The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1893-06-10

everyone everyone believed in him, more
or less. | believed in him less bat
Meg-she had never been talked to in
that way before. He filled her brimiul OF
aspirations to lead higher life. He lent
her Robertson's Sermons, and made her
sing hymns to him in the twilight. 1t
was all very well-only Meg's ardor was a
little chilled when she realized that he did
the same to other girls. She believed In
him nevertheless indeed, worshipped him,
in a singularly generous way, He was a
saint, hardly man at ALL If he ever
married, it must be some angelic being,
certainly no girl in Nunthorpe-not even
Celia Doone, who was pretty and pious,
but had spice of placid worldliness about
her that Meg's keen eyes detected
All the same, she did not like to meet
Celia Doone so often carrying punches of
grapes to old women out of her fathers
greenhouse. For Doone was really rich
man, not only rich for Nunthorpe, and
Celia could take round grapes and hot
house flowers to her hearts content.
Among them they were quite superceding
Mrs. Pryde. With a curate like Marcus
Weston it is not long before all the girls
gravitate to sick-visiting. Meg did not.
The others did it so much better, and she
had no money to buy grapes.
"And I'm not good enough said she.
Cecilia reads to them psalms and hymns
and spiritual songs, and l can't. l was
good whole day together after the SER
mon one Sunday night, but was all the
worse the next day. It's three years since
was confirmed, and | thought | was al
ways going to do right. 1t was the lowell
est old bishop, and I'd white India mus
lin, and the tears came rolling down my
cheeks all the while it lasted. never
cried so much in my life. And then, if
you'll believe me, as soon as | got home
and it was tea-time, the tears all dried up
somehow. | was just as hungry as hun
ter.
'I think it's this hard, wicked heart of
mine," she went on rehectiyely, after a
pause. at won't break, or melt, or any
thing. When l kneel down to pray it
starts me thinking about everything else
in the world Father says my natures
updiseiplined. | know Tn 'madder than
the raving man and deafer than the sea. "
Meg had way of mixing up hymns
and verses of Scripture with her conversa-
ton, often quite unconsciously. She said,
and | believed her, that it was with going
to church twice every Sunday since she
was six years old. l do not think that
she ever meant to be irreverent, but fire.
qnently one could not help laughing. |
laughed now, and so did she, though the
tears had slowly gathered in her eyes at
the sense of her own shortcomings.
.Fancy calling the sea deafI' she ex-
claimed presently in quite different tone.
''He hears everything. Come out on the
rocks, Jack, there's good boy You've
studied enough for one day. Throw away
that old Greek grammar hate it y
obeyed her gladly enough, for my love
of the shore was nearly as strong as her
own. Not quite, may bel never knew
any one who loved the sea quite so well as
Meg. She did not in the least mind get
ting wet. She liked to sit on the edge of
a rock and feel the spray splash over her.
To be sure, poor child, she very seldom
had on "anything that would spoil.
Il wish | was good, though" she said
wistfully when we reached the shore.
She had taken up her position on favor
itc rock, and was dipping her slim brown
fingers into pool of salt water.
'Why ?" asked. Il don't"
''That's because you're not good your
SELF" said Meg promptly. "You're only
clever-at least, you are good, but you re
not good she explained lucidly. "You
don't like going to church. You wouldn't
wish to be always there, like the hymn
saya. | think of you when it comes to
che pride of intellect and @, foolish Ga
latians + But | should like to be good !
and being rectcrs daughter makes it
worse than ever. | wish-I wish l was
good. ! think-people would think more
of me-
"You mean Mr.. Weston would" sug-
gested 'But he wouldn't like you better,
Meg"
She flushed. Meg flushed so rarely
that it meant good deal with her. Her
complexion was not her strong point. She
was pale, rather sallow; but when she met,
or spoke of, Mr.. Weston, | used to see y
lovely carmine come into her cheeks--a
color that nothing else ever called up
there.
"Mr. Weston is nothing to me-that is,
| am nothing to him" said Meg seriously
q The chrism is on his head; on mine the
dew
sim not so sure about that" | said
rather snappishly, drawing my own con-
clusions from the fact that Meg had been
studying the Portuguese sonuets. 81
don't altogether believe in your Mr..
Weston, Meg-that is
But l had said too much already. Meg
rose with her eyes flashing.
aYou needn't think that because | am
not good have no faith in goodness, she