“I really think you ought not to make such a constant companion of Florence.”
“That is just what Florence said you would tell me,” replied Carrie; “and she said, too, she thought it was a strange idea of your’s that saints should not associate with anybody but other saints, leaving the poor sinners to their own destruction without the benefit of any good influences.”
“That sounds just like Florence; but I’m afraid she has more influence over you than you have over her. Carrie, I don’t like to say it, but I am really afraid you are not so constant in the performance of your Christian duties as you ought to be and as you used to be. Aunt Stanley said we should have temptations and trials, and warned us not to yield to them.”
“She said, too, that she did not think we need to have long faces and be always talking of religious things.”
“Very true. But there’s a great deal more danger of being too indifferent than too earnest; and, Carrie, I really think it my duty to tell you that——”
The blood rushed to Caroline’s face.
“Susie,” she exclaimed, “I wish you didn’t lecture me every time you get me alone. Lately it seems to be all you talk to me about, whenever we are together, that I’m doing very wrong. I actually almost dread to be left with you.”
Susan began to cry.
“Don’t cry,” said her cousin, kissing her tenderly. “I know you mean it all for the best and because you love me; and perhaps I deserve it all. But it a’n’t pleasant, you know, to be lectured, even if you do deserve it. Don’t cry. You make me very unhappy!”
Susie brushed away her tears and kissed Carrie, and so the subject dropped,—for the time, at least.