Philip conducted the meeting, and the mother's heart was satisfied with seeing her son even in that humble pulpit. Forgetting himself, and making no special effort to be eloquent and fine, he extemporized a better sermon than he could have written, from the text, 'But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith.' Music, a kind of devotion itself, was not wanting to complete the beauty of their simple worship; and when the sun went down on that Sabbath evening, each felt that he had never truly worshipped before; so cold, tame, and meaningless did the almost compelled services of the churches seem to them, when compared with this spontaneous, social outpouring of the heart. As the sun was declining, John Stewart and Clara had separated from the others in their walk, and stood beside the lake. They were discussing the sermon of Philip: 'And then how beautifully he portrayed the effects of true religion on the life,' said Clara, in reply to some remark of his. 'He has so much feeling that he makes others feel. He does not say such remarkable things, but all he does utter you are sure comes from the bottom of his heart.' 'And do people always produce such effects when they speak from their hearts?' asked John. 'I believe so,' answered Clara; and then there was a long silence, and they sat down on a fallen trunk by the side of the lake, looking at the budding trees reflected in the clear water. Religion and love are close companions. When the heart is touched by devotion, when we have made our peace with Heaven, and formed resolutions to lead purer and better lives, all the finer parts of our nature are roused into action, and we are prepared to love, to assist, and sympathize with our fellow creatures. A bad man cannot love; he may feel passion, but not love. John Stewart, with a rough exterior, had a sensitive heart. He had long in secret worshipped the fair Clara, but the sense of his own deficiencies had hitherto kept him silent. His connection with Rufus Gilbert had drawn him often to her mother's house, where he was considered an odd sort of young man; for as we have before remarked, he would sit for hours watching the movements of the younger sister, who regarded him almost like a brother. 'You know, Clara,' at length began John, 'that we are all under a solemn agreement with Mr. Gilbert to have no secret plan, to make no bargain of any kind, and to conceal no grief, while members of the family, but to be perfectly open and trusting in all our dealings with each other.' 'Yes, John; and have you broken the agreement?' 'No, but I am like to, unless you help me out of a difficulty.' 'Oh, any thing, John; you know I would do any thing in my power for you.' 'But if it is not in your power now, will you try to help me?' 'Certainly.' 'Then you must try to love me; you must be my wife, Clara.'