It told her all the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she had a wrong motive; and that was, love of the approbation of her fellow creatures, and not real love to God.  She would have quarrelled with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use quarrelling with conscience.  Conscience had it all its own way to-day, and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that by degrees Edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did?  She took up a little Bible that lay on her table, and began to read it.  She could not pray as yet.  She did not feel kind enough for that.  Emilie had often said to her that she should be at peace with every one before