THE TEA-PARTY.

At exactly six o’clock some twenty young girls of various ages assembled at “the great house,” as Mr. Mountjoy’s grand mansion was called in the village. They could not come earlier, as most of them worked in the mill, which they could not leave till five or half-past five; consequently they all arrived at about the same time. They were received with perfect politeness by the servant, who opened the door and ushered them, as she would have done any other visitors, into the spare-room, prettily furnished in blue and white satin, with white lace hangings and silver ornaments. Here they laid aside their hats, and taking their little work-baskets, descended to the great drawing-room, whose splendors considerably surprised the younger girls; the older ones were used to it. At the door Miss Eunice with Etta, the latter arrayed in a wonderful costume, met and received their guests, and after lingering for a while among the paintings, engravings, nicknacks, etc., led them to an inner room, the windows of which overlooked the garden in summer, and a door from which opened into a greenhouse, now full of blooming flowers.

This was the family sitting-room, generally the abode of Miss Eunice, for Etta was too much of a butterfly to stay anywhere, and Rhoda, the middle sister, now about twenty, was an artist, entirely devoted to painting, spending her days and a great part of her nights in her studio, and caring nothing for any of the interests connected with our story. It was luxuriously furnished, more with a view to comfort than to show, and as the girls sank into the easy sofas or into the deep stuffed chairs, or else made themselves comfortable upon low seats and divans, the contrast with their own bare homes and hardworking life was enough to call forth many a sigh of rest and enjoyment. Work was then produced, the usual inquiries after parents and sisters, invalids and home-keepers asked and answered, with a little other familiar conversation, when Miss Eunice said: “I think, girls, as we have finished the book upon which we have been so long engaged, we will not commence another to-day, but devote our thoughts to a subject about which I have been thinking a great deal, and which your pastor agrees with me in thinking of very great importance to be brought before you. I mean a public confession of Christ as your Saviour and Master.”

Some of the girls looked grave, some blushed, some were confused. Katie Robertson glanced up expectantly, for this was an opportunity she had long been on the lookout for, and longed to hear more about it. One of the elder girls said:

“But, Miss Eunice, nobody ought to join the church who is not converted.”

“That is very true, but is it not equally true that all who are converted ought to join the church, as you express it, or, as I prefer to say, confess their Saviour? It is only a mean soul which is willing to accept gifts and favors and never openly acknowledge its gratitude for them. I wouldn’t care for the friendship of any one who was ashamed to own me before other people; and I wouldn’t think much of a soldier who did not show his colors and put on the uniform of his country.”

Katie felt her face flush; for was she not one of these very secret friends one of the soldiers who had not as yet put on the uniform? Not that she had really been ashamed to do so, but the subject had not been very prominently brought to her notice, and when she had thought of it at all it had seemed such a strange, awful, public step for so young a girl to take. She felt so unworthy; it seemed a thing for old people to do, not for little girls. But Miss Eunice had thrown a new light upon the subject, and it looked differently from what it had ever looked before.

“But if we are not Christians, Miss Eunice, you wouldn’t like us to act a lie.”

“God forbid, Mary; did you ever think that you ought to be a Christian? ought to be in that state which will make it possible for you to obey the simple command of Christ to confess him before men?”

“A command, Miss Eunice?”

“Yes, a command accompanied by both a promise and a threat. ’Whosoever shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven, but whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven.’”

“But still,” persisted the first speaker, “if one isn’t converted.”

“And what is to prevent one’s being converted. Don’t you think God is willing to give you grace sufficient to enable you to do and be all that he commands you? The greatest mistake young people can make is to suppose that they must wait, and not take the first step toward a religious life till something mysterious comes to them and lifts them into it almost against their own will.”

“Not against our own wills; I am sure everybody wants to be saved.”

“Yes, dear, against their own will, for if any one wills to be a Christian, she can be one at once. I must insist upon it, because it is our Saviour’s own teachings. He says: ’Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life’; and so I am sure that if any one does not have life, spiritual life, it is because she will not come unto him.”

“I’d like to come,” said one girl, timidly, “but I don’t see exactly how.”

“I dare say most of you would. Mr. Morven and I have been talking it over. He feels that the time for a spiritual harvest among our people, especially among our carefully taught Sunday scholars, has about come, and he thinks that, with a little more definite help and teaching, many of you would be glad to come to Jesus, and be enrolled as his followers now, instead of waiting for that indefinite sometime which may never come. I have a book here which, in words so simple that the youngest girl here can understand, explains how we may come to Christ by repentance and faith in his sacrifice upon the cross, etc. It is pleasantly written and illustrated with anecdotes. I think you will all like it, and I propose to read a little of it aloud every Wednesday afternoon for the next month, and at the close of the reading we will have a little familiar conversation on this, the most important of all topics. As most of the girls in my sister’s class are of quite sufficient age to understand what it means to be a Christian and honestly to consider their own duty in this respect, I shall be very happy to see them also, and any others of their friends, either in the Sunday-school or from outside. Girls, this is a very important subject, and I trust you will think of it conscientiously and decide upon your own individual duty as in the sight of God. If you fail to make a right use of this season, another similar opportunity may never be given you. Let us commence by asking God’s blessing upon our reading and thinking, and the presence of that Holy Spirit without whose aid we can never come to any decision that will be pleasing to him.”

Miss Eunice then knelt down while all the girls knelt around her, and prayed in low tones that the influences of the Holy Spirit might be poured out upon all present; that they might have wisdom to see their duty at this solemn moment and grace to do it; that they might not be self-deceived, but really surrender their hearts into the hands of their Saviour, and, putting their whole trust in him, be willing to confess him before men, that he might confess them before the angels and his Father.

Some serious talk followed, and then tea was announced, after which the conversation became general, and at nine o’clock the girls and their brothers and friends, who had come for them, went home quietly, and for the most part wrapped in serious thought.

Etta Mountjoy had never felt so strangely in her life. She had always known that some people were professing Christians; nay, she had, during her visits to the city, and even at home, seen people, even young girls, come forward and take upon themselves the vows of Christ. Perhaps it may have occurred to her that “sometime” she should do so, but to be deliberately called upon to consider her own immediate duty in the matter had not happened to her before. Once or twice, indeed, when she was much younger, “Sister Eunice” or “Brother James” had attempted to speak to her upon the subject, but she always turned away from it in such a flippant way that both felt she was in no proper frame for the consideration of so solemn a theme, and of late they had foreborne to mention it. It was with a view, perhaps, of interesting her sister quite as much as her sister’s scholars that Eunice had invited them upon the present occasion, knowing that the young girl’s lively interest in her class would induce her to be present if its members were, and to her great joy and thankfulness she was not disappointed. Etta had never heard her sister pray before, though the Wednesday afternoon meetings were often thus opened, and it seemed to her something almost awful to hear the language which she had always associated with a grave minister and a solemn church service spoken reverently, it is true, but quite familiarly, by her sister.

Then, too, the question with which the reading closed: “Will you now thus confess Christ?” How could she answer it? Was she in a fit state for so solemn an action, she, a butterfly flitting from one avocation to another, with no thought or aim beyond pleasing herself? She knew she was not. She had given up the child-habit of “saying her prayers,” and she had never learned really to pray. Until she took that class she had not, for some years, voluntarily opened her Bible, and now she knew that all her energetic study of the technicalities of the Holy Word had in it no grain of desire to please or glorify God. Even her devotion to Sunday-school teaching, usually supposed to be Christian work, had in it no leaven of Christianity, being only self-pleasing from end to end. Etta was sufficiently clear-sighted to see all this. She knew that she never thought of God. His approval or disapproval was all one to her, and while she had never denied or openly scoffed at religion, and had no reason to doubt the truths of its facts and doctrines, she was, so far as anything practical went, not a Christian at all. What had she to “confess”? And yet, how strange it would seem if some of those to whom she stood in the position of teacher, who of necessity looked up to and imitated her, should become Christians and church members, when she had never taken the same stand. Stranger still, and worse, if they should be deterred from what seemed to them a duty by the example of their Sunday-school teacher. Etta had never been placed in such a dilemma before, and she heartily wished either that her sister had not invited her class, or that the class had not accepted the invitation, and that the girls would never come again, and yet she hardly liked to advise them not to do so.

“I don’t like that kind of a party at all,” said Bertie Sanderson, when the group of younger girls were well out of hearing of the house. “She just got us there under false pretences, calling it fun and turning it into a sort of church. We get prayers enough, in all conscience, on Sundays.”

“I’d rather have Miss Etta talk to us about the patriarchs and the stories and all that,” said Matilda Eckart, who was a good scholar, or would have been if she had not, by the necessities of her family, been forced to work in the mill. “I like to learn things; still I like Miss Eunice, too. She’s real sweet, and maybe we ought to do as she says.”

“Nonsense!” said another girl, Helen Felting by name, “Miss Etta isn’t a Christian, and she’s her own sister and three or four years older than we are. I don’t want to be any better than she is. My, ain’t her dress lovely, all silk and velvet, and such an exquisite shade! fits so, too, just as if it was her skin!”

“Did you see her ear-rings?” said another. “Real diamonds, all set round with pearls, and such a chain and locket!”

“I don’t care,” said Bertie; meaning, of course, that she did care very much. “We girls haven’t got so much money and we can’t have real things. I like my chain and locket just as well (which she didn’t, for she was quite keen enough to understand the difference), but I won’t go there again till I get my silk dress made;” and she glanced disgustedly at the light-blue cashmere which, as it was her best dress, she chose to wear on all occasions, and which looked already much the worse for its week in the rag-room at the mill.

Katie Robertson did not speak at all, except to answer the questions of Eric, who had come for her, as to whether she had had a pleasant time decidedly in the affirmative. She was thinking very deeply. We have seen that our Katie was a faithful, conscientious little girl, loving God sincerely, trusting in her Saviour, and striving to please him and grow like him. She loved to study the Bible, which she knew was his word, and to pray to him in her own simple language every night and morning; nay, often at other times when she felt the need of his help, or had something she wanted to tell him about. She had not asked herself any hard questions yet about whether she were a Christian or not. She knew she was her mother’s Katie because she loved her mother and wanted to please her, and she knew she was God’s child because she loved him and wanted to please him. She often did things, and said things, and thought things that she knew were displeasing to both, but she did not want to do so. She was always very sorry, she always asked to be forgiven and believed she was, for did not her mother say so each time, and had not her heavenly Father promised so once for all in the Bible?

But this afternoon the thought had really come to her that she ought publicly to confess herself a Christian; and yet she shrank from it, she hardly knew why. She was afraid she might afterward do something which would disgrace such a holy profession; and yet, if her Saviour commanded it, as he certainly did, that made it a duty, and, of course, she ought to obey, trusting him to help her keep all the promises as he had promised to do. He would like it, too, so much; it would be easier afterward to resist temptation and to “stand up for Jesus” among her companions.

Katie’s thoughts were very busy ones, and by the time she came in sight of her home she had decided that, if her mother and the pastor had no objection, she would give in her name among those who were, at the first opportunity, to confess Christ.

The Wednesday afternoon meetings were continued throughout the spring and early summer, and were attended by all the members of Miss Eunice’s class, nearly all those of her sister’s, and five or six other girls who accepted the kind invitation of the former. There was always the same hospitality, always the same warm welcome, and always the same grave but happy earnestness on the part of the young lady on whom God had laid this great work. As the warm days came on, the meetings were adjourned to the velvety, close-shaven lawn, where chairs and rustic seats were clustered under the shade of a great, wide-spreading tree, and the sweet, holy themes of reading and conversation seemed all the sweeter that they were henceforth associated with blue sky, bright flowers, white clouds, green leaves, and the other things made by the God who was even now calling these young hearts into his service.

Miss Eunice went through with a pretty thorough course of reading upon sin, repentance, faith in Christ, renunciation of all evil, walking obediently in God’s holy will and commandments, which is another name for holy living, and as she prayed constantly for God’s blessing upon her efforts, she had great cause for thankfulness in the hope that many of these young souls thus brought, for the first time, face to face with their personal responsibility toward God, and his loving provision for their salvation, really chose the “better part,” which no man can take away from us, “passed from death unto life,” and in publicly confessing Christ made no false profession.