"Exactly, and that just suits me, because I never had any merit!" said I. "As far as I understand Ur. Cheriton, all we have to do, is to accept of this undeserved mercy—to give up our hearts to Him, and then we are His. Then instead of our good works being payments of so much for so much—trafficking with Heaven, as St. Francis says—they are labors of love—work set by a loving Father to a dutiful child, instead of tasks imposed on a servant or slave by a hard master. Don't you know how Mother Prudentia used to say that love makes easy service?" But Amabel would not see, or could not. Her pride—one of the strongest traits in her character—was alarmed. She had always been very particular is all religious observances. Her natural gentleness and her pure taste had kept her from open transgression; and she could not bring herself to own that she was as much a lost sinner as any poor fellow-creature on whom all men looked down. All that week she was clearly very unhappy; but she would not say a word on the subject, either to me or to Mr. Cheriton, who called to see us more than once. I was glad to observe however, that she diligently studied her Bible and prayer-book. One evening, I observed that when I was ready for bed, she had made no preparation for the same, but was reading on. "Don't you mean to go to bed, Amabel?" I asked. "Not just yet!" said she. "Please don't mind me, Lucy, I must sit up awhile." She kissed me, and I saw she longed to be alone, so I went to bed. Waking up after awhile I saw her kneeling by the table, her head bowed almost to the ground. I did not speak, or show by any movement that I was watching her. She continued in this attitude a long time; indeed, till I went to sleep again. When I rose in the morning, she was sitting by the window still reading in the Testament. "Lucy, I have given it all up!" said she, the old still light in her beautiful eyes, which showed she was happy once more. "Given up what, dear!" I asked. "All the struggle!" said she. "I have seen myself just as I am, and if I had not seen some one else at the same time, I should have given up in utter despair. Oh! What a fool, what a fool I have been. Lucy, I have thought myself a saint, and now when I look back on my life, I can see not one thing to boast of. It has been all self—self—throughout—self-righteousness, self-pleasing, self-exaltation. But I have given all up. I am only too thankful to be received as the poor creature I am. I am contented to leave myself here and hereafter in God's hands; and such a sweet peace has come over me as I cannot describe. Do you think it can be a delusion? Or does it really come from above." "It comes from above like everything good, I ant sure!" I answered, overjoyed. "Why should you doubt it? Have we not the promise that such peace shall keep our hearts and minds, if we will only let it. But Amabel, Mr. Wesley is coming again on Sunday. You can consult him if you like."