ones who had a thank-offering because of Calvary?  Surely her Savior hung there, and bled, and groaned, and died for HER.  Why should not she say, “By his stripes I am healed?” What if she should?  What would people think?  No, not that either.  What would Jesus think? that, after all, was the important question.  Did she really believe that if she should say in the hearing of that assembled company, “I love Jesus,” that Jesus, looking down upon her, and hearing how her timid voice broke the dishonoring silence, would be displeased, would set it down among the long list of “ought not to have” dones?  She tried to imagine herself speaking to him in her closet after this manner:  “Dear Savior, I confess with shame that I have brought reproach upon thy name this day, for I said, in the presence of a great company of witnesses, that I loved thee!” In defiance of her education and former belief upon this subject, Ester was obliged to confess, then and there, that all this was extremely ridiculous.  “Oh, well,” said Satan, “it’s not exactly wrong, of course; but then it isn’t very modest or ladylike; and, besides, it is unnecessary.  There are plenty of men to do the talking.”  “But,” said common sense, “I don’t see why it’s a bit more unladylike than the ladies’ colloquy at the lyceum was last evening.  There were more people present than are here tonight; and as for the men, they are perfectly mum.  There seems to be plenty of opportunity for somebody.”  “Well,” said Satan, “it isn’t customary at least, and people will think strangely of you.  Doubtless it would do more harm than good.”

This most potent argument, “People will think strangely of you,” smothered common sense at once, as it is apt to do, and Ester raised her head from the bowed position which it had occupied during this whirl of thought, and considered the question settled.  Some one began to sing, and of all the words that could have been chosen, came the most unfortunate ones for this decision: 

  “On my head he poured his blessing,
    Long time ago;
  Now he calls me to confess him
    Before I go. 
  My past life, all vile and hateful,
    He saved from sin;
  I should be the most ungrateful
    Not to own him. 
  Death and hell he bade defiance,
    Bore cross and pain;
  Shame my tongue this guilty silence,
    And speak his name.”

This at once renewed the struggle, but in a different form.  She no longer said, “Ought I?” but, “Can I?” Still the spell of silence seemed unbroken save by here and there a voice, and still Ester parleyed with her conscience, getting as far now as to say:  “When Mr. Jones sits down, if there is another silence, I will try to say something”—­not quite meaning, though, to do any such thing, and proving her word false by sitting very still after Mr. Jones sat down, though there was plenty of silence.  Then when Mr. Smith said a few words, Ester whispered the same assurance