The Dividing Line

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Apr 22, 1915

The Dividing Line

“I WONDER if this dress is clean enough to wear?” mused Edna, as she held up a rather mussed white dress. “I think I can wear it just once more; it doesn’t look so very bad.”

So she slipped it on. But when she went out among the other girls in their snowy, immaculate dresses, it looked very “bad” indeed, and the afternoon’s pleasure was completely destroyed because she had not recognized the dividing line between cleanliness and the other extreme.

“I guess I will take old Mrs. Tyner some flowers,” said Robert, going into his garden with the shears. “She is sick and would appreciate them, I think.”

“I am sure she would,” said his sister. “She is crazy about flowers, and she has always thought so much of you.”

But when Robert came to cut the beautiful roses, he could not bear to clip off the buds. “These others are not so fresh,” he said to himself, “but I guess they will do. I am sure they will be nice for a day or so, anyway.” He wrapped the roses and carried them to the house of the invalid. As he was ascending the steps, something made him glance into the package. The journey had jolted the overblown flowers until within remained nothing but a mass of loose petals and naked stems. With burning cheeks and a feeling of thankful relief that he had not presented the sorry bouquet, he hurried home and culled the choicest buds in his garden.

“It is rather loose,” said Bertha, as she fingered a large and expensive button upon her new coat, “but I guess it will hold another day. I don’t like to stop to sew it on now.”

“It will take but a minute,” said her mother; “it is a beautiful button, and I doubt if you could ever match it.”

“But I see the girls coming, and I haven’t time. Anyway, I guess it isn’t quite to the point where it will drop off. I’ll sew it on as soon as I get home.”

But when she came home, only a long black string hung there to mutely testify that once again the dividing point had passed unrecognized.

“It doesn’t seem really wrong,” we often say. “I guess I will do it just this once.” There is no dividing line upon which we may poise safe from either extreme, as we often like to think. The dividing line does not always seem sharp and distinct because our mental and moral eyesight is poor, but it lies there just the same, as thin and fragile as a thread and as sharp as the edge of a sword, but unmistakable. And whenever we have doubt about an action,—if we have to argue with ourselves concerning it,—it is an unfailing sign that the danger line has been reached.—Selected.