"Forgive me, dear, dear sister! my heart shall be your home--we will
love each other always; I will never again be as I have been. Don't
weep so, Christine, can't you believe me? I am selfish, I am
heartless sometimes, but a change has come over me to-night; to
_you_ I can never be heartless again!"
At that moment, few would have recognised the haughty Miss Lambert
in the tearful girl, whose head drooped on Christine's shoulder,
while her white hand was clasped and held in meek affection to her
lips. If we could read the private history of many an apparently
cold, heartless being, we would be more charitable in our opinions
of others. We would see that there are times when the better
feelings, which God has given as a pure inheritance, are touched. We
would see the inner life from Him, flowing down from its home in the
hidden recesses of the soul, breaking and scattering the clouds of
evil, which had impeded its descent--we would see the hard heart
melted, though perhaps briefly, beneath angel influences. We would
see that all alike are the beloved creations of the Almighty's hand,
and we would weep over ourselves, as well as others, to feel how
seldom we yield to the voice that would ever lead us aright.
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