think it, child; it is not so. This, on the contrary, is the fact,-
-unpleasant you may think it; pleasant, it seems to ME,--that you,
with all your pretty dresses, and dainty looks, and kindly thoughts,
and saintly aspirations, are not one whit more thought of or loved
by the great Maker and Master than any poor little red, black, or
blue savage, running wild in the pestilent woods, or naked on the
hot sands of the earth: and that, of the two, you probably know
less about God than she does; the only difference being that she
thinks little of Him that is right, and you much that is wrong.

That, then, is the first thing to make sure of;--that you are not
yet perfectly well informed on the most abstruse of all possible
subjects, and that if you care to behave with modesty or propriety,
you had better be silent about it.

The second thing which you may make sure of is, that however good
you may be, you have faults; that however dull you may be, you can
find out what some of them are; and that however slight they may be,
you had better make some--not too painful, but patient--effort to
get quit of them. And so far as you have confidence in me at all,
trust me for this, that how many soever you may find or fancy your
faults to be, there are only two that are of real consequence,--
Idleness and Cruelty. Perhaps you may be proud. Well, we can get
much good out of pride, if only it be not religious. Perhaps you
may be vain; it is highly probable; and very pleasant for the people
who like to praise you. Perhaps you are a little envious: that is
really very shocking; but then--so is everybody else. Perhaps,
also, you are a little malicious, which I am truly concerned to
hear, but should probably only the more, if I knew you, enjoy your
conversation. But whatever else you may be, you must not be