“Ah, I see you don’t—women seldom do!” said Uncle Billy, wiping his forehead. “Thus, then, were man without free will—without the power of working out his own salvation, or the privilege of sending himself to perdition, if he desired it—he would no longer be a moral agent, and, were he never so sinless, he would be at the best only a sinless puppet, an automaton, and God’s creation would be a dumb show. And, on the other hand, were human free will left without restraint of the Lord’s overruling government, why, man would rush into all sorts of extravagances, become a maniac, and convert God’s order into chaos again. But, both these evil extremes being avoided, the Scylla of inert, passive obedience is left upon the right, and the Charybdis of unbridled license on the left, and all goes on well and harmoniously. And now I hope you understand how it is that in ‘binding nature fast in fate,’ God still left free the human will.” “No, I do not; it seems to me that we are free agents, or we are _not_ free agents—one or the other.” “We’re both, I assure you—both. Truth generally lies between extremes. I have known that all my life, and acted upon it. We _are_ free agents, and we are _not_—that is to say, we are free agents within a certain limit, and no further. And observe, my dear Mrs. Vivian, and my dear girls! _within that limit we have still room enough to save or to lose our souls!_” This speech was concluded with so much solemnity of manner, that it imposed a silence on the little circle, that might have lasted much longer than it did, had Mr. Bolling been disposed to repose on his laurels. He was not. “Now, are you satisfied, madam?” he inquired of Mrs. Vivian. The little lady shook her jetty ringlets, and slowly picked her marabout fan to pieces. “I think mamma wishes to know why these things need be so,” said Rosalie. “My sweet Miss Vivian, little maidens should be seen, and not heard.” “Don’t tempt Mr. Bolling beyond his depth, Rosalie,” smiled the widow; and _not_ suiting the action to the word, she handed Uncle Billy an orange she had just peeled. The little gentleman received the attention with a deprecating, humble bow, and, to prevent inconvenient questioning, turned to Miss Sutherland, and inquired when she had heard from her cousin Mark, winking with what he supposed to be a killing leer. The beauty slightly raised her lip and arched her brows, but deigned no other answer. “Oh, she has not heard from Mr. Sutherland for three whole days, and his last letter was but twelve pages long. I am afraid he is fickle, like the rest. I should not wonder if he were now the humble servant of some northern blue ——. It is written, ‘put not your trust in’—pantaloons. Men are so uncertain,” said Valeria. “Men are so uncertain! What men? Uncertain in what respect?” “All men are uncertain, in all things!”