The summer slipped away, and to Pauline it was a continual dream of pleasure. She adhered strictly to her habit of rising with the sun, and not the least enjoyable part of the morning was the three hours spent in the solitude of her uncle’s luxurious library, while the day was new. Her active mind awoke from its enforced lethargy, and plumed itself for flight with a delightful sense of freedom. The dream of her life was coming true at last, and she was to have a chance to learn. She had learned all that the Sleepy Hollow school could teach her long ago. She would take up chemistry, of course, and biology, mathematics and physics, French and Latin, geology and botany, and—well, she would decide later upon the rest of her curriculum. Her father seemed to take it for granted she should stay in Boston, her uncle called her his own little daughter, and she was content. Her healthy nature enjoyed to the full the innumerable diversions and pleasures which Belle’s active brain was continually planning. Picnics and garden-parties, excursions to the beaches, where she was never tired of feasting her eyes on the glory of the waves; or a run into the city to hear some special attraction. Always brightness and fun and laughter, for Aunt Rutha’s hospitable house was a favourite resort with many of the Harvard students, and it was the glorious summer time, when all the world—their little world—was free to be gay. She, Pauline Harding, was like other girls at last!

Then she must learn to row and to ride, with Richard Everidge for her teacher. Belle taught her to swim, and Russell to play tennis, and Gwendolyn took her to some of the many meetings to which she devoted her life.

And then there was Tryphosa. She always made time for a visit there at least once every week. She was hungry to hear all she could about her mother. She began to understand how Richard Everidge, in the pride of his manly beauty, could find it in his heart to envy the woman who day and night kept close company with pain. Sometimes the shadows would lie purple under the brilliant eyes, and the thin fingers be tightly clenched in anguish, but the brave lips gave no sign. On such days Pauline could only sit beside her in mute sorrow, or sing softly some of the hymns she loved.

‘It is terrible to see you suffer so, my lady!’ she cried, one morning, when, in the fulness of her strength, she had gone from the laughing sunshine into the shadowed room, where every ray of light fell like a blow upon the invalid’s quivering nerves.

Tryphosa made answer with a smile.

‘Not one stroke too much, dear child. It is my Father’s hand upon the tribulum. He never makes mistakes.’

One day she slipped away directly after breakfast. She wanted to be sure of finding her alone.

It was one of the invalid’s good days, and she greeted her with a bright smile of welcome.

‘My lady,’ she began abruptly, ‘do you think I have forgotten all about my promise? I could not. It has haunted me through everything, and—I gave myself to the King last night.’

Tryphosa’s eyes glowed deep with pleasure.

‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed softly. Then she closed her eyes, and Pauline knew from her moving lips that she was talking with the Lord.

She touched Pauline gently.

‘I had to talk a little about the good news with Jesus. He is my nearest neighbour, you know. And now, dear child, tell me all about it. What a wonderfully simple thing it is! People talk so much about being a Christian, when, after all, it is simply to be Christ’s. We open the door where He has knocked so long, and let Him in. We give ourselves away to Jesus henceforth to live in Him, with Him, by Him, and for Him for ever. Dear child, when you were giving, did you include your will?’

‘My will?’ echoed Pauline, startled.

‘Why surely. The Christian is not to direct his Master.’

‘But how do you mean, my lady?’

Tryphosa began to sing softly:—

‘That is His message to me. Yours will be different, for no two of His children get the same training.’

‘I suppose now life will be all duty,’ said Pauline, with a sigh.

Tryphosa smiled.

‘That is not the way I read my Bible. Peter says we must “love the brethren,” and John, “This is Christ’s commandment, that we believe and love,” because “he who loveth knoweth God,” and Paul, “The love of Christ constraineth us.”’

‘Well, but I must do something, my lady.’

‘Don’t fall into that snare, little one. It is what we are, not what we do. The dear Christ wants us, not for what we do for Him, but what He does for us. Listen: “He that abideth in Me and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit, for without Me ye can do nothing.” “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” The first great thing for you now is to “get your meaning.”’

Pauline looked puzzled.

‘I do not understand, my lady.’

‘What are you going to stand for? How much better is the world to be for your having lived in it? The day is long past when people were satisfied with a Sunday religion. True Christianity means a daily consecration of purpose. Look at the men who have made their mark in the world—reformers, inventors, discoverers, all men of a single purpose; and Paul says, “This one thing I do.” Michael Angelo said, “Nothing makes the soul so pure, so religious, as the endeavour to create something perfect, for God is perfection, and whoever strives for it, strives for something that is God-like.” And remember, “perfect has no clipped edges, no dreary blanks.” Little one, I want you to strive to be a perfect Christian.’

Pauline fell on her knees beside the couch, and buried her face in the cushions.

‘I am not worthy,’ she murmured.

Tryphosa laid her hand very tenderly upon the bowed head, as she repeated in low, triumphant tones:—

‘“I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my soul shall be joyful in my God; for He hath clothed me with the garments of salvation, He hath covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decketh himself with ornaments, and as a bride adorneth herself with her jewels.” “This is the will of God, even your sanctification.” “That ye may be holy and without blame before Him in love.” “Be ye perfect as My Father in heaven is perfect.” According to the measure of our capacity, that is the idea, just as the tiny cup may be as full as the ocean. But for this we must lay all upon the altar. There must be no closed doors, no reserved corners in our hearts. We must give Christ the key to every room, so that He shall be, not merely a guest in the guest-chamber, but the owner of the house. Are you ready for that, dear child?’

And Pauline answered humbly:—

‘I want the very best God has to give me.’

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