“But your dear parents,” said Millicent, “what do they say? Surely they do not approve of such indulgences? Why, I heard Mrs. Barrington myself in the meeting, advocating the careful adherence to our great testimonies, as she called them.” “Dear, good mother!” said these gay young Quakeresses—“yes, she advocates paying all the tithes of mind and conscience, though those are the only tithes Friends will pay, and we advocate seeing a little pleasure whilst we are young. We don’t interfere with her advocacy, and only wish her not to interfere with our little snatches of amusement.” Millicent was all astonishment; but her young friends assured her that they were not peculiar in these habits—plenty of young Friends indulged in the same. “But,” said Millicent, “are you not very much stared at in such public places in your Friend’s dress?” There was a general burst of merriment,—“Oh, dear, dear little Simplicity,” said they, “we should no doubt attract a tolerable share of attention if we did sport our Friends attire there: but dress does not grow fast to our bodies. We can suit the dress to the occasion. We have the warrant of an apostle, for ‘being all things to all men.’” Millicent was shocked. “No, don’t quote Scripture,” she said, “that is worse than all.” “Forgive me,” said the one who used the expression, “it was wrong; but, dear Millicent, we do not wish thee to do anything which thou thinkst is wrong. We, however, see no wrong in an occasional indulgence in a good moral play or opera, with excellent music. We believe them all capable of strengthening what is good in us.” Millicent shook her head. “But I want to know,” she continued, “what your parents say—do they willingly permit you to go to such places?” “We don’t ask them,” said the young ladies, “we don’t want to hurt their feelings; perhaps they know all about it, and don’t want to see too deeply, knowing that we would do nothing really wrong. But to leave them as unconcerned as possible, we generally go to tea at one of our brothers and drive thence.” “Dear! dear!” said Millicent, with a sigh, “I wonder what my dear mother would say to all this?” “Oh, she would not like it, of course,” said the ladies; “but then she has lived so much in the country, and in the strictest habits of Friendism, that she cannot do otherwise; and yet all these things may be, and we firmly believe are, very innocent.” Edmund, their brother, treated Millicent’s scruples still more lightly. “Why,” he said, “my dear young friend, you don’t pin your faith, surely, on all the old fogies stickle about. We must rub a little of this country rust off you. You don’t think we are such very wicked people, do you?”—he forgot his thee and thou in speaking of such things. “But never mind, don’t trouble your little head about these matters; all things come naturally.”