"But young folks—don't be too hard on them. You danced yourself when you were young."
"So I did, so I did, and nearly lost my soul by it. It makes me shudder to think of our young people getting as near the brink of the precipice as I did. No, no, mother, these things are not for Christ's followers. 'If any man love the world the love of the Father is not in him.' One must have wandered a long way before he reached the point where he could engage in such an enterprise. Perhaps," he added, with a sigh, "we older Christians have not been watchful enough over these our young brothers. We have let the world get a hold upon them, which a little more vigilance upon our part might have prevented."
"Duncan," said Judge McNair, as his son came into the office that afternoon, "haven't you made a great mistake?"
"Where, and how? What do you mean?"
"Just this. Four years ago this winter you promised to live only for Christ. You covenanted with God and with his people, accepting God's terms, and promising to walk worthily of the Christian name; accepting the fellowship of the Church, agreeing to avoid whatever might be a stumbling block for others, or in any way bring reproach upon Christ's name and people. This at least is the spirit of your vows. Strange that you should have publicly renounced them."
"Why, father, what do you mean?"
"Why, there in that paper you range yourself with the world," replied Judge McNair.
"I thought you approved of the object of our society. I consulted you before I joined it."
"I do approve of it—at least I supposed that I did; but it seems that you have objects of which I was not aware. I approve of the library scheme, but I would sooner have given fifty dollars for the fund than have had you engaged in an affair of this sort."
"But, father," expostulated Duncan, "aren't you a little too strict? Don't you think that such rigid notions are apt to repel outsiders?"