“Ah, that is something I don’t know anything about,” said Rhoda, wearily. “And I always think ’tis right down shabby of people to turn religious, just because they have lost the world, and are disappointed and tired. And I was never cut out for a saint, Phoebe—’tis no use!”
“Rhoda, dear, when people give all their days to Satan, and then turn religious, as you say, just at last, when they are going to die, or think they are—don’t you think that right down shabby? The longer you keep away from God, the less you have to give Him when you come. And as—”
“I thought you Puritans always said we hadn’t anything to give to God, but He gave everything to us,” objected Rhoda, pettishly.
Phoebe passed the tone by, and answered the words, “I think there are two things we can give to God, Cousin: our sins, that He may cast them into the depths of the sea; and ourselves, that He may save and train us. And the longer you stay away, the more sin you will have to bring; and the less time there will be for loving and serving Him. You will be sorry, when you do come, that you were not sooner.”
“How do you know I shall? I tell you, I wasn’t cut out for a saint.”
“I think you will, Cousin, because I have asked Him to bring you,” said Phoebe, simply; “and it must be His will to hear that; because He willeth not the death of a sinner.”
“So you count me a sinner! I am sure I’m very much obliged to you!” said Rhoda, more in her old style than before.
“Yes, dear Cousin, I count you a sinner; and so do I myself, and every body else,” said Phoebe, gently.
“Oh, well, I suppose we are all sinners,” admitted Rhoda. “Don’t I keep telling you I am not made for a saint?”
“But you were, Rhoda; God made you for Himself,” said Phoebe.