do nothing."

Edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning
with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the
influence of the calm lovely summer's sky, and within the sound of
Emilie's clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to Edith
to love and to be loving. She could love Fred, she could even bear a
rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from
John, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we
all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this
attack of Fred's about the book, was _not_ to be borne, not by Edith, at
least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself
the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that Emilie did not
come to comfort her; "but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman,
with her scalt foot, I dare say," said Edith, "and she would only tell
me I was wrong if she were here--oh dear! oh dear me!" and here she
sobbed again.

Solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; Emilie knew that,
and she did quite right to leave Edith alone. It was time she should
listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but
conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare Edith. It told her all
the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the
very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she
had a wrong _motive_; and that was, love of the approbation of her
fellow creatures, and not real love to God. She would have quarrelled
with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use
quarrelling with conscience. Conscience had it all its own way to-day,
and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that
by degrees Edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did?