"I am afraid," said the young lady with a little sigh, "that I am most like the seed among the thorns."
"Oh no, dear!" cried Flora, through whose mind the same reflection had been passing during the greater part of the sermon.
"I am not always thoughtless," said Ada earnestly, "when I was a little girl how I used to cry over the story of the Young Cottager, and wish that I were like little Jane! and now often, on Sundays, when I hear a beautiful sermon like that of this morning, I feel like a different creature, really quite religious, and go to bed with such good resolutions; but then comes the morrow, and somehow I forget all about them till Sunday comes round again."
Flora was silent, for she knew not what to reply.
"You are so good, so unselfish, so unworldly--so altogether unlike me!"
"My dear Ada, you are a sad flatterer!"
"But every one thinks the same: your mother, the clergyman, all who approach you see that you are an angel, only wanting the wings! When I heard you repeating the confession of sins so fervently beside me, I could not help saying to myself, I wonder what Flora has to confess; how, by any stretch of imagination, she can believe herself to be a 'miserable sinner?'"
"Ada, we are all sinners."
"Ah yes; I know that there is plenty of wickedness in the world, but then it is very unequally divided. Some have so little for their share that it is actually invisible--like yours! Now what I wish you to tell me is this, when you follow the clergyman in that part of the service, are you confessing the sins of your neighbours in general, or any of your own in particular?"
"You are jesting," said Flora, looking embarrassed.