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The Neglected One
by
“Oh! certainly!” he replied. And he whiled an hour quickly away. Ann was then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was a little haughtiness mingled with her usual grace.
“Don’t you sing, Miss Christine?” asked Darcet, leaving the piano, and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively to Ann.
“I do sometimes,” answered Christine, smiling, “but Ann sings far better.”
“Let others judge of that. Isn’t that fair?”
“We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but I think we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in some things, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others.”
“Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if we were inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in many respects. There is no true humility in that; we depart from the truth.”
“Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, would make us many enemies. But we might better have them, than to contradict the truth; what do you think?” Christine looked up with an earnest seriousness.
“Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, let the consequences be what they may,” said Darcet, in a tone that sounded almost stern; then more gently he added, “Before all things I prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there. With all, this upright candour must in a measure be acquired. Yet, I think frankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour. We shrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives.”
“And when these motives are forced upon our notice, we endeavour to palliate and excuse them. I am sure it is so,” exclaimed Christine earnestly, for her own young heart’s history came up before her, and she remembered that she had excused herself for acting and feeling wrong, on the plea that others had not done right, by her. “But”–she continued after a pause, “you cannot think it is well always to express the sentiments which circumstances may give rise to. Such a course might prevent us from doing a great deal of good.”
“Certainly it might. The end in view should be regarded. Good sense, and a pure heart, will show us the best way in most cases.”
There is a power deep and silent, exerted by good persons; the folded blossoms of the heart slowly open in their presence, and are refreshed. A new impulse, a pure aspiration for a higher life, a yearning after the perfecting of our nature, may be sown as a seed in hearts that are young in the work of self-conquest. Thus it was with Christine. The influence of Darcet strengthened all that was good within her; and as they remained long engaged in deep and earnest conversation, the elevation and purity of his sentiments gave clearness and strength to ideas that had been obscure to her before, because unexpressed. Her peculiar situation had made her far more thoughtful than many of her years. She thought she had lost the gay buoyancy of her childhood, but she was mistaken. She was one to profit by lessons that pressed down the bounding lightness of her spirit; she was yet to learn that she could grow young in glad feelings, as years rolled over her head. There was a subdued joy in her heart, that was new to her, and gave a sweetness to her manner, as she poured forth the guileless thoughts that first rose to her lips. It seemed strange to meet with the ardent sympathy which Darcet manifested by every look of his intelligent face; she could scarcely realize that it was herself, that anybody really felt interested in the thoughts and imaginings that had clustered around her solitary hours. At parting, he said with warm interest, as he slightly pressed her hand, “I hope, Miss Christine, we may have many conversations on the subjects we have touched upon to-night.”