Enthrone Thyself within my heart,
And reign without a rival there.
“Grant this request, I ask no more,
But to Thy care the rest resign;—
Sick, or in health, or rich, or poor,
All shall be well if Thou art mine.”
“Can it be that any human being really feels this?” thought Cora, half closing the volume. “I cannot believe it. And yet Isa Gritton has acted as if she felt it. But no, no—she is at this moment playing the part of an accomplice of her money-loving brother. Her faith may make her like such a book as this, mark it, perhaps cry over it; it may give her that gentleness and kindliness which have half won me over to love her in spite of myself; it may—yes, it may possibly have some effect in taking away the fear of losing beauty, or even life; but when it comes to the question of its requiring such integrity of conduct as would involve loss and disgrace, faith will find it expedient to confine itself to sentimental devotion, and the saint will come forth from the closet to act in the world—as the children of the world always act.”
A gentle hand noiselessly turned the handle of the door, and Isa glided into the room. She was surprised to see Cora still awake and sitting up at the midnight hour.
“I thought that I should have found my patient asleep,” she observed.
“I could not have slept till I had seen you; I wanted to hear about your brother.”