Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Ann without speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness, from this proof of thoughtful affection.  When she was introduced to Ann’s friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face, breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within.

“I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert,” said Mr. Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a brief admiring gaze at Christine.

“Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse,” replied Christine quickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which was manifested by a deep blush.  “I have yielded to sister Ann’s persuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shall make this a beginning of sociabilities.”

“I hope so,” returned Darcet; “do you think being much secluded, has a beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?”

“I do not,” was the young girl’s brief answer.  The colour came to her cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant.  “But sometimes—­” the sentence was left unfinished.  Darcet’s curiosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine’s lip, and forgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer, and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate.  She felt his scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face.  There was a silence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile,

“We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if it is agreeable to you.”

“Oh! certainly!” he replied.  And he whiled an hour quickly away.  Ann was then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was a little haughtiness mingled with her usual grace.

“Don’t you sing, Miss Christine?” asked Darcet, leaving the piano, and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively to Ann.

“I do sometimes,” answered Christine, smiling, “but Ann sings far better.”

“Let others judge of that.  Isn’t that fair?”

“We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but I think we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in some things, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others.”

“Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if we were inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in many respects.  There is no true humility in that; we depart from the truth.”

“Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, would make us many enemies.  But we might better have them, than to contradict the truth; what do you think?” Christine looked up with an earnest seriousness.

“Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, let the consequences be what they may,” said Darcet, in a tone that sounded almost stern; then more gently he added, “Before all things I prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there.  With all, this upright candour must in a measure be acquired.  Yet, I think frankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour.  We shrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives.”