Elsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a singular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true of her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple; yet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands actually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it would be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He would have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what more reasonable than that they should be kept for His service?
Would that make any difference with the work of her hands, she wondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such dainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in His sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book, her name attached; she read on: "Danger and temptation to let the hands move at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing else to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing else. Take one practical instance—our letter writing. Have we not been tempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various dispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to write an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic thing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble or a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?"
The rich color on Elsie's cheek was deepening every moment. This was certainly narrow ground. She felt herself jostled against. "Clever and sarcastic things" were so natural to her pen that they almost seemed to write themselves. What a ridiculous report she had given of Ned Holden's failure in geometry. How skillfully she had turned into ridicule his mortified attempts to recover himself. She had imagined her cousins, Carrie and Ben, laughing immoderately over the whole thing. Well, what harm? Her account of it would never reach poor Ned's ears: she would not have given it for anything had there been the least fear, but—what good did it accomplish? Had she written it with a purpose? Yes, she had; her purpose had been to give a few minutes' fun to her cousins. Anything wrong about that? Yet the truthful girl admitted to herself almost immediately that it was fun at the expense of certain fine feelings which she had jarred. Was she inclined to be so sympathetic with failures as she would be if it were not such fun to write them up? What a caricature she had made of Ned as he stood there on the platform, his face aglow, the eyes of a hundred girls leveled at him! She laughed again as she remembered how funny her picture was; but then she sighed. Soiled hands. Was it possible that she had soiled hers that day? Did Dr. Falconer mean such things? Did he know about the letter and the caricature? She felt her face grow hot over the possibility; she would not have him know it for anything! Here again was a revelation. Why not? And if not Dr. Falconer, surely not the Lord Jesus! Yet He knew.
There really was not much comfort in thinking about it. But Elsie decided that these things must be thought about and decided another time. If it really was wrong to repeat in a ludicrous way the ludicrous things that the boys, and sometimes the girls, and sometimes the professors were doing, why, then she must give it up; but it was great fun. Another marked sentence—her name again: "Perhaps one hardly needs to say that kept hands will be very gentle hands. Quick, angry motions of the heart will sometimes force themselves into expression by the hand, though the tongue may be restrained. The very way in which we close a door, or lay down a book, may be a victory or a defeat."
At this point Elsie closed the little book and laid it down with no gentle hand. She was vexed with it. What nonsense was this! The idea that when one banged the door a little with nobody around to see, and not meaning anything in particular, only a general vexation, one had dishonored Christ! That was straining a point! Just as if people could keep from doing those little things! And just as though they did any hurt! The little book was fanatical; she didn't like it at all.
What sent her back, just then, to her little class in Sabbath-school? seven or eight of the babies under her care. What verse was that which she had taught them only last Sabbath? "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place?" That was the question she had asked. How had she taught them to answer? She seemed to see the sixteen little hands raised, while eight little voices repeated: "He that hath clean hands and a pure heart." Whose fanaticism was this? What had she herself taught those little ones that "clean hands" meant? Had she really meant that they, those babes in Christ, must carefully watch their small hands, lest they slam the door in anger or throw the book, and that she, Elsie Burton, eighteen years old and for four years a Christian, could do any of these trifles without soiling hers? It was illogical, certainly.
Yet, can I make you understand, I wonder, what a ferment all these little things set Miss Elsie into? They seemed so new to her; so unexpected. She was a bright young Christian; she desired in general, to honor her Master. Yet, like many another, she had selected great ways in which to honor Him, and, occasionally, at least, looked about for something large to do in His service, forgetting, or ignoring, many small daily opportunities. She liked her own way royally well, did this young lady; and when on occasion older wills in authority crossed hers, she submitted indeed; it would be unladylike to do otherwise, and Elsie Burton did not like to be unladylike; but she frowned and banged the door; yes, she did, a little, a very little, occasionally, and threw her books on the table with determination, and wrote sarcastic letters to her special friend, and grumbled occasionally to mamma. All these things she had rather looked upon as her perquisites; little personal rewards for submitting. In what a different way did the tiny book talk about them all!
She sat very still and thought it over. "It reaches too far," she told herself, catching her breath. "It would make perfectly awful work of living! Just think! One couldn't—oh dear! one couldn't do anything, without looking at it to see if it were just exactly the right thing to do. According to that doctrine, I don't belong to myself at all. Such fanaticism!"
"Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your bodies and your spirits, which are His." Who whispered that verse to her? It was not in the offending little book. Whose fanaticism was this?
Meantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had been unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book even to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and leading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked about him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only unoccupied one in the car. "May I sit here?" he asked meekly and prepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small hand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with Elsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the skirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member, muttering low as she did so, that the seat was "not intended for four persons."