Woman As She Should Be | Page 2

lips of
the most eloquent divine, in a gorgeous edifice crowded with the
=elite= of the city, and where the solemn notes of the full-toned organ
ought, perhaps, to have filled the soul with sacred and heavenly
thoughts. Those words, so thrillingly pronounced, shall I ever forget
them? 'To whom much is given, of him shall much be required.' They

seem still to ring in my ears, for I, alas, am among those who have
received much, yet rendered back nothing."
The speaker paused, overcome with emotion, but the countenance of
the listener grew radiant with delight,--not that delight which arises
from the realization of some worldly hope, but, rather, a heavenly joy,
which lent to the pale and pensive face a beauty not of this world; it
beamed in the sunken, yet soft blue eye, and flushed the hollow cheek;
it was the joy of a saint, nay, it was the joy of an angel, at the return of
the stray sheep to its Father's fold. But it soon found expression in
words.
"I cannot tell you how happy you make me, in speaking thus, dear
Agnes," said she, affectionately clasping her hand. "Since you first
came here, I have been thinking so much about you, and praying, too,
that you, so rich in all that makes woman lovely and beloved, might
possess that grace, which will but add lustre to every other endowment,
qualifying you for extensive usefulness here, and glorious happiness
hereafter."
"But you know not, my kind friend, what mental struggles I have
passed through this afternoon, nor how conflicting feelings are yet
agitating my soul. I hear the voice of duty, but it calls me to tread a
rugged path. Could I always remain with you, secluded from the gay
world, far removed from its temptations and allurements, then, indeed,
would I gladly make my choice, and say, 'This people shall be my
people, and their God my God;' but in a few days I must depart, and,
again, in the haunts of the busy city, and surrounded by the gayeties of
fashionable life, I fear I shall feel no more those sweet and sacred
influences, which have been as the breath of heaven to my soul."
"'My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest!' Is not that a
sufficiently encouraging promise, dear Agnes? Had you nought but
your own strength to rely on, you might well fear; but forget not Him
who has declared, 'If any lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth
to all liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given.'"

CHAPTER II.
Agnes Wiltshire was an orphan. Her father had died during her infancy,
her mother during her childhood; but a happy home had been thrown
open to her, by a kind uncle and aunt, who gladly adopted her as their
own, and lavished on her every tenderness. Mr. and Mrs. Denham were
generous and warm-hearted people; their dwelling was elegant and
commodious; the society in which they mingled, as far as wealth and
fashion is concerned, unexceptionable. What more was wanting? Alas,
they were thoroughly worldly; their standard was the fashionable world;
their maxims were derived from the same source; and while regularly
attending the stated ordinances of the church, and esteeming
themselves very devout,--for were not their lives strictly moral?--they,
in reality, knew as little of heart religion, as the dwellers in a heathen
land.
Such was the character of the people among whom Agnes Wiltshire
had attained the age of eighteen; and, surrounded by such influences,
what wonder, that she, too, partook of the same spirit, and was content
to sail down the sunny stream of life, without one thought of its
responsibilities, without one glance at the future that awaited her. Long
might she have continued thus, still pursuing the phantom of pleasure,
seeking ever for happiness, but never seeking aright, had she not been
suddenly startled, in the midst of worldly pursuits, by the unexpected
death of a gay and favorite companion, who, surrounded by all of
earthly happiness, was torn from her embrace. In the agony of delirium,
Agnes had beheld her, gliding, unconsciously, down the dark valley
and the shadow of death, and she trembled, when she felt how totally
unprepared she was to meet the King of Terrors, and yet how soon she
might be called to do so. In the midst of the gay dance, at the festive
board, where mirth ruled the hour, and honeyed flatteries were poured
into her ear, she was still haunted by that pallid, agonized countenance,
and by the voice, whose heart-rending accents she still seemed to hear,
as distinctly as when it cried, in imploring tones, "Save me, oh save me,
from the deep, dark waters. They surround me on every