The young people were in a puzzle, Annie especially. It was the first act of unblushing worldliness she had ever witnessed. She felt as if she did not know the world she lived in. She looked at her mother; there was no joy on her face; she looked at Adelaide; already the young girl had [{44}] assumed her rank; the calm hauteur, the majestic politeness, with which she received her guests, astonished every one. Adelaide was born to command, every one felt it; none more so than Annie, who had been so fondly attached to that sister from whom she felt already severed.
"O Euphrasie!" she said to her cousin, as they were walking together in the grounds that surrounded the house, "you must be my sister when Adelaide is gone; it will be so dreary to have no one of my own age to love and talk to; will you not try to love me?"
"I love you already, dear; you must not talk in that way—how can I do other than love you?"
"I was afraid you thought me a reprobate whom it was a sin to love." This was said half playfully, but the tears started to Euphrasie's eyes.
"You a reprobate! a sin to love you who have been so kind to the poor orphan girl! O Annie! have I really been so ungrateful as to give you this idea?"
"No, dear, no! not so; but I seriously thought you deemed all human nature utterly depraved, and did not wish to form strong attachments with those not of your creed."
"If human nature were utterly depraved, how could it hear the voice of God in the soul? and if you here were utterly depraved, would you have opened your house and your heart to the wandering outcast?"
"Then you do not think religion essential to goodness? How is that, then?"
"Man was made in the image of God, my dear Annie, and even his natural qualities bear witness to this, unless, indeed, he become utterly depraved."
"You do not, then, exclude us from your heaven," said Annie, embracing her. "I am so glad; you will be my friend and sister, Euphrasie."