From Jest to Earnest. Edward Payson Roe

Miss Marsden. Though I regard it as an evil and dangerous book, it is exceedingly clever, and well written, and it is quite popular in some circles. I suppose it has been sent up to Aunt Marchmont with other new books of note."

      "I must certainly read it, since you won't read it to me. Forbid a child to do a thing, you know, and you have given the strongest motive for doing just that thing."

      "You are not a child, Miss Marsden."

      "What am I, then?"

      "I hardly know; but you are capable of realizing one's best ideal, almost."

      "Almost! thank you."

      "Perhaps my language is stronger than you realize. The woman who could answer to my ideal would be nearly perfect."

      "And do you think such a paragon would go out among the border ruffians with you?"

      "No, nor anywhere else with me. I was speaking of my ideal."

      "You do not expect to marry your ideal, then?"

      "I suppose love transfigures the one we love, and that this is the only way we can ever meet our ideal in this life. But sometimes we see one who it seems might approach even the ideal of our unbiased fancy."

      "It is well that you admire these exquisite creatures at a distance," she said, dryly. "I can't see why men will always be so foolish as to think pretty women are good women. But if I am not a child why may I not read that book? You intimate that it will not shake my belief."

      "I do not think it would—at least I hope it would not."

      "You are not sure."

      "I'm sure it will not shake the Bible. Every age has teemed with infidel books. Yet God's Word stands to-day as strong and serene as that mountain yonder, to which the setting sun has given a crown of light."

      "Your figure is pretty, but unfortunate. The sun is indeed 'setting,' and soon the mountain will lose its crown of light and vanish in darkness."

      "But does it vanish," he asked quickly, "in the transient darkness, like a cloud tipped with light? Such a cloud is a fit emblem of this brilliant book, and of multitudes like it that have preceded, but which, like lurid vapors, have vanished from men's thought and memory. Even with my immature mind I can detect that this clever work is but an airy castle, soon to fall. What infidel book has ever gained or kept a lasting hold upon the popular heart? Let the darkness swallow up the mountain there. If we go where it is at midnight, we shall find it intact, and just as firm as when the sun is shining upon it. The searching light of every day, from year to year and age to age, will find it there just the same. The long night of moral darkness which culminated in the fifteenth century, though it hid the Bible, did not destroy it. Luther at last found and brought it out into the broad light of general study and criticism. For generations it has been assailed on every side, but it stands in the calm, unchanging strength that yonder mountain would maintain, were it surrounded by children shooting against it with arrows. Believe me, I do not fear for the Bible. If all the light of human knowledge were turned upon it in one burning focus, its intrinsic truth would only be revealed more clearly; and if superstition, as in the past, or infidelity, as was the case in France, creates temporary darkness, the moment that, in the light of returning reason, men look for the Bible, they find it like a great solemn mountain, that cannot be moved while the world lasts, just where God has placed it."

      "Mr. Hemstead, don't you know that young gentlemen do not talk to young ladies as you do to me?"

      "You know very well that I am not a society man."

      "O, I'm not complaining. I rather like to be talked to as if I had some brains, and was not a doll. If you are so sure about the Bible, why do you fear to have me read arguments against it?"

      "I am not so sure about you. If I should listen to a plausible story against you, without knowing you or giving you a fair hearing, I might come to be prejudiced—to believe you very unworthy—when the reverse would be true. So the minds of many, from reading books of this nature, and not giving the Bible a fair hearing, become poisoned and prejudiced."

      "Then why do you read it?"

      "For the same reason that would influence a physician to study a disease—not that he may catch it, but that he may understand and know how to treat it. This book is a mental and moral disease, and I do not wish you to run the risk of catching it, though I do not think it would prove fatal if you did. Your own heart and experience would probably correct the error of your head. Such books as these won't answer in times of illness or deep trouble. We turn from them as instinctively and certainly as we do from noise, glare, and gayety."

      The mountain without was now in the shadow. The early twilight of the December evening had darkened the wintry landscape; but the ruddy glow of the hickory fire revealed how beautiful Lottie's face could be, when composed into womanly truth and thoughtfulness.

      "I have never had a serious sorrow or illness, and I wonder what I should do if I had?" she queried musingly, as these sombre events, which sooner or later must come into every life, rose up before her.

      "I know well what you will do when they come, as come they will to us all," said Hemstead, gently. "As surely as you would cling to a strong arm were you sinking in deep waters, just so surely you will turn to the Bible, and to Him who said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'"

      The truth, if given a hearing, is ever powerful—the truths of our own sad experience—the answering and remedial truth of God. Unexpectedly and unintentionally on her part, both these phases of truth had gained the ear of Lottie Marsden. The sorrowful and suffering days of the future threw back their shadows upon her, and her heart sank at their prospect; and with the certainty of intuition she recognized the answering truth, and felt that she would indeed be glad to cling to One who had the right and power to utter such tender, reassuring words as Hemstead had quoted.

      Of all spells, that of truth is the strongest. Under it the impulsive girl buried her face in her hands and, with a quick sob, cried, "O that I were better!"

      Then, springing up, she gave Hemstead a strange, earnest look through her tears, as if she would read his soul. But she saw only honest sympathy.

      He was about to speak again, but she abruptly left the room.