“struggling in the world’s dark strife,

man requires, ere parting thence,

pardon for the holiest life,

for the purest—penitence.

helpless all—a power above

saving strength alone can give,

sinners all,—a god of love

only bids the guilty live!

from polluted works we flee,

lord, to hide ourselves in thee!”

it was a sunny afternoon in april. in a rustic arbour at the end of the garden, garlanded with honeysuckle and clematis, through the interstices of whose bright, young leaves came the smiling sunshine, and the soft breath of spring, sat ida and mabel aumerle. this arbour was a favourite retreat of the girls; thither they carried their books and their work; and could the clustering shrubs around it have had a voice, much could they have told of sweet converse held together by the sisters, and that free interchange of thought which is one of the dearest privileges of friendship.

“ida, dearest,” said mabel, “shall i tell you what uncle augustine said of you to-day when you left[97] the room after prayers? he said, ‘ida is a noble girl, and has no fault except that of being too good.’ papa smiled and shook his head gently; mrs. aumerle gave her odious, little shrug!”

“uncle augustine does not know my heart,” said ida.

“but i know it if any one does, and i am sure that uncle himself cannot think more highly of you than i do.”

“you are partial,” replied her sister with a smile.

“i only wish that i were like you! i know i’m a proud, wayward girl, and shall never reach heaven unless i am better. i often make good resolutions, but somehow”—mabel looked down sadly as she spoke,—“somehow they break away like thread in the flame! i wonder if i shall ever be really holy.”

ida laid down the muslin which she was working, and drawing closer to her young sister, said in a gentle tone, “you speak, dearest, of being holy and reaching heaven; of making good resolutions and not being able to keep them,—as if the impression were on your mind that you have to form, as it were, a ladder of good works, by which to reach a certain difficult height, beyond which lie the regions of glory.”

“that’s just it,” said mabel sadly, “and i am discouraged because i always find that my ladder is too short; that climb as i may, i never can reach the height that you do.”

[98]

“i threw away my ladder long ago,” said ida clasping her hands; “i found that every round in it was broken!”

“o ida, what do you mean? i am certain that you have never ceased to do good works daily.”

“i would no more use them,” exclaimed ida, “as a means of reaching heaven, than i would hope, by aid of yonder fragile clematis, to climb to the bright sun or stars! no,” she continued, her lip trembling with emotion as she spoke, “i would put those works which you call good, to the only use for which they are fit; if the fire of love kindle the broken, imperfect fragments, i may humbly offer upon them a sacrifice of thanksgiving to him through whom alone i have hope of reaching the heavenly heights.”

“but, ida, i can hardly yet see how every round on the ladder of good works is broken. i am sure that some—at least of yours, must be very pleasing to god.”

“let us examine them closely,” replied ida, “let us fix upon what you consider the very best of our works, and let us see if it could, even for a moment, in itself support the weight of a soul.”

mabel considered for a little, and then said, “perhaps the best of our works is prayer.”

“we shall not need much examination, i fear, to find that our prayers are cold, wandering, insincere.”

“cold sometimes, yes,—but—”

“and sadly wandering,” added ida; “at least i[99] am sure that i feel mine to be so. o mabel! i have often reflected that if an angel could write down all the thoughts that flow through our minds while we kneel in the attitude of prayer,—the foolish fancies, the idle dreams, the vain selfish imaginations which mix with our earnest supplications, we should be so shocked and disgusted at such a mockery of devotion, that with penitence and shame we should implore that our prayers themselves should be forgiven!”

“yes; they are cold and wandering,—but i am sure that mine are not insincere.”

“i am afraid that we sometimes ask for blessings which we have no earnest desire to obtain. do we not sometimes pray to be delivered from pride and uncharitableness, when at the time we are fostering these enemies as welcome guests in our hearts? have we fully entered into the spirit of that prayer which we have so often uttered:—

‘the dearest idol i have known,

whate’er that idol be,

help me to tear it from thy throne,

and worship only thee?’

if we were quite certain that such prayers would be granted directly, would we not sometimes be afraid to breathe them, and is there then no insincerity in having them so frequently on our lips?”

“o ida!” exclaimed mabel, with a sigh; “you look a great deal too closely into the heart! if our very prayers be full of sin, what must our worldly actions be? the most disagreeable duty in the[100] world is this searching for hidden evil, this dreadful self-examination! i am sure that a great many good people never practise it, and are much happier for their ignorance of themselves.”

“what should we say, dear one, of a man of business who refused to look into his books, lest he should find the balance against him? of the owner of a dwelling who should be content to keep one room swept and cleansed, leaving all the rest, with locked doors and closed shutters, to darkness and pollution? what should we think of the governor of a castle, who should pace proudly along the battlements, careless whether a lurking foe had not penetrated to the heart of the fortress?”

“i should certainly think the two first fools, and the third a traitor to his trust,” replied mabel. “but, ida, this self-examination only makes us miserable! if i find every round in my ladder broken, and have my fierce enemy behind me, and before me the heights which i shall never be able to reach,—what can i do but sit down and despair?”

“you forget, you forget,” cried ida, with animation, “the bright golden cord which is let down to you from above. we cannot climb to heaven by our good works; but faith, living, loving faith, can grasp the means of salvation held out by a merciful saviour. the more helpless we feel ourselves, the more eagerly we cling to our only sure hope. mabel, this is the glory of the gospel. it humbles the[101] sinner, but exalts the saviour; it shows us that we can do nothing in ourselves, yet can do all things through him who loved and gave himself for us!”

mabel made no reply in words, but she drooped her head till it found its resting-place on a sister’s bosom. an arm was gently drawn around her, and ida imprinted a silent kiss on her brow. the demon pride stood gloomily aloof; he felt himself baffled for a time, and dared not intrude his presence on the sisters during the remainder of that peaceful day!