And more and more dear was Agnes becoming to her mother, who watched with the keen eye of affection the struggle made by her eldest daughter against her besetting sins. Mrs. Temple guessed what it cost Agnes to bear a rough joke in silence, to lend pretty things which she feared that the borrower might spoil, to give up her own way, and to show no jealous anger when another was preferred before her.
“My girl’s character is becoming stronger and nobler every day,” thought Mrs. Temple; “I thank the Lord for my Agnes, for I am sure that it is His grace that is working in her heart. Agnes promises to grow up into a really valuable woman, one whom her mother can trust.”
Mrs. Temple could not have said as much for her dearly loved Dora. The lady was perplexed and pained to feel that something—she knew not what it could be—seemed to have come between her and her bright, clever, affectionate child. Dora, indeed, gave Mrs. Temple no cause to find fault with her conduct; her lessons were well learned, her temper was good, she was a favorite still with her brother and sisters; and yet her mother felt that there was a change in her Dora for which she could not account. Mrs. Temple was wont to have little quiet conversations separately with each of her children at night: in these meetings they were able to open their hearts more freely to their mother than they could have done had a third person been present, and their parent could speak upon religious subjects in the way best suited to the character and age of each. These quiet moments spent alone with mamma had been greatly prized by all the children; but Dora could take pleasure in them no more, and her parent was conscious that such was the case. The girl generally managed, only too easily, to forget all about her unrepented sin when the remembrance of it was not forced upon her now half-deadened conscience, but when her mother sat by her bedside and softly talked to her about heaven, Dora grew uneasy in spirit. She did not like to be reminded of the holy God whose law she had broken—what pleasure could the knowledge of His truth bring to one who was conscious of unrepented falsehood! The returns of Sundays, nay, even the hour for family prayer, were never welcome to Dora. When she repeated texts or hymns, as the rest of the family did, she had the wretched consciousness that she was acting a hypocrite’s part, and taking God’s name in vain. Dora’s life was becoming one long act of deceit. She was secretly ashamed of herself for appearing so much better than she in reality was.
“But my work—my beautiful work—my work for the poor—I’ll make up for what I’ve done wrong by taking extra pains with that!” thought Dora. And so the poor girl usually succeeded in winning much praise from others, and in deceiving her own sinful heart, only too willing to be thus deceived.
XVI.
The High-Priest.
