“We have a good deal to do with one another. I see more of her than of any one but yourself; she is one of my nearest relations; and yet I have never tried in any way to help her on in the right path.”
“I do not believe that she is in it,” replied Charles. “She is constantly trying to play us off against each other; nothing would delight her so much as to make us quarrel, all to gratify her selfish vanity.”
“If she is not in the right path, in which must she be? Where will she find herself if she remains as she is?”
“We cannot help her wanderings; they are no fault of ours.”
“Oh, Charles, we must not act in the spirit of those words, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ We who meet her so often _must_ have some influence for evil or good; and think of the rapture of meeting in heaven with one whom we had been the means of helping to reach it!”
“I can hardly fancy any delight greater,” said Charles; “but I do not know anything that we could do for Clemmy. It is foolish in me, but when I look at her, and watch her affected manner, and hear her trifling talk, I never can realize to myself that she has a soul at all.”
“Yet she has one just as precious as our own.”
“I know that, but I cannot feel it; she seems just like a pretty plaything, made to be dressed up, admired—or laughed at.”
“Would that she could be raised to something nobler, something better!”
“I do not believe that we can raise her. She only thinks me provoking, and you tiresome. She never would listen to Mr. Ewart, and I do believe only goes to church to show off the fashions. I do not see what we could do for her.”
“We can pray, dear Charles, we can pray earnestly; if we have not done so before, we have neglected a duty.”
“My neglect has been greater than yours,” said his brother, “since we have been together for so many years. I have thought it enough if I were not led to folly by her society; I never dreamed that I had any other responsibility about her.”
“Now I feel that I have been wrong. I remember, Ernest, that Faithful roused some to become pilgrims even in Vanity Fair; Hopeful himself was one of them. Perhaps poor Clemmy—”
“Here she comes; I hear the rustle of her silk down the stairs.”
“Have not the pearls been sent yet? Oh, dear, how vexatious!” exclaimed the young lady on entering the room, most elegantly dressed. She seated herself in an affected attitude on the sofa, with a very melancholy expression on her face, as she played with her feather-tipped fan.