mere words of which spring readily to one's lips, and are thoughtlessly
spoken. But, in Mercy's times of conflict with herself, even these were
exaggerated in her view to monstrous deceits. She had again and again
held long conversations with Mr. Allen on this subject, but he failed to
help her. He was a good man, of average conscientiousness and average
perception: he literally could not see many of the points which Mercy's
keener analysis ferreted out, and sharpened into weapons for her own pain.
He thought her simply morbid.

"Now, child," he would say,--for, although he was only a few years Mercy's
senior, he had taught her like a child for three years,--"now, child,
leave off worrying yourself by these fancies. There is not the least
danger of your ever being any thing but truthful. Nature and grace are
both too strong in you. There is no lie in saying to a person who has come
to see you in your own house, 'I am glad to see you,' for you are glad;
and, if not, you can make yourself glad, when you think how much pleasure
you can give the person by talking with him. You are glad, always, to give
pleasure to any human being, are you not?"

"Yes," Mercy would reply unhesitatingly.

"Very well. To the person who comes to see you, you give pleasure:
therefore, you are glad to see him."

"But, Mr. Allen," would persist poor Mercy, "that is not what the person
thinks I mean. Very often some one comes to see me, who bores me so that I
can hardly keep awake. He would not be pleased if he knew that all my
cordial welcome really meant was,--'I'm glad to see you, because I'm a
benevolent person, and am willing to make my fellow-creatures happy at any
sacrifice, even at the frightful one of entertaining such a bore as you