THE TEA-PARTY.
At exactly six o'clock some twenty young girls of various ages assembled at "the great house," as Mr. Mountjoy's grand mansion was called in the village. They could not come earlier, as most of them worked in the mill, which they could not leave till five or half-past five; consequently they all arrived at about the same time. They were received with perfect politeness by the servant, who opened the door and ushered them, as she would have done any other visitors, into the spare-room, prettily furnished in blue and white satin, with white lace hangings and silver ornaments. Here they laid aside their hats, and taking their little work-baskets, descended to the great drawing-room, whose splendors considerably surprised the younger girls; the older ones were used to it. At the door Miss Eunice with Etta, the latter arrayed in a wonderful costume, met and received their guests, and after lingering for a while among the paintings, engravings, nicknacks, etc., led them to an inner room, the windows of which overlooked the garden in summer, and a door from which opened into a greenhouse, now full of blooming flowers.
This was the family sitting-room, generally the abode of Miss Eunice, for Etta was too much of a butterfly to stay anywhere, and Rhoda, the middle sister, now about twenty, was an artist, entirely devoted to painting, spending her days and a great part of her nights in her studio, and caring nothing for any of the interests connected with our story. It was luxuriously furnished, more with a view to comfort than to show, and as the girls sank into the easy sofas or into the deep stuffed chairs, or else made themselves comfortable upon low seats and divans, the contrast with their own bare homes and hardworking life was enough to call forth many a sigh of rest and enjoyment. Work was then produced, the usual inquiries after parents and sisters, invalids and home-keepers asked and answered, with a little other familiar conversation, when Miss Eunice said: "I think, girls, as we have finished the book upon which we have been so long engaged, we will not commence another to-day, but devote our thoughts to a subject about which I have been thinking a great deal, and which your pastor agrees with me in thinking of very great importance to be brought before you. I mean a public confession of Christ as your Saviour and Master."
Some of the girls looked grave, some blushed, some were confused. Katie Robertson glanced up expectantly, for this was an opportunity she had long been on the lookout for, and longed to hear more about it. One of the elder girls said:—
"But, Miss Eunice, nobody ought to join the church who is not converted."
"That is very true, but is it not equally true that all who are converted ought to join the church, as you express it, or, as I prefer to say, confess their Saviour? It is only a mean soul which is willing to accept gifts and favors and never openly acknowledge its gratitude for them. I wouldn't care for the friendship of any one who was ashamed to own me before other people; and I wouldn't think much of a soldier who did not show his colors and put on the uniform of his country."
Katie felt her face flush; for was she not one of these very secret friends—one of the soldiers who had not as yet put on the uniform? Not that she had really been ashamed to do so, but the subject had not been very prominently brought to her notice, and when she had thought of it at all it had seemed such a strange, awful, public step for so young a girl to take. She felt so unworthy; it seemed a thing for old people to do, not for little girls. But Miss Eunice had thrown a new light upon the subject, and it looked differently from what it had ever looked before.
"But if we are not Christians, Miss Eunice, you wouldn't like us to act a lie."
"God forbid, Mary; did you ever think that you ought to be a Christian?—ought to be in that state which will make it possible for you to obey the simple command of Christ to confess him before men?"
"A command, Miss Eunice?"