“I do not think,” said Ernest, “that religion will convert me into a long-faced monk. On the contrary, I expect to be more cheerful and happy than I could be otherwise. You are the one to look solemn and gloomy.” “You expect,” said Clara, not appearing to notice the last remark, “you expect to give up dancing, as most church people do.” “Certainly. I cannot do violence to my conscience by indulging in an amusement which I regard as of doubtful propriety, to say the least of it.” “Where is the harm in dancing? Church people condemn it, but I never could see any sin in it--not the least.” “But there would be sin in it to me with my present views,” said Ernest. “You used to like it as well as I did.” “Yes, that is true; but the time has come when I must and will renounce it.” “You expect me to give it up, too?” “That is a matter to be determined by your own conscience. I shall not interfere.” “There is the theatre--you will give that up too?” “I feel that I must do that, too.” “Then,” said Clara with a slight frown, “what congeniality of taste and pursuits is there between us?” “Why, my loved one,” said Ernest with a smile, “fortunately theatres and dances occupy but a small portion of our time.” “Who will escort me when I want to go?” Ernest loved his affianced with such an intensity that he dreaded to get into an unpleasant controversy that might culminate fatally to his hopes. If he were too puritanical and inflexible, he thought, she might sever all the ties between them--an event which made him shudder to contemplate; so he replied: “All congeniality of taste between us need not be destroyed because you may fancy some amusements which I do not. It could scarcely be expected that two human beings should think exactly alike. With regard to your dancing, I leave it to your conscience and to time which usually destroys our relish for most of the sports and enjoyments of youth. I have strong hopes that you will sooner or later perceive the necessity of leaving the paths of moral ruin and renouncing the pleasures of sin for the more solid and substantial pleasures of religion.” Clara said nothing, but sat still gazing into the forest which spread out in the distance--gazing with that vacant air which indicates the absence of attention to any object upon which her eyes might be fixed. Ernest could form no idea as to the character of her thoughts from the expression of her fair countenance, and he began to fear that he had said too much, and thought that perhaps he would better endeavor to remove every difficulty that might prove an obstacle to their union. He did not want to leave any grounds for one of those unfortunate misunderstandings between lovers which so frequently grow out of nothing. He therefore said with an air of cheerfulness and tenderness;