CHAPTER III.

DURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled with uncomfortable and disappointed people.

Daisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle, but firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that evening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt Mattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood to be reached by argument.

The former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the tendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser than their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the latter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks!' to make to any form of argument.

Matters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.

Daisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into her subject without introduction:

"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't think it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I cannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to please you that I could."

But Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was sorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that she must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.

And to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his usual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want to take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no other answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing to give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.

Then they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil had been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had been noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:

"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion this evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter plans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday evening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place where I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure."

Then had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that it would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really like to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account, as he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for occupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.

It was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him, and she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for leaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think of such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared to go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always his companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking doubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse from those whose society he had imagined he could command.

With a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with tears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early evening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the bows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little details of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's shawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with them, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After that she cried, but not long.

Then she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of theatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book, and went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the thoughts of her heart, beginning, "Wherefore, come out from among them, and be ye separate;" and from that she went to her knees.

Her face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and she even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:

"Father, I know that all my life Is portioned out by thee; And the trials that will surely come, I do not fear to see. But I ask thee for a present mind, Intent on serving thee."

It proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He did not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until afternoon.

From the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in the parlor.

"There," said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach, "I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school, and try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and everything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep a soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for him, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was some special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil should be rescued from them; but it is too late now."

The tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal who had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only a sigh for answer. Presently she said:

"I shall stay at home, anyway, mamma, if Daisy will excuse me. My head aches, and I don't feel like talking nor thinking."

"Oh! Daisy will excuse us, I think. She is quite an independent little lady, I am sure, and able to go alone to Sabbath-school or elsewhere; aren't you, dear?"

"Yes 'm," said Daisy bravely, "I shall not mind going alone, if you are not able to go."

Then she went away in haste, lest the tears should fall. They had not cared to have her stay: She would willingly have done so, if that would have helped Phil; but she had lost her influence over him, and disappointed mother and sister, and she felt as she set her brown hat on her head, that she wanted to go home to her mother. She had done right; of that she felt sure. But doing right was very hard work sometimes, especially when one was away from one's mother.

Down-stairs she could hear Phil moving up and down the room, whistling snatches of tune. He had not gone out yet, it seemed. Perhaps if she hurried away, Blanche could coax him to stay and sing. She seized her Bagster Bible, and ran hastily down-stairs. The whistler came to the hall to meet her.

"What a ponderous book!" he said, in mock dismay. "Is it really necessary to carry such a great Bible as that?"

"I like it," she said simply.

"Like to carry it, I suppose. You ought to have it expressed; but that would not do for Sunday. I see that I shall have to go and carry it." He was donning his overcoat with speed, and possessed himself of the Bible before Daisy could recover from her surprise.

It was a long walk to the church, and the air was brisk and clear. The sun shone brilliantly, and Phil was at his brightest; every trace of ill humor seemed to have passed away. It was not until they neared the church, that he referred to the events of the day before.

"So, Daisy, you wouldn't go to a theatre with me, even to save my soul, which has seemed to trouble you so much?"

"Oh, Phil, I couldn't do wrong, you know, whatever the imaginary motive; and I had no hope at all that my doing a wrong thing would help you or any one in the least. I had to do as I did; I wish I could make you understand that."

"Was it hard work?"

"What? To stay at home, do you mean?"

"Yes; did you really want to go?"

"It was hard to refuse you, and disappoint Aunt Mattie and Blanche. Yes; I should have wanted to go, should have liked to go, if it had seemed right. But you know I couldn't want to do anything that it was made plain to me would dishonor Christ. I desire above all things to please him; and he made it very plain to me, Phil."

Now they were at the church door, and she reached for her Bible.

"You are not going to invite me in, I suppose? You are tired of that effort, and have given me up?"

"'You said you would not go," she answered, with a wistful smile. She believed he was mocking her eagerness, and meant nothing else.

"I know I did; but isn't a bad promise better broken than kept? You need not ask me again. There is no need. I am going to accept your former invitations. Take me into your class, and introduce me to Mr. Easton."

"Did he really go into the class?"

"Oh, Daisy, you darling, you don't mean it? And what did Mr. Easton say? He liked him, didn't he? I knew he would."

"Oh, Daisy, how did you get him to go? I thought it was all over."

These were some of the exclamations and queries of the delighted mother and sister, who had waited between alternate hope and fear, to see whether Phil would really return with his cousin, or had joined his Sunday friends elsewhere.

Before she could make other than the most general answers, he had come down-stairs again, and joined the group in the back parlor.

"He is here to answer for himself," she said, with a smile, as he leaned over his mother's chair.

"My dear boy," she said fondly, reaching up her hand to his, "you have made your mother very happy. Do tell me that you mean to go again."

"Yes 'm, I mean to go again. I have joined the class, and promised to be there regularly."

"Oh, Phil!" This from the mother, with tremulous lips.

"I knew Mr. Easton would fascinate you." This from Blanche, with a pleased little laugh.

Her brother turned to her.

"No, Blanche; I must be honest. I liked him, and shall like him, I think. But the decision of to-day was made before I saw him, and reaches farther than to the Bible Class. I have determined to serve God. I have gone on my knees, and asked him to make what he can of me.

"And the immediate reason for doing so is, because I have decided that there is such a thing as genuine religion which satisfies, so that the heart does not need the world in the shape of theatres or operas or dancing-parties, or any such thing; and that one who unreservedly gives herself to Him can resist all the lighter and safer forms of its fascinations, if she suspects evil lurking in them—can resist them steadily and gently, and remain calm under fire."

He paused for a moment, while the astonished group waited for what might come next. Then he bent lower over his mother.

"Mamma dear, I honor your intentions, but believe it is a mistake. No young man will ever be won to Christ by going with him to the theatre. He understands them too well. And while I never asked you or my sister to attend a place of amusement that was in itself objectionable, I knew in my soul that I insulted your religion by asking you at all. They all flourish under the rebel flag.

"Mamma, when our Daisy here refused to compromise one inch of the way, I knew that my tower of defence was broken, and that I must own that Christ had been sufficient for one soul, and could be for another."

By this time the tears were falling fast from his mother's eyes.

"My boy," she said, "it is what your father believed; but I have let the mother in my heart come between me and Christ. I was so anxious for you, that I thought I must yield even his honor to save you."

But Blanche, bewildered, and flushing red, declared this:

"I must say I don't see why a boy should coax a girl to do what he is ashamed to have her do; and be all changed around because she refuses to do it."

Yet there is many a boy who coaxes a girl to go where he wishes in his soul she may have Christian firmness enough to refuse.

OUR CHURCH CHOIR.

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