Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Edah speaks kindly to Jack.

The Sign of the Cross;

OR,

EDAH CHAMPLIN.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "SOPHIE KENNEDY'S EXPERIENCE," ETC., ETC.

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"IF ANY MAN WILL COME AFTER ME, LET HIM DENY HIMSELF, AND
TAKE UP HIS CROSS, AND FOLLOW ME."—ST. MATT. xvi. 24.

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NEW YORK:

GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION

AND

Church Book Society,

637 BROADWAY.

1856.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

THE GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION and CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the
Southern District of New York.

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R. C. VALENTINE,
STEREOTYPER AND ELECTROTYPIST,
17 Dutch-st., cor. Fulton, N. Y.

TO THE

TRUE FRIEND OF MY EARLY DAYS,

THE BELOVED

PRINCIPAL OF THE ROCHESTER FEMALE ACADEMY,

THE FOLLOWING PAGES

ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY

THE AUTHOR

PREFACE.

————

   THE following pages were written with a desire of awakening in the minds of the younger members of our Church, the inquiry, "Am I living up, in any degree, to the promise and vow made in my name at my Baptism? Have not I sometimes been ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, at least in deeds and in my daily life and conversation? How many combats have I ever fought under His banner against sin, the world, and the devil, since the Sign of the Cross was first imprinted upon my forehead in the holy Sacrament?"

   It is to be feared that too many, even of those who have by their own act ratified and confirmed those solemn promises in the presence of the Bishop and congregation, are living in indifference to them. They acknowledge their obligations indeed in words, but the mainspring of their daily actions is very far from being a principle of self-sacrifice and self-consecration. They offer at the Communion themselves, their souls, and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice; but no sooner have they retired from the Holy Table, nay, sometimes before they are out of sight of it, than they act as though body and soul were their own, and had never been bought with a price, nor offered anew, in both the Sacraments, to Him who bought them. How many are there, especially of young ladies, with whom one might be in habits of familiar intercourse for weeks, without ever suspecting that they had renounced the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of the same! Nay, might not one rather imagine that these very pomps and glories were the very end and aim of their lives? The account of the debut of an eminent concert-singer or tragedian possesses more interest for them than the story of the most triumphant success obtained by the missionaries of the Cross over the darkness and misery of heathenism; and they would rather a dozen western Sunday Schools should go without books, than that they themselves should want the latest fancy of lace or trimming.

   It is not often that we are called upon to make any great sacrifice to our religious obligations, though perhaps such occasions would present themselves more frequently if we were more willing to see them; but there is not a day which does not bring with it some opportunity of self-denial and self-sacrifice, or some necessity for an open declaration of our principles either in words or actions. Let us be careful that we do not heedlessly overlook or wilfully shut our eyes to these opportunities as they occur. If faithfully improved, though the plant be thorny to grasp, it will yield golden fruit of discipline and strength; if weakly shunned, or boldly trodden down, the thorns will remain to vex us, long after the occurrence is forgotten. It is often difficult to perform our duty in this respect with a serene and quiet temper; but for this, as for all graces, let us ask of Him who giveth liberally and upbraideth not, and in due time we shall reap, if we faint not.

L. E. G.

   ROCHESTER, Dec. 1855.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER.

I. INTRODUCTORY.

II. CHANGING PLANS.

III. THE NEW HOME.

IV. NEW FRIENDS.

V. THE SHOCK.

VI. THE RESOLUTION.

VII. THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

VIII. NEW LABORS AND NEW PLEASURES.

IX. THE CHRISTMAS SERVICE.

X. LETTERS.

XI. "OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."

XII. "ARISE AND BUILD."

XIII. LENTEN SERVICES—BAD NEWS.

XIV. THE JOURNEY.

XV. THE EASTER SERVICE.

The Sign of the Cross

The Sign of the Cross;

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.

   "THE Bishop of this Diocese will hold a Confirmation service in this church on Sunday morning, the twelfth of May. Any persons intending to come forward at that time will please give their names to the Rector as soon as possible. A course of lectures preparatory to the rite will commence on Wednesday evening of this week."

Such was the notice read by the Rev. Mr. Wardwell one Sunday morning before sermon, at the same time that he gave notice of the Communion, and other matters to be published. There had not been a Confirmation in the parish for more than three years, during which time it had been without a settled Rector, and in the course of these three years a number of young persons of both sexes had come to years of discretion to answer for themselves. There was, moreover, a large boarding-school in the village, kept by a lady who was a member of the Episcopal Church, and it might reasonably be expected that some of its members would be among the number who should present themselves at this time.

Mr. Wardwell had occupied his present station about six months and he had found things upon his arrival in rather a dilapidated state, as might be expected in a flock having no shepherd for so long a time. The number of regular communicants was very small; the Sunday School was scattered, and the books lost; the church itself was out of repair, and the people were rather unwilling to do any thing towards putting it in better condition. Mr. Wardwell was a wise man, and knew very well that it was not desirable to undertake too much at once, so he said nothing at first about church repairs, but visited his people vigorously, preached fervently, and prayed earnestly, and by and by things began to look up. A new library was obtained, and the Sunday School started. People began to come to church and to the Communion who had never been seen there before. Many children and some grown persons were baptized, and a general feeling of seriousness was apparent in the congregation. All this was very encouraging: the faithful minister's heart sang for joy; and when the Bishop informed him of his intention to visit the parish at no very distant period, Mr. Wardwell had a confident hope of being able to present a goodly number to receive the holy ordinance of the laying on of hands.

When church was out, and the congregation was on their way homewards, there might be heard from different groups various conjectures as to who would come forward and who ought to come forward, while several might be observed walking silently and with serious faces, as if thinking deeply on some subject of importance. Among these last were two girls (perhaps they should be called young ladies) belonging to Miss Anderson's school. They were both rather remarkably well-dressed, and both very pretty—the elder being perhaps about eighteen, and the other a year younger.

They walked at least half the way down the long street without exchanging a word, when the younger said, in a half-sportive tone, "How sociable we are! A penny for your thoughts, Edah!"

"I was thinking of the notice Mr. Wardwell gave about the Bishop," said Edah; and then added, rather abruptly, after another moment's silence, "I suppose you mean to be confirmed this time, don't you?"

"Not that I know of," replied Milly, "at least I have not thought any thing about it. Why did you think I meant to be confirmed?"

"Why, because—you are old enough, and I know you never have been, so I thought it natural enough that you should take this opportunity, as you will so soon be going into society."

"What of that?" asked Milly. "Cannot one go into society without being confirmed? I have known many people very much in society who never troubled their heads about the matter."

"But I suppose you think every one ought to be confirmed, some time, don't you?" asked Edah. And as her companion did not reply, she went on urging various reasons in favor of the rite.

Millicent listened in silence, and when Edah paused, she said, abruptly—

"After all, Edah, what is the difference?"

"The difference!" said Edah. "I don't know what you mean, Milly."

"I mean, what difference does it make whether a person is confirmed or not? Take ourselves, for instance. You have been confirmed, and I have not, and what is the great difference between us? We are both good scholars, and tolerably obedient and tractable. We should either of us be ashamed to engage in any such foolish cabals and pranks as some of the girls do. If there is any difference, I think I am rather more careful in keeping rules than you are. But in other respects I do not see any thing to choose. You are as fond of dress and company, and every thing of the sort, as any girl in school, and spend as much time upon them. I always thought that religious people were fond of the Bible, and loved prayer; but we have roomed together for more than three years, and I cannot see that you care any more for such things than myself. To be sure you could go to the Communion if you chose, but then you never do choose, and, as I said, what is the difference after all?"

Edah was silent, and Milly thought she was angry at the freedom with which she had spoken. She hastened to say, "Do not be angry with me, Edah. I don't say this by way of finding any fault with you, of course, but only because—because I want to understand you. You know we always say just what we think to each other."

"I am not angry, my dear Milly," said Edah, forcing herself to speak; "I was only thinking of what you have been saying, and I am afraid it is too true."

"It has never seemed to me," continued Millicent, "that I should wish to be confirmed in that way, as if it were a mere ceremony, which was in some way necessary to one's being grown-up. It appears to me to be a much more solemn thing than that. I never heard much about it at home, for my friends are not what you would call religious people, as you know very well. Father is busy in his office from morning till night, and almost from night till morning, and Aunt Maria cares for nothing but society. But I used sometimes to hear old Dr. Shelly speak on the subject, and from him I got what few ideas I have. It never seemed to me that I should be willing to take such solemn vows upon myself, unless I were sure of keeping them, and I am quite certain that I should have to be something very different from what I am now to do that."

"What vows?" asked Edah.

"Why, the baptismal vows, to be sure. I believe, after all, I know more about it than you do. But here we are at home: how slowly we have walked! I do not mean to say," she added, "that I shall not think of Confirmation, and I mean to attend the lectures, at any rate, if Miss Anderson will give me leave."

"I should like to stay at home this afternoon, Miss Anderson," said Edah, with some hesitation, as the bells sounded for afternoon service.

Miss Anderson looked surprised.

"How is that, my dear? Are you not well?"

"My head aches a little, but that is not the reason I wish to stay at home. I feel as if I should like to be alone a little while."

"Well, Edah," said Miss Anderson, "I think I may venture to give you permission, though I would not do so for every one. But I know very well that I may depend upon you—that you will not spend the time improperly."

Edah was glad to be so trusted, and she was still more glad to have the time to herself. Millicent's remarks had awakened a new train of thought in her mind, which she felt in a manner obliged to follow out.

Edah had been rather peculiarly situated. Her mother died when she was very young, and her father had married again very soon. She had inherited some property from a distant relation, who, by his will, had placed her under the care of another relative, a rich and childless man, with whom she had resided almost entirely when she was not in school.

She had once or twice made very short visits to her father's house, now filled with a young family, but she had never found these visits very pleasant. Mrs. Champlin was kind to her, but she was not very refined in manners or conversation, and her children were perfectly ungoverned and unruly. Her father had never seemed the same since his first wife's death. He was now careless in his dress and manners, indifferent to business, and Edah feared he sometimes drank. She had stayed a week, and then departed, without much regret on either side, for Mrs. Champlin felt herself rather constrained in the presence of her really refined and fashionable stepdaughter; and Edah thought the children perfect little barbarians, as it must be confessed they were.

Edah had received very little religious instruction. Miss Anderson contented herself with seeing that her young ladies were all provided with Bibles and Prayer-Books; that they went to church regularly, and behaved well while there; and the younger ones were required to recite the Church Catechism every Saturday morning, sometimes to a teacher, but more frequently to some of the older girls, who were not very particular as to the sense, provided the tongue was able to rattle off the words glibly.

At one time when she was at home, several of her most intimate companions had been confirmed, and she had joined them, with the consent of her guardian, who thought it a matter of little consequence one way or the other. She had made some good resolutions at the time, but the duties of school, and the gaieties of home, soon effaced them from her mind, and she stood just where she did before, except that she had learned to feel a kind of dependence on her Confirmation, as if that alone insured her salvation. She had now and then a feeling as if she were not living exactly as she ought; she felt that the things of another world were very seldom in her thoughts, and had no influence upon her life and conversation. But these impressions had never yet been deep enough to produce any lasting change in her conduct.

Millicent Amory was about her own age, and there were a good many points of resemblance between them. They were both pretty and intelligent, fond of study and reading, self-respecting, and somewhat proud. Miss Anderson always felt that she could trust them without any particular surveillance, and apply to them in any case of difficulty; and they were oracles among the younger girls, who always appealed to the one or the other in any perplexity or trouble.

Thus far they were alike, but in many things there was an essential difference. Edah was warm, hasty, and quick-tempered. Millicent, on the contrary, was never known to be angry, and only under the strongest pressure of emotion did she ever manifest any signs of mental disturbance. Edah was fond of undertaking new and difficult studies, at which she worked very hard for a time, and then became discouraged; while Milly, cautious in regard to new undertakings, was never known to give way to any difficulty short of an absolute impossibility. Edah was very particular in regard to her dress and personal appointments, and was always anxious to have every thing, from a bonnet to a shoe-tie, in the latest and most elegant fashion; while Milly, though essentially neat, and always appearing well-dressed, was somewhat indifferent as to minor matters, and sometimes distressed her friend by wearing collars and mantles out of date, and declining the trouble of having her dresses altered to suit the present mode.

Their worldly circumstances were somewhat similar, for both were motherless, and had spent nearly all their lives at school. They were both very liberally supplied with money, so liberally, indeed, that Miss Anderson sometimes said such allowances would be ruinous to any other girls. It had long been decided that as soon as they left school, Edah was to spend a year with her friend, and the girls were anticipating a great deal of pleasure from going into company together. Mr. Liston, Edah's guardian, expected soon to make a voyage to India, and remain there a year or two, and he was pleased to have his ward so well provided for in his absence.

When the girls had departed, and Edah was left alone in her room, she took her Prayer-Book, and sat down to read over the Confirmation Service, with which she was not at all familiar. The Preface was the first thing that attracted her attention, and she read that, and the Bishop's address, several times over.

"I knew the Church Catechism, from beginning to end, long before I was confirmed," she said to herself, "so, as far as that goes, I am well enough prepared; but this renewing of the baptismal vows—I am afraid I did not think much about them. I know I made some good resolutions, but I am sure I have never kept one of them. The address of the Bishop seemed very solemn, and so did all the circumstances—the standing up before all the people, and kneeling at the Chancel; and I remember how I trembled when the Bishop's hands were laid on my head; but after all, I did not realize what I was doing. And these baptismal vows—I hardly know at this moment what they are."

She turned over and read them, and as she did so, the grace of God enabled her to understand and feel their solemn meaning.

"Dost thou renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, and all covetous desires of the same, with all sinful desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?"

"Dost thou believe all the Articles of the Christian faith, as contained in the Apostles' Creed?"

"Wilt thou then obediently keep God's holy will and commandment; and walk in the same all the days of thy life?"

Edah dropped the book in a kind of terror—she had never so much as thought of keeping any of these promises. She could not but see that she thought more of the vain pomp and glory of the world—of her dress and appearance in company—of the pleasures of society, and being looked up to and admired, than of any thing else. Her studies and accomplishments were all means to the same end, and her liberal allowance was disposed of for almost no other purpose. One of her greatest pleasures consisted in anticipating the time when she should leave school, and be placed at the head of a fine establishment in her guardian's house, able to dress as magnificently as she pleased, and to indulge to their fullest extent all those elegant tastes which she was conscious of possessing. True, she had never committed any gross sins, because she had never been exposed to them, but she could not build much upon that, as long as she had yielded to almost every temptation that came in her way.

As to walking by the rule of God's commandments, she had hardly thought of such a thing: she reviewed the events of the past week, and could not discover that once during that time she had so much as considered whether what she was about to do would be pleasing to Him or not. The more she thought upon the subject, the more she became aware that she had never confessed the faith of Christ crucified; nay, had she not absolutely denied that faith, by turning her back upon the Table of the Lord time after time? She had never fought one single combat under His banner in all her life.

The return of the girls from church, and the entrance of Milly interrupted her meditations. She was about to return her Prayer-Book hastily to its place, when the words she had just read, "ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified," returned to her mind, and she still retained it in her hand. Millicent, however, took no notice of her studies: she seemed rather serious than otherwise, and instead of sitting down to write a composition, or prepare some daily lesson, she placed herself by the other window, and remained some time silent.

"Was any thing more said about the Confirmation?" asked Edah at length.

"The notice was repeated," replied Milly, "and Mr. Wardwell invited all those who wished to converse with him upon that subject, or any other connected with it, to call upon him between the hours of four and six in the afternoon, and also on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings. I heard some of the Sunday School teachers talking about it; and they seemed to think that a number of the scholars were interested in the subject."

"Would you not like to go into the Sunday School sometimes, Milly?" asked Edah, as if struck with a sudden thought. "I don't mean to teach, of course; but just to see how they go on. I never was in one in my life."

Milly assented, and there was another interval of silence. Edah was considering whether she ought to make up her mind to approach the Communion on the following Sunday. She could not decide: for the first time she felt that she should be guilty in turning away, yet she feared to be more so in going.

"Milly," she said at last, "do you think there would be any harm in my going down to Mr. Wardwell's to-morrow afternoon? I want to see him very much, and one is never sure of finding him at home."

"No harm certainly; what harm could there be?"

"You know the notice was intended for those who are thinking of Confirmation."

"The subject of Confirmation, or any thing connected with it, he said. But will you not feel rather awkwardly to go there? You do not know them very well."

"No; but after all he is the Rector, and seems the proper person to apply to. I wish you would go with me."

"I would rather not, at present," said Milly: "I have not at all made up my mind about being confirmed, and would rather wait a little before saying any thing about it. But that need not hinder your going."

The next day Edah obtained of Miss Anderson the requisite permission, and presented herself, not without trepidation, at the door of Mr. Wardwell's study.

That gentleman received her with kindness, and after some little indifferent conversation, said, "I presume, Miss Champlin, you have called in consequence of the notice given yesterday. Are you thinking of being confirmed?"

"No, sir," replied Edah; "I have been confirmed."

Mr. Wardwell looked surprised. "Indeed!" said he. "How long since?"

"Almost two years ago, sir."

"I do not remember that I have ever seen you at the Communion since I have been here: how has that happened?"

Edah was silent, and Mr. Wardwell continued gravely: "Six months is a long time for a servant of the Lord Jesus to absent herself from His Table. I should hope you had some very good excuse to offer, Miss Champlin."

"I have never been to the Communion at all," said Edah, speaking with some effort; "I do not know that I ever thought of going till yesterday, when something that Milly said made me consider the subject."

"And what was the result of your considerations?"

"I could not make up my mind about it, sir. I fear you will think me very ignorant; but I hardly know what is necessary in order to partake. I could not satisfy myself at all in the matter, and I came to see if you would help me?"

"I am very happy to see you, my dear young lady, and shall gladly do all in my power to direct and assist you. You know your Catechism?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is required of those who come to the Lord's Supper?"

"To examine themselves, whether they repent them truly of their former sins, steadfastly purposing to lead a new life; have a lively faith in God's mercy through Christ, with a thankful remembrance of his death; and be in charity with all men," answered Edah.

"Right," said the Rector. "Here, you see, we have all the necessary qualifications of the communicant expressed in a very few words; and you will find the same ideas expressed in the Communion Service. The first thing requisite is true and hearty repentance of all past sins, and this same repentance is made the condition of all God's spiritual favors towards us.

"'Repent and be baptized,' says St. Peter to the inquirers at Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost. 'Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish,' says our Saviour.

"There is not a person living upon earth who has not need of this repentance. You may perhaps consider that your life thus far has been very innocent and harmless, and yet if you consider it in the light of God's law, I venture to say that you will see enough in it to make you cry, 'God be merciful to me a sinner.'

"Nay, your very forgetfulness, if not denial of Christ, in thus turning your back upon His Table, at which you were an invited guest, is alone enough to condemn you, especially after you have, in the presence of so many witnesses, solemnly renewed your baptismal covenant, and acknowledged yourself bound to believe and to do all those things which you then undertook, or your sponsors undertook for you. How those other vows have been kept, I will not ask you: that is an affair between God and your own heart."

"They have not been kept at all," said Edah, struggling with her tears: "I have always been ashamed of the faith of Christ crucified, and have never fought under His banner. I see very well that the Lord's Table is no place for me."

With her usual impetuosity, she was rising to go, when Mr. Wardwell detained her.

"Stay a moment, Miss Champlin; there is something else to be considered. You say very truly that the Lord's Table is no place for unrepentant sinners, but have you reflected also that it is the most proper place for those who do truly repent them of their sins? Have you truly reflected that there is but one place for the unrepentant sinner?

"'He that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out,' says our merciful Saviour; but He also says, 'Whosoever shall deny Me before men, him will I deny before the angels in heaven.'

"God in His mercy has awakened from your spiritual lethargy, and convicted you of sin; He has set your duty plainly before you, and placed within your reach the means to perform it. You may refuse both the duty and the grace, but it will be at the peril of your undying soul. You must repent; you must yield Him your full unreserved obedience, or you are lost."

Edah trembled so excessively that she was glad to resume her seat. After she had composed herself a little, she said—

"I see that what you say is true, Mr. Wardwell, and I only wonder that I never saw it before. I wish with all my heart that I had never been confirmed!"

"And how would that help you, my child? Confirmation creates no new duties; it is only an acknowledgment of those already existing. You would be just as much bound to yield obedience to God if you had never confessed before the world that such was your duty. But why are you unwilling to yield this obedience? Cannot you make up your mind to the sacrifices it implies?"

Edah hesitated.

"I think I could," said she; "I am not sure. But how strange it is, Mr. Wardwell, that I never thought of these things before!"

"It is indeed strange, that any one, believing the truths which our Church so strongly sets forth, and hearing them repeated from Sunday to Sunday, can yet be indifferent to the eternal welfare of his soul. But I trust, Miss Champlin, that you now see the absolute necessity of a heartfelt repentance, not only as a preparation for the Communion, but also as necessary to your welfare here and hereafter."

"I do indeed, sir; but I fear I have never felt this repentance. What must I do?"

"You must earnestly beseech God to grant you repentance, and His Holy Spirit, my dear child. You must ask Him, for Christ's sake, to forgive you all that is past, and to grant that you may henceforth serve and please Him in newness of life. You must go to Him, believing that He is, and that He is the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him. You have every encouragement to seek Him, in His promises; in His love, as manifested in the death of His dear Son, for the redemption of man. Let me entreat you, my dear young friend, to settle this matter now: do not be diverted from it by any thing. Give yourself no rest or peace till you feel that you have so repented of your sins, and have such a lively faith in God's mercy, that you can with safety approach His holy Table. I hope to see you again soon, and have some further talk with you."

The conversation was now interrupted, and Edah returned home, after being furnished by the Rector with some reading suitable to her state of mind.

Milly had too much delicacy to take any notice of the marks of recent agitation which appeared on her countenance.

For once Edah wished that she had no lessons to prepare. She could hardly fix her mind upon her studies sufficiently to understand them, and she gladly laid them aside the moment the bell rung for half-past eight, and took up one of the volumes that Mr. Wardwell had lent her.

Looking up a few moments after, she was glad to see that Millicent had opened the other, and appeared interested in it, for she had so long depended on Milly for sympathy that the thought of having any separate interest was painful to her.

Catching Edah's eye at the moment, Milly said with her usual directness—

"Edah, I wish you would tell me about your conversation with Mr. Wardwell. I do not see why we should not talk about this matter as freely as any other; even if we do not think alike, it will do no harm to compare our thoughts."

Edah was very glad that her friend had broken the ice, and she related to her the substance of the conversation, not without some tears. Milly was also affected, though as usual she endeavored to conceal all signs of emotion.

"Do you mean to go again?" she asked.

"Oh, yes! I shall go again on Wednesday. I do not mean to let the matter rest till it is settled. Will you go with me?"

"I think I will. Setting aside any feeling on the subject, it seems unworthy of a rational being to live as we have done—so thoughtless of every thing but the present moment."

The night-bell was now rung, and the girls put away their books, and prepared to go to rest. Edah knelt down by her bedside without any diffidence, without even thinking whether any one was looking at her or not. Milly did not kneel, but she was very silent and serious.

The girls were very thoughtful all the next day, and did not join at all in the merriment of recess and playtime. No one made any remark about it, however; for it happened that a good many others were in the same situation.

Wednesday afternoon found Edah again at Mr. Wardwell's, and this time Milly accompanied her. She now felt more at home, and better acquainted with the Rector, and she did not hesitate to open her whole heart to him. The conversation was long, and very interesting, and Mr. Wardwell was rejoiced to see that his young friend had been led to see her sinfulness, and to seek for grace where alone it is to be found.

"I shall be most happy to welcome you to the Communion Table next Sunday," he said, "and I trust you will find there still more grace, a deeper conviction of your own unworthiness, and of the boundless mercy of God in Christ. But let me repeat to you once more: Be not satisfied with any faith which does not show itself in your life and conversation. If you truly love God, His will and His glory will be your ruling motive. In all you do, you will be desirous to please Him and to this test you will bring every action of your life, even the most trivial. You must bring captive every thought into the obedience of Christ, and unless you are willing to do this, you must not be satisfied with your repentance."

"I do not understand that expression, doing all to the glory of God," said Milly, speaking almost for the first time. "I have heard it used several times, and I do not understand it at all. I do not see how the glory of God can depend upon men."

"It does indeed seem strange that such beings as we are can glorify our Maker by our action but He has so said, and we are bound to believe it.

"'Herein is my Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit,' says our Saviour. 'Whether ye eat or think, or whatever ye do, do all to the glory Of God,' says St. Paul.

"On the contrary, He speaks of those who, by falling away, have crucified the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame. Suppose, Miss Amory, you were going among strangers who had heard of your father, and who would naturally judge of him and his character by you, would you not be very anxious and very careful that nothing in your conduct should give an unfavorable impression of him? Would you not endeavor to be kind, generous, and self-denying, if, in so doing, you could win the regard of your companions to your father?"

"Certainly, sir!"

"Well, my dear, this is a case in point. If people who are careless on the subject of religion, or even those who directly oppose it, see the professed disciples of Christ patient, unselfish, consistent, honest, and so forth, will they not, even against their wills, be forced to respect the principle which leads to all these good results? And if, on the contrary, they behold these professed disciples seeking their own interest, dishonest, busybodies, and the like, will they not at once conclude that their profession is all a falsity, or, if it is not so, that it is not worth considering?"

"Yes, sir, I suppose so. But, Mr. Wardwell, this is a great task to undertake. It seems to me that it would be a burden too heavy for any one."

"Would you then feel it a great task to behave in the manner I at first supposed when your father's honor and reputation were concerned?"

"No, sir, because I love my father, and that would make it light. It is not hard to make sacrifices for those we love."

"Then do you not see that when you love God as you do your father, this difficulty would become a pleasure?"

"But is that possible?"

"I trust you will come to see the time when you will wonder that any thing else is possible. When you come to understand the exceeding great love of our Master and only Saviour the dying for us; when you appreciate the amazing greatness of His sacrifice for sin, and feel that that sacrifice was made for you personally—that the crucified Jesus is your Saviour, your friend—that He now loves you, intercedes for you, watches you—that God the Father is your Father, and has sent His only-begotten Son into the world to redeem you—that He sends His Holy Spirit to touch your heart, and bring you to a sense of your sins—that He is more than ready to receive you, as soon as you are willing to be received,—when you realize all this, you will not think it much to devote your time and your talents wholly to him."

Millicent appeared more affected than Edah had ever seen her.

"I should not indeed," she said, in a trembling voice, "if I could only once feel that this was true. But it hardly seems possible that He should so love me, and when I have never obeyed Him—never thought of Him."

"But it is true, my child. God commended His love to us in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. And He not only died for us, but He ever liveth to make intercession for us.

"'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.'

"He is now knocking at your door. The moment you are ready, He is willing to wash away your sins, and to give you strength to serve and please Him in newness of life."

"I must think a little more, Mr. Wardwell, before I can come to a decision," said Milly. "I do not feel as though I quite understood the matter."

"Think and pray both, my friend, but above all, pray. Your prayers will be heard, if you are sincere in them. I trust and believe that you will be guided aright, and that I shall yet have the happiness of seeing you fighting under the banner of the Cross."

CHAPTER II.

CHANGING PLANS.

THE following Sunday saw Edah at the Communion for the first time in her life. It had been customary for all the pupils of the school to return home immediately after the Offertory, under the supervision of some of the elder girls, while the teachers remained. But on this particular Sunday morning so many of them asked permission to stay, that Miss Anderson thought it best that all should do so, except the very youngest, who were sent home under the care of the nurse and matron.

Milly was very much impressed with the solemnity of the scene which she now witnessed for the first time,—the silence of the church after the congregation had retired—the space allotted for mental devotion—the solemn and beautiful service, and the impressive words with which the elements were delivered to each of those now kneeling at the Chancel rails. Especially when her friend Edah went forward with the rest, did she feel a strong desire to be with her—a wish that she too might be admitted into the band of Christ's followers, and she resolved that from that day she would place the subject first in her mind, and never rest till she had come to a conclusion upon the subject.

And she kept her word. She devoted all her spare time to studying the Bible, not only with all the force of her clear mind, but also with earnest prayer for the assistance of the Spirit; for it signifies little with what mental power we attempt to grapple with the truths of God's word, unless, at the same time, the illumination of the Holy Ghost accompany our efforts. She made diligent use of all the means of grace placed in her way, keeping, at the same time, close watch over her own temper and disposition, and when the decisive time came, she chose as might have been expected—she chose the strait and narrow path, which leadeth unto eternal life, and threw all her talents and all her influence on the side of Christ.

Mr. Wardwell remarked to Miss Anderson afterwards that in the whole course of his ministry, he had never talked with a candidate who seemed to have clearer ideas as to what she was about to do, or a more humble desire to lean upon the arm of God for strength.

But this was entirely in accordance with Millicent's natural character: whatever she did was done thoroughly. She never commenced any thing hastily, but whatever she began was carried through.

More than a dozen of the school-girls were confirmed at this time, and about the same number from the town, and it was remarked long afterwards that those who took this important step under Mr. Wardwell's ministry were noticeable for the steady consistency of their life and conversation. They were especially noticed as being "useful" Christians. Few of them were known to shirk their share of work as Sunday School teachers, as visitors of the sick, and comforters of the destitute, whether of body or mind. Indeed, Mr. Wardwell's definition of the requirement to be in charity with all men was somewhat wide, and comprehended a great deal more than the simple fact of having no quarrel with any one.

The time passed as rapidly as it always does with busy people, and school-girls especially, and vacation was very near. It had been decided that this vacation was to be spent by our two friends mostly in a retired watering-place on the sea-shore, and they were anticipating a great deal of pleasure, when something happened to over throw all their plans.

The letters were always brought into the dining-room at dinner-time, and there distributed to their owners. One day Milly and Edah each received one. Milly's was a model of epistolary elegance—seal, envelope, and paper being all according to the latest fashion, while through all the vulgar contact with dunning letters, lawyers' packets, and so forth, an odor of violets still lingered around the delicate page. Edah's, on the contrary, was without an envelope, not remarkably well folded, and the direction was written in a large boyish hand, with a decided slope into one corner. Edah smiled as she looked at it.

"Really, Edah," said Milly, laughing, "your friend does not trouble himself much with the minor elegances of correspondence."

"It is from Sam," said Edah, laughing in her turn, as she broke the seal. "Poor fellow, his literary abilities have never been particularly well developed; but after all, he is a good boy in his way, and likes to write to me. Indeed, if it were not for him, I should never hear from the family at all."

She began reading her letter, with a smile on her face, which vanished as she went on, and she grew very grave.

"Is there any thing the matter?" asked Milly, observing the change.

"Why, yes; they are in rather an uncomfortable state, according to Sam. Mrs. Champlin is very unwell, indeed, and so is the baby, and Pauline, the next to the youngest, is very delicate. I hardly see how they get on at all."

"There is another daughter, is there not?"

"Oh, yes, Susan. She is about fourteen, but from what I saw when I was at home, I should not imagine that she would be of much assistance. I must write to-day, and ask Sam to let me know more particularly. But what says Miss Concklin, for I presume that elegant epistle, which forms such a contrast to poor Sam's, is from her?"

"Oh, just as usual! She is very kind and affectionate, longs to have the vacation arrive, that we may be with her; says my father is well, but much absorbed in business, as usual; sends her love to yourself, and her kind regards to Miss Anderson. Stay, here is a postscript.

   "'The arrangements are all made for our party to the sea-shore, and we have every prospect of a most delightful sojourn. The party will be smaller than was at first proposed, but I think it will lose nothing in point of pleasantness. Be sure to come home the first day possible.'

"How delightful it will be!" she said, refolding the elegant sheet, and restoring it to its envelope.

Edah did not reply. She was reading her brother's letter again; and three or four times in the course of the afternoon Milly saw her refer to it.

"You study that letter, Edah, as if it were a mathematical problem. What is there in it so very entertaining?"

"Nothing very entertaining, but something rather interesting. I have been seriously considering whether I ought not to give up this party to the sea-shore, and go home to nurse mother. If she is so unwell, and the younger children also, it seems to me as if they must need help."

Millicent looked at her as if she had proposed to go to the moon.

"Give up going to the sea-shore, and go home instead!" she exclaimed. "Why, Edah, what are you thinking of? It will overset our plans entirely."

"I do not see why," returned Edah. "You could go just the same; and although it would not be quite as pleasant for you, it would make no difference to the others, whom I hardly know at all. It seems to me as if I would be useful at home, in a good many ways."

"But, my dear child, what could you do? You know hardly any thing about work."

"True; but then you know I am a pretty good nurse, at least so Miss Anderson thinks, and I am good at sewing. Then there is another thing. I fear, from what Sam says, that they are rather straitened in means: the family is large, and father has not attended much to business lately. Mr. Liston promised me a hundred and fifty dollars to spend upon this journey, in addition to my allowance, and that would go a good way towards making a family of children comfortable."

"But it will be such a sacrifice for you."

"It will be a sacrifice; I cannot deny it," and Edah sighed as she spoke. "The children are terribly spoiled, and mother has no sort of authority over them. I liked Sam the best of them all. He is a rough, noisy fellow enough, but then he is warm-hearted and affectionate. Susan seemed to me to be both jealous and selfish, but perhaps I might judge differently now. The younger ones are like all spoiled children, as far as I know. Sam, and Pauline, who was almost a baby then, took a great liking to me, and I always intended when I had a home of my own, to take Polly to live with me. But then, Milly, the sacrifice to myself is not what I ought to think of: if I can be useful, that is the main thing."

"That is true," admitted Milly, rather reluctantly; "but, will Mr. Liston consent?"

"If he does not, it will be the first time he ever contradicted me in his life," said Edah, laughing; "except once, when I wanted some gunpowder to play with, like the boys in the street. Mr. Liston is somewhat prejudiced against my father, it is true—unjustly as I think; but after all, he likes to have people act from principle, as he says, and then he likes to have me do as I please. I do not anticipate any objection from him."

"Well, Edah, I cannot find it in my heart to dissuade you, sorry as I am to have our plans broken up. But do not decide hastily."

"Oh, no; I shall wait for another letter from Sam, I ant going to write to him this afternoon, and see what he thinks of the idea."

Sam's second letter arrived in a few days, and quite decided Edah upon abandoning her plan of amusement for the summer, and going home to nurse her stepmother, who, according to Sam's account, was in rather a critical situation. Mr. Liston made no very strong objections to her plan; as Edah said, he never contradicted her in any thing, not actually dangerous.

Miss Concklin, Millicent's aunt, raised the loudest cry. She could not conceive, she said in a letter to Milly, six pages long, that Miss Champlin was under any obligations to her father's second wife. Mr. Champlin had never done any thing for his daughter, and she had no expectations from him. As far as she could learn, they were not at all desirable people for a young lady of Miss Champlin's fortune and expectations to associate with, and really, she must think that Miss Champlin showed a very singular taste, in preferring the company of a set of vulgar relations and spoiled children, in a country village, to the society of some of the first people in the land, both in regard to station and cultivation. But of course Miss Champlin must choose for herself.

Milly only laughed over this letter: she knew her aunt well enough to be aware that her anger at the disappointment would exhaust itself in words, and that she would then appreciate Edah's conduct. Severely as she knew she should feel the loss of her friend's society, she would not say one word to discourage her from the resolution she had formed. And it was now settled that as soon as school was out, Edah should go at once to Brooksville, where her father resided.

"A year ago, Edah," remarked Milly, "you would hardly have thought of doing such a thing. I do not mean, of course, that you would not have done it for me, if I had been sick, but you would not have thought yourself called upon to make such a great sacrifice for any one."

"I hope I am very different from what I was a year ago," returned Edah. "A year ago, I should never have thought of going to church in the rain, as we did yesterday; and as to wearing a gingham dress and woollen shawl, I really believe I should have stayed at home every Sunday for six months rather than do such a thing."

"I do not think you care so much for dress, as you did," said Milly.

"I hope I am not growing careless about it; am I?"

"Oh, no; you are as neat as ever, but you do not spend so much time upon it as you used to. I remember your saying, last summer, that you could not possibly dress in less than an hour, and now you find a good deal less than that sufficient. And you do not spend nearly so much money upon it."

"I know I do not. It does not seem right to waste so much upon mere personal adornment, when there are so many better uses for money. The difference between a twelve-dollar lace collar and a twelve-shilling French worked one, would furnish a very good Sunday School library; and how is any one the better for wearing a twelve-dollar collar?"

"No better," said Milly; "for besides the expense, the worked collar is much the prettiest in my opinion. I remember, last summer, when the Miss Reeves had just been at our house with a great display of Honiton lace in collars, sleeves, handkerchiefs, &c., my father, who seldom notices dress, asked me how long it had been the fashion for ladies to wear ragged lace. Aunt Maria was quite indignant. But you know, Edah, some people say, 'What would become of the people that make these things if no one wore them?'"

"They would make something else, I suppose," said Edah; "and moreover, I never heard that these people felt themselves bound to wear articles after they went out of fashion, out of compassion for the people that made them. I confess that question has puzzled me a little; but for all that I cannot think it right to spend so much money for mere finery, when it might be profitably employed in other ways."

"I was speaking of your being altered, Edah," said Milly, after a few moments' silence; "I notice it more in your temper than in any thing else. You are much less quick and impatient than you used to be."

"I am glad to hear you say so, Milly, for I assure you, I cannot see the alteration in myself half as much as I wish I could. No one knows how earnestly I strive and pray for a Christian temper; but every little while something happens to upset me, and I find myself speaking and feeling in a way, that when I think of it, makes me almost ready to despair of myself. This very morning, Mary Snowden vexed me so, that I hardly knew how to control myself. It does seem to me that she takes pleasure in annoying me."

"She takes pleasure in annoying every one," said Milly. "Nothing delights her so much as to put any one out of temper. I cannot understand that sort of disposition myself."

"I confess I can," said Edah. "I have sometimes—I hope not lately—felt something of it myself. A good many girls think it shows wit to tease people, especially when they are irritable. It is a fact that I am sometimes afraid to open my mouth before Mary Snowden, she will invent so many ways to annoy me. I have tried every way to conciliate her, but it seems as if the more I endeavor to be on my guard, the more determined she is to throw me off it; and she puts on such a face of surprise and contemptuous pity, and shrugs her shoulders so significantly if I show the least annoyance, or even try to defend myself ever so gently, I don't know how to bear it at all sometimes."

"It is strange enough," said Milly, "that any person should take pleasure in seeing one betrayed into sin, but I believe it is often the case, much oftener than people acknowledge to themselves. You will have to keep a double guard over yourself at home."

"Yes," sighed Edah: "I almost dread it; but after all, the discipline will be good for me. I have spent all my life so easily and pleasantly, that I can hardly say I know what trouble is. You must write to me very often, Milly, and tell me all that you are doing. I shall find time to write to you, whatever else I have to do."

The next day saw Milly in New York, preparing for her excursion to the seaside, and Edah in the stage-coach on her way to her father's. Her heart almost sunk within her as she drew near to Brooksville, and saw the village before her, but she tried to keep up good courage. Her father received her at the gate affectionately enough, but Edah was shocked to see how much he was altered. His eyes were red and watery, his hands trembled, his figure was bent, and Edah thought his breath smelt of spirits. Sam received her with a noisy demonstration of kindness, which drew down a reproof from Susan for being so rude. Susan herself was cold, and almost uncivil, and answered Edah's inquiries about her mother very shortly.

"She is very unwell, indeed," she said, "and quite unfit to be troubled with company."

"But I am not company," said Edah, good-naturedly, and taking up little Pauline, who came to her side. "I have come to be of some use, if I can. Sam wrote to me that mother was very unwell, and the baby also, and I thought if that were the case, it would be more than you could do to take care of every thing."

"I am much obliged, I am sure," said Susan, in a tone which seemed to express something very different from her words; "but I don't know that I have made any complaint. Do get down, Pauline; how troublesome you are!"

But Pauline still kept her seat, and looked at her sister with an air half of defiance, half of fear. Susan would have proceeded to force, but at that moment she was called into the kitchen, and went out, leaving it to Sam and Pauline to show Edah her room, which she was glad to find pleasant in its aspect, and in comfortable order, with windows which commanded an extremely pretty prospect. Pauline was unwilling to leave her even here, but by alternate coaxing and scolding on Sam's part, she was at last prevailed on to go down stairs, and leave her sister to herself.

Edah unpacked her trunk, and took out her presents for her mother and the children. She then dressed herself in a pretty French calico frock and black silk apron, and went down stairs. She was passing a half-open door, when she heard a baby cry, and a feeble voice said:

"Susan, is that you?"

"It is Edah, mother," she said, entering softly. "Susan said you were asleep, and I did not like to disturb you."

Mrs. Champlin was sitting up in bed, holding the baby in her arms. She was very thin and pale, and seemed hardly able to support the weight of the puny little creature. She seemed very much pleased to see Edah, and kissed her affectionately.

"It is very good of you, I am sure," she said, with an appearance of a good deal of feeling, "to come and stay with us, instead of going to your friends, but I am afraid we cannot make it very pleasant for you."

"I did not come a-pleasuring, as nurse says," replied Edah, smiling; "but from Sam's account of things, I thought Susan must need some help, and came to see what I could do: so let me take the baby to begin with. You do not seem fit to hold him at all. What a tiny creature it is!"

"Very small," assented Mrs. Champlin; "he has been sick ever since he was born. If you will hand me that little bottle of milk, I will feed him."

"Do let me try," said Edah, bringing the bottle; "I am sure I can do it, and do you lie down again."

She took the child accordingly, and began feeding it, not unskilfully, while Mrs. Champlin sank back on her pillow, and watched her at first rather anxiously, and then apparently with some amusement.

"Why, you get on very nicely," she said at length. "Do they teach baby-tending at your school?"

"No," said Edah; "but I have played with Mrs. Wardwell's baby a good deal, especially since I knew I was coming here, and she taught me to feed and dress it. I thought, as you had a young baby, it would be convenient to know, and, besides, I love the little things dearly."

So saying, she removed the handkerchief she had tucked under the child's chin, and straightened out its clothes quite scientifically, addressing to it, at the same time, some of that highly rational and instructive conversation in which nurses are accustomed to deal, and with which babies are at all times greatly delighted. She was engaged in this manner, and in relating to her mother the incidents of the journey, when Susan entered.

"So! You seem to have got yourself into business," she said, in a tone which was a shade more gracious than any she had yet used. "Do you like babies?"

"Very much," said Edah.

"I am glad of it, for I don't. I never can get on with children, and Sam and Pauline plague my life out."

"Sam is one of the children, is he?" said her mother. "He is a whole year older than you are."

"He is old enough to know how to behave himself, then," returned Susan; "but he don't, and I believe he never will. Tea is ready, Edah, or perhaps I should say Miss Champlin."

"I think, Susan," said her mother, "that I will go out into the other room to-night, as Edah is here. I can lie on the sofa, and Sam will draw me out in the rocking-chair."

Susan made some objections, but her mother prevailed, and was drawn into the other room, greatly to the delight of Pauline and Sam.

"Really, mother," said Mr. Champlin, "you are getting quite smart. Edah must be a good doctor, I think. But come, let us have our supper, for it is past the time."

"I think sister ought to make tea, Susan," said Pauline, as Susan sat down before the teaboard. "She is the oldest."

"Of course she ought," struck in Sam, while Mrs. Champlin looked uncomfortable, and Susan, in a voice trembling with anger, replied,—

"Oh, of course, I am nobody, now that 'sister' has come. I am only good for something when there is work to be done. But I am sure she is welcome to the place, if she wants it."

"But I don't want it Susan," said Edah, gently. "I never do like to make tea, and to-night I am very tired. Besides, Sam, I am only company, you know."

"But you said you were not company," persisted Sam, "and you will have to do it now, for Sue looks so cross, she will turn all the milk sour."

Susan looked more angry than ever at this provoking speech, and was about to rise from the table, when her father, in a peremptory voice, commanded them both to be quiet, and Susan to make the tea, adding that their squabbles were enough to drive one crazy.

No grace was said at the table. Sam employed all his wit, which, indeed, was not small, to annoy and provoke Susan, while she, on her part, was sullen and silent, resisting all Edah's attempts to draw her into conversation. Pauline asked for every thing on the table, interrupted everybody, and regularly refused to do every thing that Susan inquired of her. She showed great alacrity in waiting on her mother, however, and seemed very affectionate both to her and the baby.

It may easily be imagined that the meal was not a very pleasant one under these circumstances, and Edah was glad when it came to a close. She produced her presents, which were received with great delight, and even Susan smoothed her brow and seemed pleased when Edah presented her with a pretty new dress, and a pair of nice under-sleeves, saying, in rather an apologetic manner—

"It is not a very sentimental present, Susan, but I did not know what you would like, and I thought, perhaps, you would not have seen any thing like this. It is quite new in style."

"It is very welcome, I'm sure," said Susan, unfolding and admiring it; "for I've hardly a decent dress to put on. See, mother, isn't it pretty?"

"Beautiful," replied Mrs. Champlin, "and it will be very becoming, if you get it nicely made up."

"I declare," said Sam, "it makes you look quite handsome, Sue."

"You are a judge, no doubt," returned Susan, but not ill-naturedly; "I am very much obliged to you, Edah, for remembering me. I did not expect it."

"Why not?" asked Edah.

"Ob, because nobody does; that's all. I am nobody here—only, as I said, when there is work to be done."

"You must be very useful then, I am sure," said Edah; "when I was fourteen, I was the last person thought of when there was work to be done. I suspect you are a good deal before me now in housekeeping."

"Susan is a good housekeeper for her age," remarked Mrs. Champlin; "she makes excellent cake and bread, and sews very nicely."

These compliments quite conciliated Susan, and Edah was surprised to see how well she appeared, and how pretty she was, when her face was not deformed by an angry flush, or an expression of sullenness. She could not help thinking that some of her bad temper might be the result of unfortunate circumstances, and resolved to do her best to conciliate her and gain her confidence, and to remove the jealousy which had evidently been roused in her sister's bosom towards herself.

When eight o'clock came, Susan informed Pauline that it was time for her to go to bed, but Pauline declined listening, and appealed to her mother, who decided that she might sit up an hour longer on Edah's account, if she would promise to go to bed quietly at the end of that time.

Susan seemed to take this permission a good deal amiss, and had quite an argument with her mother on the subject; but Pauline had her own way, and stayed up as long as any member of the family. Sam was deeply engaged in one of his new books all the evening, and took but little share in the conversation. As for Mr. Champlin, he went out immediately after tea, and did not return till bedtime.

Edah made her long ride and her fatigue an excuse for retiring early to her room, when she sat down to write in her journal, as she did at the close of every day. She had just finished, and was taking up her Bible, when Susan entered, without knocking, which a little annoyed Edah.

She drew a chair to the table, without waiting to be asked, and sat down, saying as she did so, "I thought you were in a hurry to go to bed. I suppose the truth was, you wanted to get away, and have a little peace and quiet."

"Not exactly," said Edah, "though I always like to have a little time before going to bed; don't you?"

"No," answered Susan, "not unless I have an interesting book to read. What a pretty Bible that is! But why do you have two?"

"One is a Prayer-Book," said Edah. "I think it a very pretty one!"

"Are you an Episcopalian?" asked Susan, abruptly.

"To be sure," replied Edah: "are not you?"

"I am not any thing," said Susan. "We hardly ever have church here, and when we do, Mr. Willson is so dull, I can't bear to hear him. I don't like the service either: it is so long and tiresome, and I never can find the places."

"I could soon show you about them," said Edah; "and when you come to understand the service, I am sure you would not think it tiresome. But what do you do on Sundays when there is no church?"

"Sometimes I go to the Methodist meeting and sometimes I stay at home. Father never goes: he sits at home and reads the newspapers, or goes over to Strong's. Sam goes to Raeburn to church, when he does not stay at home to plague me. Did you ever see such a tormenting boy as he is?"

"It is a pity he has got into the way of making such speeches," said Edah, "for he seems very intelligent and affectionate."

"You will find out how affectionate he is after a while," returned Susan. "Your being here is a new thing now, but by and by he will tease you just as he does me; though perhaps he may do differently, as you have something to give him, and I have not, and even if I had, I should be ashamed to bribe him. As for Pauline, she makes it the object of her life to tease me, and mother always takes her part. She never spoiled me so, I know. Do you read your Bible every night?"

"Yes," replied Edah, "and every morning."

"What is the use of reading it so much?" asked Susan. "You must know it all by heart, I should think."