variety in our lives--or, to speak more correctly, in the life
of my sister.

Our new and nice friends, the Staveleys, have written to invite
Eunice to pay them a visit at their house in London. I don't
complain at being left at home. It would be unfilial, indeed,
if we both of us forsook our father; and last year it was
my turn to receive the first invitation, and to enjoy the change
of scene. The Staveleys are excellent people--strictly pious
members of the Methodist Connection--and exceedingly kind to
my sister and me. But it was just as well for my moral welfare
that I ended my visit to our friends when I did. With my fondness
for music, I felt the temptation of the Evil One trying me, when
I saw placards in the street announcing that the Italian Opera
was open. I had no wish to be a witness of the shameful and
sinful dancing which goes on (I am told) at the opera; but
I did feel my principles shaken when I thought of the wonderful
singers and the entrancing music. And this, when I knew what
an atmosphere of wickedness people breathe who enter a theater!
I reflect with horror on what _might_ have happened if I had
remained a little longer in London.

Helping Eunice to pack up, I put her journal into the box.

"You will find something to write about now," I told her. "While
I record everything that happens at home, you will keep your
diary of all that you do in London, and when you come back we
will show each other what we have written." My sister is a dear
creature. "I don't feel sure of being able to do it," she
answered; "but I promise to try." Good Eunice!