she prayed not to shrink from it.  How clear and vigorous was the mind of Alice—­how shadowless was her unerring path to be—­how all weakness departed before the sudden thought that rose up in her soul!  How rich was the light that beamed from her steady eye—­how calm and trusting the slight smile that parted her lips!  How meek and confiding she was, and yet how full of strength!  She was a young seeker after truth, and she realized not yet, that that same truth was the power to which she must bow every rebellious thing within her.  Months rolled on, and the quiet gladness in her heart made it a delight to her to do anything and everything it seemed her duty to do.  The unexplored world within opened to her gaze, and threw a glory upon creation.  Infinitely priceless in her eyes, were the thousand hearts around her, in which the Lord had kindled the undying lamp of life.

One evening, at rather a late hour, Alice Clinton sought the chamber of her aunt and seated herself quietly beside her, saying in a subdued voice as she took her hand, “I am inexpressibly sad to-night, Aunt Mary.  There is no very particular reason why I should feel so; no one can soothe me but you.  Put your arms around me, Aunt Mary, and talk to me—­give me some strength to go forward in the way I have chosen.  I almost despair—­I have no good influence, no moral courage.  Perhaps, after all, my efforts have been in vain to become better, and I shall sink back into my former state.  If all who are my friends were like you, it would be an easy thing to glide on with the stream.  But I am in the midst of peril—­I never knew until to-night that it was hard to speak with a cold rigour to our friends when they merit it.  If I were despised, or neglected, I could more easily fix my thoughts on heaven.  I dread so to hurt the feelings of any one.”

“What do you refer to, dear?” inquired Aunt Mary, tenderly.

“My friend Eleanor Temple, and her brother Theodore, have been spending the evening with me.  You know how gay and witty they are.  In answer to a remark of mine, Theodore gravely quoted a passage of Scripture, which applied to my observation in an irresistibly ludicrous manner.  I yielded to a hearty laugh which I could not restrain; it came so suddenly I had no time for thought.  But in a moment after my conscience smote me, and I felt that my respect for Theodore had lessened.  I had no right to rebuke him, even if I had the moral courage, for my laughter was encouragement.  I turned away from him and spoke to Eleanor; I was displeased with myself, and I felt a sort of inward repugnance to him.  But that was not the end; several times afterwards Theodore did the same thing.