DURING the days which preceded that social gathering, Ruth found her mind often busy with the wonders of the verse which had been quoted at prayer-meeting. She recognized it as from the chapter which she had read in the morning, and she re-read it, filled with a new sense of its meaning. She sought after and earnestly desired to realize peace with God. How wonderful would it be to be able to say, “And not only so, but we glory in tribulation!” Poor Ruth believed that she understood the meaning of that word, “tribulation.” Would it be possible for her ever to “glory” in it? As she read those verses and thought about them, she seemed to hear again the peculiar ring of triumph that there was in Susan’s voice, as she repeated the words, “She feels it.” Ruth said to herself, “I believe she knows more about these things than I do; I wonder how she came to get the thought in the first place? I read the verse and didn’t take it in. Perhaps she has taken in other things, about which I know nothing, and which would help me?”

Thinking these thoughts, dwelling on them, they culminated in a sudden resolution, which led her to tap at the door of Susan’s room. She was cordially invited to enter. Susan was engaged in dusting the row of books, in dull and somewhat shabby binding, that ornamented the pretty table under the gaslight.

“Have a seat,” she said; “I can’t think how the dust gets at my books so often; I put them in order this morning. They are my good old friends, and I like to take special care of them, but they are fading.”

She fingered the bindings with loving hands, and Ruth, curious to see what they were, drew near enough to read some of the titles, “Cruden’s Concordance,” “A Bible Text-Book,” “Barnes Notes on the Gospels,” and “Bushnell’s Moral Uses of Dark Things.” The others were old and, some of them, obsolete school text-books.

“I haven’t many,” Susan said, in a tender tone, “but they are very useful. They have been my best friends for so long that I think I should be a real mourner over the loss of one of them.”

The new dark-green dress lay on the bed, and some soft, rare laces, a gift to Susan that day from her father, lay beside it. Ruth glanced that way, “Have you tried on the dress since it was finished?”

“No, I thought it would be time enough in the morning, and I had a little reading that I was anxious to do this evening.”

“What are you reading? something that you like?”

“Yes, very much,” Susan said, with a rare smile lighting her pale face; “I only began it the other night. I didn’t know it was so rich. It is the first chapter of Colossians, but I only read to the fifth verse.”

Ruth looked her amazement. “Why, you must have been interrupted very constantly.”

Susan shook her head. “No, on the contrary, I spent very nearly an hour over those four verses; the longer I studied on them the more remarkable they became, and I found myself held.”

“Is the meaning so very obscure?”

“Not at all; the meaning is there on the surface; the only thing is, there is so much, and it leads one’s thoughts in so many different ways. Do you remember the second verse?”

“I don’t remember it at all; very likely I never read it.”

“Well, the second verse is addressed, ‘To the saints and faithful brethren in Christ, which are at Colosse.’ That sentence arrested my thoughts completely. Suppose I had been living at Colosse in those days, could I have claimed that letter to the saints? I stopped over the word and wondered over it, and queried just what it meant, and it meant so much that I should really have gotten no farther than that sentence if I had not deliberately left it and gone on to the ‘Grace be unto you and peace.’ I found my heart craving peace: I think I was somewhat like the child who claims the reward, or reaches out after it, without waiting to be sure whether he has met the conditions.”

“But I don’t understand you very well. What about saints? they were holy men, were they not, set apart for special work at that special time? How could their experience touch yours?”

“I don’t think so. I think they were just men and women who loved the Lord Jesus Christ, and were called by his name, just as you and I are.”

“But we are not saints; at least I am not.”

“But you are called to be?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Don’t you? Think of that verse of Paul’s, ‘Unto the Church of God, which is at Corinth, to them that are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints.’ Now, you know we are sanctified in Christ Jesus, so are we not called to be saints?”

“I don’t know what ‘sanctified’ means very well; and, besides, I can’t help thinking that the letter was written to the Church at Corinth. I don’t live in Corinth; how do I know that the address fits me? If I should find a letter addressed to the people who live on Twenty-third Street, wouldn’t I be likely to say, ‘Well, I have nothing to do with that; I live on Fifth Avenue?’”

“Ah! but suppose the very next sentence read, ‘And to all that love the Lord Jesus Christ,’ wouldn’t you claim the letter?”

“Yes,” said Ruth, with a flash of joy in her face, “I think I could.”

“Well, don’t you know the next words are, ‘With all that in every place call upon the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, both theirs and ours.’”

“I never thought of it,” said Ruth. Then, after a little, “Did you find out what a saint was?”

“Why I found some characteristics of them, and tried to see if they answered my description. Have you ever looked the matter up?”

“No,” said Ruth, “I did not so much as know that I was expected to be a saint; tell me what you found.”

“Why,” said Susan, drawing her chair and opening her Bible, “see here, I found a promise, ‘He will keep the feet of his saints.’ It made me all the more eager to learn as to my claim. Was I his saint? would he keep me? In that same verse there is a contrast, ‘He will keep the feet of his saints, and the wicked shall be silent in darkness.’ Now, if there are only two classes of people, saints and the wicked, which am I? In God’s sight who are the wicked? I looked for a description of them and found this statement: ‘The Lord preserveth all them that love him, but all the wicked will he destroy.’ Now, I know I love the Lord, and I know that he will not destroy me, for I have in my heart the assurance of his promise. If that is so, I must be one of his saints. Then I found the promise, ‘He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.’ Keep who? And looking back a little I found, ‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.’ But he promises to keep only those who are his saints. Then I found the promise, ‘He maketh intercession for the saints.’ Now, I said, if there is no one interceding between a just God and me, what will become of me? But I found the inspired statement of St. Paul, ‘Wherefore he is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.’ That puts me at once among those for whom he intercedes, and his special work in heaven is to make intercession for the saints. By this time I was ready to claim the name, and you may know I was anxious to find what it meant. I went to the dictionary; the first definition I found was, ‘A person sanctified.’ That startled me. Could it be that I was sanctified? Why, I feel so sinful, and so weak, and so small! Well, I said, What does ‘sanctified’ mean? and I found that it was defined as set apart to a holy or religious use. It recalled to my mind the statement of Paul. ‘But ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus.’ A great deal ought to be expected of us, after that.”

Ruth drew a long sigh. “I don’t know anything about it, I believe,” she said, sadly; “I never read the Bible in that way. Half the time it doesn’t seem to have anything in it really for me.”

“Don’t you think that some of our trouble is in being content with simply reading, not studying the Bible? I thought the other night that if I had spent an hour on geometry, and then begun to understand it somewhat, I should feel as though I were repaid. But sometimes I read a Bible verse over two or three times, and then, because its meaning is obscure, I feel half discouraged. I was speaking of it to—to father last evening, and he said he thought the trouble was largely in that direction.” Susan had not yet gotten so that she could speak the unfamiliar name without hesitation. As for Ruth, her brow clouded; it did not seem to her that she could ever share that name with anyone. But she was interested—and deeply so—in the train of thought which had been started.

“What next?” she asked, curious to see whither Susan’s thoughts had led her. “You said you read no farther than the fourth verse. What stopped you there? I don’t see much in it;” and she leaned forward and re-read the verse from Susan’s open Bible.

“Oh, why don’t you? ‘Since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus, and of the love which ye have to all the saints.’ That verse stopped me longer than any other, especially the sentence: ‘Since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus’—it is such a common form of expression. I thought of it last evening while listening to the talk in the parlor. ‘I heard that the Wheelers were going abroad,’ some one said; and another, ‘I heard that Dr. Thomas was soon to bring a wife home.’ Two of the young ladies talked in low tones, and nearly all I could catch was the expression: ‘I heard he was,’ or ‘she was,’ or ‘they were.’ It was evident that a great deal had been heard about a great many people. I said over the verse: ‘We heard of your faith in Christ Jesus.’ Who hears of such things? How many people have such marked and abiding faith in Christ Jesus, that when we talk of them we say, ‘I heard that Miss So and So had the most implicit faith in the power of Christ to keep her.’ Now wouldn’t that be a strange thing to say?”

“I should think it would,” said Ruth, amazed at this train of thought. “After all, I suppose many people have the faith; only it is not the custom in society to talk about such things.”

“I don’t,” answered Susan, positively. “Of course many people have it in a degree; but not to such an extent that it arouses interest, and excites remark. I think it is the custom in society to talk about that which interests people—which has been suggested to their minds by passing events. I have heard that it is a very common thing in localities where Mr. Moody has been holding meetings, to discuss his remarkable faith and love. Don’t you suppose, if my Christian life were so marked a force that all who came in contact with me, felt its influence, it would be natural to speak of it, when my friends chanced to mention my name?”

“I suppose so,” Ruth said, slowly. “At least I don’t see why it should not be; and, indeed, it is very common for people to talk about the change in Flossy Shipley.”

Susan’s voice was very earnest. “I wish I could bear such testimony as that. I believe it would be right to be ambitious in that direction; to live so that when people spoke of me at all, the most marked thing they could say about me would be, not, how I dressed, or appeared, or talked, but how strong my faith in the Lord Jesus was, and how it colored all my words and acts. Wouldn’t that be a grand ambition?”

“And of the love which ye have to all the saints,” Ruth repeated, half aloud, half to herself; her eye had caught the words again. Suddenly she started, and the blood flowed in ready waves into her cheeks. She had caught a new and personal meaning to the words—“love to all the saints.” Suppose this usurper of home and name, who sat near her—this objectionable sister—suppose she were one of the saints!—and I verily believe she is, Ruth said to her beating heart—then, would it be possible so to live, that people would ever say, “She loves that sister of hers, because she recognizes in her one of the Lord’s own saints?” Nothing looked less probable than this! She could not bring her heart to feel that she could ever love her. A sort of kindly interest, she might grow to feel, an endurance that would become passive, and, in a sense, tolerable, but could she ever help paling, or flushing, when she heard this new voice say “father,” and realized that she had a right to the name, even as she herself had? She had been the only Miss Erskine so long; and she had been so proud of the old aristocratic name, and she had felt so deeply the blot upon its honor, that it seemed to her she could never come to look with anything like love upon one connected with the bitterness. Yet, it did flash over her, with a strange new sense of power, that Susan Erskine held nearer relation to her than even these human ties. If she was indeed a daughter of the Most High, if the Lord Jesus Christ was her Elder Brother, then was this girl her sister, a daughter of royal blood, and perhaps—she almost believed it—holding high position up there, where souls are looked at, instead of bodies.

A dozen times, during the evening which followed this conversation, did the words of this Bible verse, and the thoughts connected there with, flash over Ruth. It was the evening of the social gathering. Now, that Susan had called her attention to it, she was astonished over the number of times that those words: “I heard,” were on people’s lips. They had heard of contemplated journeys, and changes in business, and changes in name, and reverses, and good fortunes, and contemplated arrangements for amusement, or entertainment, or instruction; everything they had heard about their friends or their acquaintances. Yet, no one said, during the whole evening—so far as she knew—that they had heard anything very marked about the religious life of anyone. In fact, religious life was one of the things that was not talked of at all; so Ruth thought. If she had stood near Judge Burnham and her sister, at one time, she would have heard him saying:

“He is a man of mark in town; one prominent on every good occasion; noted for his philanthropy and generosity, and is one of the few men whom everybody seems to trust, without ever having their confidence jarred. I have heard it said, that his word would be taken in any business transaction as quickly as his bond would be.”

“Is he a Christian man?” Susan had asked; and a half-amused, half-puzzled look had shadowed Judge Burnham’s face, as he answered: “As to that, I really don’t know. I have never heard that he made any professions in that direction, though it is possible that he may be connected with some church. Why, Miss Erskine, do you think it impossible for a man to be honest and honorable and philanthropic, unless he has made some profession of it in a church?”

Then Susan had looked at the questioner steadily and thoughtfully a moment before she answered: “I was not thinking of possible morality; I was simply wondering whether the man who was building so fair and strong a house had looked to it, that it was founded upon a rock, or whether he really were so strangely improvident as to build upon the sand. You know I think, that, ‘other foundation can no man lay than that which is laid, Jesus Christ being the chief corner-stone.’”

So there was some religious conversation at the Erskines’ party, and it sent Judge Burnham home thinking. And now, though the fruits of that evening’s gathering will go on growing and ripening and being gathered in, from human lives, so far as we personally are concerned, we are done with that party.