Margaret was not like her sister in the matter of romance and abstraction from every-day scenes and pursuits, though she loved to regard Susan as something wonderful, and show off her literary productions. Margaret's foible, on the contrary, was too great a love for the present world. Unfortunately, she had fixed her heart upon what is too evanescent for the love of an immortal. Youth, beauty, and the graces of fashion were the shadows at whose shrine she worshiped, though the substance was gone. Thus precious time was spent in seeking to repair its own breaches, and she saw not that they widened day by day--saw not how the cunning device by which she sought to hide the footprint of years, only left that foot-print more visible. God had given both Margaret and Susan better food for the immortal mind, but they, like many others, chose to feed upon the wind. No wonder that they were ever unsatisfied. The plain people of that region, who boasted of nothing superior to _common_ sense, regarded the Sliver girls as curiosities. Some called them _soft_, and thought there was a lack of head wisdom; many laughed about them; but no one, save Fanny Brighton, laughed _at_ them. Their parents were highly esteemed; and it may be a matter of wonder how they came to be what they were. The cast of human character is usually taken in childhood--an important fact to those charged with so responsible a trust; and it was during Margaret and Susan's childhood, that a vain and sentimental lady sojourned for two summers at their father's house. The unsuspecting farmer and his wife never thought of examining the stock of books with which she loaded the old case in the "fore-room." Having no time for reading except Sundays, uncle Enoch never expected to get through "Barclay's Apology," without neglecting his Bible, and this he had no intention of doing. It was not, therefore, to be expected, that he would spend time to read even the titles of Mrs. Coolbroth's books. But Margaret and Susan, bright, sensible children then, were beginning to feel the thirst often felt in childhood--the restless craving of the spirit for something new: no wonder, then, that they seized the fruit so "pleasant to the eye," and as it seemed to them "desirable to make one wise." Thus the poor girls were lured from the plain homely path, which, plain and homely as it is, always proves at last the way of pleasantness and the path of peace. They knew that people called them odd, and in this they gloried. Fanny Brighton they regarded as a rude girl, who, though she vexed them, never put them out of humor with themselves. But now, strange as it may appear, the quiet Christian words and manner of Emma Lindsay had done this, and they could not tell why. Those words and that manner, so courteous and kind, were not calculated to wound, yet they felt wounded. Emma had not done it--it was the _truth_ dwelling in her heart, and showing itself in its most appropriate dress, which is