"O! I cannot; I love the world, and I want to live. It is a cruel thing to die so young. O, do send for other doctors, they may think of something to cure me. I will have change of air and scene; I will try everything." And in restless impatience, poor Ellen waited the arrival of her kind uncle, who came to take her to his house, that she might try the effect of her native air. Mrs. Saunders was a more rigid formalist than her husband, and carefully attended to all her "duties," under the conviction that her own righteousness and merit must secure her a future heaven. Of a present earnest of its blessedness she had no idea; of the Spirit of adoption she knew nothing; the mighty cost of redemption she had never calculated, and believed that her frigid rules, and unlovely notions of a godly and sober life, fully entitled her to glory in herself, and upbraid all who more manifestly failed in obedience to God's commands. Ellen had never troubled herself about her aunt's religion before: but she thought it especially disagreeable now, and missed the loving accents of true grace in the friends she had left. She did not understand the difference between her aunt's and Mrs. Davis's religion, but she felt its influence, and began to think that, if people must needs be religious, those who made the Lord Jesus their only hope and example were greatly preferable in temper, humility, self-denial, and Christian charity. After a short residence in this uncomfortable home, she entreated leave to return to Mrs. Davis; and her request was willingly seconded by Mrs. Saunders, who declared that a more discontented, unchristian invalid had never fallen to her charge. And so poor Ellen, weaker, and sadder, and more irritable than before, was welcomed again by the kind widow as a daughter, over whom her loving heart yearned with the longing of one who knows what a piteous object is an unsaved sinner in the day of trouble. She felt now that the suffering of the weak body was a small consideration compared with the impending destruction of the soul, and she spoke firmly and solemnly to the dying girl, and, kneeling by her side, spoke for her to Him who can prosper his word on its errand of mercy. A youthful heart, filled with vanity and worldliness, is a very stubborn thing: habitual disregard of God and neglect of his word are as fatal to such a one as to those whose bold iniquities proclaim their ruin to the world, and must end in the same condemnation. The "convenient season" anticipated by every one who defers acquaintance with God to some future time, is not often found in the season of sickness. It is painfully inconvenient, when conscience is terrified, the heart full of idols, the body languid through weakness, or tormented by pain, to be groping in confusion and darkness after an unknown and neglected God.