Therefore how happy is the time
When in thy love I rest!
When from my weariness I climb
Even to thy tender breast!
The night of sorrow endeth there:
Thou are brighter than the sun;
And in thy pardon and thy care
The heaven of heaven is won.
In telling them a few of the facts connected with the hymn, I presume I had manifested my admiration of it with some degree of fervor.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Cromwell, opening her eyes very wide, and letting the rising tears fill them: "Ah, Mrs. Percivale! you are—you must be one of us!"
"You must tell me first who you are," I said.
She held out her hand; I gave her mine: she drew me towards her, and whispered almost in my ear—though why or whence the affectation of secrecy I can only imagine—the name of a certain small and exclusive sect. I will not indicate it, lest I should be supposed to attribute to it either the peculiar faults or virtues of my new acquaintance.
"No," I answered, speaking with the calmness of self-compulsion, for I confess I felt repelled: "I am not one of you, except in as far as we all belong to the church of Christ."
I have thought since how much better it would have been to say, "Yes: for we all belong to the church of Christ."
She gave a little sigh of disappointment, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them again with a smile, and said with a pleading tone,—
"But you do believe in personal religion?"
"I don't see," I returned, "how religion can be any thing but personal."