“You need not suppose, my loved one, that I will be forever preaching to you. That is not my calling. Have I given you offence by anything I have said? I mean by all I have said only that there is a time for all things--a time to dance and a time to give religion a prominent place in our thoughts.” “O, no; I’m not offended, but you make me feel gloomy. It is bad enough to hear these things about death at church, where we expect it. I didn’t know that we had to make religion a topic of private conversation.” “No, we are not forced to do so; but I thought it a suitable time to talk about it now when the subject is occupying the attention of the whole community.” “I candidly confess I don’t like to talk about such things,” said Clara with a serious air. “I have always had a sort of horror of religion. In my mind it is associated with death and other disagreeable things.” “But these disagreeable things,” said Ernest, “as you call them, are stubborn realities which we cannot avoid. Sooner or later, we must face them, whether we like or not. Would we not, then, better regulate our lives so that these very gloomy things shall become sources of pleasure?” “O, I suppose so,” said Clara dryly, “if death could ever be a pleasant subject of conversation.” “Not long since,” replied Ernest with the deepest solemnity, “I entertained the very same views which you do. I would not think about death when I could possibly banish it from my mind, and I contemplated it for an instant as some horrible monster which I must face after a while. I regarded it with as much dread as ever the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson did. But now,” and as he spoke an expression of deep joy flashed over his features, “I do not dread the event as such an awful calamity. I even love to think about it.” “What! do you want to die?” cried Clara. “No: I did not say that,” calmly replied Ernest.