her little hand resting upon the centre-table.  Behind her, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughing somewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things.  A look of pain passed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turned round, and said in a low but earnest tone, “Don’t, Theodore!  Excuse me, but such trifling pains me.”  The young gentlemen both appeared mortified.  “Pardon me!  Alice,” exclaimed Theodore Temple, “I will try to break that habit for your sake.  I was not aware that it pained you so much—­a lady’s word is law!” and he bowed gallantly.

“No, no!  Base your giving up of the habit upon principle, then it will be permanent.  Much obliged for the compliment”—­Alice bowed with assumed dignity, and her sweet face dimpled into a playful smile, “but I have no faith in these pretty speeches.  Remember, now, I have your promise to try to break the habit; you will forfeit your word if you do not; so you see your position, don’t you?” Thus saying, and without waiting for a reply, the young lady left them.

“I believe Miss Clinton is right, after all,” remarked Temple’s companion.  “What is the use of jesting on such subjects?  We never feel any better after it, and we subject ourselves to the displeasure of those who respect these things.  I pass my word to give it up, if you will, Temple.”

“Agreed!” was Theodore’s brief answer.  Without saying how mingled the motive might have been, which induced the young men to forsake the habit, they did forsake it permanently.  Aunt Mary’s lonely life was at last smiled upon by a sunbeam—­and that sunbeam was the soul of Alice, which she had turned to the light.  For that cherished being Mary Clinton could have offered up her life, and there would have been a joy in the sacrifice.  Strongly and nobly were their hearts knit together—­beautiful is the devotedness of holy, unselfish love!  Blest are two frank hearts, which may be opened to each other, pouring out like lava the tide of feeling hoarded in the inward soul—­such revelations are for moments when the yearning heart will not be hushed to calmness.  But “there is a moonlight in human life,” and there is also a blessing in that subdued hour which whispers wearily to the loving one, of weaknesses and sins, with a prayer for consoling strength to triumph yet, leaving them in the dust.  Thus was it with Mary and Alice Clinton; their souls were open as the day to each other.  They travelled along life’s pathway with earnest purpose, fulfilling the many and changing duties that fell upon them, ever catching rich gleams of joy from above.  And sorrows came too! but they purified, and taught the slumbering soul its rarest wealth—­its deepest sympathies with all things good and heavenly.  It seemed a slight thing that took away the desolation from the heart of Mary Clinton—­she turned away from self, and devoted her efforts to the eternal happiness of another.  Is there one human being in the wide world so desolate, that he may not do likewise?  Only a mite may be cast in, but God has made none of his children so poor, as to be without an influence.  The humblest effort, if it is all that can be made, is as full of greatness at the core, as the most ostentatious display.