ust come from the heart. We
believe with the heart, we love from the heart, we obey with the heart;
not because we are obliged, but because we have a new nature."

"Is there no obligation to obey?" said Charles, surprised.

"No obligation to the regenerate," answered No. 3; "they are above
obligation; they are in a new state."

"But surely Christians are under a law," said Charles.

"Certainly not," said No. 2; "the law is done away in Christ."

"Take care," said No. 1; "that borders on Antinomianism."

"Not at all," said Freeborn; "an Antinomian actually holds that he may
break the law: a spiritual believer only holds that he is not bound to
keep it."

Now they got into a fresh discussion among themselves; and, as it seemed
as interminable as it was uninteresting, Reding took an opportunity to
wish his host a good night, and to slip away. He never had much leaning
towards the evangelical doctrine; and Freeborn and his friends, who knew
what they were holding a great deal better than the run of their party,
satisfied him that he had not much to gain by inquiring into that
doctrine farther. So they will vanish in consequence from our pages.

CHAPTER XVIII.

When Charles got to his room he saw a letter from home lying on his
table; and, to his alarm, it had a deep black edge. He tore it open.
Alas, it announced the sudden death of his dear father! He had been
ailing some weeks with the gout, which at length had attacked his
stomach, and carried him off in a few hours.

O my poor dear Charles, I sympathize with you keenly all that long
night, and in that indescribable waking in the morning, and that dreary
day of travel which followed it! By the afternoon you were at home. O
piercing change! it was but six or seven weeks before that you had
passed the same objects the reverse way, with what different feelings,
and oh, in what company, as you made for the railway omnibus! It was a
grief not to be put into words; and to meet mother, sisters--and the
Dead!...

The funeral is over by some days; Charles is to remain at home the
remainder of the term, and does not return to Oxford till towards the
end of January. The signs of grief have been put away; the house looks
cheerful as before; the fire as bright, the mirrors as clear, the
furniture as orderly; the pictures are the same, and the ornaments on
the mantelpiece stand as they have stood, and the French clock tells the
hour, as it has told it, for years p