Sometimes upon a Summer Sunday, when you are wakeful upon your seat in
church, with some strong-worded preacher who says things that half
fright you it occurs to you to consider how much goodness you are made
of; and whether there be enough of it after all to carry you safely away
from the clutch of Evil? And straightway you reckon up those friendships
where your heart lies; you know you are a true and honest friend to
Frank; and you love your mother, and your father; as for Nelly, Heaven
knows, you could not contrive a way to love her better than you do.
You dare not take much credit to yourself for the love of little
Madge,--partly because you have sometimes caught yourself trying--not to
love her; and partly because the black-eyed Jenny comes in the way. Yet
you can find no command in the Catechism to love one girl to the
exclusion of all other girls. It is somewhat doubtful if you ever do
find it. But as for loving some half-dozen you could name, whose images
drift through your thought, in dirty, salmon-colored frocks, and
slovenly shoes, it is quite impossible; and suddenly this thought,
coupled with a lingering remembrance of the pea-green pantaloons,
utterly breaks down your hopes.
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