Nearly Lost but Dearly Won | Page 4

ah! Dear me!"
"Oh! Child, don't yawn!" says her mother; "you'll make me more fatigued than I am, and I'm quite sinking now. Jane, do just pour me out another glass of sherry. Thank you, I can sip a little as I want it. Take some yourself, my dear, it'll do you good."
"And me too, mamma," cries Alice, stretching out her hand.
"Really, Alice, you're too young; you mustn't be getting into wanting wine so early in the day, it'll spoil your digestion."
"Oh! Nonsense, mamma! Everybody takes it now; it'll do me good, you'll see. Mark often gives me wine; he's a dear good brother is Mark."
Mrs Rothwell sighs, and takes a sip of sherry: she is beginning to brighten up.
"What in the world did your father mean by asking old Mr Tankardew to the party to-night?" she exclaims, turning to her elder daughters.
"Mean! Mamma--you may well ask that: the old scarecrow! They say he looks like a bag of dust and rags."
"Mark says," cries her sister, "that he's just the image of a stuffed Guy Fawkes, which the boys used to carry about London on a chair."
"Well, my dears, we must make the best of matters, we can't help it now."
"Oh! I daresay it'll be capital fun," exclaims Alice; "I shall like to see Mark doing the polite to `Old Tanky,' as he calls him."
"Come, Miss Pert, you must mind your behaviour," says Florence; "remember, Mr Tankardew is a gentleman and an old man."
"Indeed, Miss Gravity, but I'm not going to learn manners of you; mamma pays Miss Craven to teach me that, so good-bye;" and the child, with a mocking courtesy towards her sister, runs out of the room laughing.
And now let us look into the breakfast-room of "The Shrubbery," as Mrs Franklin's house is called.
Mary and her mother are sitting together, the former adding some little adornments to her evening dress, and the latter knitting.
"Don't you like Mark Rothwell, mamma?"
"No, my child."
"Oh! Mamma! What a cruelly direct answer!"
"Shouldn't I speak the direct truth, Mary?"
"Oh! Yes, certainly the truth, only you might have softened it off a little, because I think you must like some things in him."
"Yes, he is cheerful and good-tempered."
"And obliging, mamma?"
"I'm not so sure of that, Mary; self-indulgent people are commonly selfish people, and selfish people are seldom obliging: a really obliging person is one who will cross his own inclination to gratify yours, without having any selfish end in view."
"And you don't think Mark would do this, mamma?"
"I almost think not. I like to see a person obliging from principle, and not merely from impulse: not merely when his being obliging is only another form of self-gratification."
"But why should not Mark Rothwell be obliging on principle?"
"Well, Mary, you know my views. I can trust a person as truly obliging who acts on Christian principle, who follows the rule, `Look not everyone on his own things, but everyone also on the things of others,' because he loves Christ. I am afraid poor Mark has never learned to love Christ."
Mary sighs, and her mother looks anxiously at her.
"My dearest child," she says, earnestly, "I don't want you to get too intimate with the young Rothwells. I am sure they are not such companions as your own heart would approve of."
"Why, no, mamma, I can't say I admire the way in which they have been brought up."
"Admire it! Oh! Mary, this is one of the crying sins of the day. I mean the utter selfishness and self-indulgence in which so many young people are educated; they must eat, they must drink, they must talk just like their elders; they acknowledge no betters, they spurn all authority; the holy rule, `Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right,' is quite out of date with too many of them now."
"I fear it is so, mamma. I don't like the girls much at `The Firs,' but I cannot help liking Mark; I mean," she added, colouring, "as a light- hearted, generous, pleasant boy." A silence of a few moments, and then she looks up and says, timidly and lovingly, "If you think it better, dearest mamma, I won't go to the party to-night."
"No, Mary, I would not advise that; I shall be with you, and I should like you to see and judge for yourself. I have every confidence in you. I do believe that you love your Saviour, and loving Him, I feel sure that you will not knowingly enter into any very intimate acquaintance with any one who has not the same hope; without which hope, my precious child, there may be much amiability and attractiveness, but can be no solid and abiding happiness or peace."
Mary's reply is a child's earnest embrace and a whispered assurance of unchanging love to her mother, and trust in her