"There is," said Mr. Lacy, feelingly. "There is a love which purifies the rest, a peace we would have all men know. They err, who say that devotion to God weans the heart from our friends. Our Divine Master has left us a new commandment—'that we love one another,' and with the increase of our love for Him, our souls enlarge, until the arms of brotherly kindness embrace the universal family of mankind. There is no such being as a selfish Christian."
Ida listened in amazement. This language was uncommon at any time and place out of the pulpit, but from an elegant and popular young man, it was novel in the extreme.
"I can hardly understand the workings of a principle, which is itself a mystery," she said. "Time was when religion was a household word to me, but exposure to adverse influences has erased from my mind all knowledge of this kind, if I ever had any understanding of its meaning."
"You have the instruction of the immortal spirit within you. Is that satisfied with its fare? Are you content with yourself and your mode of life?"
"Content!" The tone was a sufficient reply.
"Will you allow me to use the freedom of a friend, Miss Ross, and show you that in neglecting this subject you shut your eyes to the only true happiness? I know that the lot which appears brightest is checkered with vicissitudes—inward struggles, more trying than many visible afflictions. Against these, neither the spirits of youth nor the reasonings of philosophy can always prevail. I know how the lip smiles and the heart bleeds, although the anguish within does not drown the gay words upon the tongue. We may—we do conceal, but the sting rankles the same. Our Father never designed that we should be happy away from Him. These misgivings, this discontent with ourselves, and pinings for something better and higher, are voices beseeching us to partake of his love; they are the homesickness of a child, who has strayed, and has forgotten in new scenes the parent he has deserted, and the sight of a flower, a breath of warm air, a song he used to love, calls up the remembrance of that father, and a gush of shame and longing he is too proud to confess. Thus much all feel, but upon some fall heavier trials. Earth has no cure for the woes which a residence here entails upon us. Young as you are you may know this?"
"I do!"
"Is what I am saying disagreeable to you?"
"No, sir;—go on, if you please!"
"Then, if we are told of One, who cannot only comfort, but convert distress into blessing; of whose loving protection nothing can deprive us; who will make this life tolerable—nay, pleasant, and assure us of an eternity of bliss to be shared with Him,—is it not the maddest folly to refuse the pledge He asks in return—a child's love and trust?"