{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2515/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2515","id":"gutenberg_2515","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2515","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Parenthood & Family Relations","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian life -- Fiction","Conduct of life -- Fiction"],"text":"Stepping Heavenward\n\nby Mrs. E. Prentiss\n\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\nI.\n\nJanuary 15, 1831.\n\nHow dreadfully old I am getting! Sixteen! Well, I don't see as I can\nhelp it. There it is in the big Bible in father's own hand:\n\"Katherine, born Jan. 15, 1815.\"\n\nI meant to get up early this morning, but it looked dismally cold out\nof doors, and felt delightfully warm in bed. So I covered myself up,\nand made ever so many good resolutions.\n\nI determined, in the first place, to begin this Journal. To be sure,\nI have begun half a dozen, and got tired of them after a while. Not\ntired of writing them, but disgusted with what I had to say of\nmyself. But this time I mean to go on, in spite of everything. It\nwill do me good to read it over, and see what a creature I am.\n\nThen I resolved to do more to please mother than I have done.\n\nAnd I determined to make one more effort to conquer my hasty temper.\nI thought, too, I would be self-denying this winter, like the people\none reads about in books. I fancied how surprised and pleased\neverybody would be to see me so much improved!\n\nTime passed quickly amid these agreeable thoughts, and I was quite\nstartled to hear the bell ring for prayers. I jumped up in a great\nflurry and dressed as quickly as I could. Everything conspired\ntogether to plague me. I could not find a clean collar, or a\nhandkerchief. It is always just so. Susan is forever poking my things\ninto out-of-the-way places! When at last I went down, they were all\nat breakfast.\n\n\"I hoped you would celebrate your birthday, dear, by coming down in\ngood season,\" said mother.\n\nI do hate to be found fault with, so I fired up in an instant.\n\n\"If people hide my things so that I can't find them, of course I have\nto be late,\" I said. And I rather think I said it in a very cross\nway, for mother sighed a little. I wish mother wouldn't sigh. I would\nrather be called names out and out.\n\nThe moment breakfast was over I had to hurry off to school. Just as I\nwas going out mother said, \"Have you your overshoes, dear?\"\n\n\"Oh, mother, don't hinder me! I shall be late,\" I said. \"I don't need\novershoes.\"\n\n\"It snowed all night, and I think you do need them,\" mother said.\n\n\"I don't know where they are. I hate overshoes. Do let me go,\nmother,\" I cried. \"I do wish I could ever have my own way.\"\n\n\"You shall have it now, my child,\" mother said, and went away.\n\nNow what was the use of her calling me \"my child\" in such a tone, I\nshould like to know.\n\nI hurried off, and just as I got to the door of the schoolroom it\nflashed into my mind that I had not said my prayers! A nice way to\nbegin on one's birthday, to be sure! Well, I had not time. And\nperhaps my good resolutions pleased God almost as much as one of my\nrambling stupid prayers could. For I must own I can't make good\nprayers. I can't think of anything to say. I often wonder what mother\nfinds to say when she is shut up by the hour together.\n\nI had a pretty good time at school. My teachers praised me, and\nAmelia seemed so fond of me! She brought me a birthday present of a\npurse that she had knit for me herself, and a net for my hair. Nets\nare just coming into fashion. It will save a good deal of time my\nhaving this one. Instead of combing and combing and combing my old\nhair to get it glossy enough to suit mother, I can just give it one\ntwist and one squeeze and the whole thing will be settled for the\nday.\n\nAmelia wrote me a dear little note, with her presents. I do really\nbelieve she loves me dearly. It is so nice to have people love you!\n\nWhen I got home mother called me into her room. She looked as if she\nhad been crying. She said I gave her a great deal of pain by my\nself-will and ill temper and conceit.\n\n\"Conceit!\" I screamed out. \"Oh, mother, if you only knew how horrid I\nthink I am!\"\n\nMother smiled a little. Then she went on with her list till she made\nme out the worst creature in the world. I burst out crying, and was\nrunning off to my room, but she made me come back and hear the rest.\nShe said my character would be essentially formed by the time I\nreached my twentieth year, and left it to me to say if I wished to be\nas a woman what I was now as a girl. I felt sulky, and would not\nanswer. I was shocked to think I had got only four years in which to\nimprove, but after all a good deal could be done in that time. Of\ncourse I don't want to be always exactly what I am now.\n\nMother went on to say that I had in me the elements of a fine\ncharacter if I would only conquer some of my faults. \"You are frank\nand truthful,\" she said, \"and in some things conscientious. I hope\nyou are really a child of God, and are trying to please Him. And it\nis my daily prayer that you may become a lovely, loving, useful\nwoman.\"\n\nI made no answer. I wanted to say something, but my tongue wouldn't\nmove. I was angry with mother, and angry with myself. At last\neverything came out all in a rush, mixed up with such floods of tears\nthat I thought mother's heart would melt, and that she would take\nback what she had said.\n\n\"Amelia's mother never talks so to her!\" I said. \"She praises her,\nand tells her what a comfort she is to her. But just as I am trying\nas hard as I can to be good, and making resolutions, and all that,\nyou scold me and discourage me!\"\n\nMother's voice was very soft and gentle as she asked, \"Do you call\nthis 'scolding,' my child?\"\n\n\"And I don't like to be called conceited,\" I went on. \"I know I am\nperfectly horrid, and I am just as unhappy as I can be.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry for you, dear,\" mother replied. \"But you must bear\nwith me. Other people will see your faults, but only your mother will\nhave the courage to speak of them. Now go to your own room, and wipe\naway the traces of your tears that the rest of the family may not\nknow that you have been crying on your birthday.\" She kissed me but I\ndid not kiss her. I really believe Satan himself hindered me. I ran\nacross the hall to my room, slammed the door, and locked myself in. I\nwas going to throw myself on the bed and cry till I was sick. Then I\nshould look pale and tired, and they would all pity me. I do like so\nto be pitied! But on the table, by the window, I saw a beautiful new\ndesk in place of the old clumsy thing I had been spattering and\nspoiling so many years. A little note, full of love, said it was from\nmother, and begged me to read and reflect upon a few verses of a\ntastefully bound copy of the Bible, which accompanied it every day of\nmy life. \"A few verses,\" she said, \"carefully read and pondered,\ninstead of a chapter or two read for mere form's sake.\" I looked at\nmy desk, which contained exactly what I wanted, plenty of paper,\nseals, wax and pens. I always use wax. Wafers are vulgar. Then I\nopened the Bible at random, and lighted on these words:\n\n\"Watch, therefore, for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.\"\nThere was nothing very cheering in that. I felt a real repugnance to\nbe always on the watch, thinking I might die at any moment. I am sure\nI am not fit to die. Besides I want to have a good time, with nothing\nto worry me. I hope I shall live ever so long. Perhaps in the course\nof forty or fifty years I may get tired of this world and want to\nleave it. And I hope by that time I shall be a great deal better than\nI am now, and fit to go to heaven.\n\nI wrote a note to mother on my new desk, and thanked her for it I\ntold her she was the best mother in the world, and that I was the\nworst daughter. When it was done I did not like it, and so I wrote\nanother. Then I went down to dinner and felt better. We had such a\nnice dinner! Everything I liked best was on the table. Mother had not\nforgotten one of all the dainties I like. Amelia was there too.\nMother had invited her to give me a little surprise. It is bedtime\nnow, and I must say my prayers and go to bed. I have got all chilled\nthrough, writing here in the cold. I believe I will say my prayers in\nbed, just for this once. I do not feel sleepy, but I am sure I ought\nnot to sit up another moment.\n\nJAN. 30.-Here I am at my desk once more. There is a fire in my room,\nand mother is sitting by it, reading. I can't see what book it is,\nbut I have no doubt it is Thomas A Kempis. How she can go on reading\nit so year after year, I cannot imagine. For my part I like something\nnew. But I must go back to where I left off.\n\nThat night when I stopped writing, I hurried to bed as fast as I\ncould, for I felt cold and tired. I remember saying, \"Oh, God, I am\nashamed to pray,\" and then I began to think of all the things that\nhad happened that day, and never knew another thing till the rising\nbell rang and I found it was morning. I am sure I did not mean to go\nto sleep. I think now it was wrong for me to be such a coward as to\ntry to say my prayers in bed because of the cold. While I was writing\nI did not once think how I felt. Well, I jumped up as soon as I heard\nthe bell, but found I had a dreadful pain in my side, and a cough.\nSusan says I coughed all night. I remembered then that I had just\nsuch a cough and just such a pain the last time I walked in the snow\nwithout overshoes. I crept back to bed feeling about as mean as I\ncould. Mother sent up to know why I did not come down, and I had to\nown that I was sick. She came up directly looking so anxious! And\nhere I have been shut up ever since; only to day I am sitting up a\nlittle. Poor mother has had trouble enough with me; I know I have\nbeen cross and unreasonable, and it was all my own fault that I was\nill. Another time I will do as mother says.\n\nJAN. 31.-How easy it is to make good resolutions, and how easy it is\nto break them! Just as I had got so far, yesterday, mother spoke for\nthe third time about my exerting myself so much. And just at that\nmoment I fainted away, and she had a great time all alone there with\nme. I did not realize how long I had been writing, nor how weak I\nwas. I do wonder if I shall ever really learn that mother knows more\nthan I do!\n\nFeb. 17.-It is more than a month since I took that cold, and here I\nstill am, shut up in the house. To be sure the doctor lets me go down\nstairs, but then he won't listen to a word about school. Oh, dear!\nAll the girls will get ahead of me.\n\nThis is Sunday, and everybody has gone to church. I thought I ought\nto make a good use of the time while they were gone, so I took the\nMemoir of Henry Martyn, and read a little in that.\n\nI am afraid I am not much like him. Then I knelt down and tried to\npray. But my mind was full of all sorts of things, so I thought I\nwould wait till I was in a better frame. At noon I disputed with\nJames about the name of an apple. He was very provoking, and said he\nwas thankful he had not got such a temper as I had. I cried, and\nmother reproved him for teasing me, saying my illness had left me\nnervous and irritable. James replied that it had left me where it\nfound me, then. I cried a good while, lying on the sofa, and then I\nfell asleep. I don't see as I am any the better for this Sunday, it\nhas only made me feel unhappy and out of sorts. I am sure I pray to\nGod to make me better, and why doesn't He?\n\nFeb. 20.-It has been quite a mild day for the season, and the doctor\nsaid I might drive out. I enjoyed getting the air very much. I feel\njust well as ever, and long to get back to school. I think God has\nbeen very good to me in making me well again, and wish I loved Him\nbetter. But, oh, I am not sure I do love Him! I hate to own it to\nmyself, and to write it down here, but I will. I do not love to pray.\nI am always eager to get it over with and out of the way so as to\nhave leisure to enjoy myself. I mean that this is usually so. This\nmorning I cried a good deal while I was on my knees, and felt sorry\nfor my quick temper and all my bad ways. If I always felt so, perhaps\npraying would not be such a task. I wish I knew whether anybody\nexactly as bad as I am ever got to heaven at last. I have read ever\nso many memoirs, and they were all about people who were too good to\nlive, and so died; or else went on a mission. I am not at all like\nany of them.\n\nMarch 26.-I have been so busy that I have not said much to you, you\npoor old journal, you, have I? Somehow I have been behaving quite\nnicely lately. Everything has gone on exactly to my mind. Mother has\nnot found fault with me once, and father has praised my drawings and\nseemed proud of me. He says he shall not tell me what my teachers say\nof me lest it should make me vain. And once or twice when he has met\nme singing and frisking about the house he has kissed me and called\nme his dear little Flibbertigibbet, if that's the way to spell it.\nWhen he says that I know he is very fond of me. We are all very happy\ntogether when nothing goes wrong. In the long evenings we all sit\naround the table with our books and our work, and one of us reads\naloud. Mother chooses the book and takes her turn in reading. She\nreads beautifully. Of course the readings do not begin till the\nlessons are all learned. As to me, my lessons just take no time at\nall. I have only to read them over once, and there they are. So I\nhave a good deal of time to read, and I devour all the poetry I can\nget hold of. I would rather read \"Pollok's Course of Time\" than read\nnothing at all.\n\nAPRIL 2.-There are three of mother's friends living near us, each\nhaving lots of little children. It is perfectly ridiculous how much\nthose creatures are sick. They send for mother if so much as a pimple\ncomes out on one of their faces. When I have children I don't mean to\nhave such goings on. I shall be careful about what they eat, and keep\nthem from getting cold, and they will keep well of their own accord.\nMrs. Jones has just sent for mother to see her Tommy. It was so\nprovoking. I had coaxed her into letting me have a black silk apron;\nthey are all the fashion now, embroidered in floss silk. I had drawn\na lovely vine for mine entirely out of my own head, and mother was\ngoing to arrange the pattern for me when that message came, and she\nhad to go. I don't believe anything ails the child! a great chubby\nthing!\n\nApril 3.-Poor Mrs. Jones! Her dear little Tommy is dead! I stayed at\nhome from school to-day and had all the other children here to get\nthem out of their mother's way. How dreadfully she must feel! Mother\ncried when she told me how the dear little fellow suffered in his\nlast moments. It reminded her of my little brothers who died in the\nsame way, just before I was born. Dear mother! I wonder I ever forget\nwhat troubles she has had, and am not always sweet and loving. She\nhas gone now, where she always goes when she feels sad, straight to\nGod. Of course she did not say so, but I know mother.\n\nApril 25.-I have not been down in season once this week. I have\npersuaded mother to let me read some of Scott's novels, and have sat\nup late and been sleepy in the morning. I wish I could get along with\nmother as nicely as James does. He is late far oftener than I am, but\nhe never gets into such scrapes about it as I do. This is what\nhappens. He comes down when it suits him.\n\nMother begins.-\"James, I am very much displeased with you.\"\n\nJames.-\"I should think you would be, mother.\"\n\nMother, mollified.-\"I don't think you deserve any breakfast.\"\n\nJames, hypocritically.-\"No, I don't think I do, mother.\"\n\nThen mother hurries off and gets something extra for his breakfast.\nNow let us see how things go on when I am late.\n\nMother.-\"Katherine\" (she always calls me Katherine when she is\ndispleased, and spells it with a K), \"Katherine, you are late again;\nhow can you annoy your father so?\"\n\nKatherine.-\"Of course I don't do it to annoy father or anybody else.\nBut if I oversleep myself, it is not my fault.\"\n\nMother.-\"I would go to bed at eight o'clock rather than be late as\noften as you. How should you like it if I were not down to prayers?\"\n\nKatherine, muttering.-\"Of course that is very different. I don't see\nwhy I should be blamed for oversleeping any more than James. I get\nall the scoldings.\"\n\nMother sighs and goes off.\n\nI prowl round and get what scraps of breakfast I can.\n\nMay 12.-The weather is getting perfectly delicious. I am sitting with\nmy window open, and my bird is singing with all his heart. I wish I\nwas as gay as he is.\n\nI have been thinking lately that it was about time to begin on some\nof those pieces of self-denial I resolved on upon my birthday. I\ncould not think of anything great enough for a long time. At last an\nidea popped into my head. Half the girls at school envy me because\nAmelia is so fond of me, and Jane Underhill, in particular, is just\ncrazy to get intimate with her. But I have kept Amelia all to myself.\nTo-day I said to her, Amelia, Jane Underhill admires you above all\nthings. I have a good mind to let you be as intimate with her as you\nare with me. It will be a great piece of self-denial, but I think it\nis my duty. She is a stranger, and nobody seems to like her much.\n\n\"You dear thing, you!\" cried Amelia, kissing me. \"I liked Jane\nUnderhill the moment I saw her. She has such a sweet face and such\npleasant manners. But you are so jealous that I never dared to show\nhow I liked her. Don't be vexed, dearie; if you are jealous it is\nyour only fault!\"\n\nShe then rushed off, and I saw her kiss that girl exactly as she\nkisses me!\n\nThis was in recess. I went to my desk and made believe I was\nstudying. Pretty soon Amelia came back.\n\n\"She is a sweet girl,\" she said, \"and only to think! She writes\npoetry! Just hear this! It is a little poem addressed to me. Isn't\nit nice of her?\"\n\nI pretended not to hear her. I was as full of all sorts of horrid\nfeelings as I could hold. It enraged me to think that Amelia, after\nall her professions of love to me, should snatch at the first chance\nof getting a new friend. Then I was mortified because I was enraged,\nand I could have torn myself to pieces for being such a fool as to\nlet Amelia see how silly I was.\n\n\"I don't know what to make of you, Katy,\" she said, putting her arms\nround me. \"Have I done anything to vex you? Come, let us make up and\nbe friends, whatever it is. I will read you these sweet verses; I am\nsure you will like them.\"\n\nShe read them in her clear, pleasant voice.\n\n\"How can you have the vanity to read such stuff?\" I cried.\n\nAmelia colored a little.\n\n\"You have said and written much more flattering things to me,\" she\nreplied. \"Perhaps it has turned my head, and made me too ready to\nbelieve what other people say.\" She folded the paper, and put it into\nher pocket. We walked home together, after school, as usual, but\nneither of us spoke a word. And now here I sit, unhappy enough. All\nmy resolutions fail. But I did not think Amelia would take me at my\nword, and rush after that stuck-up, smirking piece.\n\nMay 20.-I seem to have got back into all my bad ways again. Mother is\nquite out of patience with me. I have not prayed for a long time. It\ndoes not do any good.\n\nMay 21.-It seems this Underhill thing is here for health, though she\nlooks as well as any of us. She is an orphan, and has been adopted by\na rich old uncle, who makes a perfect fool of her. Such dresses and\nsuch finery as she wears! Last night she had Amelia there to tea,\nwithout inviting me, though she knows I am her best friend. She gave\nher a bracelet made of her own hair. I wonder Amelia's mother lets\nher accept presents from strangers. My mother would not let me. On\nthe whole, there is nobody like one's own mother. Amelia has been\ncold and distant to me of late, but no matter what I do or say to my\ndarling, precious mother, she is always kind and loving. She noticed\nhow I moped about to-day, and begged me to tell her what was the\nmatter. I was ashamed to do that. I told her that it was a little\nquarrel I had had with Amelia.\n\n\"Dear child,\" she said, \"how I pity you that you have inherited my\nquick, irritable temper.\"\n\n\"Yours, mother!\" I cried out; \"what can you mean?\"\n\nMother smiled a little at my surprise.\n\n\"It is even so,\" she said.\n\n\"Then how did you cure yourself of it? Tell me quick, mother, and let\nme cure myself of mine.\"\n\n\"My dear Katy,\" she said, \"I wish I could make you see that God is\njust as willing, and just as able to sanctify, as He is to redeem us.\nIt would save you so much weary, disappointing work. But God has\nopened my eyes at last.\"\n\n\"I wish He would open mine, then,\" I said, \"for all I see now is that\nI am just as horrid as I can be, and that the more I pray the worse I\ngrow.\"\n\n\"That is not true, dear,\" she replied; \"go on praying-pray without\nceasing.\"\n\nI sat pulling my handkerchief this way and that, and at last rolled\nit up into a ball and threw it across the room. I wished I could toss\nmy bad feelings into a corner with it.\n\n\"I do wish I could make you love to pray, my darling child,\" mother\nwent on. \"If you only knew the strength, and the light, and the joy\nyou might have for the simple asking. God attaches no conditions to\nHis gifts. He only says, 'Ask!'\"\n\n\"This may be true, but it is hard work to pray. It tires me. And I do\nwish there was some easy way of growing good. In fact I should like\nto have God send a sweet temper to me just as He sent bread and meat\nto Elijah. I don't believe Elijah had to kneel down and pray for\nthem.\"\n\n\n\nChapter 2.\n\nII. June 1.\n\nLAST Sunday Dr. Cabot preached to the young. He first addressed those\nwho knew they did not love God. It did not seem to me that I belonged\nto that class. Then he spoke to those who knew they did. I felt sure\nI was not one of those. Last of all he spoke affectionately to those\nwho did not know what to think, and I was frightened and ashamed to\nfeel tears running down my cheeks, when he said that he believed that\nmost of his hearers who were in this doubtful state did really love\ntheir Master, only their love was something as new and as tender and\nperhaps as unobserved as the tiny point of green that, forcing its\nway through the earth, is yet unconscious of its own existence, but\npromises a thrifty plant. I don't suppose I express it very well, but\nI know what he meant. He then invited those belonging to each class\nto meet him on three successive Saturday afternoons. I shall\ncertainly go.\n\nJuly 19.-I went to the meeting, and so did Amelia. A great many young\npeople were there and a few children. Dr. Cabot went about from seat\nto seat speaking to each one separately. When he came to us I\nexpected he would say something about the way in which I had been\nbrought up, and reproach me for not profiting more by the\ninstructions and example I had at home. Instead of that he said, in a\ncheerful voice,\n\n\"Well, my dear, I cannot see into your heart and positively tell\nwhether there is love to God there or not. But I suppose you have\ncome here to-day in order to let me help you to find out?\"\n\nI said, \"Yes\"; that was all I could get out.\n\n\"Let me see, then,\" he went on. \"Do you love your mother?\"\n\nI said \"Yes,\" once more.\n\n\"But prove to me that you do. How do you know it?\"\n\nI tried to think. Then I said,\n\n\"I feel that I love her. I love to love her, I like to be with her. I\nlike to hear people praise her. And I try--sometimes at least--to do\nthings to please her. But I don't try half as hard as I ought, and I\ndo and say a great many things to displease her.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" he said, \"I know.\"\n\n\"Has mother told you?\" I cried out.\n\n\"No, dear, no indeed. But I know what human nature is after having\none of my own fifty years, and six of my children's to encounter.\"\n\nSomehow I felt more courage after he said that.\n\n\"In the first place, then, you feel that you love your mother? But\nyou never feel that you love your God and Saviour?\"\n\n\"I often try, and try, but I never do,\" I said.\n\n\"Love won't be forced,\" he said, quickly.\n\n\"Then what shall I do?\"\n\n\"In the second place, you like to be with your mother. But you never\nlike to be with the Friend who loves you so much better than she\ndoes?\"\n\n\"I don't know, I never was with Him. Sometimes I think that when Mary\nsat at His feet and heard Him talk, she must have been very happy.\"\n\n\"We come to the third test, then. You like to hear people praise your\nmother. And have you ever rejoiced to hear the Lord magnified?\"\n\nI shook my head sorrowfully enough.\n\n\"Let us then try the last test. You know you love your mother because\nyou try to do things to please her. That is to do what you know she\nwishes you to do? Very well. Have you never tried to do anything God\nwishes you to do?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; often. But not so often as I ought.\"\n\n\"Of course not. No one does that. But come now, why do you try to do\nwhat you think will please Him? Because it is easy? Because you like\nto do what He likes rather than what you like yourself?\"\n\nI tried to think, and got puzzled.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Dr. Cabot, \"I have come now to the point I was\naiming at. You cannot prove to yourself that you love God by\nexamining your feelings towards Him. They are indefinite and they\nfluctuate. But just as far as you obey Him, just so far, depend upon\nit, you love Him. It is not natural to us sinful, ungrateful human\nbeings to prefer His pleasure to our own, or to follow His way\ninstead of our own way, and nothing, nothing but love to Him can or\ndoes make us obedient to Him.\"\n\n\"Couldn't we obey Him from fear?\" Amelia now asked. She had been\nlistening all this time in silence.\n\n\"Yes; and so you might obey your mother from fear, but only for a\nseason. If you had no real love for her you would gradually cease to\ndread her displeasure, whereas it is in the very nature of love to\ngrow stronger and more influential every hour.\"\n\n\"You mean, then, that if we want to know whether we love God, we must\nfind out whether we are obeying Him?\" Amelia asked.\n\n\"I mean exactly that. 'He that keepeth my commandments he it is that\nloveth me.' But I cannot talk with you any longer now. There are many\nothers still waiting. You can come to see me some day next week, if\nyou have any more questions to ask.\"\n\nWhen we got out into the street, Amelia and I got hold of each\nother's hands. We did not speak a word till we reached the door, but\nwe knew that we were as good friends as ever.\n\n\"I understand all Dr. Cabot said,\" Amelia whispered, as we separated.\nBut I felt like one in a fog. I cannot see how it is possible to love\nGod, and yet feel as stupid as I do when I think of Him. Still, I am\ndetermined to do one thing, and that is to pray, regularly instead of\nnow and then, as I have got the habit of doing lately.\n\nJuly 25.-School has closed for the season. I took the first prize\nfor drawing, and my composition was read aloud on examination day,\nand everybody praised it. Mother could not possibly help showing, in\nher face, that she was very much pleased. I am pleased myself. We are\nnow getting ready to take a journey. I do not think I shall go to see\nDr. Cabot again. My head is so full of other things, and there is so\nmuch to do before we go. I am having four new dresses made, and I\ncan't imagine how to have them trimmed. I mean to run down to\nAmelia's and ask her.\n\nJuly 27.-I was rushing through the hall just after I wrote that, and\nmet mother.\n\n\"I am going to Amelia's,\" I said, hurrying past her.\n\n\"Stop one minute, dear. Dr. Cabot is downstairs. He says he has been\nexpecting a visit from you, and that as you did not come to him, he\nhas come to you.\"\n\n\"I wish he would mind his own business,\" I said.\n\n\"I think he is minding it, dear,\" mother answered. \"His Master's\nbusiness is his, and that has brought him here. Go to him, my darling\nchild; I am sure you crave something better than prizes and\ncompliments and new dresses and journeys.\"\n\nIf anybody but mother had said that, my heart would have melted at\nonce, and I should have gone right down to Dr. Cabot to be moulded in\nhis hand to almost any shape. But as it was I brushed past, ran into\nmy room, and locked my door. Oh, what makes me act so! I hate myself\nfor it, I don't want to do it!\n\nLast week I dined with Mrs. Jones. Her little Tommy was very fond of\nme, and that, I suppose, makes her have me there so often. Lucy was\nat the table, and very fractious. She cried first for one thing and\nthen for another. At last her mother in a gentle, but very decided\nway put her down from the table. Then she cried louder than ever. But\nwhen her mother offered to take her back if she would be good, she\nscreamed yet more. She wanted to come and wouldn't let herself come.\nI almost hated her when I saw her act so, and now I am behaving ten\ntimes worse and I am just as miserable as I can be.\n\nJuly 29.-Amelia has been here. She has had her talk with Dr. Cabot\nand is perfectly happy. She says it is so easy to be a Christian! It\nmay be easy for her; everything is. She never has any of my dreadful\nfeelings, and does not understand them when I try to explain them to\nher. Well, if I am fated to be miserable, I must try to bear it.\n\nOct. 3.-Summer is over, school has begun again, and I am so busy that\nI have not much time to think, to be low spirited. We had a\ndelightful journey, and I feel well and bright, and even gay. I never\nenjoyed my studies as I do those of this year. Everything goes on\npleasantly here at home. But James has gone away to school, and we\nmiss him sadly. I wish I had a sister. Though I dare say I should\nquarrel with her, if I had.\n\nOct 23.-I am so glad that my studies are harder this year, as I am\nnever happy except when every moment is occupied. However, I do not\nstudy all the time, by any means. Mrs. Gordon grows more and more\nfond of me, and has me there to dinner or to tea continually. She has\na much higher opinion of me than mother has, and is always saying the\nsort of things that make you feel nice. She holds me up to Amelia as\nan example, begging her to imitate me in my fidelity about my\nlessons, and declaring there is nothing she so much desires as to\nhave a daughter bright and original like me. Amelia only laughs, and\ngoes and purrs in her mother's ears when she hears such talk. It\ncosts her nothing to be pleasant. She was born so. For my part, I\nthink myself lucky to have such a friend. She gets along with my odd,\nhateful ways better than any one else does. Mother, when I boast of\nthis, says she has no penetration into character, and that she would\nbe fond of almost any one fond of her; and that the fury with which I\nlove her deserves some response. I really don't know what to make of\nmother. Most people are proud of their children when they see others\nadmire them; but she does say such pokey things! Of course I know\nthat having a gift for music, and a taste for drawing, and a\nreputation for saying witty, bright things isn't enough. But when she\ndoesn't find fault with me, and nothing happens to keep me down, I am\nthe gayest creature on earth. I do love to get with a lot of nice\ngirls, and carry on! I have got enough fun in me to keep a houseful\nmerry. And mother needn't say anything. I inherited it from her.\n\nEvening.-I knew it was coming! Mother has been in to see what I was\nabout, and to give me a bit of her mind. She says she loves to see me\ngay and cheerful, as is natural at my age, but that levity quite\nupsets and disorders the mind, indisposing it for serious thoughts.\n\n\"But, mother,\" I said, \"didn't you carry on when you were a young\ngirl?\"\n\n\"Of course I did,\" she said, smiling. \"But I do not think I was quite\nso thoughtless as you are.\"\n\n\"Thoughtless\" indeed! I wish I were! But am I not always full of\nuneasy, reproachful thoughts when the moment of excitement is over?\nOther girls, who seem less trifling than I, are really more so. Their\nheads are full of dresses and parties and beaux, and all that sort of\nnonsense. I wonder if that ever worries their mothers, or whether\nmine is the only one who weeps in secret? Well, I shall be young but\nonce, and while I am, do let me have a good time!\n\nSunday, Nov. 20.-Oh, the difference between this day and the day I\nwrote that! There are no good times in this dreadful world. I have\nhardly courage or strength to write down the history of the past few\nweeks. The day after I had deliberately made up my mind to enjoy\nmyself, cost what it might, my dear father called me to him, kissed\nme, pulled my ears a little, and gave me some money.\n\n\"We have had to keep you rather low in funds,\" he said laughing. \"But\nI recovered this amount yesterday, and as it was a little debt I had\ngiven up, I can spare it to you. For girls like pin-money, I know,\nand you may spend this just as you please.\"\n\nI was delighted. I want to take more drawing-lessons, but did not\nfeel sure he could afford it. Besides--I am a little ashamed to write\nit down--I knew somebody had been praising me or father would not have\nseemed so fond of me. I wondered who it was, and felt a good deal\npuffed up. \"After-all,\" I said to myself, \"some people like me if I\nhave got my faults.\" I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him,\nthough that cost me a great effort. I never like to show what I feel.\nBut, oh! how thankful I am for it now.\n\nAs to mother, I know father never goes out without kissing her\ngood-by.\n\nI went out with her to take a walk at three o'clock. We had just\nreached the corner of Orange Street, when I saw a carriage driving\nslowly towards us; it appeared to be full of sailors. Then I saw our\nfriend, Mr. Freeman, among them. When he saw us he jumped out and\ncame up to us. I do not know what he said. I saw mother turn pale and\ncatch at his arm as if she were afraid of falling. But she did not\nspeak a word.\n\n\"Oh! Mr. Freeman, what is it?\" I cried out. \"Has anything happened to\nfather? Is he hurt? Where is he?\"\n\n\"He is in the carriage,\" he said. \"We are taking him home. He has had\na fall.\"\n\nThen we went on in silence. The sailors were carrying father in as we\nreached the house. They laid him on the sofa, we saw his poor head...\n\nNov. 23.-I will try to write the rest now. Father was alive but\ninsensible. He had fallen down into the hold of the ship, and the\nsailors heard him groaning there. He lived three hours after they\nbrought him home. Mr. Freeman and all our friends were very kind. But\nwe like best to be alone, we three, mother and James and I. Poor\nmother looks twenty years older, but she is so patient, and so\nconcerned for us, and has such a smile of welcome for every one that\ncomes in, that it breaks my heart to see her.\n\nNov. 25.-Mother spoke to me very seriously to-day, about controlling\nmyself more. She said she knew this was my first real sorrow, and how\nhard it was to bear it. But that she was afraid I should become\ninsane some time, if I indulged myself in such passions of grief. And\nshe said, too, that when friends came to see us, full of sympathy and\neager to say or do something for our comfort, it was our duty to\nreceive them with as much cheerfulness as possible.\n\nI said they, none of them, had anything to say that did not provoke\nme.\n\n\"It is always a trying task to visit the afflicted,\" mother said,\n\"and you make it doubly hard to your friends by putting on a gloomy,\nforbidding air, and by refusing to talk of your dear father, as if\nyou were resolved to keep your sorrow all to yourself.\"\n\n\"I can't smile when I am so unhappy,\" I said.\n\nA good many people have been here to-day. Mother has seen them all,\nthough she looked ready to drop. Mrs. Bates said to me, in her\nlittle, weak, watery voice:\n\n\"Your mother is wonderfully sustained, dear. I hope you feel\nreconciled to God's will. Rebellion is most displeasing to Him,\ndear.\"\n\nI made no answer. It is very easy for people to preach. Let me see\nhow they behave when they their turn to lose their friends.\n\nMrs. Morris said this was a very mysterious dispensation. But that\nshe was happy to see that Mother was meeting it with so much\nfirmness. \"As for myself,\" she went on, \"I was quite broken down by\nmy dear husband's death. I did not eat as much as would feed a bird,\nfor nearly a week. But some people have so much feeling; then again\nothers are so firm. Your mother is so busy talking with Mrs. March\nthat I won't interrupt her to say good-bye. I came prepared to\nsuggest several things that I thought would comfort her; but perhaps\nshe has thought of them herself.\"\n\nI could have knocked her down. Firm, indeed! Poor mother.\n\nAfter they had all gone, I made her lie down, she looked so tired and\nworn out.\n\nThen, I could not help telling her what Mrs. Morris had said.\n\nShe only smiled a little, but said nothing.\n\n\"I wish you would ever flare up, mother,\" I said.\n\nShe smiled again, and said she had nothing to \"flare up\" about.\n\n\"Then I shall do it for you!\" I cried. \"To hear that namby-pamby\nwoman, who is about as capable of understanding you as an old cat,\ntalking about your being firm! You see what you get by being quiet\nand patient! People would like you much better if you refused to be\ncomforted, and wore a sad countenance.\"\n\n\"Dear Katy,\" said mother, \"it is not my first object in life to make\npeople like me.\"\n\nBy this time she looked so pale that I was frightened. Though she is\nso cheerful, and things go on much as they did before, I believe she\nhas got her death-blow. If she has, then I hope I have got mine. And\nyet I am not fit to die. I wish I was, and I wish I could die. I have\nlost all interest in everything, and don't care what becomes of me.\n\nNov. 23.-I believe I shall go crazy unless people stop coming here,\nhurling volleys of texts at mother and at me. When soldiers drop\nwounded on the battle-field, they are taken up tenderly and carried\n\"to the rear,\" which means, I suppose, out of sight and sound. Is\nanybody mad enough to suppose it will do them any good to hear\nScripture quoted sermons launched at them before their open, bleeding\nwounds are staunched?\n\nMother assents, in a mild way, when I talk so and says, \"Yes, yes, we\nare indeed lying wounded on the battle-field of life, and in no\ncondition to listen to any words save those of pity. But, dear Katy,\nwe must interpret aright all the well-meant attempts of our friends\nto comfort us. They mean sympathy, however awkwardly they express\nit.\"\n\nAnd then she sighed, with a long, deep sigh, that told how it all\nwearied her.\n\nDec. 14.-Mother keeps saying I spend too much time in brooding over\nmy sorrow. As for her, she seems to live in heaven. Not that she has\nlong prosy talks about it, but little words that she lets drop now\nand then show where her thoughts are, and where she would like to be.\nShe seems to think everybody is as eager to go there as she is. For\nmy part, I am not eager at all. I can't make myself feel that it will\nbe nice to sit in rows, all the time singing, fond as I am of music.\nAnd when I say to myself, \"Of course we shall not always sit in rows\nsinging,\" then I fancy a multitude of shadowy, phantom-like beings,\ndressed in white, moving to and fro in golden streets, doing nothing\nin particular, and having a dreary time, without anything to look\nforward to.\n\nI told mother so. She said earnestly, and yet in her sweetest,\ntenderest way,\n\n\"Oh, my darling Katy! What you need is such a living, personal love\nto Christ as shall make the thought of being where He is so\ndelightful as to fill your mind with that single thought!\"\n\nWhat is \"personal love to Christ?\"\n\nOh, dear, dear! Why need my father have been snatched away from me,\nwhen so many other girls have theirs spared to them? He loved me so!\nHe indulged me so much! He was so proud of me! What have I done that\nI should have this dreadful thing happen to me? I shall never be as\nhappy as I was before. Now I shall always be expecting trouble. Yes,\nI dare say mother will go next. Why shouldn't I brood over this\nsorrow? I like to brood over it; I like to think how wretched I am; I\nlike to have long, furious fits of crying, lying on my face on the\nbed.\n\nJan. I, 1832.-People talk a great deal about the blessed effects of\nsorrow. But I do not see any good it has done me to lose my dear\nfather, and as to mother she was good enough before.\n\nWe are going to leave our pleasant home, where all of us children\nwere born, and move into a house in an out-of-the-way street. By\nselling this, and renting a smaller one, mother hopes, with economy,\nto carry James through college. And I must go to Miss Higgins' school\nbecause it is less expensive than Mr. Stone's. Miss Higgins, indeed!\nI never could bear her! A few months ago, how I should have cried and\nstormed at the idea of her school. But the great sorrow swallows up\nthe little trial.\n\nI tried once more, this morning, as it is the first day of the year,\nto force myself to begin to love God.\n\nI want to do it; I know I ought to do it; but I cannot. I go through\nthe form of saying something that I try to pass off as praying, every\nday now. But I take no pleasure in it, as good people say they do,\nand as I am sure mother does. Nobody could live in the house with\nher, and doubt that.\n\nJan. 10.-We are in our new home now, and it is quite a cozy little\nplace. James is at home for the long vacation and we are together all\nthe time I am out of school. We study and sing together and now and\nthen, when we forget that dear father has gone, we are as full of fun\nas ever. If it is so nice to have a brother, what must it be to have\na sister! Dear old Jim! He is the very pleasantest, dearest fellow in\nthe world!\n\nJan. 15.-I have come to another birthday and am seventeen. Mother has\ncelebrated it just as usual, though I know all these anniversaries\nwhich used to be so pleasant, must be sad days to her now my dear\nfather has gone. She has been cheerful-and loving, and entered into\nall my pleasures exactly as if nothing had happened. I wonder at\nmyself that I do not enter more into her sorrows, but though at times\nthe remembrance of our loss overwhelms me, my natural elasticity soon\nmakes me rise above and forget it. And I am absorbed with these\nschool-days, that come one after another, in such quick succession\nthat I am all the time running to keep up with them. And as long as I\ndo that I forget that death has crossed our threshold, and may do it\nagain. But to night I feel very sad, and as if I would give almost\nany thing to live in a world where nothing painful could happen.\nSomehow mother's pale face haunts and reproaches me. I believe I will\ngo to bed and to sleep as quickly as possible, and forget everything.\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\nIII\n\nJuly 16.\n\nMy school-days are over! I have come off with flying colors, and\nmother is pleased at my success. I said to her to-day that I should\nnow have time to draw and practice to my heart's content.\n\n\"You will not find your heart content with either,\" she said.\n\n\"Why, mother!\" I cried, \"I thought you liked to see me happy!\"\n\n\"And so I do,\" she said, quietly. \"But there is something better to\nget out of life than you have yet found.\"\n\n\"I am sure I hope so,\" I returned. \"On the whole, I haven't got much\nso far.\"\n\nAmelia is now on such terms with Jenny Underhill that I can hardly\nsee one without seeing the other. After the way in which I have loved\nher, this seems rather hard. Sometimes I am angry about it, and\nsometimes grieved. However, I find Jenny quite nice. She buys all the\nnew books and lends them to me. I wish I liked more solid reading;\nbut I don't. And I wish I were not so fond of novels; but I am. If it\nwere not for mother I should read nothing else. And I am sure I often\nfeel quite stirred up by a really good novel, and admire and want to\nimitate every high-minded, noble character it describes.\n\nJenny has a miniature of her brother \"Charley\" in a locket, which she\nalways wears, and often shows me. According to her, he is exactly\nlike the heroes I most admire in books. She says she knows he would\nlike me if we should meet. But that is not probable. Very few like\nme. Amelia says it is because I say just what I think.\n\nWednesday.-Mother pointed out to me this evening two lines from a\nbook she was reading, with a significant smile that said they\ndescribed me:\n\n\"A frank, unchastened, generous creature, Whose faults and virtues\nstand in bold relief.\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" I said, \"so then I have some virtues after all!\"\n\nAnd I really think I must have, for Jenny's brother, who has come\nhere for the sake of being near her, seems to like me very much.\nNobody ever liked me so much before, not even Amelia. But how foolish\nto write that down!\n\nThursday.-Jenny's brother has been here all evening. He has the most\nperfect manners I ever saw. I am sure that mother, who thinks so much\nof such things, would be charmed with him but she happened to be out,\nMrs. Jones having sent for her to see about her baby. He gave me an\naccount of his mother's death, and how he and Jenny nursed her day\nand night. He has a great deal of feeling. I was going to tell him\nabout my father's death, sorrow seems to bring people together so,\nbut I could not. Oh, if he had only had a sickness that needed our\ntender nursing, instead of being snatched from us in that sudden way!\n\nSunday, Aug. 5.-Jenny's brother has been at our church all day. He\nwalked home with me this afternoon. Mother, after being up all night\nwith Mrs. Jones and her baby, was not able to go out.\n\nDr. Cabot preaches as if we had all got to die pretty soon, or else\nhave something almost as bad happen to us. How can old people always\ntry to make young people feel uncomfortable, and as if things\ncouldn't last?\n\nAug. 25.-Jenny says her brother is perfectly fascinated with me, and\nthat I must try to like him in return. I suppose mother would say my\nhead was turned by my good fortune, but it is not. I am getting quite\nsober and serious. It is a great thing to be--to be--well--liked. I\nhave seen some verses of his composition to-day that show that he is\nall heart and soul, and would make any sacrifice for one he loved. I\ncould not like a man who did not possess such sentiments as his.\n\nPerhaps mother would think I ought not to put such things into my\njournal.\n\nJenny has thought of such a splendid plan! What a dear little thing\nshe is! She and her brother are so much alike! The plan is for us\nthree girls, Jenny, Amelia and myself, to form ourselves into a\nlittle class to read and to study together. She says \"Charley\" will\ndirect our readings and help us with our studies. It is perfectly\ndelightful.\n\nSeptember 1.-Somehow I forgot to tell mother that Mr. Underhill was\nto be our teacher. So when it came my turn to have the class meet\nhere, she was not quite pleased. I told her she could stay and watch\nus, and then she would see for herself that we all behaved ourselves.\n\nSept. 19.-The class met at Amelia's to-night. Mother insisted on\nsending for me, though Mr. Underhill had proposed to see me home\nhimself. So he stayed after I left. It was not quite the thing in\nhim, for he must see that Amelia is absolutely crazy about him.\n\nSept. 28.-We met at Jenny's this evening. Amelia had a bad headache\nand could not come. Jenny idled over her lessons, and at last took a\nbook and began to read. I studied awhile with Mr. Underhill. At last\nhe said, scribbling something on a bit of paper:\n\n\"Here is a sentence I hope you can translate.\"\n\nI took it, and read these words:\n\n\"You are the brightest, prettiest, most warm-hearted little thing in\nthe world. And I love you more than tongue can tell. You must love me\nin the same way.\"\n\nI felt hot and then cold, and then glad and then sorry. But I\npretended to laugh, and said I could not translate Greek. I shall\nhave to tell mother, and what will she say?\n\nSept. 29.-This morning mother began thus:\n\n\"Kate, I do not like these lessons of yours. At your age, with your\njudgment quite unformed, it is not proper that you should spend so\nmuch time with a young man.\n\n\"Jenny is always there, and Amelia,\" I replied.\n\n\"That makes no difference. I wish the whole thing stopped. I do not\nknow what I have been thinking of to let it go on so long. Mrs.\nGordon says--\"\n\n\"Mrs. Gordon! Ha!\" I burst out, \"I knew Amelia was at the bottom of\nit! Amelia is in love with him up to her very ears, and because he\ndoes not entirely neglect me, she has put her mother up to coming\nhere, meddling and making--\"\n\n\"If what you say of Amelia is true, it is most ungenerous in you to\ntell of it. But I do not believe it. Amelia Gordon has too much good\nsense to be carried away by a handsome face and agreeable manners.\"\n\nI began to cry.\n\n\"He likes me,\" I got out, \"he likes me ever so much. Nobody ever was\nso kind to me before. Nobody ever said such nice things to me. And I\ndon't want such horrid things said about him.\"\n\n\"Has it really come this!\" said mother, quite shocked. \"Oh, my poor\nchild, how my selfish sorrow has made me neglect you.\"\n\nI kept on crying.\n\n\"Is it possible,\" she went on, \"that with your good sense, and the\neducation you have had, you are captivated by this mere boy?\"\n\n\"He is not a boy,\" I said. \"He is a man. He is twenty years old; or\nat least he will be on the fifteenth of next October.\"\n\n\"The child actually keeps his birthdays!\" cried mother. \"Oh, my\nwicked, shameful carelessness.\"\n\n\"It's done now,\" I said, desperately. \"It is too late to help it\nnow.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that he has dared to say anything without consulting\nme?\" asked mother. \"And you have allowed it! Oh, Katherine!\"\n\nThis time my mouth shut itself up, and no mortal force could open it.\nI stopped crying, and sat with folded arms. Mother said what she had\nto say, and then I came to you, my dear old Journal.\n\nYes, he likes me and I like him. Come now, let's out with it once for\nall. He loves me and I love him. You are just a little bit too late,\nmother.\n\nOct 1.-I never can write down all the things that have happened. The\nvery day after I wrote that mother had forbidden my going to the\nclass, Charley came to see her, and they had a regular fight\ntogether. He has told me about it since. Then, as he could not\nprevail, his uncle wrote, told her it would be the making of Charley\nto be settled down on one young lady instead of hovering from flower\nto flower, as he was doing now. Then Jenny came with her pretty ways,\nand cried, and told mother what a darling brother Charley was. She\nmade a good deal, too, out of his having lost both father and mother,\nand needing my affection so much. Mother shut herself up, and I have\nno doubt prayed over it. I really believe she prays over every new\ndress she buys. Then she sent for me and talked beautifully, and I\nbehaved abominably.\n\nAt last she said she would put us on one year's probation. Charley\nmight spend one evening here every two weeks, when she should always\nbe present. We were never to be seen together in public, nor would\nshe allow us to correspond. If, at the end of the year, we were both\nas eager for it as we are now, she would consent to our engagement.\nOf course we shall be, so I consider myself as good as engaged now.\nDear me! how funny it seems.\n\nOct 2.-Charley is not at all pleased with mother's terms, but no one\nwould guess it from his manner to her. His coming is always the\nsignal for her trotting down stairs; he goes to meet her and offers\nher a chair, as if he was delighted to see her. We go on with the\nlessons, as this gives us a chance to sit pretty close together, and\nwhen I am writing my exercises and he corrects them, I rather think a\nfew little things get on to the paper that sound nicely to us, but\nwould not strike mother very agreeably. For instance, last night\nCharley wrote:\n\n\"Is your mother never sick? A nice little headache or two would be so\nconvenient to us!\"\n\nAnd I wrote back.\n\n\"You dear old horrid thing. How can you be so selfish?\"\n\nJan. 15, 1833.-I have been trying to think whether I am any happier\nto-day than I was at this time a year ago. If I am not, I suppose it\nis the tantalizing way in which I am placed in regard to Charley. We\nhave so much to say to each other that we can't say before mother,\nand that we cannot say in writing, because a correspondence is one of\nthe forbidden things. He says he entered into no contract not to\nwrite, and keeps slipping little notes into my hand; but I don't\nthink that quite right. Mother hears us arguing and disputing about\nit, though she does not know the subject under discussion, and to-day\nshe said to me:\n\n\"I would not argue with him, if I were you. He never will yield.\"\n\n\"But it is a case of conscience,\" I said, \"and he ought to yield.\"\n\n\"There is no obstinacy like that of a f---,\" she and stopped short.\n\n\"Oh, you may as well finish it!\" I cried. \"I know you think him a\nfool.\"\n\nThen mother burst out,\n\n\"Oh, my child,\" she said, \"before it is too late, do be persuaded by\nme to give up this whole thing. I shrink from paining or offending\nyou, but it is my duty, as your mother, to warn you against a\nmarriage that will make shipwreck of your happiness.\"\n\n\"Marriage!\" I fairly shrieked out. That is the last thing I have ever\nthought of. I felt a chill creep over me. All I had wanted was to\nhave Charley come here every day, take me out now and then, and care\nfor nobody else.\n\n\"Yes, marriage!\" mother repeated. \"For what is the meaning of an\nengagement if marriage is not to follow? How can you fail to see,\nwhat I see, oh! so plainly, that Charley Underhill can never, never\nmeet the requirements of your soul. You are captivated by what girls\nof your age call beauty, regular features, a fair complexion and soft\neyes. His flatteries delude, and his professions of affection gratify\nyou. You do not see that he is shallow, and conceited, and selfish\nand-\"\n\n\"Oh mother! How can you be so unjust? His whole study seems to be to\nplease others.\"\n\n\"Seems to be--that is true,\" she replied. \"His ruling passion is love\nof admiration; the little pleasing acts that attract you are so many\ntraps set to catch the attention and the favorable opinion of those\nabout him. He has not one honest desire to please because it is right\nto be pleasing. Oh, my precious child, what a fatal mistake you are\nmaking in relying on your own judgment in this, the most important of\nearthly decisions!\"\n\nI felt very angry.\n\n\"I thought the Bible forbade back-biting,\" I said.\n\nMother made no reply, except by a look which said about a hundred and\nforty different things. And then I came up here and wrote some\npoetry, which was very good (for me), though I don't suppose she\nwould think so.\n\nOct. 1.-The year of probation is over, and I have nothing to do now\nbut to be happy. But being engaged is not half so nice as I expected\nit would be. I suppose it is owing to my being obliged to defy\nmother's judgment in order to gratify my own. People say she has\ngreat insight into character, and sees, at a glance, what others only\nlearn after much study.\n\nOct. 10.-I have taken a dreadful cold. It is too bad. I dare say I\nshall be coughing all winter, and instead of going out with Charley,\nbe shut up at home.\n\nOct. 12.-Charley says he did not know that I was subject to a cough,\nand that he hopes I am not consumptive, because his father and mother\ndied of consumption, and it makes him nervous to hear people cough. I\nnearly strangled myself all the evening trying not to annoy him with\nmine.\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nIV\n\nNov. 2.\n\nI really think I am sick and going to die. Last night I raised a\nlittle blood. I dare not tell mother, it would distress her so, but I\nam sure it came from my lungs. Charley said last week he really must\nstay away till I got better, for my cough sounded like his mother's.\nI have been very lonely, and have shed some tears, but most of the\ntime have been too sorrowful to cry. If we were married, and I had a\ncough, would he go and leave me, I wonder?\n\nSunday, Nov 18-Poor mother is dreadfully anxious about me. But I\ndon't see how she can love me so, after the way I have behaved. I\nwonder if, after all, mothers are not the best friends there are! I\nkeep her awake with my cough all night, and am mopy and cross all\nday, but she is just as kind and affectionate as she can be.\n\nNov. 25.-The day I wrote that was Sunday. I could not go to church,\nand I felt very forlorn and desolate. I tried to get some comfort by\npraying, but when I got on my knees I just burst out crying and could\nnot say a word. For I have not seen Charley for ten days. As I knelt\nthere I began to think myself a perfect monster of selfishness for\nwanting him to spend his evenings with me, now that I am so unwell\nand annoy him so with my cough, and I asked myself if I ought not to\nbreak off the engagement altogether, if I was really in consumption,\nthe very disease Charley dreaded most of all. It seemed such a proper\nsacrifice to make of myself. Then I prayed-yes, I am sure I really\nprayed as I had not done for more than a year, the idea of\nself-sacrifice grew every moment more beautiful in my eyes, till at\nlast I felt an almost joyful triumph in writing to poor Charley, and\ntell him what I had resolved to do. This is my letter:\n\nMy Dear, Dear Charley--I dare not tell you what it costs me to say\nwhat I am about to do; but I am sure you know me well enough by this\ntime believe that it is only because your happiness is far more\nprecious to me than my own, that I have decided to write you this\nletter. When you first told me that you loved me, you said, and you\nhave often said so since then, that it was my \"brightness and gayety\"\nthat attracted you. I knew there was something underneath my gayety\nbetter worth your love, and was glad I could give you more than you\nasked for. I knew I was not a mere thoughtless, laughing girl, but\nthat I had a heart as wide as the ocean to give you-as wide and as\ndeep.\n\nBut now my \"brightness and gayety\" have gone; I am sick and perhaps\nam going to die. If this is so, it would be very sweet to have your\nlove go with me to the very gates of death, and beautify and glorify\nmy path thither. But what a weary task this would be to you, my poor\nCharley! And so, if you think it best, and it would relieve you of\nany care and pain, I will release you from our engagement and set you\nfree. Your Little Katy.\n\nI did not sleep at all that night. Early on Monday I sent off my\nletter; and my heart beat so hard all day that I was tired and faint.\nJust at dark his answer came; I can copy it from memory.\n\nDear Kate:--What a generous, self-sacrificing little thing you are! I\nalways thought so, but now you have given me a noble proof of it. I\nwill own that I have been disappointed to find your constitution so\npoor, and that it has been very dull sitting and hearing you cough,\nespecially as I was reminded of the long and tedious illness through\nwhich poor Jenny and myself had to nurse our mother. I vowed then\nnever to marry a consumptive woman, and I thank you for making it so\neasy for me to bring our engagement to an end. My bright hopes are\nblighted, and it will be long before I shall find another to fill\nyour place. I need not say how much I sympathize with you in this\ndisappointment. I hope the consolations of religion will now be\nyours. Your notes, the lock of your hair, etc., I return with this\nnow. I will not reproach you for the pain you have cost me; I know it\nis not your fault that your health has become so frail. I remain your\nsincere friend,\n\nCharles Underhill\n\nJan. 1, 1834.-Let me finish this story If I can.\n\nMy first impulse after reading his letter was to fly to mother, and\nhide away forever in her dear, loving arms.\n\nBut I restrained myself, and with my heart beating so that I could\nhardly hold my pen, I wrote:\n\nMr. Underhill Sir--The scales have fallen from my eyes, and I see you\nat last just as you are. Since my note to you on Sunday last, I have\nhad a consultation of physicians, and they all agree that my disease\nis not of an alarming character, and that I shall soon recover. But I\nthank God that before it was too late, you have been revealed to me\njust as you are-a heartless, selfish, shallow creature, unworthy the\nlove of a true-hearted woman, unworthy even of your own self-respect.\nI gave you an opportunity to withdraw from our engagement in full\nfaith, loving you so truly that I was ready to go trembling to my\ngrave alone if you shrank from sustaining me to it. But I see now\nthat I did not dream for one moment that you would take me at my word\nand leave me to my fate. I thought I loved a man, and could lean on\nhim when strength failed me; I know now that I loved a mere creature\nof my imagination. Take back your letters; loathe the sight of them.\nTake back the ring, and find, if you can, a woman who will never be\nsick, never out of spirits, and who never will die. Thank heaven it\nis not Katherine Mortimer.\n\nThese lines came to me in reply:\n\n\"Thank God it is not Kate Mortimer. I want an angel for my wife, not\na vixen. C. U.\"\n\nJan. 15-What a tempest-tossed creature this birthday finds me. But\nlet me finish this wretched, disgraceful story, if I can, before I\nquite lose my senses.\n\nI showed my mother the letters. She burst into tears and opened her\narms, and I ran into them as a wounded bird flies into the ark. We\ncried together. Mother never said, never looked, \"I told you so.\"\nAll she did say was this,\n\n\"God has heard my prayers! He is reserving better things for my\nchild!\"\n\nDear mother's are not the only arms I have flown to. But it does not\nseem as if God ought to take me in because I am in trouble, when I\nwould not go to him when I was happy in something else. But even in\nthe midst of my greatest felicity I had many and many a misgiving;\nmany a season when my conscience upbraided me for my willfulness\ntowards my dear mother, and my whole soul yearned for something\nhigher and better even than Charley's love, precious as it was.\n\nJan. 26.-I have shut myself up in my room to-day to think over\nthings. The end of it is that I am full of mortification and\nconfusion of face. If I had only had confidence in mother's judgment\nI should never have get entangled in this silly engagement. I see now\nthat Charley never could have made me happy, and I know there is a\ngood deal in my heart he never called out. I wish, however, I had not\nwritten him when I was in passion. No wonder he is thankful that he\nfree from such a vixen. But, oh the provocation was terrible!\n\nI have made up my mind never to tell a human soul about this affair.\nIt will be so high-minded and honorable to shield him thus from the\ncontempt he deserves. With all my faults I am glad that there is\nnothing mean or little about me!\n\nJan. 27.-I can't bear to write it down, but I will. The ink was\nhardly dry yesterday on the above self-laudation when Amelia came.\nShe had been out of town, and had only just learned what had\nhappened. Of course she was curious to know the whole story.\n\nAnd I told it to her, every word of it! Oh, Kate Mortimer, how\n\"high-minded\" you are! How free from all that is \"mean and little\"! I\ncould tear my hair if it would do any good?\n\nAmelia defended Charley, and I was thus led on to say every harsh\nthing of him I could think of. She said he was of so sensitive a\nnature, had so much sensibility, and such a constitutional aversion\nto seeing suffering, that for her part she could not blame him.\n\n\"It is such a pity you had not had your lungs examined before you\nwrote that first letter,\" she went on. \"But you are so impulsive! If\nyou had only waited you would be engaged to Charley still!\"\n\n\"I am thankful I did not wait,\" I cried, angrily. \"Do, Amelia, drop\nthe subject forever. You and I shall never agree upon it. The truth\nis, you are two-thirds in love with him, and have been, all along.\"\n\nShe colored, and laughed, and actually looked pleased. If anyone had\nmade such an outrageous speech to me I should have been furious.\n\n\"I suppose you know,\" said she, \"that old Mr. Underhill has taken\nsuch a fancy to him that he has made him his heir; and he is as rich\nas a Jew.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" I said, dryly.\n\nI wonder if mother knew it when she opposed our engagement so\nstrenuously.\n\nJan. 31.-I have asked her, and she said she did. Mr. Underhill told\nher his intentions when he urged her consent to the engagement. Dear\nmother! How unworldly, how unselfish she is!\n\nFeb. 4.-The name of Charley Underhill appears on these pages for the\nlast time. He is engaged to Amelia! From this moment she is lost to\nme forever. How desolate, how mortified, how miserable I am! Who\ncould have thought this of Amelia! She came to see me, radiant with\njoy. I concealed my disgust until she said that Charley felt now that\nhe had never really loved me, but had preferred her all along. Then I\nburst out. What I said I do not know, and do not care. The whole\nthing is so disgraceful that I should be a stock or a stone not to\nresent it.\n\nFeb. 5.-After yesterday's passion of grief, shame, and anger, I feel\nperfectly stupid and languid. Oh, that I was prepared for a better\nworld, and could fly to it and be at rest!\n\nFeb. 6.-Now that it is all over, how ashamed I am of the fury I have\nbeen in, and which has given Amelia such advantage over me! I was\nbeginning to believe that I was really living a feeble and\nfluttering, but real Christian life, and finding some satisfaction in\nit. But that is all over now. I am doomed to be a victim of my own\nunstable, passionate, wayward nature, and the sooner I settle down\ninto that conviction, the better. And yet how my very soul craves the\nhighest happiness, and refuses to be comforted while that is wanting.\n\nFeb. 7.-After writing that, I do not know what made me go to see Dr.\nCabot. He received me in that cheerful way of his that seems to\npromise the taking one's burden right off one's back.\n\n\"I am very glad to see you, my dear child,\" he said.\n\nI intended to be very dignified and cold. As if I was going to have\nany Dr. Cabot's undertaking to sympathize with me! But those few kind\nwords just upset me, and I began to cry.\n\n\"You would not speak so kindly,\" I got out at last, \"if you knew what\na dreadful creature I am. I am angry with myself, and angry with\neverybody, and angry with God. I can't be good two minutes at a time.\nI do everything I do not want to do, and do nothing I try and pray to\ndo. Everybody plagues me and tempts me. And God does not answer any\nof my prayers, and I am just desperate.\"\n\n\"Poor child!\" he said, in a low voice, as if to himself. \"Poor,\nheart-sick, tired child, that cannot see what I can see, that its\nFather's loving arms are all about it?\"\n\nI stopped crying, to strain my ears and listen. He went on.\n\n\"Katy, all that you say may be true. I dare say it is. But God loves\nyou. He loves you.\"\n\n\"He loves me,\" I repeated to myself. \"He loves me! Oh, Dr. Cabot, if\nI could believe that! If I could believe that, after all the promises\nI have broken, all the foolish, wrong things I have done and shall\nalways be doing, God perhaps still loves me!\"\n\n\"You may be sure of it,\" he said, solemnly. \"I, minister, bring the\ngospel to you to-day. Go home and say over and over to yourself, 'I\nam a wayward, foolish child. But He loves me! I have disobeyed and\ngrieved Him ten thousand times. But He loves me! I have lost faith in\nsome of my dearest friends and am very desolate. But He loves me! I\ndo not love Him, I am even angry with Him! But He loves me! '\"\n\nI came away, and all the way home I fought this battle with myself,\nsaying, \"He loves me!\" I knelt down to pray, and all my wasted,\nchildish, wicked life came and stared me in the face. I looked at it,\nand said with tears of joy, \"But He loves me!\" Never in my life did I\nfeel so rested, so quieted, so sorrowful, and yet so satisfied.\n\nFeb 10.-What a beautiful world this is, and how full it is of truly\nkind, good people! Mrs. Morris was here this morning, and just one\nsqueeze of that long, yellow old hand of hers seemed to speak a\nbookful! I wonder why I have always disliked her so, for she is\nreally an excellent woman. I gave her a good kiss to pay her for the\nsympathy she had sense enough not to put into canting words, and if\nyou will believe it, dear old Journal, the tears came into her eyes,\nand she said:\n\n\"You are one of the Lord's beloved ones, though perhaps you do not\nknow it.\"\n\nI repeated again to myself those sweet, mysterious words, and then I\ntried to think what I could do for Him. But I could not think of\nanything great or good enough. I went into mother's room and put my\narms round her and told her how I loved her. She looked surprised and\npleased.\n\n\"Ah, I knew it would come!\" she said, laying her hand on her Bible.\n\n\"Knew what would come, mother?\"\n\n\"Peace,\" she said.\n\nI came back here and wrote a little note to Amelia, telling her how\nashamed and sorry I was that I could not control myself the other\nday. Then I wrote a long letter to James. I have been very careless\nabout writing to him.\n\nThen I began to hem those handkerchiefs mother asked me to finish a\nmonth ago. But I could not think of anything to do for God. I wish I\ncould. It makes me so happy to think that all this time, while I was\ncaring for nobody but myself, and fancying He must almost hate me, He\nwas loving and pitying me.\n\nFeb. 15.-I went to see Dr. Cabot again to-day. He came down from his\nstudy with his pen in his hand.\n\n\"How dare you come and spoil my sermon on Saturday?\" he asked,\ngood-humoredly.\n\nThough he seemed full of loving kindness, I was ashamed of my\nthoughtlessness. Though I did not know he was particularly busy on\nSaturdays. If I were a minister I am sure I would get my sermons done\nearly in the week.\n\n\"I only wanted to ask one thing,\" I said. \"I want to do something for\nGod. And I cannot think of anything unless it is to go on a mission.\nAnd mother would never let me do that. She thinks girls with delicate\nhealth are not fit for such work.\"\n\n\"At all events I would not go to-day,\" he replied. \"Meanwhile do\neverything you do for Him who has loved you and given Himself for\nyou.\"\n\nI did not dare to stay any longer, and so came away quite puzzled.\nDinner was ready, and as I sat down to the table, I said to myself:\n\n\"I eat this dinner for myself, not for God. What can Dr. Cabot mean?\"\nThen I remembered the text about doing all for the glory of God, even\nin eating and drinking; but I do not understand it at all.\n\nFeb. 19.-It has seemed to me for several days that it must be that I\nreally do love God, though ever so little. But it shot through my\nmind to-day like a knife, that it is a miserable, selfish love at the\nbest, not worth my giving, not worth God's accepting. All my old\nmisery has come back with seven other miseries more miserable than\nitself. I wish I had never been born! I wish I were thoughtless and\ncareless, like so many other girls of my age, who seem to get along\nvery well, and to enjoy themselves far more than I do.\n\nFeb. 21.-Dr. Cabot came to see me to-day. I told him all about it. He\ncould not help smiling as he said:\n\n\"When I see a little infant caressing its mother, would you have me\nsay to it, 'You selfish child, how dare you pretend to caress your\nmother in that way? You are quite unable to appreciate her character;\nyou love her merely because she loves you, treats you kindly?'\"\n\nIt was my turn to smile now, at my own folly.\n\n\"You are as yet but a babe in Christ,\" Dr. Cabot continued. \"You love\nyour God and Saviour because He first loved you. The time will come\nwhen the character of your love will become changed into one which\nsees and feels the beauty and the perfection of its object, and if\nyou could be assured that He no longer looked on you with favor, you\nwould still cling to Him with devoted affection.\"\n\n\"There is one thing more that troubles me,\" I said. \"Most persons\nknow the exact moment when they begin real Christian lives. But I do\nnot know of any such time in my history. This causes me many uneasy\nmoments.\"\n\n\"You are wrong in thinking that most persons have this advantage over\nyou. I believe that the children of Christian parents, who have been\njudiciously trained, rarely can point to any day or hour when they\nbegan to live this new life. The question is not, do you remember, my\nchild, when you entered this world, and how! It is simply this, are\nyou now alive and an inhabitant thereof? And now it is my turn to ask\nyou a question. How happens it that you, who have a mother of rich\nand varied experience, allow yourself to be tormented with these\npetty anxieties which she is as capable of dispelling as I am?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" I answered. \"But we girls can't talk to our mothers\nabout any of our sacred feelings, and we hate to have them talk to\nus.\"\n\nDr. Cabot shook his head.\n\n\"There is something wrong somewhere,\" he said, \"A young girl's mother\nis her natural refuge in every perplexity. I hoped that you, who have\nrather more sense than most girls of your age, could give me some\nidea what the difficulty is.\"\n\nAfter he had gone, I am ashamed to own that I was in a perfect\nflutter of delight at what he had said about my having more sense\nthan most girls. Meeting poor mother on the stairs while in this\nexalted state of mind, I gave her a very short answer to a kind\nquestion, and made her unhappy, as I have made myself.\n\nIt is just a year ago to-day that I got frightened at my\nnovel-reading propensities, and resolved not to look into one for\ntwelve months. I was getting to dislike all other books, and night\nafter night sat up late, devouring everything exciting I could get\nhold of. One Saturday night I sat up till the clock struck twelve to\nfinish one, and the next morning I was so sleepy that I had to stay\nat home from church. Now I hope and believe the back of this taste is\nbroken, and that I shall never be a slave to it again. Indeed it does\nnot seem to me now that I shall ever care for such books again.\n\nFeb. 24.-Mother spoke to me this morning for the fiftieth time, I\nreally believe, about my disorderly habits. I don't think I am\ncareless because I like confusion, but the trouble is I am always in\na hurry and a ferment about something. If I want anything, I want it\nvery much, and right away. So if I am looking for a book, or a piece\nof music, or a pattern, I tumble everything around, and can't stop to\nput them to rights. I wish I were not so-eager and impatient. But I\nmean to try to keep my room and my drawers in order, to please\nmother.\n\nShe says, too, that I am growing careless about my hair and my dress.\nBut that is because my mind is so full of graver, more important\nthings. I thought I ought to be wholly occupied with my duty to God.\nBut mother says duty to God includes duty to one's neighbor, and that\nuntidy hair, put up in all sorts of rough bunches, rumpled cuffs and\ncollars, and all that sort of thing, make one offensive to all one\nmeets. I am sorry she thinks so, for I find it very convenient to\ntwist up my hair almost any how, and it takes a good deal of time to\nlook after collars and cuffs.\n\nMarch 14.-To-day I feel discouraged and disappointed. I certainly\nthought that if God really loved me, and I really loved Him, I should\nfind myself growing better day by day. But I am not improved in the\nleast. Most of the time I spend on my knees I am either stupid;\nfeeling nothing at all, or else my head is full of what I was doing\nbefore I began to pray, or what I am going to do as soon as I get\nthrough. I do not believe anybody else in the world is like me in\nthis respect. Then when I feel differently, and can make a nice, glib\nprayer, with floods of tears running down my cheeks, I get all puffed\nup, and think how much pleased God must be to see me so fervent in\nspirit. I go down-stairs in this frame, and begin to scold Susan for\nmisplacing my music, till all of a sudden I catch myself doing it,\nand stop short, crestfallen and confounded. I have so many such\nexperiences that I feel like a baby just learning to walk, who is so\nafraid of falling that it has half a mind to sit down once for all.\n\nThen there is another thing. Seeing mother so fond of Thomas A\nKempis, I have been reading it, now and then, and am not fond of it\nat all. From beginning to end it exhorts to self-denial in every form\nand shape. Must I then give up all hope of happiness in this world,\nand modify all my natural tastes and desires? Oh, I do love so to be\nhappy! I do so hate to suffer! The very thought of being sick, or of\nbeing forced to nurse sick people, with all their cross ways, and of\nlosing my friends, or of having to live with disagreeable people,\nmakes me shudder. I want to please God, and to be like Him. I\ncertainly do. But I am so young, and it is so natural to want to have\na good time! And now I am in for it I may as well tell the whole\nstory. When I read the lives of good men and women who have died and\ngone to heaven, I find they all liked to sit and think about God and\nabout Christ. Now I don't. I often try, but my mind flies off in a\ntangent. The truth is I am perfectly discouraged.\n\nMarch 17.-I went to see Dr. Cabot to-day, but he was out, so I\nthought I would ask for Mrs. Cabot, though I was determined not to\ntell her any of my troubles. But somehow she got the whole story out\nof me, and instead of being shocked, as I expected she would be, she\nactually burst out laughing! She recovered herself immediately,\nhowever.\n\n\"Do excuse me for laughing at you, you dear child you!\" she said.\n\"But I remember so well how I use to flounder through just such\nneedless anxieties, and life looks so different, so very different,\nto me now from what it did then! What should you think of a man who,\nhaving just sowed his field, was astonished not to see it at once\nripe for the harvest, because his neighbor's, after long months of\nwaiting, was just being gathered in?\"\n\n\"Do you mean,\" I asked, \"that by and by I shall naturally come to\nfeel and think as other good people do?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. You must make the most of what little Christian life you\nhave; be thankful God has given you so much, cherish it, pray over\nit, and guard it like the apple of your eye. Imperceptibly, but\nsurely, it will grow, and keep on growing, for this is its nature.\"\n\n\"But I don't want to wait,\" I said, despondently. \"I have just been\nreading a delightful book, full of stories of heroic deeds-not\nfables, but histories of real events and real people. It has quite\nstirred me up, and made me wish to possess such beautiful heroism,\nand that I were a man, that I might have a chance to perform some\ntruly noble, self-sacrificing acts.\"\n\n\"I dare say your chance will come,\" she replied, \"though you are not\na man. I fancy we all get, more or less, what we want.\"\n\n\"Do you really think so? Let me see, then, what I want most. But I am\nstaying too long. Were you particularly busy?\"\n\n\"No,\" she returned smilingly, \"I am learning that the man who wants\nme is the man I want.\"\n\n\"You are very good to say so. Well, in the first place, I do really\nand truly want to be good. Not with common goodness, you know, but-\"\n\n\"But uncommon goodness,\" she put in.\n\n\"I mean that I want to be very, very good. I should like next best to\nbe learned and accomplished. Then I should want to be perfectly well\nand perfectly happy. And a pleasant home, of course, I must have,\nwith friends to love me, and like me, too. And I can't get along\nwithout some pretty, tasteful things about me. But you are laughing\nat me! Have I said anything foolish?\"\n\n\"If I laughed it was not at you, but at poor human nature that would\nfain grasp everything at once. Allowing that you should possess all\nyou have just described, where is the heroism you so much admire for\nexercise?\"\n\n\"That is just what I was saying. That is just what troubles me.\"\n\n\"To be sure, while perfectly well and happy, in a pleasant home;\nwith friends to love and admire you--\"\n\n\"Oh, I did not say admire,\" I interrupted.\n\n\"That was just what you meant, my dear.\"\n\nI am afraid it was, now I come to think it over.\n\n\"Well, with plenty of friends, good in an uncommon way, accomplished,\nlearned, and surrounded with pretty and tasteful objects, your life\nwill certainly be in danger of not proving very sublime.\"\n\n\"It is a great pity,\" I said, musingly.\n\n\"Suppose then you content yourself for the present with doing in a\nfaithful, quiet, persistent way all the little, homely tasks that\nreturn with each returning day, each one as unto God, and perhaps by\nand by you will thus have gained strength for a more heroic life.\"\n\n\"But I don't know how.\"\n\n\"You have some little home duties, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes; I have the care of my own room, and mother wants me to have a\ngeneral oversight of the parlor; you know we have but one parlor\nnow.\"\n\n\"Is that all you have to do?\"\n\n\"Why, my music and drawing take up a good deal of my time, and I read\nand study more or less, and go out some, and we have a good many\nvisitors.\"\n\n\"I suppose, then, you keep your room in nice lady-like order, and\nthat the parlor is dusted every morning, loose music put out of the\nway, books restored to their places-\"\n\n\"Now I know mother has been telling you.\"\n\n\"Your mother has told me nothing at all.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" I said, laughing, but a little ashamed, \"I don't keep\nmy room in nice order, and mother really sees to the parlor herself,\nthough I pretend to do it.\"\n\n\"And is she never annoyed by this neglect?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, very much annoyed.\"\n\n\"Then, dear Katy, suppose your first act of heroism to-morrow should\nbe the gratifying your mother in these little things, little though\nthey are. Surely your first duty, next to pleasing God, is to please\nyour mother, and in every possible way to sweeten and beautify her\nlife. You may depend upon it that a life of real heroism and\nself-sacrifice must begin and lay its foundation in this little\nworld, wherein it learns its first lesson and takes its first steps.\"\n\n\"And do you really think that God notices such little things?\"\n\n\"My dear child, what a question! If there is any one truth I would\ngladly impress on the mind of a you Christian, it is just this, that\nGod notices the most trivial act, accepts the poorest, most\nthreadbare little service, listens to the coldest, feeblest petition,\nand gathers up with parental fondness all our fragmentary desires and\nattempts at good works. Oh, if we could only begin to conceive how He\nloves us, what different creatures we should be!\"\n\nI felt inspired by her enthusiasm, though I don't think I quite\nunderstand what she means. I did not dare to stay any longer, for,\nwith her great host of children, she must have her hands full.\n\nMarch 25.-Mother is very much astonished to see how nicely I am\nkeeping things in order. I was flying about this morning, singing,\nand dusting the furniture, when she came in and began, \"He that is\nfaithful in that which is least\"-but I ran at her my brush, and\nwould not let her finish. I really, really don't deserve to be praised.\nFor I have been thinking that, if it is true that God notices every\nlittle thing we do to please Him, He must also notice every cross\nword we speak, every shrug of the shoulders, every ungracious look,\nand that they displease Him. And my list of such offences is as long\nas my life.\n\nMarch 29-Yesterday, for the first time since that dreadful blow, I\nfelt some return of my natural gayety and cheerfulness. It seemed to\ncome hand in hand with my first real effort to go so far out of\nmyself as to try to do exactly what would gratify dear mother.\n\nBut to-day I am all down again. I miss Amelia's friendship, for one\nthing. To be sure I wonder how I ever came to love such a superficial\ncharacter so devotedly, but I must have somebody to love, and perhaps\nI invented a lovely creature, and called it by her name, and bowed\ndown to it and worshiped it. I certainly did so in regard to him\nwhose heart less cruelty has left me so sad, so desolate.\n\nEvening.-Mother has been very patient and forbearing with me all day.\nTo-night, after tea, she said, in her gentlest, tenderest way,\n\n\"Dear Katy, I feel very sorry for you. But I see one path which you\nhave not yet tried, which can lead you out of these sore straits. You\nhave tried living for yourself a good many years, and the result is\ngreat weariness and heaviness of soul. Try now to live for others.\nTake a class in the Sunday-school. Go with me to visit my poor\npeople. You will be astonished to find how much suffering and\nsickness there is in this world, and how delightful it is to\nsympathize with and try to relieve it.\"\n\nThis advice was very repugnant to me. My time is pretty fully\noccupied with my books, my music and my drawing. And of all places in\nthe world I hate a sick-room. But, on the whole, I will take a class\nin the Sunday-school.\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\nV.\n\nAPRIL 6.\n\nI have taken it at last. I would not take one before, because I knew\nI could not teach little children how to love God, unless I loved Him\nmyself. My class is perfectly delightful. There are twelve dear\nlittle things in it, of all ages between eight and nine. Eleven are\ngirls, and the one boy makes me more trouble than all of them put\ntogether. When I get them all about me, and their sweet innocent\nfaces look up into mine, I am so happy that I can hardly help\nstopping every now and then to kiss them. They ask the very strangest\nquestions I mean to spend a great deal of time in preparing the\nlesson, and in hunting up stories to illustrate it. Oh, I am so glad\nI was ever born into this beautiful world, where there will always be\ndear little children to love!\n\nAPRIL 13.-Sunday has come again, and with it my darling little class!\nDr. Cabot has preached delightfully all day, and I feel that I begin\nto understand his preaching better, and that it must do me good. I\nlong, I truly long to please God; I long to feel as the best\nChristians feel, and to live as they live.\n\nAPRIL 20.-Now that I have these twelve little ones to instruct, I am\nmore than ever in earnest about setting them a good example through\nthe week. It is true they do not, most of them, know how I spend my\ntime, nor how I act. But I know, and whenever I am conscious of not\npracticing what I preach, I am bitterly ashamed and grieved. How much\nwork, badly done, I am now having to undo. If I had begun in earnest\nto serve God when I was as young as these children are, how many\nwrong habits I should have avoided; habits that entangle me now, as\nin so many nets. I am trying to take each of these little gentle\ngirls by the hand and to lead her to Christ. Poor Johnny Ross is not\nso docile as they are, and tries my patience to the last degree.\n\nAPRIL 27.-This morning I had my little flock about me, and talked to\nthem out of the very bottom of my heart about Jesus. They left their\nseats and got close to me in a circle, leaning on my lap and drinking\nin every word. All of a sudden I was aware, as by a magnetic\ninfluence, that a great lumbering man in the next seat was looking at\nme out of two of the blackest eyes I ever saw, and evidently\nlistening to what I was saying. I was disconcerted at first, then\nangry. What impertinence. What rudeness! I am sure he must have seen\nmy displeasure in my face, for he got up what I suppose he meant for\na blush, that is he turned several shades darker than he was before,\ngiving one the idea that he is full of black rather than red blood. I\nshould not have remembered it, however-by it-I mean his\nimpertinence--if he had not shortly after made a really excellent\naddress to the children. Perhaps it was a little above their\ncomprehension, but it showed a good deal of thought and earnestness.\nI meant to ask who he was, but forgot it.\n\nThis has been a delightful Sunday. I have really feasted on Dr.\nCabot's preaching. But I am satisfied that there is something in\nreligion I do not yet comprehend. I do wish I positively knew that\nGod had forgiven and accepted me.\n\nMAY 6.-Last evening Clara Ray had a little party and I was there. She\nhas a great knack at getting the right sort of people together, and\nof making them enjoy themselves.\n\nI sang several songs, and so did Clara, but they all said my voice\nwas finer and in better training than hers. It is delightful to be\nwith cultivated, agreeable people. I could have stayed all night, but\nmother sent for me before any one else had thought of going.\n\nMAY 7.-I have been on a charming excursion to-day with Clara Ray and\nall her set. I was rather tired, but had an invitation to a concert\nthis evening which I could not resist.\n\nJULY 21.-So much has been going on that I have not had time to write.\nThere is no end to the picnics, drives, parties, etc., this summer. I\nam afraid I am not getting on at all. My prayers are dull and short,\nand full of wandering thoughts. I am brimful of vivacity and good\nhumor in company, and as soon as I get home am stupid and peevish. I\nsuppose this will always be so, as it always has been and I declare I\nwould rather be so than such a vapid, flat creature as Mary Jones, or\nsuch a dull, heavy one as big Lucy Merrill.\n\nJULY 24.-Clara Ray says the girls think me reckless and imprudent in\nspeech. I've a good mind not to go with her set any more. I am afraid\nI have been a good deal dazzled by the attentions I have received of\nlate; and now comes this blow at my vanity.\n\nOn the whole, I feel greatly out of sorts this evening.\n\nJULY 28.-People talk about happiness to be found in a Christian life.\nI wonder why I do not find more! On Sundays I am pretty good, and\nalways seem to start afresh; but on week-days I am drawn along with\nthose about me. All my pleasures are innocent ones; there is surely\nno harm in going to concerts, driving out, singing, and making little\nvisits! But these things distract me; they absorb me; they make\nreligious duties irksome. I almost wish I could shut myself up in a\ncell, and so get out of the reach of temptation.\n\nThe truth is, the journey heavenward is all up hill I have to force\nmyself to keep on. The wonder is that anybody gets there with so much\nto oppose--- so little to help one!\n\nJULY 29.-It is high time to stop and think. I have been like one\nrunning a race, and am stopping to take breath. I do not like the way\nin which things have been going on of late. I feel restless and ill\nat ease. I see that if I would be happy in God, I must give Him all.\nAnd there is a wicked reluctance to do that. I want Him-but I want to\nhave my own way, too. I want to walk humbly and softly before Him,\nand I want to go where I shall be admired and applauded. To whom\nshall I yield? To God? Or to myself?\n\nJULY 30.-I met Dr. Cabot to-day, and could not, help asking the\nquestion:\n\n\"Is it right for me to sing and play in company when all I do it for\nis to be admired?\"\n\n\"Are you sure it is all you do it for?\" he returned.\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, \"I suppose there may be a sprinkling of desire to\nentertain and please, mixed with the love of display.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose that your love of display, allowing you have it,\nwould be forever slain by your merely refusing to sing in company?\"\n\n\"I thought that might give it a pretty hard blow,\" I said, \"if not\nits death-blow.\"\n\n\"Meanwhile, in, punishing yourself you punish your poor innocent\nfriends,\" he said laughing. \"No child, go on singing; God has given\nyou this power of entertaining and, gratifying your friends. But,\npray without ceasing, that you may sing from pure benevolence and\nnot from pure self-love.\"\n\n\"Why, do people pray about such things as that?\" I cried.\n\n\"Of course they do. Why, I would pray about my little finger, if my\nlittle finger went astray.\"\n\nI looked at his little finger, but saw no signs of its becoming\nschismatic.\n\nAUG. 3.-This morning I took great delight in praying for my little\nscholars, and went to Sunday-school as on wings. But on reaching my\nseat, what was my horror to find Maria Perry there!\n\n\"Oh, your seat is changed,\" said she. \"I am to have half your class,\nand I like this seat better than those higher up. I suppose you don't\ncare?\"\n\n\"But I do care,\" I returned; \"and you have taken my very best\nchildren-the very sweetest and the very prettiest. I shall speak to\nMr. Williams about it directly.\"\n\n\"At any rate, I would not fly into such a fury,\" she said. \"It is\njust as pleasant to me to have pretty children to teach as it is to\nyou. Mr. Williams said he had no doubt you would be glad to divide\nyour class with me, as it is so large; and I doubt if you gain\nanything by speaking to him.\"\n\nThere was no time for further discussion, as school was about to\nbegin. I went to my new seat with great disgust, and found it very\ninconvenient. The children could not cluster around me as they did\nbefore, and I got on with the lesson very badly. I am sure Maria\nPerry has no gift at teaching little children, and I feel quite vexed\nand disappointed. This has not been a profitable Sunday, and I and\nnow going to bed, cheerless and uneasy.\n\nAUG. 9.-Mr. Williams called this evening to say that I am to have my\nold seat and all the children again. All the mothers had been to see\nhim, or had written him notes about it, and requested that I continue\nto teach them. Mr. Williams said he hoped I would go on teaching for\ntwenty years, and that as fast as his little girls grew old enough to\ncome to Sunday-school he should want me to take charge of them. I\nshould have been greatly elated by these compliments, but for the\ndisplay I made of myself to Maria Perry on Sunday. Oh, that I could\nlearn to bridle my unlucky tongue!\n\nJAN. 15, 1835.-To-day I am twenty. That sounds very old, yet I feel\npretty much as I did before. I have begun to visit some of mother's\npoor folks with her, and am astonished to see how they love her, how\nplainly they let her talk to them. As a general rule, I do not think\npoor people are very interesting, and they are always ungrateful.\n\nWe went first to see old Jacob Stone. I have been there a good many\ntimes with the baskets of nice things mother takes such comfort in\nsending him, but never would go in. I was shocked to see how worn\naway he was. He seemed in great distress of mind, and begged mother\nto pray with him. I do not see how she could. I am perfectly sure\nthat no earthly power could ever induce me to go round praying on\nbare floors, with people sitting, rocking and staring all the time,\nas the two Stone girls stared at mother. How tenderly she prayed for\nhim!\n\nWe then went to see Susan Green. She had made a carpet for her room\nby sewing together little bits of pieces given her, I suppose, by\npersons for whom she works, for she goes about fitting and making\ncarpets. It looked bright and cheerful. She had a nice bed in the\ncorner, covered with a white quilt, and some little ornaments were\narranged about the room. Mother complimented her on her neatness, and\nsaid a queen might sleep in such a bed as that, and hoped she found\nit as comfortable as it looked.\n\n\"Mercy on us!\" she cried out, \"it ain't to sleep in! I sleep up in\nthe loft, that I climb to by a ladder every night.\"\n\nMother looked a little amused, and then she sat and listened,\npatiently, to a long account of how the poor old thing had invested\nher money; how Mr. Jones did not pay the interest regularly, and how\nMr. Stevens haggled about the percentage. After we came away, I asked\nmother how she could listen to such a rigmarole in patience, and what\ngood she supposed she had done by her visit.\n\n\"Why the poor creature likes to show off her bright carpet and nice\nbed, her chairs, her vases and her knick-knacks, and she likes to\ntalk about her beloved money, and her bank stock. I may not have done\nher any good; but I have given her a pleasure, and so have you.\"\n\n\"Why, I hardly spoke a word.\"\n\n\"Yes, but your mere presence gratified her. And if she ever gets into\ntrouble, she will feel kindly towards us for the sake of our sympathy\nwith her pleasures, and will let us sympathize with her sorrows.\"\n\nI confess this did not seem a privilege to be coveted. She is not\nnice at all, and takes snuff.\n\nWe went next to see Bridget Shannon. Mother had lost sight of her for\nsome years, and had just heard that she was sick and in great want.\nWe found her in bed; there was no furniture in the room, and three\nlittle half-naked children sat with their bare feet in some ashes\nwhere there had been a little fire. Three such disconsolate faces I\nnever saw. Mother sent me to the nearest baker's for bread; I ran\nnearly all the way, and I hardly know which I enjoyed most, mother's\neagerness in distributing, or the children's in clutching at and\ndevouring it. I am going to cut up one or two old dresses to make the\npoor things something to cover them. One of them has lovely hair that\nwould curl beautifully if it were only brushed out. I told her to\ncome to see me to-morrow, she is so very pretty. Those few visits\nused up the very time I usually spend in drawing. But on the whole I\nam glad I went with mother, because it has gratified her. Besides,\none must either stop reading the Bible altogether, or else leave off\nspending one's whole time in just doing easy pleasant things one\nlikes to do.\n\nJAN. 20.-The little Shannon girl came, and I washed her face and\nhands, brushed out her hair and made it curl in lovely golden\nringlets all round her sweet face, and carried her in great triumph\nto mother.\n\n\"Look at the dear little thing, mother!\" I cried; \"doesn't she look\nlike a line of poetry?\"\n\n\"You foolish, romantic child!\" quoth mother. \"She looks, to me,\nlike a very ordinary line of prose. A slice of bread and butter and a\npiece of gingerbread mean more to her than these elaborate ringlets\npossibly can. They get in her eyes, and make her neck cold; see, they\nare dripping with water, and the child is all in a shiver.\"\n\nSo saying, mother folded a towel round its neck, to catch the falling\ndrops, and went for bread and butter, of which the child consumed a\nquantity that, was absolutely appalling. To crown all, the ungrateful\nlittle thing would not so much as look at me from that moment, but\nclung to mother, turning its back upon me in supreme contempt.\n\nMoral.-Mothers occasionally know more than their daughters do.\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\nVI.\n\nJANUARY 24. A Message came yesterday morning from Susan Green to the\neffect that she had had a dreadful fall, and was half killed. Mother\nwanted to set off at once to see her, but I would not let her go, as\nshe has one of her worst colds. She then asked me to go in her place.\nI turned up my nose at the bare thought, though I dare say it turns\nup enough on its own account.\n\n\"Oh, mother!\" I said, reproachfully \"that dirty old woman!\"\n\nMother made no answer, and I sat down at the piano, and played a\nlittle. But I only played discords.\n\n\"Do you think it is my duty to run after such horrid old women?\" I\nasked mother, at last.\n\n\"I think, dear, you must make your own duties,\" she said kindly. \"I\ndare say that at your age I should have made a great deal out of my\npersonal repugnance to such a woman as Susan, and very little out of\nher sufferings.\"\n\nI believe I am the most fastidious creature in the world. Sick-rooms\nwith their intolerable smells of camphor, and vinegar and mustard,\ntheir gloom and their whines and their groans, actually make me\nshudder. But was it not just such fastidiousness that made Cha-no, I\nwon't utter his name----that made somebody weary of my possibilities?\nAnd has that terrible lesson really done me no good?\n\nJAN. 26.-No sooner had I written the above than I scrambled into my\ncloak and bonnet, and flew, on the wings of holy indignation, to\nSusan Green. Such wings fly fast, and got me a little out of breath.\nI found her lying on that nice white bed of hers, in a frilled cap\nand night-gown. It seems she fell from her ladder in climbing to the\ndismal den where she sleeps, and lay all night in great distress with\nsome serious internal injury. I found her groaning and complaining in\na fearful way.\n\n\"Are you in such pain?\" I asked, as kindly as I could.\n\n\"It isn't the pain,\" she said, \"it isn't the pain. It's the way my\nnice bed is going to wreck and ruin, and the starch all getting out\nof my frills that I fluted with my own hands. And the doctor's bill,\nand the medicines; oh, dear, dear, dear!\"\n\nJust then the doctor came in. After examining her, he said to a woman\nwho seemed to have charge of her:\n\n\"Are you the nurse?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I only stepped in to see what I could do for her.\"\n\n\"Who is to be with her to-night, then?\"\n\nNobody knew.\n\n\"I will send a nurse, then,\" he said. \"But some one else will be\nneeded also,\" he added, looking at me.\n\n\"I will stay,\" I said. But my heart died within me.\n\nThe doctor took me aside.\n\n\"Her injuries are very serious,\" he said. \"If she has any friends,\nthey ought to be sent for.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that she is going to die?\" I asked.\n\n\"I fear she is. But not immediately.\" He took leave, and I went back\nto the bedside. I saw there no longer a snuffy, repulsive old woman,\nbut a human being about to make that mysterious journey a far country\nwhence there is no return. Oh, how I wished mother were there!\n\n\"Susan,\" I said, \"have you any relatives?\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" she answered sharply. \"And if I had they needn't\ncome prowling around me. I don't want no relations about my body.\"\n\n\"Would you like to see Dr. Cabot?\"\n\n\"What should I want of Dr. Cabot? Don't tease, child.\"\n\nConsidering the deference with which she had heretofore treated me,\nthis was quite a new order of things.\n\nI sat down and tried to pray for her, silently, in my heart. Who was\nto go with her on that long journey, and where was it to end?\n\nThe woman who had been caring for her now went away, and it was\ngrowing dark. I sat still listening to my own heart, which beat till\nit half choked me.\n\n\"What were you and the doctor whispering about?\" she suddenly burst\nout.\n\n\"He asked me, for one thing, if you had any friends that could be\nsent for.\"\n\n\"I've been my own best friend,\" she returned. \"Who'd have raked and\nscraped and hoarded and counted for Susan Green if I hadn't ha' done\nit? I've got enough to make me comfortable as long as I live, and\nwhen I lie on my dying bed.\"\n\n\"But you can't carry it with you,\" I said. This highly original\nremark was all I had courage to utter.\n\n\"I wish I could,\" she cried. \"I suppose you think I talk awful. They\nsay you are getting most to be as much of a saint as your ma. It's\nborn in some, and in some it ain't. Do get a light. It's lonesome\nhere in the dark, and cold.\"\n\nI was thankful enough to enliven the dark room with light and fire.\nBut I saw now that the thin, yellow, hard face had changed sadly. She\nfixed her two little black eyes on me, evidently startled by the\nexpression of my face.\n\n\"Look here, child, I ain't hurt to speak of, am I?\"\n\n\"The doctor says you are hurt seriously.\"\n\nMy tone must have said more than my words did for she caught me by\nthe wrist and held me fast.\n\n\"He didn't say nothing about my-about it being dangerous? I ain't\ndangerous, am I?\"\n\nI felt ready to sink.\n\n\"Oh Susan!\" I gasped out; \"you haven't any time to lose. You're\ngoing, you're going!\"  \"Going!\" she cried; \"going where? You don't\nmean to say I'm a-dying? Why, it beats all my calculations. I was\ngoing to live ever so years, and save up ever so much money, and when\nmy time come, I was going to put on my best fluted night-gown and\nnight-cap, and lay my head on my handsome pillow, and draw the\nclothes up over me, neat and tidy, and die decent. But here's my bed\nall in a toss, and my frills all in a crumple and my room all upside\ndown, and bottles of medicine setting around alongside of my vases,\nand nobody here but you, just a girl, and nothing else!\"\n\nAll this came out by jerks, as it were, and at intervals.\n\n\"Don't talk so!\" I fairly screamed. \"Pray, pray to God to have mercy\non you!\"\n\nShe looked at me, bewildered, but yet as if the truth had reached her\nat last.\n\n\"Pray yourself!\" she said, eagerly. \"I don't know how. I can't\nthink. Oh, my time's come my time's come! And I ain't ready! I ain't\nready! Get down on your knees and pray with all your, might and\nmain.\"\n\nAnd I did; she holding my wrist tightly in hard hand. All at once I\nfelt her hold relax. After that the next thing I knew I was lying on\nthe floor and somebody was dashing water in my face.\n\nIt was the nurse. She had come at last, and found me by the side of\nthe bed, where I had fallen, and had been trying to revive me ever\nsince. I started up and looked about me. The nurse was closing\nSusan's eyes in a professional way, and performing other little\nservices of the sort. The room wore an air of perfect desolation. The\nclothes Susan had on when she fell lay in a forlorn heap on a chair;\nher shoes and stockings were thrown hither and thither; the mahogany\nbureau, in which she had taken so much pride, was covered with vials,\nto make room for which some pretty trifles had been hastily thrust\naside. I remembered what I had once said to Mrs. Cabot about having\ntasteful things about me, with a sort of shudder. What a mockery they\nare in the awful presence of death!\n\nMother met me with open arms when I reached home. She was much\nshocked at what I had to tell, and at my having encountered such a\nscene alone I should have felt myself quite a heroine under her\ncaresses if I had not been overcome with bitter regret that I had\nnot, with firmness and dignity turned poor Susan's last thoughts to\nher Saviour. Oh, how could I, through miserable cowardice, let those\nprecious moments slip by!\n\nFeb 27.-I have learned one thing by yesterday's experience that is\nworth knowing. It is this: duty looks more repelling at a distance\nthan when fairly faced and met. Of course I have read the lines,\n\n    \"Nor know we anything so fair\n     As is the smile upon thy face;\"\n\nbut I seem to be one of the stupid sort, who never apprehend a thing\ntill they experience it. Now, however, I have seen the smile, and\nfind it so \"fair,\" that I shall gladly plod through many a hardship\nand trial to meet it again.\n\nPoor Susan! Perhaps God heard my prayer for her soul, and revealed\nHimself to her at the very last moment.\n\nMarch 2.-Such a strange thing has happened! Susan Green left a will,\nbequeathing her precious savings to whoever offered the last prayer\nin her hearing! I do not want, I never could touch a penny of that\nhardly-earned store; and if I did, no earthly motive would tempt me\nto tell a human being, that it was offered by me, an inexperienced,\ntrembling girl, driven to it by mere desperation! So it has gone to\nDr. Cabot, who will not use it for himself, I am sure, but will be\ndelighted to have it to give to poor people, who really besiege him.\nThe last time he called to see her he talked and prayed with her, and\nsays she seemed pleased and grateful, and promised to be more regular\nat church, which she had been, ever since.\n\nMarch 28.-I feel all out of sorts. Mother says it is owing to the\nstrain I went through at Susan's dying bed. She wants me to go to\nvisit my aunt Mary, who is always urging me to come. But I do not\nlike to leave my little Sunday scholars, nor to give mother the\noccasion to deny herself in order to meet the expense of such a long\njourney. Besides, I should have to have some new dresses, a new\nbonnet, and lots of things.\n\nTo-day Dr. Cabot has sent me some directions for which I have been\nbegging him a long time. Lest I should wear out this precious letter\nby reading it over, I will copy it here. After alluding to my\ncomplaint that I still \"saw men as trees walking,\" he says:\n\n\"Yet he who first uttered this complaint had had his eyes opened by\nthe Son of God, and so have you. Now He never leaves His work\nincomplete, and He will gradually lead you into clear and open\nvision, if you will allow Him to do it. I say gradually, because I\nbelieve this to be His usual method, while I do not deny that there\nare cases where light suddenly bursts in like a flood. To return to\nthe blind man. When Jesus found that his cure was not complete, He put\nHis hands again upon his eyes, and made him look up; and he was\nrestored, and saw every man clearly. Now this must be done for you;\nand in order to have it done you must go to Christ Himself, not to\none of His servants. Make your complaint, tell Him how obscure\neverything still looks to you, and beg Him to complete your cure He\nmay see fit to try your faith and patience by delaying this\ncompletion; but meanwhile you are safe in His presence, and while led\nby His hand; He will excuse the mistakes you make, and pity your\nfalls. But you will imagine that it is best that He should at once\nenable you to see clearly. If it is, you may be sure He will do it.\nHe never makes mistakes. But He often deals far differently with His\ndisciples. He lets them grope their way in the dark until they fully\nlearn how blind they are, how helpless, how absolutely in need of\nHim.\n\n\"What His methods will be with you I cannot foretell. But you may be\nsure that He never works in an arbitrary way. He has a reason for\neverything He does. You may not understand why He leads you now in\nthis way and now in that, but you may, nay, you must believe that\nperfection is stamped on His every act.\n\n\"I am afraid that you are in danger of falling into an error only too\ncommon among young Christians. You acknowledge that there has been\nenmity to towards God in your secret soul, and that one of the first\nsteps towards peace is to become reconciled to Him and to have your\nsins forgiven for Christ's sake. This done, you settle down with the\nfeeling that the great work of life is done, and that your salvation\nis sure. Or, if not sure, that your whole business is to study your\nown case to see whether you are really in a state of grace. Many\npersons never get beyond this point. They spend their whole time in\nasking the question:\n\n\"'Do I love the Lord or no?\n  Am I His or am I not?'\n\n\"I beg you, my dear child, if you are doing this aimless, useless\nwork, to stop short at once. Life is too precious to spend in a\ntread-mill.. Having been pardoned by your God and Saviour, the next\nthing you have to do is to show your gratitude for this infinite\nfavor by consecrating yourself entirely to Him, body, soul, and\nspirit. This is the least you can do. He has bought you with a price,\nand you are no longer your own. 'But,' you may reply, 'this is\ncontrary to my nature. I love my own way. I desire ease and pleasure;\nI desire to go to heaven, to be carried thither on a bed of flowers.\nCan I not give myself so far to God as to feel a sweet sense of peace\nwith Him, and be sure of final salvation, and yet, to a certain\nextent, indulge and gratify myself? If I give myself entirely away in\nHim and lose all ownership in myself, He may deny me many things I\ngreatly desire. He may make my life hard and wearisome, depriving me\nof all that now makes it agreeable.' But, I reply, this is no matter\nof parley and discussion; it is not optional with God's children\nwhether they will pay Him a part of the price they owe Him, and keep\nback the rest. He asks, and He has a right to ask, for all you have\nand all you are. And if you shrink from what is involved in such a\nsurrender, you should fly to Him at once and never rest till He has\nconquered this secret disinclination to give to Him as freely and as\nfully as He has given to you. It is true that such an act of\nconsecration on your part may involve no little future discipline and\ncorrection. As soon as you become the Lord's by your own deliberate\nand conscious act, He will begin that process of sanctification which\nis to make you holy as He is holy, perfect as He is perfect. He\nbecomes at once, your physician as well as your dearest and best\nFriend, but He will use no painful remedy that can be avoided.\nRemember that it is His will that you should be sanctified, and that\nthe work of making you holy is His, not yours. At the same time you\nare not to sit with folded hands, waiting for this blessing. You are\nto avoid laying hindrances in His way, and you are to exercise faith\nin Him as just as able and just as willing to give you sanctification\nas He was to give you redemption. And now if you ask how you may know\nthat you have truly consecrated yourself to Him, I reply, observe\nevery indication of His will concerning you, no matter how\ntrivial, and see whether you at once close in with that will. Lay\ndown this principle as a law--God does nothing arbitrary. If He takes\naway your health, for instance, it is because He has some reason for\ndoing so; and this is true of everything you value; and if you have\nreal faith in Him you will not insist on knowing this reason. If you\nfind, in the course of daily events, that your self-consecration was\nnot perfect-that is, that your will revolts at His will-do not be\ndiscouraged, but fly to your Saviour and stay in His presence till\nyou obtain the spirit in which He cried in His hour of anguish,\n'Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless,\nnot my will but Thine be done.' Every time you do this it will be\neasier to do it; every such consent to suffer will bring you nearer\nand nearer to Him; and in this nearness to Him you will find such\npeace, such blessed, sweet peace, as will make your life infinitely\nhappy, no matter what may be its mere outside conditions. Just think,\nmy dear Katy, of the honor and the joy of having your will one with\nthe Divine will, and so becoming changed into Christ's image from\nglory to glory!\n\n\"But I cannot say, in a letter, the tithe of what I want to say.\nListen to my sermons from week to week and glean from them all the\ninstruction you can, remembering that they are preached to you.\n\n\"In reading the Bible I advise you to choose detached passages, or\neven one verse a day, rather whole chapters. Study every word, ponder\nand pray over it till you have got out of it all the truth it\ncontains.\n\n\"As to the other devotional reading, it is better to settle down on a\nfew favorite authors, and read their works over and over and over\nuntil you have digested their thoughts and made them your own.\n\n\"It has been said 'that a fixed, inflexible will is a great\nassistance in a holy life.'\n\n\"You can will to choose for your associates those who are most devout\nand holy.\n\n\"You can will to read books that will stimulate you in your Christian\nlife, rather than those that merely amuse.\n\n\"You can will to use every means of grace appointed by God.\n\n\"You can will to spend much time in prayer, without regard to your\nframe at the moment.\n\n\"You can will to prefer a religion of principle to one of mere\nfeeling; in other, words, to obey the will of God when no comfortable\nglow of emotion accompanies your obedience.\n\n\"You cannot will to possess the spirit of Christ; that must come as\nHis gift; but you can choose to study His life, and to imitate it.\nThis will infallibly lead to such self-denying work as visiting the\npoor, nursing the sick, giving of your time and money to the needy,\nand the like.\n\n\"If the thought of such self-denial is repugnant to you, remember\nthat it is enough for the disciple to be as his Lord. And let me\nassure you that as you penetrate the labyrinth of life in pursuit of\nChristian duty, you will often be surprised and charmed by meeting\nyour Master Himself amid its windings and turnings, and receive His\nsoul-inspiring smile. Or, I should rather say, you will always meet\nHim wherever you go.\"\n\nI have read this letter again and again. It has taken such hold of me\nthat I can think of nothing else. The idea of seeking holiness had\nnever so much as crossed my mind. And even now it seems like\npresumption for such a one as I to utter so sacred a word. And I\nshrink from committing myself to such a pursuit, lest after a time I\nshould fall back into the old routine. And I have an undefined,\nwicked dread of being singular, as well as a certain terror of\nself-denial and loss of all liberty. But no choice seems left to me.\nNow that my duty has been clearly pointed out to me, I do not stand\nwhere I did before. And I feel, mingled with my indolence and love of\nease and pleasure, some drawings towards a higher and better life.\nThere is one thing I can do, and that is to pray that Jesus would do\nfor me what He did for the blind man-put His hands yet again upon my\neyes and make me to see clearly. And I will.\n\nMARCH, 30.-Yes, I have prayed, and He has heard me. I see that I have\nno right to live for myself, and that I must live for Him. I have\ngiven myself to Him as I never did before, and have entered, as it\nwere, a new world. I was very happy when I began to believe in His\nlove for me, and that He had redeemed me. But this new happiness is\ndeeper; it involves something higher than getting to heaven at last,\nwhich has, hitherto, been my great aim.\n\nMarch 31.-The more I pray, and the more I read the Bible, the more I\nfeel my ignorance. And the more earnestly I desire holiness, the more\nutterly unholy I see myself to be. But I have pledged myself to the\nLord, and I must pay my vows, cost what it may.\n\nI have begun to read Taylor's \"Holy Living and Dying.\" A month ago I\nshould have found it a tedious, dry book. But I am reading it with a\nsort of avidity, like one seeking after hid treasure. Mother,\nobserving what I was doing, advised me to read it straight through,\nbut to mingle a passage now and then with chapters from other books.\nShe suggested my beginning on Baxter's \"Saints' Rest,\" and of that I\nhave read every word. I shall read it over, as Dr. Cabot advised,\ntill I have fully caught its spirit. Even this one reading has taken\naway my lingering fear of death, and made heaven awfully attractive.\nI never mean to read worldly books again, and my music and drawing I\nhave given up forever.\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nVII.\n\nMother asked me last evening to sing and play to her. I was\nembarrassed to know how to excuse myself without telling her my real\nreason for declining. But somehow she got it out of me.\n\n\"One need not be fanatical in order to be religious,\" she said.\n\n\"Is it fanatical to give up all for God?\" I asked.\n\n\"What is it to give up all?\" she asked, in reply.\n\n\"Why, to deny one's self every gratification and indulgence in order\nto mortify one's natural inclinations, and to live entirely for Him.\"\n\n\"God is then a hard Master, who allows his children no liberty,\" she\nreplied. \"Now let us see where this theory will lead you. In the\nfirst place you must shut your eyes to all the beautiful things He\nhas made. You must shut your eyes to all the harmonies He has\nordained. You must shut your heart against all sweet human\naffections. You have a body, it is true, and it may revolt at such\nbondage--\"\n\n\"We are told to keep under the body,\" I interrupted.\n\n\"Oh, mother, don't hinder me! You know my love for music is a\npassion and that it is my snare and temptation. And how can I spend\nmy whole time in reading the Bible and praying, if I go on with my\ndrawing? It may do for other people to serve both God and Mammon, but\nnot for me. I must belong wholly to the world or wholly to Christ.\"\n\nMother said no more, and I went on with my reading. But somehow my\nbook seemed to have lost its flavor. Besides, it was time to retire\nfor my evening devotions which I never put off now till the last\nthing at night, as I used to do. When I came down, Mother was lying\non the sofa, by which I knew she was not well. I felt troubled that I\nhad refused to sing to her. Think of the money she had spent on that\npart of my education! I went to her and kissed her with a pang of\nterror. What if she were going to be very sick, and to die?\n\n\"It is nothing, darling,\" she said, \"nothing at all. I am tired, and\nfelt a little faint.\"\n\nI looked at her anxiously, and the bare thought that she might die\nand leave me alone was so terrible that I could hardly help crying\nout. And I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that if God took her from\nme, I could not, should not say: Thy will be done.\n\nBut she was better after taking a few drops of lavender, and what\ncolor she has came back to her dear sweet face.\n\nAPRIL 12.-Dr. Cabot's letter has lost all its power over me. A stone\nhas more feeling than I. I don't love to pray. I am sick and tired of\nthis dreadful struggle after holiness; good books are all alike, flat\nand meaningless. But I must have something to absorb and carry me\naway, and I have come back to my music and my drawing with new zest.\nMother was right in warning me against giving them up. Maria Kelley\nis teaching me to paint in oil-colors, and says I have a natural gift\nfor it.\n\nAPRIL 13.-Mother asked me to go to church with her last evening, and I\nsaid I did not want to go. She looked surprised and troubled.\n\n\"Are you not well, dear?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know. Yes. I suppose I am. But I could not be still at\nchurch five minutes. I am nervous that I feel as if I should fly.\"\n\n\"I see how it is,\" she said; \"you have forgotten that body of yours,\nof which I reminded you, and have been trying to live as if you were\nall soul and spirit. You have been straining every nerve to acquire\nperfection, whereas this is God's gift, and one that He is willing to\ngive you, fully and freely.\"\n\n\"I have done seeking for that or anything else that is good,\" I said,\ndespondently. \"And so I have gone back to my music and everything\nelse.\"\n\n\"Here is just the rock upon which you split,\" she returned. \"You\nspeak of going back to your music as if that implied going away from\nGod. You rush from one extreme to another. The only true way to live\nin this world, constituted just as we are, is to make all our\nemployments subserve the one great end and aim of existence, namely,\nto glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. But in order to do this we\nmust be wise task-masters, and not require of ourselves what we\ncannot possibly perform. Recreation we must have. Otherwise the\nstrings of our soul, wound up to an unnatural tension, will break.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do wish,\" I cried, \"that God had given us plain rules, about\nwhich we could make no mistake!\"\n\n\"I think His rules are plain,\" she replied. \"And some liberty of\naction He must leave us, or we should become mere machines. I think\nthat those who love Him, and wait upon Him day by day, learn His will\nalmost imperceptibly, and need not go astray.\"\n\n\"But, mother, music and drawing are sharp-edged tools in such hands\nas mine. I cannot be moderate in my use of them. And the more I\ndelight in them, the less I delight in God.\"\n\n\"Yes, this is human nature. But God's divine nature will supplant it,\nif we only consent to let Him work in us of His own good pleasure.\"\n\nNew York, April 16.-After all, mother has come off conqueror, and\nhere I am at Aunty's. After our quiet, plain little home, in our\nquiet little town, this seems like a new world. The house is large,\nbut is as full as it can hold. Aunty has six children her own, and\nhas adopted two. She says she ways meant to imitate the old woman who\nlived in a shoe. She reminds me of mother, and yet she is very\ndifferent; full of fun and energy; flying about the house as on\nwings, with a kind, bright word for everybody. All her household\naffairs go on like clock-work; the children are always nicely\ndressed; nobody ever seems out of humor; nobody is ever sick. Aunty\nis the central object round which every body revolves; you can't\nforget her a moment, she is always doing something for you, and then\nher unflagging good humor and cheerfulness keep you good-humored and\ncheerful. I don't wonder Uncle Alfred loves her so.\n\nI hope I shall have just such a home. I mean this is the sort of home\nI should like if I ever married, which I never mean to do. I should\nlike to be just such a bright, loving wife as Aunty is; to have my\nhusband lean on me as Uncle leans on her; to have just as many\nchildren, and to train them as wisely and kindly us she does hers.\nThen, I should feel that I had not been born in vain, but had a high\nand sacred mission on earth. But as it is, I must just pick up what\nscraps of usefulness I can, and let the rest go.\n\nAPRIL 18.-Aunty says I sit writing and reading and thinking too much,\nand wants me to go out more. I tell her I don't feel strong enough to\ngo out much. She says that is all nonsense, and drags me out. I get\ntired, and hungry, and sleep like a baby a month old. I see now\nmother's wisdom and kindness in making me leave home when I did. I\nhad veered about from point to point till I was nearly ill. Now Aunty\nkeeps me well by making me go out, and dear Dr. Cabot's precious\nletter can work a true and not a morbid work in my soul. I am very\nhappy. I have delightful talks with Aunty, who sets me right at this\npoint and at that; and it is beautiful to watch her home-life and to\nsee with what sweet unconsciousness she carries her religion into\nevery detail. I am sure it must do me good to be here; and yet, if I\nam growing better how slowly, how slowly, it is! Somebody has said\nthat 'our course heavenward is like the plan of the zealous pilgrims\nof old, who for every three steps forward, took one backward.'\n\nAPRIL 30.-Aunty's baby, my dear father's namesake, and hitherto the\nmerriest little fellow I ever saw, was taken sick last night, very\nsuddenly. She sent for the doctor at once, who would not say\npositively what was the matter, but this morning pronounced it\nscarlet fever. The three youngest have all come down with it to-day.\nIf they were my children, I should be in a perfect worry and flurry.\nIndeed, I am as it is. But Aunty is as bright and cheerful as ever.\nShe flies from one to another, and keeps up their spirits with her\nown gayety. I am mortified to find that at such a time as this I can\nthink of myself, and that I find it irksome to be shut up in\nsick-rooms, instead of walking, driving, visiting, and the like. But,\nas Dr. Cabot says, I can now choose to imitate my Master, who spent\nHis whole life in doing good, and I do hope, too, to be of some\nlittle use to Aunty, after her kindness to me.\n\nMAY 1.-The doctor says the children are doing as well as, could be\nexpected. He made a short visit this morning, as it is Sunday. If I\nhad ever seen him before I should say I had some unpleasant\nassociation with him. I wonder Aunty employs such a great clumsy man.\nBut she says he is good, and very skillful. I wish I did not take\nsuch violent likes and dislikes to people. I want my religion to\nchange me in every respect.\n\nMAY 2.-Oh, I know now! This is the very who was so rude at\nSunday-school, and afterwards made such a nice address to the\nchildren. Well he may know how to speak in public, but I am sure he\ndoesn't in private. I never knew such a shut-up man.\n\nMAY 4.-I have my hands as full as they can hold. The children have\ngot so fond of me, and one or the other is in my lap nearly all the\ntime. I sing to them, tell them stories, build block-houses, and\nrelieve Aunty all I can. Dull and poky as the doctor is, I am not\nafraid of him, for he never notices anything I say or do, so while he\nis holding solemn consultations with Aunty in one corner, I can sing\nand talk all sorts of nonsense to my little pets in mine. What\nfearful black eyes he has, and what masses of black hair!\n\nThis busy life quite suits me, now I have got used to it. And it\nsweetens every bit of work to think that I am doing it in humble,\nfar-off, yet real imitation of Jesus. I am indeed really and truly\nhappy.\n\nMAY 14.-It is now two weeks since little Raymond was taken sick, and I\nhave lived in the nursery all the time, though Aunty has tried to\nmake me go out. Little Emma was taken down to-day, though she has\nbeen kept on the third floor all the time I feel dreadfully myself.\nBut this hard, cold doctor of Aunty's is so taken up with the\nchildren that he never so much as looks at me. I have been in a\nperfect shiver all day, but these merciless little folks call for\nstories as eagerly as ever. Well, let me be a comfort to them if I\ncan! I hate selfishness more and more, and am shocked to see how\nselfish I have been.\n\nMAY 15.-I was in a burning fever all night, and my head ached, and my\nthroat was and is very sore. If knew I was going to die I would burn\nup this journal first. I would not have any one see it for the world.\n\nMAY 24.-Dr. Elliott asked me on Sunday morning a week ago if I still\nfelt well. For answer I behaved like a goose, and burst out crying.\nAunty looked more anxious than I have seen her look yet, and\nreproached herself for having allowed me to be with the children. She\ntook me by one elbow, and the doctor by the other, and they marched\nme off to my own room, where I was put through the usual routine on\nsuch occasions, and then ordered to bed. I fell asleep immediately\nand slept all day. The doctor came to see me in the evening, and made\na short, stiff little visit, gave me a powder, and said thought I\nshould soon be better.\n\nI had two such visits from him the next day, when I began to feel\nquite like myself again, and in spite of his grave, staid deportment,\ncould not help letting my good spirits run away with me in a style\nthat evidently shocked him. He says persons nursing scarlet fever\noften have such little attacks as mine; indeed every one of the\nservants have had a sore throat and headache.\n\nMAY 25.-This morning, just as the doctor shuffled in on his big feet,\nit came over me how ridiculously I must have looked the day I was\ntaken sick, being walked off between Aunty and himself, crying like a\nbaby. I burst out laughing, and no consideration I could make to\nmyself would stop me. I pinched myself, asked myself how I should\nfeel if one of the children should die, and used other kindred\ndevices all to no purpose. At last the doctor, gravity personified as\nhe is, joined in, though not knowing in the least what he was\nlaughing at. Then he said,\n\n\"After this, I suppose, I shall have to pronounce you convalescent.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" I cried. \"I am very-sick indeed.\"\n\n\"This looks like it, to be sure!\" said Aunty.\n\n\"I suppose this will be your last visit, Dr. Elliott,\" I went on,\n\"and I am glad of it. After the way I behaved the day I was taken\nsick, I have been ashamed to look you in the face. But I really felt\ndreadfully.\"\n\nHe made no answer whatever. I don't suppose he would speak a little\nflattering word by way of putting one in good humor with one's self\nfor the whole world!\n\nJUNE 1.-We are all as well as ever, but the doctor keeps some of the\nchildren still confined to the house for fear of bad consequences\nfollowing the fever. He visits them twice a day for the same reason,\nor at least under that pretense, but I really believe he comes\nbecause he has got the habit of coming, and because he admires Aunty\nso much. She has a real affection for him, and is continually asking\nme if I don't like this and that quality in him which I can't see at\nall. We begin to drive out again. The weather is, very warm, but I\nfeel perfectly well.\n\nJUNE 2.-After the children's dinner to-day I took care of them while\ntheir nurse got hers and Aunty went to lie down, as she is all tired\nout. We were all full of life and fun, and some of the little ones\nwanted me to play a play of their own invention, which was to lie\ndown on the floor, cover my face with a handkerchief, and make\nbelieve I was dead. They were to gather about me, and I was suddenly\nto come to life and jump up and try to catch them as they all ran\nscampering and screaming about. We had played in this interesting way\nfor some time, and my hair, which I keep in nice order nowadays, was\npulled down and flying every way; when in marched the doctor. I\nstarted up and came to life quickly enough when I heard his step,\nlooking red and angry, no doubt.\n\n\"I should think you might have knocked, Dr. Elliott,\" I said, with\nmuch displeasure.\n\n\"I ask your pardon; I knocked several times,\" he returned. \"I need\nhardly ask how my little patients are.\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied, still ruffled, and making desperate efforts to get\nmy hair into some sort of order. \"They are as well as possible.\"\n\n\"I came a little earlier than usual to-day,\" he went on, \"because I\nam called to visit my uncle, Dr. Cabot, who is in a very critical\nstate of health.\"\n\n\"Dr. Cabot!\" I repeated, bursting into tears.\n\n\"Compose yourself, I entreat,\" he said; \"I hope that I may be able\nto relieve him. At all events--\"\n\n\"At all events, if you let him die it will break my heart,\" I cried\npassionately. \"Don't wait another moment; go this instant.\"\n\n\"I cannot go this instant,\" he replied. \"The boat does not leave\nuntil four o'clock. And if I may be allowed, as a physician, to say\none word, that my brief acquaintance hardly justifies, I do wish to\nwarn you that unless you acquire more self-control-\"\n\n\"Oh, I know that I have a quick temper, and that I spoke very rudely\nto you just now,\" I interrupted, not a little startled by the\nseriousness of his manner.\n\n\"I did not refer to your temper,\" he said. \"I meant your whole\npassionate nature. Your vehement loves and hates, your ecstasies and\nyour despondencies; your disposition to throw yourself headlong into\nwhatever interests you.\"\n\n\"I would rather have too little self-control,\" I retorted,\nresentfully, \"than to be as cold as a stone, and as hard as a rock,\nand as silent as the grave, like some people I know.\"\n\nHis countenance fell; he looked disappointed, even pained.\n\n\"I shall probably see your mother,\" he said, turning to go; \"your\naunt wishes me to call on her; have you any message?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\nAnother pained, disappointed look made me begin to recollect myself.\nI was sorry, oh! so sorry, for my anger and rudeness. I ran after\nhim, into the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding out both hands,\nwhich he took in both his.\n\n\"Don't go until you have forgiven me for being so angry!\" I cried.\n\"Indeed, Dr. Elliott, though you not be able to believe it, I am\ntrying to do right all the time!\"\n\n\"I do believe it,\" he said earnestly.\n\n\"Then tell me that you forgive me!\"\n\n\"If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell something else,\" he\nsaid, looking me through and through with those great dusky eyes.\n\"And I will tell it,\" he went on, his grasp on my hands growing\nfirmer-\"It is easy to forgive when one loves.\" I pulled my hands\naway, and burst out crying again.\n\n\"Oh, Dr. Elliott this is dreadful!\" I said. \"You do not, you cannot\nlove me! You are so much older than I am! So grave and silent! You\nare not in earnest?\"\n\n\"I am only too much so,\" he said, and went quietly out.\n\nI went back to the nursery. The children rushed upon me, and insisted\nthat I should \"play die.\" I let them pull me about as they pleased. I\nonly wished I could play it in earnest.\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\nVIII\n\nJUNE 28.\n\nMOTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of danger, Dr. Elliott having\nthrown new light on his case, and performed some sort of an operation\nthat relieved him at once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt me to\nencounter those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is growing\nwarm, and Aunty is getting ready to go out of town with the children.\n\nJUNE 29.-Aunty insisted on knowing why I was hurrying home so\nsuddenly, and at last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole it\nwas a relief to have some one to speak to.\n\n\"Well!\" she said, and leaned back in her chair in a fit of musing.\n\n\"Is that all you are going to say, Aunty?\" I ventured to ask at last.\n\n\"No, I have one more remark to add,\" she said, \"and it is this: I\ndon't know which of you has behaved most ridiculously. It would\nrelieve me to give you each a good shaking.\"\n\n\"I think Dr. Elliot has behaved ridiculously,\" I said, \"and he has\nmade me most unhappy.\"\n\n\"Unhappy!\" she repeated. \"I don't wonder you are unhappy. You have\npained and wounded one of the noblest men that walks the earth.\"\n\n\"It is not my fault. I never tried to make him like me.\"\n\n\"Yes, you did. You were perfectly bewitching whenever he came here.\nNo mortal man could help being fascinated.\"\n\nI knew this was not true, and bitterly resented Aunty's injustice.\n\n\"If I wanted to 'fascinate' or 'bewitch' a man,\" I cried, \"I should\nnot choose one old enough to be my father, nor one who was as\nuninteresting, awkward and stiff as Dr. Elliott. Besides, how should\nI know he was not married? If I thought anything about it at all, I\ncertainly thought of him as a middle-aged man, settled down with a\nwife, long ago.\n\n\"In the first place he is not old, or even middle aged. He is not\nmore than twenty-seven or eight. As to his being uninteresting,\nperhaps he is to you, who don't know him. And if he were a married\nman, what business had he to come here to see as he has done?\"\n\n\"I did not know he came to see me; he never spoke to me. And I always\nsaid I would never marry a doctor.\"\n\n\"We all say scores of things we live to repent,\" she replied. \"But I\nmust own that the doctor acted quite out of character when he\nexpected you to take a fancy to him on such short notice, you\nromantic little thing. Of course knowing him as little as you do, and\nonly seeing him in sick-rooms, you could not have done otherwise than\nas you did.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Aunty,\" I said, running and throwing my arms around her;\n\"thank you with all my heart. And now won't you take back what you\nsaid about my trying to fascinate him?\"\n\n\"I suppose I must, you dear child,\" she said. \"I was not half in\nearnest. The truth is I am so fond of you both that the idea of your\nmisunderstanding each other annoys me extremely. Why, you were made\nfor each other. He would tone you down and keep you straight, and you\nwould stimulate him and keep him awake.\"\n\n\"I don't want to be toned down or kept straight,\" I remonstrated. \"I\nhate prigs who keep their wives in leading-strings. I do not mean to\nmarry any one, but if I should be left to such a piece of folly, it\nmust be to one who will take me for better for worse; just as I am,\nand not as a wild plant for him to prune till he has got it into a\nshape to suit him now, Aunty, promise me one thing. Never mention\nDr. Elliott's name to me again.\"\n\n\"I shall make no such promise,\" she replied, laughing. \"I like him,\nand I like to talk about him and the more you hate and despise him\nthe more I shall love and admire him. I only wish my Lucy were old\nenough to be his wife, and that he could fancy her; but he never\ncould!\"\n\n\"On the contrary I should think that little model of propriety would\njust suit him,\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Don't make fun of Lucy,\" Aunty said, shaking her head. \"She is a\ndear good child, after all.\"\n\n\"After all\" means this (for what with my own observation, and what\nAunty has told me, Lucy's portrait is easy to paint) The child is the\ndaughter of a man who died from a lingering illness caused by an\naccident. She entered the family at a most inauspicious moment, two\ndays after this accident. From the outset she comprehended the\nsituation and took the ground that a character of irreproachable\ndignity and propriety became an infant coming at such a time. She\nnever cried, never put improper objects into her mouth, never bumped\nher head, or scratched herself. Once put to bed at night, you knew\nnothing more of her till such time next day as you found it\nconvenient to attend to her. If you forgot her existence, as was not\nseldom the case under the circumstances, she vegetated on, unmoved.\nIt is possible that pangs of hunger sometimes assailed her, and it is\na fact that she teethed, had the measles and the whooping-cough. But\nthese minute ripples on her infant life only showed the more clearly\nwhat a waveless, placid little sea it was. She got her teeth in the\norder laid down in \"Dewees on Children\"; her measles came out on the\nappointed day like well-behaved measles as they were and retired\ndecently and in order, as measles should. Her whooping-cough had a\nwell-bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror of the field. As\nthe child passed out of her babyhood, she remained still her mother's\nappendage and glory; a monument of pure white marble, displaying to\nthe human race one instance at least of perfect parental training.\nThose smooth, round hands were always magically clean; the dress\nimmaculate and uncrumpled; the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She\nwas a model child, as she had been a model baby. No slamming of\ndoors, no litter of carpets, no pattering of noisy feet on the\nstairs, no headless dolls, no soiled or torn books indicated her\npresence. Her dolls were subject to a methodical training, not unlike\nher own. They rose, they were dressed, they took the air, they\nretired for the night, with clock-like regularity. At the advanced\nage of eight, she ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and\nbegan a course of instructive reading. Her lessons were received in\nmute submission, like medicine; so many doses, so many times a day.\nAn agreeable interlude of needlework was afforded, and Dorcas-like,\nmany were the garments that resulted for the poor. Give her the very\neyes out of your head, cut off your right hand for her if you choose,\nbut don't expect a gush of enthusiasm that would crumple your collar;\nshe would as soon strangle herself as run headlong to embrace you. If\nshe has any passions or emotions, they are kept under; but who asks\nfor passion in blanc-mange, or seeks emotion in a comfortable\napple-pudding?\n\nWhen her father had been dead a year, her mother married a man with a\nlarge family of children and a very small purse. Lucy had a hard time\nof it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impulsive man, took a\ndislike to her. Aunty had no difficulty persuading them to give the\nchild to her. She took from the purest motives, and it does seem as\nif she ought to have more reward than she gets. She declares,\nhowever, that she has all the reward she could ask in the conviction\nthat God accepts this attempt to please Him.\n\nLucy is now nearly fourteen; very large of her age, with a dead white\nskin, pale blue eyes, and a little light hair. To hear her talk is\nmost edifying. Her babies are all \"babes\"; she never begins anything\nbut \"commences\" it; she never cries, she \"weeps\"; never gets up in\nthe morning, but \"rises.\" But what am I writing all this for? Why, to\nescape my own thoughts, which are anything but agreeable companions,\nand to put off answering the question which must be answered, \"Have I\nreally made a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott? Could I not, in time,\nhave come to love a man who has so honored me?\"\n\nJULY 5.-Here I am again, safely at home, and very pleasant it seems\nto be with dear mother again. I have told her about Dr. E. She says\nvery little about it one way or the other.\n\nJULY 10.-Mother sees that I am restless and out of sorts. \"What is\nit, dear?\" she asked, this morning. \"Has Dr. Elliott anything to do\nwith the unsettled state you are in?\"\n\n\"Why, no, mother,\" I answered. \"My going away has broken up all my\nhabits; that's all. Still if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much,\nand was beginning to forget it, I dare say I should feel better.\"\n\n\"If you were perfectly sure that you could never return his\naffection,\" she said, \"you were quite right in telling him so at\nonce; But if you had any misgivings on the subject, it would have\nbeen better to wait, and to ask God to direct you.\"\n\nYes, it would. But at the moment I had no misgivings. In my usual\nheadlong style I settled one of the most weighty questions of my\nlife, without reflection, without so much as one silent appeal to\nGod, to tell me how to act. And now I have forever repelled, and\nthrown away a heart that truly loved me. He will go his way and I\nshall go mine. He never will know, what I am only just beginning to\nknow myself, that I yearn after his love with unutterable yearning.\n\nI am not going to sit down in sentimental despondency to weep over\nthis irreparable past. No human being could forgive such folly as\nmine; but God can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness I fly to Him,\nand find, what is better than earthly felicity, the sweetest peace.\nHe allowed me to bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, a shadow out\nof which I shall not soon pass, but He pities and He forgives me, and\nI have had many precious moments when I could say sincerely and\njoyfully, \"Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon\nearth that I desire besides Thee.\"\n\nWith a character still so undisciplined as mine, I seriously doubt\nwhether I could have made him who has honored me with his unmerited\naffection. Sometimes I think I am as impetuous and as quick-tempered\nas ever; I get angry with dear mother, and with James even, if they\noppose me; how unfit, then, I am to become the mistress of a\nhousehold and the wife of a good a man!\n\nHow came he to love me? I cannot, cannot imagine!\n\nAugust 31.-The last day of the very happiest summer I ever spent. If\nI had only been willing to believe the testimony of others I might\nhave been just as happy long ago. But I wanted to have all there was\nin God and all there was in the world, at once, and there was a\nconstant, painful struggle between the two. I hope that struggle is\nnow over. I deliberately choose and prefer God. I have found a sweet\npeace in trying to please Him such as I never conceived of. I would\nnot change it for all the best things this world can give.\n\nBut I have a great deal to learn. I am like a little child who cannot\nrun to get what he wants, but approaches it step by step, slowly,\ntimidly-and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the patience of my\nblessed Master and Teacher, but how I love His school!\n\nSeptember.-This, too, has been a delightful month in a certain sense.\nAmelia's marriage, at which I had to be present, upset me a little,\nbut it was but a little ruffle on a deep sea of peace.\n\nI saw Dr. Cabot to-day. He is quite well again, and speaks of Dr.\nElliott's skill with rapture. He asked about my Sunday scholars and\nmy poor folks, etc., and I could not help letting out a little of the\nnew joy that has taken possession of me.\n\n\"This is as it should be,\" he said. \"I should be sorry to see a person\nof your temperament enthusiastic in everything save religion. Do not\nbe discouraged if you still have some ups and downs. 'He that is down\nneed fear no fall'; but you are away up on the heights, and may have\none, now and then.\"\n\nThis made me a little uncomfortable. I don't want any falls. I want\nto go on to perfection.\n\nOCT. 1.-Laura Cabot came to see me to-day, and seemed very\naffectionate.\n\n\"I hope we may see more of each other than we have done,\" she began.\n\"My father wishes it, and so do I.\"\n\nKaty, mentally.-\"Ah! He sees how unworldly, how devoted I am, and so\nwants Laura under my influence.\"\n\nKaty, aloud.-\"I am sure that is very kind.\"\n\nLaura.-\"Not at all. He knows it will be profitable to me to be with\nyou. I get a good deal discouraged at times, and want a friend to\nstrengthen and help me.\"\n\nKaty, to herself.-\"Yes, yes, he thinks me quite experienced and\ntrustworthy.\"\n\nKaty, aloud.-\"I shall never dare to try to help you.\"\n\nLaura.-\"Oh, yes, you must. I am so far behind you in Christian\nexperience.\"\n\nBut I am ashamed to write down any more. After she had gone I felt\ndelightfully puffed up for a while. But when I came up to my room\nthis evening, and knelt down to pray, everything looked dark and\nchaotic. God seemed far away, and I took no pleasure in speaking to\nHim. I felt sure that I had done something or felt something wrong,\nand asked Him to show me what it was. There then flashed into my mind\nthe remembrance of the vain, conceited thoughts I had had during\nLaura's visit and ever since.\n\nHow perfectly contemptible! I have had a fall indeed!\n\nI think now my first mistake was in telling Dr. Cabot my secret,\nsacred joys, as if some merit of mine had earned them for me. That\ngave Satan a fine chance to triumph over me! After this I am\ndetermined to maintain the utmost reserve in respect to my religious\nexperiences. Nothing is gained by running to tell them, and much is\nlost.\n\nI feel depressed and comfortless.\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\nIX.\n\nOCT. 10.\n\nWE have very sad news from Aunty. She says my Uncle is quite broken\ndown with some obscure disease that has been creeping stealthily\nalong for months. All his physicians agree that he must give up his\nbusiness and try the effect of a year's rest. Dr. Elliott proposes\nhis going to Europe, which seems to me about as formidable as going\nto the next world. Aunty makes the best she can of it, but she says\nthe thought of being separated from Uncle a whole year is dreadful. I\npray for her day and night, that this wild project may be given up.\nWhy, he would be on the ocean ever so many weeks, exposed to all the\ndiscomforts of narrow quarters and poor food, and that just as winter\nis drawing nigh!\n\nOCT. 12.-Aunty writes that the voyage to Europe has been decided on,\nand that Dr. Elliott is to accompany Uncle, travel with him, amuse\nhim, and bring him home a well man. I hope Dr. E.'s power to amuse\nmay exist somewhere, but must own it was in a most latent form when I\nhad the pleasure of knowing him. Poor Aunty! How much better it would\nbe for her to go with Uncle! There are the children, to be sure.\nWell, I hope Uncle may be the better for this great undertaking, but\nI don't like the idea of it.\n\nOCT. 15.-Another letter from Aunty, and new plans! The Dr. is to stay\nat home, Aunty is to go with Uncle, and we-mother and myself-are to\ntake possession of the house and children during their absence! In\nother words, all this is to be if we say amen. Could anything be more\nfrightful? To refuse would be selfish and cruel. If we consent I\nthrust myself under Dr. Elliott's very nose.\n\nOCT. 16.-Mother is surprised that I can hesitate one instant. She\nseems to have forgotten all about Dr. E. She says we can easily find\na family to take this house for a year, and that she is delighted to\ndo anything for Aunty that can be done.\n\nNov. 4.-Here we are, the whole thing settled. Uncle and Aunty started\na week ago, and we are monarchs of all we survey, and this is a great\ndeal. I am determined that mother shall not be worn out with these\nchildren, although of course I could not manage them without her advice and\nhelp. It is to be hoped they won't all have the measles in a body, or\nanything of that sort; I am sure it would be annoying to Dr. E. to\ncome here now.\n\nNov. 25.-Of course the baby must go on teething if only to have the\ndoctor sent for to lance his gums. I told mother I was sure I could\nnot be present when this was being done, so, though she looked\nsurprised, and said people should accustom themselves to such things,\nshe volunteered to hold baby herself.\n\nNov. 26.-The baby was afraid of mother, not being used to her, so she\nsent for me. As I entered the room she gave him to me with an apology\nfor doing so, since I shrank from witnessing the operation. What must\nDr. E. think I am made of if I can't bear to see a child's gums\nlanced? However, it is my own fault that he thinks me such a coward,\nfor I made mother think me one. It was very embarrassing to hold baby\nand have the doctor's face so close to mine. I really wonder mother\nshould not see how awkwardly I am situated here.\n\nNov. 27.-We have a good many visitors, friends of Uncle and Aunty.\nHow uninteresting most people are! They all say the same thing,\nnamely, how strange that Aunty had courage to undertake such a\nvoyage, and to leave her children, etc., etc., etc., and what was Dr.\nElliott thinking of to let them go, etc, etc., etc.\n\nDr. Embury called to-day, with a pretty little fresh creature, his\nnew wife, who hangs on his arm like a work-bag. He is Dr. Elliott's\nintimate friend, and spoke of him very warmly, and so did his wife,\nwho says she has known him always, as they were born and brought up\nin the same village. I wonder he did not marry her himself, instead\nof leaving her for Dr. Embury!\n\nShe says he, Dr. Elliott, I mean, was the most devoted son she ever\nsaw, and that he deserves his present success because he has made\nsuch sacrifices for his parents. I never met any one whom I liked so\nwell on so short acquaintance--I mean Mrs. Embury, though you might\nfancy, you poor deluded journal you, that I meant somebody else.\n\nNov. 30.-I have so much to do that I have little time for writing.\nThe way the children wear out their shoes and stockings, the speed\nwith which their hair grows, the way they bump their heads and pinch\ntheir fingers, and the insatiable demand for stories, is something\nnext to miraculous. Not a day passes that somebody doesn't need\nsomething bought; that somebody else doesn't choke itself, and that I\ndon't have to tell stories till I feel my intellect reduced to the\nsize of a pea. If ever I was alive and wide awake, however, it is\njust now, and in spite of some vague shadows of, I don't know what, I\nam very happy indeed. So is dear mother. She and the doctor have\nbecome bosom friends. He keeps her making beef-tea, scraping lint, and\nboiling calves feet for jelly, till the house smells like an\nhospital.\n\nI suppose he thinks me a poor, selfish, frivolous girl, whom nothing\nwould tempt to raise a finger for his invalids. But, of course, I do\nnot care what he thinks.\n\nDec. 4.-Dr. Elliott came this morning to ask mother to go with him to\nsee a child who had met with a horrible accident. She turned pale,\nand pressed her lips together, but went at once to get ready. Then my\nlong-suppressed wrath burst out.\n\n\"How can you ask poor mother to go and see such sights?\" I cried.\n\"You must think her nothing but a stone, if you suppose that after\nthe way in which my father died-\"\n\n\"It was indeed most thoughtless in me,\" he interrupted; \"but your\nmother is such a rare woman, so decided and self-controlled, yet so\ngentle, so full of tender sympathy, that I hardly know where to look\nfor just the help I need to-day. If you could see this poor child,\neven you would justify me.\"\n\n\"Even you!\" you monster of selfishness, heart of stone, floating\nbubble, \"even you would justify it!\"\n\nHow cruel, how unjust, how unforgiving he is!\n\nI rushed out of the room, and cried until I was tired.\n\nDEC. 6.-Mother says she feels really grateful to Dr. E. for taking\nher to see that child, and to help soothe and comfort it while he\nwent through with a severe, painful operation which she would not\ndescribe, because she fancied I looked pale. I said I should think\nthe child's mother the most proper person to soothe it on such an\noccasion.\n\n\"The poor thing has no mother,\" she said, reproachfully. \"What has\ngot into you, Kate? You do not seem at all like yourself.\"\n\n\"I should think you had enough to do with this great house to keep in\norder, so many mouths to fill, and so many servants to oversee,\nwithout wearing yourself out with nursing all Dr. Elliott's poor\nfolks,\" I said, gloomily.\n\n\"The more I have to do the happier I am,\" she replied. \"Dear Katy,\nthe old wound isn't healed yet, and I like to be with those who have\nwounds and bruises of their own. And Dr. Elliott seems to have\ndivined this by instinct.\"\n\nI ran and kissed her dear, pale face, which grows more beautiful\nevery day. No wonder she misses father so! He loved and honored her\nbeyond description, and never forgot one of those little courtesies\nwhich must have a great deal to do with a wife's happiness. People\nsaid of him that he was a gentleman of the old school, and that race\nis dying out.\n\nI feel a good deal out of sorts myself. Oh, I do so wish to get above\nmyself and all my childish, petty ways, and to live in a region where\nthere is no temptation and no sin!\n\nDEC. 22.-I have been to see Mrs. Embury to-day. She did not receive\nme as cordially as usual, and I very soon resolved to come away. She\ndetained me, however.\n\n\"Would you mind my speaking to you on a certain subject?\" she asked,\nwith some embarrassment.\n\nI felt myself flush up.\n\n\"I do not want to meddle with affairs that don't concern me,\" she\nwent on, \"but Dr. Elliott and I have been intimate friends all our\nlives. And his disappointment has really distressed me.\"\n\nOne of my moods came on, and I couldn't speak a word.\n\n\"You are not at all the sort of a girl I supposed he would fancy,\"\nshe continued. \"He always has said he was waiting to find some one\njust like his mother, and she is one of the gentlest, meekest,\nsweetest, and fairest among women.\"\n\n\"You ought to rejoice then that he has escaped the snare,\" I said, in\na husky voice, \"and is free to marry his ideal, when he finds her.\"\n\n\"But that is just what troubles me. He is not free. He does not\nattach himself readily, and I am afraid that it will be a long, long\ntime before he gets over this unlucky passion for you.\"\n\n\"Passion!\" I cried, contemptuously.\n\nShe looked at me with some surprise, and then went on.\n\n\"Most girls would jump at the chance of getting such a husband.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I particularly care to be classed with 'most\ngirls,'\" I replied, loftily.\n\n\"But if you only knew him as well as I do. He is so noble, so\ndisinterested, and is so beloved by his patients. I could tell you\nscores of anecdotes about him that would show just what he is.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said, \"I think we have discussed Dr. Elliott quite\nenough already. I cannot say that he has elevated himself in my\nopinion by making you take up the cudgels in his defence.\"\n\n\"You do him injustice, when you say that,\" she cried. \"His sister,\nthe only person to whom he confided the state of things, begged me to\nfind out, if I could, whether you had any other attachment, and if\nher brother's case was quite hopeless. But I am sorry I undertook the\ntask as it has annoyed you so much.\"\n\nI came away a good deal ruffled. When I got home mother said she was\nglad I had been out at last for a little recreation, and that she\nwished I did not confine myself so to the children. I said that I did\nnot confine myself more than Aunty did.\n\n\"But that is different,\" mother objected. \"She is their own mother,\nand love helps her to bear her burden.\"\n\n\"So it does me,\" I returned. \"I love the children exactly as if they\nwere my own.\"\n\n\"That,\" she said, \"is impossible.\"\n\n\"I certainly do,\" I persisted.\n\nMother would not dispute with me, though I wished she would.\n\n\"A mother,\" she went on, \"receives her children one at a time, and\ngradually adjusts herself to gradually increasing burdens. But you\ntake a whole houseful upon you at once, and I am sure it is too much\nfor you. You do not look or act like yourself.\"\n\n\"It isn't the children,\" I said.\n\n\"What is it, then?\"\n\n\"Why, it's nothing,\" I said, pettishly.\n\n\"I must say, dear,\" said mother, not noticing my manner, \"that your\nwonderful devotion to the children, aside from its effect on your\nhealth and temper, has given me great delight.\"\n\n\"I don't see why,\" I said.\n\n\"Very few girls of your age would give up their whole time as you do\nto such work.\"\n\n\"That is because very few girls are as fond of children as I am.\nThere is no virtue in doing exactly what one likes best to do.\"\n\n\"There, go away, you contrary child,\" said mother, laughing. \"If you\nwon't be praised, you won't.\"\n\nSo I came up here and moped a little. I don't see what ails me.\n\nBut there is an under-current of peace that is not entirely disturbed\nby any outside event. In spite of my follies and my shortcomings, I\ndo believe that God loves and pities me, and will yet perfect that\nwhich concerneth me. It is a great mystery. But so is everything.\n\nDr. Elliott to Mrs. Crofton:\n\nAnd now, my dear friend, having issued my usual bulletin of health,\nyou may feel quite at ease about your dear children, and I come to a\npoint in your letter which I would gladly pass over in silence. But\nthis would be but a poor return for the interest you express in my\naffairs.\n\nBoth ladies are devoted to your little flock, and Miss Mortimer seems\nnot to have a thought but for them. The high opinion I formed of her\nat the outset is more than justified by all I see of her daily,\nhousehold life. I know what her faults are, for she seems to take\ndelight in revealing them. But I also know her rare virtues, and what\na wealth of affection she has to bestow on the man who is so happy as\nto win her heart. But I shall never be that man. Her growing aversion\nto me makes me dread a summons to your house, and I have hardly\nmanliness enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I entreat you,\ntherefore, never again to press this subject upon me. After all, I\nwould not, if I could, dispense with the ministry of disappointment\nand unrest.\n\nMrs. Crofton, in reply:\n\n. . . . So she hates you, does she? I am charmed to hear it.\nIndifference would be an alarming symptom, but good, cordial hatred,\nor what looks like it, is a most hopeful sign. The next chance you\nget to see her alone, assure her that you never shall repeat your\nfirst offence. If nothing comes of it I am not a woman, and never was\none; nor is she.\n\nMARCH 25, 1836.-The New Year and my birthday have come and gone, and\nthis is the first moment I could find for writing down all that has\nhappened.\n\nThe day after my last date I was full of serious, earnest thoughts,\nof new desires to live, without one reserve, for God. I was smarting\nunder the remembrance of my folly at Mrs. Embury's, and with a sense\nof vague disappointment and discomfort, and had to fly closer than\never to Him. In the evening I thought I would go to the usual weekly\nservice. It is true I don't like prayer-meetings, and that is a bad\nsign, I am afraid. But I am determined to go where good people go,\nand see if I can't learn to like what they like.\n\nMother went with me, of course.\n\nWhat was my surprise to find that Dr. E. was to preside! I had no\nidea that he was that sort of a man.\n\nThe hymns they sang were beautiful, and did me good. So was his\nprayer. If all prayers were like that, I am sure I should like\nevening meetings as much as I now dislike them. He so evidently spoke\nto God in it, and as if he were used to such speaking.\n\nHe then made a little address on the ministry of disappointments, as\nhe called it. He spoke so cheerfully and hopefully that I began to\nsee almost for the first time God's reason for the petty trials and\ncrosses that help to make up every day of one's life. He said there\nwere few who were not constantly disappointed with themselves, with\ntheir slow progress, their childishness and weakness; disappointed\nwith their friends who, strangely enough, were never quite perfect\nenough, and disappointed with the world, which was always promising\nso much and giving so little. Then he urged to a wise and patient\nconsent to this discipline, which, if rightly used, would help to\ntemper and strengthen the soul against the day of sorrow and\nbereavement. But I am not doing him justice in this meagre report;\nthere was something almost heavenly in his expression which words\ncannot describe.\n\nComing out I heard some one ask, \"Who was that young clergyman?\" and\nthe answer, \"Oh, that is only a doctor!\"\n\nWell! the next week I went again, with mother. We had hardly taken\nour seats when Dr. E. marched in with the sweetest looking little\ncreature I ever saw. He was so taken up with her that he did not\nobserve either mother or myself. As she sat by my side I could not\nsee her full face, but her profile was nearly perfect. Her eyes were\nof that lovely blue one sees in violets and the skies, with long,\nsoft eye-lashes, and her complexion was as pure as a baby's. Yet she\nwas not one of your doll beauties; her face expressed both feeling\nand character. They sang together from the same book, though I\noffered her a share of mine. Of course, when people do that it can\nmean but one thing.\n\nSo it seems he has forgotten me, and consoled himself with this\npretty little thing. No doubt she is like his mother, that \"gentlest,\nmeekest, sweetest and fairest among women!\"\n\nNow if anybody should be sick, and he should come here, I thought,\nwhat would become of me? I certainly could not help showing that a\nlove that can so soon take up with a new object could not have been a\nsentiment of much depth.\n\nIt is not pleasant to lose even a portion of one's respect and esteem\nfor another.\n\nThe next day mother went to visit an old friend of hers, who has a\nbeautiful place outside of the city. The baby's nurse had ironing to\ndo, so I promised to sit in the nursery till it was finished. Lucy\ncame, with her books, to sit with me. She always follows like my\nshadow. After a while Mrs. Embury called. I hesitated a little about\ntrusting the child to Lucy's care, for though her prim ways have\ngiven her the reputation of being wise beyond her years, I observe\nthat she is apt to get into trouble which a quick-witted child would\neither avoid or jump out of in a twinkling. However, children are\noften left to much younger girls, so, with many cautions, I went\ndown, resolving to stay only a few moments.\n\nBut I wanted so much to know all about that pretty little friend of\nDr. E.'s that I let Mrs. Embury stay on and on, though not a ray of\nlight did I get for my pains. At last I heard Lucy's step coming\ndownstairs.\n\n\"Cousin Katy,\" she said, entering the room with her usual propriety,\n\"I was seated by the window, engaged with my studies, and the\nchildren were playing about, as usual, when suddenly I heard a\nshriek, and one of them ran past me, all in a blaze and-\"\n\nI believe I pushed her out of my way as I rushed upstairs, for I took\nit for granted I should meet the little figure all in a blaze, coming\nto meet me. But I found it wrapped in a blanket, the flames\nextinguished. Meanwhile, Mrs. Embury had roused the whole house, and\neverybody came running upstairs.\n\n\"Get the doctor, some of you,\" I cried, clasping the poor little\nwrithing form in my arms.\n\nAnd then I looked to see which of them it was, and found it was\nAunty's pet lamb, everybody's pet lamb, our little loving, gentle\nEmma.\n\nDr. Elliott must have come on wings, for I had not time to be\nimpatient for his arrival. He was as tender as a woman with Emma; we\ncut off and tore off her clothes wherever the fire had touched her,\nand he dressed the burns with his own hands. He did not speak a word\nto me, or I to him. This time he did not find it necessary to advise\nme to control myself. I was as cold and hard as a stone.\n\nBut when poor little Emma's piercing shrieks began to subside, and\nshe came a little under the influence of some soothing drops he had\ngiven her at the outset, I began to feel that sensation in the back\nof my neck that leads to conquest over the most stubborn and the most\nheroic. I had just time to get Emma into the doctor's arms, and then\ndown I went. I got over it in a minute, and was up again before any\none had time to come to the rescue. But Dr. E. gave Emma to Mrs.\nEmbury, who had taken off her things and been crying all the time,\nand said in a low voice,\n\n\"I beg you will now leave the room, and lie down. And do not feel\nobliged to see me when I visit the child. That annoyance, at least,\nyou should spare yourself.\"\n\n\"No consideration shall make me neglect little Emma,\" I replied,\ndefiantly.\n\nBy this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her to sleep, and she lay, pale\nand with an air of complete exhaustion, in her arms.\n\n\"You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer,\" Dr. Elliott said, as he rose\nto go. \"I will return in a few hours to see how you both do.\"\n\nHe stood looking at, Emma, but did not go. Then Mrs. Embury asked the\nquestion I had not dared to ask.\n\n\"Is the poor child in danger?\"\n\n\"I cannot say; I trust not. Miss Mortimer's presence of mind in\nextinguishing the flames at once, has, I hope, saved its life.\"\n\n\"It was not my presence of mind, it was Lucy's!\" I cried, eagerly.\nOh, how I envied her for being the heroine, and for the surprised,\ndelighted smile with which he went and took her hand, saying, \"I\ncongratulate you, Lucy! How your mother will rejoice at this!\"\n\nI tried to think of nothing but poor little Emma, and of the reward\nAunty had had for her kindness to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and\nhow likely it was that under the same circumstances I should have\nbeen beside myself, and done nothing. This, and many other emotions,\nmade me burst out crying.\n\n\"Yes, cry, cry, with all your heart,\" said Mrs. Embury, laying Emma\ngently down, and coming to get me into her arms. \"It will do you\ngood, poor child!\"\n\nShe cried with me, till at last I could lie down and try to sleep.\n\nWell, the days and the weeks were very long after that.\n\nDear mother had a hard time, what with her anxiety about Emma, and my\ncrossness and unreasonableness.\n\nDr. Elliott came and went, came and went. At last he said all danger\nwas over, and that our patient little darling would get well. But his\nvisits did not diminish; he came twice and three times every day.\nSometimes I hoped he would tell us about his new flame, and sometimes\nI felt that I could not hear her mentioned. One day mother was so\nunwell that I had to help him dress Emma's burns, and I could not\nhelp saying:\n\n\"Even a mother's gentlest touch, full of love as it is, is almost\nrough compared with that of one trained to such careful handling as\nyou are.\"\n\nHe looked gratified, but said:\n\n\"I am glad you begin to find that even stones feel, sometimes.\"\n\nAnother time something was said about the fickleness of women. Mrs.\nEmbury began it. I fired up, of course.\n\nHe seemed astonished at my attack.\n\n\"I said nothing,\" he declared.\n\n\"No, but you looked a good many things. Now the fact is, women are\nnot fickle. When they lose what they value most, they find it\nimpossible to replace it. But men console themselves with the first\ngood thing that comes along.\"\n\nI dare say I spoke bitterly, for I was thinking how soon Ch----, I\nmean somebody, replaced me in his shallow heart, and how, with equal\nspeed, Dr. Elliott had helped himself to a new love.\n\n\"I do not like these sweeping assertions,\" said Dr. Elliott, looking\na good deal annoyed.\n\n\"I have to say what I think,\" I persisted.\n\n\"It is well to think rightly, then,\" he said, gravely.\n\n\"By the bye, have you heard from Helen?\" Mrs. Embury most\nirreverently asked.\n\n\"Yes, I, heard yesterday.\"\n\n\"I suppose you will be writing her, then? Will you enclose a little\nnote from me? Or rather let me have the least corner of your sheet?\"\n\nI was shocked at her want of delicacy. Of course this Helen must be\nthe new love, and how could a woman with two grains of sense imagine\nhe would want to spare her a part of his sheet!\n\nI felt tired and irritated. As soon as Dr. Elliott had gone, I began\nto give her a good setting down.\n\n\"I could hardly believe my ears,\" I said, \"when I heard you ask leave\nto write on Dr. Elliott's sheet.\"\n\n\"No wonder,\" she said, laughing. \"I suppose you never knew what it\nwas to have to count every shilling, and to deny yourself the\npleasure of writing to a friend because of what it would cost. I'm\nsure I never did till I was married.\"\n\n\"But to ask him to let you help write his love-letters,\" I objected.\n\n\"Ah! is that the way the wind blows?\" she cried, nodding her pretty\nlittle head. \"Well, then, let me relieve your mind, my dear, by\ninforming you that this 'love-letter' is to his sister, my dearest\nfriend, and the sweetest little thing you ever saw.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" I said, and immediately felt quite rested, and quite like\nmyself.\n\nLike myself! And who is she, pray!\n\nTwo souls dwell in my poor little body, and which of them is me, and\nwhich of them isn't, it would be hard to tell. This is the way they\nbehave:\n\nSCENE FIRST.\n\nKaty, to the other creature, whom I will call Kate.-Your mother looks\ntired, and you have been very cross. Run and put your arms around\nher, and tell her how you love her.\n\nKate.-Oh, I can't; it would look queer. I don't like palaver.\nBesides, who would not be cross who felt as I do?\n\nSCENE SECOND.\n\nKaty.-Little Emma has nothing to do, and ought to be amused. Tell her\na story, do.\n\nKate.-I am tired, and need to be amused myself.\n\nKaty.-But the dear little thing is so patient and has suffered so\nmuch.\n\nKate.-Well, I have suffered, too. If she had not climbed up on the\nfender she would not have got burned.\n\nSCENE THIRD.\n\nKate.-You are very irritable to-day. You had better go upstairs to\nyour room and pray for patience.\n\nKaty.-One can't be always praying. I don't feel like it.\n\nSCENE FOURTH.\n\nKaty.-You treat Dr. Elliott shamefully. I should think he would\nreally avoid you as you avoid him.\n\nKate-Don't let me hear his name. I don't avoid him.\n\nKaty.-You do not deserve his good opinion.\n\nKate.-Yes, I do.\n\nSCENE FIFTH\n\nJust awake in the morning.\n\nKaty.-Oh, dear! how hateful I am! I am cross and selfish, and\ndomineering, and vain. I think of myself the whole time; I behave\nlike a heroine when Dr. Elliott is present, and like a naughty,\nspoiled child when he is not. Poor mother! how can she endure me? As\nto my piety, it is worse than none.\n\nKate, a few hours later.-Well, nobody can deny that I have a real\ngift in managing children! And I am very lovable, or mother wouldn't\nbe so fond of me. I am always pleasant unless I am sick, or worried,\nand my temper is not half so hasty as it used to be. I never think of\nmyself, but am all the time doing something for others. As to Dr. E.,\nI am thankful to say that I have never stooped to attract him by\nputting on airs and graces. He sees me just as I am. And I am very\ndevout. I love to read good books and to be with good people. I pray\na great deal. The bare thought of doing wrong makes me shudder.\nMother is proud of me, and I don't wonder. Very few girls would have\nbehaved as I did when Emma was burned. Perhaps I am not as sweet as\nsome people. I am glad of it. I hate sweet people. I have great\nstrength of character, which is much better, and am certainly very\nhigh-toned.\n\nBut, my poor journal, you can't stand any more such stuff, can you?\nBut tell me one thing, am I Katy or am I Kate?\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nX\n\nAPRIL 20.\n\nYESTERDAY I felt better than I have done since the accident. I ran\nabout the house quite cheerily, for me. I wanted to see mother for\nsomething, and flew singing into the parlor, where I had left her\nshortly before. But she was not there, and Dr. Elliott was. I started\nback, and was about to leave the room, but he detained me.\n\n\"Come in, I beg of you,\" he said, his voice grow mg hoarser and\nhoarser. \"Let us put a stop to this.\"\n\n\"To what?\" I asked, going nearer and nearer, and looking up into his\nface, which was quite pale.\n\n\"To your evident terror of being alone with me, of hearing me speak.\nLet me assure you, once for all, that nothing would tempt me to annoy\nyou by urging myself upon you, as you seem to fear I may be tempted\nto do. I cannot force you to love me, nor would I if I could. If you\never want a friend you will find one in me. But do not think of me as\nyour lover, or treat me as if I were always lying in wait for a\nchance to remind you of it. That I shall never do, never.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, of course not!\" I broke forth, my face all in a glow, and\ntears of mortification raining down my cheeks. \"I knew you did not\ncare for me I! knew you had got over it!\"\n\nI don't know which of us began it, I don't think he did, and I am\nsure I did not, but the next moment I was folded all up in his great\nlong arms, and a new life had begun!\n\nMother opened the door not long after, and seeing what was going on,\ntrotted away on her dear feet as fast as she could.\n\nAPRIL 21.-I am too happy to write journals. To think how we love each\nother.\n\nMother behaves beautifully.\n\nAPRIL 25.-One does not feel like saying much about it, when one is as\nhappy as I am. I walk the streets as one treading on air. I fly about\nthe house as on wings. I kiss everybody I see.\n\nNow that I look at Ernest (for he makes me call him so) with\nunprejudiced eyes, I wonder I ever thought him clumsy. And how\nridiculous it was in me to confound his dignity and manliness with\nage!\n\nIt is very odd, however, that such a cautious, well-balanced man\nshould have fallen in love with me that day at Sunday-school. And\nstill stranger that with my headlong, impulsive nature, I\ndeliberately walked into love with him!\n\nI believe we shall never get through with what we have to say to each\nother. I am afraid we are rather selfish to leave mother to herself\nevery evening.\n\nSEPT. 5.-This has been a delightful summer. To be sure, we had to\ntake the children to the country for a couple of months, but Ernest's\nletters are almost better than Ernest himself. I have written enough\nto him to fill a dozen books. We are going back to the city now. In\nhis last letter Ernest says he has been home, and that his mother is\ndelighted to hear of his engagement. He says, too, that he went to\nsee an old lady, one of the friends of his boyhood, to tell the news\nto her.\n\n\"When I told her,\" he goes on, \"that I had found the most beautiful,\nthe noblest, the most loving of human beings, she only said, 'Of\ncourse, of course!'\n\n\"Now you know, dear, that it is not at all of course, but the very\nstrangest, most wonderful event in the history of the world.\"\n\nAnd then he described a scene he had just witnessed at the deathbed\nof a young girl of my own age, who left this world and every possible\nearthly joy, with a delight in the going to be with Christ, that made\nhim really eloquent. Oh, how glad I am that God has cast in my lot\nwith a man whose whole business is to minister to others! I am sure\nthis will, of itself, keep him unworldly and unselfish. How delicious\nit is to love such a character, and how happy I shall be to go with\nhim to sick-rooms and to dying-beds! He has already taught me that\nlessons learned in such scenes far outweigh in value what books and\nsermons, even, can teach.\n\nAnd now, my dear old journal, let me tell you a secret that has to do\nwith life, and not with death.\n\nI am going to be married!\n\nTo think that I am always to be with Ernest! To sit at the table with\nhim every day, to pray with him, to go to church with him, to have\nhim all mine! I am sure that there is not another man on earth whom I\ncould love as I love him. The thought of marrying Ch---, I mean of\nhaving that silly, school-girl engagement end in marriage, was always\nrepugnant to me. But I give myself to Ernest joyfully and with all my\nheart.\n\nHow good God has been to me! I do hope and pray that this new, this\nabsorbing love, has not detached my soul from Him, will not detach\nit. If I knew it would, could I, should I have courage to cut it off\nand cast it from me?\n\nJAN. 16, 1837.-Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is my\nwedding-day. We meant to celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday\nwould come this year on the fifteenth.\n\nI am dressed, and have turned everybody out of this room, where I\nhave suffered so much mortification, and experienced so much joy,\nthat before I give myself to Ernest, and before I leave home forever,\nI may once more give myself away to God. I have been too much\nabsorbed in my earthly love, and am shocked to find how it fills my\nthoughts. But I will belong to God. I will begin my married life in\nHis fear, depending on Him to make me an unselfish, devoted wife.\n\nJAN. 25.-We had a delightful trip after the wedding was over. Ernest\nproposed to take me to his own home that I might see his mother and\nsister. He never has said that he wanted them to see me. But his\nmother is not well. I am heartily glad of it.\n\nI mean I was glad to escape going there to be examined and\ncriticised. Every one of them would pick at me, I am sure, and I\ndon't like to be picked at.\n\nWe have a home of our own, and I am trying to take kindly to\nhousekeeping. Ernest is away a great deal more than I expected he\nwould be. I am fearfully lonely. Aunty comes to see me as often as\nshe can, and I go there almost every day, but that doesn't amount to\nmuch. As soon as I can venture to it, I shall ask Ernest to let me\ninvite mother to come and live with us. It is not right for her to be\nleft all alone so I hoped he would do that himself. But men are not\nlike women. We think of everything.\n\nFEB. 15.-Our honeymoon ends to-day. There hasn't been quite as much\nhoney in it as I expected. I supposed that Ernest would be at home\nevery evening, at least, and that he would read aloud, and have me\nplay and sing, and that we should have delightful times together. But\nnow he has got me he seems satisfied, and goes about his business as\nif he had been married a hundred years. In the morning he goes off to\nsee his list of patients; he is going in and out all day; after\ndinner we sit down to have a nice talk together; the door-bell\ninvariably rings, and he is called away. Then in the evening he goes\nand sits in his office and studies; I don't mean every minute, but he\ncertainly spends hours there. To-day he brought me such a precious\nletter from dear mother! I could not help crying when I read it, it\nwas so kind and so loving. Ernest looked amazed; he threw down his\npaper, came and took me in his arms and asked, \"What is the matter,\ndarling?\" Then it all came out. I said I was lonely, and hadn't been\nused to spending my evenings all by myself.\n\n\"You must get some of your friends to come and see you, poor child,\"\nhe said.\n\n\"I don't want friends,\" I sobbed out. \"I want you.\"\n\n\"Yes, darling; why didn't you tell me so sooner? Of course I will\nstay with you if you wish it.\"\n\n\"If that is your only reason, I am sure I don't want you,\" I pouted.\n\nHe looked puzzled.\n\n\"I really don't know what to do,\" he said, with a most comical look\nof perplexity. But he went to his office, and brought up a pile of\nfusty old books.\n\n\"Now, dear,\" he said, \"we understand each other I think. I can read\nhere just as well as down stairs. Get your book and we shall be as\ncosy as possible.\"\n\nMy heart felt sore and dissatisfied. Am I unreasonable and childish?\nWhat is married life? An occasional meeting, a kiss here and a caress\nthere? or is it the sacred union of the twain who 'walk together side\nby side, knowing each other's joys and sorrows, and going Heavenward\nhand in hand?\n\nFEB. 17.-Mrs. Embury has been here to-day. I longed to compare notes\nwith her, and find out whether it really is my fault that I am not\nquite happy. But I could not bear to open my heart to her on so\nsacred a subject. We had some general conversation, however, which\ndid me good for the time, at least.\n\nShe said she thought one of the first lessons a wife should learn is\nself-forgetfulness. I wondered if she had seen anything in me to call\nforth this remark. We meet pretty often; partly because our husbands\nare such good friends, partly because she is as fond of music as I\nam, and we like to sing and play together, and I never see her that\nshe does not do or say something elevating; something that\nstrengthens my own best purposes and desires. But she knows nothing\nof my conflict and dismay, and never will. Her gentle nature responds\nat once to holy influences. I feel truly grateful to her for loving\nme, for she really does love me, and yet she must see my faults.\n\nI should like to know if there is any reason on earth why a woman\nshould learn self-forgetfulness that does not apply to a man?\n\nFEB. 18.-Uncle says he has no doubt he owes his life to Ernest, who,\nin the face of opposition to other physicians, insisted on his giving\nup his business and going off to Europe at just the right moment. For\nhis partner, whose symptoms were very like his own, has been stricken\ndown with paralysis, and will not recover.\n\nIt is very pleasant to hear Ernest praised, and it is a pleasure I\nhave very often, for his friends come to see me, and speak of him\nwith rapture. A lady told me that through the long illness of a sweet\nyoung daughter of hers, he prayed with her every day, ministering so\nskillfully to her soul, that all fear of death was taken away, and\nshe just longed to go, and did go at last, with perfect delight. I\nthink he spoke of her to me once; but he did not tell me that her\npreparations for death was his work. I could not conceive of him as\ndoing that.\n\nFEB. 24.-Ernest has been gone a week. His mother is worse and he had\nto go. I wanted to go too, but he said it was not worth while, as he\nshould have to return directly. Dr. Embury takes charge of his\npatients during his absence, and Mrs. E. and Aunty and the children\ncome to see me very often. I like Mrs. Embury more and more. She is\nnot so audacious as I am, but I believe she agrees with me more than\nshe will own.\n\nFEB. 25.-Ernest writes that his mother is dangerously ill, and seems\nin great distress. I am mean enough to want all his love myself,\nwhile I should hate him if he gave none to her. Poor Ernest! If she\nshould die he would be sadly afflicted!\n\nFEB. 27.-She died the very day he wrote. How I long to fly to him and\nto comfort him! I can think of nothing else. I pray day and night\nthat God would make me a better wife.\n\nA letter came from mother at the same time with Ernest's. She\nevidently misses me more than she will own. Just as soon as Ernest\nreturns home I will ask him to let her come and live with us. I am\nsure he will; he loves her already, and now that his mother has gone\nhe will find her a real comfort. I am sure she will only make our\nhome the happier.\n\nFEB. 28.-Such a dreadful thing is going to happen! I have cried and\ncalled myself names by turns all day. Ernest writes that it has been\ndecided to give up the old homestead, and scatter the family about\namong the married sons and daughters. Our share is to be his father\nand his sister Martha, and he desires me to have two rooms got ready\nfor them at once.\n\nSo all the glory and the beauty is snatched out of my married life at\none swoop! And it is done by the hand I love best, and that I would\nnot have believed could be so unkind.\n\nI am rent in pieces by conflicting emotions and passions. One moment\nI am all tenderness and sympathy for poor Ernest, and ready to\nsacrifice everything for his pleasure. The next I am bitterly angry\nwith him for disposing of all my happiness in this arbitrary way. If\nhe had let me make common cause with him and share his interests with\nhim, I know I am not so abominably selfish as to feel as I do now.\nBut he forces two perfect strangers upon me and forever shuts our\ndoors against my darling mother. For, of course, she cannot live with\nus if they do.\n\nAnd who knows what sort of people they are? It is not everybody I can\nget along with, nor is it everybody can get along with me. Now, if\nHelen were coming instead of Martha, that would be some relief. I\ncould love her, I am sure, and she would put up with my ways. But\nyour Marthas I am afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, what a nest of scorpions\nthis affair has stirred up within me! Who would believe I could be\nthinking of my own misery while Ernest's mother, whom he loved so\ndearly, is hardly in her grave! But I have no heart, I am stony and\ncold. It is well to have found out just what I am!\n\nSince I wrote that I have been trying to tell God all about it. But I\ncould not speak for crying. And I have been getting the rooms ready.\nHow many little things I had planned to put in the best one, which I\nintended for mother I have made myself arrange them just the same for\nErnest's father. The stuffed chair I have had in my room, and enjoyed\nso much, has been rolled in, and the Bible with large print placed on\nthe little table near which I had pictured mother with her sweet,\npale face, as sitting year after year. The only thing I have taken\naway is the copy of father's portrait. He won't want that!\n\nWhen I had finished this business I went and shook my fist at the\ncreature I saw in the glass.\n\n\"You're beaten!\" I cried. \"You didn't want to give up the chair, nor\nyour writing-table, nor the Bible in which you expect to record the\nnames of your ten children I But you've had to do it, so there!\"\n\nMARCH 3.-They all got here at 7 o'clock last night, just in time for\ntea. I was so glad to get hold of Ernest once more that I was\ngracious to my guests, too. The very first thing, however, Ernest\nannoyed me by calling me Katherine, though he knows I hate that name,\nand want to be called Katy as if I were a lovable person, as I\ncertainly am (sometimes). Of course his father and Martha called me\nKatherine, too.\n\nHis father is even taller, darker, blacker eyed, blacker haired than\nhe.\n\nMartha is a spinster.\n\nI had got up a nice little supper for them, thinking they would need\nsomething substantial after their journey. And perhaps there was some\nvanity in the display of dainties that needed the mortification I\nfelt at seeing my guests both push away their plates in apparent\ndisgust. Ernest, too, looked annoyed, and expressed some regret that\nthey could find nothing to tempt their appetites.\n\nMartha said something about not expecting much from young\nhousekeepers, which I inwardly resented, for the light, delicious\nbread had been sent by Aunty, together with other luxuries from her\nown table, and I knew they were not the handiwork of a young\nhousekeeper, but of old Chloe, who had lived in her own and her\nmother's family twenty years.\n\nErnest went out as soon as this unlucky repast was over to hear Dr.\nEmbury's report of his patients, and we passed a dreary evening, as\nmy mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. The more I tried\nto think of something to say the more I couldn't.\n\nAt last Martha asked at what time we breakfasted.\n\n\"At half-past seven, precisely,\" I answered. \"Ernest is very punctual\nabout breakfast. The other meals are more irregular.\"\n\n\"That is very late,\" she returned. \"Father rises early and needs his\nbreakfast at once.\"\n\nI said I would see that he had it as early as he liked, while I\nforesaw that this would cost me a battle with the divinity who\nreigned in the kitchen.\n\n\"You need not trouble yourself. I will speak to my brother about it,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"Ernest has nothing to do with it,\" I said, quickly.\n\nShe looked at me in a speechless way, and then there was a long\nsilence, during which she shook her head a number of times. At last\nshe inquired: \"Did you make the bread we had on the table to-night?\"\n\n\"No, I do not know how to make bread,\" I said, smiling at her look of\nhorror.\n\n\"Not know how to make bread?\" she cried. The very spirit of mischief\ngot into me, and made me ask:\n\n\"Why, can you?\"\n\nNow I know there is but one other question I could have asked her,\nless insulting than this, and that is:\n\n\"Do you know the Ten Commandments?\"\n\nA spinster fresh from a farm not know how make bread, to be sure!\n\nBut in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that I had yielded to myself\nso far as to forget the courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just\nhome from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the room, seized her\nhand, and said, eagerly:\n\n\"Do forgive me! It slipped out before I thought!\"\n\nShe looked at me in blank amazement, unconscious that there was\nanything to forgive.\n\n\"How you startled me!\" she said. \"I thought you had suddenly gone\ncrazy.\"\n\nI went back to my seat crestfallen enough. All this time Ernest's\nfather had sat grim and grave in his corner, without a word. But now\nhe spoke.\n\n\"At what hour does my son have family worship? I should like to\nretire. I feel very weary.\"\n\nNow family worship at night consists in our kneeling down together\nhand in hand, the last thing before going to bed, and in our own\nroom. The awful thought of changing this sweet, informal habit into a\nformal one made me reply quickly:\n\n\"Oh, Ernest is very irregular about it. He is often out in the\nevening, and sometimes we are quite late. I hope you never will feel\nobliged to wait for him.\"\n\n\"I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it costs,\" was the answer.\n\nOh, how I wished they would go to bed!\n\nIt was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and restless. When Ernest is\nout late I usually lie on the sofa and wait for him, and so am bright\nand fresh when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and there was no\nknowing for how long. I poked at the fire and knocked down the shovel\nand tongs, now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned forward,\nand then I listened for his step. At last he came.\n\n\"What, are you not all gone to bed?\" he asked.\n\nAs if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen him a moment since\nhis return!\n\nI explained why we waited, and then we had prayer and escorted our\nguests to their rooms. When we got back to the parlor I was thankful\nto rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what little he\nhad to tell about his mother's last hours.\n\n\"You must love me more than ever, now,\" he said, \"for I have lost my\nbest friend.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I will.\" As if that were possible! All the time we\nwere talking I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not\nseem to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, or her father,\nor both together, had changed the positions of article of furniture\nin the room making it look a fright.\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nXI.\n\nMARCH 10.\n\nTHINGS are even worse than I expected. Ernest evidently looked at me\nwith his father's eyes (and this father has got the jaundice, or\nsomething), and certainly is cooler towards me than he was before he\nwent home. Martha still declines eating more than enough to keep body\nand soul together, and sits at the table with the air of a martyr.\nHer father lives on crackers and stewed prunes, and when he has eaten\nthem, fixes his melancholy eyes on me, watching every mouthful with\nan air of plaintive regret that I will consume so much unwholesome\nfood.\n\nThen Ernest positively spends less time with me than ever, and sits\nin his office reading and writing nearly every evening.\n\nYesterday I came home from an exhilarating walk, and a charming call\nat Aunty's, and at the dinner-table gave a lively account of some of\nthe children's exploits. Nobody laughed, and nobody made any\nresponse, and after dinner Ernest took me aside, and said, kindly\nenough, but still said it,\n\n\"My little wife must be careful how she runs on in my father's\npresence. He has a great deal of every thing that might be thought\nlevity.\"\n\nThen all the vials of my wrath exploded and went off.\n\n\"Yes, I see how it is,\" I cried, passionately. \"You and your father\nand your sister have got a box about a foot square that you want to\nsqueeze me into. I have seen it ever since they came. And I can tell\nyou it will take more than three of you to do it. There was no harm\nin what I said-none, whatever. If you only married me for the sake of\nscrewing me down and freezing me up, why didn't you tell me so before\nit was too late?\"\n\nErnest stood looking at me like one staring at a problem he had got\nto solve, and didn't know where to begin.\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" he said. \"I thought you would be glad to have me\ngive you this little hint. Of course I want you to appear your very\nbest before my father and sister.\"\n\n\"My very best is my real self,\" I cried. \"To talk like a woman of\nforty is unnatural to a girl of my age. If your father doesn't like\nme I wish he would go away, and not come here putting notions into\nyour head, and making you as cold and hard as a stone. Mother liked\nto have me 'run on,' as you call it, and I wish I had stayed with her\nall my life.\"\n\n\"Do you mean,\" he asked, very gravely, \"that you really wish that?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"I don't mean it,\" for his husky, troubled voice\nbrought me to my senses. \"All I mean is, that I love you so dearly,\nand you keep my heart feeling so hungry and restless; and then you\nwent and brought your father and sister here and never asked me if I\nshould like it; and you crowded mother out, and she lives all alone,\nand it isn't right! I always said that whoever married me had got to\nmarry mother, and I never dreamed that you would disappoint me so!\"\n\n\"Will you stop crying, and listen to me?\" he said.\n\nBut I could not stop. The floods of the great deep were broken up at\nlast, and I had to cry. If I could have told my troubles to some one\nI could thus have found vent for them, but there was no one to whom I\nhad a right to speak of my husband.\n\nErnest walked up and down in silence. Oh, if I could have cried on\nhis breast, and felt that he loved and pitied me!\n\nAt last, as I grew quieter, he came and sat by me.\n\n\"This has come upon me like a thunderclap,\" he said. \"I did not know\nI kept your heart hungry. I did not know you wished your mother to\nlive with us. And I took it for granted that my wife, with her\nhigh-toned, heroic character, would sustain me in every duty, and\nwelcome my father and sister to our home. I do not know what I can do\nnow. Shall I send them away?\"\n\n\"No, no!\" I cried. \"Only be good to me, Ernest, only love me, only\nlook at me with your own eyes, and not with other people's. You knew\nI had faults when you married me; I never tried to conceal them.\"\n\n\"And did you fancy I had none myself?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" I replied. \"I saw no faults in you. Everybody said you were\nsuch a noble, good man and you spoke so beautifully one night at an\nevening meeting.\"\n\n\"Speaking beautifully is little to the purpose less one lives\nbeautifully,\" he said, sadly. \"And now is it possible that you and I,\na Christian man and a Christian woman, are going on and on with\nscenes as this? Are you to wear your very life out because I have not\nyour frantic way of loving, and am I to be made weary of mine because\nI cannot satisfy you?\"\n\n\"But, Ernest,\" I said, \"you used to satisfy me. Oh, how happy I was\nin those first days when we were always together; and you seemed so\nfond me!\" I was down on the floor by this time, and looking up into\nhis pale, anxious face.\n\n\"Dear child,\" he said, \"I do love you, and that more than you know.\nBut you would not have me leave my work and spend my whole time\ntelling you so?\"\n\n\"You know I am not so silly,\" I cried.. \"It is not fair, it is not\nright to talk as if I were. I ask for nothing unreasonable. I only\nwant those little daily assurances of your affection which I should\nsuppose would be spontaneous if you felt at all towards me as I do to\nyou.\"\n\n\"The fact is,\" he returned, \"I am absorbed in my work. It brings many\ngrave cares and anxieties. I spend most of my time amid scenes of\nsuffering and at dying beds. This makes me seem abstracted and cold,\nbut it does not make you less dear. On the contrary, the sense it\ngives me of the brevity and sorrowfulness of life makes you doubly\nprecious, since it constantly reminds me that sick beds and dying\nbeds must sooner or later come to our home as to those of others.\"\n\nI clung to him as he uttered these terrible words. In an agony of\nterror.\n\n\"Oh, Ernest, promise me, promise me that you will not die first,\" I\npleaded.\n\n\"Foolish little thing!\" he said, and was as silly, for a while, as the\nsilliest heart could ask. Then he became serious again.\n\n\"Katy,\" he said, \"if you can once make up your mind to the fact that\nI am an undemonstrative man, not all fire and fury and ecstasy as you\nare, yet loving you with all my heart, however it may seem, I think\nyou will spare yourself much needless pain--and spare me, also.\"\n\n\"But I want, you to be demonstrative,\" I persisted.\n\n\"Then you must teach me. And about my father and sister, perhaps, we\nmay find some way of relieving you by and by. Meanwhile, try to bear\nwith the trouble they make, for my sake.\"\n\n\"But I don't mind the trouble! Oh, Ernest, how you do misunderstand\nme! What I mind is their coming between you and me and making you\nlove me less.\"\n\nBy this time there was a call for Ernest-it is a wonder there had\nnot been forty-and he went.\n\n\"I feel as heart-sore as ever. What has been gained by this tempest?\nNothing at all! Poor Ernest! How can I worry him so when he is\nalready full of care?\"\n\nMARCH 20.-I have had such a truly beautiful letter to-day from dear\nmother! She gives up the hope of coming to spend her last years with\nus with a sweet patience that makes me cry whenever I think of it.\nWhat is the secret of this instant and cheerful consent to whatever\nGod wills! Oh, that I had it, too! She begs me to be considerate\nand kind to Ernest's father and sister, and constantly to remind\nmyself that my Heavenly Father has chosen to give me this care and\ntrial on the very threshold of my married life. I am afraid I have\nquite lost sight of that in my indignation with Ernest for bringing\nthem here.\n\nAPRIL 3.-Martha is closeted with Ernest in his office day and night.\nThey never give me the least hint of what is going on in these secret\nmeetings. Then this morning Sarah, my good, faithful cook, bounced\ninto my room to give warning. She said she could not live where there\nwere two mistresses giving contrary directions.\n\n\"But, really, there is but one mistress,\" I urged. Then it came out\nthat Martha went down every morning to look after the soap-fat, and\nto scrimp in the house-keeping, and see that there was no food\nwasted. I remembered then that she had inquired whether I attended to\nthese details, evidently ranking such duties with saying one's\nprayers and reading one's Bible.\n\nI flew to Ernest the moment he was at leisure and poured my\ngrievances into his ear.\n\n\"Well, dear,\" he said, \"suppose you give up the house-keeping to\nMartha! She will be far happier and you will be freed from much\nannoying, petty care.\"\n\nI bit my tongue lest it should say something, and went back to Sarah.\n\n\"Suppose Miss Elliott takes charge of the housekeeping, and I have\nnothing to do with it, will you stay?\"\n\n\"Indeed, and I won't then. I can't bear her, and I won't put up with\nher nasty, scrimping, pinching ways!\"\n\n\"Very well. Then you will have to go,\" I said, with great dignity,\nthough just ready to cry. Ernest, on being applied to for wages,\nundertook to argue the question himself.\n\n\"My sister will take the whole charge,\" he began.\n\n\"And may and welcome for all me!\" quoth Sarah. \"I don't like her and\nnever shall.\"\n\n\"Your liking or disliking her is of no consequence whatever,\" said\nErnest. \"You may dislike her as much as you please. But you must not\nleave us.\"\n\n\"Indeed, and I'm not going to stay and be put upon by her,\" persisted\nSarah. So she has gone. We had to get dinner ourselves; that is to\nsay, Martha did, for she said I got in her way, and put her out with\nmy awkwardness. I have been running hither and thither to find some\nangel who will consent to live in this ill-assorted household. Oh,\nhow different everything is from what I had planned! I wanted a\ncheerful home, where I should be the centre of every joy; a home like\nAunty's, without a cloud. But Ernest's father sits, the\npersonification of silent gloom, like a nightmare on my spirits;\nMartha holds me in disfavor and contempt; Ernest is absorbed in his\nprofession, and I hardly see him. If he wants advice he asks it of\nMartha, while I sit, humbled, degraded and ashamed, wondering why he\never married me at all. And then come interludes of wild joy when he\nappears just as he did in the happy days of our bridal trip, and I\nforget every grievance and hang on his words and looks like one\nintoxicated with bliss.\n\nOCT. 2.-There has been another explosion. I held in as long as I\ncould, and then flew into ten thousand pieces. Ernest had got into\nthe habit of helping his father and sister at the table, and\napparently forgetting me. It seems a little thing, but it chafed and\nfretted my already irritated soul till at last I was almost beside\nmyself.\n\nYesterday they all three sat eating their breakfast and I, with empty\nplate, sat boiling over and, looking on, when Ernest brought things\nto a crisis by saying to Martha,\n\n\"If you can find time to-day I wish you would go out with me for half\nan hour or so. I want to consult you about-\"\n\n\"Oh!\" I said, rising, with my face all in a flame, \"do not trouble\nyourself to go out in order to escape me. I can leave the room and\nyou can have your secrets to yourselves as you do your breakfast!\"\n\nI don't know which struck me, most, Ernest's appalled, grieved look\nor the glance exchanged between Martha and her father.\n\nHe did not hinder my leaving the room, and I went upstairs, as\npitiable an object as could be seen. I heard him go to his office,\nthen take his hat and set forth on his rounds. What wretched hours I\npassed, thus left alone! One moment I reproached myself, the next I\nwas indignant at the long series of offences that had led to this\ndisgraceful scene.\n\nAt last Ernest came.\n\nHe looked concerned, and a little pale.\n\n\"Oh, Ernest!\" I cried, running to him, \"I am so sorry I spoke to you\nas I did! But, indeed, I cannot stand the way things are going on; I\nam wearing all out. Everybody speaks of my growing thin. Feel of my\nhands. They burn like fire.\"\n\n\"I knew you would be sorry, dear,\" he said. \"Yes, your hands are\nhot, poor child.\"\n\nThere was a long, dreadful silence. And yet I was speaking, and\nperhaps he was. I was begging and beseeching God not to let us drift\napart, not to let us lose one jot or tittle of our love to each\nother, to enable me to understand my dear, dear husband and make him\nunderstand me.\n\nThen Ernest began.\n\n\"What was it vexed you, dear? What is it you can't stand? Tell me. I\nam your husband, I love you, I want to make you happy.\"\n\n\"Why, you are having so many secrets that you keep from me; and you\ntreat me as if I were only a child, consulting Martha about\neverything. And of late you seem to have forgotten that I am at the\ntable and never help me to anything!\"\n\n\"Secrets!\" he re-echoed. \"What possible secrets can I have?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said, sinking wearily back on the sofa. \"Indeed,\nErnest, I don't want to be selfish or exacting, but I am very\nunhappy.\"\n\n\"Yes, I see it, poor child. And if I have neglected you at the table\nI do not wonder you are out of patience. I know how it has happened.\nWhile you were pouring out the coffee I busied myself in caring for\nmy father and Martha, and so forgot you. I do not give this as an\nexcuse, but as a reason. I have really no excuse, and am ashamed of\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Don't say that, darling,\" I cried, \"it is I who ought to be ashamed\nfor making such an ado about a trifle.\"\n\n\"It is not a trifle,\" he said; \"and now to the other points. I dare\nsay I have been careless about consulting Martha. But she has always\nbeen a sort of oracle in our family, and we all look up to her, and\nshe is so much older than you. Then as to the secrets. Martha comes\nto my office to help me look over my books. I have been careless\nabout my accounts, and she has kindly undertaken to attend to them\nfor me.\"\n\n\"Could not I have done that?\"\n\n\"No; why should your little head be troubled about money matters? But\nto go on. I see that it was thoughtless in me not to tell you what we\nwere about. But I am greatly perplexed and harassed in many ways.\nPerhaps you would feel better to know all about it. I have only kept\nit from you to spare you all the anxiety I could.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ernest,\" I said, \"ought not a wife to share in all her husband's\ncares?\"\n\n\"No,\" he returned; \"but I will tell you all that is annoying me now.\nMy father was in business in our native town, and went on\nprosperously for many years. Then the tide turned-he met with loss\nafter loss, till nothing remained but the old homestead, and on that\nthere was a mortgage. We concealed the state of things from my\nmother; her health was delicate, and we never let her know a trouble\nwe could spare her. Now she has gone, and we have found it necessary\nto sell our old home and to divide and scatter the family. My father's\nmental distress when he found others suffering from his own losses\nthrew him into the state in which you see him now. I have therefore\nassumed his debts, and with God's help hope in time to pay them to\nthe uttermost farthing. It will be necessary for us to live\neconomically until this is done. There are two pressing cases that I\nam trying to meet at once. This has given me a preoccupied air, I\nhave no doubt, and made you suspect and misunderstand me. But now you\nknow the whole, my darling.\"\n\nI felt my injustice and childish folly very keenly, and told him so.\n\n\"But I think, dear Ernest,\" I added, \"if you will not be hurt at my\nsaying so, that you have led me to it by not letting me share at once\nin your cares. If you had at the outset just told me the whole story,\nyou would have enlisted my sympathies in your father's behalf, and in\nyour own. I should have seen the reasonableness of your breaking up\nthe old home and bringing him here, and it would have taken the edge\nof my bitter, bitter disappointment about my mother.\"\n\n\"I feel very sorry about that,\" he said. \"It would be a real pleasure\nto have her here. But as things are now, she could not be happy with\nus.\"\n\n\"There is no room,\" I put in.\n\n\"I am truly sorry. And now my dear little wife must have patience\nwith her stupid blundering old husband, and we'll start together once\nmore fair and square. Don't wait, next time, till you are so full\nthat you boil over; the moment I annoy you by my inconsiderate ways,\ncome right and tell me.\"\n\nI called myself all the horrid names I could think of.\n\n\"May I ask one thing more, now we are upon the subject?\" I said at\nlast. \"Why couldn't your sister Helen have come here instead of\nMartha?\"\n\nHe smiled a little.\n\n\"In the first place, Helen would be perfectly if she had the care of\nfather in his present. She is too young to have such responsibility.\nIn the second place, my brother John, with whom she has gone to live,\nhas a wife who would be quite crushed by my father and Martha. She is\none of those little tender, soft souls one could crush fingers. Now,\nyou are not of that sort; you have force of character enough to\nenable you to live with them, while maintaining your own dignity and\nremaining yourself in spite of circum stances.\"\n\n\"I thought you admired Martha above all thing and wanted me to be\nexactly like her.\"\n\n\"I do admire her, but I do not want you to be like anybody but\nyourself.\"\n\n\"But you nearly killed me by suggesting that I should take heed how I\ntalked in your father's presence.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear; it was very stupid of me, but my father has a standard of\nexcellence in his mind by which he tests every woman; this standard\nis my mother. She had none of your life and fun in her, and perhaps\nwould not have appreciated your droll way of putting things any\nbetter than he and Martha do.\"\n\nI could not help sighing a little when I thought what sort of people\nwere watching my every word.\n\n\"There is nothing amiss to my mind,\" Ernest continued, \"in your gay\ntalk; but my father has his own views as to what constitutes a\nreligious character and cannot understand that real earnestness and\nreal, genuine mirthfulness are consistent with each other.\"\n\nHe had to go now, and we parted as if for a week's separation, this\none talk had brought us so near to each other. I understand him now\nas I never have done, and feel that he has given me as real a proof\nof his affection by unlocking the door of his heart and letting me\nsee its cares, as I give him in my wild pranks and caresses and\nfoolish speeches. How truly noble it is in him to take up his\nfather's burden in this way! I must contrive to help to lighten it.\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nXII.\n\nNOVEMBER 6.\n\nAUNTY has put me in the way of doing that. I could not tell her the\nwhole story, of course, but I made her understand that Ernest needed\nmoney for a generous purpose, and that I wanted to help him in it.\nShe said the children needed both music and drawing lessons, and that\nshe should be delighted if I would take them in hand. Aunty does not\ncare a fig for accomplishments, but I think I am right in accepting\nher offer, as the children ought to learn to sing and to play and to\ndraw. Of course I cannot have them come here, as Ernest's father\ncould not bear the noise they would make; besides, I want to take him\nby surprise, and keep the whole thing a secret.\n\nNov. 14.-I have seen by the way Martha draws down the corners of her\nmouth of late, that I am unusually out of favor with her. This\nevening, Ernest, coming home quite late, found me lolling back in my\nchair, idling, after a hard day's work with my little cousins, and\nMartha sewing nervously away at the rate of ten knots an hour, which\nis the first pun I ever made.\n\n\"Why will you sit up and sew at such a rate, Martha?\" he asked.\n\nShe twitched at her thread, broke it, and began with a new one before\nshe replied.\n\n\"I suppose you find it convenient to have a whole shirt to your\nback.\"\n\nI saw then that she was making his shirts! It made me both hot and\ncold at once. What must Ernest think of me?\n\nIt is plain enough what he thinks of her, for he said, quite warmly,\nfor him--\n\n\"This is really too kind.\"\n\nWhat right has she to prowl round among Ernest's things and pry into\nthe state of his wardrobe? If I had not had my time so broken up with\ngiving lessons, I should have found out that he needed new shirts and\nset to work on them. Though I must own I hate shirt-making. I could\nnot help showing that I felt aggrieved. Martha defended herself by\nsaying that she knew young people would be young people, and would\ngad about, shirts or no shirts. Now it is not her fault that she\nthinks I waste my time gadding about, but I am just as angry with her\nas if she did. Oh, why couldn't I have had Helen, to be a pleasant\ncompanion and friend to me, instead of this old-well I won't say\nwhat.\n\nAnd really, with so much to make me happy, what would become of me if\nI had no trials?\n\nNov. 15.-To-day Martha has a house-cleaning mania, and has dragged me\ninto it by representing the sin and misery of those deluded mortals\nwho think servants know how to sweep and to scrub. In spite of my\nresolution not to get under her thumb, I have somehow let her rule\nand reign over me to such an extent that I can hardly sit up long\nenough to write this. Does the whole duty of woman consist in keeping\nher house distressingly clean and prim; in making and baking and\npreserving and pickling; in climbing to the top shelves of closets\nlest haply a little dust should lodge there, and getting down on her\nhands and knees to inspect the carpet? The truth is there is not one\npoint of sympathy between Martha and myself, not one. One would think\nthat our love to Ernest would furnish it. But her love aims at the\nabasement of his character and mine at its elevation. She thinks I\nshould bow down to and worship him, jump up and offer him my chair\nwhen he comes in, feed him with every unwholesome dainty he fancies,\nand feel myself honored by his acceptance of these services. I think\nit is for him to rise and offer me a seat, because I am a woman and\nhis wife; and that a silly subservience on my part is degrading to\nhim and to myself. And I am afraid I make known these sentiments to\nher in a most unpalatable way.\n\nNov. 18.-Oh, I am so happy that I sing for joy! Dear Ernest has\ngiven me such a delightful surprise! He says he has persuaded James\nto come and spend his college days here, and finally study medicine\nwith him. Dear, darling old James! He is to be here to-morrow. He is\nto have the little hall bedroom fitted up for him, and he will be\nhere several years. Next to having mother, this is the nicest thing\nthat could happen. We love each other so dearly, and get along so\nbeautifully together I wonder how he'll like Martha with her grim\nways, and Ernest's father with his melancholy ones.\n\nNov. 30.-James has come, and the house already seems lighter and\ncheerier. He is not in the least annoyed by Martha or her father, and\nthough he is as jovial as the day is long, they actually seem to like\nhim. True to her theory on the subject, Martha invariably rises at\nhis entrance, and offers him her seat! He pretends not to see it, and\nruns to get one for her! Then she takes comfort in seeing him consume\nher good things, since his gobbling them down is a sort of tacit\ntribute to their merits.\n\nMrs. Embury was here to-day. She says there is not much the matter\nwith Ernest's father, that he has only got the hypo. I don't know\nexactly what this is, but I believe it is thinking something is the\nmatter with you when there isn't. At any rate I put it to you, my\ndear old journal, whether it is pleasant to live with people who\nbehave in this way?\n\nIn the first place all he talks about is his fancied disease. He gets\nbook after book from the office and studies and ponders his case till\nhe grows quite yellow. One day he says he has found out the seat of\nhis disease to be the liver, and changes his diet to meet that view\nof the case. Martha has to do him up in mustard, and he takes kindly\nto blue pills. In a day or two he finds his liver is all right, but\nthat his brain is all wrong. The mustard goes now to the back of his\nneck, and he takes solemn leave of us all, with the assurance that\nhis last hour has come. Finding that he survives the night, however,\nhe transfers the seat of his disease to the heart, spends hours in\ncounting his pulse, refuses to take exercise lest he should bring on\npalpitations, and warns us all to prepare to follow him. Everybody\nwho comes in has to hear the whole story, every one prescribes\nsomething, and he tries each remedy in turn. These all failing to\nreach his case, he is plunged into ten-fold gloom. He complains\nthat God has cast him off forever, and that his sins are like the\nsands of the sea for number. I am such a goose that I listen to all\nthese varying moods and symptoms with the solemn conviction that he\nis going to die immediately; I bathe his head, and count his pulse,\nand fan him, and take down his dying depositions for Ernest's solace\nafter he has gone. And I talk theology to him by the hour, while\nMartha bakes and brews in the kitchen, or makes mince pies, after\neating which one might give him the whole Bible at one dose, without\nthe smallest effect.\n\nTo-day I stood by his chair, holding his head and whispering such\nconsoling passages as I thought might comfort him, when James burst\nin, singing and tossing his cap in the air.\n\n\"Come here, young man, and hear my last testimony. I am about to die.\nThe end draws near,\" were the sepulchral words that made him bring\nhis song to an abrupt close.\n\n\"I shall take it very ill of you, sir,\" quoth James, \"if you go and\ndie before giving me that cane you promised me.\"\n\nWho could die decently under such circumstances? The poor old man\nrevived immediately, but looked a good deal injured. After James had\ngone out, he said:\n\n\"It is very painful to one who stands on the very verge of the\neternal world to see the young so thoughtless.\"\n\n\"But James is not thoughtless,\" I said. \"It is only his merry way.\"\n\n\"Daughter Katherine,\" he went on, \"you are very kind to the old man,\nand you will have your reward. But I wish I could feel sure of your\nstate before God. I greatly fear you deceive yourself, and that the\nground of your hope is delusive.\"\n\nI felt the blood rush to my face. At first I was staggered a good\ndeal. But is a mortal man who cannot judge of his own state to decide\nmine? It is true he sees my faults; anybody can, who looks. But he\ndoes not see my prayers, or my tears of shame and sorrow; he does not\nknow how many hasty words I repress; how earnestly I am aiming, all\nthe day long, to do right in all the little details of life. He does\nnot know that it costs my fastidious nature an appeal to God every\ntime I kiss his poor old face, and that what would be an act of\nworship in him is an act of self-denial in me. How should he? The\nChristian life is a hidden known only by the eye that seeth in\nsecret. And I do believe this life is mine.\n\nUp to this time I have contrived to get along without calling\nErnest's father by any name. I mean now to make myself turn over a\nnew leaf.\n\nDECEMBER 7.-James is my perpetual joy and pride. We read and sing\ntogether, just as we used to do in our old school days. Martha sits\nby, with her work, grimly approving; for is he not a man? And, as if\nmy cup of felicity were not full enough, I am to have my dear old\npastor come here to settle over this church, and I shall once more\nhear his beloved voice in the pulpit. Ernest has managed the whole\nthing. He says the state of Dr. C.'s health makes the change quite\nnecessary, and that he can avail himself of the best surgical advice\nthis city affords, in case his old difficulties recur. I rejoice for\nmyself and for this church, but mother will miss him sadly.\n\nI am leading a very busy, happy life, only I am, perhaps, working a\nlittle too hard. What with my scholars, the extra amount of housework\nMartha contrives to get out of me, the practicing I must keep up if I\nam to teach, and the many steps I have to take, I have not only no\nidle moments, but none too many for recreation. Ernest is so busy\nhimself that he fortunately does not see what a race I am running.\n\nJANUARY 16, 1838.-The first anniversary of our wedding-day, and like\nall days, has had its lights and its shades. I thought I would\ncelebrate it in such a way as to give pleasure to everybody, and\nspent a good deal of time in getting up a little gift for each, from\nErnest and myself. And I took special pains to have a good dinner,\nparticularly for father. Yes, I had made up my mind to call him by\nthat sacred name for the first time to-day, cost what it may. But he\nshut himself up in his room directly after breakfast, and when dinner\nwas ready refused to come down. This cast a gloom over us all. Then\nMartha was nearly distracted because a valuable dish had been broken\nin the kitchen, and could not recover her equanimity at all. Worst of\nall Ernest, who is not in the least sentimental, never said a word\nabout our wedding-day, and didn't give me a thing! I have kept\nhoping all day that he would make me some little present, no matter\nhow small, but now it is too late; he has gone out to be gone all\nnight, probably, and thus ends the day, an utter failure.\n\nI feel a good deal disappointed. Besides, when I look back over this\nmy first year of married life, I do not feel satisfied with myself at\nall. I can't help feeling that I have been selfish and unreasonable\ntowards Ernest in a great many ways, and as contrary towards Martha\nas if I enjoyed a state of warfare between us. And I have felt a good\ndeal of secret contempt for her father, with his moods and tenses,\nhis pill-boxes and his plasters, his feastings and his fastings. I do\nnot understand how a Christian can make such slow progress as I do,\nand how old faults can hang on so.\n\nIf I had made any real progress, should I not be sensible of it?\n\nI have been reading over the early part of this journal, and when I\ncame to the conversation I had with Mrs. Cabot, in which I made a\nlist of my wants, I was astonished that I could ever have had such\ncontemptible ones. Let me think what I really and truly most want\nnow.\n\nFirst of all, then, if God should speak to me at this moment and\noffer to give just one thing, and that alone, I should say without\nhesitation,\n\nLove to Thee, O my Master!\n\nNext to that, if I could have one thing more, I would choose to be a\nthoroughly unselfish, devoted wife. Down in my secret heart I know\nthere lurks another wish, which I am ashamed of. It is that in some\nway or other, some right way, I could be delivered from Martha and\nher father. I shall never be any better while they are here to tempt\nme!\n\nFEBRUARY 1.-Ernest spoke to-day of one of his patients, a Mrs.\nCampbell, who is a great sufferer, but whom he describes as the\nhappiest, most cheerful person he ever met. He rarely speaks of his\npatients. Indeed, he rarely speaks of anything. I felt strangely\nattracted by what he said of her, and asked so many questions that at\nlast he proposed to take me to see her. I caught at the idea very\neagerly, and have just come home from the visit greatly moved and\ntouched. She is confined to her bed, and is quite helpless, and at\ntimes her sufferings are terrible. She received me with a sweet\nsmile, however, and led me on to talk more of myself than I ought to\nhave done. I wish Ernest had not left me alone with her, so that I\nshould have had the restraint of his presence.\n\nFEB. 14.-I am so fascinated with Mrs. Campbell that I cannot help\ngoing to see her again and again. She seems to me like one whose\nconflict and dismay are all over, and who looks on other human beings\nwith an almost divine love and pity. To look at life as she does, to\nfeel as she does, to have such a personal love to Christ as she has,\nI would willingly go through every trial and sorrow. When I told her\nso, she smiled, a little sadly.\n\n\"Much as you envy me,\" she said, \"my faith is not yet so strong that\nI do not shudder at the thought of a young enthusiastic girl like\nyou, going through all I have done in order to learn a few simple\nlessons which God was willing to teach me sooner and without the use\nof a rod, if I had been ready for them.\"\n\n\"But you are so happy now,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, I am happy,\" she replied, \"and such happiness is worth all it\ncosts. If my flesh shudders at the remembrance of what I have\nendured, my faith sustains God through the whole. But tell me a\nlittle more about yourself, my dear. I should so love to give you a\nhelping hand, if I might.\"\n\n\"You know,\" I began, \"dear Mrs. Campbell, that there are some trials\nthat cannot do us any good. They only call out all there is in us\nthat is unlovely and severe.\"\n\n\"I don't know of any such trials,\" she replied.\n\n\"Suppose you had to live with people who were perfectly uncongenial;\nwho misunderstood you, and who were always getting into your way as\nstumbling-blocks?\"\n\n\"If I were living with them and they made me unhappy, I would ask God\nto relieve me of this trial if He thought it best. If He did not\nthink it best, I would then try to find out the reason. He might have\ntwo reasons. One would be the good they might do me. The other the\ngood I might do them.\"\n\n\"But in the case I was supposing, neither party can be of the least\nuse to the other.\"\n\n\"You forget perhaps the indirect good one may in by living with\nuncongenial, tempting persons. First such people do good by the very\nself-denial and self-control their mere presence demands. Then, their\nmaking one's home less home-like and perfect than it would be in\ntheir absence, may help to render our real home in heaven more\nattractive.\"\n\n\"But suppose one cannot exercise self-control, and is always flying\nout and flaring up?\" I objected.\n\n\"I should say that a Christian who was always doing that,\" she\nreplied, gravely, \"was in pressing need of just the trial God sent\nwhen He shut him up to such a life of hourly temptation. We only know\nourselves and what we really are, when the force of circumstances\nbring us out.\"\n\n\"It is very mortifying and painful to find how weak one is.\"\n\n\"That is true. But our mortifications are some of God's best\nphysicians, and do much toward healing our pride and self-conceit.\"\n\n\"Do you really think, then, that God deliberately appoints to some of\nHis children a lot where their worst passions are excited, with a\ndesire to bring good out of this seeming evil? Why I have always\nsupposed the best thing that could happen to me, instance, would be\nto have a home exactly to my mind; a home where all were forbearing,\nloving and good-tempered, a sort of little heaven below.\"\n\n\"If you have not such a home, my dear, are you sure it is not partly\nyour own fault?\"\n\n\"Of course it is my own fault. Because I am very quick-tempered I\nwant to live with good-tempered people.\"\n\n\"That is very benevolent in you,\" she said, archly.\n\nI colored, but went on.\n\n\"Oh, I know I am selfish. And therefore I want live with those who\nare not so. I want to live with persons to whom I can look for an\nexample, and who will constantly stimulate me to something higher.\"\n\n\"But if God chooses quite another lot for you, you may be sure that\nHe sees that you need something totally different from what you want.\nYou just now that you would gladly go through any trial in order to\nattain a personal love to Christ that should become the ruling\nprinciple of your life. Now as soon as God sees this desire in you,\nis He not kind, is He not wise, in appointing such trials as He knows\nwill lead to this end?\"\n\nI meditated long before I answered. Was God really asking me not\nmerely to let Martha and her father live with me on sufferance, but\nto rejoice that He had seen fit to let them harass and embitter my\ndomestic life?\n\n\"I thank you for the suggestion,\" I said, at last.\n\n\"I want to say one thing more,\" Mrs. Campbell resumed, after another\npause. \"We look at our fellow-men too much from the standpoint of our\nown prejudices. They may be wrong, they may have their faults and\nfoibles, they may call out all that is meanest and most hateful in\nus. But they are not all wrong; they have their virtues, and when\nthey excite our bad passions by their own, they may be as ashamed and\nsorry as we are irritated. And I think some of the best, most\ncontrite, most useful of men and women, whose prayers prevail with\nGod, and bring down blessings into the homes in which they dwell\noften possess unlovely traits that furnish them with their best\ndiscipline. The very fact that they are ashamed of themselves drives\nthem to God; they feel safe in His presence, and while they lie in\nthe very dust of self-confusion at His feet they are dear to Him and\nhave power with Him.\"\n\n\"That is a comforting word, and I thank you for it,\" I said. My heart\nwas full, and I longed to stay and hear her talk on. But I had\nalready exhausted her strength. On the way home I felt as I suppose\npeople do when they have caught a basketful of fish. I always am\ndelighted to catch a new idea; I thought I would get all the benefit\nout of Martha and her father, and as I went down to tea, after taking\noff my things, felt like a holy martyr who had as good as won a\ncrown.\n\nI found, however, that the butter was horrible. Martha had insisted\nthat she alone was capable of selecting that article, and had ordered\na quantity from her own village which I could not eat myself and was\nashamed to have on my table. I pushed back my plate in disgust.\n\n\"I hope, Martha, that you have not ordered much of this odious\nstuff!\" I cried.\n\nMartha replied that it was of the very first quality, and appealed to\nher father and Ernest, who both agreed with her, which I thought very\nunkind and unjust. I rushed into a hot debate on the subject, during\nwhich Ernest maintained that ominous silence that indicates his not\nbeing pleased, and it irritated and led me on. I would far rather he\nshould say, \"Katy, you are behaving like a child and I wish you would\nstop talking.\"\n\n\"Martha,\" I said, \"you will persist that the butter is good, because\nyou ordered it. If you will only own that, I won't say another word.\"\n\n\"I can't say it,\" she returned. \"Mrs. Jones' butter is invariably\ngood. I never heard it found fault with before. The trouble is you\nare so hard to please.\"\n\n\"No, I am not. And you can't convince me that if the buttermilk is\nnot perfectly worked out, the butter could be fit to eat.\"\n\nThis speech I felt to be a masterpiece. It was time to let her know\nhow learned I was on the subject of butter, though I wasn't brought\nup to make it or see it made.\n\nBut here Ernest put in a little oil.\n\n\"I think you are both right,\" he said. \"Mrs. Jones makes good butter,\nbut just this once she failed. I dare say it won't happen again, and\nmean while this can be used for making seed-cakes, and we can get a\nnew supply.\"\n\nThis was his masterpiece. A whole firkin of butter made up into\nseed-cakes!\n\nMartha turned to encounter him on that head, and I slipped off to my\nroom to look, with a miserable sense of disappointment, at my folly\nand weakness in making so much ado about nothing. I find it hard to\nbelieve that it can do me good to have people live with me who like\nrancid butter, and who disagree with me in everything else.\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nXIII.\n\nMARCH 1.\n\nAUNTY sent for us all to dine with her to-day to celebrate Lucy's\nfifteenth birthday. Ever since Lucy behaved so heroically in regard\nto little Emma, really saving her life, Ernest says Aunty seems to\nfeel that she cannot do enough for her. The child has taken the most\nunaccountable fancy to me, strangely enough, and when we got there\nshe came to meet me with something like cordiality.\n\n\"Mamma permits me to be the bearer of agreeable news,\" she said,\n\"because this is my birthday. A friend, of whom you are very fond,\nhas just arrived, and is impatient to embrace you.\n\n\"To embrace me?\" I cried. \"You foolish child!\" And the next moment I\nfound myself in my mother's arms!\n\nThe despised Lucy had been the means of giving me this pleasure. It\nseems that Aunty had told her she should choose her own birthday\ntreat, and that, after solemn meditation, she had decided that to see\ndear mother again would be the most agreeable thing she could think\nof. I have never told you, dear journal, why I did not go home last\nsummer, and never shall. If you choose to fancy that I couldn't\nafford it you can!\n\nWell! wasn't it nice to see mother, and to read in her dear, loving\nface that she was satisfied with her poor, wayward Katy, and fond of\nher as ever! I only longed for Ernest's coming, that she might see us\ntogether, and see how he loved me.\n\nHe came; I rushed out to meet him and dragged him in. But it seemed\nas if he had grown stupid and awkward. All through the dinner I\nwatched for one of those loving glances which should proclaim to\nmother the good understanding between us, but watched in vain.\n\n\"It will come by and by,\" I thought. \"When we get by ourselves mother\nwill see how fond of me he is.\" But \"by and by\" it was just the same.\nI was preoccupied, and mother asked me if I were well. It was all\nvery foolish I dare say, and yet I did want to have her know that\nwith all my faults he still loves me. Then, besides this\ndisappointment, I have to reproach myself for misunderstanding poor\nLucy as I have done. Because she was not all fire and fury like\nmyself, I need not have assumed that she had no heart. It is just\nlike me; I hope I shall never be so severe in my judgment again.\n\nAPRIL 30.-Mother has just gone. Her visit has done me a world of\ngood. She found out something to like in father at once, and then\nsomething good in Martha. She says father's sufferings are real, not\nfancied; that his error is not knowing where to locate his disease,\nand is starving one week and over-eating the next. She charged me not\nto lay up future misery for myself by misjudging him now, and to\ntreat him as a daughter ought without the smallest regard to his\nappreciation of it. Then as to Martha, she declares that I have no\nidea how much she does to reduce our expenses, to keep the house in\norder and to relieve us from care. \"But, mother,\" I said, \"did you\nnotice what horrid butter we have? And it is all her doing.\"\n\n\"But the butter won't last forever,\" she replied. \"Don't make\nyourself miserable about such a trifle. For my part, it is a great\nrelief to me to know that with your delicate health you have this\ntower of strength to lean on.\"\n\n\"But my health is not delicate, mother.\"\n\n\"You certainly look pale and thin.\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" I said, whereupon she fell to giving me all sorts of\nadvice about getting up on step-ladders, and climbing on chairs, and\nsewing too much and all that.\n\nJUNE 15.-The weather, or something, makes me rather languid and\nstupid. I begin to think that Martha is not an entire nuisance in the\nhouse. I have just been to see Mrs. Campbell. In answer to my routine\nof lamentations, she took up a book and read me what was called, as\nnearly as I can remember, \"Four steps that lead to peace.\"\n\n\"Be desirous of doing the will of another rather than thine own.\"\n\n\"Choose always to have less, rather than more.\"\n\n\"Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior to every one.\"\n\n\"Wish always, and pray, that the will of God may be wholly fulfilled\nin thee.\"\n\nI was much struck with these directions; but I said, despondently:\n\n\"If peace can only be found at the end of such hard roads, I am sure\nI shall always be miserable.\"\n\n\"Are you miserable now?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, just now I am. I do not mean that I have no happiness; I mean\nthat I am in a disheartened mood, weary of going round and round in\ncircles, committing the same sins, uttering the same confessions, and\nmaking no advance.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" she said, after a time, \"have you a perfectly distinct,\nsettled view of what Christ is to the human soul?\"\n\n\"I do not know. I understand, of course, more or less perfectly, that\nmy salvation depends on Him alone; it is His gift.\"\n\n\"But do you see, with equal clearness, that your sanctification must\nbe as fully His gift, as your salvation is?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, after a little thought. \"I have had a feeling that He\nhas done His part, and now I must do mine.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" she said, with much tenderness and feeling, \"then the\nfirst thing you have to do is to learn Christ.\"\n\n\"But how?\"\n\n\"On your knees, my child, on your knees!\" She was tired, and I came\naway; and I have indeed been on my knees.\n\nJULY 1.-I think that I do begin, dimly it is true, but really, to\nunderstand that this terrible work which I was trying to do myself,\nis Christ's work, and must be done and will be done by Him. I take\nsome pleasure in the thought, and wonder why it has all this time\nbeen hidden from me, especially after what Dr. C. said in his letter.\nBut I get hold of this idea in a misty, unsatisfactory way. If Christ\nis to do all, what am I to do? And have I not been told, over and\nover again, that the Christian life is one of conflict, and that I am\nto fight like a good soldier?\n\nAUGUST 5.-Dr. Cabot has come just as I need him most. I long for one\nof those good talks with him which always used to strengthen me so. I\nfeel a perfect weight of depression that makes me a burden to myself\nand to poor Ernest, who, after visiting sick people all day, needs to\ncome home to a cheerful wife. But he comforts me with the assurance\nthat this is merely physical despondency, and that I shall get over\nit by and by. How kind, how even tender he is! My heart is getting\nall it wants from him, only I am too stupid to enjoy him as I ought.\nFather, too, talks far less about his own bad feelings, and seems\ngreatly concerned at mine. As to Martha I have done trying to get\nsympathy or love from her. She cannot help it, I suppose, but she is\nvery hard and dry towards me, and I feel such a longing to throw\nmyself on her mercy, and to have one little smile to assure me that\nshe has forgiven me for being Ernest's wife, and so different from\nwhat she would have chosen for him.\n\nDr. Elliott to Mrs. Mortimer:\n\nOCTOBER 4, 1838.\n\nMy dear Katy's Mother--You will rejoice with us when I tell you that\nwe are the happy parents of a very fine little boy. My dearest wife\nsends \"an ocean of love\" to you, and says she will write her self\nto-morrow. That I shall not be very likely to allow, as you will\nimagine. She is doing extremely well, and we have everything to be\ngrateful for. Your affectionate Son, J. E. ELLIOTT.\n\nMrs. Crofton to Mrs. Mortimer:\n\nI am sure, my dear sister, that the doctor has not written you more\nthan five lines about the great event which has made such a stir in\nour domestic circle. So I must try to supply the details you will\nwant to hear.... I need not add that our darling Katy behaved nobly.\nHer self-forgetfulness and consideration for others were really\nbeautiful throughout the whole scene. The doctor may well be proud of\nher, and I took care to tell him so ill presence of that dreadful\nsister of his. I never met so angular, so uncompromising a person as\nshe is in all my life. She does not understand Katy, and never can,\nand I find it hard to realize that living with such a person can\nfurnish a wholesome discipline, which is even more desirable than the\nmost delightful home. And yet I not only know that is true in the\nabstract, but I see that it is so in the fact. Katy is acquiring both\nself-control and patience and her Christian character is developing\nin a way that amazes me. I cannot but hope that God will, in time,\ndeliver her from this trial; indeed, feel sure that when it has done\nits beneficent work He will do so. Martha Elliott is a good woman,\nbut her goodness is without grace or beauty. She takes excellent care\nof Katy, keeps her looking as if she had just come out of a band-box,\nas the saying and always has her room in perfect order. But one\nmisses the loving word, the re-assuring smile, the delicate,\nthoughtful little forbearance, that ought to adorn every sick-room,\nand light it up with genuine sunshine. There is one comfort about it,\nhowever, and that is that I can spoil dear Katy to my heart's\ncontent.\n\nAs to the baby, he is a fine little fellow, and his mother is so\nhappy in him that she can afford to do without some other pleasures.\nI shall write again in a few days. Meanwhile, you may rest assured\nthat I love your Katy almost as well as you do, and shall be with her\nmost of the time till she is quite herself again.\n\nJames\n\nto his mother:\n\nOf course there never was such a baby before on the face of the\nearth. Katy is so nearly wild with joy, that you can't get her to eat\nor sleep or do any of the proper things that her charming\nsister-in-law thinks becoming under the circumstances. You never saw\nanything so pretty in your life, as she is now. I hope the doctor is\nas much in love with her as I am. He is the best fellow in the world,\nand Katy is just the wife for him.\n\nNov. 4.-My darling baby is a month old to-day. I never saw such a\nsplendid child. I love him so that I lie awake nights to watch him.\nMartha says, in her dry way, that I had better show my love by\nsleeping and eating for him, and Ernest says I shall, as soon as I\nget stronger. But I don't get strong, and that discourages me.\n\nNov. 26.-I begin to feel rather more like myself, and as if I could\nwrite with less labor. I have had in these few past weeks such a\nrevelation of suffering, and such a revelation of joy, as mortal mind\ncan hardly conceive of. The world I live in now is a new world; a\nworld full of suffering that leads to unutterable felicity. Oh, this\nprecious, precious baby! How can I thank God enough for giving him to\nme!\n\nI see now why He has put some thorns into my domestic life; but for\nthem I should be too happy to live. It does not seem just the moment\nto complain, and yet, as I can speak to no one, it is a relief, a\ngreat relief, to write about my trials. During my whole sickness,\nMartha has been so hard, so cold, so unsympathizing that sometimes it\nhas seemed as if my cup of trial could not hold another drop. She\nrouted me out of bed when I was so languid that everything seemed a\nburden, and when sitting up made me faint away. I heard her say to\nherself, that I had no constitution and had no business to get\nmarried. The worst of all is that during that dreadful night before\nbaby came, she kept asking Ernest to lie down and rest, and was sure\nhe would kill himself, and all that, while she had not one word of\npity for me. But, oh, why need I let this rankle in my heart! Why\ncannot I turn my thoughts entirely to my darling baby, my dear\nhusband, and all the other sources of joy that make my home a happy\none in spite of this one discomfort! I hope I am learning some useful\nlessons from my joys and from my trials, and that both will serve to\nmake me in earnest, and to keep me so.\n\nDEC. 4.-We have had a great time about poor baby's name. I expected\nto call him Raymond, for my own dear father, as a matter of course.\nIt seemed a small gratification for mother in her loneliness. Dear\nmother! How little I have known all these years what I cost her! But\nit seems there has been a Jotham in the family ever since the memory\nof man, each eldest son handing down his father's name to the next in\ndescent, and Ernest's real name is Jotham Ernest--of all the\nextraordinary combinations! His mother would add the latter name in\nspite of everything. Ernest behaved very well through the whole\naffair, and said he had no feeling about it all. But he was so\ngratified when I decided to keep up the family custom that I feel\nrewarded for the sacrifice.\n\nFather is in one of his gloomiest moods. As I sat caressing baby\nto-day he said to me:\n\n\"Daughter Katherine, I trust you make it a subject of prayer to God\nthat you may be kept from idolatry.\"\n\n\"No, father,\" I returned, \"I never do. An idol is something one puts\nin God's place, and I don't put baby there.\"\n\nHe shook his head and said the heart is deceitful above all things,\nand desperately wicked.\n\n\"I have heard mother say that we might love an earthly object as much\nas we pleased, if we only love God better.\" I might have added, but\nof course I didn't; that I prayed every day that I might love Ernest\nand baby better and better. Poor father seemed puzzled and troubled\nby what I did say, and after musing a while, went on thus:\n\n\"The Almighty is a great and terrible Being. He cannot bear a rival;\nHe will have the whole heart or none of it. When I see a young woman\nso absorbed in a created being as you are in that infant, and in your\nother friends, I tremble for you, I tremble for you!\"\n\n\"But, father,\" I persisted, \"God gave me this child, and He gave me\nmy heart, just as it is.\"\n\n\"Yes; and that heart needs renewing.\"\n\n\"I hope it is renewed,\" I replied. \"But I know there is a great work\nstill to be done in it. And the more effectually it is done the more\nloving I shall grow. Don't you see, father? Don't you see that the\nmore Christ-like I become the more I shall be filled with love for\nevery living thing?\"\n\nHe shook his head, but pondered long, as he always does, on whatever\nhe considers audacious. As for me, I am vexed with my presumption in\ndisputing with him, and am sure, too, that I was trying to show off\nwhat little wisdom I have picked up. Besides, my mountain does not\nstand so strong as it did. Perhaps I am making idols out of Ernest\nand the baby.\n\nJANUARY 16, 1839.-This is our second wedding day. I did not expect\nmuch from it, after last year's failure. Father was very gloomy at\nbreakfast, and retired to his room directly after it. No one could\nget in to make his bed, and he would not come down to dinner. I\nwonder Ernest lets him go on so. But his rule seems to be to let\neverybody have their own way. He certainly lets me have mine. After\ndinner he gave me a book I have been wanting for some time, and had\nasked him for-\"The Imitation of Christ.\" Ever since that day at Mrs.\nCampbell's I have felt that I should like it, though I did think, in\nold times, that it preached too hard a doctrine. I read aloud to him\nthe \"Four Steps to Peace\"; he said they were admirable, and then took\nit from me and began reading to himself, here and there. I felt the\nprecious moments when I had got him all to myself were passing away,\nand was becoming quite out of patience with him when the words\n\"Constantly seek to have less, rather than more,\" flashed into my\nmind. I suppose this direction had reference to worldly good, but I\ndespise money, and despise people who love it. The riches I crave are\nnot silver and gold, but my husband's love and esteem. And of these\nmust I desire to have less rather than more? I puzzled myself over\nthis question in vain, but when I silently prayed to be satisfied\nwith just what God chose to give me of the wealth I crave, yes,\nhunger and thirst for, I certainly felt a sweet content, for the\ntime, at least, that was quite resting and quieting. And just as I\nhad reached that acquiescent mood Ernest threw down his book, and\ncame and caught me in his arms.\n\n\"I thank God,\" he said, \"my precious wife, that I married you this\nday. The wisest thing I ever did was when I fell in love with you and\nmade a fool of myself!\"\n\nWhat a speech for my silent old darling to make! Whenever he says and\ndoes a thing out of character, and takes me all by surprise, how\ndelightful he is! Now the world is a beautiful world, and so is\neverybody in it. I met Martha on the stairs after Ernest had gone,\nand caught her and kissed her. She looked perfectly astonished.\n\n\"What spirits the child has!\" I heard her whisper to herself; \"no\nsooner down than up again.\"\n\nAnd she sighed. Can it be that under that stern and hard crust there\nlie hidden affections and perhaps hidden sorrows?\n\nI ran back and asked, as kindly as I could, \"What makes you sigh,\nMartha? Is anything troubling you? Have I done anything to annoy\nyou?\"\n\n\"You do the best you can,\" she said, and pushed past me to her own\nroom.\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nXIV.\n\nJAN. 30.\n\nWHO would have thought I would have anything more to do with poor old\nSusan Green? Dr. Cabot came to see me to-day, and told me the\nstrangest thing! It seems that the nurse who performed the last\noffices for her was taken sick about six months ago, and that Dr.\nCabot visited her from time to time. Her physician said she needed\nnothing but rest and good, nourishing food to restore her strength,\nyet she did not improve at all, and at last it came out that she was\nnot taking the food the doctor ordered, because she could not afford\nto do so, having lost what little money she had contrived to save.\nDr. Cabot, on learning this, gave her enough out of Susan's legacy to\nmeet her case, and in doing so told her about that extraordinary\nwill. The nurse then assured him that when she reached Susan's room\nand found the state that she was in, and that I was praying with her,\nshe had remained waiting in silence, fearing to interrupt me. She saw\nme faint, and sprang forward just in time to catch me and keep me\nfrom falling.\n\n\"I take great pleasure, therefore,\" Dr. Cabot continued, \"in making\nover Susan's little property to you, to whom it belongs; and I cannot\nhelp congratulating you that you have had the honor and the privilege\nof perhaps leading that poor, benighted soul to Christ, even at the\neleventh hour.\"\n\n\"Oh, Dr. Cabot,\" I cried, \"what a relief it is to hear you say\nthat! For I have always reproached myself for the cowardice that made\nme afraid to speak to her of her Saviour. It takes less courage to\nspeak to God than to man.\"\n\n\"It is my belief,\" replied Dr. Cabot, \"that every prayer offered in\nthe name of Jesus is sure to have its answer. Every such prayer is\ndictated by the Holy Spirit, and therefore finds acceptance with God;\nand if your cry for mercy on poor Susan's soul did not prevail with\nHim in her behalf, as we may hope it did, then He has answered it in\nsome other way.\"\n\nThese words impressed me very much. To think that every one of my\npoor prayers is answered! Every one!\n\nDr. Cabot then returned to the subject of Susan's will, and in spite\nof all I could say to the contrary, insisted that he had no legal\nright to this money, and that I had. He said he hoped that it would\nhelp to relieve us from some of the petty economies now rendered\nnecessary by Ernest's struggle to meet his father's liabilities.\nInstantly my idol was rudely thrown down from his pedestal. How could\nhe reveal to Dr. Cabot a secret he had pretended it cost him so much\nto confide to me, his wife? I could hardly restrain tears of shame\nand vexation, but did control myself so far as to say that I would\nsooner die than appropriate Susan's hard earnings to such a purpose,\nand that I should use it for the poor, as I was sure he would have\ndone. He then advised me to invest the principal, and use the\ninterest from year to year, as occasions presented themselves. So, I\nshall have more than a hundred dollars to give away each year, as\nlong as I live! How perfectly delightful! I can hardly conceive of\nanything that give me so much pleasure! Poor old Susan! How many\nhearts she shall cause to sing for joy!\n\nFeb. 25.-Things have not gone on well of late. Dearly as I love\nErnest, he has lowered himself in my eye by telling that to Dr.\nCabot. It would have been far nobler to be silent concerning his\nsacrifices; and he certainly grows harder, graver, sterner every day.\nHe is all shut up within himself, and I am growing afraid of him. It\nmust be that he is bitterly disappointed in me, and takes refuge in\nthis awful silence. Oh, if I could only please him, and know that I\npleased him, how different my life would be!\n\nBaby does not seem well. I have often plumed myself on the thought\nthat having a doctor for his father would be such an advantage to\nhim, as he would be ready 'to attack the first symptoms of disease.\nBut Ernest hardly listens to me when I express anxiety about this or\nthat, and if I ask a question he replies, \"Oh, you know better than I\ndo. Mothers know by instinct how to manage babies.\" But I do not\nknow by instinct, or in any other way, and I often wish that the time\nI spent over my music had been spent learning how to meet all the\nlittle emergencies that are constantly arising since baby came. How I\nused to laugh in my sleeve at those anxious mothers who lived near us\nand always seemed to be in hot water. Martha will take baby when I\nhave other things to attend to, and she keeps him every Sunday\nafternoon that I may go to church, but she knows no more about his\nphysical training than I do. If my dear mother were only here! I feel\na good deal worn out. What with the care of baby, who is restless at\nnight, and with whom I walk about lest he should keep Ernest awake,\nthe depressing influence of father's presence, Martha's disdain, and\nErnest keeping so aloof from me, life seems to me little better than\na burden that I have not strength to carry and would gladly lay down.\n\nMARCH 3.-If it were not for James I believe I should sink. He is so\nkind and affectionate, so ready to fill up the gaps Ernest leaves\nempty, and is so sunshiny and gay that I cannot be entirely sad.\nBaby, too, is a precious treasure; it would be wicked to cloud his\nlittle life with my depression. I try to look at him always with a\nsmiling face, for he already distinguishes between a cheerful and a\nsad countenance.\n\nI am sure that there is something in Christ's gospel that would\nsoothe and sustain me amid these varied trials, if I only knew what\nit is, and how to put forth my hand and take it. But as it is I feel\nvery desolate. Ernest often congratulates me on having had such a\ngood night's rest, when I have been up and down every hour with baby,\nhalf asleep frozen and exhausted. But he shall sleep at any rate.\n\nApril 5.-The first rays of spring make me more languid than ever.\nMartha cannot be made to understand that nursing such a large,\nvoracious baby, losing sleep, and confinement within doors, are\nenough to account for this. She is constantly speaking in terms of\npraise of those who keep up even when they do feel a little out of\nsorts, and says she always does. In the evening, after baby gets to\nsleep, I feel fit for nothing but to lie on the sofa, dozing; but she\nsees in this only a lazy habit, which ought not to be tolerated, and\nis constantly devising ways to rouse and set me at work. If I had\nmore leisure for reading, meditation and prayer, I might still be\nhappy. But all the morning, I must have baby till he takes his nap,\nand as soon as he gets to sleep I must put my room in order, and by\nthat time all the best part of the day is gone. And at night I am so\ntired that I can hardly feel anything but my weariness. That, too, is\nmy only chance of seeing Ernest and if I lock my door and fall upon\nmy knees, I keep listening for his step, ready to spring to welcome\nshould he come. This is wrong, I know, but how can I live without one\nloving word from him, and every day I am hoping it will come.\n\nMAY 2-Aunty was here to-day. I had not seen her for some weeks. She\nexclaimed at my looks in a tone that seemed to upbraid Ernest and\nMartha though of course she did not mean to do that.\n\n\"You are not fit to have the whole care of that great boy at night,\"\nsaid she, \"and you ought to begin to feed him, both for his sake and\nyour own.\"\n\n\"I am willing to take the child at night,\" Martha said, a little\nstiffly. \"But I supposed his mother preferred to keep him herself.\"\n\n\"And so I do,\" I cried. \"I should be perfectly miserable if I had to\ngive him up just as he is getting teeth, and so wakeful.\"\n\n\"What are you taking to keep up your strength, dear?\" asked Aunty.\n\n\"Nothing in particular,\" I said.\n\n\"Very well, it is time the doctor looked after that,\" she cried. \"It\nreally never will do to let you run down in this way. Let me look at\nbaby. Why, my child, his gums need lancing.\"\n\n\"So I have told Ernest half a dozen times,\" I declared. \"But he is\nalways in a hurry, and says another time will do.\"\n\n\"I hope baby won't have convulsions while he is waiting for that\nother time,\" said Aunty, looking almost savagely at Martha. I never\nsaw Aunty so nearly out of humor.\n\nAt dinner Martha began.\n\n\"I think, brother, the baby needs attention. Mrs. Crofton has been\nhere and says so. And she seems to find Katherine run down. I am sure\nif I had known it I should have taken her in hand and built her up.\nBut she did not complain.\"\n\n\"She never complains,\" father here put in, calling all the blood I\nhad into my face, my heart so leaped for joy at his kind word.\n\nErnest looked at me and caught the illumination of my face.\n\n\"You look well, dear,\" he said. \"But if you do not feel so you ought\nto tell us. As to baby, I will attend to him directly.\"\n\nSo Martha's one word prevailed where my twenty fell to the ground.\n\nBaby is much relieved, and has fallen into a sweet sleep. And I have\nhad time to carry my tired, oppressed heart to my compassionate\nSaviour, and to tell Him what I cannot utter to any human ear. How\nstrange it is that when, through many years of leisure and strength,\nprayer was only a task, it is now my chief solace if I can only\nsnatch time for it.\n\nMrs. Embury has a little daughter. How glad I am for her! She is\ngoing to give it my name. That is a real pleasure.\n\nJULY 4.-Baby is ten months old to-day, and in spite of everything is\nbright and well. I have come home to mother. Ernest waked up at last\nto see that something must be done, and when he is awake he is very\nwide awake. So he brought me home. Dear mother is perfectly\ndelighted, only she will make an ado about my health. But I feel a\ngood deal better, and think I shall get nicely rested here. How\npleasant it is to feel myself watched by friendly eyes, my faults\nexcused and forgiven, and what is best in me called out. I have been\nwriting to Ernest, and have told him honestly how annoyed and pained\nI was at learning that he had told his secret to Dr. Cabot.\n\nJULY 12.-Ernest writes that he has had no communication with Dr.\nCabot or any one else on subject that, touching his father's honor as\nit does, he regards as a sacred one.\n\n\"You say, dear,\" he said, \"you often say, that I do not understand\nyou. Are you sure that you understand me?\"\n\nOf course I don't. How can I? How can I reconcile his marrying me and\nprofessing to do it with delight, with his indifference to my\nsociety, his reserve, his carelessness about my health?\n\nBut his letters are very kind, and really warmer than he is. I can\nhardly wait for them, and then, though my pride bids me to be\nreticent as he is, my heart runs away with me, and I pour out upon\nhim such floods of affection that I am sure he is half drowned.\n\nMother says baby is splendid.\n\nAUGUST 1.-When I took leave of Ernest I was glad to get away. I\nthought he would perhaps find after I was gone that he missed\nsomething out of his life and would welcome me home with a little of\nthe old love. But I did not dream that he would not find it easy to\ndo without me till summer was over, and when, this morning, he came\nsuddenly upon us, carpet-bag in hand, I could do nothing but cry in\nhis arms like a tired child.\n\nAnd now I had the silly triumph of having mother see that he loved\nme!\n\n\"How could you get away?\" I asked at last. \"And what made you come?\nAnd how long can you stay?\"\n\n\"I could get away because I would,\" he replied. \"And I came because I\nwanted to come. And I can stay three days.\"\n\nThree days of Ernest all to myself!\n\nAUGUST 5.-He has gone, but he has left behind him a happy wife and\nthe memory of three happy days.\n\nAfter the first joy of our meeting was over, we had time for just\nsuch nice long talks as I delight in. Ernest began by upbraiding me a\nlittle for my injustice in fancying he had betrayed his father to Dr.\nCabot.\n\n\"That is not all,\" I interrupted, \"I even thought you had made a\nboast of the sacrifices you were making.\"\n\n\"That explains your coldness,\" he returned.\n\n\"My coldness! Of all the ridiculous things in the world!\" I cried.\n\n\"You were cold, for you and I felt it. Don't you know that we\nundemonstrative men prefer loving winsome little women like you, just\nbecause you are our own opposites? And when the pet kitten turns into\na cat with claws.\"\n\n\"Now, Ernest, that is really too bad! To compare me to a cat!\"\n\n\"You certainly did say some sharp things to me about that time.\"\n\n\"Did I, really? Oh, Ernest, how could I?\"\n\n\"And it was at a moment when I particularly needed your help. But do\nnot let us dwell upon it. We love each other; we are both trying to\ndo right in all the details of life. I do not think we shall ever get\nvery far apart.\"\n\n\"But, Ernest-tell me-are you very, very much disappointed in me?\"\n\n\"Disappointed? Why, Katy!\"\n\n\"Then what did make you seem so indifferent? What made you so slow to\nobserve how miserably I was, as to health?\"\n\n\"Did I seem indifferent? I am sure I never loved you better. As to\nyour health, I am ashamed of myself. I ought to have seen how feeble\nyou were. But the truth is, I was deceived by your bright ways with\nbaby. For him you were all smiles and gayety.\"\n\n\"That was from principle,\" I said, and felt a good deal elated as I\nmade the announcement.\n\n\"He fell into a fit of musing, and none of my usual devices for\narousing him had any effect. I pulled his hair and his ears, and\nshook him, but he remained unmoved.\"\n\nAt last he began again.\n\n\"Perhaps I owe it to you, dear, to tell you that when I brought my\nfather and sister home to live with us, I did not dream how trying a\nthing it would be to you. I did not know that he was a confirmed\ninvalid, or that she would prove to possess a nature so entirely\nantagonistic to yours. I thought my father would interest himself in\nreading, visiting, etc, as he used to do. And I thought Martha's\njudgment would be of service to you, while her household skill would\nrelieve you of some care. But the whole thing has proved a failure. I\nam harassed by the sight of my father, sitting there in his corner so\npenetrated with gloom; I reproach myself for it, but I almost dread\ncoming home. When a man has been all day encompassed with sounds and\nsights of suffering, he naturally longs for cheerful faces and\ncheerful voices in his own house. Then Martha's pertinacious-I won't\nsay hostility to my little wife-what shall I call it?\"\n\n\"It is only want of sympathy. She is too really good to be hostile to\nany one.\n\n\"Thank you, my darling,\" he said, \"I believe you do her justice.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I have not been as forbearing with her as I ought,\" I\nsaid. \"But, oh, Ernest, it is because I have been jealous of her all\nalong!\"\n\n\"That is really too absurd.\"\n\n\"You certainly have treated her with more deference than you have me.\nYou looked up to her and looked down upon me. At least it seemed so.\"\n\n\"My dear child, you have misunderstood the whole thing. I gave Martha\njust what she wanted most; she likes to be looked up to. And I gave\nyou what I thought you wanted most, my tenderest love. And I expected\nthat I should have your sympathy amid the trials with which I am\nburdened, and that with your strong nature I might look to you to\nhelp me bear them. I know you have the worst of it, dear child, but\nthen you have twice my strength. I believe women almost always have\nmore than men.\"\n\n\"I have, indeed, misunderstood you. I thought you liked to have them\nhere, and that Martha's not fancying me influenced you against me.\nBut now I know just what you want of me, and I can give it, darling.\"\n\nAfter this all our cloud melted away. I only long to go home and show\nErnest that he shall have one cheerful face about him, and have one\ncheerful voice.\n\nAUGUST 12.-I have had a long letter from Ernest to-day. He says he\nhopes he has not been selfish and unkind in speaking of his father\nand sister as he has done, because he truly loves and honors them\nboth, and wants me to do so, if I can. His father had called them up\ntwice to see him die and to receive his last messages. This always\nhappens when Ernest has been up all the previous night; there seems a\nfatality about it.\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nXV.\n\nOCTOBER 4\n\nHOME again, and with my dear Ernest delighted to see me. Baby is a\nyear old to-day, and, as usual, father, who seems to abhor anything\nlike a merry-making, took himself off to his room. To-morrow he will\nbe all the worse for it, and will be sure to have a theological\nbattle with somebody.\n\nOCTOBER 5.-The somebody was his daughter Katherine, as usual. Baby\nwas asleep in my lap and I reached out for a book which proved to be\na volume of Shakespeare which had done long service as an ornament to\nthe table, but which nobody ever read on account of the small print.\nThe battle then began thus:\n\nFather.-\"I regret to see that worldly author in your hands, my\ndaughter.\"\n\nDaughter-a little mischievously.-\"Why, were you wanting to talk,\nfather?\n\n\"No, I am too feeble to talk to-day. My pulse is very weak.\"\n\n\"Let me read aloud to you, then.\"\n\n\"Not from that profane book.\"\n\n\"It would do you good. You never take any recreation. Do let me read\na little.\"\n\nFather gets nervous.\n\n\"Recreation is a snare. I must keep my soul ever fixed on divine\nthings.\"\n\n\"But can you?\"\n\n\"No, alas, no. It is my grief and shame that I do not.\"\n\n\"But if you would indulge yourself in a little harmless mirth now and\nthen, your mind would get rested and you would return to divine\nthings with fresh zeal. Why should not the mind have its seasons of\nrest as well as the body?\"\n\n\"We shall have time to rest in heaven. Our business here on earth is\nto be sober and vigilant because of our adversary; not to be reading\nplays.\"\n\n\"I don't make reading plays my business, dear father. I make it my\nrest and amusement.\"\n\n\"Christians do not need amusement; they find rest, refreshment, all\nthey want, in God.\"\n\n\"Do you, father?\"\n\n\"Alas, no. He seems a great way off.\"\n\n\"To me He seems very near. So near that He can see every thought of\nmy heart. Dear father, it is your disease that makes everything so\nunreal to you. God is really so near, really loves us so; is so sorry\nfor us! And it seems hard, when you are so good, and so intent on\npleasing Him, that you get no comfort out of Him.\"\n\n\"I am not good, my daughter I am a vile worm of the dust.\"\n\n\"Well, God is good, at any rate, and He would never have sent His Son\nto die for you if He did not love you.\" So then I began to sing.\nFather likes to hear me sing, and the sweet sense I had that all I\nhad been saying was true and more than true, made me sing with joyful\nheart.\n\nI hope it is not a mere miserable presumption that makes me dare to\ntalk so to poor father. Of course, he is ten times better than I am,\nand knows ten times as much, but his disease, whatever it is, keeps\nhis mind befogged. I mean to begin now to pray that light may shine\ninto his soul. It would be delightful to see the peace of God shining\nin that pale, stern face.\n\nMARCH 28.-It is almost six months since I wrote that. About the\nmiddle of October father had one of his ill turns one night, and we\nwere all called up. He asked for me particularly, and Ernest came for\nme at last. He was a good deal agitated, and would not stop to half\ndress myself, and as I had a slight cold already, I suppose I added\nto it then. At any rate I was taken very sick, and the worst cough\never had has racked my poor frame almost to pieces. Nearly six months\nconfinement to my room; six months of uselessness during which I have\nbeen a mere cumberer of the ground. Poor Ernest! What a hard time he\nhas had! Instead of the cheerful welcome home I was to give him\nwhenever he entered the house, here I have lain exhausted, woe-begone\nand good for nothing. It is the bitterest disappointment I\never had. My ambition is to be the sweetest, brightest, best of\nwives; and what with my childish follies, and my sickness, what a\nweary life my dear husband has had! But how often I have prayed that\nGod would do His will in defiance, if need be, of mine! I have tried\nto remind myself of that every day. But I am too tired to write any\nmore now.\n\nMARCH 30.-This experience of suffering has filled my mind with new\nthoughts. At one time I was so sick that Ernest sent for mother. Poor\nmother, she had to sleep with Martha. It was a great comfort to have\nher here, but I knew by her coming how sick I was, and then I began\nto ponder the question whether I was ready to die. Death looked to me\nas a most solemn, momentous event-but there was something very\npleasant in the thought of being no longer a sinner, but a redeemed\nsaint, and of dwelling forever in Christ's presence. Father came to\nsee me when I had just reached this point.\n\n\"My dear daughter,\" he asked, \"are you prepared to face the Judge of\nall the earth?\"\n\n\"No, dear father,\" I said, \"Christ will do that for me.\"\n\n\"Have you no misgivings?\"\n\nI could only smile; I had no strength to talk.\n\nThen I heard Ernest--my dear, calm, self-controlled Ernest--burst out\ncrying and rush out of the room. I looked after him, and how I loved\nhim! But I felt that I loved my Saviour infinitely more, and that if\nHe now let me come home to be with Him I could trust Him to be a\nthousand-fold more to Ernest than I could ever be, and to take care\nof my darling baby and my precious mother far better than I could.\nThe very gates of heaven seemed open to let me in. And then they were\nsuddenly shut in my face, and I found myself a poor, weak, tempted\ncreature here upon earth. I, who fancied myself an heir of glory, was\nnothing but a peevish, human creature-very human indeed, overcome if\nMartha shook the bed, as she always did, irritated if my food did not\ncome at the right moment, or was not of the right sort, hurt and\noffended if Ernest put on at one less anxious and tender than he had\nused when I was very ill, and-in short, my own poor faulty self once\nmore. Oh, what fearful battles I fought for patience, forbearance and\nunselfishness! What sorrowful tears of shame I shed over hasty,\nimpatient words and fretful tones! No wonder I longed to be gone\nwhere weakness should be swallowed up in strength, and sin give place\nto eternal perfection!\n\nBut here I am, and suffering and work lie before me, for which I feel\nlittle physical or mental courage. But \"blessed be the will of God.\"\n\nAPRIL 5.-I was alone with father last evening, Ernest and Martha both\nbeing out, and soon saw by the way he fidgeted in his chair that he\nhad something on his mind. So I laid down the book I was reading, and\nasked him what it was.\n\n\"My daughter,\" he began, \"can you bear a plain word from an old man?\"\n\nI felt frightened, for I knew I had been impatient to Martha of late,\nin spite of all my efforts to the contrary. I am still so miserably\nunwell.\n\n\"I have seen many death-beds,\" he went on; \"but I never saw one where\nthere was not some dread of the King of Terrors exhibited; nor one\nwhere there was such absolute certainty of having found favor with\nGod to make the hour of departure entirely free from such doubts and\nsuch humility as becomes a guilty sinner about to face his Judge.\"\n\n\"I never saw such a one, either,\" I replied; \"but ere have been many\nsuch deaths, and I hardly know of any scene that so honors and\nmagnifies the Lord.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, slowly; \"but they were old, mature, ripened\nChristians.\"\n\n\"Not always old, dear father. Let me describe to you a scene Ernest\ndescribed to me only yesterday.\"\n\nHe waved his hand in token that this would delay his coming to the\npoint he was aiming at.\n\n\"To speak plainly,\" he said, \"I feel uneasy about you, my daughter.\nYou are young and in the bloom of life, but when death seemed staring\nyou in the face, you expressed no anxiety, asked for no counsel,\nshowed no alarm. It must be pleasant to possess so comfortable a\npersuasion of our acceptance with God; but is it safe to rest on such\nan assurance while we know that the human heart is deceitful above\nall things and desperately wicked?\"\n\n\"I thank you for the suggestion;\" I said; \"and, dear father, do not be\nafraid to speak still more plainly. You live in the house with me,\nsee all my shortcomings and my faults, and I cannot wonder that you\nthink me a poor, weak Christian. But do you really fear that I am\ndeceived in believing that notwithstanding this I do really love my\nGod and Saviour and am His Child?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, hesitating a little, \"I can't say that, exactly--I\ncan't say that.\"\n\nThis hesitation distressed me. At first it seemed to me that my life\nmust have uttered a very uncertain sound if those who saw it could\nmisunderstand its language. But then I reflected that it was, at\nbest, a very faulty life, and that its springs of action were not\nnecessarily seen by lookers-on.\n\nFather saw my distress and perplexity, and seemed touched by them.\n\nJust then Ernest came in with Martha, but seeing that something was\namiss, the latter took herself off to her room, which I thought\nreally kind of her.\n\n\"What is it, father? What is it, Katy?\" asked Ernest; looking from\none troubled face to the other.\n\nI tried to explain.\n\n\"I think, father, you may safely trust my wife's spiritual interests\nto me,\" Ernest said, with warmth. \"You do not understand her. I do.\nBecause there is nothing morbid about her, because she has a sweet,\ncheerful confidence in Christ; you doubt and misjudge her. You may\ndepend upon it that people are individual in their piety as in other\nthings, and cannot all be run in one mould. Katy has a playful way of\nspeaking, I know, and often expresses her strongest feelings with\nwhat seems like levity, and is, perhaps, a little reckless about\nbeing misunderstood in consequence.\"\n\nHe smiled on me, as he thus took up the cudgels in my defence, and I\nnever felt so grateful to him in my life. The truth is, I hate\nsentimentalism so cordially, and have besides such an instinct to\nconceal my deepest, most sacred emotions, that I do not wonder people\nmisunderstand and misjudge me.\n\n\"I did not refer to her playfulness,\" father returned. \"Old people\nmust make allowances for the young; they must make allowances. What\npains me is that this child, full of life and gayety as she is, sees\ndeath approach without that becoming awe and terror which befits\nmortal man.\"\n\nErnest was going to reply, but I broke in eagerly upon his answer:\n\n\"It is true that I expressed no anxiety when I believed death to be\nat hand. I felt none. I had given myself away to Christ, and He had\nreceived me and why should I be afraid to take His hand and go where\nHe led me? And it is true that I asked for no counsel. I was too weak\nto ask questions or to like to have questions asked; but my mind was\nbright and wide awake while my body was so feeble, and I took counsel\nof God. Oh, let me read to you two passages from the life of Caroline\nFry which will make you understand how a poor sinner looks upon\ndeath. The first is an extract from a letter written after learning\nthat her days on earth were numbered.\n\n\"As many will hear and will not understand, why I want no time of,\npreparation, often desired by far holier ones than I, I tell you why,\nand shall tell others, and so shall you. It is not because I am so\nholy but because I am so sinful. The peculiar character of my\nreligious experience has always been a deep, an agonizing sense of\nsin; the sin of yesterday, of to-day, confessed with anguish hard to\nbe endured, and cried for pardon that could not be unheard; each day\ncleansed anew in Jesus' blood, and each day more and more hateful in\nmy own sight; what can I do in death I have not done in life? What,\ndo in this week, when I am told I cannot live, other than I did last\nweek, when knew it not? Alas, there is but one thing undone, to serve\nHim better; and the death-bed is no place for that. Therefore I say,\nif I am not ready now, I shall not be by delay, so far as I have to\ndo with it. If He has more to do in me that is His part. I need not\nask Him not to spoil His work by too much haste.\"\n\n\"And these were her dying words, a few days later:\n\n\"This is my bridal-day, the beginning of my life. I wish there\nshould be no mistake about the reason of my desire to depart and to\nbe with Christ. I confess myself the vilest, chiefest of sinners, and\nI desire to go to Him that I may be rid of the burden of sin-the sin\nof my nature-not the past, repented of every day, but the present,\nhourly, momentary sin, which I do commit, or may commit-the sense of\nwhich at times drives me half mad with grief!\"\n\nI shall never forget the expression of father's face, as I finished\nreading these remarkable words. He rose slowly from his seat, and\ncame and kissed me on the forehead. Then he left the room, but\nreturned with a large volume, and pointing to a blank page, requested\nme to copy them there. He com plains that I do not write legibly, so\nI printed them as plainly as I could, with my pen.\n\nJUNE 20.-On the first of May, there came to us, with other spring\nflowers, our little fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter. How rich I felt\nwhen I heard Ernest's voice, as he replied to a question asked at the\ndoor, proclaim, \"Mother and children all well.\" To think that we, who\nthought ourselves rich before are made so much richer now!\n\nBut she is not large and vigorous, as little Ernest was, and we\ncannot rejoice in her without some misgiving. Yet her very frailty\nmakes her precious to us. Little Ernest hangs over her with an almost\nlover-like pride and devotion, and should she live I can imagine what\na protector he will be for her. I have had to give up the care of him\nto Martha. During my illness I do not know what would have become of\nhim but for her. One of the pleasant events of every day at that\ntime, was her bringing him to me in such exquisite order, his face\nshining with health and happiness, his hair and dress so beautifully\nneat and clean. Now that she has the care of him, she has become very\nfond of him, and he certainly forms one bond of union between us, for\nwe both agree that he is the handsomest, best, most remarkable child\nthat ever lived, or ever will live.\n\nJULY 6.-I have come home to dear mother with both my children. Ernest\nsays our only hope for baby is to keep her out of the city during the\nsummer months.\n\nWhat a petite wee maiden she is! Where does all the love come from?\nIf I had had her always I do not see how I could be more fond of her.\nAnd do people call it living who never had any children?\n\nJULY 10.-If this darling baby lives, I shall always believe it is\nowing to my mother's prayers.\n\nI find little Ernest has a passionate temper, and a good deal of\nself-will. But he has fine qualities. I wish he had a better mother.\nI am so impatient with him when he is wayward and perverse! What he\nneeds is a firm, gentle hand, moved by no caprice, and controlled by\nthe constant fear of God. He never ought to hear an irritable word,\nor a sharp tone; but he does hear them, I must own with grief and\nshame. The truth is, it is so long since I really felt strong and\nwell that I am not myself, and can not do him justice, poor child.\nNext to being a perfect wife I want to be a perfect mother. How\nmortifying, how dreadful in all things to come short of even one's\nown standard. What approach, then, does one make to God's standard?\n\nMother seems very happy to have us here, though we make so much\ntrouble. She encourages me in all my attempts to control myself and\nto control my dear little boy, and the chapters she gives me out of\nher own experience are as interesting as a novel, and a good deal\nmore instructive.\n\nAUGUST.-Dear Ernest has come to spend a week with us. He is all tired\nout, as there has been a great deal of sickness in the city, and\nfather has had quite a serious attack. He brought with him a nurse\nfor baby, as one more desperate effort to strengthen her\nconstitution.\n\nI reproached him for doing it without consulting me, but he said\nmother bad written to tell him that I was all worn out and not in a\nstate to have the care of the children. It has been a terrible blow\nto me. One by one I am giving up the sweetest maternal duties. God\nmeans that I shall be nothing and do nothing; a mere useless\nsufferer. But when I tell Ernest so, he says I am everything to him,\nand that God's children please him just as well when they sit\npatiently with folded hands, if that is His will, as when they are\nhard at work. But to be at work, to be useful, to be necessary to my\nhusband and children, is just what I want, and I do find it hard to\nbe set against the wall, as it were, like an old piece of furniture\nno longer of any service I see now that my first desire has not been\nto please God, but to please myself, for I am restless under His\nrestraining hand, and find my prison a very narrow one. I would be\nwilling to bear any other trial, if I could only have health and\nstrength for my beloved ones. I pray for patience with bitter tears.\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\nXVI.\n\nOCTOBER.\n\nWE are all at home together once more. The parting with mother was\nvery painful. Every year that she lives now increases her loneliness,\nand makes me long to give her the shelter of my home. But in the\nmidst of these anxieties, how much I have to make me happy! Little\nErnest is the life and soul of the house; the sound of his feet\npattering about, and all his prattle, are the sweetest music to my\near; and his heart is brimful of love and joy, so that he shines on\nus all like a sunbeam. Baby is improving every day, and is one of\nthose tender, clinging little things that appeal to everybody's love\nand sympathy. I never saw a more angelic face than hers. Father sits\nby the hour looking at her. To-day he said:\n\n\"Daughter Katherine, this lovely little one is not meant for this\nsinful world.\"\n\n\"This world needs to be adorned with lovely little ones,\" I said.\n\"And baby was never so well as she is now.\"\n\n\"Do not set your heart too fondly upon her,\" he returned. \"I feel\nthat she is far too dear to me.\"\n\n\"But, father, we could give her to God if He should ask for her\nSurely, we love Him better than we love her.\"\n\nBut as I spoke a sharp pang shot through and through my soul, and I\nheld my little fair daughter closely in my arms, as if I could always\nkeep her there. It may be my conceit, but it really does seem as if\npoor father was getting a little fond of me. Ever since my own\nsickness I have felt great sympathy for him, and he feels, no doubt,\nthat I give him something that neither Ernest nor Martha can do,\nsince they were never sick one day in their lives. I do wish he could\nlook more at Christ and at what He has done and is doing for us. The\nway of salvation is to me a wide path, absolutely radiant with the\nglory of Him who shines upon it; I see my shortcomings; I see my\nsins, but I feel myself bathed, as it were, in the effulgent glow\nthat proceeds directly from the throne of God and the Lamb. It seems\nas if I ought to have some misgivings about my salvation, but I can\nhardly say that I have one. How strange, how mysterious that is! And\nhere is father, so much older, so much better than I am, creeping\nalong in the dark! I spoke to Ernest about it. He says I owe it to my\ntraining, in a great measure, and that my mother is fifty years in\nadvance of her age. But it can't be all that. It was only after years\nof struggle and prayer that God gave me this joy.\n\nNOVEMBER 24.-Ernest asked me yesterday if I knew that Amelia and her\nhusband had come here to live, and that she was very ill.\n\n\"I wish you would go to see her, dear,\" he added. \"She is a stranger\nhere, and in great need of a friend.\" I felt extremely disturbed. I\nhave lost my old affection for her, and the idea of meeting her\nhusband was unpleasant.\n\n\"Is she very sick?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes. She is completely broken down. I promised her that you should\ngo to see her.\"\n\n\"Are you attending her?\"\n\n\"Yes; her husband came for me himself.\"\n\n\"I don't want to go,\" I said. \"It will be very disagreeable.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, I know it. But she needs a friend, as I said before.\"\n\nI put on my things very reluctantly, and went. I found Amelia in a\nrichly-furnished house, but looking untidy and ill-cared-for. She was\nlying on a couch in her bedroom; three delicate-looking children were\nplaying about, and their nurse sat sewing at the window.\n\nA terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for her to speak for\nsome moments. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to welcome\nme, by throwing her arms around me and bursting into tears.\n\n\"Oh, Katy!\" she cried, \"should you have known me if we had met in\nthe street? Don't you find me sadly altered?\"\n\n\"You are changed,\" I said, \"but so am I.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do not look strong. But then you never did. And you are as\npretty as ever, while I--oh, Kate! do you remember what round, white\narms I used to have? Look at them now!\"\n\nAnd she drew up her sleeve, poor child. Just then I heard a step in\nthe passage, and her husband sauntered into the room, smoking.\n\n\"Do go away, Charles,\" she said impatiently. \"You know how your\ncigar sets me coughing.\"\n\nHe held out his hand to me with the easy, nonchalant air of one who\nis accustomed to success and popularity.\n\nI looked at him with an aversion I could not conceal. The few years\nsince we met has changed him so completely that I almost shuddered at\nthe sight of his already bloated face, and at the air that told of a\nlife worse than wasted.\n\n\"Do go away, Charles,\" Amelia repeated.\n\nHe threw himself into a chair without paying the least attention to\nher, and still addressing himself to me again, said:\n\n\"Upon my word, you are prettier than ever,\"\n\nand--\n\n\"I will come to see you at another time, Amelia,\" I said, putting on\nall the dignity I could condense in my small frame, and rising to\ntake leave.\n\n\"Don't go, Katy!\" he cried, starting up, \"don't go. I want to have a\ngood talk about old times.\"\n\nKaty, indeed! How dared he? I came away burning with anger and\nmortification. Is it possible that I ever loved such a man? That to\ngratify that love I defied and grieved my dear mother through a whole\nyear! Oh, from what hopeless misery God saved me, when He snatched me\nout of the depth of my folly!\n\nDECEMBER 1.-Ernest says I can go to see Amelia with safety now, as\nher husband has sprained his ankle, and keeps to his own room. So I\nam going. But, I am sure, I shall say something imprudent or unwise,\nand wish I could think it right to stay away. I hope God will go with\nme and teach me what words to speak.\n\nDEC. 2.-I found Amelia more unwell than on my first visit, and she\nreceived me again with tears.\n\n\"How good you are to come so soon,\" she began. \"I did not blame you\nfor running off the other day; Charley's impertinence was shameful.\nHe said, after you left, that he perceived you had not yet lost your\nquickness to take offence, but I know he felt that you showed a just\ndispleasure, and nothing more.\"\n\n\"No, I was really angry,\" I replied. \"I find the road to perfection\nlies up-hill, and I slip back so often that sometimes I despair of\never reaching the top.\"\n\n\"What does the doctor say about me?\" she asked. \"Does he think me\nvery sick?\"\n\n\"I dare say he will tell you exactly what he thinks,\" I returned, \"if\nyou ask him. This is his rule with all his patients.\"\n\n\"If I could get rid of this cough I should soon be myself again,\" she\nsaid. \"Some days I feel quite bright and well. But if it were not for\nmy poor little children, I should not care much how the thing ended.\nWith the life Charley leads me, I haven't much to look forward to.\"\n\n\"You forget that the children's nurse is in the room,\" I whispered.\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind Charlotte. Charlotte knows he neglects me, don't\nyou, Charlotte?\"\n\nCharlotte was discreet enough to pretend not to hear this question,\nand Amelia went on:\n\n\"It began very soon after we were married. He would go round with\nother girls exactly as he did before; then when I spoke about it he\nwould just laugh in his easy, good-natured way, but pay no attention\nto my wishes. Then when I grew more in earnest he would say, that as\nlong as he let me alone I ought to let him alone. I thought that when\nour first baby came that would sober him a little, but he wanted a\nboy and it turned out to be a girl. And my being unhappy and crying\nso much, made the poor thing fretful; it kept him awake at night, so\nhe took another room. After that I saw him less than ever, though now\nand then he would have a little love-fit, when he would promise to be\nat home more and treat me with more consideration. We had two more\nlittle girls-twins; and then a boy. Charley seemed quite fond of him,\nand did certainly seem improved, though he was still out a great deal\nwith a set of idle young men, smoking, drinking wine, and, I don't\nknow what else. His uncle gave him too much money, and he had nothing\nto do but to spend it.\"\n\n\"You must not tell me any more now,\" I said. \"Wait till you are\nstronger.\"\n\nThe nurse rose and gave her something which seemed to refresh her. I\nwent to look at the little girls, who were all pretty, pale-faced\ncreatures, very quiet and mature in their ways.\n\n\"I am rested now,\" said Amelia, \"and it does me good to talk to you,\nbecause I can see that you are sorry for me.\"\n\n\"I am, indeed!\" I cried.\n\n\"When our little boy was three months old I took this terrible cold\nand began to cough. Charley at first remonstrated with me for\ncoughing so much; he said it was a habit I had got, and that I ought\nto cure myself of it. Then the baby began to pine and pine, and the\nmore it wasted the more I wasted. And at last it died.\"\n\nHere the poor child burst out again, and I wiped away her tears as\nfast as they fell, thankful that she could cry.\n\n\"After that,\" she went on, after awhile, \"Charley seemed to lose his\nlast particle of affection for me; he kept away more than ever, and\nonce when I besought him not to neglect me and my children so, he\nsaid he was well paid for not keeping up his engagement with you,\nthat you had some strength of character, and-\"\n\n\"Amelia,\" I interrupted, \"do not repeat such things. They only pain\nand mortify me.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she sighed, wearily, \"this is what he has at last brought me\nto. I am sick and broken-hearted, and care very little what becomes\nof me.\"\n\nThere was a long silence. I wanted to ask her if, when earthly refuge\nfailed her, she could not find shelter in the love of Christ. But I\nhave what is, I fear, a morbid terror of seeking the confidence of\nothers. I knelt down at last, and kissed the poor faded face.\n\n\"Yes, I knew you would feel for me,\" she said. \"The only pleasant\nthought I had when Charley insisted on coming here to live was, that\nI should see you.\"\n\n\"Does your uncle live here, too?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, he came first, and it was that that put it into Charley's head\nto come. He is very kind to me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"and God is kind, too, isn't He?\"\n\n\"Kind to let me get sick and disgust Charley? Now, Katy, how can you\ntalk so?\" I replied by repeating two lines from a hymn of which I am\nvery fond:\n\n    'O Saviour, whose mercy severe in its kindness,\n    Hath chastened my wanderings, and guided my way.'\n\n\"I don't much care for hymns,\" she said. \"When one is well, and\neverything goes quite to one's mind, it is nice to go to church and\nsing with the rest of them. But, sick as I am, it isn't so easy to be\nreligious.\"\n\n\"But isn't this the very time to look to Christ for comfort?\"\n\n\"What's the use of looking anywhere for comfort?\" she said,\npeevishly. \"Wait till you are sick and heart-broken yourself, and\nyou'll see that you won't feel much like doing anything but just\ngroan and cry your life out.\"\n\n\"I have been sick, and I know what sorrow means,\" I said. \"And I am\nglad that I do. For I have learned Christ in that school, and I know\nthat He can comfort when no one else can.\"\n\n\"You always were an odd creature,\" she replied. \"I never pretended to\nunderstand half you said.\"\n\nI saw that she was tired, and came away. Oh, how I wished that I had\nbeen able to make Christ look to her as He did to me all the way\nhome.\n\nDEC. 24.-Father says he does not like Dr. Cabot's preaching. He\nthinks that it is not doctrinal enough, and that he does not preach\nenough to sinners. But I can see that it has influenced him already,\nand that he is beginning to think of God, as manifested in Christ,\nfar more than he used to do. With me he has endless discussions on\nhis and my favorite subjects, and though I can never tell along what\npath I walked to reach a certain conclusion, the earnestness of my\nconvictions does impress him strangely. I am sure there is a great\ndeal of conceit mixed up with all I say, and then when I compare my\nlife with my own standard of duty, I wonder I ever dare to open my\nmouth and undertake to help others.\n\nBaby is not at all well. To see a little frail, tender thing really\nsuffering, tears my soul to pieces. I think it would distress me less\nto give her to God just as she is now, a vital part of my very heart,\nthan to see her live a mere invalid life. But I try to feel, as I\nknow I say, Thy will be done! Little Ernest is the very picture of\nhealth and beauty. He has vitality enough for two children. He and his\nlittle sister will make very interesting contrasts as they grow\nolder. His ardor and vivacity will rouse her, and her gentleness will\nsoften him.\n\nJAN. 1, 1841.-Every day brings its own duty and its own discipline.\nHow is it that I make such slow progress while this is the case? It\nis a marvel to me why God allows characters like mine to defile His\nchurch. I can only account for it with the thought that if I ever am\nperfected, I shall be a great honor to His name, for surely worse\nmaterial for building up a temple of the Holy Ghost was never\ngathered together before. The time may come when those who know me\nnow, crude, childish, incomplete, will look upon me with amazement,\nsaying, \"What hath God wrought!\" If I knew such a time would never\ncome, I should want to flee into the holes and caves of the earth.\n\nI have everything to inspire me to devotion. My dear mother's\ninfluence is always upon me. To her I owe the habit of flying to God\nin every emergency, and of believing in prayer. Then I am in close\nfellowship with a true man and a true Christian. Ernest has none of\nmy fluctuations; he is always calm and self-possessed. This is partly\nhis natural character; but he has studied the Bible more than any\nother book, his convictions of duty are fixed because they are drawn\nthence, and his constant contact with the sick and the suffering has\nrevealed life to him just as it is. How he has helped me on! God\nbless him for it!\n\nThen I have James. To be with him one half hour is an inspiration. He\nlives in such blessed communion with Christ that he is in perpetual\nsunshine, and his happiness fertilizes even this disordered household;\nthere is not a soul in it that does not catch somewhat of his\njoyousness.\n\nAnd there are my children! My darling, precious children! For their\nsakes I am continually constrained to seek after an amended, a\nsanctified life; what I want them to become I must become myself.\n\nSo I enter on a new year, not knowing what it will bring forth, but\nsurely with a thousand reasons for thanksgiving, for joy, and for\nhope.\n\nJAN. 16.-One more desperate effort to make harmony out of the\ndiscords of my house, and one more failure. Ernest forgot that it was\nour wedding-day, which mortified and pained me, especially as he had\nmade an engagement to dine out. I am always expecting something from\nlife that I never get. Is it so with everybody? I am very uneasy,\ntoo, about James. He seems to be growing fond of Lucy's society. I am\nperfectly sure that she could not make him happy. Is it possible that\nhe does not know what a brilliant young man he is, and that he can\nhave whom he pleases? It is easy, in theory, to let God plan our own\ndestiny, and that of our friends. But when it comes to a specific\ncase we fancy we can help His judgments with our poor reason. Well, I\nmust go to Him with this new anxiety, and trust my darling brother's\nfuture to Him, if I can.\n\nI shall try to win James' confidence. If it is not Lucy, who or what\nis it that is making him so thoughtful and serious, yet so wondrously\nhappy?\n\nJAN. 17.-I have been trying to find out whether this is a mere notion\nof mine about Lucy. James laughs, and evades my questions. But he\nowns that a very serious matter is occupying his thoughts, of which\nhe does not wish to speak at present. May God bless him in it,\nwhatever it is.\n\nMAY 1.-My delicate little Una's first birthday. Thank God for sparing\nher to us a year. If He should take her away I should still rejoice\nthat this life was mingled with ours, and has influenced them. Yes,\neven an unconscious infant is an ever-felt influence in the\nhousehold; what an amazing thought!\n\nI have given this precious little one away to her Saviour and to\nmine; living or dying, she is His.\n\nDEC. 13.-Writing journals does not seem to be my mission on earth of\nlate. My busy hands find so much else to do. And sometimes when I have\nbeen particularly exasperated and tried by the jarring elements that\nform my home, I have not dared to indulge myself with recording\nthings that ought to be forgotten.\n\nHow I long to live in peace with all men, and how I resent\ninterference in the management of my children! If the time ever comes\nthat I live, a spinster of a certain age, in the family of an elder\nbrother, what a model of forbearance, charity, and sisterly\nloving-kindness I shall be!\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nXVII.\n\nJANUARY 1, 1842\n\nI MEAN to resume my journal, and be more faithful to it this year.\nHow many precious things, said by dear Mrs. Campbell and others, are\nlost forever, because I did not record them at the time!\n\nI have seen her to-day. At Ernest's suggestion I have let Susan Green\nprovide her with a comfortable chair which enables her to sit up\nduring a part of each day. I found her in it, full of gratitude, her\nsweet, tranquil face shining, as it always is, with a light reflected\nfrom heaven itself. She looks like one who has had her struggle with\nlife and conquered it. During last year I visited her often and\ngradually learned much of her past history, though she does not love\nto talk of herself. She has outlived her husband, a houseful of girls\nand her ill-health is chiefly the result of years of watching by\ntheir sick-beds, and grief at their loss.\n\nFor she does not pretend not to grieve, but always says, \"It is\nrepining that dishonors God, not grief.\"\n\nI said to her to-day:\n\n\"Doesn't it seem hard when you think of the many happy homes there\nare in the world, that you should be singled out for such bereavement\nand loneliness?\"\n\nShe replied, with a smile:\n\n\"I am not singled out, dear. There are thousands of God's own dear\nchildren, scattered over the world, suffering far more than I do. And\nI do not think there are many persons in it who are happier than I\nam. I was bound to my God and Saviour before I knew a sorrow, it is\ntrue. But it was by a chain of many links; and every link that\ndropped away, brought me to Him, till at last, having nothing left, I\nwas shut up to Him, and learned fully, what I had only learned\npartially, how soul-satisfying He is.\"\n\n\"You think, then,\" I said, while my heart died within me, \"that\nhusband and children are obstacles in our way, and hinder our getting\nnear to Christ.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she cried. \"God never gives us hindrances. On the contrary,\nHe means, in making us wives and mothers, to put us into the very\nconditions of holy living. But if we abuse His gifts by letting them\ntake His place in our hearts, it is an act of love on His part to\ntake them away, or to destroy our pleasure in them. It is\ndelightful,\" she added, after a pause, \"to know that there are some\ngenerous souls on earth, who love their dear ones with all their\nhearts, yet give those hearts unreservedly to Christ. Mine was not\none of them.\"\n\nI had some little service to render her which interrupted our\nconversation. The offices I have had to have rendered me in my own\nlong days of sickness have taught me to be less fastidious about\nwaiting upon others. I am thankful that God has at last made me\nwilling to do anything in a sick-room that must be done. She thanked\nme, as she always does, and then I said:\n\n\"I have a great many little trials, but they don't do me a bit of\ngood. Or, at least, I don't see that they do.\"\n\n\"No, we never see plants growing,\" she said.\n\n\"And do you really think then, that perhaps I am growing, though\nunconsciously?\"\n\n\"I know you are, dear child. There can't be life without growth.\"\n\nThis comforted me. I came home, praying all the way, and striving to\ncommit myself entirely to Him in whose school I sit as learner. Oh,\nthat I were a better scholar. But I do not half learn my lessons, I am\nheedless and inattentive, and I forget what is taught. Perhaps this\nis the reason that weighty truths float before my mind's eye at\ntimes, but do not fix themselves there.\n\nMARCH 20.-I have been much impressed by Dr. Cabot's sermons to-day.\nwhile I am listening to his voice and hear him speak of the beauty\nand desirableness of the Christian life, I feel as he feels, that I\nam waiting to count all things but dross that I may win Christ. But\nwhen I come home to my worldly cares, I get completely absorbed in\nthem, it is only by a painful wrench that I force my soul back to\nGod. Sometimes I almost envy Lucy her calm nature, which gives her so\nlittle trouble. Why need I throw my whole soul into whatever I do?\nWhy can't I make so much as an apron for little Ernest without the\nardor and eagerness of a soldier marching to battle? I wonder if\npeople of my temperament ever get toned down, and learn to take life\ncoolly?\n\nJUNE 10.-My dear little Una has had a long and very severe illness.\nIt seems wonderful that she could survive such sufferings. And it is\nalmost as wonderful that I could look upon them, week after week,\nwithout losing my senses.\n\nAt first Ernest paid little attention to my repeated entreaties that\nhe would prescribe for her, and some precious time was thus lost. But\nthe moment he was fully aroused to see her danger, there was\nsomething beautiful in his devotion. He often walked the room with\nher by the hour together, and it was touching to see her lying like a\npale; crushed lily in his strong arms. One morning she seemed almost\ngone, and we knelt around her with bursting hearts, to commend her\nparting soul to Him in whose arms we were about to place her. But it\nseemed as if all He asked of us was to come to that point, for then\nHe gave her back to us, and she is still ours, only seven-fold\ndearer. I was so thankful to see dear Ernest's faith triumphing over\nhis heart, and making him so ready to give up even this little lamb\nwithout a word. Yes, we will give our children to Him if he asks for\nthem. He shall never have to snatch them from us by force.\n\nOCT. 4.-We have had a quiet summer in the country, that is, I have\nwith my darling little ones. This is the fourth birthday of our son\nand heir, and he has been full of health and vivacity, enjoying\neverything with all his heart. How he lights up our sombre household\n! Father has been fasting to-day, and is so worn out and so nervous\nin consequence, that he could not bear the sound of the children's\nvoices. I wish, if he must fast, he would do it moderately, and do it\nall the time. Now he goes without food until he is ready to sink, and\nnow he eats quantities of improper food. If Martha could only see how\nmischievous all this is for him. After the children had been hustled\nout of the way, and I had got them both off to bed, he said in his\nmost doleful manner, \"I hope, my daughter, that you are faithful to\nyour son. He has now reached the age of four years, and is a\nremarkably intelligent child. I hope you teach him that he is a\nsinner, and that he is in a state of condemnation.\"\n\n\"Now, father, don't,\" I said. \"You are all tired out, and do not know\nwhat you are saying. I would not have little Ernest hear you for the\nworld.\"\n\nPoor father! He fairly groaned.\n\n\"You are responsible for that child's soul;\" he said; \"you have more\ninfluence over him than all the world beside.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" I said, \"and sometimes I feel ready to sink when I think\nof the great work God has intrusted to me. But my poor child will\nlearn that he is a sinner only too soon, and before that dreadful day\narrives I want to fortify his soul with the only antidote against the\nmisery that knowledge will give him. I want him to see his Redeemer\nin all His love, and all His beauty, and to love Him with all his\nheart and soul, and mind and strength. Dear father, pray for him, and\npray for me, too.\"\n\n\"I do, I will,\" he said, solemnly. And then followed the inevitable\nlong fit of silent musing, when I often wonder what is passing in\nthat suffering soul. For a sufferer he certainly is who sees a great\nand good and terrible God who cannot look upon iniquity, and does not\nsee His risen Son, who has paid the debt we owe, and lives to\nintercede for us before the throne of the Father.\n\nJAN. 1, 1842.-James came to me yesterday with a letter he had been\nwriting to mother.\n\n\"I want you to read this before it goes,\" he said, \"for you ought to\nknow my plans as soon as mother does.\"\n\nI did not get time to read it till after tea. Then I came up here to\nmy room, and sat down curious to know what was coming.\n\nWell, I thought I loved him as much as one human being could love\nanother, already, but now my heart embraced him with a fervor and\ndelight that made me so happy that I could not speak a word when I\nknelt down to tell my Saviour all about it.\n\nHe said that he had been led, within a few months, to make a new\nconsecration of himself to Christ and to Christ's cause on earth, and\nthat this had resulted in his choosing the life of a missionary,\ninstead of settling down, as he had intended to do, as a city\nphysician. Such expressions of personal love to Christ, and delight\nin the thought of serving Him, I never read. I could only marvel at\nwhat God had wrought in his soul. For me to live to Christ seems\nnatural enough, for I have been driven to Him not only by sorrow but\nby sin. Every outbreak of my hasty temper sends me weeping and\npenitent to the foot of the cross, and I love much because I have\nbeen forgiven much. But James, as far as I know, has never had a\nsorrow, except my father's death, and that had no apparent religious\neffect. And his natural character is perfectly beautiful. He is as\nwarm-hearted and loving and simple and guileless as a child, and has\nnothing of my intemperance, hastiness and quick temper. I have often\nthought that she would be a rare woman who could win and wear such a\nheart as his. Life has done little but smile upon him; he is handsome\nand talented and attractive; everybody is fascinated by him,\neverybody caresses him; and yet he has turned his back on the world\nthat has dealt so kindly with him, and given himself, as Edwards\nsays, \"clean away to Christ!\" Oh, how thankful I am! And yet to let\nhim go! My only brother-mother's Son! But I know what she will say;\nshe will him God-speed!\n\nErnest came upstairs, looking tired and jaded. I read the letter to\nhim. It impressed him strangely: but he only said,\n\n\"This is what we might expect, who knew James, dear fellow!\"\n\nBut when we knelt down to pray together, I saw how he was touched,\nand how his soul kindled within him in harmony with that consecrated,\ndevoted spirit. Dear James! it must be mother's prayers that have\ndone for him this wondrous work that is usually the slow growth of\nyears; and this is the mother who prays for you, Katy! So take\ncourage!\n\nJAN. 2.-James means to study theology as well as medicine, it seems.\nThat will keep him with us for some years. Oh, is it selfish to take\nthis view of it? Alas, the spirit is willing to have him go, but the\nflesh is weak, and cries out.\n\nOCT. 22.-Amelia came to see me to-day. She has been traveling, for\nher health, and certainly looks much improved.\n\n\"Charley and I are quite good friends again,\" she began. \"We have\njaunted about everywhere, and have a delightful time. What a snug\nlittle box of a house you have!\"\n\n\"It is inconveniently small,\" I said, \"for our family is large and the\ndoctor needs more office room.\"\n\n\"Does he receive patients here? How horrid! Don't you hate to have\npeople with all sorts of ills and aches in the house? It must depress\nyour spirits.\"\n\n\"I dare say it would if I saw them; but I never do.\"\n\n\"I should like to see your children. Your husband says you are\nperfectly devoted to them.\"\n\n\"As I suppose all mothers are,\" I replied, laughing.\n\n\"As to that,\" she returned, \"people differ.\"\n\nThe children were brought down. She admired little Ernest, as\neverybody does, but only glanced at the baby.\n\n\"What a sickly-looking little thing!\" she said. \"But this boy is a\nsplendid fellow! Ah, if mine had lived he would have been just such a\nchild! But some people have all the trouble and others all the\ncomfort. I am, sure I don't know what I have done that I should have\nto lose my only boy, and have nothing left but girls. To be sure, I\ncan afford to dress them elegantly, and as soon as they get old\nenough I mean to have them taught all sorts of accomplishments. You\ncan't imagine what a relief it is to have plenty of money!\"\n\n\"Indeed I can't!\" I said; \"it is quite beyond the reach of my\nimagination.\"\n\n\"My uncle--that is to say Charley's uncle-has just given me a\ncarriage and horses for my own use. In fact, he heaps everything upon\nme. Where do you go to church?\"\n\nI told her, reminding her that Dr. Cabot was its pastor.\n\n\"Oh, I forgot! Poor Dr. Cabot! Is he as old-fashioned as ever?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" I cried. \"He is as good as ever, if not\nbetter. His health is very delicate, and that one thing seems to be a\nblessing to him.\"\n\n\"A blessing! Why, Kate Mortimer! Kate Elliott, I mean. It is a\nblessing I, for one, am very willing to dispense with. But you always\ndid say queer things. Well, I dare say Dr. Cabot is very good and all\nthat, but his church is not a fashionable one, and Charley and I go\nto Dr. Bellamy's. That is, I go once a day, pretty regularly, and\nCharley goes when he feels like it. Good-by. I must go now; I have\nall my fall shopping to do. Have you done yours? Suppose you jump\ninto the carriage and go with me? You can't imagine how it passes\naway the morning to drive from shop to shop looking over the new\ngoods.\"\n\n\"There seem to be a number of things I can't imagine,\" I replied,\ndryly. \"You must excuse me this morning.\"\n\nShe took her leave.. I looked at her rich dress as she gathered it\nabout her and swept away, and recalled all her empty, frivolous talk\nwith contempt.\n\nShe and Ch---, her husband, I mean, are well matched. They need their\nmoney, and their palaces and their fine clothes and handsome\nequipages, for they have nothing else. How thankful I am that I am as\nunlike them as ex---\n\nOCTOBER 30.-I'm sure I don't know what I was going to say when I was\ninterrupted just then. Something in the way of self-glorification,\nmost likely. I remember the contempt with which I looked after Amelia\nas she left our house, and the pinnacle on which I sat perched for\nsome days, when I compared my life with hers. Alas, it was my view of\nlife of which I was lost in admiration, for I am sure that if I ever\ncome under the complete dominion of Christ's gospel I shall not know\nthe Sentiment of disdain. I feel truly ashamed and sorry that I am\nstill so far from being penetrated with that spirit.\n\nMy pride has had a terrible fall. As I sat on my throne, looking down\non all the Amelias in the world, I felt a profound pity at their\ndelight in petty trifles, their love of position, of mere worldly\nshow and passing vanities.\n\n\"They are all alike,\" I said to myself. \"They are incapable of\nunderstanding a character like mine, or the exalted, ennobling\nprinciples that govern me. They crave the applause of this world,\nthey are satisfied with fine clothes, fine houses, fine equipages.\nThey think and talk of nothing else; I have not one idea in common\nwith them. I see the emptiness and hollowness of these things. I am\nabsolutely unworldly; my ambition is to attain whatever they, in\ntheir blind folly and ignorance, absolutely despise.\"\n\nThus communing with myself, I was not a little pleased to hear Dr.\nCabot and his wife announced. I hastened to meet them and to display\nto them the virtues I so admired in myself. They had hardly a chance\nto utter a word. I spoke eloquently of my contempt for worldly\nvanities, and of my enthusiastic longings for a higher life. I even\nwent into particulars about the foibles of some of my acquaintances,\nthough faint misgivings as to the propriety of such remarks on the\nabsent made me half repent the words I still kept uttering. When they\ntook leave I rushed to my room with my heart beating, my cheeks all\nin a glow, and caught up and caressed the children in a way that\nseemed to astonish them. Then I took my work and sat down to sew.\nWhat a horrible reaction now took place! I saw my refined, subtle,\ndisgusting pride, just as I suppose Dr. and Mrs. Cabot saw it! I sat\ncovered with confusion, shocked at myself, shocked at the weakness of\nhuman nature. Oh, to get back the good opinion of my friends! To\nrecover my own self-respect! But this was impossible. I threw down my\nwork and walked about my room. There was a terrible struggle in my\nsoul. I saw that instead of brooding over the display I had made of\nmyself to Dr. Cabot I ought to be thinking solely of my appearance in\nthe sight of God, who could see far more plainly than any earthly eye\ncould all my miserable pride and self-conceit. But I could not do\nthat, and chafed about till I was worn out, body and soul. At last I\nsent the children away, and knelt down and told the whole story to\nHim who knew what I was when He had compassion on me, called me by my\nname, and made me His own child. And here, I found a certain peace.\nChristian, on his way to the celestial city, met and fought his\nApollyons and his giants, too; but he got there at last!\n\n\nChapter 18\n\nXVIII.\n\nNOVEMBER.\n\nTHIS morning Ernest received an early summons to Amelia. I got out of\nall manner of patience with him because he would take his bath and\neat his breakfast before he went, and should have driven any one else\ndistracted by my hurry and flurry.\n\n\"She has had a hemorrhage!\" I cried. \"Do, Ernest, make haste.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he returned, \"that would come, sooner or later.\"\n\n\"You don't mean,\" I said, \"that she has been in danger of this all\nalong?\"\n\n\"I certainly do.\"\n\n\"Then it was very unkind in you not to tell me so.\"\n\n\"I told you at the outset that her lungs were diseased.\"\n\n\"No, you told me no such thing. Oh, Ernest, is she going to die?\"\n\n\"I did not know you were so fond of her,\" he said, apologetically.\n\n\"It is not that,\" I cried. \"I am distressed at the thought of the\nworldly life she has been living-at my never trying to influence her\nfor her good. If she is in danger, you will tell her so? Promise me\nthat.\"\n\n\"I must see her before I make such a promise,\" he said, and went out.\n\nI flew up to my room and threw myself on my knees, sorrowful,\nself-condemned. I had thrown away my last opportunity of speaking a\nword to her in season, though I had seen how much she needed one, and\nnow she was going to die! Oh, I hope God will forgive me, and hear\nthe prayers I have offered her!\n\nEVENING.-Ernest says he had a most distressing scene at Amelia's this\nmorning. She insisted on knowing what he thought of her, and then\nburst out bitter complaints and lamentations, charging it to husband\nthat she had this disease, declaring that she could not, and would\nnot die, and insisting that he must prevent it. Her uncle urged for a\nconsultation of physicians, to which Ernest consented, of course,\nthough he says no mortal power can save her now. I asked him how her\nhusband appeared, to which he made the evasive answer that he\nappeared just as one would expect him to do.\n\nDECEMBER.-Amelia was so determined to see me that Ernest thought it\nbest for me to go. I found her looking very feeble.\n\n\"Oh, Katy,\" she began at once, \"do make the doctor say that I shall\nget well!\"\n\n\"I wish he could say so with truth,\" I answered. \"Dear Amelia, try\nto think how happy God's own children are when they are with Him.\"\n\n\"I can't think,\" she replied. \"I do not want to think. I want to\nforget all about it. If it were not for this terrible cough I could\nforget it, for I am really a great deal better than I was a month\nago.\"\n\nI did not know what to say or what to do.\n\n\"May I read a hymn or a few verses from the Bible?\" I asked, at last.\n\n\"Just as you like,\" she said, indifferently.\n\nI read a verse now and then, but she looked tired, and I prepared to\ngo.\n\n\"Don't go,\" she cried. \"I do not dare to be alone. Oh, what a\nterrible, terrible thing it is to die! To leave this bright,\nbeautiful world, and be nailed in a coffin and buried up in a cold,\ndark grave.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" I said, \"to leave this poor sick body there, and to fly to a\nworld ten thousand times brighter, more beautiful than this.\"\n\n\"I had just got to feeling nearly well,\" she said, \"and I had\neverything I wanted, and Charley was quite good to me, and I kept my\nlittle girls looking like fairies, just from fairy-land. Everybody\nsaid they wore the most picturesque costumes when they were dressed\naccording to my taste. And I have got to go and leave them, and\nCharley will be marrying somebody else, and saying to her all the\nnice things he has said to me.\"\n\n\"I really must go now,\" I said. \"You are wearing yourself all out.\"\n\n\"I declare you are crying,\" she exclaimed. \"You do pity me after\nall.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do,\" I said, and came away, heartsick.\n\nErnest says there is nothing I can do for her now but to pray for\nher, since she does not really believe herself in danger, and has a\nvague feeling that if she can once convince him how much she wants to\nlive, he will use some vigorous measures to restore her. Martha is to\nwatch with her to-night. Ernest will not let me.\n\nJAN. 18, 1843.-Our wedding-day has passed unobserved. Amelia's\nsuffering condition absorbs us all. Martha spends much time with her,\nand prepares almost all the food she eats.\n\nJAN. 20.-I have seen poor Amelia once more, and perhaps for the last\ntime. She has failed rapidly of late, and Ernest says may drop away\nat almost any time.\n\nWhen I went in she took me by the hand, and with great difficulty,\nand at intervals said something like this:\n\n\"I have made up my mind to it, and I know it must come. I want to see\nDr. Cabot. Do you think he would be willing to visit me after my\nneglecting him so?\"\n\n\"I am sure he would,\" I cried.\n\n\"I want to ask him if he thinks I was a Christian at that time-you\nknow when. If I was, then I need not be so afraid to die.\"\n\n\"But, dear Amelia, what he thinks is very little to the purpose. The\nquestion is not whether you ever gave yourself to God, but whether\nyou are His now. But I ought not to talk to you. Dr. Cabot will know\njust what to say.\"\n\n\"No, but I want to know what you thought about it.\"\n\nI felt distressed, as I looked at her wasted dying figure, to be\ncalled on to help decide such a question. But I knew what I ought to\nsay, and said it:\n\n\"Don't look back to the past; it is useless. Give yourself to Christ\nnow.\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"I don't know how,\" she said. \"Oh, Katy, pray to God to let me live\nlong enough to get ready to die. I have led a worldly life. I shudder\nat the bare thought of dying; I must have time.\"\n\n\"Don't wait for time,\" I said, with tears, \"get ready now, this\nminute. A thousand years would not make you more fit to die.\"\n\nSo I came away, weary and heavy-laden, and on the way home stopped\nto tell Dr. Cabot all about it, and by this time he is with her.\n\nMARCH 1.-Poor Amelia's short race on earth is over. Dr. Cabot saw\nher every few days and says he hopes she did depart in Christian\nfaith, though without Christian joy. I have not seen her since that\nlast interview. That excited me so that Ernest would not let me go\nagain.\n\nMartha has been there nearly the whole time for three or four weeks,\nand I really think it has done her good. She seems less absorbed in\nmere outside things, and more lenient toward me and my failings.\n\nI do not know what is to become of those motherless little girls. I wish\nI could take them into my own home, but, of course, that is not even\nto be thought at this juncture. Ernest says their father seemed\nnearly distracted when Amelia died, and that his uncle is going to\nsend him off to Europe immediately.\n\nI have been talking with Ernest about Amelia.\n\n\"What do you think,\" I asked, \"about her last days on earth? Was\nthere really any preparation for death?\"\n\n\"These scenes are very painful,\" he returned. \"Of course there is but\none real preparation for Christian dying, and that is Christian\nliving.\"\n\n\"But the sick-room often does what a prosperous life never did!\"\n\n\"Not often. Sick persons delude themselves, or are deluded by their\nfriends; they do not believe they are really about to die. Besides,\nthey are bewildered and exhausted by disease, and what mental\nstrength they have is occupied with studying symptoms, watching for\nthe doctor, and the like. I do not now recall a single instance where\na worldly Christian died a happy, joyful death, in all my practice.\"\n\n\"Well, in one sense it makes no difference whether they die happily\nor not. The question is do they die in the Lord?\"\n\n\"It may make no vital difference to them, but we must not forget that\nGod is honored or dishonored by the way a Christian dies, as well as\nby the way in which he lives. There is great significance in the\ndescription given in the Bible of the death by which John should\n'Glorify God'; to my mind it implies that to die well is to live well.\"\n\n\"But how many thousands die suddenly, or of such exhausting disease\nthat they cannot honor God by even one feeble word.\"\n\n\"Of course, I do not, refer to such cases. All I ask is that those\nwhose minds are clear, who are able to attend to all other final\ndetails, should let it be seen what the gospel of Christ can do for\npoor sinners in the great exigency of life, giving Him the glory. I\ncan tell you, my darling, that standing, as I so often do, by dying\nbeds, this whole subject has become one of great magnitude to my mind.\nAnd it gives me positive personal pain to see heirs of the eternal\nkingdom, made such by the ignominious death of their Lord, go\nshrinking and weeping to the full possession of their inheritance.\"\n\nErnest is right, I am sure, but how shall the world, even the\nChristian world, be convinced that it may have blessed fortastes of\nheaven while yet plodding upon earth, and faith to go thither\njoyfully, for the simple asking?\n\nPoor Amelia! But she understands it all now. It is a blessed thing to\nhave this great faith, and it is a blessed thing to have a Saviour\nwho accepts it when it is but a mere grain of mustard-seed!\n\nMAY 24.-I celebrated my little Una's third birthday by presenting her\nwith a new brother. Both the children welcomed him with delight that\nwas itself compensation enough for all it cost me to get up such a\ncelebration. Martha takes a most prosaic view of this proceeding, in\nwhich she detects malice prepense on my part. She says I shall now\nhave one mouth the more to fill, and two feet the more to shoe; more\ndisturbed nights, more laborious days, and less leisure for visiting,\nreading, music, and drawing.\n\nWell! this is one side of the story, to be sure, but I look at the\nother. Here is a sweet, fragrant mouth to kiss; here are two more\nfeet to make music with their pattering about my nursery. Here is a\nsoul to train for God, and the body in which it dwells is worthy all\nit will cost, since it is the abode of a kingly tenant. I may see\nless of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom,\nwhile I minister in Christ's name, I make a willing sacrifice of what\nlittle leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me.\nYes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother's heart,\nwelcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares,\nto her life-long prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, how\nwondrously blest!\n\nJUNE 5.-We begin to be woefully crowded. We need a larger house, or a\nsmaller household. I am afraid I secretly, down at the bottom of my\nheart, wish Martha and her father could give place to my little ones.\nMay God forgive me if this is so! It is a poor time for such emotions\nwhen He has just given me another darling child, for whom I have as\nrich and ample a love as if I had spent no affection on the other\ntwain. I have made myself especially kind to poor father and to\nMartha lest they should perceive how inconvenient it is to have them\nhere, and be pained by it. I would not for the world despoil them of\nwhat little satisfaction they may derive from living with us. But,\noh! I am so selfish, and it is so hard to practice the very law of\nlove I preach to my children! Yet I want this law to rule and reign\nin my home, that it may be a little heaven below, and I will not, no,\nI will not, cease praying that it may be such, no matter what it\ncosts me. Poor father! poor old man! I will try to make your home so\nsweet and home-like to you that when you change it for heaven it\nshall be but a transition from one bliss to a higher!\n\nEVENING.-Soon after writing that I went down to see father, whom I\nhave had to neglect of late, baby has so used up both time and\nstrength.. I found him and Martha engaged in what seemed to be an\nexciting debate, as Martha had a fiery little red spot on each cheek,\nand was knitting furiously. I was about to retreat, when she got up\nin a flurried way and went off, saying, as she went:\n\n\"You tell her, father; I can't.\"\n\nI went up to him tenderly and took his hand. Ah, how gentle and\nloving we are when we have just been speaking to God!\n\n\"What is it, dear father?\" I asked; \"is anything troubling you?\"\n\n\"She is going to be married,\" he replied.\n\n\"Oh, father!\" I cried, \"how n-\" nice, I was going to say, but stopped\njust in time.\n\nAll my abominable selfishness that I thought I had left at my\nMaster's feet ten minutes before now came trooping back in full\nforce.\n\n\"She's going to be married; she'll go away, and will take her father\nto live with her! I can have room for my children, and room for\nmother! Every element of discord will now leave my home, and Ernest\nwill see what I really am!\"\n\nThese were the thoughts that rushed through my mind, and that\nilluminated my face.\n\n\"Does Ernest know?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, Ernest has known it for some weeks.\"\n\nThen I felt injured and inwardly accused Ernest of unkindness in\nkeeping so important a fact a secret. But when I went back to my\nchildren, vexation with him took flight at once. The coming of each\nnew child strengthens and deepens my desire to be what I would have\nit become; makes my faults more odious in my eyes, and elevates my\nwhole character. What a blessed discipline of joy and of pain my\nmarried life has been; how thankful I am to reap its fruits even\nwhile pricked by its thorns!\n\nJUNE 21.-It seems that the happy man who has wooed Martha and won her\nis no less a personage than old Mr. Underhill. His ideal of a woman\nis one who has no nerves, no sentiment, no backaches, no headaches,\nwho will see that the wheels of his household machinery are kept well\noiled, so that he need never hear them creak, and who, in addition to\nher other accomplishments, believes in him and will be kind enough to\nlive forever for his private accommodation. This expose of his\nsentiments he has made to me in a loud, cheerful, pompous way, and he\nhas also favored me with a description of his first wife, who lacked\nall these qualifications, and was obliging enough to depart in peace\nat an early stage of their married life, meekly preferring thus to\nmake way for a worthier successor. Mr. Underhill with all his\nfoibles, however, is on the whole a good man. He intends to take\nAmelia's little girls into his own home, and be a father, as Martha\nwill be a mother, to them. For this reason he hurries on the\nmarriage, after which they will all go at once to his country-seat,\nwhich is easy of access, and which he says he is sure father will\nenjoy. Poor old father I hope he will, but when the subject is\nalluded to he maintains a sombre silence, and it seems to me he never\nspent so many days alone in his room, brooding over his misery, as he\nhas of late. Oh, that I could comfort him.\n\nJULY 12.-The marriage was appointed for the first of the month, as\nold Mr. Underhill wanted to get out of town before the Fourth. As the\ntime drew near, Martha began to pack father's trunk as well as her\nown, and brush in and out of his room till he had no rest for the\nsole of his foot, and seemed as forlorn as a pelican in the\nwilderness.\n\nI know no more striking picture of desolation than that presented by\none of these quaint birds, standing upon a single leg, feeling as the\nstory has it, \"den Jammer und das Elend der Welt.\"\n\nOn the last evening in June we all sat together on the piazza,\nenjoying, each in our own way, a refreshing breeze that had sprung up\nafter a sultry day. Father was quieter than usual, and seemed very\nlanguid. Ernest who, out of regard to Martha's last evening at home,\nhad joined our little circle, observed this, and said, cheerfully:\n\n\"You will feel better as soon as you are once more out of the city,\nfather.\"\n\nFather made no reply for some minutes, and when he did speak we were\nall startled to find that his voice trembled as if he were shedding\ntears. We could not understand what he said. I went to him and made\nhim lean his head upon me as he often did when it ached. He took my\nhand in both his.\n\n\"You do love the old man a little?\" he asked, in the same tremulous\nvoice.\n\n\"Indeed, I do!\" I cried, greatly touched by his helpless appeal, \"I\nlove you dearly, father. And I shall miss you sadly.\"\n\n\"Must I go away then?\" he whispered. \"Cannot I stay here till my\nsummons hence? It will not be long, it will not be long, my child.\"\n\nWith the cry of a hurt animal, Martha sprang up and rushed past us\ninto the house. Ernest followed her, and we heard them talking\ntogether a long time. At last Ernest joined us.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"Martha is a good deal wounded and disappointed,\nat your reluctance to, go with her. She threatened to break off her\nengagement rather than to be separated from you. I really think you\nwould be better off with her than with us. You would enjoy country\nlife, because it is what you have been accustomed to; you could spend\nhours of every day in driving about; just what your health requires.\"\n\nFather did not reply. He took Ernest's arm and tottered into the\nhouse. Then we had a most painful scene. Martha reminded him with\nbitter tears that her mother had committed him to her with her last\nbreath and set before him all the advantages he would have in her\nhouse over ours. Father sat pale and inflexible; tear after tear\nrolling down his cheeks. Ernest looked distressed and ready to sink.\nAs for me I cried with Martha, and with her father by turns, and\nclung to Ernest with a feeling that all the foundations of the earth\nwere giving way. It came time for evening prayers, and Ernest prayed\nas he rarely does, for he is rarely so moved. He quieted us all by a\nfew simple words of appeal to Him who loved us, and father then\nconsented to spend the summer with Martha if he might call our home\nhis home, and be with us through the winter. But this was not till\nlong after the rest of us went to bed, and a hard battle with Ernest.\nHe says Ernest is his favorite child, and that I am his favorite\ndaughter, and our children inexpressibly dear to him. I am ashamed to\nwrite down what he said of me. Besides, I am sure there is a wicked,\nwicked triumph over Martha in my secret heart. I am too elated with\nhis extraordinary preference for us, to sympathize with her\nmortification and grief as ought. Something whispered that she who\nhas never pitied me deserves no pity now. But I do not like this mean\nand narrow spirit in myself; nay more, I hate and abhor it.\n\nThe marriage took place and they all went off together, father's\nrigid, white face, whiter, more rigid than ever. I am to go to\nmother's with the children at once. I feel that a great stone has\nbeen rolled away from before the door of my heart; the one human\nbeing who refused me a kindly smile, a sympathizing word, has gone,\nnever to return. May God go with her and give her a happy home, and\nmake her true and loving to those motherless little ones!\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\nXIX.\n\nOCTOBER 1.\n\nI Have had a charming summer with dear mother; and now I have the\ngreat joy, so long deferred, of having her in my own home. Ernest has\nbeen very cordial about it, and James has settled up all her worldly\naffairs, so that she has nothing to do now but to love us and let us\nlove her. It is a pleasant picture to see her with my little darlings\nabout her, telling the old sweet story she told me so often, and\nmaking God and Heaven and Christ such blissful realities. As I\nlisten, I realize that it is to her I owe that early, deeply-seated\nlonging to please the Lord Jesus, which I never remember as having a\nbeginning, or an ending, though it did have its fluctuations. And it\nis another pleasant picture to see her sit in her own old chair,\nwhich Ernest was thoughtful enough to have brought for her, pondering\ncheerfully over her Bible and her Thomas a Kempis just as I have seen\nher do ever since I can remember. And there is still a third pleasant\npicture, only that it is a new one; it is as she sits at my right\nhand at the table, the living personification of the blessed gospel\nof good tidings, with father, opposite, the fading image of the law\ngiven by Moses. For father has come back; father and all his\nailments, his pill-boxes, his fits of despair and his fits of dying.\nBut he is quiet and gentle, and even loving, and as he sits in his\ncorner, his Bible on his knees, I see how much more he reads the New\nTestament than he used to do, and that the fourteenth chapter of St.\nJohn almost opens to him of itself.\n\nI must do Martha the justice to say that her absence, while it\nincreases my domestic peace and happiness, increases my cares also.\nWhat with the children, the housekeeping, the thought for mother's\nlittle comforts and the concern for father's, I am like a bit of\nchaff driven before the wind, and always in a hurry. There are so\nmany stitches to be taken, so many things to pass through one's brain!\nMother says no mortal woman ought to undertake so much, but what\ncan I do? While Ernest is straining every nerve to pay off those\ndebts, I must do all the needlework, and we must get along with\nservants whose want of skill makes them willing to put up with low\nwages. Of course I cannot tell mother this, and I really believe she\nthinks I scrimp and pinch and overdo out of mere stinginess.\n\nDECEMBER 30.-Ernest came to me to-day with our accounts for the last\nthree months. He looked quite worried, for him, and asked me if there\nwere any expenses we could cut down.\n\nMy heart jumped up into my mouth, and I said in an irritated way:\n\n\"I am killing myself with over-work now. Mother says so. I sew every\nnight till twelve o'clock, and I feel all jaded out.\"\n\n\"I did not mean that I wanted you to do anymore than you are doing\nnow, dear,\" he said, kindly. \"I know you are all jaded out, and I\nlook on this state of feverish activity with great anxiety. Are all\nthese stitches absolutely necessary?\"\n\n\"You men know nothing about such things,\" I said, while my conscience\npricked me as I went on hurrying to finish the fifth tuck in one of\nUna's little dresses. \"Of course I want my children to look decent.\"\n\nErnest sighed.\n\n\"I really don't know what to do,\" he said, in a hopeless way.\n\"Father's persisting in living with us is throwing a burden on you,\nthat with all your other cares is quite too much for you. I see and\nfeel it every day. Don't you think I had better explain this to him\nand let him go to Martha's?\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" I said. \"He shall stay here if it kills me, poor old\nman!\"\n\nErnest began once more to look over the bills.\n\n\"I don't know how it is,\" he said, \"but since Martha left us our\nexpenses have increased a good deal.\"\n\nNow the truth is that when Aunty paid me most generously for teaching\nher children, I did not dare to offer my earnings to Ernest, lest he\nshould be annoyed. So I had quietly used it for household expenses,\nand it had held out till about the time of Martha's marriage.\nErnest's injustice was just as painful, just as insufferable as if he\nhad known this, and I now burst out with whatever my rasped,\nover-taxed nerves impelled me to say, like one possessed.\n\nErnest was annoyed and surprised.\n\n\"I thought we had done with these things,\" he said, and gathering up\nthe papers he went off.\n\nI rose and locked my door and threw myself down upon the floor in an\nagony of shame, anger, and physical exhaustion. I did not know how\nlarge a part of what seemed mere childish ill-temper was really the\ncry of exasperated nerves, that had been on too strained a tension,\nand silent too long, and Ernest did not know it either. How could he?\nHis profession kept him for hours every day in the open air; there\nwere times when his work was done and he could take entire rest; and\nhis health is absolutely perfect. But I did not make any excuse for\nmyself at the moment. I was overwhelmed with the sense of my utter\nunfitness to be a wife and a mother.\n\nThen I heard Ernest try to open the door; and finding it locked, he\nknocked, calling pleasantly:\n\n\"It is I, darling; let me in.\"\n\nI opened it reluctantly enough.\n\n\"Come,\" he said, \"put on your things and drive about with me on my\nrounds. I have no long visits to make, and while I am seeing my\npatients you will be getting the air, which you need.\"\n\n\"I do not want to go,\" I said. \"I do not feel well enough. Besides,\nthere's my work.\"\n\n\"You can't see to sew with these red eyes,\" he declared.\n\"Come! I prescribe a drive, as your physician.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ernest, how kind, how forgiving you are?\", I cried, running into\nthe arms he held out to me, \"If you knew how ashamed, how sorry, I\nam!\"\n\n\"And if you only knew how ashamed and sorry I am!\" he returned. \"I\nought to have seen how you taxing and over-taxing yourself, doing\nyour work and Martha's too. It must not go on so.\"\n\nBy this time, with a veil over my face, he had got me downstairs and\nout into the air, which fanned my fiery cheeks and cooled my heated\nbrain. It seemed to me that I have had all this tempest about nothing\nat all, and that with a character still so undisciplined, I was\nutterly unworthy to be either a wife or a mother. But when I tried to\nsay so in broken words, Ernest comforted me with the gentleness and\ntenderness of a woman.\n\n\"Your character is not undisciplined, my darling,\" he said. \"Your\nnervous organization is very peculiar, and you have had unusual cares\nand trials from the beginning of our married life. I ought not to\nhave confronted you with my father's debts at a moment when you had\nevery reason to look forward to freedom from most petty economies and\ncares.\"\n\n\"Don't say so,\" I interrupted. \"If you had not told me you had this\ndraft on your resources I should have always suspected you of\nmeanness. For you know, dear, you have kept me-that is to say-you\ncould not help it, but I suppose men can't understand how many\ndemands are made upon a mother for money almost every day. I got\nalong very well till the children came, but since then it has been\nvery hard.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I am sure it has. But let me finish what I was going\nto say. I want you to make a distinction for yourself, which I make\nfor you, between mere ill-temper, and the irritability that is the\nresult of a goaded state of the nerves. Until you do that, nothing\ncan be done to relieve you from what I am sure, distresses and\ngrieves you exceedingly. Now, I suppose that whenever you speak to me\nor the children in this irritated way you lose your own self-respect,\nfor the time, at least, and feel degraded in the sight of God also.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ernest! there are no words in any language that mean enough to\nexpress the anguish I feel when I speak quick, impatient words to\nyou, the one human being in the universe whom I love with all my\nheart and soul, and to my darling little children who are almost as\ndear! I pray and mourn over it day and night. God only knows how I\nhate myself on account of this one horrible sin!\"\n\n\"It is a sin only as you deliberately and wilfully fulfill the\nconditions that lead to such results. Now I am sure if you could once\nmake up your mind in the fear of God, never to undertake more work of\nany sort than you can carry on calmly, quietly, without hurry or\nflurry, and the instant you find yourself growing nervous and like\none out of breath, would stop and take breath, you would find this\nsimple, common-sense rule doing for you what no prayers or tears\ncould ever accomplish. Will you try it for one month, my darling?\"\n\n\"But we can't afford it,\" I cried, with almost a groan. \"Why, you\nhave told me this very day that our expenses must be cut down, and\nnow you want me to add to them by doing less work. But the work must\nbe done. The children must be clothed, there is no end to the\nstitches to be taken for them, and your stockings must be mended-you\nmake enormous holes in them! and you don't like it if you ever find a\nbutton wanting to a shirt or your supply of shirts getting low.\"\n\n\"All you say may be very true,\" he returned, \"but I am determined\nthat you shall not be driven to desperation as you have been of\nlate.\"\n\nBy this time we had reached the house where his visit was to be made,\nand I had nothing to do but lean back and revolve all he had been\nsaying, over and over again, and to see its reasonableness while I\ncould not see what was so be done for my relief. Ah, I have often\nfelt in moments of bitter grief at my impatience with my children,\nthat perhaps God pitied more than He blamed me for it! And now my\ndear husband was doing the same!\n\nWhen Ernest had finished his visit we drove on again in silence.\n\nAt last, I asked:\n\n\"Do tell me, Ernest, if you worked out this problem all by yourself?\"\n\nHe smiled a little.\n\n\"No, I did not. But I have had a patient for two or three years whose\ncase has interested me a good deal, and for whom I finally prescribed\njust as I have done for you. The thing worked like a charm, and she\nis now physically and morally quite well.\n\n\"I dare say her husband is a rich man,\" I said.\n\n\"He is not as poor as your husband, at any rate,\" Ernest replied.\n\"But rich or poor I am determined not to sit looking on while you\nexert yourself so far beyond your strength. Just think, dear, suppose\nfor fifty or a hundred or two hundred dollars a year you could buy a\nsweet, cheerful, quiet tone of mind, would you hesitate one moment to\ndo so? And you can do it if you will. You are not ill-tempered but\nquick-tempered; the irritability which annoys you so is a physical\ninfirmity which will disappear the moment you cease to be goaded into\nit by that exacting mistress you have hitherto been to yourself.\"\n\nAll this sounded very plausible while Ernest was talking, but the\nmoment I got home I snatched up my work from mere force of habit.\n\n\"I may as well finish this as it is begun,\" I said to myself, and\nthe stitches flew from my needle like sparks of fire. Little Ernest\ncame and begged for a story, but I put him off. Then Una wanted to\nsit in my lap, but I told her I was too busy. In the course of an\nhour the influence of the fresh air and Ernest's talk had nearly lost\ntheir power over me; my thread kept breaking, the children leaned on\nand tired me, the baby woke up and cried, and I got all out of\npatience.\n\n\"Do go away, Ernest,\" I said, \"and let mamma have a little peace.\nDon't you see how busy I am? Go and play with Una like a good boy.\"\nBut he would not go, and kept teasing Una till she too, began to cry,\nand she and baby made a regular concert of it.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" I sighed, \"this work will never be done!\" and threw it\ndown impatiently, and took the baby impatiently, and began to walk up\nand down with him impatiently. I was not willing that this little\ndarling, whom I love so dearly, should get through with his nap and\ninterrupt my work; yet I was displeased with myself, and tried by\nkissing him to make some amends for the hasty, un pleasant tones with\nwhich I had grieved him and frightened the other children. This\nevening Ernest came to me with a larger sum of money than he had ever\ngiven me at one time.\n\n\"Now every cent of this is to be spent,\" he said, \"in having work\ndone. I know any number of poor women who will be thankful to have\nall you can give them.\"\n\nDear me I it is easy to talk, and I do feel grateful to Ernest for\nhis thoughtfulness and kindness. But I am almost in rags, and need\nevery cent of this money to make myself decent. I am positively\nashamed to go anywhere, my clothes are so shabby. Besides, supposing\nI leave off sewing and all sorts of over-doing of a kindred nature, I\nmust nurse baby, I suppose, and be up with him nights and others will\nhave their cross days and their sick and father will have his. Alas,\nthere can be for no royal road to a \"sweet, cheerful, quiet tone of\nmind!\"\n\nJANUARY 1, 1844.-Mother says Ernest is entirely right in forbidding\nmy working so hard. I own that I already feel better. I have all the\ntime I need to read my Bible and to pray now, and the children do not\nirritate and annoy me as they did. Who knows but I shall yet become\nquite amiable?\n\nErnest made his father very happy to-day by telling him that the\nlast of those wretched debts is paid. I think that he might have told\nme that this deliverance was at hand. I did not know but we had years\nof these struggles with poverty before us. What with the relief from\nthis anxiety, my improved state of health, and father's pleasure, I\nam in splendid spirits to-day. Ernest, too, seems wonderfully\ncheerful, and we both feel that we may now look forward to a quiet\nhappiness we have never known. With such a husband and such children\nas mine, I ought to be the most grateful creature on earth. And I\nhave dear mother and James besides. I don't quite know what to think\nabout James' relation to Lucy. He is so brimful running over with\nhappiness that he is also full of fun and of love, and after all he\nmay only like her as a cousin.\n\nFEB. 14.-Father has not been so well of late. It seems as if he kept\nup until he was relieved about those debts, and then sunk down. I\nread to him a good deal, and so does mother, but his mind is still\ndark, and he looks forward to the hour of death with painful\nmisgivings. He is getting a little childish about my leaving him, and\nclings to me exactly as if I were his own child. Martha spends a good\ndeal of time with him, and fusses over him in a way that I wonder she\ndoes not see is annoying to him. He wants to be read to, to hear a\nhymn sung or a verse repeated, and to be left otherwise in perfect\nquiet. But she is continually pulling out and shaking up his pillows,\nbathing his head in hot vinegar and soaking his feet. It looks so odd\nto see her in one of the elegant silk dresses old Mr. Underhill\nmakes her wear, with her sleeves rolled up, the skirt hid away under\na large apron, rubbing away at poor father till it seems as if his\ntired soul would fly out of him.\n\nFEB. 20.-Father grows weaker every day. Ernest has sent for his other\nchildren, John and Helen. Martha is no longer able to come here; her\nhusband is very sick with a fever, and cannot be left alone. No doubt\nhe enjoys her bustling way of nursing, and likes to have his pillows\npushed from under him every five minutes. I am afraid I feel glad\nthat she is kept away, and that I have father all to myself. Ernest\nnever was so fond of me as he is now. I don't know what to make of\nit.\n\nFEB 22.-John and his wife and Helen have come. They stay at Martha's,\nwhere there is plenty of room. John's wife is a little soft dumpling\nthing, and looks up to him as a mouse would up at a steeple. He\nstrikes me as a very selfish man. He steers straight for the best\nseat, leaving her standing, if need be, accepts her humble attentions\nwith the air of one collecting his just debt and is continually\nsnubbing and setting her right. Yet in some things he is very like\nErnest, and perhaps a wife destitute of self-assertion and without\nmuch individuality would have spoiled him as Harriet has spoiled\nJohn. For I think it must be partly her fault that he dares to be so\negotistical. Helen, is the dearest, prettiest creature I ever saw.\nOh, why would James take a fancy to Lucy! I feel the new delight of\nhaving a sister to love and to admire. And she will love me in time;\nI feel sure of it.\n\nMARCH 1.-Father is very feeble and in great mental distress. He\ngropes about in the dark, and shudders at the approach of death. We\ncan do nothing but pray for him. And the cloud will be lifted when he\nleaves this world, if not before. For I know he is a good, yes, a\nsaintly man, dear to and dear to Christ.\n\nMARCH 4.-Dear father has gone. We were all kneeling and praying and\nweeping around him, when suddenly he called me to come to him. I went\nand let him lean his head on my breast, as he loved to do. Sometimes\nI have stood so by the hour together ready to sink with fatigue, and\nonly kept up with the thought that if this were my own precious\nfather's bruised head I could stand and hold it forever.\n\n\"Daughter Katherine,\" he said, in his faint, tremulous way, \"you have\ncome with me to the very brink of the river. I thank God for all your\ncheering words and ways. I thank God for giving you to be a helpmeet\nto my son. Farewell, now,\" he added, in a low, firm voice, \"I feel\nthe bottom, and it is good!\"\n\nHe lay back on his pillow looking upward with an expression of\nseraphic peace and joy on his worn, meagre face, and so his life\npassed gently away.\n\nOh, the affluence of God's payments! What a recompense for the poor\nlove I had given my husband's father, and the poor little services I\nhad rendered him! Oh, that I had never been impatient with him, never\nsmiled at his peculiarities, never in my secret heart felt him\nunwelcome to my home! And how wholly I overlooked, in my blind\nselfishness, what he must have suffered in feeling himself, homeless,\ndwelling with us on sufferance, but master and head nowhere on earth!\nMay God carry the lessons home to my heart of hearts, and make the\ncloud of mingled remorse and shame which now envelops me to descend\nin showers of love and benediction on every human soul that mine can\nbless!\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\nXX.\n\nAPRIL.\n\nI HAVE had a new lesson which has almost broken my heart. In looking\nover his father's papers, Ernest found a little journal, brief in its\nrecords indeed, but we learn from it that on all those wedding and\nbirthdays, when I fancied his austere religion made him hold aloof\nfrom our merry-making, he was spending the time in fasting and\npraying for us and for our children! Oh, shall I ever learn the sweet\ncharity that thinketh no evil, and believeth all things? What\nblessings may not have descended upon us and our children through\nthose prayers! What evils may they not have warded off! Dear old\nfather! Oh, that I could once more put my loving arms about him and\nbid him welcome to our home! And how gladly would I now confess to\nhim all my unjust judgments concerning him and entreat his\nforgiveness! Must life always go on thus? Must I always be erring,\nignorant and blind? How I hate this arrogant sweeping past my brother\nman; this utter ignoring of his hidden life?\n\nI see now that it is well for mother that she did not come to live\nwith me at the beginning of my married life. I should not have borne\nwith her little peculiarities, nor have made her half so happy as I\ncan now. I thank God that my varied disappointments and discomforts,\nmy feeble health, my poverty, my mortifications have done me some\nlittle good, and driven me to Him a thousand times because I could\nnot get along without His help. But I am not satisfied with my state\nin His sight. I am sure something is lacking, though I know not what\nit is.\n\nMAY.-Helen is going to stay here and live with Martha. How glad how\nenchanted I am! Old Mr. Underhill is getting well; I saw him to-day.\nHe can talk of nothing but his illness, of Martha's wonderful skill\nin nursing him declaring that he owes his life to her. I felt a\nlittle piqued at this speech, because Ernest was very attentive to\nhim, and no doubt did his share towards the cure. We have fitted up\nfather's room for a nursery. Hitherto all the children have had to\nsleep in our room which has been bad for them and bad for us. I have\nbeen so afraid they would keep Ernest awake if they were unwell and\nrestless. I have secured an excellent nurse, who is as fresh and\nblooming as the flower whose name she bears. The children are already\nattached to her, and I feel that the worst of my life is now over.\n\nJUNE.-Little Ernest was taken sick on the day I wrote that. The\nattack was fearfully sudden and violent. He is still very, very ill.\nI have not forgotten that I said once that I would give my children\nto God should He ask for them. And I will. But oh, this agony of suspense! It\neats into my soul and eats it away. Oh, my little Ernest! My\nfirst-born son! My pride, my joy, my hope! And I thought the worst of\nmy life was over!\n\nAUGUST.-We have come into the country with what God has left us, our\ntwo youngest children. Yes, I have tasted the bitter cup of\nbereavement, and drunk it down to its dregs. I gave my darling to\nGod, I gave him, I gave him! But, oh, with what anguish I saw those\nround, dimpled limbs wither and waste away, the glad smile fade\nforever from that beautiful face! What a fearful thing it is to be a\nmother! But I have given my child to God. I would not recall him if I\ncould. I am thankful He has counted me worthy to present Him so\ncostly a gift.\n\nI cannot shed a tear, and I must find relief in writing, or I shall\nlose my senses. My noble, beautiful boy! My first-born son! And to\nthink that my delicate little Una still lives, and that death has\nclaimed that bright, glad creature who was the sunshine of our home!\n\nBut let me not forget my mercies. Let me not forget that I have a\nprecious husband and two darling children, and my kind, sympathizing\nmother left to me. Let me not forget how many kind friends gathered\nabout us in our sorrow. Above all let me remember God's\nloving-kindness and tender mercy. He has not left us to the\nbitterness of a grief that refuses and disdains to be comforted. We\nbelieve in Him, we love Him, we worship as we never did before. My\ndear Ernest has felt this sorrow to his heart's core. But he has not\nfor one moment questioned the goodness or the love of our Father in\nthus taking from us the child who promised to be our greatest earthly\njoy. Our consent to God's will has drawn us together very closely,\ntogether we bear the yoke in our youth, together we pray and sing\npraises in the very midst of our tears \"I was dumb with silence\nbecause Thou didst it.\"\n\nSEPT. The old pain and cough have come back with the first cool\nnights of this month. Perhaps I am going to my darling--I do not know\nI am certainly very feeble. Consenting to suffer does not annul the\nsuffering. Such a child could not go hence without rending and tearing\nits way out of the heart that loved it. This world is wholly changed\nto me and I walk in it like one in a dream. And dear Ernest is\nchanged, too. He says little, and is all kindness and goodness to me,\nbut I can see here is a wound that will never be healed. I am\nconfined to my room now with nothing do but to think, think, think. I\ndo not believe God has taken our child in mere displeasure, but\ncannot but feel that this affliction might not have been necessary if\nI had not so chafed and writhed and secretly repined at the way in\nwhich my home was invaded, and at our galling poverty. God has\nexchanged the one discipline for the other; and oh, how far more\nbitter is this cup!\n\nOct. 4.-My darling boy would have been six years old to-day. Ernest\nstill keeps me shut up, but he rather urges my seeing a friend now\nand. People say very strange things in the way of consolation. I\nbegin to think that a tender clasp of the hand is about all one can\ngive to the afflicted. One says I must not grieve, because my child\nis better off in heaven. Yes, he is better off; I know it, I feel\nit; but I miss him none the less. Others say he might have grown up\nto be a bad man and broken my heart. Perhaps he might, but I cannot\nmake myself believe that likely. One lady asked me if this affliction\nwas not a rebuke of my idolatry of my darling; and another, if I had\nnot been in a cold, worldly state, needing this severe blow on that\naccount.\n\nBut I find no consolation or support in the remarks. My comfort is in\nmy perfect faith in the goodness and love of my Father, my certainty\nthat He had a reason in thus afflicting me that I should admire and\nadore if I knew what it was. And in the midst of my sorrow I have had\nand do have a delight in Him hitherto unknown, so that sometimes this\nroom in which I am a prisoner seems like the very gate of heaven.\n\nMAY.-A long winter in my room, and all sorts of painful remedies and\nappliances and deprivations. And now I am getting well, and drive out\nevery day. Martha sends her carriage, and mother goes with me. Dear\nmother! How nearly perfect she is! I never saw a sweeter face, nor\never heard sweeter expressions of faith in God, and love to all about\nher than hers. She has been my tower strength all through these weary\nmonths; and she has shared my sorrow and made it her own.\n\nI can see that dear Ernest's affliction and this prolonged anxiety\nabout me have been a heavenly benediction to him I am sure that every\nmother whose sick child he visits will have a sympathy he could not\nhave given while all our own little ones were alive and well. I thank\nGod that He has thus increased my dear husband's usefulness as I\nthink that He has mine also. How tenderly I already feel towards all\nsuffering children, and how easy it will be now to be patient with\nthem!\n\nKEENE, N. H. JULY 12.-It is a year ago this day that the brightest\nsunshine faded out of our lives, and our beautiful boy was taken from\nus. I have been tempted to spend this anniversary in bitter tears and\nlamentations. For oh, this sorrow is not healed by time! I feel it\nmore and more. But I begged God when I first awoke this morning not to\nlet me so dishonor and grieve Him. I may suffer, I must suffer, He\nmeans it, He wills it, but let it be without repining, without gloomy\ndespondency. The world is full of sorrow; it is not I alone who taste\nits bitter draughts, nor have I the only right to a sad countenance.\nOh, for patience to bear on, cost what it may!\n\n\"Cheerfully and gratefully I lay myself and all that I am or own at\nthe feet of Him who redeemed me with His precious blood, engaging to\nfollow Him, bearing the cross He lays upon me.\" This is the least I\ncan do, and I do it while my heart lies broken and bleeding at His\nfeet.\n\nMy dear little Una has improved somewhat in health, but I am never\nfree from anxiety about her. She is my milk-white lamb, my dove, my\nfragrant flower. One cannot look in her pure face without a sense of\npeace and rest. She is the sentinel who voluntarily guards my door\nwhen I am engaged at my devotions; she is my little comforter when I\nam sad, my companion and friend at all times. I talk to her of\nChrist, and always have done, just as I think of Him, and as if I\nexpected sympathy from her in my love to Him. It was the same with my\ndarling Ernest. If I required a little self-denial, I said\ncheerfully, \"This is hard, but doing it for our best Friend sweetens\nit,\" and their alacrity was pleasant to see. Ernest threw his whole\nsoul into whatever he did, and sometimes when engaged in play would\nhesitate a little when directed to do something else, such as\ncarrying a message for me, and the like. But if I said, \"If you do\nthis cheerfully and pleasantly, my darling, you do it for Jesus, and\nthat will make Him smile upon you,\" he would invariably yield at\nonce.\n\nIs not this the true, the natural way of linking every little daily\nact of a child's life with that Divine Love, that Divine Life which\ngives meaning to all things?\n\nBut what do I mean by the vain boast that I have always trained my\nchildren thus? Alas! I have done it only at times; for while my\ntheory was sound, my temper of mind was but too often unsound. I was\noften and often impatient with my dear little boy; often my tone was\na worldly one; I often full of eager interest in mere outside things,\nand forgot that I was living or that my children were living save for\nthe present moment.\n\nIt seems now that I have a child in heaven, and am bound to the\ninvisible world by such a tie that I can never again be entirely\nabsorbed by this.\n\nI fancy my ardent, eager little boy as having some such employments\nin his new and happy home as he had here. I see him loving Him who\ntook children in His arms and blessed them, with all the warmth of\nwhich his nature is capable, and as perhaps employed as one of those\nmessengers whom God sends forth as His ministers. For I cannot think\nof those active feet, those busy hands as always quiet. Ah, my\ndarling, that I could look in upon you for a moment, a single moment,\nand catch one of your radiant smiles; just one!\n\nAUGUST 4.-How full are David's Psalms of the cry of the sufferer! He\nmust have experienced every kind of bodily and mental torture. He\ngives most vivid illustrations of the wasting, wearing process of\ndisease-for instance, what a contrast is the picture we have of him\nwhen he was \"ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly\nto look to,\" and the one he paints of himself in after years, when he\nsays, \"I may tell all my bones they look and stare upon me; my days\nare like a shadow that declineth, and I am withered like grass. I am\nweary with groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my\ncouch with my tears. For my soul is full of troubles; and my life\ndraweth near unto the grave.\"\n\nAnd then what wails of anguish are these!\n\n\"I am afflicted, and ready to die from my youth up, while I suffer\nthy terrors I am distracted. Thy wrath lieth hard upon me and thou\nhast afflicted me with all thy waves. All thy waves and thy billows\nhave gone over me. Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and\nmine acquaintance into utter darkness.\"\n\nYet through it all what grateful joy in God, what expressions of\nliving faith and devotion! During my long illness and confinement to\nmy room, the Bible has been almost a new book to me, and I see that\nGod has always dealt with His children as He deals with them now, and\nthat no new thing has befallen me. All these weary days so full of\nlanguor, these nights so full of unrest, have had their appointed\nmission to my soul. And perhaps I have had no discipline so salutary\nas this forced inaction and uselessness, at a time when youth and\nnatural energy continually cried out for room and work.\n\nAUGUST 15.-I dragged out my drawing materials in a listless way this\nmorning, and began to sketch the beautiful scene from my window. At\nfirst I could not feel interested. It seemed as if my hand was\ncrippled and lost its cunning when it unloosed its grasp of little\nErnest, and let him go. But I prayed, as I worked, that I might not\nyield to the inclination to despise and throw away the gift with\nwhich God has Himself endowed me. Mother was gratified, and said it\nrested her to see me act like myself once more. Ah, I have been very\nselfish, and have been far too much absorbed with my sorrow and my\nillness and my own petty struggles.\n\nAUGUST 19.-I met to-day an old friend, Maria Kelly, who is married,\nit seems, and settled down in this pretty village. She asked so many\nquestions about my little Ernest that I had to tell her the whole\nstory of his precious life, sickness and death. I forced myself to do\nthis quietly, and without any great demand on her sympathies. My\nreward for the constraint I thus put upon myself was the abrupt\nquestion:\n\n\"Haven't you grown stoical?\"\n\nI felt the angry blood rush through my veins as it has not done in a\nlong time. My pride was wounded to the quick, and those cruel, unjust\nwords still rankle in my heart. This is not as it should be. I am\nconstantly praying that my pride may be humbled, and then when it is\nattacked, I shrink from the pain the blow causes, and am angry with\nthe hand that inflicts it. It is just so with two or three unkind\nthings Martha has said to me. I can't help brooding over them and\nfeeling stung with their injustice, even while making the most\ndesperate struggle to rise above and forget them. It is well for our\nfellow-creatures that God forgives and excuses them, when we fail to\ndo it, and I can easily fancy that poor Maria Kelly is at this moment\ndearer in His sight than I am who have taken fire at a chance word.\nAnd I can see now, what I wonder I did not see at the time, that God\nwas dealing very kindly and wisely with me when He made Martha\noverlook my good qualities, of which I suppose I have some, as\neverybody else has, and call out all my bad ones, since the axe was\nthus laid at the root of self-love. And it is plain that self-love\ncannot die without a fearful struggle.\n\nMAY 26, 1846.-How long it is since I have written in my journal! We\nhave had a winter full of cares, perplexities and sicknesses. Mother\nbegan it by such a severe attack of inflammatory rheumatism as I\ncould not have supposed she could live through. Her sufferings were\ndreadful, and I might almost say her patience was, for I often\nthought it would be less painful to hear her groan and complain, than\nto witness such heroic fortitude, such sweet docility under God's\nhand. I hope I shall never forget the lessons I have learned in her\nsick-room. Ernest says he never shall cease to rejoice that she lives\nwith us, and that he can watch over her health. He, has indeed been\nlike a son to her, and this has been a great solace amid all her\nsufferings. Before she was able to leave the room, poor little Una\nwas prostrated by one of her ill turns, and is still very feeble. The\nonly way in which she can be diverted is by reading to her, and I\nhave done little else these two months but hold her in my arms,\nsinging little songs and hymns, telling stories and reading what few\nbooks I can find that are unexciting, simple, yet entertaining. My\nprecious little darling! She bears the yoke in her youth without a\nfrown, but it is agonizing to see her suffer so. How much easier it\nwould be to bear all her physical infirmities myself! I suppose to\nthose who look on from the outside, we must appear like a most\nunhappy family, since we hardly get free from one trouble before\nanother steps in. But I see more and more that happiness is not\ndependent on health or any other outside prosperity. We are at peace\nwith each other and at peace with God; His dealings with us do not\nperplex or puzzle us, though we do not pretend to understand them. On\nthe other hand, Martha with absolutely perfect health, with a husband\nentirely devoted to her, and with every wish gratified, yet seems\nalways careworn and dissatisfied. Her servants worry her very life\nout; she misses the homely household duties to which she has been\naccustomed; and her conscience stumbles at little things, and\noverlooks greater ones. It is very interesting, I think, to study\ndifferent homes, as well as the different characters that form them.\n\nAmelia's little girls are quiet, good children, to whom their father\nwrites what Mr. Underhill and Martha pronounce \"beautiful\" letters,\nwherein he always styles himself their \"broken-hearted but devoted\nfather.\" \"Devotion,\" to my mind, involves self-sacrifice, and I\ncannot reconcile its use, in this case, with the life of ease he\nleads, while all the care of his children is thrown upon others. But\nsome people, by means of a few such phrases, not only impose upon\nthemselves but upon their friends, and pass for persons of great\nsensibility.\n\nAs I have been confined to the house nearly the whole winter, I have\nhad to derive my spiritual support from books, and as mother\ngradually recovered, she enjoyed Leighton with me, as I knew she\nwould. Dr. Cabot comes to see us very often, but, I do not now find\nit possible to get the instruction from him I used to do. I see that\nthe Christian life must be individual, as the natural character\nis-and that I cannot be exactly like Dr. Cabot, or exactly like Mrs.\nCampbell, or exactly like mother, though they all three stimulate and\nare an inspiration to me. But I see, too, that the great points of\nsimilarity in Christ's disciples have always been the same. This is\nthe testimony of all the good books, sermons, hymns, and, memoirs I\nread-that God's ways are infinitely perfect; that we are to love Him\nfor what He is, and therefore equally as much when He afflicts as\nwhen He prospers us; that there is no real happiness but in doing and\nsuffering His will, and that this life is but a scene of probation\nthrough which we pass to the real life above.\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\nXXI.\n\nMAY 30.\n\nERNEST asked me to go with him to see one of his patients, as he\noften does when there is a lull in the tempest at home. We both feel\nthat as we have so little money of our own to give away, it is a\nprivilege to give what services and what cheering words we can. As I\ntook it for granted that we were going to see some poor old woman, I\nput up several little packages of tea and sugar, with which Susan\nGreen always keeps me supplied, and added a bottle of my own\nraspberry vinegar, which never comes amiss, I find, to old people.\nErnest drove to the door of an aristocratic-looking house, and helped\nme to alight in his usual silence.\n\n\"It is probably one of the servants we are going to visit,\" I\nthought, within myself; \"but I am surprised at his bringing me. The\nfamily may not approve it.\"\n\nThe next thing I knew I found myself being introduced to a beautiful,\nbrilliant young lady, who sat in a wheel-chair like a queen on a\nthrone in a room full of tasteful ornaments, flowers and birds. Now,\nI had come away just as I was, when Ernest called me, and that \"was\"\nmeans a very plain gingham dress wherein I had been darning stockings\nall the morning. I suppose a saint wouldn't have cared for that, but\nI did, and for a moment stood the picture of confusion, my hands full\nof oddly shaped parcels and my face all in a flame.\n\n\"My wife, Miss Clifford,\" I heard Ernest say, and then I caught the\ncurious, puzzled look in her eyes, which said as plainly as words\ncould do:\n\n\"What has the creature brought me?\"\n\n\"I ask your pardon, Miss Clifford,\" I said, thinking it best to speak\nout just the honest truth, \"but I supposed the doctor was taking me\nto see some of his old women, and so I have brought you a little tea,\nand a little sugar, and a bottle of raspberry vinegar!\"\n\n\"How delicious!\" cried she. \"It really rests me to meet with a\ngenuine human being at last! Why didn't you make some stiff, prim\nspeech, instead of telling the truth out and out? I declare I mean to\nkeep all you have brought me, just for the fun of the thing.\"\n\nThis put me at ease, and I forgot all about my dress in a moment.\n\n\"I see you are just what the doctor boasted you were,\" she went on.\n\"But he never would bring you to see me before. I suppose he has told\nyou why I could not go to see you?\"\n\n\"To tell the truth, he never speaks to me of his patients unless he\nthinks I can be of use to them.\"\n\n\"I dare say I do not look much like an invalid,\" said she; \"but here\nI am, tied to this chair. It is six months since I could bear my own\nweight upon my feet.\"\n\nI saw then that though her face was so bright and full of color, her\nhand was thin and transparent. But what a picture she made as she sat\nthere in magnificent beauty, relieved by such a back-ground of\nfoliage, flowers, and artistic objects!\n\n\"I told the doctor the other day that life was nothing but a humbug,\nand he said he should bring me a remedy against that false notion the\nnext time he came, and you, I suppose, are that remedy,\" she\ncontinued. \"Come, begin; I am ready to take any number of doses.\"\n\nI could only laugh and try to look daggers at Ernest, who sat looking\nover a magazine, apparently absorbed in its contents.\n\n\"Ah!\" she cried, nodding her head sagaciously, \"I knew you would\nagree with me.\"\n\n\"Agree with you in calling life a humbug!\" I cried, now fairly\naroused. \"Death itself is not more a reality!\"\n\n\"I have not tried death yet,\" she said, more seriously; \"but I have\ntried life twenty-five years and I know all about it. It is eat,\ndrink, sleep yawn and be bored. It is what shall I wear, where shall\nI go, how shall I get rid of the time; it says, 'How do you do? how\nis your husband? How are your children? '-it means, 'Now I have asked\nall the conventional questions, and I don't care a fig what their\nanswer may be.'\"\n\n\"This may be its meaning to some persons,\" I replied, \"for instance,\nto mere pleasure-seekers. But of course it is interpreted quite\ndifferently by others. To some it means nothing but a dull, hopeless\nstruggle with poverty and hardship--and its whole aspect might be\nchanged to them, should those who do not know what to do to get rid\nof the time, spend their surplus leisure in making this struggle less\nbrutalizing.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have heard such doctrine, and at one time I tried charity\nmyself. I picked up a dozen or so of dirty little wretches out of the\nstreets, and undertook to clothe and teach them. I might as well have\ntried to instruct the chairs in my room. Besides the whole house had\nto be aired after they had gone, and mamma missed two teaspoons and a\nfork and was perfectly disgusted with the whole thing. Then I fell to\nknitting socks for babies, but they only occupied my hands, and my\nhead felt as empty as ever. Mamma took me off on a journey, as she\nalways did when I took to moping, and that diverted me for a while.\nBut after that everything went on in the old way. I got rid of part\nof the day by changing my dress, and putting on my pretty things-it\nis a great thing to have a habit of wearing one's ornaments, for\ninstance; and then in the evening one could go to the opera or the\ntheater, or some other place of amusement, after which one could\nsleep all through the next morning, and so get rid of that. But I had\nbeen used to such things all my life, and they had got to be about as\nflat as flat can be. If I had been born a little earlier in the\nhistory of the world, I would have gone into a convent; but that sort\nof thing is out of fashion now.\"\n\n\"The best convent,\" I said, \"for a woman is the seclusion of her own\nhome. There she may find vocation and fight her battles, and there\nshe may learn the reality and the earnestness of life.\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" cried she. \"Excuse me, however, saying that; but some of\nthe most brilliant girls I know have settled down into mere married\nwomen and spend their whole time in nursing babies! Think how\nbelittling!\"\n\n\"Is it more so than spending it in dressing, driving, dancing, and\nthe like?\"\n\n\"Of course it is. I had a friend once who shone like a star in\nsociety. She married, and children as fast as she could. Well! what\nconsequence? She lost her beauty, lost her spirit and animation, lost\nher youth, and lost her health. The only earthly things she can talk\nabout are teething, dieting, and the measles!\"\n\nI laughed at this exaggeration, and looked round to see what Ernest\nthought of such talk. But he had disappeared.\n\n\"As you have spoken plainly to me, knowing, me, to be a wife and a\nmother, you must allow me to 'speak plainly in return,\" I began.\n\n\"Oh, speak plainly, by all means! I am quite sick and tired of having\ntruth served up in pink cotton, and scented with lavender.\"\n\n\"Then you will permit me to say that when you speak contemptuously of\nthe vocation of maternity, you dishonor, not only the mother who bore\nyou, but the Lord Jesus Himself, who chose to be born of woman, and\nto be ministered unto by her through a helpless infancy.\"\n\nMiss Clifford was a little startled.\n\n\"How terribly in earnest you are!\" she said. \"It is plain that to you,\nat any rate, life is indeed no humbug.\"\n\nI thought of my dear ones, of Ernest, of my children, of mother, and\nof James, and I thought of my love to them and of theirs to me. And I\nthought of Him who alone gives reality to even such joys as these. My\nface must have been illuminated by the thought, for she dropped the\nbantering tone she had used hitherto, and asked, with real\nearnestness:\n\n\"What is it you know, and that I do not know, that makes you so\nsatisfied, while I am so dissatisfied?\"\n\nI hesitated before I answered, feeling as I never felt before how\nignorant, how unfit to lead others, I really am. Then I said:\n\n\"Perhaps you need to know God, to know Christ?\"\n\nShe looked disappointed and tired. So I came away, first promising,\nat her request, to go to see her again. I found Ernest just driving\nup, and told him what had passed. He listened in his usual silence,\nand I longed to have him say whether I had spoken wisely and well.\n\nJUNE 1.-I have been to see Miss Clifford again and made mother go\nwith me. Miss Clifford took a fancy to her at once.\n\n\"Ah!\" she said, after one glance at the dear, loving face, \"nobody\nneed tell me that you are good and kind. But I am a little afraid of\ngood people. I fancy they are always criticising me and expecting me\nto imitate their perfection.\"\n\n\"Perfection does not exact perfection,\" was mother's answer. \"I would\nrather be judged by an angel than by a man.\" And then mother led her\non, little by little, and most adroitly, to talk of herself and of\nher state of health. She is an orphan and lives in this great,\nstately house alone with her servants. Until she was laid aside by\nthe state pf her health, she lived in the world and of it. Now she is\na prisoner, and prisoners have time to think.\n\n\"Here I sit,\" she said, \"all day long. I never was fond of staying\nat home, or of reading, and needlework I absolutely hate. In fact, I\ndo not know how to sew.\"\n\n\"Some such pretty, feminine work might beguile you of a few of the\nlong hours of these long days,\" said mother. \"One can't be always\nreading.\"\n\n\"But a lady came to see me, a Mrs. Goodhue, one of your good sort, I\nsuppose, and she preached me quite a sermon on the employment of\ntime. She said I had a solemn admonition of Providence, and ought to\ndevote myself entirely to religion. I had just begun to be interested\nin a bit of embroidery, but she frightened me out of it. But I can't\nbear such dreadfully good people, with faces a mile long.\"\n\nMother made her produce the collar, or whatever it was, showed her\nhow to hold her needle and arrange her pattern, and they both got so\nabsorbed in it that I had leisure to look at some of the beautiful\nthings with which the room was full.\n\n\"Make the object of your life right,\" I heard mother say, at last,\n\"and these little details will take care of themselves.\"\n\n\"But I haven't any object,\" Miss Clifford objected, \"unless it is to\nget through these tedious days somehow. Before I was taken ill my\nchief object was to make myself attractive to the people I met. And\nthe easiest way to do that was to dress becomingly and make myself\nlook as well as I could.\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" said mother, \"that most girls could say the same. They\nhave an instinctive desire to please, and they take what they\nconceive to be the shortest and easiest road to that end. It requires\nno talent, no education, no thought to dress tastefully; the most\nempty-hearted frivolous young person can do it, provided she has\nmoney enough. Those who can't get the money make up for it by fearful\nexpenditure of precious time. They plan, they cut, they fit, they\nrip, they trim till they can appear in society looking exactly like\neverybody else. They think of nothing, talk of nothing but how this\nshall be fashioned and that be trimmed; and as to their hair, Satan\nuses it as his favorite net, and catches them in it every day of\ntheir lives.\"\n\n\"But I never cut or trimmed,\" said Miss Clifford.\n\n\"No, because you could afford to have it done for you. But you\nacknowledge that you spent a great deal of time in dressing because\nyou thought that the easiest way of making yourself attractive. But\nit does not follow that the easiest way is the best way, and\nsometimes the longest way round is the shortest way home.\"\n\n\"For instance?\"\n\n\"Well, let us imagine a young lady, living in the world as you say\nyou lived. She has never seriously reflected on any subject one half\nhour in her life. She has been borne on by the current and let it\ntake her where it would. But at last some influence is brought to\nbear upon her which leads her to stop to look about her and to think.\nShe finds herself in a world of serious, momentous events. She see\nshe cannot live in it, was not meant to live in it forever, and that\nher whole unknown future depends on what she is, not on how she\nlooks. She begins to cast about for some plan of life, and this\nleads---\"\n\n\"A plan of life?\" Miss Clifford interrupted. \"I never heard of such a\nthing.\"\n\n\"Yet you would smile at an architect, who having a noble structure to\nbuild, should begin to work on it in a haphazard way, putting in a\nbrick here and a stone there, weaving in straws and sticks if they\ncome to hand, and when asked on what work he was engaged, and what\nmanner of building he intended to erect, should reply he had no plan,\nbut thought something would come of it.\"\n\nMiss Clifford made no reply. She sat with her head resting on her\nband, looking dreamily before her, a truly beautiful, but unconscious\npicture. I too, began to reflect, that while I had really aimed to\nmake the most out of life, I had not done it methodically or\nintelligently.\n\nWe are going to try to stay in town this summer. Hitherto Ernest\nwould not listen to my suggestion of what an economy this would be.\nHe always said this would turn out anything but an economy in the\nend. But now we have no teething baby; little Raymond is a strong,\nhealthy child, and Una remarkably well for her, and money is so slow\nto come in and so fast to go out. What discomforts we suffer in the\ncountry it would take a book to write down, and here we shall have\nour own home, as usual. I shall not have to be separated from Ernest,\nand shall have leisure to devote to two very interesting people who\nmust stay in town all the year round, no matter who goes out of it. I\nmean dear Mrs. Campbell and Miss Clifford, who both attract me,\nthough in such different ways.\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nXXII.\n\nOCTOBER.\n\nWELL, I had my own way, and I am afraid it has been an unwise one,\nfor though I have enjoyed the leisure afforded by everybody being out\nof town, and the opportunity it has given me to devote myself to the\nvery sweetest work on earth, the care of my darling little ones, the\nheat and the stifling atmosphere have been trying for me and for\nthem. My pretty Rose went last May, to bloom in a home of her own, so\nI thought I would not look for a nurse, but take the whole care of\nthem myself. This would not be much of a task to a strong person, but\nI am not strong, and a great deal of the time just dressing them and\ntaking them out to walk has exhausted me. Then all the mending and\nother sewing must be done, and with the over-exertion creeps in the\nfretful tone, the impatient word. Yet I never can be as impatient\nwith little children as I should be but for the remembrance that I\nshould count it only a joy to minister once more to my darling boy,\ncost what weariness it might.\n\nBut now new cares are at hand, and I have been searching for a person\nto whom I can safely trust my children when I am laid aside. Thus far\nI have had, in this capacity, three different Temptations in human\nform.\n\nThe first, a smart, tidy-looking woman, informed me at the outset\nthat she was perfectly competent to take the whole charge of the\nchildren, and should prefer my attending to my own affairs while she\nattended to hers.\n\nI replied that my affairs lay chiefly in caring for and being with my\nchildren; to which she returned that she feared I should not suit\nher, as she had her own views concerning the training of children.\nShe added, with condescension, that at all events she should expect\nin any case of difference (of judgment) between us, that I, being the\nyounger and least experienced of the two, should always yield to her.\nShe then went on to give me her views on the subject of nursery\nmanagement.\n\n\"In the first place,\" she said, \"I never pet or fondle children. It\nmakes them babyish and sickly.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see you will not suit me,\" I cried. \"You need go no farther. I\nconsider love the best educator for a little child.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I think I shall suit you perfectly,\" she replied, nothing\ndaunted. \"I have been in the business twenty years, and have always\nsuited wherever I lived. You will be surprised to see how much sewing\nI shall accomplish, and how quiet I shall keep the children.\"\n\n\"But I don't want them kept quiet,\" I persisted. \"I want them to be\nas merry and cheerful as crickets, and I care a great deal more to\nhave them amused than to have the sewing done, though that is\nimportant, I confess.\"\n\n\"Very well, ma'am, I will sit and rock them by the hour if you wish\nit.\"\n\n\"But I don't wish it,\" I cried, exasperated at the coolness which\ngave her such an advantage over me. \"Let us say no more about it; you\ndo not suit me, and the sooner we part the better. I must be mistress\nof my own house, and I want no advice in relation to my children.\"\n\n\"I shall hardly leave you before you will regret parting with me,\"\nshe returned, in a placid, pitying, way.\n\nI was afraid I had not been quite dignified in my interview with this\nperson, with whom I ought to have had no discussion, and my\nequanimity was not restored by her shaking hands with me a\npatronizing way at parting, and expressing the hope that I should one\nday \"be a green tree in the Paradise of God.\" Nor was it any too\ngreat a consolation to find that she had suggested to my cook that my\nintellect was not quite sound.\n\nTemptation the second confessed that she knew nothing, but was\nwilling to be taught. Yes, she might be willing, but she could not be\ntaught. She could not see why Herbert should not have everything he\nchose to cry for, nor why she should not take the children to the\nkitchens where her friends abode, instead of keeping them out in the\nair. She could not understand why she must not tell Una every half\nhour that she was as fair as a lily, and that the little angels in\nheaven cried for such hair as hers. And there was no rhyme or reason,\nto her mind, why she could not have her friends visit in her nursery,\nsince, as she declared, the cook would hear all her secrets if she\nreceived them in the kitchen. Her assurance that she thought me a\nvery nice lady, and that there never were two such children as mine,\nfailed to move my hard heart, and I was thankful when I got her out\nof the house.\n\nTemptation the third appeared, for a time, the perfection of a nurse.\nShe kept herself and the nursery and the children in most refreshing\norder; she amused Una when she was more than usually unwell with a\nperfect fund of innocent stories; the work flew from her nimble\nfingers as if by magic. I boasted everywhere of my good luck, and\nsang her praises in Ernest's ears till he believed in her with all\nhis heart. But one night we were out late; we had been spending the\nevening at Aunty's, and came in with Ernest's night-key as quietly as\npossible, in order not to arouse the children. I stole softly to the\nnursery to see if all was going on well there. Bridget, it seems, had\ntaken the opportunity to wash her clothes in the nursery, and they\nhung all about the room drying, a hot fire raging for the purpose. In\nthe midst of them, with a candle and prayer-book on a chair, Bridget\nknelt fast asleep, the candle within an inch of her sleeve. Her\nassurance when I aroused her that she was not asleep, but merely rapt\nin devotion, did not soften my hard heart, nor was I moved by the\nrepresentation that she was a saint, and always wore black on that\naccount. I packed her off in anything but a saintly frame, and felt\nthat a fourth Temptation would scatter what little grace I possessed\nto the four winds. These changes upstairs made discord; too, below.\nMy cook was displeased at so much coming and going, and made the\nkitchen a sort of a purgatory which I dreaded to enter. At last, when\nher temper fairly ran away with her, and she became impertinent to\nthe last degree, I said, coolly:\n\n\"If any lady should speak to me in this way I should resent it. But\nno lady would so far forget herself. And I overlook your rudeness on\nthe ground that you do not know better than to use of such\nexpressions.\"\n\nThis capped the climax! She declared that she had never been told\nbefore that she was no and did not know how to behave, and gave\nwarning at once.\n\nI wish I could help running to tell Ernest all these annoyances. It\ndoes no good, and only worries him. But how much of a woman's life is\nmade up of such trials and provocations! and how easy is when on\none's knees to bear them aright, and how far easier to bear them\nwrong when one finds the coal going too fast, the butter out just as\nsitting down to breakfast, the potatoes watery and the bread sour or\nheavy! And then when one is well nigh desperate, does one's husband\nfail to say, in bland tones:\n\n\"My dear, if you would just speak to Bridget, I am sure she would\nimprove.\"\n\nOh, that there were indeed magic in a spoken word!\n\nAnd do what I can, the money Ernest gives me will not hold out. He\nknows absolutely nothing about that hydra-headed monster, a\nhousehold. I have had to go back to sewing as furiously as ever. And\nwith the sewing the old pain in the side has come back, and the\nsharp, quick speech that I hate, and, that Ernest hates, and that\neverybody hates. I groan, being burdened, and am almost weary of my\nlife. And my prayers are all mixed up with worldly thoughts and\ncares. I am appalled at all the things that have got to be done\nbefore winter, and am tempted to cut short my devotions in order to\nhave more time to accomplish what I must accomplish.\n\nHow have I got into this slough? When was it that I came down from\nthe Mount where I had seen the Lord, and came back to make these\nmiserable, petty things as much my business as ever? Oh, these\nfluctuations in my religious life amaze me! I cannot doubt that I am\nreally God's child; it would be dishonor to Him to doubt it. I cannot\ndoubt that I have held as real communion with Him as with any earthly\nfriend-and oh, it has been far sweeter!\n\nOCT. 20.-I made a parting visit to Mrs. Campbell to-day, and, as\nusual, have come away strengthened and refreshed. She said all sorts\nof kind things to cheer and encourage me, and stimulated me to take\nup the burden of life cheerfully and patiently, just as it comes. She\nassures me that these fluctuations of feeling will by degrees give\nplace to a calmer life, especially if I avoid, so far as I can do it,\nall unnecessary work, distraction and hurry. And a few quiet, resting\nwords from her have given me courage to press on toward perfection,\nno matter how much imperfection I see in myself and others. And now I\nam waiting for my Father's next gift, and the new cares and labors it\nwill bring with it. I am glad it is not left for me to decide my own\nlot. I am afraid I should never see precisely the right moment for\nwelcoming a new bird into my nest, dearly as I love the rustle of\ntheir wings and the sound of their voices when they do come. And\nsurely He knows the right moments who knows all my struggles with a\ncertain sort of poverty, poor health and domestic care. If I could\nfeel that all the time, as I do at this moment, how happy I should\nalways be!\n\nJANUARY 16, 1847.-This is the tenth anniversary of our wedding day,\nand it has been a delightful one. If I were called upon to declare\nwhat has been the chief element of my happiness, I should say it was\nnot Ernest's love to me or mine to him, or that I am once more the\nmother of three children, or that my own dear mother still lives,\nthough I revel in each and all of these. But underneath them all,\ndeeper, stronger than all, lies a peace with God that I can compare\nto no other joy, which I guard as I would guard hid treasure, and\nwhich must abide if all things else pass away.\n\nMy baby is two months old, and her name is Ethel. The three children\ntogether form a beautiful picture which I am never tired of admiring.\nBut they will not give me much time for writing. This little new\ncomer takes all there, is of me. Mother brings me pleasant reports of\nMiss Clifford, who under her gentle, wise influence is becoming an\nearnest Christian, already rejoicing in the Providence that arrested\nher where it did, and forced her to reflection. Mother says we ought\nto study God's providence more than we do since He has a meaning and\na purpose in everything He does. Sometimes I can do this and find it\na source of great happiness. Then worldly cares seem mere worldly\ncares, and I forget that His wise, kind hand is in every one of them.\n\nFEBRUARY.-Helen has been spending the whole day with me, as she often\ndoes, helping me with her skillful needle, and with the children, in\na very sweet way. I am almost ashamed to indulge in writing down how\ndearly she seems to love me, and how disposed she is to sit at my\nfeet as a learner at the very moment I am longing to possess her\nsweet, gentle temper. But one thing puzzles me, in her, and that is\nthe difficulty she finds in getting hold of these simple truths her\nfather used to grope after but never found till just as he was\npassing out of the world. It seems as if God had compensated such\nturbulent, fiery natures as mine, by revealing Himself to them, for\nthe terrible hours of shame and sorrow through which their sins and\nfollies cause them to pass. I suffer far more than Helen does, suffer\nbitterly, painfully, but I enjoy ten-fold more. For I know whom I have\nbelieved, and I cannot doubt that I am truly united to Him. Helen is\nnaturally very reserved, but by degrees she has come talk with me\nquite frankly. To-day as we sat together in the nursery, little\nRaymond snatched a toy from Una, who, as usual, yielded to him\nwithout a frown. I called him to me; he came reluctantly.\n\n\"Raymond, dear,\" I said, \"did you ever see papa snatch anything from\nme?\"\n\nHe smiled, and shook his head.\n\n\"Well then, until you see him do it to me, never do it to your\nsister. Men are gentle and polite to women, and little boys should be\ngentle and polite to little girls.\"\n\nThe children ran off to their play, and Helen said,\n\n\"Now how different that is from my mother's management with us! She\nalways made us girls yield to the boys. They would not have thought\nthey could go up to bed unless one of us got a candle for them.\"\n\n\"That, I suppose, is the reason then that Ernest expected me to wait\nupon him after we were married,\" I replied. \"I was a little stiff\nabout yielding to him, for besides mother's precepts, I was\ninfluenced by my father's example. He was so courteous, treating her\nwith as much respect as if she were a queen, and yet with as much\nlove as if were always a girl. I naturally expected the like from my\nhusband.\"\n\n\"You must have been disappointed then,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, I was. It cost me a good many pouts and tears of which I am now\nashamed. And Ernest seldom annoys me now with the little neglects\nthat I used to make so much of.\"\n\n\"Sometimes I think there are no 'little' neglects,\" said Helen. \"It\ntakes less than nothing to annoy us.\"\n\n\"And it takes more than everything to please us!\" I cried. \"But\nErnest and I had one stronghold to which we always fled in our\ntroublous times, and that was our love for each other. No matter how\nhe provoked me by his little heedless ways, I had to forgive him\nbecause I loved him so. And he had to forgive me my faults for the\nsame reason.\"\n\n\"I had no idea husbands and wives loved each other so,\" said Helen.\n\"I thought they got over it as soon as their cares and troubles came\non, and just jogged on together, somehow.\"\n\nWe both laughed and she went on.\n\n\"If I thought I should be as happy as you are, I should be tempted to\nbe married myself.\"\n\n\"Ah, I thought your time would come!\" I cried.\n\n\"Don't ask me any questions,\" she said, her pretty face growing\nprettier with a bright; warm glow. \"Give me advice instead; for\ninstance, tell me how I can be sure that if I love a man I shall go\non loving him through all the wear and tear of married life and how\ncan I be sure he can and will go on loving me?\"\n\n\"Well, then, setting aside the fact that you are both lovable and\nloving, I will say this: Happiness, in other words love, in married\nlife is not a mere accident. When the union has been formed, as most\nChristian unions are, by God Himself, it is His intention and His\nwill that it shall prove the unspeakable joy of both husband and\nwife, and become more and more so from year to year. But we are\nimperfect creatures, wayward and foolish as little children, horribly\nunreasonable, selfish and willful. We are not capable of enduring the\nshock of finding at every turn that our idol is made of clay, and\nthat it is prone to tumble off its pedestal and lie in the dust, till\nwe pick it up and set it in its place again. I was struck with\nErnest's asking in the very first prayer he offered in my presence,\nafter our marriage, that God would help us love each other. I felt\nthat love was the very foundation on which I was built, and that\nthere was no danger that I should ever fall short in giving to my\nhusband all he wanted, in full measure. But as he went on day after\nday repeating this prayer, and I naturally made it with him, I came\nto see that this most precious of earthly blessings had been and must\nbe God's gift, and that while we both looked at it in that light, and\nfelt our dependence on Him for it, we might safely encounter together\nall the assaults made upon us by the world, the flesh, and the devil.\nI believe we owe it to this constant prayer that we have loved each\nother so uniformly and with such growing comfort in each other; so\nthat our little discords always have ended in fresh accord, and our\nlove has felt conscious of resting on a rock and that that rock was\nthe will of God.\"\n\n\"It is plain, then,\" said Helen, \"that you and Ernest are sure of one\nsource of happiness as long as you live, whatever vicissitudes you\nmay meet with. I thank you so much for what you have said. The fact\nis you have been brought up to carry religion into everything. But I\nwas not. My mother was as good as she was lovely, but I think she\nfelt and taught us to feel, that we were to put it on as we did our\nSunday clothes, and to wear it, as we did them, carefully and\nreverently, but with pretty long, grave faces. But you mix everything\nup so, that when I am with you I never know whether you are most like\nor most unlike other people. And your mother is just so.\"\n\n\"But you forget that it is to Ernest I owe my best ideas about\nmarried life; I don't remember ever talking with my mother or any one\nelse on the subject. And as to carrying religion into everything, how\ncan one help it if one's religion is a vital part of one's self, not\na cloak put on to go to church in and hang up out of the way against\nnext Sunday?\"\n\nHelen laughed. She has the merriest, yet gentlest little laugh one\ncan imagine. I long to know who it is that has been so fortunate as\nto touch her heart!\n\nMARCH.-I know now, and glad I am! The sly little puss is purring at\nthis moment in James' arms; at least I suppose she is, as I have\ndiscreetly come up to my room and left them to themselves. So it seems\nI have had all these worries about Lucy for naught. What made her so\nfond of James was simply the fact that a friend of his had looked on\nher with a favorable eye, regarding her as a very proper mother for\nfour or five children who are in need of a shepherd. Yes, Lucy is\ngoing to marry a man so much older than herself, that on a pinch he\nmight have been her father. She does it from a sense of duty, she\nsays, and to a nature like hers duty may perhaps suffice, and no cry\nof the heart have to be stifled in its performance. We are all so\nhappy in the happiness of James and Helen that we are not in the mood\nto criticise Lucy's decision. I have a strange and most absurd envy\nwhen I think what a good time they are having at this moment\ndownstairs, while I sit here alone, vainly wishing I could see more\nof Ernest. Just as if my happiness were not a deeper, more blessed\none than theirs which must be purged of much dross before it will\nprove itself to be like fine gold. Yes, I suppose I am as happy in my\ndear, precious husband and children as a wife and mother can be in a\nworld, which must not be a real heaven lest we should love the land\nwe journey through so well as to want to pitch our tents in it\nforever, and cease to look and long for the home whither we are\nbound.\n\nJames will be married almost immediately, I suppose, as he sails for\nSyria early in April. How much a missionary and his wife must be to\neach other, when, severing themselves from all they ever loved\nbefore, they go forth, hand in hand, not merely to be foreigners in\nheathen lands, but to be henceforth strangers in their own should\nthey ever return to it!\n\nHelen says, playfully, that she has not a missionary spirit, and is\nnot at all sure that she shall go with James. But I don't think that\nhe feels very anxious on that point!\n\nMARCH.-It does one's heart good to see how happy they are! And it\ndoes one's heart good to have one's husband set up an opposition to\nthe goings on by behaving like a lover himself.\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nXXIII.\n\nJANUARY 1, 1851\n\nIT is a great while since I wrote that. \"God has been just as good as\never\"; I want to say that before I say another word. But He has\nindeed smitten me very sorely.\n\nWhile we were in the midst of our rejoicings about James and Helen,\nand the bright future that seemed opening before them, he came home\none day very ill. Ernest happened to be in and attended to him at\nonce. But the disease was, at the very outset, so violent, and raged\nwith such absolute fury, that no remedies had any effect. Everything,\neven now, seems confused in my mind. It seems as if there was a\nsudden transition from the most brilliant, joyous health, to a brief\nbut fearful struggle for life, speedily followed by the awful mystery\nand stillness of death. Is it possible, I still ask myself, that four\nshort days wrought an event whose consequences must run through\nendless years?--Poor mother! Poor Helen!--When it was all over, I\ndo not know what to say of mother but that she behaved and quieted\nherself like a weaned child. Her sweet composure awed me; I dared\nnot give way to my own vehement, terrible sorrow; in the presence of\nthis Christ-like patience, all noisy demonstrations seemed profane. I\nthought no human being was less selfish, more loving than she had\nbeen for many years, but the spirit that now took possession of her\nflowed into her heart and life directly from that great Heart of\nlove, whose depth I had never even begun to sound. There was,\ntherefore, something absolutely divine in her aspect, in the tones of\nher voice, in the very smile on her face. We could compare its\nexpression to nothing but Stephen, when he, being full of the Holy\nGhost, looked up steadfastly to heaven and saw the glory of God, and\nJesus standing on the right hand of God. As soon as James was gone\nHelen came to our home; there was never any discussion about it, she\ncame naturally to be one of us. Mother's health, already very frail,\ngradually failed, and encompassed as I was with cares, I could not be\nwith her constantly. Helen took the place to her of a daughter, and\nfound herself welcomed like one. The atmosphere in which we all lived\nwas one which cannot be described; the love for all of us and for\nevery living thing that flowed in mother's words and tones passed all\nknowledge. The children's little joys and sorrows interested her\nexactly as if she was one of themselves; they ran to her with every\npetty grievance, and every new pleasure. During the time she lived\nwith us she had won many warm friends, particularly among the poor\nand the suffering. As her strength would no longer allow her to go to\nthem, those who could do so came to her, and I was struck to see she\nhad ceased entirely from giving counsel, and now gave nothing but the\nmost beautiful, tender compassion and sympathy. I saw that she was\nfailing, but flattered myself that her own serenity and our care\nwould prolong her life still for many years. I longed to have my\nchildren become old enough to fully appreciate her sanctified\ncharacter; and I thought she would gradually fade away and be set\nfree,\n\n    As light winds wandering through groves of bloom,\n    Detach the delicate blossoms from the tree.\n\nBut God's thoughts are not as our thoughts not His ways as our ways.\nHer feeble body began to suffer from the rudest assaults of pain; day\nand night, night and day, she lived through a martyrdom in which what\nmight have been a lifetime of suffering was concentrated into a few\nmonths. To witness these sufferings was like the sundering of joints\nand marrow, and once, only once, thank God! my faith in Him staggered\nand reeled to and fro. \"How can He look down on such agonies?\" I\ncried in my secret soul; \"is this the work of a God of love, of\nmercy?\" Mother seemed to divine my thoughts, for she took my hand\ntenderly in hers and said, with great difficulty:\n\n\"Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him. He is just as good as\never.\" And she smiled. I ran away to Ernest, crying, \"Oh, is there\nnothing you can do for her?\"\n\n\"What should a poor mortal do where Christ has done so much, my\ndarling?\" he said, taking me in his arms. \"Let us stand aside and see\nthe glory of God, with our shoes from off our feet.\" But he went to\nher with one more desperate effort to relieve her, yet in vain.\n\nMrs. Embury, of whom mother was fond, and who is always very kind\nwhen we are in trouble, came in just then, and after looking on a\nmoment in tears she said to me:\n\n\"God knows whom He can trust! He would not lay His hand thus on all\nHis children.\"\n\nThose few words quieted me. Yes, God knows. And now it is all over.\nMy precious, precious mother has been a saint in heaven more than two\nyears, and has forgotten all the battles she fought on earth, and all\nher sorrows and all her sufferings in the presence of her Redeemer.\nShe knew that she was going, and the last words she uttered-and they\nwere spoken with somewhat of the playful, quaint manner in which she\nhad spoken all her life, and with her own bright smile-still sound in\nmy ears:\n\n\"I have given God a great deal of trouble, but He is driving me into\npasture now!\"\n\nAnd then, with her cheek on her hand, she fell asleep, and slept on,\ntill just at sundown she awoke to find herself in the green pasture,\nthe driving all over for ever and ever.\n\nWho by searching can find out God? My dear father entered heaven\nafter a prosperous life path wherein he was unconscious of a pang,\nand beloved James went bright and fresh and untarnished by conflict\nstraight to the Master's feast. But what a long lifetime of\nbereavement, sorrow, and suffering was my darling mother's pathway to\nglory!\n\nSurely her felicity must be greater than theirs, and the crown she\nhas won by such a struggle must be brighter than the stars! And this\ncrown she is even now, while I sit here choked with tears, casting\njoyfully at the feet of her Saviour!\n\nMy sweet sister, my precious little Helen, still nestles in our\nhearts and in our home. Martha made one passionate appeal to her to\nreturn to her, but Ernest interfered:\n\n\"Let her stay with Katy,\" he said. \"James would have chosen to have\nher with the one human being like himself.\"\n\nDoes he then think me, with all my faults, the languor of frail\nhealth, and the cares and burdens of life weighing upon me, enough\nlike that sparkling, brave boy to be of use and comfort to dear\nHelen? I take courage at the thought and rouse myself afresh, to bear\non with fidelity and patience. My steadfast aim now is to follow in\nmy mother's footsteps; to imitate her cheerfulness, her benevolence,\nher bright, inspiring ways, and never to rest till in place of my\nselfish nature I become as full of Christ's love as she became. I am\nglad she is at last relieved from the knowledge of all my cares, and\nthough I often and often yearn to throw myself into her arms and pour\nout my cares and trials into her sympathizing ears, I would not have\nher back for all the world. She has got away from all the turmoil and\nsuffering of life; let her stay!\n\nThe scenes of sorrow through which we have been passing have brought\nErnest nearer to me than ever, and I can see that this varied\ndiscipline has softened and sweetened his character. Besides, we have\nmodified each other. Ernest is more demonstrative, more attentive to\nthose little things that make the happiness of married life, and I am\nless childish, less vehement--I wish I could say less selfish, but\nhere I seem to have come to a standstill. But I do understand\nErnest's trials in his profession far better than I did, and can feel\nand show some sympathy in them. Of course the life of a physician is\nnecessarily one of self-denial, spent as it is amid scenes of\nsuffering and sorrow, which he is often powerless to alleviate. But\nthere is besides the wear and tear of years of poverty; his bills are\ndisputed or allowed to run on year after year unnoticed; he is often\ndismissed because he cannot put himself in the place of Providence\nand save life, and a truly grateful, generous patient is almost an\nunknown rarity. I do not speak of these things to complain of them. I\nsuppose they are a necessary part of that whole providential plan by\nwhich God moulds and fashions and tempers the human soul, just as my\npetty, but incessant household cares are. If I had nothing to do but\nlove my husband and children and perform for them, without let or\nhindrance, the sweet ideal duties of wife and mother, how content I\nshould be to live always in this world! But what would become of me\nif I were not called, in the pursuit of these duties and in contact\nwith real life, to bear \"restless nights, ill-health, unwelcome news,\nthe faults of servants, contempt, ingratitude of friends, my own\nfailings, lowness of spirits, the struggle in overcoming my\ncorruption, and a score of kindred trials!\"\n\nBishop Wilson charges us to bear all these things \"as unto God,\" and\n\"with the greatest privacy.\" How seldom I have met them save as lions\nin my way, that I would avoid if I could, and how I have tormented my\nfriends by tedious complaints about them! Yet when compared with the\ngreat tragedies of suffering I have both witnessed and suffered, how\npetty they seem!\n\nOur household, bereft of mother's and James' bright presence, now\nnumbers just as many members as it did before they left us. Another\nangel has flown into it, though not on wings, and I have four darling\nchildren, the baby, who can hardly be called a baby now, being nearly\ntwo years old. My hands and my heart are full, but two of the\nchildren go to school, and that certainly makes my day's work easier.\n\nThe little things are happier for having regular employment, and we\nare so glad to meet each other again after the brief separation! I\ntry to be at home when it is time to expect them, for I love to hear\nthe eager voices ask, in chorus, the moment the door opens: \"Is mamma\nat home?\" Helen has taken Daisy to sleep with her, which after so\nmany years of ups and downs at night, now with restless babies, now\nto answer the bell when Ernest is out, is a great relief to me. Poor\nHelen! She has never recovered her cheerfulness since James' death.\nIt has crushed her energies and left her very sorrowful. This is\npartly owing to a soft and tender nature, easily borne down and\noverwhelmed, partly to what seems an almost constitutional inability\nto find rest in God's will. She assents to all we say to her about\nsubmission, in a sweet, gentle way, and then comes the invariable,\nmournful wail, \"But it was so unexpected! It came so suddenly!\" But\nI love the little thing, and her affection for us all is one of our\ngreatest comforts.\n\nMartha is greatly absorbed in her own household, its cares and its\npleasures. She brings her little Underhills to see us occasionally,\nwhen they put my children quite out of countenance by their\nconsciousness of the fine clothes they wear, and their knowledge of\nthe world. Even I find it hard not to feel abashed in the presence of\nso much of the sort of wisdom in which I am lacking. As to Lucy she\nis exactly in her sphere: the calm dignity with which she reigns in\nher husband's house, and the moderation and self-control with which\nshe guides his children, are really instructive. She has a baby of\nher own, and though it acts just like other babies and kicks,\nscratches, pulls and cries when it is washed and dressed, she goes\nthrough that process with a serenity and deliberation that I envy\nwith all my might. Her predecessor in the nursery was all nerve and\nbrain, and has left four children made of the same material behind\nher. But their wild spirits on one day, and their depression and\nlanguor on the next, have no visible effect upon her. Her influence\nis always quieting; she tones down their vehemence with her own calm\ndecision and practical good sense. It is amusing to see her seated\namong those four little furies, who love each other in such a\ndistracted way that somebody's feelings are always getting hurt, and\nsomebody always crying. By a sort of magnetic influence she heals\nthese wounds immediately, and finds some prosaic occupation as an\nantidote to these poetical moods. I confess that I am instructed and\nreproved whenever I go to see her, and wish I were more like her.\n\nBut there is no use in trying to engraft an opposite nature on one's\nown. What I am, that I must be, except as God changes me into His own\nimage. And everything brings me back to that, as my supreme desire. I\nsee more and more that I must be myself what I want my children to\nbe, and that I cannot make myself over even for their sakes. This\nmust be His work, and I wonder that it goes on so slowly; that all\nthe disappointments, sorrows, sicknesses I have passed through, have\nleft me still selfish, still full of imperfections.\n\nMARCH 5, 1852.-This is the sixth anniversary of James' death.\nThinking it all over after I went to bed last night, his sickness,\nhis death, and the weary months that followed for mother, I could not\nget to sleep till long past midnight. Then Una woke, crying with the\nearache, and I was up till nearly daybreak with her, poor child. I\ngot up jaded and depressed, almost ready to faint under the burden of\nlife, and dreading to meet Helen, who is doubly sad on these\nanniversaries. She came down to breakfast dressed as usual in deep\nmourning, and looking as spiritless as I felt. The prattle of the\nchildren relieved the sombre silence maintained by the rest of us,\neach of whom acted depressingly on the others. How things do flash\ninto one's mind. These words suddenly came to mine, as we sat so\ngloomily at the table God had spread for us, and which He had\nenlivened by the four young faces around it--\n\n    \"Why should the children of a King\n     Go mourning all their days?\"\n\nWhy, indeed? Children of a King? I felt grieved that I was so intent\non my own sorrows as to lose sight of my relationship to Him. And\nthen I asked myself what I could do to make the day less wearisome\nand sorrowful to Helen. She came, after a time, with her work to my\nroom. The children took their good-by kisses and went off to school;\nErnest took his, too, and set forth on his day's work, while Daisy\nplayed quietly about the room.\n\n\"Helen, dear,\" I ventured at last to begin \"I want you to do me a\nfavor to-day.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, languidly.\n\n\"I want you to go to see Mrs. Campbell. This is the day for her\nbeef-tea, and she will be looking out for one of us.\n\n\"You must not ask me to go to-day,\" Helen answered.\n\n\"I think I must, dear. When other springs of comfort dry up, there is\none always left to us. And that; as mother often said, is\nusefulness.\"\n\n\"I do try to be useful,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, you are very kind to me and to the children. If you were my own\nsister you could not do more. But these little duties do not relieve\nthat aching void in your heart which yearns so for relief.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, quickly, \"I have no such yearning. I just want to\nsettle down as I am now.\"\n\n\"Yes, I suppose that is the natural tendency of sorrow. But there is\ngreat significance in the prayer for 'a heart at leisure from itself,\nto soothe and sympathize.'\"\n\n\"Oh, Katy!\" she said, \"you don't know, you can't know, how I feel.\nUntil James began to love me so I did not know there was such a love\nas that in the world. You know our family is different from yours.\nAnd it is so delightful to be loved. Or rather it was!\"\n\n\"Don't say was,\" I said. \"You know we all love you dearly, dearly\"\n\n\"Yes, but not as James did!\"\n\n\"That is true. It was foolish in me to expect to console you by such\nsuggestions. But to go back to Mrs. Campbell. She will sympathize\nwith you, if you will let her, as very few can, for she has lost both\nhusband and children.\"\n\n\"Ah, but she had a husband for a time, at least. It is not as if he\nwere snatched away before they had lived together.\"\n\nIf anybody else had said this I should have felt that it was out of\nmere perverseness. But dear little Helen is not perverse; she is\nsimply overburdened.\n\n\"I grant that your disappointment was greater than hers,\" I went on.\n\"But the affliction was not. Every day that a husband and wife walk\nhand in hand together upon earth makes of the twain more and more one\nflesh. The selfish element which at first formed so large a part of\ntheir attraction to each other disappears, and the union becomes so\npure and beautiful as to form a fitting type of the union of Christ\nand His church. There is nothing else on earth like it.\"\n\nHelen sighed.\n\n\"I find it hard to believe,\" she said, \"there can be anything more\ndelicious than the months in which James and I were so happy\ntogether.\"\n\n\"Suffering together would have brought you even nearer,\" I replied.\n\"Dear Helen, I am very sorry for you; I hope you feel that, even\nwhen, according to my want, I fall into arguments, as if one could\nargue a sorrow away!\"\n\n\"You are so happy,\" she answered. \"Ernest loves you so dearly, and is\nso proud of you, and you have such lovely children! I ought not to\nexpect you to sympathize perfectly with my loneliness.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am happy,\" I said, after a pause; \"but you must own, dear,\nthat I have had my sorrows, too. Until you become a mother yourself,\nyou cannot comprehend what a mother can suffer, not merely for\nherself, in losing her children, but in seeing their sufferings. I\nthink I may say of my happiness that it rests on something higher and\ndeeper than even Ernest and my children.\"\n\n\"And what is that?\"\n\nThe will of God, the sweet will of God. If He should take them all\naway, I might still possess a peace which would flow on forever. I\nknow this partly from my own experience and partly from that of\nothers. Mrs. Campbell says that the three months that followed the\ndeath of her first child were the happiest she had ever known. Mrs.\nWentworth, whose husband was snatched from her almost without\nwarning, and while using expressions of affection for her such as a\nlover addresses to his bride, said to me, with tears rolling down her\ncheeks, yet with a smile, 'I thank my God and Saviour that He has not\nforgotten and passed me by, but has counted me worthy to bear this\nsorrow for His sake.' And hear this passage from the life of Wesley,\nwhich I lighted on this morning:\n\n\"He visited one of his disciples, who was ill in bed and after having\nburied seven of her family in six months, had just heard that the\neighth, her husband, whom she dearly loved, had been cast away at\nsea. 'I asked her,' he says, 'do you not fret at any of those\nthings?' She says, with a lovely smile, 'Oh, no! how can I fret at\nanything which is the will of God? Let Him take all beside, He has\ngiven me Himself. I love, I praise Him every moment.'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Helen objected, \"I can imagine people as saying such things in\nmoments of excitement; but afterwards, they have hours of terrible\nagony.\"\n\n\"They have 'hours of terrible agony,' of course. God's grace does not\nharden our hearts, and make them proof against suffering, like coats\nof mail. They can all say, 'Out of the depths have I cried unto\nThee,' and it is they alone who have been down into the depths, and\nhad rich experience of what God could be to His children there, who\ncan utter such testimonials to His honor, as those I have just\nrepeated.\"\n\n\"Katy,\" Helen suddenly asked, \"do you always submit to God's will\nthus?\"\n\n\"In great things I do,\" I said. \"What grieves me is that I am\nconstantly forgetting to recognize God's hand in the little every-day\ntrials of life, and instead of receiving them as from Him, find fault\nwith the instruments by which He sends them. I can give up my child,\nmy only brother, my darling mother without a word; but to receive\nevery tire some visitor as sent expressly and directly to weary me by\nthe Master Himself; to meet every negligence on the part of the\nservants as His choice for me at the moment; to be satisfied and\npatient when Ernest gets particularly absorbed in his books because\nmy Father sees that little discipline suitable for me at the time;\nall this I have not fully learned.\"\n\n\"All you say discourages me,\" said Helen, in a tone of deep\ndejection. \"Such perfection was only meant for a few favored ones,\nand I do not dare so much as to aim at it. I am perfectly sure that I\nmust be satisfied with the low state of grace I am in now and always\nhave been.\"\n\nShe was about to leave me, but I caught her hand as she would have\npassed me, and made one more attempt to reach her poor, weary soul.\n\n\"But are you satisfied, dear Helen?\" I asked, as tenderly as I would\nspeak to a little sick child. \"Surely you crave happiness, as every\nhuman soul does!\"\n\n\"Yes, I crave it,\" she replied, \"but God has taken it from me.\n\n\"He has taken away your earthly happiness, I know, but only to\nconvince you what better things He has in store for you. Let me read\nyou a letter which Dr. Cabot wrote me many years ago, but which has\nbeen an almost constant inspiration to me ever since.\"\n\nShe sat down, resumed her work again, and listened to the letter in\nsilence. As I came to its last sentence the three children rushed in\nfrom school, at least the boys did, and threw themselves upon me like\nmen assaulting a fort. I have formed the habit of giving myself\nentirely to them at the proper moment, and now entered into their\nfrolicsome mood as joyously as if I had never known a sorrow or lost\nan hour's sleep. At last they went off to their play-room, and Una\nsettled down by my side to amuse Daisy, when Helen began again.\n\n\"I should like to read that letter myself,\" she said. \"Meanwhile I\nwant to ask you one question. What are you made of that you can turn\nfrom one thing to another like lightning? Talking one moment as if\nlife depended on your every word, and then frisking about with those\nwild boys as if you were a child yourself?\"\n\nI saw Una look up curiously, to hear my answer, as I replied,\n\n\"I have always aimed at this flexibility. I think a mother,\nespecially, ought to learn to enter into the gayer moods of her\nchildren at the very moment when her own heart is sad. And it may be\nas religious an act for her to romp with them at the time as to pray\nwith them at another.\"\n\nHelen now went away to her room with Dr. Cabot's letter, which I\nsilently prayed might bless her as it had blessed me. And then a\njaded, disheartened mood came over me that made me feel that all I\nhad been saying to her was but as sounding brass and a tinkling\ncymbal, since my life and my professions did not correspond. Hitherto\nmy consciousness of imperfection has made me hesitate to say much to\nHelen. Why are we so afraid of those who live under the same roof\nwith us? It must be the conviction that those who daily see us acting\nin a petty, selfish, trifling way, must find it hard to conceive that\nour prayers and our desires take a wider and higher aim. Dear little\nHelen! May the ice once broken remain broken forever.\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\nXXIV.\n\nMARCH 20.\n\nHELEN returned Dr. Cabot's letter in silence this morning, but,\ndirectly after breakfast, set forth to visit Mrs. Campbell, with the\nlittle bottle of beef-tea in her hands, which ought to have gone\nyesterday. I had a busy day before me; the usual Saturday baking and\nSunday dinner to oversee, the children's lessons for to-morrow to\nsuperintend and hear them repeat, their clean clothes to lay out, and\na basket of stockings to mend. My mind was somewhat distracted with\nthese cares, and I found it a little difficult to keep on with my\nmorning devotions in spite of them. But I have learned, at least, to\nface and fight such distractions, instead of running away from them\nas I used to do. My faith in prayer, my resort to it, becomes more\nand more the foundation of my life, and I believe, with one wiser and\nbetter than myself, that nothing but prayer stands between my soul\nand the best gifts of God; in other words, that I can and shall get\nwhat I ask for.\n\nI went down into the kitchen, put on my large baking apron, and began\nmy labors; of course the door-bell rang, and a poor woman was\nannounced. It is very sweet to follow Fenelon's counsel and give\noneself to Christ in all these interruptions; but this time I said,\n\"oh, dear!\" before I thought. Then I wished I hadn't, and went up,\nwith a cheerful face at any rate, to my unwelcome visitor, who proved\nto be one of my aggravating poor folks-a great giant of a woman, in\nperfect health, and with a husband to support her if he will. I told\nher that I could do no more for her; she answered me rudely, and kept\nurging her claims. I felt ruffled; why should my time be thus\nfrittered away, I asked myself. At last she went off, abusing me in a\nway that chilled my heart. I could only beg God to forgive her, and\nreturn to my work, which I had hardly resumed when Mrs. Embury sent\nfor a pattern I had promised to lend her. Off came my apron, and up\ntwo pairs of stairs I ran; after a long search it came to light. Work\nresumed; door-bell again. Aunty wanted the children to come to an\nearly dinner. Going to Aunty's is next to going to Paradise to them.\nEvery thing was now hurry and flurry; I tried to be patient; and not\nto fret their temper by undue attention to nails, ears, and other\nsusceptible parts of the human frame, but after it was all over, and\nI had kissed all the sweet, dear faces good-by, and returned to the\nkitchen, I felt sure that I had not been the perfect mother I want to\nbe in all these little emergencies-yes, far from it. Bridget had let\nthe milk I was going to use boil over, and finally burn up. I was\nannoyed and irritated, and already tired, and did not see how I was\nto get more, as Mary was cleaning the silver (to be sure, there is\nnot much of it), and had other extra Saturday work to do. I thought\nBridget might offer to run to the corner for it, though it isn't her\nbusiness, but she is not obliging, and seemed as sulky as if I had\nburned the milk, not she. \"After all,\" I said to myself, \"what does\nit signify, if Ernest gets no dessert? It isn't good for him, and how\nmuch precious time is wasted over just this one thing?\" However, I\nreflected, that arbitrarily refusing to indulge him in this respect\nis not exactly my mission as his wife; he is perfectly well, and\nlikes his little luxuries as well as other people do. So I humbled my\npride and asked Bridget to go for the milk, which she did, in a lofty\nway of her own. While she was gone the marketing came home, and I had\neverything to dispose of. Ernest had sent home some apples, which\nplainly said, \"I want some apple pie, Katy.\" I looked nervously at\nthe clock, and undertook to gratify him. Mary came down, crying, to\nsay that her mother, who lived in Brooklyn, was very sick; could she\ngo to see her? I looked at the clock once more; told her she should\ngo, of course, as soon as lunch was over; this involved my doing all\nher absence left undone.\n\nAt last I got through with the kitchen, the Sunday dinner being well\nunder way, and ran upstairs to put away the host of little garments\nthe children had left when they took their flight, and to make myself\npresentable at lunch. Then I began to be uneasy lest Ernest should\nnot be punctual, and Mary be delayed; but he came just as the clock\nstruck one. I ran joyfully to meet him, very glad now that I had\nsomething good to give him. We had just got through lunch, and I was\nopening my mouth to tell Mary she might go, when the door-bell rang\nonce more, and Mrs. Fry, of Jersey City, was announced. I told Mary\nto wait till I found whether she had lunched or not; no, she hadn't;\nhad come to town to see friends off, was half famished, and would I\ndo her the favor, etc., etc. She had a fashionable young lady with\nher, a stranger to me, as well as a Miss Somebody else, from Albany,\nwhose name I did not catch. I apologized for having finished lunch.\nMrs. Fry said all they wanted was a cup of tea and a bit of bread and\nbutter, nothing else, dear; now don't put yourself out.\n\n\"Now be bright and animated, and like yourself,\" she whispered, \"for\nI have brought these girls here on purpose to hear you talk, and they\nare prepared to fall in love with you on the spot.\"\n\nThis speech sufficed to shut my mouth.\n\nMary had to get ready for these unexpected guests, whose appetites\nproved equal to a raid on a good many things besides bread and\nbutter. Mrs. Fry said, after she had devoured nearly half a loaf of\ncake, that she would really try to eat a morsel more, which Ernest\nremarked, dryly, was a great triumph of mind over matter. As they\ntalked and laughed and ate leisurely on, Mary stood looking the\npicture of despair. At last I gave her a glance that said she might\ngo, when a new visitor was announced--Mrs. Winthrop, from Brooklyn,\none of Ernest's patients a few years ago, when she lived here. She\nprofessed herself greatly indebted to him, and said she had come at\nthis hour because she should make sure of seeing him. I tried to\nexcuse him, as I knew he would be thankful to have me do, but no, see\nhim she must; he was her \"pet doctor,\" he had such \"sweet, bedside\nmanners,\" and \"I am such a favorite with him, you know!\"\n\nErnest did not receive his \"favorite\" with any special warmth; but\ninvited her out to lunch and gallanted her to the table we had just\nleft. Just like a man! Poor Mary! she had to fly round and get up\nwhat she could; Mrs. Winthrop devoted herself to Ernest with a\npersistent ignoring of me that I thought rude and unwomanly. She\nasked if he had read a certain book; he had not; she then said, \"I\nneed not ask, then, if Mrs. Elliott has done so? These charming\ndishes, which she gets up so nicely, must absorb all her time.\" \"Of\ncourse,\" replied Ernest. \"But she contrives to read the reports of\nall the murders, of which the newspapers are full.\"\n\nMrs. Winthrop took this speech literally, drew away her skirts from\nme, looked at me through her eye-glass, and said, \"Yes?\" At last she\ndeparted. Helen came home, and Mary went. I gave Helen an account of\nmy morning; she laughed heartily, and it did me good to hear that\nmusical sound once more.\n\n\"It is nearly five o'clock,\" I said, as we at last had restored\neverything to order, \"and this whole day has been frittered away in\nthe veriest trifles. It isn't living to live so. Who is the better\nfor my being in the world since six o'clock this morning?\"\n\n\"I am for one,\" she said, kissing my hot cheeks; \"and you have given\na great deal of pleasure to several persons. Your and Ernest's\nhospitality is always graceful. I admire it in you both; and this is\none of the little ways, not to be despised, of giving enjoyment.\" It\nwas nice in her to say that, it quite rested me.\n\nAt the dinner-table Ernest complimented me on my good housekeeping.\n\n\"I was proud of my little wife at lunch\" he said.\n\n\"And yet you said that outrageous thing about my reading about\nnothing but murders!\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, well, you understood it,\" he said, laughingly.\n\n\"But that dreadful Mrs. Winthrop took it literally.\"\n\n\"What do we care for Mrs. Winthrop?\" he returned. \"If you could have\nseen the contrast between you two in my eyes!\"\n\nAfter all, one must take life as it comes, its homely details are so\nmixed up with its sweet charities, and loves, and friendships that\none is forced to believe that God has joined them together and does\nnot will that they should be put asunder. It is something that my\nhusband has been satisfied with his wife and his home to-day; that\ndoes me good.\n\nMARCH 30.-A stormy day and the children home from school, and no\nlittle frolicking and laughing going on. It must, be delightful to\nfeel well and strong while one's children are young, there is so much\nto do for them. I do it; but no one can tell the effort, it costs me.\nWhat a contrast there is between their vitality and the languor under\nwhich I suffer! When their noise became intolerable, I proposed to\nread to them; of course they made ten times as much clamor of\npleasure and of course they leaned on me, ground their elbows into my\nlap, and tired me all out. As I sat with this precious little group\nabout me, Ernest opened the door, looked in, gravely and without a\nword, and instantly disappeared. I felt uneasy and asked him, this\nevening, why he looked so. Was I indulging the children too much, or\nwhat was it? He took me into his arms and said:\n\n\"My precious wife, why will you torment yourself with such fancies?\nMy very heart was yearning over you at that moment, as it did the\nfirst time I saw you surrounded by your little class at\nSunday-school, years ago, and I was asking myself why God had given\nme such a wife, and my children such a mother.\"\n\nOh, I am glad I have got this written down! I will read it over when\nthe sense of my deficiencies overwhelms me, while I ask God why He\nhas given me such a patient, forbearing husband.\n\nAPRIL 1.-This has been a sad day to our church. Our dear Dr. Cabot\nhas gone to his eternal home, and left us as sheep without a\nshepherd.\n\nHis death was sudden at the last and found us all unprepared for it.\nBut my tears of sorrow are mingled with tears of joy. His heart had\nlong been in heaven, he was ready to go at a moment's warning; never\nwas a soul so constantly and joyously on the wing as his. Poor Mrs.\nCabot! She is left very desolate, for all their children are married\nand settled at a distance. But she bears this sorrow like one who has\nlong felt herself a pilgrim and a stranger on earth. How strange that\nwe ever forget that we are all such!\n\nAPRIL 16.-The desolate pilgrimage was not long. Dear Mrs. Cabot was\nthis day laid away by the side of her beloved husband, and it is\ndelightful to think of them as not divided by death, but united by it\nin a complete and eternal union.\n\nI never saw a husband and wife more tenderly attached to each other,\nand this is a beautiful close to their long and happy married life. I\nfind it hard not to wish and pray that I may as speedily follow my\nprecious husband, should God call him away first. But it is not for\nme to choose.\n\nHow I shall miss these faithful friends, who, from my youth up, have\nbeen my stay and my staff in the house of my pilgrimage! Almost all\nthe disappointments and sorrows of my life have had their Christian\nsympathy, particularly the daily, wasting solicitude concerning my\ndarling Una, for they to watched for years over as delicate a flower,\nand saw it fade and die. Only those who have suffered thus can\nappreciate the heart-soreness through which, no matter how outwardly\ncheerful I may be, I am always passing. But what then! Have I not ten\nthousand times made this my prayer, that in the words of Leighton, my\nwill might become, \"identical with God's will.\"\n\n\"And shall He not take me at my word?\" Just as I was writing these\nwords, my canary burst forth with a song so joyous that a song was\nput also into my mouth. Something seemed to say, this captive sings\nin his cage because it has never known liberty, and cannot regret a\nlost freedom. So the soul of my child, limited by the restrictions of\na feeble body, never having known the gladness of exuberant health,\nmay sing songs that will enliven and cheer. Yes, and does sing them!\nWhat should we do without her gentle, loving presence, whose frailty\ncalls forth our tenderest affections and whose sweet face makes\nsunshine in the shadiest places! I am sure that the boys are truly\nblessed by having a sister always at home to welcome them, and that\ntheir best manliness is appealed to by her helplessness.\n\nWhat this child is to me I cannot tell. And yet, if the skillful and\nkind Gardener should house this delicate plant before frosts come,\nshould I dare to complain?\n\n\n\nChapter 25\n\nXXV.\n\nMAY 4\n\nMiss CLIFFORD came to lunch with us on Wednesday. Her remarkable\nrestoration to health has attracted a good deal of attention, and has\ngiven Ernest a certain reputation which does not come amiss to him.\nNot that he is ambitious; a more unworldly man does not live; but his\nextreme reserve and modesty have obscured the light that is now\nbeginning to shine. We all enjoyed Miss Clifford's visit. She is one\nof the freshest, most original creatures I ever met with, and kept us\nall laughing with her quaint speeches, long after every particle of\nlunch had disappeared from the table. But this mobile nature turns to\nthe serious side of life with marvelous ease and celerity, as perhaps\nall sound ones ought to do. I took her up to my room where my\nwork-basket was, and Helen followed, with hers.\n\n\"I have brought something to read to you, dear Mrs. Elliott,\" Miss\nClifford began, the moment we had seated ourselves, \"which I have\njust lighted on, and I am sure you will like. A nobleman writes to\nFenelon asking certain questions, and a part of these questions, with\nthe replies, I want to enjoy with you, as they cover a good deal of\nthe ground we have often discussed together\":\n\n\"I.-How shall I offer my purely indifferent actions to God; walks,\nvisits made and received, dress, little proprieties, such as washing\nthe hands, etc.', the reading of books of history, business with\nwhich I am charged for my friends, other amusements, such as\nshopping, having clothes made, and equipages. I want to have some\nsort of prayer, or method of offering each of these things to God.\n\n\"REPLY.-The most indifferent actions cease to be such, and become\ngood as soon as one performs them with the intention of conforming\none's self in them to the will of God. They are often better and\npurer than certain actions which appear more virtuous: 1st, because\nthey are less of our own choice and more in the order of Providence\nwhen one is obliged to perform them; 2d, because they are simpler and\nless exposed to vain complaisance; 3d, because if one yields to them\nwith moderation, one finds in them more of death to one's\ninclinations than in certain acts of fervor in which self-love\nmingles; finally, because these little occasions occur more\nfrequently, and furnish a secret occasion for continually making\nevery moment profitable.\n\n\"It is not necessary to make great efforts nor acts of great\nreflection, in order to offer what are called indifferent actions. It\nis enough to lift the soul one instant to God, to make a simple\noffering of it. Everything which God wishes us to do, and which\nenters into the course of occupation suitable to our position, can\nand ought to be offered to God; nothing is unworthy of Him but sin.\nWhen you feel that an action cannot be offered to God, conclude that\nit does not become a Christian; it is at least necessary to suspect\nit, and seek light concerning it. I would not have a special prayer\nfor each of these the elevation of the heart at the moment suffices.\n\n\"As for visits, commissions and the like, as there is danger of\nfollowing one's own taste too much, I would add to this elevating of\nthe heart a prayer to moderate myself and use precaution.\n\n\"II.-In prayer I cannot fix my mind, or I have intervals of time when\nit is elsewhere and it is often distracted for a long time before I\nperceive it. I want to find some means of becoming its master.\n\n\"REPLY.-Fidelity in following the rules that have been given you,\nand in recalling your mind every time you perceive its distraction,\nwill gradually give you the grace of being more recollected.\nMeanwhile bear your involuntary distractions with patience and\nhumility; you deserve nothing better. Is it surprising that\nrecollection is difficult to a man so long dissipated and far from\nGod?\n\n\"III.-I wish to know if it is best to record, on my tablets, the\nfaults and the sins I have committed, in order not to run the risk of\nforgetting them. I excite in myself to repentance for my faults as\nmuch as I can; but I have never felt any real grief on account of\nthem. When I examine myself at night, I see persons far more perfect\nthan I complain of more sin: as for me, I seek, I find nothing; and\nyet it is impossible there should not be many points on which to\nimplore pardon every day of my life.\n\n\"REPLY.-You should examine yourself every night, but simply and\nbriefly. In the disposition to which God has brought you, you will\nnot voluntarily commit any considerable fault without remembering and\nreproaching yourself for it. As to little faults, scarcely perceived,\neven if you sometimes forget them, this need not make you uneasy.\n\n\"As to lively grief on account of your sins, it is not necessary. God\ngives it when it pleases Him. True and essential conversion of the\nheart consists in a full will to sacrifice all to God. What I call\nfull will is a fixed immovable disposition of the will to resume none\nof the voluntary affections which may alter the purity of the love to\nGod and to abandon itself to all the crosses which it will--perhaps--be\nnecessary to bear, in order to accomplish the will of God always\nand in all things. As to sorrow for sin, when one has it, one ought\nto return thanks for it; when one perceives it to be wanting, one\nshould humble one's self peacefully before God without trying to\nexcite it by vain efforts.\n\n\"You find in your self-examination fewer faults than persons more\nadvanced and more perfect do; it is because your interior light is\nstill feeble. It will increase, and the view of your infidelities\nwill increase in proportion. It suffices, without making yourself\nuneasy, to try to be faithful to the degree of light you possess, and\nto instruct yourself by reading and meditation. It will not do to try\nto forestall the grace that belongs to a more advanced period. It\nwould only serve to trouble and discourage you, and even to exhaust\nyou by continual anxiety; the time that should be spent in loving God\nwould be given to forced returns upon yourself, which secretly\nnourish self-love.\n\n\"IV.---In my prayers my mind has difficulty in finding anything to\nsay to God. My heart is not in it, or it is inaccessible to the\nthoughts of my mind.\n\n\"REPLY.-It is not necessary to say much to God. Oftentimes one does\nnot speak much to a friend whom one is delighted to see; one looks at\nhim with pleasure; one speaks certain short words to him which are\nmere expressions of feeling. The mind has no part in them, or next to\nnone; one keeps repeating the same words. It is not so much a variety\nof thoughts that one seeks in intercourse with a friend, as a certain\nrepose and correspondence of heart. It is thus we are with God, who\ndoes not disdain to be our tenderest, most cordial, most familiar,\nmost intimate friend. A word, a sigh, a sentiment, says all to God;\nit is not always necessary to have transports of sensible tenderness;\na will all naked and dry, without life, without vivacity, without\npleasure, is often purest in the sight of God. In fine, it is\nnecessary to content one's self with giving to Him what He gives it\nto give, a fervent heart when it is fervent, a heart firm and\nfaithful in its aridity, when He deprives it of sensible fervor. It\ndoes not always depend on you to feel; but it is necessary to wish to\nfeel. Leave it to God to choose to make you feel sometimes, in order\nto sustain your weakness and infancy in Christian life; sometimes\nweaning you from that sweet and consoling sentiment which is the milk\nof babes, in order to humble you, to make you grow, and to make you\nrobust in the violent exercise of faith, by causing you to sweat the\nbread of the strong in the sweat of your brow. Would you only love\nGod according as He will make you take pleasure in loving Him? You\nwould be loving your own tenderness and feeling, fancying that you\nwere loving God. Even while receiving sensible gifts, prepare\nyourself by pure faith for the time when you might be deprived of\nthem and you will suddenly succumb if you had only relied on such\nsupport.\n\n\"O forgot to speak of some practices which may, at the beginning,\nfacilitate the remembrance of the offering one ought to make to God,\nof all the ordinary acts of the day.\n\n\"1. Form the resolution to do so, every morning, and call yourself to\naccount in your self-examination at night.\n\n\"2. Make no resolutions but for good reasons, either from propriety or\nthe necessity of relaxing the mind, etc. Thus, in accustoming one's\nself to retrench the useless little by little, one accustoms one's\nself to offer what is not proper to curtail.\n\n\"3. Renew one's self in this disposition whenever one is alone, in\norder to be better prepared to recollect it when in company.\n\n\"4. Whenever one surprises one's self in too great dissipation, or in\nspeaking too freely of his neighbor, let him collect himself and\noffer to God all the rest of the conversation.\n\n\"5. To flee, with confidence, to God, to act according to His will,\nwhen one enters company, or engages in some occupation which may\ncause one to fall into temptation. The sight of danger ought to warn\nof the need there is to lift the heart toward Him by one who may be\npreserved from it.\"\n\nWe both thanked her as she finished reading, and I begged her to lend\nme the volume that I might make the above copy.\n\nI hope I have gained some valuable hints from this letter, and that I\nshall see more plainly than ever that it is a religion of principle\nthat God wants from us, not one of mere feeling.\n\nHelen remarked that she was most struck by the assertion that one\ncannot forestall the graces that belong to a more advanced period.\nShe said she had assumed that she ought to experience all that the\nmost mature Christian did, and that it rested her to think of God as\ndoing this work for her, making repentance, for instance, a free\ngift, not a conquest to be won for one's self.\n\nMiss Clifford said that the whole idea of giving one's self to God in\nsuch little daily acts as visiting, shopping, and the like, was\nentirely new to her.\n\n\"But fancy,\" she went on, her beautiful face lighted up with\nenthusiasm, \"what a blessed life that must be, when the base things\nof this world and things that are despised, are so many links to the\ninvisible world and to the things God has chosen!\"\n\n\"In other words,\" I said, \"the top of the ladder that rests on earth\nreaches to heaven, and we may ascend it as the angels did in Jacob's\ndream.\"\n\n\"And descend too, as they did,\" Helen put in, despondently.\n\n\"Now you shall not speak in that tone,\" cried Miss Clifford. \"Let us\nlook at the bright side of life, and believe that God means us to be\nalways ascending, always getting nearer to Himself, always learning\nsomething new about Him, always loving Him better and better. To be\nsure, our souls are sick, and of themselves can't keep 'ever on the\nwing,' but I have had some delightful thoughts of late from just\nhearing the title of a book, 'God's method with the maladies of the\nsoul.' It gives one such a conception of the seeming ills of life;\nto think of Him as our Physician, the ills all remedies, the\ndeprivations only a wholesome regimen, the losses all gains. Why, as\nI study this individual case and that, see how patiently and\npersistently He tries now this remedy, now that, and how infallibly\nHe cures the souls that submit to His remedies, I love Him so! I love\nHim so! And I am so astonished that we are restive under His unerring\nhand! Think how He dealt with me. My soul was sick unto death, sick\nwith worldliness, and self-pleasing and folly. There was only one way\nof making me listen to reason, and that was just the way He took. He\nsnatched me right out of the world and shut me up in one room,\ncrippled, helpless, and alone, and set me to thinking, thinking,\nthinking, till I saw the emptiness and shallowness of all in which I\nhad hitherto been involved. And then He sent you and your mother to\nshow me the reality of life, and to reveal to me my invisible,\nunknown Physician. Can I love Him with half my heart? Can I be asking\nquestions as to how much I am to pay towards the debt I owe Him?\"\n\nBy this time Helen's work had fallen from her hands and tears were in\nher eyes.\n\n\"How I thank you,\" she said softly, \"for what you have said. You have\ninterpreted life to me! You have given me a new conception of my God\nand Saviour!\"\n\nMiss Clifford seemed quenched and humbled by these words; her\nenthusiasm faded away and she looked at Helen with a deprecatory air\nas she replied:\n\n\"Don't say that! I never felt so unfit for anything but to sit at the\nfeet of Christ's disciples and learn of them.\"\n\nYet I, so many years one of those disciples, been sitting at her\nfeet, and had learned of her. Never had I so realized the magnitude\nof the work to be done in this world, nor the power and goodness of\nHim who has undertaken to do it all. I was glad to be alone, to walk\nmy room singing praises to Him for every instance in which, as my\nPhysician, He had \"disappointed my hope and defeated my joys\" and\ngiven me to drink of the cup of sorrow and bereavement.\n\nMAY 24.-I read to Ernest the extract from Fenelon which has made such\nan impression on me.\n\n\"Every business man, in short every man leading an active life,\nought to read that,\" he said. \"We should have a new order of things\nas the result. Instead of fancying that our ordinary daily work was\none thing and our religion quite another thing, we should transmute\nour drudgery into acts of worship. Instead of going to\nprayer-meetings to get into a 'good frame' we should live in a good\nframe from morning till night, from night till morning, and prayer\nand praise would be only another form for expressing the love and\nfaith and obedience we had been exercising amid the pressure of\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"I only wish I had understood this years ago,\" I said. \"I have made\nprayer too much of a luxury, and have often inwardly chafed and\nfretted when the care of my children, at times, made it utterly\nimpossible to leave them for private devotion-when they have been\nsick, for instance, or in other like emergencies. I reasoned this\nway: 'Here is a special demand on my patience, and I am naturally\nimpatient. I must have time to go away and entreat the Lord to equip\nme for this conflict.' But I see now that the simple act of cheerful\nacceptance of the duty imposed and the solace and support withdrawn\nwould have united me more fully to Christ than the highest enjoyment\nof His presence in prayer could.\"\n\n\"Yes, every act of obedience is an act of worship,\" he said.\n\n\"But why don't we learn that sooner? Why do we waste our lives before\nwe learn how to live?\"\n\n\"I am not sure,\" he returned, \"that we do not learn as fast as we are\nwilling to learn. God does not force instruction upon us, but when we\nsay, as Luther did, 'More light, Lord, more light,'--the light\ncomes.\"\n\nI questioned myself after he had gone as to whether this could be\ntrue of me. Is there not in my heart some secret reluctance to know\nthe truth, lest that knowledge should call to a higher and holier\nlife than I have yet lived?\n\nJUNE 2.-I went to see Mrs. Campbell a few days ago, and found, to my\ngreat joy, that Helen had just been there, and that they had had an\nearnest conversation together. Mrs. Campbell failed a good deal of\nlate, and it is not probable we shall have her with us much longer.\nHer every look and word is precious to me when I think of her as one\nwho is so soon to enter the unseen world and see our Saviour, and be\nwelcomed home by Him. If it is so delightful to be with those who are\non the way to heaven, what would it be to have fellowship with one\nwho had come thence, and could tell us what it is!\n\nShe spoke freely about death, and said Ernest had promised to take\ncharge of her funeral, and to see that she was buried by the side of\nher husband.\n\n\"You see, my dear,\" she added, with a smile, \"though I am expecting\nto be so soon a saint in heaven, I am a human being still, with human\nweaknesses. What can it really matter where this weary old body is\nlaid away, when I have done with it, and gone and left it forever?\nAnd yet I am leaving directions about its disposal!\"\n\nI said I was glad that she was still human but that I did not think\nit a weakness to take thought for the abode in which her soul had\ndwelt so long. I saw that she was tired and was coming away, but she\nheld me and would not let me go.\n\n\"Yes, I am tired,\" she said, \"but what of that? It is only a question\nof days now, and all my tired feelings will be over. Then I shall be\nas young and fresh as ever, and shall have strength to praise and to\nlove God as I cannot do now. But before I go I want once more to tell\nyou how good He is, how blessed it is to suffer with Him, how\ninfinitely happy He has made me in the very hottest heat of the\nfurnace. It will strengthen you in your trials to recall this my\ndying testimony. There is no wilderness so dreary but that His love\ncan illuminate it, no desolation so desolate but that He can sweeten\nit. I know what I am saying. It is no delusion. I believe that the\nhighest, purest happiness is known only to those who have learned\nChrist in sick-rooms, in poverty, in racking suspense and anxiety,\namid hardships, and at the open grave.\"\n\nYes, the radiant face, worn by sickness and suffering, but radiant\nstill, said in language yet more unspeakably impressive,--\n\n\"To learn Christ, this is life!\"\n\nI came into the busy and noisy streets as one descending from the\nmount, and on reaching home found my darling Una very ill in Ernest's\narms. She had fallen, and injured her head. How I had prayed that God\nwould temper the wind to this shorn lamb, and now she had had such a\nfall! We watched over her till far into the night, scarcely speaking\nto each other, but I know by the way in which Ernest held my hand\nclasped in his that her precious life was in danger. He consented at\nlast to lie down, but Helen stayed with me. What a night it was! God\nonly knows what the human heart can experience in a space of time\nthat men call hours. I went over all the past history of the child,\nrecalling all her sweet looks and words, and my own secret repining\nat the delicate health that cut her off from so many of the pleasures\nthat belong to her age. And the more I thought, the more I clung to\nher, on whom, frail as she is, I was beginning to lean, and whose\ninfluence in our home I could not think of losing without a shudder.\nAlas, my faith seemed, for a time, to flee, and I see just what a\npoor, weak human being is without it. But before daylight crept into\nmy room light from on high streamed into my heart, and I gave even\nthis, my ewe-lamb, away, as my free-will offering to God. Could I\nrefuse Him my child because she was the very apple of my eye? Nay\nthen, but let me give to Him, not what, I value least, but what I\nprize and delight in most. Could I not endure heart-sickness for Him\nwho had given His only Son for me! And just as I got to that sweet\nconsent to suffer, He who had only lifted the rod to try my faith\nlaid it down. My darling opened her eyes and looked at us\nintelligently, and with her own loving smile. But I dared not snatch\nher and press her to my heart; for her sake I must be outwardly calm\nat least.\n\nJUNE 6.-I am at home with my precious Una, all the rest having gone\nto church. She lies peacefully on the bed, sadly disfigured, for the\ntime, but Ernest says he apprehends no danger now, and we are a most\nhappy, a most thankful household. The children have all been greatly\nmoved by the events of the last few days, and hover about their\nsister with great sympathy and tenderness. Where she fell from, or\nhow she fell, no one knows; she remembers nothing about it herself,\nand it will always remain a mystery.\n\nThis is the second time that this beloved child has been returned to\nus after we had given her away to God.\n\nAnd as the giving cost us ten-fold more now than it did when she was\na feeble baby, so we receive her as a fresh gift from our loving\nFather's hand, with ten-fold delight. Ah, we have no excuse for not\ngiving ourselves entirely to Him. He has revealed Himself to us in so\nmany sorrows and in so many joys; revealed Himself as He doth not\nunto the world!\n\n\n\nChapter 26\n\nXXVI.\n\nMAY 13.-THIS has been a Sunday to be held in long remembrance. We were\nsummoned early this morning to Mrs. Campbell, and have seen her\njoyful release from the fetters that have bound her long. Her loss to\nme is irreparable. But I truly thank God that one more tired traveler\nhad a sweet \"welcome home.\" I can minister no longer to her bodily\nwants, and listen to her counsels no more, but she has entered as an\ninspiration into my life, and through all eternity I shall bless God\nthat He gave me that faithful, praying friend. How little they know\nwho languish in what seems useless sick-rooms, or amid the\nrestrictions of frail health, what work they do for Christ by the\npower of saintly living, and by even fragmentary prayers.\n\nBefore her words fade out of my memory I want to write down, from\nhasty notes made at the time, her answer to some of the last\nquestions I asked her on earth. She had always enjoyed intervals of\ncomparative ease, and it was in one of these that I asked her what\nshe conceived to be the characteristics of an advanced state of\ngrace. She replied, \"I think that the mature Christian is always, at\nall times, and in all circumstances, what he was in his best moments\nin the progressive stages of his life. There were seasons, all along\nhis course, when he loved God supremely; when he embraced the cross\njoyfully and penitently; when he held intimate communion with Christ,\nand loved his neighbor as himself. But he was always in terror, lest\nunder the force of temptation, all this should give place to deadness\nand dullness, when he should chafe and rebel in the hour of trial,\nand judge his fellow-man with a harsh and bitter judgment, and give\nway to angry, passionate emotions. But these fluctuations cease,\nafter a time, to disturb his peace. Love to Christ becomes the\nabiding, inmost principle of his life; he loves Him rather for what\nHe is, than for what He has done or will do for him individually, and\nGod's honor becomes so dear to him that he feels personally wounded\nwhen that is called in question. And the will of God becomes so dear\nto him that he loves it best when it 'triumphs at his cost.'\n\n\"Once he only prayed at set times and seasons, and idolized good\nframes and fervent emotions. Now he prays without ceasing, and\nwhether on the mount or down in the depths depends wholly upon His\nSaviour.\n\n\"His old self-confidence has now given place to child-like humility\nthat will not let him take a step alone, and the sweet peace that is\nnow habitual to him combined with the sense of his own imperfections,\nfills him with love to his fellow-man. He hears and believes and\nhopes and endures all things and thinketh no evil. The tones of his\nvoice, the very expression of his countenance, become changed, love\nnow controlling where human passions held sway. In short, he is not\nonly a new creature in Jesus Christ, but the habitual and blessed\nconsciousness that this is so.\"\n\nThese words were spoken deliberately and with reflection.\n\n\"You have described my mother, just as she was from the moment her\nonly son, the last of six, was taken from her,\" I said, at last. \"I\nnever quite understood how that final sorrow weaned her, so to say,\nfrom herself, and made her life all love to God and all love to man.\nBut I see it now. Dear Mrs. Campbell, pray for me that I may yet wear\nher mantle!\"\n\nShe smiled with a significance that said she had already done so, and\nthen we parted-parted that she might end her pilgrimage and go to her\nrest-parted that I might pursue mine, I know not how long, nor amid\nhow many cares, and sorrows, nor with what weariness and\nheart-sickness-parted to meet again in the presence of Him we love,\nwith those who have come out of great tribulation, whose robes have\nbeen made white in the blood of the Lamb, and who are before the\nthrone of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple, to hunger\nno more, neither thirst any more, for the Lamb which is in the midst\nof the throne shall lead them into living fountains of waters; and\nGod shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.\n\nMAY 25.-We were talking of Mrs. Campbell, and of her blessed life and\nblessed death. Helen said it discouraged and troubled her to see and\nhear such things.\n\n\"The last time I saw her when she was able to converse,\" said she, \"I\ntold her that when I reflected on my want of submission to God's\nwill, I doubted whether I really could be His child. She said, in her\ngentle, sweet way-:\n\n'Would you venture to resist His will, if you could? Would you really\nhave your dear James back again in this world, if you could?\" 'I would,\nI certainly would,' I said. She returned, 'I sometimes find it a help,\nwhen dull and cramped in my devotions, to say to myself: Suppose Christ\nshould now appear before you, and you could see Him as He appeared to\nHis disciples on earth, what would you say to Him? This brings Him near,\nand I say what I would say if He were visibly present. I do the same\nwhen a new sorrow threatens me. I imagine my Redeemer as coming\npersonally to say to me, \"For your sake I am a man of sorrows and\nacquainted with grief; now for My sake give me this child, bear this\nburden, submit to this loss.\" Can I refuse Him? Now, dear, he has really\ncome thus to you, and asked you to show your love to Him, your faith in\nHim, by giving Him the most precious of your treasures. If He were here\nat this moment, and offered to restore it to you, would you dare to say,\n\"Yea, Lord, I know, far better than Thou dost, what is good for him and\ngood for me; I will have him return to me, cost what it may; in this\nworld of uncertainties and disappointments I shall be sure of happiness\nin his society, and he will enjoy more here on earth with me than he\ncould enjoy in the companionship of saints and angels and of the Lord\nHimself in heaven.\" Could you dare to say this?' Oh, Katy, what straits\nshe drove me into! No, I could not dare to say that!\"\n\n\"Then, my darling little sister\" I cried, \"you will give up--this\nstruggle? You will let God do what He will with His own?\"\n\n\"I have to let Him,\" she replied; \"but I submit because I must.\"\n\nI looked at her gentle, pure face as she uttered these words, and\ncould only marvel at the will that had no expression there.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she said, \"do you think a real Christian can feel as I do?\nFor my part I doubt it. I doubt everything.\"\n\n\"Doubt everything, but believe in Christ,\" I said. \"Suppose, for\nargument's sake, you are not a Christian. You can become one now.\"\nThe color rose in her lovely face; she clasped her hands in a sort of\necstasy.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I can.\"\n\nAt last God had sent her the word she wanted.\n\nMAY 28.-Helen came to breakfast this morning in a simple white dress.\nI had not time to tell the children not to allude to it, so they\nbegan in chorus:\n\n\"Why, Aunt Helen! you have put on a white dress!\"\n\n\"Why, Aunty, how queer you look!\"\n\n\"Hurrah! if she don't look like other folks!\"\n\nShe bore it all with her usual gentleness; or rather with a positive\nsweetness that captivated them as her negative patience had never\ndone. I said nothing to her, nor did she to me till late in the day,\nwhen she came to me, and said:\n\n\"Katy, God taught you what to say. All these years I have been\ntormenting myself with doubts, as to whether I could be His child\nwhile so unable to say, Thy will be done. If you had said, 'Why,\nyes, you must be His child, for you professed yourself one a long\ntime ago, and ever since have lived like one,' I should have remained\nas wretched as ever. As it is, a mountain has been rolled off, my\nheart. Yes, if I was not His child yesterday, I can become one\nto-day; if I did not love Him then, I can begin now.\"\n\nI do not doubt that, she was His child, yesterday and last year, and\nyears ago. But let her think, what she pleases. A new life is opening\nbefore her; I believe it is to be a life of entire devotion to God,\nand that out of her sorrow there shall spring up a wondrous joy.\n\nSEPT. 2, Sweet Briar Farm.-Ernest spent Sunday with us, and I have\njust driven him to the station and seen him safely off. Things have\nprospered with us to such a degree that he has been extravagant\nenough to give me the use, for the summer, of a bonnie little nag and\nan antiquated vehicle, and I have learned to drive. To be sure I\nbroke one of the shafts of the poor old thing the first time I\nventured forth alone, and the other day--nearly upset my cargo of\nchildren in a pond where I was silly enough to undertake to water my\nhorse. But Ernest, as usual, had patience with me and begged me to\nspend as much time as possible in driving about with the children. It\nis a new experience, and I enjoy it quite as much as he hoped I\nshould. Helen is not with us; she has spent the whole summer with\nMartha; for Martha, poor thing, is suffering terribly from rheumatism\nand is almost entirely helpless. I am so sorry for her, after so many\nyears of vigorous health, how hard it must be to endure this pain.\nWith this drawback, we have had a delightful summer; not one sick\nday; nor one sick night. With no baby to keep me awake, I sleep\nstraight through, as Raymond says, and wake in the morning refreshed\nand cheerful. We shall have to go home soon; how cruel it seems to\nbring up children in a great city! Yet what can be done about it?\nWherever there are men and women there must be children; what a\nhowling wilderness either city or country would be without them!\n\nThe only drawback on my felicity is the separation, from Ernest,\nwhich becomes more painful every year to us both. God has blessed our\nmarried life; it has had its waves and its billows, but, thanks unto\nHim, it has at last settled down into a calm sea of untroubled peace.\nWhile I was secretly braiding my dear husband for giving so attention\nto his profession as to neglect me and my children, he was becoming,\nevery day, more the ideal of a physician, cool, calm, thoughtful,\nstudious, ready to sacrifice his life at any moment in the interests\nof humanity. How often I have mistaken his preoccupied air for\nindifference; how many times I have inwardly accused him of coldness,\nwhen his whole heart and soul were filled with the grave problem of\nlife, aye, and of death likewise.\n\nBut we understand each other now, and I am sure that God dealt wisely\nand kindly with us when He brought together two such opposite\nnatures. No man of my vehement nature could have borne with me as\nErnest has done, and if he had married a woman as calm, as\nundemonstrative as himself what a strange home his would have been\nfor the nurture of little children? But the heart was in him, and\nonly wanted to be waked up, and my life has called forth music from\nhis. Ah, there are no partings and meetings now that leave discords\nin the remembrance, no neglected birthdays, no forgotten courtesies.\nIt is beautiful to see the thoughtful brow relax in presence of wife\nand children, and to know that ours is, at last, the happy home I so\nlong sighed for. Is the change all in Ernest? Is it not possible that\nI have grown more reasonable, less childish and aggravating?\n\nWe are at a farm-house. Everything is plain, but neat and nice. I\nasked Mrs. Brown, our hostess; the other day, if she did not envy me\nmy four little pets; she smiled, said they were the best children she\never saw, and that it was well to have a family if you have means to\nstart them in the world; for her part, she lived from, hand to mouth\nas it was, and was sure she could never stand the worry and care of a\nhouse full of young ones.\n\n\"But the worry and care is only half the story,\" I said. \"The other\nhalf is pure joy and delight.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so, to people that are well-to-do,\" she replied; \"but to\npoor folks, driven to death as we are, it's another thing. I was\ntelling him yesterday what a mercy it was there wasn't any young ones\nround under my feet, and I could take city boarders, and help work\noff the mortgage on the farm.\"\n\n\"And what did your husband say to that?\"\n\n\"Well, he said we were young and hearty, and there was no such\ntearing hurry about the mortgage and that he'd give his right hand to\nhave a couple of boys like yours.\"\n\n\"Well?\"--\"Why, I said, supposing we had a couple, of boys, they\nwouldn't be like yours, dressed to look genteel and to have their\ngenteel ways but a pair of wild colts, into everything, tearing their\nclothes off their backs, and wasting faster than we could earn. He\nsaid 'twasn't the clothes, 'twas the flesh and blood he wanted, and\n'twasn't no use to argufy about it; a man that hadn't got any\nchildren wasn't mor'n half a man. 'Well,' says I, supposing you had a\npack of, 'em, what have you got to give 'em?' 'Jest exactly what my\nfather and mother gave me,' says he; 'two hands to earn their bread\nwith, and a welcome you could have heard from Dan to Beersheba.'\"\n\n\"I like to hear that!\" I said. \"And I hope many such welcomes will\nresound in this house. Suppose money does come in while little\ngoes-out; suppose you get possession of the whole farm; what then?\nWho will enjoy it with you? Who will you leave it to when you die?\nAnd in your old age who will care for you?\"\n\n\"You seem awful earnest,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, I am in earnest. I want to see little children adorning every\nhome, as flowers adorn every meadow and every wayside. I want to see\nthem welcomed to the homes they enter, to see their parents grow less\nand less selfish, and more and more loving, because they have come. I\nwant to see God's precious gifts accepted, not frowned upon and\nrefused.\"\n\nMr. Brown came in, so I could say no more. But my heart warmed\ntowards him, as I looked at his frank good-humored face, and I should\nhave been glad to give him the right hand of fellowship, As it was I\ncould only say a word or two about the beauty of his farm, and the\nscenery of this whole region.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, gratified that I appreciated his fields and groves,\n\"it is a tormented pretty-laying farm. Part of it was her father's,\nand part of it was my father's; there ain't another like it in the\ncountry. As to the scenery, I don't know as I ever looked at it; city\nfolks talk a good deal about it, but they've nothing to do but look\nround.\" Walter came trotting in on two bare, white feet, and with his\nshoes in his hand. He had had his nap, felt, as bright; and fresh as\nhe looked rosy, and I did not wonder at Mr. Brown's catching him up\nand clasping his sunburnt arms about the little fellow, and pressing\nhim against the warm heart that yearned for nestlings of its own.\n\nSept. 23-Home again, and the full of the thousand cares that follow\nthe summer and precede the winter. But let mothers and wives fret as\nthey will, they enjoy these labors of love, and would feel lost\nwithout them. For what amount of leisure, ease and comfort would I\nexchange husband and children and this busy home?\n\nMartha is better, and Helen has come back to us. I don't know how we\nhave lived without her so long. Her life seems necessary to the\ncompletion of every one of ours. Some others have fancied it\nnecessary to the completion of theirs, but she has not a greed with\nthem. We are glad enough to keep her; and yet I hope the day will\ncome when she, so worthy of it, will taste the sweet joys of wifehood\nand motherhood.\n\nJANUARY 1, 1853.-It is not always so easy to practice, as it is to\npreach. I can see in my wisdom forty reasons for having four children\nand no more. The comfort of sleeping in peace, of having a little\ntime to read, and to keep on with my music; strength with which to\nlook after Ernest's poor people when they are sick; and, to tell the\ntruth, strength to be bright and fresh and lovable to him--all these\nlittle joys have been growing very precious to me, and now--I must\ngive them up. I want to do it cheerfully and without a frown. But I\nfind I love to have my own way, and that at the very moment I was\nasking God to appoint my work for me, I was secretly marking it out\nfor myself. It is mortifying to find my will less in harmony with His\nthan I thought it was; and that I want to prescribe to Him how I\nshall spend the time and the health and the strength which are His,\nnot mine. But I will not rest until till this struggle is over; till\nI can say with a smile, \"Not my will! Not my will! But Thine!\"\n\nWe have been, this winter, one of the happiest families on earth. Our\nlove to each other, Ernest's and mine, though not perfect-nothing on\nearth is-has grown less selfish, more Christ-like; it has been\nsanctified by prayer and by the sorrows we have borne together. Then\nthe children have been well and happy, and the source of almost\nunmitigated joy and comfort. And Helen's presence in this home, her\nsisterly affection, her patience with the children and her influence\nover them, is a benediction for which I cannot be thankful enough.\nHow delightful it is to have a sister! I think it is not often the\ncase that own sisters have such perfect Christian sympathy with each\nother as we have. Ever since the day she ceased to torment herself\nwith the fear that she was not a child of God, and laid aside the\nsombre garments she had worn so long, she has had a peace that has\nhardly known a cloud. She says, in a note written me about the time:\n\n\"I want you to know, my darling sister, that the despondency that made\nmy affliction so hard to bear fled before those words of yours which,\nas I have already told you, God taught you to speak. I do not know\nwhether I was really His child, at the time, or not. I had certainly\nhad an experience very different from yours; prayer had never been\nmuch more to me than a duty; and I had never felt the sweetness of\nthat harmony between God and I the human soul that I now know can\ntake away all the bitterness from the cup of sorrow. I knew-who can\nhelp knowing it that reads God's word?-that he required submission\nfrom His children and that His children gave it, no matter what it\ncost. The Bible is full of beautiful expressions of it; so are our\nhymns; so are the written lives of all good men and good women; and I\nhave seen it in you, my dear Katy, at the very moment you were\naccusing yourself of the want of it. Entire oneness of the will with\nthe Divine Will seem to me to be the law and the gospel of the\nChristian life; and this evidence of a renewed nature, I found\nwanting in myself. At any moment during the three years following\nJames' death I would have snatched away from God, if I could; I was\nmiserably lonely and desolate without him, not merely because he had\nbeen so much, to me, but because his loss revealed to me the distance\nbetween Christ and my soul. All I could do was to go on praying, year\nafter year, in a dreary, hopeless way, that I might learn to say, as\nDavid did, 'I opened not my mouth because Thou didst it.' When you\nsuggested that instead of trying to figure out whether I had loved\nGod, I should begin to love Him now, light broke in upon my soul; I\ngave myself to Him that instant and as soon as I could get away by\nmyself I fell upon my knees and gave myself up to the sense of His\nsovereignty for the first time in my life. Then, too, I looked at my\n'light affliction,' and at the 'weight of glory' side by side, and\nthanked Him that through the one He had revealed to me the other.\nKaty, I know the human heart is deceitful above all things, but I\nthink it would be a dishonor to God to doubt that He then revealed\nHimself to me as He doth not to the world, and that the sweet peace I\nthen found in yielding to Him will be more or less mine so long as I\nlive. Oh, if all sufferers could learn what I have learned! that\nevery broken heart could be healed as mine has been healed! My\nprecious sister, cannot we make this one part of our mission on\nearth, to pray for every sorrow-stricken soul, and whenever we have\ninfluence over such, to lead it to honor God by instant obedience to\nHis will, whatever that may be? I have dishonored Him by years of\nrebellious, carefully-nursed sorrow; I want to honor Him now by years\nof resignation and grateful joy.\"\n\nReading this letter over in my present mood has done me good. More\nbeautiful faith in God than Helen's I have never seen; let me have\nit, too. May this prayer, which, under the inspiration of the moment,\nI can offer without a misgiving, become the habitual, deep-seated\ndesire of my soul:\n\n\"Bring into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. Take\nwhat I cannot give--my heart, body, thoughts, time, abilities, money,\nhealth, strength, nights, days, youth, age, and spend them in Thy\nservice, O my crucified Master, Redeemer, God. Oh, let these not be\nmere words! Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon\nearth that I desire in comparison of Thee. My heart is athirst for\nGod, for the living God. When shall I come and appear before God?\"\n\n\n\nChapter 27\n\nXXVII.\n\nAUGUST 1\n\nI HAVE just written to Mrs. Brown to know whether she will take us\nfor the rest of the summer. A certain little man, not a very old\nlittle man either, has kept us in town till now. Since he has come,\nwe are all very glad of him, though he came on his own invitation,\nbrought no wardrobe with him, does not pay for his board, never\nspeaks a word, takes no notice of us, and wants more waiting on than\nany one else in the house. The children are full of delicious\ncuriosity about him, and overwhelm him with presents of the most\nheterogeneous character.\n\nSweet Briar Farm, AUG. 9.-We got there this afternoon, bag and\nbaggage. I had not said a word to Mrs. Brown about the addition to\nour family circle, knowing she had plenty of room, and as we alighted\nfrom the carriage, I snatched my baby from his nurse's arms and ran\ngaily up the walk with him in mine. \"If this splendid fellow doesn't\nconvert her nothing will,\" I said to myself. At that instant what\nshould I see but Mrs. Brown, running to meet me with a boy in her\narms exactly like Mr. Brown, only not quite six feet long, and not\nsunburnt.\n\n\"There!\" I cried, holding up my little old man.\n\n\"There!\" said she, holding up hers.\n\nWe laughed till we cried; she took my baby and I took hers; after\nlooking at him I liked mine better than ever; after looking at mine\nshe was perfectly satisfied with hers.\n\nWe got into the house at last; that is to say, we mothers did; the\nchildren darted through it and out of the door that led to the fields\nand woods, and vanished in the twinkling of an eye.\n\nMrs. Brown had always been a pretty woman, with bright eyes, shining,\nwell-kept hair, and a color in her cheeks like the rose which had\ngiven its name to her farm. But there was now a new beauty in her\nface; the mysterious and sacred sufferings and joys of maternity had\ngiven it thought and feeling.\n\n\"I had no idea I should be so fond of a baby,\" she said, kissing it,\nwhenever she stopped to put in a comma; \"but I don't know how I ever\ngot along without one. He's off at work nearly the whole day, and\nwhen I had got through with mine, and had put on my afternoon dress,\nand was ready to sit down, you can't think how lonesome it was. But\nnow by the time I am dressed, baby is ready to go out to get the air;\nhe knows the minute he sees me bring out his little hat that he is\ngoing to see his father and he's awful fond of his father. Though\nthat isn't so strange, either, for his father's awful fond of him.\nAll his little ways are so pretty, and he never cries unless he's\nhungry or tired. Tell mother a pretty story now; yes, mother hears,\nbless his little heart!\"\n\nThen when Mr. Brown came home to his supper, his face was a sight to\nsee, as he caught sight of me at my open window, and came to it with\nthe child's white arms clinging to his neck, looking as happy and as\nbashful as a girl.\n\n\"You see she must needs go to quartering this bouncing young one on\nto me,\" he said, \"as if I didn't have to work hard enough before.\nWell, maybe he'll get his feed off the farm; we'll see what we can\ndo.\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" Una whispered, as he went off his facsimile, to kiss it\nrapturously, behind a woodpile, \"do you think Mrs. Brown's baby very\npretty?\"\n\nWhich was so mild a way of suggesting the fact of the case, that I\nkissed her without trying to hide my amusement.\n\nAUG. 10.-After being cooped up in town so large a part of the summer,\nthe children are nearly wild with delight at being in the country\nonce more. Even our demure Una skips about with a buoyancy I have\nnever seen in her; she never has her ill turns when out of the city,\nand I wish, for her sake, we could always live here. As to Raymond\nand Walter, I never pretend to see them except at their meals and\ntheir bedtime; they just live outdoors, following the men at their\nwork, asking all sorts of absurd questions, which Mr. Brown reports\nto me every night, with shouts of delighted laughter. Two gay and\ngladsome boys they are; really good without being priggish; I don't\nthink I could stand that. People ask me how it happens that my\nchildren are all so promptly obedient and so happy. As if it chanced\nthat some parents have such children, or chanced that some have not!\nI am afraid it is only too true, as some one has remarked, that \"this\nis the age of obedient parents!\" What then will be the future of\ntheir children? How can they yield to God who have never been taught\nto yield to human authority? And how well fitted will they be to rule\ntheir own households who have never learned to rule themselves?\n\nAUG. 31.-This has been one of those cold, dismal, rainy days which\nare not infrequent during the month of August. So the children have\nbeen obliged to give up the open air, of which they are so fond, and\nfall back upon what entertainment could be found within the house. I\nhave read to them the little journal I kept during the whole life of\nthe brother I am not willing they should forget. His quaint and\nsagacious sayings were delicious to them; the history of his first\nsteps, his first words sounded to them like a fairy tale. And the\nstory of his last steps, his last words on earth, had for them such a\ntender charm, that there was a cry of disappointment from them all,\nwhen I closed the little book and told them we should have to wait\ntill we got to heaven before we could know anything more about his\nprecious life.\n\nHow thankful I am that I kept this journal, and that I have almost as\ncharming ones about most of my other children! What I speedily forgot\namid the pressure of cares and of new events is safely written down,\nand will be the source of endless pleasure to them long after the\nhand that wrote has ceased from its labors, and lies inactive and at\nrest.\n\nAh, it is a blessed thing to be a mother!\n\nSEPTEMBER 1.-This baby of mine, is certainly the sweetest and best I\never had I feel an inexpressible tenderness for it, which I cannot\nquite explain to myself, for I have loved them all dearly, most\ndearly. Perhaps it is so with all mothers, perhaps they all grow\nmore loving, more forbearing, more patient as they grow older, and\nyearn over these helpless little ones with an ever-increasing, yet\nchastened delight. One cannot help sheltering their tender infancy,\nwho will so soon pass forth to fight the battle of life, each one\nwaging an invisible warfare against invisible foes. How thankfully we\nwould fight it for them, if we might!\n\nSEPTEMBER 20.-The mornings and evenings are very cool now, while in\nthe middle of the day it is quite hot. Ernest comes to see us very\noften, under the pretense that he can't trust me with so young a baby\n! He is so tender and thoughtful, and spoils me so, that this world\nis very bright to me; I am a little jealous of it; I don't want to be\nso happy in Ernest, or in my children, as to forget for one instant\nthat I am a pilgrim and a stranger on earth.\n\nEVENING.-There is no danger that I shall. Ernest suddenly made his\nappearance to-night, and in a great burst of distress quite unlike\nanything I ever saw in him, revealed to me that he had been feeling\nthe greatest anxiety about me ever since the baby came. It is all\nnonsense. I cough, to be sure; but that it is owing to the varying\ntemperature we always have at this season. I shall get over, it as\nsoon as we get home, I dare say.\n\nBut suppose I should not; what then? Could I leave this precious\nlittle flock, uncared for, untended? Have I faith to believe that if\nGod calls me away from them, it will be in love to them? I do not\nknow. The thought of getting away from the sin that still so easily\nbesets me is very delightful, and I have enjoyed so many, many such\nforetastes of the bliss of heaven that I know I should be happy\nthere, but then my children, all of them under twelve years old! I\nwill not choose, I dare not.\n\nMy married life has been a beautiful one. It is true that sin and\nfolly, and sickness and sorrow, have marred its perfection, but it\nhas been adorned by a love which has never faltered. My faults have\nnever alienated Ernest; his faults, for like other human beings he\nhas them, have never overcome my love to him. This has been the gift\nof God in answer to our constant prayer, that whatever other\nbereavement we might have to suffer, we might never be bereft of this\nbenediction. It has been the glad secret of a happy marriage, and I\nwish I could teach it to every human being who enters upon a state\nthat must bring with it the depth of misery, or life's most sacred\nand mysterious joy.\n\nOCTOBER 6.-Ernest has let me stay here to see the autumnal foliage\nin its ravishing beauty for the first, perhaps for the last, time.\nThe woods and fields and groves are lighting up my very soul! It\nseems as if autumn had caught the inspiration and the glow of summer,\nhad hidden its floral beauty, its gorgeous sunsets and its bow of\npromise in its heart of hearts, and was now flashing it forth upon\nthe world with a lavish and opulent hand. I can hardly tear myself\naway, and return to the prose of city life. But Ernest has come for\nus, and is eager to get us home before colder weather. I laugh at his\nanxiety about his old wife. Why need he fancy that this trifling\ncough is not to give way as it often has done before? Dear Ernest! I\nnever knew that he loved me so.\n\nOCTOBER 31.-Ernest's fear that he had let me stay too long in the\ncountry does not seem to be justified. We went so late that I wanted\nto indulge the children by staying late. So we have only just got\nhome. I feel about as well as usual; it is true I have a little\nsoreness a bout the chest, but it does not signify anything.\n\nI never was so happy, in my husband and children, in other words in\nmy home, as I am now. Life looks very attractive. I am glad that I am\ngoing to get well.\n\nBut Ernest watches me carefully, and want me, as a precautionary\nmeasure, to give up music, writing, sewing, and painting-the very\nthings that occupy me! and lead an idle, useless life, for a time. I\ncannot refuse what he asks so tenderly, and as a personal favor to\nhimself. Yet I should like to fill the remaining pages of my journal;\nI never like to leave things incomplete.\n\nJUNE 1, 1858.-I wrote that seven years ago, little dreaming how long\nit, would be before I should use a pen. Seven happy years ago!\n\nI suppose that some who have known what my outward life has been\nduring this period would think of me as a mere object of pity. There\nhas certainly been suffering and deprivation enough to justify the\nsympathy of my dear husband and children and the large circle of\nfriends who have rallied about us. How little we knew we had so many!\n\nGod has dealt very tenderly with me. I was not stricken down by\nsudden disease, nor were the things I delighted in all taken away at\nonce. There was a gradual loss of strength and gradual increase of\nsuffering, and it was only by degrees that I was asked to give up the\nemployments in which I'd delighted, my household duties, my visits to\nthe sick and suffering, the society of beloved friends. Perhaps\nErnest perceived and felt my deprivations sooner than I did; his\nsympathy always seemed to out-run my disappointments. When I compare\nhim, as he is now, with what he was when I first knew him I bless God\nfor all the precious lessons He has taught him at my cost. There, is\na tenacity and persistence about his love for me that has made these\nyears almost as wearisome to him as they have been to me. As to\nmyself, if I had been told what I was to learn through these\nprotracted sufferings I am afraid I should have shrunk back in terror\nand so have lost all the sweet lessons God proposed to teach me. As\nit is He has led me on, step by step, answering my prayers in His own\nway; and I cannot bear to have a single human being doubt that it has\nbeen a perfect way. I love and adore it just as it is.\n\nPerhaps the suspense has been one of the most trying features of my\ncase. Just as I have unclasped my hand from my dear Ernest's; just\nas I have let go my almost frantic hold of my darling children; just\nas heaven opened before me and I fancied my weariness over and my\nwanderings done; just then almost every alarming symptom would\ndisappear and life recall me from the threshold of heaven itself.\nThus I have been emptied from vessel to vessel, til I have learned\nthat he only is truly happy who has no longer a choice of his own,\nand lies passive in God's hand.\n\nEven now no one can foretell the issue of this sickness. We live a\nday at a time not knowing what shall be on the morrow. But whether I\nlive or die my happiness is secure and so I believe is of my beloved\nones. This is a true picture of our home:\n\nA sick-room full of the suffering ravages the body but cannot touch\nthe soul. A worn, wasting mother ministered unto by a devoted husband\nand by unselfish Christian children. Some of the peace of God if not\nall of it, shines in every face, is heard in every tone. It is a home\nthat typifies and foreshadows the home that is perfect and eternal.\n\nOur dear Helen has been given us for this emergency. Is it not\nstrange that seeing our domestic life should have awakened in her\nsome yearnings for a home and a heart and children of her own. She\nhas said that there was a weary point in her life when she made up\nher mind that she was never to know these joys. But she accepted her\nlot gracefully. I do not know any other word that describes so well\nthe beautiful offering she made of her life to God and then to us. He\naccepted it, and as given her all the cares and responsibilities of\ndomestic life without the transcendent joys that sustain the wife and\nthe mother. She has been all in all to our children and God has been\nall in all to her. And she is happy in His service and in our love.\n\nJUNE 20-It took me nearly two weeks to write the above at intervals\nas my strength allowed. Ernest has consented to my finishing this\nvolume, of which so few pages yet remain. And he let me see a dear\nold friend who came all the way from my native town to see me-Dr.\nEaton, our family physician as long as I could remember. He is of an\nadvanced age but full of vigor, his eye bright, and with a healthful\nglow on his cheek. But he says he is waiting and longing for his\nsummons home. About that home we had a delightful talk together that\ndid my very heart good. Then he made me tell him about this long\nsickness and the years of frail health and some of the sorrows\nthrough which I had toiled.\n\n\"Ah, these lovely children are explained now,\" he said.\n\n\"Do you really think,\" I asked, \"that it has been good for my\nchildren to have a feeble, afflicted mother?\"\n\n\"Yes, I really think so. A disciplined mother--disciplined children.\"\n\nThis comforting thought is one of the last drops in a cup of felicity\nalready full.\n\nJUNE 2-Another Sunday, and all at church except my darling Una who\nkeeps watch over her mother. These Sundays when I have had them each\nalone in turn have been blessed days to them and to me. Surely this\nis some compensation for what they lose in me of health and vigor. I\nknow the state of each soul as far as it can be known, and have every\nreason to believe that my children all love my Saviour and are trying\nto live for Him. I have learned at last not to despise the day of\nsmall things, to cherish the tenderest blossom, and to expect my dear\nones to be imperfect before they become perfect Christians.\n\nUna is a sweet composed young girl now eighteen years old and what\ncan I say more of the love her brothers bear her than this: they\nnever tease her. She has long ceased asking why she must have\ndelicate health when so many others of her age are full of animal\nlife and vigor but stands in her lot and place doing what she can,\nsuffering what she must, with a meekness that makes her lovely in my\neyes, and that I am sure unites her closely to Christ.\n\nJUNE 27.-It was Raymond's turn to stay with me to-day. He opened his\nheart to me more freely than he had ever done before.\n\n\"Mamma,\" he began, \"if papa is willing, I have made up my mind-that\nis to say if I get decently good-to go on a mission.\"\n\nI said playfully:\n\n\"And mamma's consent is not to be asked?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, getting hold of what there is left of my hand. \"I\nknow you wouldn't say a word. Don't you remember telling me once when\nI was a little boy that I might go and welcome?\"\n\n\"And don't you remember,\" I returned, \"that you cried for joy, and\nthen relieved your mind still farther by walking on your hands with\nyour feet in the air?\"\n\nWe both laughed heartily at this remembrance, and then I said:\n\n\"My dear boy, you know your fathers plan for you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know he expects me to study with him, and take his place in\nthe world.\"\n\n\"And it is a very important place.\"\n\nHis countenance fell as he fancied I was not entering heartily into\nhis wishes.\n\n\"Dear Raymond,\" I went on, \"I gave you to God long before you gave\nyourself to Him. If He can make you useful in your own, or in other\nlands, I bless His name. Whether I live to see you a man, or not, I\nhope you will work in the Lord's vineyard, wherever He calls. I never\nasked anything but usefulness, in all my prayers for you; never once.\"\nHis eyes filled with tears; he kissed me and walked away to the\nwindow to compose himself. My poor, dear, lovable, loving boy! He has\nall his mother's trials and struggles to contend with; but what\nmatter it if they bring him the same peace?\n\nJUNE 30.--Everybody wonders to see me once more interested in my\nlong-closed Journal, and becoming able to see the dear friends from\nwhom I have been, in a measure cut off. We cannot ask the meaning of\nthis remarkable increase of strength.\n\nI have no wish to choose. But I have come to the last page of my\nJournal, and living or dying, shall write in this volume no more. It\ncloses upon a life of much childishness and great sinfulness, whose\nrecord makes me blush with shame but I no longer need to relieve my\nheart with seeking sympathy in its unconscious pages nor do I believe\nit well to go on analyzing it as I have done. I have had large\nexperience of both joy and sorrow; I have the nakedness and the\nemptiness and I have seen the beauty and sweetness of life. What I\nsay now, let me say to Jesus. What time and strength I used to spend\nin writing here, let me spend in praying for all men, for all\nsufferers who are out of the way, for all whom I love. And their name\nis Legion for I love everybody.\n\nYes I love everybody! That crowning joy has come to me at last.\nChrist is in my soul; He is mine; I am as conscious of it as that my\nhusband and children are mine; and His Spirit flows from mine in the\ncalm peace of a river whose banks are green with grass and glad with\nflowers. If I die it will be to leave a wearied and worn body, and a\nsinful soul to go joyfully to be with Christ, to weary and to sin no\nmore. If I live, I shall find much blessed work to do for Him. So\nliving or dying I shall be the Lord's.\n\nBut I wish, oh how earnestly, that whether I go or stay, I could\ninspire some lives with the joy that is now mine. For many years I\nhave been rich in faith; rich in an unfaltering confidence that I was\nbeloved of my God and Saviour. But something was wanting I was ever\ngroping for a mysterious grace the want of which made me often\nsorrowful in the very midst of my most sacred joy, imperfect when I\nmost longed for perfection. It was that personal love to Christ of\nwhich my precious mother so often spoke to me which she often urged\nme to seek upon my knees. If I had known then, as I know now what\nthis priceless treasure could be to a sinful human soul, I would have\nsold all that I had to buy the field wherein it lay hidden. But not\ntill I was shut up to prayer and to the study of Gods word by the\nloss of earthly joys, sickness destroying the flavor of them all, did\nI begin to penetrate the mystery that is learned under the cross. And\nwondrous as it is, how simple is this mystery! To love Christ and to\nknow that I love Him-this is all!\n\nAnd when I entered upon the sacred yet oft-times homely duties of\nmarried life, if this love had been mine, how would that life have\nbeen transfigured! The petty faults of my husband under which I\nchafed would not have moved me; I should have welcomed Martha and her\nfather to my home and made them happy there; I should have had no\nconflicts with my servants, shown no petulance to my children. For it\nwould not have been I who spoke and acted but Christ who lived in me.\n\nAlas! I have had less than seven years in which to atone for a\nsinful, wasted past and to live a new and a Christ-like life. If I am\nto have yet more, thanks be to Him who has given me the victory, that\nLife will be Love. Not the love that rests in the contemplation and\nadoration of its object; but the love that gladdens, sweetens,\nsolaces other lives.\n\n    O gifts of gifts!\n    O grace of faith\n    My God! how can it be\n    That Thou who hast discerning love,\n    Shouldst give that gift to me?\n\n    How many hearts thou mightst have had\n    More innocent than mine!\n    How many souls more worthy far\n    Of that sweet touch of Thine?\n\n    Oh grace! into unlikeliest hearts\n    It is thy boast to come\n    The glory of Thy light to find\n    In darkest spots a home.\n\n    Oh happy, happy that I am!\n    If thou canst be, O faith\n    The treasure that thou art in life\n    What wilt thou be in death?\n\n-------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nSTEPPING WESTWARD.\n\nWHILE my fellow-traveler and I were walking by the side of Loch\nKatrine one fine evening after sunset in our road to a hut where in\nthe course of our tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks\nbefore, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region\ntwo well-dressed women, one of whom said to us by way of greeting,\n\"What, you are stepping westward?\"\n\n    \"What, you are stepping westward?\"\n    \"Yea.\"--'Twould be a wildish destiny\n    If we who thus together roam\n    In a strange land and far from home\n    Were in this place the guests of chance:\n    Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,\n    Though home or shelter he had none,\n    With such a sky to lead him on?\n    The dewy ground was dark and cold;\n    Behind, all gloomy to behold:\n    And stepping westward seemed to be\n    A kind of heavenly destiny:\n    I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound\n    Of something without place and bound,\n    And seemed to give me spiritual right\n    To travel through that region bright.\n    The voice was soft and she who spake\n    Was walking by her native lake:\n    The salutation had to me\n    The very sound of courtesy:\n    Its power was felt; and while my eye\n    Was fixed upon the glowing sky,\n    The echo of the voice enwrought\n    A human sweetness with the thought\n    Of traveling through the world that lay\n    Before me in my endless way.--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\nThe End","title":"Stepping Heavenward","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":96186}