It is just possible that some thoughtless girl, whose education and character may resemble Clementina’s, may in some vacant hour of leisure turn over the leaves of my little book. Oh, that I had an angel’s voice, to rouse her to a sense of what she is and what she might be! to make her feel that she is not her own, but _bought with a price_, such a price as the world could not have paid;—that a soul which must exist for ever and ever—that a soul for which a God bled, agonized, and died—is a thing too noble, a thing too precious to be thrown away at Vanity Fair. CHAPTER XVI. NEW AND OLD COMPANIONS. The Sabbath came, God’s holy day, and the family attended a church which was at some little distance. Mr. and Mrs. Hope and their daughter, the ladies arrayed in all the splendour of fashion, went in state in the carriage, with two footmen in attendance, while the boys preferred walking over the fields with their tutor. Ernest, as he entered the church, drew the eyes of the whole congregation upon himself, which made him more uncomfortable than ever. “Am I not to escape even here from Vanity Fair?” thought he; “cannot even these walls shut out the world!” Straight in front of the seat which he occupied was a marble monument of singular beauty, which naturally attracted his attention. It represented the figure of a very lovely babe, sleeping amongst water-lilies, the attitude and countenance depicting the peaceful slumber of innocence. Below was an inscription, which the boy read with strange emotion:— IN MEMORY OF ERNEST, ELDEST SON OF THE FIRST LORD FONTONORE, WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY DROWNED BEFORE HE HAD COMPLETED THE FIRST YEAR OF HIS AGE. “’Tis thus the snow-flake from the skies, Touching the sod, dissolves and dies; Ere mists of earth can its whiteness stain, Raised by the sunbeams to heaven again. “Though parted now on life’s thorny way, ’Twere weak, ’twere cruel, to wish his stay; We must toil on through trials, griefs, alarms— He was borne to the goal in his Saviour’s arms.” After service was over, Clementina took a fancy—for she was always governed by fancies—to walk home with her cousins instead of driving with her parents. She therefore pursued the path across the fields with Ernest, whilst Charles and his tutor walked a little way behind. “I was so much diverted at church,” said the young lady, in the flippant manner which she mistook for wit, “I was so much diverted to see you looking so seriously at the inscription upon your own monument. It was so funny, I could hardly help bursting out laughing, only that would have been very improper, you know.” “The inscription made me feel anything but inclined to laugh,” observed Ernest. “Well, I would give the world,”—had the world belonged to Clementina, she would have given it away ten times a-day,—“I would give the world to know what you were thinking when you read those fine verses upon yourself.”