Then, too, the question with which the reading closed: "Will _you_ now thus confess Christ?" How could she answer it? Was she in a fit state for so solemn an action, she, a butterfly flitting from one avocation to another, with no thought or aim beyond pleasing herself? She knew she was not. She had given up the child-habit of "saying her prayers," and she had never learned really to pray. Until she took that class she had not, for some years, voluntarily opened her Bible, and now she knew that all her energetic study of the technicalities of the Holy Word had in it no grain of desire to please or glorify God. Even her devotion to Sunday-school teaching, usually supposed to be Christian work, had in it no leaven of Christianity, being only self-pleasing from end to end. Etta was sufficiently clear-sighted to see all this. She knew that she never thought of God. His approval or disapproval was all one to her, and while she had never denied or openly scoffed at religion, and had no reason to doubt the truths of its facts and doctrines, she was, so far as anything practical went, not a Christian at all. What had she to "confess"? And yet, how strange it would seem if some of those to whom she stood in the position of teacher, who of necessity looked up to and imitated her, should become Christians and church members, when she had never taken the same stand. Stranger still, and worse, if they should be deterred from what seemed to them a duty by the example of their Sunday-school teacher. Etta had never been placed in such a dilemma before, and she heartily wished either that her sister had not invited her class, or that the class had not accepted the invitation, and that the girls would never come again, and yet she hardly liked to advise them not to do so. "I don't like that kind of a party at all," said Bertie Sanderson, when the group of younger girls were well out of hearing of the house. "She just got us there under false pretences, calling it fun and turning it into a sort of church. We get prayers enough, in all conscience, on Sundays." "I'd rather have Miss Etta talk to us about the patriarchs and the stories and all that," said Matilda Eckart, who was a good scholar, or would have been if she had not, by the necessities of her family, been forced to work in the mill. "I like to learn things; still I like Miss Eunice, too. She's real sweet, and maybe we ought to do as she says." "Nonsense!" said another girl, Helen Felting by name, "Miss Etta isn't a Christian, and she's her own sister and three or four years older than we are. I don't want to be any better than she is. My, ain't her dress lovely, all silk and velvet, and such an exquisite shade! fits so, too, just as if it was her skin!" "Did you see her ear-rings?" said another. "Real diamonds, all set round with pearls, and _such_ a chain and locket!"