Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing | Page 3

the crowd is so sad a feeling." At that
moment the door of her room opened, and Alice came laughing in, her
glowing face all bright and careless.
"Oh! Aunt Mary," she exclaimed, "do help me! I cannot unclasp my

necklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of my fingers.
There! you have unfastened it already. Well! I believe I never will be
good for anything!" And Alice laughed as heartily, as if the idea was
charming. "When did you leave the parlours, Aunt Mary? I never
missed you at all. Father said you left early, when I met him just now
on the stairs."
"I did leave early," replied Miss Clinton. "I chanced to feel like being
entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment."
"Have you been reading, aunt? I should think you would feel lonely!"
"I read very little," was the reply, in a sad tone. No remark was made
on her loneliness.
"It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of being
alone. I like company so much," said Alice, looking in her quiet face.
"But I must go," she added; she paused a moment, then pressed an
affectionate kiss upon her aunt's cheek, and whispered a soft "good
night." Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew her to her
heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice. Twice she kissed her, then
hastily released her as if her feeling had gone forth before she was
aware of it. Alice stood still before her a moment, and her careless eyes
took a deeply searching expression as they dwelt upon the countenance
before her. Something like sadness passed over her face, and her voice
was deeper in its tone, as she repeated, "Good night, dear Aunt Mary!"
With a slow step she left the apartment, mentally contrasting her own
position with that of her aunt. Circumstances around her and the society
with which she mingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play
only the brighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of our
being. She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuine
meditation on the world within--or the great world without. The earth
was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoy herself. Like
many selfish people, Alice's mother made an idol of her beautiful child,
because she was a part of herself; and Mrs. Clinton was not one to
perform a mother's duty faithfully in instilling right views of life into
her daughter's mind. Thus, with a depth of feeling, and rich gifts of
mind, Alice fluttered on her way like a light-winged butterfly, her
soul's pure wells of tender thought unknown to her. How many millions
pass through a whole long life, with the deepest and holiest secrets of
their being still unlocked by their heedless hands! How few see aught

to live for, but the outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle
sunshine, compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in
the spirit! How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, when
smiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled
upon, when turned away from his face!
With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest. "I
can love others, if I am not beloved," she murmured, and the dove of
peace fluttered its white wing over her. Her resigned prayer was, "Lord,
into thy hands I commit my spirit." Tears of earnest humility had
washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovely being.
How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face, in her
pure dreams!
A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt's apartment one drizzling,
damp, foggy, uncomfortable day. "Such miserable weather!" she
exclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; "I believe I have got
the blues for once in my life. I don't know what to do with myself; it
makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of the window, and nothing
in the house wears a cheerful aspect. Mother has a headache; when I
proposed reading to her, she very politely asked me if I would not let
her remain alone. She says I always want to sing, read, or talk
incessantly if she wishes to be quiet. I can't ding on the piano, for it is
heard from attic to basement. I don't want to read alone, for I have such
a desire to be sociable--now, Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my
troubles, can't you relieve me, for I am really miserable, if I don't look
so!" Alice broke into a laugh, although it did not bubble right up from
her merry heart as usual.
"If your attention was fully engaged, you would