"Well, I won't," said Belle, more seriously; "I know you are right, even as a matter of good taste. But tell us, Calista, do you really mean to be a Christian, like Mary and Clarissa Whitman?" "I don't know that I shall be like anybody," replied Calista, "but I do really mean to be a Christian if I can." "Well, for my part, I'd wait and see if I was going to persevere, if I were you, before I spoke out so plainly," said Charity. "But I don't call any girl in this school a consistent Christian, for my part. There's Clary Whitman—just look at her playing battledore and shuttlecock with Emma Ross." "Well, where is the harm? I don't know anything in the Bible against playing battledore and shuttlecock, do you? I am sure Clary Whitman is a good girl, if there ever was one," said Belle, warmly; for she was one of those happy spirits that delight in the goodness of other people. "Come, Calista, will you have a game, or do you think it is wicked?" "Not a bit," said Calista; "but I can't play now, Belle. I must find Mary; I have something to tell her." Calista found Mary Settson sitting pensively in the school-room, and sat down by her. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Surely you don't mind Belle's words. You know she means no harm." "I don't know how you can say that, when she laughs at religion as she does." "Oh, she was not laughing at religion exactly, she was laughing at us. Besides, when I told her I did not think it was right, she stopped directly. But I want to tell you ever so many things, Mary—so many, I don't know where to begin. But, first of all, Mary, I have found him, as my verse said. I have found Jesus of Nazareth." The little snake of jealousy and ill-humor which had been hissing in Mary's heart for a few minutes was silent and dived into his den. She kissed Calista. "Tell me how it was," said she. "It began with mother's Bible, and some letters I found in her desk—for you must know that, thanks to Miss Druett, I have all mother's things. I made up my mind that I must and would be a Christian, and then I found a letter—such a letter!—from Aunt Priscilla to mother. "That upset me again, for I knew I must forgive, or my own sins would never be forgiven; and I felt sure I never could. But Sunday evening Mr. Alger preached in the old red meeting-house, and I went to hear him. His text was,— "'Behold the Lamb of God!' "Oh, Mary, I can't tell it all, but he made me see him in the garden and on the cross, and all for me. All the bitterness seemed to go out of my heart, and I felt I could forgive anything—even the cruelty to my poor, gentle mother. I said,— "'Lord, if thou wilt—' "And he did. I did not do it at all." "I am sure I am very thankful," said Mary; "I did not suppose Mr. Alger was a very eloquent preacher."