THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 DAVIS 
 

 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ir 
 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 MRS. E. PRENTISS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF THB " FLOWER OF THK FAMILY," THB "SUSY BOOKS/' " LJTTUI 
 
 LOU^S SAYINGS AND DOINGS," THB " HOMB AT GRBYLOCK," 
 
 "UKBANK AND HIS FRIENDS," ETC., ETC 
 
 New Stereotype Edition, vnth a Sketch of the Author. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 
 
 38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 . 01 
 
 DAVIS 
 
Copyright, itto, 
 Bv Axflox D. F. RAITOOLFH ft COMFAXV 
 
 ROBERT RUTTBA, 
 
 Binder^ 
 -f> and 1 18 East i4th Suet 
 
INTBODUCTOEY NOTE. 
 
 \The present edition of "Stepping Heavenward" is printed 
 from new stereotype plates. The publishers have thought that its 
 value would be further enhanced by a brief notice of the author; 
 and at their request the following sketch has been prepared.] 
 
 ELIZABETH PRENTISS was born at Portland, Me., on the 
 26th of October, 1818, and died, after a brief illness, 
 at Dorset, Vt., on the 13th of August, 1878. She was 
 the youngest daughter of the Eev. Edward Payson, 
 D.D., a very eminent servant of Christ, whose praise 
 is still in all the churches. At the age of sixteen she 
 began to write for the press : the little volume entitled 
 " Only a Dandelion," consisting chiefly of her early con 
 tributions to " The Youth's Companion," of Boston. The 
 works by which she is best known, are " Little Susy's Six 
 Birthdays," with its companions, and " Stepping Heaven 
 ward." The latter was first published in 1869. It has 
 passed through many editions in this country and has had 
 a very wide circulation in Great Britain, Canada and Aus 
 tralia. It was also translated into French and German, 
 and several editions of it have been issued in those lan 
 guages. Last year it appeared at Leipsic in Tauch- 
 nitz's "Collection of British Authors." Among Mrs. 
 Prentiss's other works, which have been widely circu 
 lated both at home and abroad, are " The Flower of the 
 
iv INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 Family," "Little Lou's Sayings and Doings," "Henry 
 and Bessie," " Fred and Maria and Me," " The Percys," 
 " Nidworth and His Three Magic Wands," " The Story 
 Lizzie Told," "The Home at Greylock," "Aunt Jane's 
 Hero," "Urbane and His Friends," "Pemaquid," and 
 "Golden Hours; or, Hymns and Songs of the Christian 
 Life." The aim of her writings, whether designed for 
 young or old, is to incite to patience, fidelity, hope and 
 all goodness by showing how trust in God and loving 
 obedience to His blessed will brighten the darkest paths 
 and make a heaven upon earth. 
 
 Of her religious character the key-note is struck in 
 her own hymn, "More love to Thee, O Christ" That 
 was her ruling passion in life and in death. Writing to 
 a young friend from Dorset, in 1873, she says : " To love 
 Christ more this is the deepest need, the constant cry 
 of my souL Down in the bowling-alley, and out in the 
 woods, and on my bed, and out driving, when I am happy 
 and busy, and when I am sad and idle, the whisper keeps 
 going up for more love, more love, more love ! " 
 
 The following recollections of her by Mrs. Mary H. B. 
 Field, now of San Jose, California, may fitly complete this 
 sketch. 
 
 It was the first Sunday in September, 1866 a quiet, 
 perfect day among the green hills of Vermont a sac 
 ramental Sabbath and we had come seven miles over 
 the mountain to go up to the house of the Lord. I had 
 brought my little two-months-old baby in my arms, in 
 tending to leave her during the service at our brother's 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. v 
 
 home, which was near the church. I knew that Mra 
 Prentiss was a " summer boarder " in this home, that she 
 was the wife of a distinguished clergyman, and a literary 
 woman of decided ability; but it was before the " Step 
 ping Heavenward " epoch of her life, and I had no very 
 deep interest in the prospect of meeting her. We went 
 in at the hospitably open door, and meeting no one, sat 
 down in the pleasant family living-room. It was about 
 noon, and we could hear cheerful voices talking over the 
 lunch-table in the dining-room. Presently the door 
 opened, and a slight, delicate-featured woman, with beau 
 tiful large dark eyes, came with rapid step into the room, 
 going across to a hall door; but her quick eye caught a 
 glimpse of my little "bundle of flannel," and not paus 
 ing for an introduction or word of preparatory speech, 
 she came towards me with a beaming face and out 
 stretched hands: 
 
 " O, have you a baby there ? How delightful ! I 
 haven't seen one for such an age ! Please, may I take 
 it ? The darling tiny creature ! a girl ? How lovely ! " 
 
 She took the baby tenderly in her arms and went on 
 in her eager, quick, informal way, but with a bright little 
 blush and smile, "I'm not very polite pray, let me 
 introduce myself! I'm Mrs. Prentiss, and you are Mrs. 
 Field, I know." 
 
 After a little more sweet, motherly comment and ques 
 tion over the baby, " a touch of nature " which at once 
 made us "akin," she asked, "Have you brought the 
 baby to be christened ? " 
 
 I said, No, I thought it would be better to wait till she 
 was a little older. 
 
 " O, no 1 " she pleaded, " do let us take her over to the 
 church now. The younger the better, I think; it is so 
 uncertain about our keeping such treasures." 
 
vi INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 I still objected that I had not dressed the little one foi 
 BO public an occasion. 
 
 " O, never mind about that," she said. " She is really 
 lovelier in this simple fashion than to be loaded with 
 lace and embroidery." Then, her sweet face grou 
 more earnest, "There will be more of us here to-u..y 
 than at the next Communion more of us to pray for her." 
 
 The little lamb was taken into the fold that day, and 
 I was Mrs. Prentiss's warm friend for evermore. Her 
 whole beautiful character had revealed itself to me in 
 fchat little interview, the quick perception, the wholly 
 frank, unconventional manner, the sweet motherliness, 
 the cordial interest in even a stranger, the fervent piety 
 which could not bear delay in duty, and even the quaint, 
 original, forcible thought and way of expressing it, 
 " There'll be more of us here to pray for her to-day." 
 
 For seven successive summers I saw more or less 
 of her in this "Earthly Paradise," as she used to call 
 it, and once I visited her in her city home. I have 
 been favored with many of her sparkling, vivacious 
 letters, and have read and re-read all her published 
 writings; but that first meeting held in it for me the 
 key-note of all her wonderfully beautiful and symmet 
 rical character. 
 
 She brought to that little hamlet among the hills a 
 sweet and wholesome and powerful influence. While 
 her time was too valuable to be wasted in a general 
 sociability, she yet found leisure for an extensive ac 
 quaintance, for a kindly interest in all her neighbors, and 
 for Christian work of many kinds. Probably the weekly 
 meeting for Bible-reading and prayer, which ahe con 
 ducted, was her closest link with the women of Dorset : 
 but these meetings were established after I had bidden 
 good-bye to the dear old town, and I leave others to tell 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. vD 
 
 how their " hearts burned within them as she opened to 
 them the Scriptures." 
 
 She had in a remarkable degree the lovely feminine 
 gift of home-making. She was a true decorative artist. 
 Her room when she was boarding, and her home after it 
 was completed, were bowers of beauty. Every walk over 
 hill and dale, every ramble by brookside or through 
 wildwood, gave to her some fresh home-adornment 
 Some shy wild-flower or fern, or brilliant tinted leaf, a 
 b^t of moss, a curious lichen, a deserted bird's nest, a 
 strange fragment of rock, a shining pebble, would catch 
 her passing glance and reveal to her quick artistic sense 
 possibilities of use which were quaint, original, charac 
 teristic. One saw from afar that hers was a poet's home; 
 and, if permitted to enter its gracious portals, the first 
 impression deepened into certainty. There was as strong 
 an individuality about her home, and especially about 
 her own little study, as there was about herself and her 
 writings. A cheerful, sunny, hospitable Christian home ! 
 Far and wide its potent influences reached, and it was a 
 beautiful thing to see how many another homo, humble 
 or stately, grew emulous and blossomed into a new 
 loveliness. 
 
 Mrs. Prentiss was naturally a shy and reserved wo 
 man, and necessarily a pre-occupied one. Therefore she 
 was sometimes misunderstood. But those who knew 
 her best, and were blest with her rare intimacy, knew 
 her as "a perfect woman nobly planned." Her conver 
 sation was charming. Her close study of nature taught 
 her a thousand happy symbols and illustrations, which 
 made both what she said and wrote a mosaic of exquisite 
 comparisons. Her studies of character were equally 
 constant and penetrating. Nothing escaped her; nc 
 peculiarity of mind or manner failed of her quick obser- 
 
vlii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 vation, but it was always a kindly interest. She did not 
 ridicule that which was simply ignorance or weakness, 
 and she saw with keen pleasure all that was quaint, 
 original or strong, even when it was hidden beneath the 
 homeliest garb. She had the true artist's liking for that 
 which was simple and genre. The common things of 
 common life appealed to her sympathies and called out 
 all her attention. It was a real, hearty interest, too, 
 nut feigned, even in a sense generally thought praise 
 worthy. Indeed, no one ever had a more intense scorn 
 of every sort of feigning. She was honest, truthful, 
 genuine to the highest degree. It may have sometimes 
 led her into seeming lack of courtesy, but even this was 
 a failing which " leaned to virtue's side." I chanced to 
 know of her once calling with a friend on a country 
 neighbor, and finding the good housewife busy over a 
 rag-carpet, Mrs. Prentiss, who had never seen one oi 
 these bits of rural manufacture in its elementary pro 
 cesses, was full of questions and interest, thereby quite 
 evidently pleasing the unassuming artist in assorted 
 rags and home-made dyes. When the visitors were 
 safely outside the door, Mrs. Prentiss's friend turned to 
 her with the exclamation, "What tact you havel She 
 really thought you were interested in her work ! " The 
 quick blood sprang into Mrs. Prentiss's face, and she 
 turned upon her friend a look of amazement and rebuke. 
 " Tact I " she said, " I despise such tact 1 Do you think 
 / would look or act a lie f " 
 
 She was an exceedingly practical woman, not a dreamer. 
 A systematic, thorough housekeeper, with as exalted ideals 
 in all the affairs which pertain to good housewifery as in 
 those matters which are generally thought to transcend 
 these humble occupations. Like Solomon's virtuous wo 
 man she " looked well after the ways of her household." 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. ix 
 
 Methodical, carefol of minutes, simple in her tables, 
 abstemious, and therefore enjoying evenly good health 
 in spite of her delicate constitution, this is the se 
 cret of her accomplishing so much. Yet all this foun 
 dation of exactness and diligence was so " rounded with 
 leafy gracefulness" that she never seemed angular or 
 unyielding. 
 
 With her children she was a model disciplinarian, ex 
 ceedingly strict, a wise law-maker; yet withal a tender, 
 devoted, self-sacrificing mother. I have never seen such 
 exact obedience required and given, or a more idolized 
 mother. " Mamma's " word was indeed law, but hap 
 py combination ! it was also gospel. 
 
 How warm and true her friendship was ! How little 
 of selfishness in all her intercourse with other women! 
 How well she loved to be of service to her friends I How 
 anxious that each should reach her highest possibilities 
 of attainment ! I record with deepest sense of obligation 
 the cordial, generous, sympathetic assistance of many 
 kinds extended by her to me during our whole acquaint 
 ance. To every earnest worker in any field she gladly 
 " lent a hand," rejoicing in all the successes of others as 
 if they were her own. 
 
 But if weakness, or trouble, or sorrow of any sort or 
 degree overtook one she straightway became as one 
 of God's own ministering spirits an angel of strength 
 and consolation. Always more eager, however, that souls 
 should grow than that pain should cease. Volumes could be 
 made of her letters to friends in sorrow. One ten del 
 monotone steals through them all, 
 
 44 Gome nnto me, my kindred, I enfold yon 
 In an embrace to sufferers only known; 
 Close to this heart I tenderly will hold you, 
 Suppress no sigh, keep back no tear, no moan. 
 
x INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 ' Thou Man of Sorrows, teach my lips that often 
 
 Have told the sacred story of my woe, 
 To speak of Thee till stony griefs I soften, 
 
 Till hearts that know Thee not learn Thee to know 
 
 " Till peace takes place of storm and agitation, 
 
 Till lying on the current of Thy will 
 There shall be glorying in tribulation, 
 And Christ Himself each empty heart shall filL" 
 
 Few have the gift or the courage to deal faithfully yet 
 lovingly with an erring soul, but she did not shrink back 
 even from this service to those she loved. I can bear 
 witness to the wisdom, penetration, skill and fidelity with 
 which she probed a terribly wounded spirit, and then 
 Baid with tender solemnity, " / think you need a great deal 
 of good praying" 
 
 O, " vanished hand," still beckon to us from the Eternal 
 Heights ! O, " voice that is still," speak to us yet from 
 the Shining Shore I 
 
 "Still let thy mild rebuking stand 
 
 Between us and the wrong, 
 And thy dear memory serve to make 
 Our faith in goodness strong." 
 
 G. L. P. 
 
 VBW You, OOTOBKB 26, 1880. 
 
STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my follow traveller and I were walking by the iide ^ 
 Loch Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a 
 hut where, in the course of our tour, we had been hospitably 
 entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest 
 parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed women, one oi 
 whom said to as by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping 
 westward?" 
 
 "What, you are stepping leestward?" "FL" 
 
 'Twould be a wildish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange land, and far from home, 
 
 Were in this place the guests of chance: 
 
 Tet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 
 With such a sky to lead him on? 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold; 
 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold: 
 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 
 A kind of heavenly destiny: 
 
 I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound 
 
 Of something without place and bound: 
 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 
 To travel through that region bright 
 
STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 
 Was walking by her native lake: 
 
 The salutation had to me 
 
 The very sound of courtesy: 
 
 Its power was felt; and while my eye 
 
 Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 
 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 
 Before me in my endless way. TFbrd*t00r0l 
 
"Faint not; the miles to heaven are but few and short." 
 
 RUTHERFORD. 
 
 "How shall I do to love? Believe. How shall I do to be 
 lieve ? Love." LZIOHTON. 
 
 'Always add, always walk, always proceed; neither stand still, 
 nor go back, nor deviate; he that standeth still proceedeth not; 
 he goeth back that continueth not; he deviate th that revolteth; 
 he goeth better that creepeth in his way than he that movetb 
 ont of his way." AUGUSTINE. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I. 
 
 
 JANUABT 15, 1831. 
 
 OW dreadfully old I am getting ! Sixteen 1 
 Well, I don't see as I can help it There 
 it is in the big Bible in father's own hand ; 
 
 "Katherine, born Jan. 15, 1815." 
 
 I meant to get up early this morning, but it 
 looked dismally cold out of doors, and felt delight 
 fully warm in bed. So I covered myself up, and 
 made ever so many good resolutions. 
 
 I determined, in the first place, to begin this 
 Journal. To be sure, I have begun half a dozen, 
 and got tired of them after a while. Not tired of 
 writing them, but disgusted with what I had to 
 say of myself. But this time I mean to go on, in 
 spite of everything. It will do me good to read it 
 over, and see what a creature I am. 
 
 Then I resolved to do more to please mother 
 than I have done. 
 
 to make one more effort to 
 
8 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 conquer my hasty temper. I thought, too, I would 
 be sell-denying this winter, like the people one 
 reads about in books. I fancied how surprised and 
 pleased everybody would be to see me so much 
 improved I 
 
 Time passed quickly amid these agreeable 
 thoughts, and I was quite startled to hear the 
 bell ring for prayers. I jumped up in a great 
 flurry, and' dressed as quickly as I could. Every 
 thing conspired together to plague me. I could not 
 find a clean collar, or a handkerchief. It is always 
 just so. Susan is forever poking my things into 
 out-of-the-way places! When at last I went down, 
 they were all at breakfast. 
 
 "I hoped you would celebrate your birthday, 
 dear, by coming down in good season," said mother. 
 
 I do hate to be found fault with, so I fired up in 
 an instant. 
 
 "If people hide my things so that I can't find 
 them, of course I have to be late," I said. And I 
 rather think I said it in a very cross way, foi 
 mother sighed a little. I wish mother wouldn't 
 sigh. I would rather be called names out and 
 out 
 
 The moment breakfast was over I had to hurry 
 off to school. Just as I was going out mother 
 said, 
 
 " Have you your overshoes, dear ? n 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. ft 
 
 "Oh, mother, don't hinder me! I shall be late," 
 I said. "I don't need overshoes." 
 
 "It snowed all night and I think you do need 
 them," mother said. 
 
 "I don't know where they are. I hate overshoes. 
 Do let me go, mother," I cried. " I do wish I could 
 ever have my own way." 
 
 "You shall have it now, my child," mother said, 
 and went away. 
 
 Now what was the use of her calling me " my 
 child " in such a tone, I should like to know. 
 
 I hurried off, and just as I got to the door of 
 the school-room it flashed into my mind that I had 
 not said my prayers! A nice way to begin on 
 one's birthday to be sure! Well, I had not time. 
 And perhaps my good resolutions pleased God 
 almost as much as one of my rambling stupid 
 prayers could. For I must own I can't make good 
 prayers. I can't think of anything to say. I often 
 wonder what mother finds to say when she is shut up 
 by the hour together. 
 
 I had a pretty good time at school. My teachers 
 praised me, and Amelia seemed so fond of me! 
 She brought me a birthday present of a purse that 
 she had knit for me herself, and a net for my hair. 
 Nets are just coming into fashion. It will save a 
 good deal of time my having this one. Instead of 
 combing and combing and combing my old hair to 
 
10 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 get it glossy enough to suit mother, I can just give 
 it one twist and one squeeze, and the whole thing 
 will be settled for the day. 
 
 Amelia wrote me a dear little note, with her pre 
 sents. I do really believe she loves me dearly. It 
 is so nice to have people love you! 
 
 When I got home mother called me into her 
 room. She looked as if she had been crying. She 
 said I gave her a great deal of pain by my self-will 
 and ill temper and conceit. 
 
 " Conceit ! " I screamed out. " Oh mother, if you 
 only knew how horrid I think I am ! " 
 
 Mother smiled a little. Then she went on with 
 her list till she made me out the worst creature in 
 the world. I burst out crying, and was running off 
 to my room, but she made me come back and heai* 
 the rest. She said ray character would be essen 
 tially formed by the time I reached my twentieth 
 year, and left it to me to say if I wished to be as a 
 woman what I was now as a girl? I felt sulky, 
 and would not answer. I was shocked to think I 
 had got only four years in which to improve, but 
 after all a good deal could be done in that time. Of 
 course I don't want to be always exactly what I am 
 now. 
 
 Mother went on to say that I had in me the ele 
 ments of a fine character if I would only conquer 
 some of my faults. "You are frank and truthful,'' 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 11 
 
 she said, " and in some things conscientious. I 
 hope you are really a child of God, and are trying 
 to please Him And it is my daily prayer that yon 
 may become a lovely, loving, useful woman." 
 
 I made no answer. I wanted to say something, 
 hut my tongue wouldn't move. I was angry with 
 mother, and angry with myself. At last everything 
 came out all in a rush, mixed up with such floods 
 of tears that I thought mother's heart would melt, 
 and that she would take back what she had said. 
 
 "Amelia's mother never talks so to her!" I said. 
 " She praises her, and tells her what a comfort she 
 is to her. But just as I am trying as hard as I can 
 to be good, and making resolutions, and all that, 
 you scold me and discourage me ! " 
 
 Mother's voice was very soft and gentle as she 
 asked, 
 
 "Do you call this * scolding/ my child T* 
 
 "And I don't like to be called conceited," I went 
 on. " I know I am perfectly horrid, and I am just 
 as unhappy as I can be." 
 
 "I am very sorry for you, dear," mother replied. 
 'But you must bear with me. Other people will 
 seo your faults, but only your mother will have the 
 courage to speak of them, frow go to your own 
 room, and wipe away the traces of your tears that 
 the rest of the family may not know that you have 
 been crying on your birthday." She kissed me 
 
12 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 but I did not kiss her. I really believe Satan him 
 self hindered me. I ran across the hall to my room, 
 slammed the door, and locked myself in. 1 was 
 going to throw myself on the bed and cry till I was 
 sick. Then I should look pale and tired, and they 
 would all pity me. I do like so to be pitied ! But 
 on the table, by the window, I saw a beautiful neAV 
 desk in place of the old clumsy thing I had been 
 spattering and spoiling so many years. A little 
 note, full of love, said it was from mother, and beg 
 ged me to read and reflect upon a few verses of a 
 tastefully bound copy of tho Bible which accompa 
 nied it every day of my life. " A few verses," she 
 said, " carefully read and pondered, instead of a chap 
 ter or two read for mere form's sake.*' I looked at 
 my desk, which contained exactly what I wanted, 
 plenty of paper, seals, wax and pens. I always use 
 wax. Wafers are vulgar. Then I opened the Bi 
 ble at random, and lighted on these words: 
 
 44 Watch, therefore, for ye know not what hour 
 your Lord doth come." There was nothing very 
 cheering in that. I felt a real repugnance to be al 
 ways on the watch, thinking I might die at any mo 
 ment. I am sure I am not fit to die. Besides 1 
 want to have a good time, with nothing to worry 
 me. I hope I shall live ever so long. Perhaps in 
 the course of forty or fifty years I may get tired 
 of this world and want to leave it And I hope by 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 15 
 
 that time, 1 shall be a great deal better than I am 
 now, and fit to go to heaven. 
 
 I wrote a note to mother on my new desk, and 
 thanked her for it. I told her she was the best 
 mother in the world, and that I was the worst 
 daughter. When it was done I did not like it, and 
 so I wrote another. Then I went down to dinner 
 and felt better. We had such a nice dinner! 
 Everything I liked best was on the table. Mother 
 had not forgotten one of all the dainties I like. Ame 
 lia was there too. Mother had invited her to give 
 me a little surprise. It is bedtime now, and I must 
 say my prayers, and go to bed. I have got all 
 chilled through, writing here in the cold. I believe 
 I will say my prayers in bed, just for this once. I 
 do not feel sleepy, but I am sure I ought not to sit 
 up another moment 
 
 JAN. 30. Here I am at my desk once more. 
 
 There is a fire in my room, and mother is sitting by 
 it, reading. I cau't see what book it is, but I have no 
 doubt it is Thomas a Kempis. How she can go on 
 reading it so year after year, I cannot imagine. For 
 my part I like something new. But I must go back 
 to where I left off. 
 
 That night when I stopped writing, I hurried to 
 bed as fast as I could, for I felt cold and tired. J 
 remember saying. Oh, God, I am ashamed to 
 
U STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 pray," and then I began to think of all the things 
 that had happened that day, and never knew 
 another thing till the rising bell rang and I found it 
 was morning. I am sure I did not mean to go to 
 sleep. I think now it was wrong for me to be such 
 a coward as to try to say my prayers in bed be 
 cause of the cold. While I was writing I did not 
 once think how I felt. Well, I jumped up as soon 
 as I heard the bell, but found I had a dreadful pain 
 in my side, and a cough. Susan says I coughed all 
 night. I remembered then that I had just such a 
 cough and just such a pain the last time I walked 
 in the snow without overshoes. I crept back to 
 bed feeling about as mean as I could. Mother sent 
 up to know why I did not come down, and I had 
 to own that I was sick She came up directly 
 looking so anxious ! And here I have been shut 
 up ever since; only to-day I am sitting up a little. 
 Poor mother has had trouble enough with me; I 
 know I have been cross and unreasonable, and it 
 was all my own fault that I was ill Another time 
 1 will do as mother says. 
 
 JAS. 31. How easy it is to make good resolu 
 tions, and how easy it is to break them I Just as I 
 had got so far, yesterday, mother spoke for the 
 third time about my exerting myself so much. 
 And just at that moment I fainted away, and she 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 15 
 
 had a gieat time all alone there with ine. 1 did not 
 realize how long I had been writing, nor how weak 
 I was. I do wonder if I shall ever really learn that 
 mother knows more than I do ! 
 
 FEB. 17. It is more than a month since I took 
 
 that cold, and here I still am, shut up in the house. 
 To be sure the doctor lets me go down stairs, but 
 then he won't listen to a word about school. Oh, 
 dear ! All the girls will get ahead of me. 
 
 This is Sunday, arid everybody has gone to 
 church. I thought I ought to make a good use of 
 the time while they were gone, so I took the Me 
 moir of Henry Martyn, and read a little in that. 
 
 I am afraid I am not much like him. Then I 
 knelt down and tried to pray. But my mind was 
 full of all sorts of things, so I thought I would 
 wait till I was in a better frame. At noon I dis 
 puted with James about the name of an apple. He 
 was very provoking, and said he was thankful he had 
 not got such a temper as I had. I cried, and mo 
 ther reproved him for teasing me, saying my illness 
 had left me nervous and irritable. James replied 
 that it had left me where it found me, then. I cried 
 a good while, lying on the sofa, and then I foil 
 asleep. I don't see as I am any the better for thib 
 Sunday, it has only made me feel unhappy and out 
 
16 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 of sorta I am sure I pray to God to make me bet 
 ter, and why don't He? 
 
 FEB. 20. It has been quite a mild day for the 
 
 season and the doctor said I might drive out. J 
 enjoyed getting the air very much. I feel just as 
 well as ever, and long to get back to school. I 
 think God has been very good to me in making me 
 well again, and wish I loved Him better. But, oh, 
 I am not sure I do love Him ! I hate to own it to 
 myself, and to write it down here, but I will. I do 
 not love to pray. I am always eager to get it over 
 with and out of the way so as to have leisure to en 
 joy myself. I mean that this is usually so. This 
 morning I cried a good deal while I was on my 
 knees, and felt sorry for my quick temper and all 
 my bad ways. If I always felt so, perhaps praying 
 would not be such a task. I wish I knew whether 
 anybody exactly as bad as I am ever got to heaven 
 at last? I have read ever so many memoirs, and 
 they were all about people who were too good to 
 live, and so died; or else went on a mission; I am 
 not at all like any of them. 
 
 MARCH 26. I have been so busy that I have 
 
 not said much to you, you poor old journal you, 
 have 1? Somehow I have been behaving quite 
 nicely lately. Everything has gone on exactly to 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. t 11 
 
 my mind. Mother has not found fault with me 
 once, and father has praised my drawings and 
 seemed proud of me. He says he shall not tell me 
 what my teachers say of me Ust it should make 
 me vain. And once or twice when he has met me 
 singing and frisking about the house, he has kissed 
 me and called me his dear little Flibbertigibbet, if 
 that's the way to spell it. When he says that, I 
 know he is very fond of me. We are all very happy 
 together when nothing goes wrong. In the long 
 evenings we all sit around the table with our books 
 and our work, and one of us reads aloud. Mother 
 chooses the book and takes her turn in reading. She 
 reads beautifully. Of course the readings do not 
 begin till the lessons are all learned. As to me, my 
 lessons just take no time at all. I have only to 
 read them over once, and there they are. So I 
 have a good deal of time to read, and I devour all 
 the poetry I can get hold of. I would rather read 
 "Pollok's Course of Time," than read nothing at 
 all 
 
 APRIL 2. There are three of mother's 
 
 friends living near us, each having lots of little 
 children. It is perfectly ridiculous how much those 
 creatures are sick. They send for mother if so much 
 as a pimple comes out on one of their faces. When I 
 have children I don't mean to have such goings on 
 
18 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I shall be careful about what they eat, and keep them 
 from getting cold, and they will keep well of theii 
 own accord. Mrs. Jones has just sent for mother 
 to see her Tommy. It was so provoking. I had 
 coaxed her into letting me have a black silk apron; 
 they are all the fashion now, embroidered in floss 
 silk. I had drawn a lovely vine for mine entirely 
 out of my own head, and mother was going to ar 
 range the pattern for me when that message came, 
 and she had to go. I don't believe anything ails the 
 child ! a great chubby thing ! 
 
 APRIL 3. Poor Mrs. Jones! Her dear little 
 
 Tommy is dead ! I stayed at home from school to 
 day and had all the other children here to get them 
 out of their mother's way. How dreadfully she 
 must feel! Mother cried when she told me how 
 the dear little fellow suffered in his last moments. 
 It reminded her of my little brothers who died 
 in the same way, just before I was born. Dear 
 mother! I wonder I ever forget what troubles she 
 has had, and am not always sweet and loving. She 
 has gone now, where she always goes when she 
 feels sad, straight to God. Of course she did not 
 say so but I know mother. 
 
 APRIL 25. I have not been down in season 
 
 once this week. I have persuaded mother to let me 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 1& 
 
 read some of Scott's novels, and have sat up late 
 and been sleepy in the morning. I wish I could got 
 along with mothei as nicely as James does. He is 
 late far oftener than I am, but he never gets into 
 euch scrapes about it as I do. This is what hap 
 pens. He comes down when it suits him. 
 
 Mother begins. "James, I am very much dis 
 pleased with you." 
 
 James. "I should think you would be, mother/ 
 
 Mother, mollified. "I don't think you deserve 
 any breakfast." 
 
 James, hypocritically. "No, I don't think I do, 
 mother." 
 
 Then mother hurries off and gets something 
 extra for his breakfast. Now let us see how things 
 go on when I am late. 
 
 Mother . " Katherine " (she always calls me 
 Katherine when she is displeased, and spells it with 
 a K), " Katherine, you are late again, how can you 
 annoy your father so?" 
 
 Katherine. "Of course I don't do it to annoy 
 father or anybody else. But if I oversleep myself, 
 it is not my fault." 
 
 Mother "I would go to bed at eight o'clock 
 rather than be late as often as you. How should 
 you like it if I were not down to prayers?" 
 
 Katherine, muttering. "Of course that is very 
 iifferent. I don't see why I should bo blamed for 
 
20 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 oversleeping any more than James. I get all tbe 
 scoldings." 
 
 Mother sighs and goes off. 
 
 I prowl round and get what scraps of breakfast 
 I can. 
 
 MAT 12. The weather is getting perfectly 
 
 delicious. I am sitting with my window open, and 
 my bird is singing with all his heart I wish I was 
 as gay as he is. 
 
 I have been thinking lately that it was about time 
 to begin on some of those pieces of self-denial I re 
 solved on upon my birthday. I could not think of 
 anything great enough for a long time. At last an 
 idea popped into my head. Half the girls at 
 school envy me because Amelia is so fond of me; 
 and Jane Underbill, in particular, is just crazy to 
 get intimate with her. But I have kept Amelia all 
 to myself. To-day I said to her, "Amelia, Jane 
 Underbill admires you above all things. I have a 
 gond mind to let you be as intimate with her as you 
 are with me. It will be a great piece of self-denial, 
 but I think it is my duty. She is a stranger, and no 
 body seems to like her much." 
 
 "You dear thing you!" cried Amelia kissing me. 
 " I . liked Jane Underbill the moment I saw her. 
 She has such a sweet face and such pleasant man- 
 a ers. But you are BO jealous that I never dared tc 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 21 
 
 show how I liked her. Don't be vexed, dearie; if 
 you are jealous it is your only fault ! " 
 
 She then rushed off, and I saw her kiss that girl 
 exactly as she kisses me ! 
 
 This was in recess. I went to my desk and made 
 believe I was studying. Pretty soon Amelia came 
 back 
 
 "She is a sweet girl," she said, u and only to 
 think! She writes poetry! Just hear this! It is 
 a little poem addressed to me. Isn't it nice of her ? " 
 
 I pretended not to hear her. I was as full of all 
 sorts of horrid feelings as I could hold. It enraged 
 me to think that Amelia, after all her professions of 
 love to me, should snatch at the first chance of get 
 ting a new friend. Then I was mortified because 1 
 was enraged, and I could have torn myself to pieces 
 for being such a fool as to let Amelia see how silly I 
 was. 
 
 "I don't know what to make of you, Katy," she 
 said, putting her arms round me. "Have I done 
 anything to vex you? Come, let us make up and 
 be friends, whatever it is. I will read you these 
 sweet verses; I am sure you will like them." 
 
 She read them in her clear, pleasant voice. 
 
 "How can you have the vanity to read snob 
 stuff?" I cried. 
 
 Amelia colored a little. 
 
 "You have said and written much more flatter- 
 
22 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ing things to me," she replied. "Perhaps it has 
 turned my head, and made me too ready to believe 
 what other people say." She folded the paper, and 
 put it into her pocket. We walked home together, 
 after school, as usual, but neither of us spoke a 
 word. And now here I sit, unhappy enough. All 
 my resolutions fail But I did not think Amelia 
 would take me at my word, and rush after that 
 stuck-up, smirking piece! 
 
 MAT 20. I seem to have got back into all 
 
 my bad ways again. Mother is quite out of patience 
 with me. I have not prayed for a long time. It 
 does not do any good. 
 
 MAY 21. It seems this Underbill thing is 
 
 here for her health, though she looks as well as any 
 of us. She is an orphan, and has been adopted by 
 a rich old uncle, who makes a perfect fool of her. 
 Such dresses and such finery as she wears ! Last 
 night she had Amelia there to tea, without inviting 
 me, though she knows I am her best friend. She 
 gave her a bracelet made of her own hair. I won 
 der Amelia's mother lets her accept presents from 
 Btrangers. My mother would not let me. On the 
 whole, there is nobody like one's own mother 
 Amelia has been cold and distant to me of late, but 
 no matter what I do or say to my darling, precious 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 23 
 
 mother, she is always kind and loving. She noticed 
 bow I moped about to-day, and begged me to tell 
 her what was the matter. I was ashamed to do 
 that. I told her that it was a little quarrel I had 
 had with Amelia. 
 
 " Dear child," she said, " how 1 pity you that you 
 have inherited my quick, irritable temper." 
 
 " Your*, mother !" I cried out: "what can you 
 mean ? " 
 
 Mother smiled a little atmy surprise. 
 
 "It is even so," she said. 
 
 "Then how did you cure yourself of it? Tell 
 me quick, mother, and let me cure myself of mine." 
 
 " My dear Katy," she said, " I wish I could make 
 you see that God is just as willing, and just as able 
 to sanctify, as He is to redeem us. It would save 
 you so much weary, disappointing work. But God 
 has opened my eyes at last." 
 
 " I wish He would open mine, then," I said, " for 
 all I see now is that I am just as horrid as I can be, 
 and that the more I pray the worse I grow." 
 
 "That is not true, dear," she replied; "go on 
 praying pray without ceasing." 
 
 I sat pulling my handkerchief this way and that, 
 and at last rolled it up into a ball and threw it 
 across the room. I wished I could toss my bad 
 feelings into a corner with it. 
 
 "I do wish I could make you love to pray, my 
 

 24 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 darling child," mother went on. "If you only 
 knew the strength, and the light, and the joy you 
 might have for the simple asking. God attaches no 
 conditions to His gifts. He only says, l Askl" 
 
 This may be true, but it is hard work to pray. 
 It, tires me. And I do wish there was some easy 
 way of growing good. In fact I should like to have 
 God send a sweet temper to me just as He sent 
 bread and meat to Elijah. I don't believe Elijah 
 had to kneel down and pray for them. 
 
II. 
 
 AST Sunday Dr. Cabot preached to the 
 young. He first addressed those who knew 
 they did not love God. It did not seem to 
 me that I belonged to that class. Then he 
 spoke to those who knew they did. I felt sure I 
 was not one of those. Last of all he spoke affec 
 tionately to those who did not know what to think, 
 and 1 was frightened and ashamed to feel tears run 
 ning down my cheeks, when he said that he be 
 lieved that most of his hearers who were in this 
 doubtful state did really love their Master, only 
 their love was something as new and as tender and 
 perhaps as unobserved as the tiny point of green 
 that, forcing its way through the earth, is yet un 
 conscious of its own existence, but promises a thrifty 
 plant. I don't suppose I express it very well, but I 
 know what he meant. He then invited thohe be 
 longing to each class to meet him on three succes 
 sive Saturday afternoons. ] shall certainly go. 
 2 (25) 
 
26 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 JULY 13. I went to the meeting, and so did 
 
 Amelia. A great many young people were there 
 and a few children. Dr. Cabot went about from 
 seat to seat, speaking to each one separately. When 
 he came to us I expected he would say something 
 about the way in which I had been brought up, and 
 reproach me for not profiting more by the instruc 
 tions and example I had at home. Instead of that 
 he said, in a cheerful voice, 
 
 " Well, my dear, I cannot see into your heart and 
 positively tell whether there is love to God there 
 or not. But I suppose you have come here to-day 
 in order to let me help you to find out ? " 
 
 I said, "Yes;" that was all I could get out. 
 
 "Let me see, then," he went on. "Do you love 
 your mother?" 
 
 I said "Yes," once more. 
 
 "But prove to me that you do. How do you 
 know it?" 
 
 I tried to think. Then I said, 
 
 "I/eeZ that I love her. I love to love her, I like 
 to be with her. I like to hear people praise her. 
 And I try sometimes at least to do things to 
 please her. But I don't try half as hard as I ought, 
 and I do and say a great many things to displease 
 tier." 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said, "I know." 
 
 "Has mother told you?" I cried out 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 27 
 
 "No, dear, no, indeed. But I know what human 
 nature is after having one of my own fifty years, 
 and six of my children's to encounter." 
 
 Somehow I felt more courage after he said that. 
 
 " In the first place, then, you fed that you love 
 your mother? But you never feel that you love 
 your God and Saviour ? " 
 
 "I often try, and try, but I never do," I said. 
 
 "Love won't be forced," he said, quickly. 
 
 "Then what shall I do?" 
 
 u ln the second place, you like to be with your 
 mother. But you never like to be with the Friend 
 who loves you so much better than she does?" 
 
 "I don't know, I never was with Him. Some 
 times I think that when Mary sat at His feet and 
 heard Him talk, she must have been very happy." 
 
 "We come to the third test, then. You like to 
 hear people praise your mother. And have you 
 never rejoiced to hear the Lord magnified?" 
 
 I shook my head sorrowfully enough. 
 
 " Let us then try the last test. You know you 
 love your mother because you try to do things to 
 please her. That is to do what you know she 
 wishes you to do? Very well. Have you never 
 tried to do anything God wishes you to do?" 
 
 "Oh yes; often. But not so often as I ought." 
 
 "Of course not. No one does that. But come 
 now, why do you try to do what you think wiU 
 
28 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 pleaso Him? Because it is easy? Because you 
 like to do what He likes rather than what you like 
 yourself?" 
 
 I tried to think, and got puzzled. 
 
 "Never mind," said Dr. Cabot, "I have come 
 now to the point I was aiming at. You cannot 
 prove to yourself that you love God by examining 
 your feelings towards Him. They are indefinite and 
 they fluctuate. But just as far as you obey Him, 
 just so far, depend upon it, you love Him. It is not 
 natural to us sinful, ungrateful human beings to 
 prefer His pleasure to our own, or to follow His 
 way instead of our own way, and nothing, nothing but 
 love to Him can or does make us obedient to Him." 
 
 " Couldn't we obey Him from fear ? " Amelia now 
 asked. She had been listening all this time in si 
 lence. 
 
 "Yes; and so you might obey your mother from 
 fear, but only for a season. If you had no real love 
 for her, you would gradually cease to dread her 
 displeasure; whereas it is in the very nature of love 
 to grow stronger and more influential every hour.", 
 
 "You mean, then, that if we want to know 
 whether we love God, we must find out whether 
 we are obeying Him?" Amelia asked. 
 
 "I mean exactly that. 'He that keepeth my 
 commandments he it is that loveth me.' But I 
 cannot talk with you any longer now. There are 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 29 
 
 many others still waiting. You can corne to see 
 me some day next week, if you have any more 
 questions to ask." 
 
 When we got out into the street, Amelia and I 
 got hold of each other's hands. We did not speak 
 a word till we reached the door, but we knew that 
 we were as good friends as ever. 
 
 "I understand all Dr. Cabot said," Amelia whis 
 pered, as we separated. But I felt like one in a fog. 
 I cannot see how it is possible to love God and yet 
 feel as stupid as I do when I think of Him. Still, 
 I am determined to do one thing, and that is to 
 pray regularly instead of now and then, as I have 
 got the habit of doing lately. 
 
 JULY 25. School has closed for the season. 
 
 I took the first prize for drawing, and ray composi 
 tion was read aloud on examination day, and every 
 body praised it. Mother could not possibly help 
 showing, in her face, that she was very much 
 pleased. I am pleased myself. We are now get 
 ting ready to take a journey. I do not think I shall 
 go to see Dr. t^abot again. My head is so full of 
 other things, and there is so much to do before we 
 go. I am having four new dresses made, and I 
 can't imagine how to have them trimmed I mean 
 to run down to Amelia's and ask her. 
 
30 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 JULY 27. I was rushing through the hall 
 
 just after I wrote that, and met mother. 
 
 " 1 am going to Amelia's/' I said, hurrying past 
 her. 
 
 "Stop one minute, dear. Dr. Cabot is down 
 stairs. He says he has been expecting a visit from 
 you, and that as you did not come to him, he has 
 come to you." 
 
 " I wish he would mind his own business," I said. 
 
 "I think he is minding it, dear," mother an 
 swered. "His Blaster's business is his, and that 
 has brought him here. Go to him, my darling 
 child: I am sure you crave something better than 
 prizes and compliments and new dresses and jour 
 neys." 
 
 If anybody but mother had said that, my heart 
 would have melted at once, and I should have gone 
 right down to Dr. Cabot to be moulded in his 
 hands to almost any shape. But as it was I 
 brushed past her, ran into my room, and locked my 
 door. Oh, what makes me act so! I hate myself 
 for it, I don't want to do it! 
 
 Last week I dined with Mrs. Jones. Her little 
 Tommy was very fond of me, and that, I suppose, 
 makes her have me there so often. Lucy was at 
 the table, and very fractious. She cried first for 
 one thing and then for another. At last her mother 
 in a gentle, but very decided way put her down 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 31 
 
 from the table. Then she cried louder than ever. 
 But when her mother offered to take her back if 
 she would be good, she screamed yet more. She 
 wanted to come and wouldnt let herself come. 1 
 almost hated her when I saw her act so, and now I 
 am behaving ten times worse and I am just as mis 
 erable as I can be. 
 
 JULY 29. Amelia has been here. She has had 
 
 another talk with Dr. Cabot and is perfectly happy. 
 She says it is so easy to be a Christian ! It may be 
 easy for her; everything is. She never has any of 
 my dreadful feelings, and does not understand them 
 when I try to explain them to her. Well ! if I am 
 fated to be miserable, I must try to bear it. 
 
 OCT. 3. Summer is over, school has begun 
 
 again, and I am so busy that 1 have not much time 
 to think, or to be low spirited. We had a delightful 
 journey, and I feel well and bright, and even gay. 
 I never enjoyed my studies as I do those of this 
 year. Everything goes on pleasantly here at home. 
 But James has gone away to school, and we miss 
 him sadly. I do wish I had a sister. Though I 
 dare say I should quarrel with her, if I nad. 
 
 OCT. 23. I am so glad that my studies are 
 
 harder this year, as I am never happy except when 
 
32 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 every moment is occupied. However, I do not 
 study all the time, by any means. Mrs. Gordon 
 grows more and more fond of me, and has me 
 there to dinner or to tea continually. She has a 
 much higher opinion of me than mother has, and is 
 always saying the sort of things that make you feel 
 nice. She holds me up to Amelia as an example, 
 begging her to imitate me in my fidelity about my 
 lessons, and declaring there is nothing she so much 
 desires as to have a daughter bright and original 
 like me. Amelia only laughs, and goes and purrs 
 in her mother's ears, when she hears such talk. It 
 costs her nothing to be pleasant. She was born so. 
 For my part, I think myself lucky to have such a 
 friend. She gets along with my odd, hateful ways 
 better than any one else does. Mother, when I 
 boast of this, says she has no penetration into 
 character, and that she would be fond of almost any 
 one fond of her; and that the fury with which I 
 love her deserves some response. I really don't 
 know what to make of mother. Most people are 
 proud of their children when they see others ad 
 mire them; but she does say such pokey things! 
 Of course I know that having a gift for music, and 
 a taste for drawing, and a reputation for saying 
 witty, bright things isn't enough. But when she 
 doesn't find fault with me, and nothing happens to 
 keep me down, T am the gayest creature on earth 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 33 
 
 I do love to get with a lot of nice girls, and carry 
 on ! I have got enough fun in me to keep a house- 
 ful merry. And mother needn't say anything. I 
 "nherited it from her. 
 
 EVENING. I knew it was coming! Mother 
 
 has been in to see what I was about, and to give me 
 a bit of her mind. She says she loves to see me 
 gay and cheerful, as is natural at my age, but that 
 levity quite upsets and disorders the mind, indispos 
 ing it for serious thoughts. 
 
 " But, mother," I said, " didn't you carry on when 
 you were a young girl ? " , 
 
 " Of course I did," she said, smiling. " But I do 
 not think I was quite so thoughtless as you are." 
 
 " Thoughtless " indeed ! I wish I were ! But am 
 I not always full of uneasy, reproachful thoughts 
 when the moment of excitement is over? Other 
 girls, who seem less trifling than I, are really more 
 so. Their heads are full of dresses and parties and 
 beaux, and all that sort of nonsense. I wonder if 
 that ever worries their mothers, or whether mine is 
 Uie only one who weeps in secret? Well, I shall be 
 young but once, and while I am, do let me have a 
 good time! 
 
 SUNDAY, Nov. 20. Oh, the difference be 
 tween this day and the day I wrote that ! There are 
 
34 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 no good times in this dreadful world. I have hardlj 
 courage or strength to write down the history of 
 the past few weeks. The day after I had deliberate 
 ly made up my mind to enjoy myself, cost what it 
 might, my dear father called me to him, kissed me, 
 pulled my ears a little, and gave me some money. 
 
 '* We have had to keep you rather low in funds," 
 he said laughing. "But I recovered this amount 
 yesterday, and as it was a little debt I had given 
 up, I can spare it to you. For girls like pin-money, 
 I know, and you may spend this just as you please." 
 
 I was delighted. I want to take more drawing- 
 lessons, but did not feel sure he could afford it. Be 
 sides I am a little ashamed to write it down I 
 knew somebody had been praising me or father 
 would not have seemed so fond of me. I wondered 
 who it was, and felt a good deal puffed up. " After 
 all," I said to myself, "some people like me if I have 
 got my faults." I threw my arms around his neck 
 and kissed him, though that cost me a great effort 
 I never like to show what I feel. But, oh! how 
 thankful I am for it now. 
 
 As to mother, I know father never goes out with 
 out kissing her good-bye. 
 
 1 went out with her to take a walk at three 
 o'clock. We had just reached the corner of Orange 
 street, when I saw a carriage driving slowly to 
 wards us; it appeared to be full of sailors. Then I 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 35 
 
 saw our friend, Mr. Freeman, among them. When 
 he saw us he jumped out and came up to us. I do 
 not know what he said. I saw mother turn pale 
 ind catch at his arm as if she were afraid of falling. 
 But she did not speak a word. 
 
 U 0h! Mr. Freeman, what is it?" I cried out 
 "Has anything happened to father? Is he hurt? 
 Where is he?" 
 
 "He is in the carriage," he said. "We are taking 
 him home. He has had a fall." 
 
 Then we went on in silence. The sailors were 
 carrying father in as we reached the house. They 
 laid him on the sofa, and we saw his poor head 
 
 Nov. 23. I will try to write the rest now. 
 
 Father was alive but insensible. He had fallen 
 down into the hold of the ship, and the sailors heard 
 him groaning there. He lived three hours after 
 they brought him home. Mr. Freeman and all our 
 friends were very kind. But we like best to be 
 alone, we three, mother and James, and I. Poor 
 mother looks twenty years older, but she is so pa 
 tient, and so concerned for us, and has such a smile 
 of welcome for every one that comes in, that it 
 breaks my heart to see her. 
 
 Nov. 25. Mother spoke to me very seri 
 ously to-day, about controlling myself more. She 
 
36 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 said she knew this was my first real sorrow, and 
 how hard it was to bear it. But that she was 
 afraid I should become insane some time, if I indulged 
 myself in such passions of grief. And she said, too, 
 that when friends came to see us, full of sympathy, 
 and eager to say or do something for our comfort, 
 it was our duty to receive them with as much cheer 
 fulness as possible. 
 
 I said they, none of them, had anything to say 
 that did not provoke me. 
 
 "It is always a trying task to visit the afflicted, * 
 mother said, "and you make it doubly hard to 
 your friends by putting on a gloomy, forbidding 
 air, and by refusing to talk of your dear father, as 
 if you were resolved to keep your sorrow all to 
 yourself." 
 
 "I can't smile when I am so unhappy," I said. 
 
 A good many people have been here to-day. Mo 
 ther has seen them all, though she looked ready to 
 drop. Mrs. Bates said to me, in her little, weak, 
 watery voice: 
 
 "Your mother is wonderfully sustained, dear. I 
 hope you feel reconciled to God's will. Rebellion 
 is most displeasing to Him, dear." 
 
 I made no answer. It is very easy for people to 
 preach. Let me see how they behave when they 
 take their turn to lose their friends. 
 
 Mrs. Morris said this was a very mysterious dis- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 37 
 
 pensatioii. But that she was happy to see that 
 mother was meeting it with so much firmness. u As 
 for myself," she went on, " I was quite broken down 
 by my dear husband's death. I did not eat as much 
 as would feed a bird, for nearly a week. But some 
 people have so much feeling; then again others are 
 so firm. Your mother is so busy talking with Mrs. 
 March that I won't interrupt her to say good-bye. 
 Well, I came prepared to suggest several things 
 that I thought would comfort her, but perhaps she 
 has thought of them herself." 
 
 I could have knocked her down. Firm, indeed! 
 poor mother! 
 
 After they had all gone, I made her lie down, she 
 looked so tired and worn out. 
 
 Then I could not help telling her what Mrs. Mor 
 ris had said. 
 
 She only smiled a little, but said nothing. 
 
 " I wish you would ever flare up, mother," I said. 
 
 She smiled again, and said she had nothing to 
 "flare up" about 
 
 "Then I shall do it for you!" I cried. "To hear 
 that namby-pamby woman, who is about as capable 
 of understanding you as an old cat, talking about 
 your being firm ! You see what you get by being 
 quiet and patient! People would like you much 
 better if you refused to be comforted, and wore a 
 sad countenance." 
 
W STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 '* Dear Katy," said mother, " it is not my first ob 
 ject in life to make people like me." 
 
 By tins time she looked so pale that I was fright 
 ened. Though she is so cheerful, and things go on 
 much as they did before, I believe she has got her 
 deathblow. If she has, then I hope I have got 
 mine. And yet I am not fit to die. I wish I was, 
 and I wish I could die. I have lost all interest in 
 everything, and don't care what becomes of me. 
 
 Nov. 23. I believe I shall go crazy unless 
 
 people stop coming here, hurling volleys of texts at 
 mother and at me. When soldiers drop wounded on 
 the battle-field, they are taken up tenderly and 
 carried "to the rear," which means, I suppose, out 
 of sight and sound. Is anybody mad enough to 
 suppose it will do them any good to hear Scripture 
 quoted sermons launched at them before their open, 
 bleeding wounds are staunched? 
 
 Mother assents, in a mild way, when I talk so 
 and says, "Yes, yes, we are indeed lying wounded 
 on the battle-field of life, and in no condition to lis 
 ten to any words save those of pity. But, dear 
 Katy, we must interpret aright all the well-meant 
 attempts 'of our friends to comfort us. They mean 
 sympathy, however awkwardly they express it." 
 
 And then she sighed, with a long, deep sigh, that 
 told how it all -wearied her. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 39 
 
 DEO. 14. Mother keeps saying I spend too 
 
 much time in brooding over my sorrow, As for 
 her, she seems to live in heaven. Not that she has 
 long prosy talks about it, but little words that she 
 lets drop now and th'en show where her thoughts 
 are, and where she would like to be. She seems to 
 think everybody is as eager to go there as she is. 
 For my part, I am not eager at all. I can't make 
 myself feel that it will be nice to sit in rows, all the 
 time singing, fond as I am of music. And when I 
 say to myself, " Of course we shall not always sR in 
 rows singing," then I fancy a multitude of shadowy, 
 phantom-like beings, dressed in white, moving to 
 and fro in golden streets, doing nothing in particu 
 lar, and having a dreary time, without anything to 
 look forward to. 
 
 I told mother so. She said earnestly, and yet in 
 her sweetest, tenderest way, 
 
 "Oh, my darling Katy! What you need is such 
 a living, personal love to Christ as shall make tho 
 thought of being where He is so delightful as to fill 
 your mind with that single thought!" 
 
 What is "personal love to Christ"? 
 
 Oh, dear, dear! Why need my father have been 
 snatched away from me, when BO many other girls 
 have theirs spared to them ? He loved me so ! He 
 indulged me so much! He was so proud of me 
 What have I done that I should have this dread- 
 
40 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ful thing happen to me ? I shall never be as happj 
 as I was before. Now I shall always be expecting 
 trouble. Yes, I dare say mother will go next. Why 
 shouldn't I brood over this sorrow ? I like to brood 
 over it; I like to think how wretched I am; I like 
 to have long, furious fits of crying, lying on my 
 face on the bed. 
 
 JAN. 1, 1832. People talk a great deal about 
 
 the blessed effects of sorrow. But I do not see any 
 good it has done me to lose my dear father, and 
 as to mother she was good enough before. 
 
 We are going to leave our pleasant home, where 
 all of us children were born, and move into a house 
 in an out-of-the-way street. By selling this, and 
 renting a smaller one, mother hopes, with economy, 
 to carry James through college. And I must go to 
 Miss Higgins' school because it is less expensive 
 than Mr. Stone's. Miss Higgins, indeed! I never 
 could bear her! A few months ago, how I should 
 have cried and stormed at the idea of her school. 
 But the great sorrow swallows up the little trial. 
 
 I tried once more, this morning, as it is the first 
 day of the year, to force myself to begin to love 
 God. 
 
 I want to do it; I know I ought to do it; but I 
 cannot. I go through the form of saying some 
 thing that I try to pass off as praying, every day 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 41 
 
 QOW. But I take 110 pleasure in it, as good people 
 say they do, and as I am sure mother does. No 
 body could live in the house with her, and doubt 
 that 
 
 JAN. 10. We are in our new home now, 
 
 and it is quite a cosy little place. James is at home 
 for the long vacation and we are together all the 
 time I am out of school. We study and sing to 
 gether, and now and then, when we forget that dear 
 father has gone, we are as iull of fun as ever. If it 
 is so nice to have a brother, what v must it be to 
 have a sister! Dear old Jim! He is the very 
 pleasantest, dearest fellow in the world I 
 
 JAN 15. 1 have come to another birthday, 
 
 and am seventeen. Mother has celebrated it just 
 as usual, though I know all these anniversaries, which 
 used to be so pleasant, must be sad days to her, 
 now my dear father has gone. She has been cheer 
 ful and loving, and entered into all my pleasures 
 exactly as if nothing had happened. 1 wonder at 
 myself that I do not enter more into her sorrows, 
 but though at times the remembrance of our loss 
 overwhelms me, my natural elasticity soon makes 
 me rise above and forget it. And I am absorbed 
 with these school-days, that come one after an 
 other, in such quick succession that I am all the 
 
43 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 -time running to keep up with them. And as long 
 as I do that I forget that death has crossed our 
 threshold, and may do it again. But to-night, I 
 feel very sad, and as if I would give almost any 
 thing to live in a world where nothing painful 
 could happen. Somehow mother's pale face haunts 
 and reproaches me. I believe I will go to bed and 
 to sleep as quickly as possible, and forget every 
 thing. 
 
III. 
 
 Juix 16. 
 
 Y school-days are over! I have come off 
 with flying colors, and mother is pleased 
 at my success. I said to her to-day that 
 I should now have time to draw and prac 
 tice to my heart's content. 
 
 "You will not find your heart content with 
 either," she said. 
 
 "Why, mother!" I cried, "I thought you liked 
 to see me happy!" 
 
 "And so I do," she said quietly. "But there is 
 something better to get out of life than you have 
 yet found." 
 
 " I am sure I hope so," I returned. On the whole 
 I haven't got much so far. 
 
 Amelia is now on such terms with Jenny Under 
 bill that I can hardly see one without seeing the 
 other. After the way in which I have loved her, 
 this seems rather hard. Sometimes I am angry 
 about it, and sometimes grieved. However, I find 
 Jenny quite nice. She buys all the new books and 
 
 (43) 
 
44 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 lends them to me. I wish I liked more solid read 
 ing; but I don't. And I wish I were not so fond 
 of novels; but I am. If it were not for mother I 
 should read nothing else. And I am sure I often 
 feel quite stirred up by a really good novel, and 
 admire and want to imitate every high-minded, 
 noble character it describes. 
 
 Jenny has a miniature of her brother " Charley " 
 in a locket, which she always wears, and often 
 shows me. According to her, he is exactly like the 
 heroes I most admire in books. She says she 
 knows he would like me if we should meet. But 
 that is not probable. Very few like me. Amelia 
 says it is because I say just what I think. 
 
 WEDNESDAY. Mother pointed out to me 
 
 this evening two lines from a book she was reading, 
 with a significant smile that said they described me ; 
 
 "A frank, unchastened, generous creature, 
 Whose faults and virtues stand in bold relief!" 
 
 "Dear me!" I said, "so then I have some vir 
 tues after all!" 
 
 And I really think I must have, for Jenny's bro 
 ther, who has come here for the sake of being neai 
 her, seems to like me very much. Nobody evei 
 liked me so much before, not even Amelia. But 
 how foolish to write that down ! 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 45 
 
 THURSDAY. Jenny's brother has been here 
 
 all the evening. He has the most perfect manners 
 I ever saw. I am sure that mother, who thiaks so 
 much of such things, would be charmed with him. 
 But she happened to be out, Mrs. Jones having 
 sent for her to see about her baby. He gave me an 
 account of his mother's death, and how he and Jen 
 ny nursed her day and night. He has a great deal 
 of feeling. I was going to tell him about my father's 
 death, sorrow seems to bring people together so, 
 but I could not. Oh, if he had only had a sickness 
 that needed our tender nursing, instead of being 
 snatched from us in that sudden way! 
 
 SUNDAY, AUG. 5. Jenny's brother has been 
 
 at our church all day. He walked home with me 
 this afternoon. Mother, after being up all night 
 with Mrs. Jones and her baby, was not able to go 
 out. 
 
 Dr. Cabot preaches as if we had all got to die 
 pretty soon, or else have something almost as bad 
 happen to us. How can old people always try to 
 make young people feel uncomfortable, and as if 
 things couldn't last? 
 
 AUG. 25. Jenny says her brother is per 
 fectly fascinated with me, and that I mvM try to 
 like him in return. I suppose mother would saj 
 
46 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 my head was turned by my good fortune, but it is 
 not. I am getting quite sober and serious. It is a 
 great thing to be to be well liked. I have seen 
 some verses of his composition to-day that show that 
 he is all heart and soul, and would make any sacrifice 
 for one he loved. I could not like a man who did 
 not possess such sentiments as his. 
 
 Perhaps mother would think I ought not to put 
 such things into my journal. 
 
 Jenny has thought of such a splendid plan ! 
 What a dear little thing she is! She and her 
 brother are so much alike I The plan is for us 
 three girls, Jenny, Amelia, and myself, to form 
 ourselves into a little class to read and to study 
 together. She says " Charley " will direct our read 
 ings and help us with our studies. It is perfectly 
 delightful. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 1. Somehow I forgot to tel I mo 
 ther that Mr. Underhill was to be our teacher. So 
 when it came my turn to have the class meet here, 
 she was not quite pleased. I told her she could 
 stay in the room and watch UR, and then she would 
 see for herself that we all behaved ourselves. 
 
 SEPT. 19. The class met at Amelia's to 
 night. Mother insisted on sending for me, though 
 Mr. Underhill had proposed to see me home him- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 47 
 
 self So he staid after I left. It was not quite the 
 thing in him, for he must see that Amelia is abso 
 lutely crazy about him. 
 
 SEPT. 28. We met at Jenny's this evening 
 
 Amelia had a bad headache and could not come. 
 Jenny idled over her lessons, and at last took a 
 book and began to read. I studied awhile with Mr. 
 Underbill. At last he said, scribbling something 
 on a bit of paper, 
 
 "Here is a sentence I hope you can translate." 
 
 I took it, and read these words: 
 
 "You are the brightest, prettiest, most warm 
 hearted little thing in the world. And I love you 
 more than tongue can tell. You must love me in 
 the same way." 
 
 I felt hot and then cold, and then glad and then 
 sorry. But I pretended to laugh, and said I could 
 not translate Greek. I shall have to tell mother, 
 and what wiU she say! 
 
 SEPT. 29. This morning mother began thus. 
 
 "Kate, I do not like these lessons of yours. At 
 your age, with your judgment quite unformed, it 
 is not proper that you should spend so much time 
 with a young man." 
 
 "Jenny is always there, and Amelia," I replied. 
 
 "That makes no difference. I wish the whole 
 
48 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 tiling stopped. I do not know what I have best] 
 thinking of to let it go on so long. Mrs. Gordon 
 gays " 
 
 "Mrs. Gordon! Ha!" I burst out, "I knew 
 Amelia was at. the bottom of it! Amelia is in lovo 
 with him up to her very ears, and because he does 
 not entirely neglect me, she has put her mother up 
 to coming here, meddling and making" 
 
 " If what you say of Amelia is true, it is most un 
 generous in you to tell of it. But I do not believe 
 it. Amelia Gordon has too much good sense to be 
 carried away by a handsome face and agreeable 
 manners." 
 
 I began to cry. 
 
 "He likes me," I got out, "he likes me ever so 
 much. Nobody ever was so kind to me before. 
 Nobody ever said such nice things to me. And I 
 don't want such horrid things said about him." 
 
 " Has it really come to this ! " said mother, quite 
 shocked. "Oh, my poor child, how my selfish sor 
 row has made me neglect you." 
 
 I kept on crying. 
 
 " Is it possible," she went on, " that with your 
 good sense, and the education you have had, you are 
 captivated by this mere boy?" 
 
 " He is not a boy," I said. " He is a man. He is 
 twenty years old; or at least he will be on the fif 
 teenth of next October." 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 49 
 
 "The child actually keeps his birthdays!" cried 
 mother. "Oh, my wicked, shameful carelessness." 
 
 "It's done now," I said, desperately. *It is too 
 late to help it now." 
 
 "You don't mean that he has dared to say any 
 thing without consulting me?" asked mother. 
 "And that you have allowed it! Oh, Katherine ! * 
 
 By this time my mouth shut itself up, and no 
 mortal force could open it. I stopped crying, and 
 sat with folded arms. Mother said what she had 
 to say, and then I came to you, my dear old 
 Journal. 
 
 Yes, he likes me and I like him. 
 
 Come now, let's out with it once for all. 
 
 He loves me and I love him. 
 
 You are just a little bit too late, mother. 
 
 OCT. 1. I never can write down all the 
 
 things that have happened. The very day after 
 I wrote Jenny that mother had forbidden my going 
 to the class, Charley came to see her, and they had 
 a regular fight together. He has told me about it 
 eince. Then, as he could not prevail, his uncle 
 wrote, told her it would be the making of Charley 
 to be settled down on one young lady instead of 
 hovering from flower to flower, as he was doing 
 now. Then Jenny came with her pretty ways, and 
 oried, and told mother what a darling brother 
 3 
 
50 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Charley was. She made a good deal, too, out of his 
 having lost both father and mother, and needing 
 my affection so much. Mother shut herself up, and 
 I have no doubt prayed over it. I really believe 
 she prays over every new dress she buys. Then 
 she sent for me and talked beautifully, and I behaved 
 abominably. 
 
 At last she said she would put us on one year's 
 probation. Charley might spend one evening here 
 every two weeks, when she should always be pres 
 ent. We were never to be seen together in pub 
 lic, nor would she allow us to correspond. If, at 
 the end of the year, we were both as eager for it 
 as we are now, she would consent to our engage 
 ment. Of course we shall be, so I consider myself 
 as good as engaged now. Dear me! how funny it 
 seems. 
 
 OCT. 2. Charley is not at all pleased with 
 
 mother's terms, but no one would guess it from his 
 manner to her. His coming is always the signal for 
 her trotting down stairs; he goes to meet her and 
 offers her a chair, as if he was delighted to see her. 
 We go on with the lessons, as this gives us a chance 
 to sit pretty close together, and when I am writ 
 ing my exercises and he corrects them, I rather 
 think a few little things get on to the paper that 
 sound nicely to us, but would not strik^ mother 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. . 51 
 
 very agreeably. For instance, s last night Charley 
 wrote : 
 
 u Is your mother never sick ? A nice little head 
 aohe or two would be so convenient to us ! " 
 
 And I wrote back. 
 
 "You dear old horrid thing! How can you be 
 so selfish?" 
 
 JAN. 15, 1833. I have been trying to think 
 
 whether I am any happier to-day than I was at 
 this time a year ago. If I am not, I suppose it 
 is the tantalizing way in which I am placed in 
 regard to Charley. We have so much to say to 
 each other that we can't say before mother, and 
 that we cannot say in writing, because a corre 
 spondence is one of the forbidden things. He says 
 he entered into no contract not to write, and keeps 
 slipping little notes into my hand; but I don't 
 think that quite right. Mother hears us arguing 
 and disputing about it, though she does not know 
 the subject under discussion, and to-day she said to 
 me: 
 
 " I would not argue with him, if I were you. He 
 never will yield." 
 
 "But it is a case of conscience," I said, "and he 
 ought to yield." 
 
 "There is no obstinacy like that of a f ," she 
 
 began and stopped short. 
 
52 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " Oh, you may as well finish it ! " I cried. " I know 
 you think him a fool." 
 
 Then mother burst out* 
 
 "Oh, my child," she said, "before it is too late, 
 do be persuaded by me to give up this whole thing. 
 1 shrink from paining or offending you, but it is my 
 duty, as your mother, to warn you against a mar- 
 riage that will make shipwreck of your happiness." 
 
 " Marriage ! " I fairly shrieked out. That is the 
 last thing I have ever thought of. I felt a chill 
 creep over me. All I had wanted was to have 
 Charley come here every day, take me out now and 
 then, and care for nobody else. 
 
 " Yes, marriage ! " mother repeated. " For what 
 is the meaning of an engagement if marriage is not 
 to follow ? How can you fail to see, what I see, oh ! 
 so plainly, that Charley Underbill never, never can 
 meet the requirements of your soul. You are cap 
 tivated by what girls of your age call beauty, regu 
 lar features, a fair complexion and soft eyes. His 
 flatteries delude, and his professions of affection 
 gratify you. You do not see that he is shallow, 
 and conceited, and selfish and " 
 
 "Oh, mother! How can you be so unjust? His 
 whole study seems to be to please others." 
 
 "Seems to be that is true," she replied. "His 
 ruling passion is love of admiration : the little 
 pleasing acts that attract you are so many traps sei 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 53 
 
 to catch the attention and the favorable opinion of 
 those about him. He has not one honest desire to 
 please because it is right to be pleasing. Oh, my 
 precious child, what a fatal mistake you are mak 
 ing in relying on your own judgment in this, the 
 most important of earthly decisions I " 
 
 I felt very angry. 
 
 " I thought the Bible forbid back-biting," I said. 
 
 Mother made no reply, except by a look which 
 said about a hundred and forty different things. 
 And then I came up here and wrote soine poetry, 
 which was very good (for me), though I don't sup 
 pose she would think so. 
 
 OCT. 1. The year of probation is over, and 
 
 I have nothing to do now but to be happy. But 
 being engaged is not half so nice as I expected it 
 would be. I suppose it is owing to my being 
 obliged to defy mother's judgment in order to 
 gratify my own. People say she has great insight 
 into character, and sees, at a glance, what others 
 only learn after much study. 
 
 OCT. 10. I have taken a dreadful cold. It 
 
 ie too bad. I dare say I shall be coughing all win- 
 tor, and instead of going out with Charley, be shut 
 up at home. 
 
54 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 OCT. 12. Charley says he did not know that 
 
 I was subject to a cough, and that he hopes I am not 
 consumptive, because his father and mother both 
 died of consumption, and it makes him nervous to 
 hoar people cough. I nearly strangled myself all 
 the evening trying not to annoy him with mine. 
 
iv. 
 
 Nov. 2. 
 
 REALLY think I am sick and going to 
 die. Last night I raised a little blood. 1 
 dare not tell mother, it would distress her 
 so, but I am sure it came from my lungs. 
 Charley said last week he really must stay away 
 till I got better, for my cough sounded like his mo 
 ther's. I have been very lonely, and have shed 
 some tears, but most of the time have been too sor 
 rowful to cry. If we were married, and I had a 
 cough, would he go and leave me, I wonder? 
 
 SUNDAY, 18th. Poor mother is dreadfully 
 
 anxious about me. But I don't see how she can 
 love me so, after the way I have behaved. I won* 
 der if, after all, mothers are not the best friends 
 there are! I keep her awake with my cough all 
 night, and am mopy and cross all day, but she ia 
 just ap kind and affectionate as she can be. 
 
 Nov. 25. The day I wrote that was SUD- 
 
 (55) 
 
56 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 day I could not go to church, and I felt very for 
 lorn and desolate. I tried to get some comfort by 
 praying, but when I got on my knees, 1 just bursl 
 oat crying and could not say a word. For I have 
 uot seen Charley for ten days. As I knelt there 1 
 began to think myself a perfect monster of selfishness 
 for wanting him to spend his evenings with me, now 
 that I am so unwell and annoy him so with my 
 cough, and I asked myself if I ought not to break 
 off the engagement altogethei, if I was really in 
 a consumption, the very disease Charley dreaded 
 most of all. It seemed such a proper sacrifice to 
 make of myself. Then I prayed yes, I am sure I 
 really prayed as I had not done for more than a 
 year, and the idea of self-sacrifice grew every mo 
 ment more beautiful in my eyes, till at last I felt an 
 almost joyful triumph in writing to poor Charley, 
 and telling him what I had resolved to do. 
 
 This is my letter: 
 
 MY DEAR, DEAR CHARLEY: I dare not tell you 
 what it costs me to say what I am about to do ; but 
 I am sure you know me well enough by this time to 
 believe that it is only because your happiness is far 
 more precious to me than my own, that I have de 
 cided to write you this letter. When you first told 
 me that you loved me, you said, and you have often 
 said BO since then, that it was my "brightness and 
 gayety" that attracted you. I knew there 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 57 
 
 something underneath my gayety better worth 
 your love, and was glad 1 could give you more 
 than you asked for. I knew I was not a mere 
 1 hough tless, laughing girl, but that I had a heart as 
 wide as the ocean to give you as wide and as 
 deep. 
 
 But now my "brightness and gayety" have gone; 
 I am sick, and perhaps am going to die. If this ia 
 so, it would be very sweet to have your love go 
 with me to the very gates of death, and beautify 
 and glorify ray path thither. But what a weary 
 task this would be to you, my poor Charley ! And 
 so, if you think it best, and it would relieve you of 
 any care and pain, I will release you from our en 
 gagement and set you free. 
 
 YOUR LITTLE KAIY. 
 
 I did not sleep at all that night. Early on Mon 
 day I sent off my letter, and my heart beat so hard 
 all day that I was tired and faint. Just at dark his 
 answer came; 1 can copy it from memory. 
 
 DEAR KATE: What a generous, self-sacrificing 
 \ittle thing you are ! I always thought so, but now 
 you have given me a noble proof of it. I will own 
 that I have been disappointed to find your consti 
 tution so poor, and that it has been very dull sitting 
 and hearing you cough, especially as I was remind 
 ed of the long and tedious illness throug 
 3* 
 
58 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 poor Jenny and myself had to nurse our mother, 
 I vowed then never to marry a consumptive wom 
 an, and I thank you for making it so easy for me to 
 bring our engagement to an end. My bright hopes 
 ire blighted, and it will be long before I shall fiiui 
 mother to till your place. I need not say how 
 jmih I sympathize with you in this disappoint- 
 nen'. I hope the consolations of religion will 
 aow be yours. Your notes, the lock of your hair, 
 st/) , I return with this. I will not reproach you 
 toi tJ.e pain you have CQst me; I know it is not your 
 fault that vour health has become so frail. 
 
 *> 
 
 I remain your sincere friend, 
 
 CHARLES UNDERBILL. 
 
 JAN. 1, 1834. Let me finish this story if J 
 
 can. 
 
 My first impulse after reading his letter was to 
 fly to mother, and hide away forever in her dear, 
 loving arms. 
 
 But I restrained myself, and with my heart beat 
 ing so that I could hardly hold my pen, I wrote 
 this : 
 
 MR. UNDERBILL: Sir The scales have fallen 
 from my eyes, and I see you at last just as you 
 are. Since my note to you on Sunday last I have 
 had a consultation of physicians, and they all agree 
 that my disease is not of an alarming character, and 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 59 
 
 that I shall soon recover. But I thank God that 
 before it was too late, you have been revealed to 
 me just as you are a heartless, selfish, shallow crea 
 ture, unworthy the love of a true-hearted womau, 
 unworthy even of your own self-respect. I gave 
 you an opportunity to withdraw from our engage 
 ment in full faith, loving you so truly that I waa 
 ready to go trembling to my grave alone if you 
 shrank from sustaining me to it. But I see now 
 that I did not dream for one moment that you 
 would take me at my word and leave me to my fate. 
 I thought I loved a racw, and could lean on him 
 when strength failed me. I know now that I loved 
 a mere creature of my imagination. Take back 
 your letters; I loathe the sight of them. Take 
 back the ring, and find, if you can, a woman who 
 will never be sick, never out of spirits, and who 
 never will die. Thank heaven it is not 
 
 KATHERIXE MORTIMER. 
 
 These lines came to me in reply: 
 "Thank God it is not Kate Mortimer. I want 
 an angel for my wife, not a vixen. o. u." 
 
 JAN. 15. What a tempest- tossed creature 
 
 this birthday finds me ! But let me finish this 
 wretched, disgraceful story, if I can, before I quite 
 lose my senses. 
 
60 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I showed my mother the letters. She burst into 
 tears, and opened her arms, and I ran into them as 
 a wounded bird flies into the ark. We cried toge 
 ther. Motl.er never said, never looked, 
 
 "I told you so." All she did say was this: 
 
 "God has heard my prayers! He is reserving 
 better things for my child!" 
 
 Dear mother's are not the only arms I have 
 flown to. But it does not seem as if God ought to 
 take me in because I am in trouble, when I would 
 not go to Him when I was happy in something else. 
 But even in the midst of my greatest felicity I had 
 many and many a misgiving; many a season when 
 my conscience upbraided me for my willfulness to 
 wards my dear mother, and my whole soul yearned 
 for something higher and better even than Charley's 
 love, precious as it was. 
 
 JAN. 26. I have shut myself up in my room 
 
 to-day to think over things. The end of it is that 
 I am full of mortification and confusion of face. If 
 I had only had confidence in mother's judgment J 
 should never have got entangled in this silly en 
 gagement. I see now that Charley never could 
 have made me happy, and I know there is a good 
 deal in my heart he never called out. I wish, how 
 ever, I had not written him when I was in such a 
 passion No wonder he is thankful that he has got 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 61 
 
 free from such a vixen. But, oh! the provocation 
 was terrible! 
 
 1 have made up my mind never to tell a human 
 soul about this affair. It will be so high-minded 
 and honorable to shield him thus from the contempt 
 he deserves. With all my faults 1 am glad that 
 there is nothing mean or little about me! 
 
 JAN. 27. I can't bear to write it down, but 
 
 I will. The ink was hardly dry yesterday on the 
 above Belt-laudation, when Amelia came. She had 
 been out of town, and had only just learned what 
 hud happened. Of course she was curious to know 
 the whole story. 
 
 And 1 told it to her, every word of it! Oh, 
 Kate Mortimer, how "high-minded" you are! How 
 free from all that is " mean and little ! " I could tear 
 my hair if it would do any good ! 
 
 Amelia defended Charley, and I was thus led on 
 to say every harsh thing of him I could think of. 
 She said he was of so sensitive a nature, had so 
 much sensibility, and such a constitutional aversion 
 to seeing suffering, that for her part she could not 
 blame him. 
 
 " It is such a pity you had not had your lungs ex 
 amined before you wrote that first letter," she went 
 on. " But you are so impulsive ! If you had only 
 waited you would be engaged to Charley, still!" 
 
62 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 44 1 am thankful I did not wait," I cried, angrily 
 u Do, Amelia, drop the subject forever. You and 1 
 shall never agree upon it. The truth is, you are 
 two-i hirds in love with him, and have been, all 
 along." 
 
 She colored, and laughed, and actually looked 
 pleased. If any one had made such an outrageous 
 speech to me, I should have been furious. 
 
 44 1 suppose you know," said she, "that old Mr. 
 Underbill has taken such a fancy to him that he has 
 made him his heir; and he is as rich as a Jew." 
 
 44 Indeed ! " I said, dryly. 
 
 I wonder if mother knew it when she opposed 
 our engagement so strenuously. 
 
 JAN. 31. I have asked her, and she said she 
 
 did. Air. Underbill told her his intentions when he 
 urged her consent to the engagement. Dear moth 
 er! How unworldly, how unselfish she is! 
 
 FEB. 4. The name of Charley Underbill ap 
 pears on these pages for the last time. He is en 
 gaged to Amelia ! From this moment she is lost to 
 me .forever. How desolate, how mortified, bow 
 miserable I am ! Who could have thought this of 
 Amelia! She came to see me, radiant with joy. I 
 concealed my disgust until she said that Charley 
 felt now that he had never really loved me, but had 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 63 
 
 preferred her all along. Then I burst rut. What 
 I said I do not know, and do not care. The whole 
 thing is so disgraceful that I should be a stock or a 
 stone not to resent it. 
 
 FEB. 5. After yesterday's passion of grief, 
 
 shame, and anger, I feel perfectly stupid and lan 
 guid. Oh, that I was prepared for a better world, 
 and could fly to it and be at rest I 
 
 FEB. 6. Now that it is all over, how ashamed 
 
 I am of the fury I have been in, and which has giv 
 en Amelia such advantage over me! I was begin 
 ning to believe that I was really living a feeble and 
 fluttering, but reed Christian life, and finding some 
 satisfaction in it. But that is all over now. I am 
 doomed to be a victim of my own unstable, passion 
 ate, wayward nature, and the sooner I settle down 
 into that conviction, the better. And yet how my 
 very soul craves the highest happiness, and refuses 
 to be comforted while that is wanting. 
 
 FEB. 7. After writing that, I do not know 
 
 what made me go to see Dr. Cabot. He received 
 me in that cheerful way of his that seems to prom 
 ise the taking one's burden right off one's back. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you, my dear child," he 
 said. 
 
64 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I intended to be very dignified and cold. As if 
 I was going to have any Dr. Cabots undertaking 
 to sympathize with me! But those few kind words 
 just upset me, and I began to cry. 
 
 " You would not speak so kindly," I got out at 
 last, " if you knew what a dreadful creature I am. 
 1 am angiy with myself, and angry with everybody, 
 and angry with God. I can't be good two minutes 
 at a time. I do everything I do not want to do, 
 and do nothing I try and pray to do. Everybody 
 plagues me and tempts me. And God does not an 
 swer any of my prayers, and I am just desperate." 
 
 " Poor child ! " he said, in a low voice, as if to him 
 self. " Poor, heart-sick, tired child, that cannot see 
 what I can see, that its Father's loving arms are all 
 about it ! " 
 
 I stopped crying, to strain my ears to listen. He 
 went on. 
 
 " Katy, all that you say may be true. I dare say 
 it is. But God loves you. He loves you." 
 
 " He loves me," I repeated to myself. " He loves 
 me" "Oh, Dr. Cabot, if I could believe that! If I 
 could believe that, after all the promises I have 
 broken, all the foolish, wrong things I have done, 
 and shall always be doing, God perhaps still loves 
 me!" 
 
 " You may be sure of it," he said, solemnly. " I 
 hie minister, bring the gospel to you to-day. Go 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 65 
 
 home and say over and over to yourself, * I am a 
 wayward, foolish child. But He loves me! I have 
 disobeyed and grieved Him ten thousand times. 
 But He loves me ! I have lost faith in some of niy 
 dearest friends and am very desolate. But He 
 loves me! I do not love Him, I am even angry 
 with Him ! But He loves me I ' " 
 
 I came away, and all the way homt- 1 tought this 
 battle with myself, saying, " He loves, me ! " I 
 knelt down to pray, and all my wasted, childish, 
 wicked life came and stared me in the face. I 
 looked at it, and said with tears of joy, " But He 
 loves me ! " Never in my life did I feel so rested, 
 so quieted, so sorrowful, and yet so satisfied. 
 
 FEB. 10. What a beautiful world this is, 
 
 and how full it is of truly kind, good people ? Mrs. 
 Morris was here this morning, and just one squeeze 
 of that long, yellow old hand of hers seemed to 
 speak a book-ful! I wonder why I have always 
 disliked her so, for she is really an excellent wo 
 man. 1 gave her a good kiss to pay her for the 
 sympathy she had sense enough not to put into 
 canting words, and if you will believe it, dear old 
 Journal, the tears came into her eyes, and she said, 
 
 " You are one of the Lord's beloved ones, though 
 perhaps you do not know it." 
 
 I repeated again to myself those sweet, myste- 
 
t>6 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 rious words, and then I tried to think what I could 
 do for Hirr. But I could not think of anything 
 great or good enough. I went into mother's room 
 and put my arms round her and told her how I 
 loved her. She looked surprised and pleased. 
 
 "Ah, 1 knew it would come!" she said, laying 
 her hand on her Bible. 
 
 "Knew what would come, mother?" 
 
 "Peace," she said. 
 
 I came back here and wrote a little note to Ame 
 lia, telling her how ashamed and sorry I was that I 
 could not control myself the other day. Then I 
 wrote a long letter to James. I have been very 
 careless about writing to him. 
 
 Then I began to hem those handkerchiefs mother 
 asked me to finish a month ago. But I could not 
 think of anything to do for God. I wish I could 
 It makes me so happy to think that all this time, 
 while I was caring for nobody but myself, and fan 
 cying He must almost hate me, He was loving and 
 pitying me. 
 
 FEB. 15. 1 went to see Dr. Cabot again 
 
 to-day. He came down from his study with his pen 
 in his hand. 
 
 "How dare you come and spoil my sermon on 
 Saturday?" he asked, good-humoredly. 
 
 Though lie seemed full of loving-kindness, I waf 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 67 
 
 * 
 ashamed of my thoughtlessness. Though 1 did 
 
 not know he was particularly busy on Saturdays. 
 I f I were a minister 1 am sure I would get my eo/ 
 mo us done early in the week. 
 
 44 1 only wanted to ask one thing," I said. u 1 
 want to do something for God. And . I cannot 
 think of anything unless it is to go on a mission. 
 And mother would never let me do that. She 
 thinks girls with delicate health are not fit for such 
 work." 
 
 "At all events 1 would not go to-day," he replied. 
 44 Meanwhile do everything you do for Him who has 
 loved you and given Himself for you." 
 
 I did not dare to stay any longer, and so came 
 away quite puzzled. Dinner was ready, and as I 
 sat down to the table, I said to myself, 
 
 " I eat this dinner for myself, not for God. What 
 can Dr. Cabot mean?" Then I remembered the 
 text about doing all for the glory of God, even in 
 eating and drinking; but I do not understand it at 
 all. 
 
 FEB. 19. It has seemed to me for several 
 
 days that it must be that I really do love God, 
 though ever so little. But it shot through my mind 
 to-day like a knife, that it is a miserable, selfish love 
 at the best, not worth my giving, not worth God's 
 accepting. All my old misery has come back with 
 
68 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 coven other miseries more miserable than itself. 1 
 wish I had never been born! I wish I were 
 thoughtless and careless, like so many other girls 
 of my age, who seem to get along very well, and to 
 enjoy themselves far more than I do. 
 
 FEB. 21. Dr. Cabot came to see me to-day 
 
 [ told him all about it. He could not help smiling 
 as he said: 
 
 "When 1 see a little infant caressing its mother, 
 would you have me say to it, 'You selfish child, 
 how dare you pretend to caress your mother in 
 that way? You are quite unable to appreciate her 
 character; you love her merely because she loves 
 you, treats you kindly?" 
 
 It was my turn to smile now, at my own folly. 
 
 "You are as yet but a babe in Christ," Dr. Ca 
 bot continued. "You love your God and Saviour 
 because He first loved you. The time will come 
 when the character of your love will become 
 changed into one which sees and feels the beauty 
 and the perfection of its object, and if you could be 
 assured that he no longer looked on you with fa 
 vor, you would still cling to Him with devoted 
 affection." 
 
 "There is one thing more that troubles me," I 
 said. " Most persons know the exact moment when 
 they begin real Christian lives. But I do not kno^w 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 69 
 
 of any such time in my history. This causes me 
 many uneasy moments." 
 
 "You are wrong in thinking that most persons 
 have this advantage over you. I believe that the 
 children of Christian parents, who have been judic 
 iously trained, rarely can point to any day or hour 
 when they began to live this new life. The ques 
 tion is not, do you remember, my child, when you 
 entered this world, and how ? It is simply this, are 
 you now alive and an inhabitant thereof? And 
 now it is my turn to ask you a question. How 
 happens it that you, who have a mother of rich and 
 varied experience, allow yourself to be tormented 
 with these petty anxieties which she is as capable 
 of dispelling as I am?" 
 
 " I do not know," I answered. " But we girla 
 cant talk to our mothers about any of our sacred 
 feelings, and we hate to have them talk to us." 
 
 Dr. Cabot shook his head. 
 
 "There is something wrong somewhere," he 
 said. " A young girl's mother is her natural refuge 
 in every perplexity. I hoped that you, who have 
 rather more sense than most girls of your age, 
 could give me some idea what the difficulty is." 
 
 After he had gone, I am ashamed to own that I 
 was in a perfect flutter of delight at what he had 
 said about my having more sense than most girls. 
 Meeting poor mother on the stairs while in this ex 
 
70 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 alted state of mind, I gave her a very short answei 
 to a kind question, and made her unhappy, as I have 
 Diade myself. 
 
 Jt is just a year ago to-day that I got frightened 
 at my novel reading propensities, arid resolved not 
 to look into one for twelve months. I was getting 
 to dislike all other books, and night after night sat 
 up late, devouring everything exciting I could get 
 hold of. One Saturday night I sat up till the clock 
 struck twelve, to finish one, and the next morning I 
 was so sleepy that I had to stay at home from church. 
 Now I hope and believe the back of this taste ia 
 broken, and that I shall never be a slave to it again. 
 Indeed it does not seem to me now that I shall ever 
 care for such books again. 
 
 FEB. 24. Mother spoke to me this morning 
 
 for the fiftieth time, I really believe, about my dis 
 orderly habits. I don't think I am careless because 
 I like confusion, but the trouble is I am always in a 
 hurry and a ferment about something. If I want any 
 thing, I want it very much, and right away. So if 1 
 am looking for a book, or a piece of music, or a pat 
 tern, I tumble everything around, and can't stop to 
 put them to rights. I wish I were not so eager and 
 impatient. But I mean to try to keep my room 
 and my drawers in order, to please mother. 
 
 She says, too, that I am growing careless about 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 71 
 
 * 
 
 iny hair and my dress. But that is because my 
 mind is so full of graver, more important things. 1 
 thought I ought to be wholly occupied with my 
 duty to God. But mother says duty to God in 
 cludes duty to one's neighbor, and that untidy hair, 
 put up in all sorts of rough bunches, rumpled cuffs 
 and collars, and all that sort of thing, make one of 
 fensive to all one meets. I am sorry she thinks so, 
 for J find it very convenient to twist up my hair 
 almost any how, and it takes a good deal of time to 
 look after collars and cuffs. 
 
 MARCH 14. To-day I feel discouraged and 
 
 disappointed. I certainly thought that if God re 
 ally loved me, and 1 really loved Him, I should 
 find myself growing better day by day. But 1 am 
 not improved in the least. Most of the time I 
 spend on my knees 1 am either stupid, feeling no 
 thing at all, or else my head is full of what I was 
 doing before I began to pray, or what I am going 
 to do as soon as I get through. I do not believe 
 anybody else in the world is like me in this respect 
 Then when I feel differently, and can make a nice, 
 glib prayer, with floods of tears running down my 
 cheeks, I get all puffed up, and think how much 
 pleased God must be to see me so fervent in spirit. 
 I go down-stairs in this frame, and begin to scold 
 Susan for misplacing my music, till all of a sudden 
 
72 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I catch myself doing it, and stop short, crest fallen 
 and confounded. I have so many such experiences 
 that 1 feel liks a baby just learning to walk, who ia 
 BO afraid of falling that it has half a mind to sit down 
 Dnce for all. 
 
 Then there is another thing. Seeing mother so 
 fond of Thomas a Kempis, I have been reading it, 
 now and then, and am not fond of it at all. From 
 beginning to end it exhorts to self-denial in every 
 form and shape. Must I then give up all hope of 
 happiness in this world, and modify all my natural 
 tastes and desires? Oh, I do love so to be happy! 
 And I do so hate to suffer! The very thought of 
 being sick, or of being forced to nurse sick people, 
 with all their cross ways, and of losing my friends, 
 or of having to live with disagreeable people, makea 
 me shudder. I want to please God, and to be like 
 Him. I certainly do. But I am so young, and it 
 is so natural to want to have a good time ! And 
 now I am in for it I may as well tell the whole 
 story. When I read the lives of good men and 
 women who have died and gone to heaven, I find 
 they all liked to sit and think about God and about 
 Christ. Now / dont. I often try, but my mind 
 llies off in a tangent. The truth is I am perfectly 
 discouraged 
 
 MARCH 17. I went to see Dr. Cabot to 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. . 73 
 
 day but he wa- out, so I thought I would ask for 
 Mrs. Cabot, thjugh I was determined not to tell 
 her any of my troubles. But somehow she ot the 
 whole story out of me, and instead of being shocked, 
 as I expected she would be, she actually br,rst out 
 laughing ! She recovered herself immediately, how 
 ever. 
 
 44 Do excuse me for laughing at you, you dear 
 child you ! " she said. " But I remember so well 
 how I used to flounder through just such needless 
 anxieties, and life looks so different, so very different, 
 to me now, from what it did then! What should 
 you think of a man, who having just sowed his 
 field, was astonished not to see it at once ripe for 
 the harvest, because his neighbor's, after long 
 months of waiting, was just being gathered in ? " 
 
 " Do you mean," I asked, " that by and by I shall 
 naturally come to feel and think as other good 
 people do?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. You must make the most of what 
 little Christian life you have; be thankful God has 
 given you so much, cherish it, pray over it, arid 
 guard it like the apple of your eye. Imperceptibly, 
 but surely, it will grow, and keep on growing, for 
 this is its nature." 
 
 " But I don't want to wait," I said, despondently. 
 "I have just been reading a delightful book, 
 full of stories of heroic deeds not fables, but 
 4 
 
74 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 histories of real events and real people. It has 
 quite stirred me up, and made me wish to possess 
 such beautiful heroism, and that I were a man, that 
 I might have a chance to perform some truly noble, 
 self-GacriScing acts." 
 
 "I dare say your chance will come," she replied, 
 "though you are not a man. I fancy we all get, 
 more or less, what we want." 
 
 " Do you really think so ? Let me see then, what 
 I want most. But I am staying too long? Were 
 you particularly busy?" 
 
 "No," she returned smilingly, "I am learning 
 4 that the man who wants me is the man I want.'" 
 
 "You are very good to say so. Well, in the first 
 place, 1 do really and truly want to be good. Not 
 with common goodness, you know, but" 
 
 "But imcommon goodness," she put in. 
 
 " I mean that I want to be very, very good. I 
 should like next best to be learned and accomplish 
 ed. Then I should want to be perfectly well and 
 perfectly happy. And a pleasant -home of course, I 
 must have, with friends to love me, and like me, too. 
 And I can't get along without some pretty, tasteful 
 thing? about me. But you are laughing at me 1 
 Have I said anything foolish?" 
 
 "If I laughed, it was not at you, but at poor hu 
 man nature, that would fain grasp everything at 
 once. Allowing that you should possess all you 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 75 
 
 have just described, where is the heroism you so 
 much admire to find room for exercise ? " 
 
 " That's just what I was saying That is just what 
 troubles me." 
 
 "To be sure, while perfectly well and happy, in 
 a pleasant home, with friends to love and admire 
 you " 
 
 "Oh, I did not say admire," I interrupted. 
 
 "That was just what you meant, my dear." 
 
 1 am afraid it was, now I come to think it over. 
 
 " Well, with plenty of friends, good in an uncom 
 mon way, accomplished, learned, and surrounded 
 with pretty and tasteful objects, your life will cer 
 tainly be in danger of not proving very sublime." 
 
 "It is a great pity," I said, musingly. 
 
 "Suppose then you content yourself for the 
 present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent 
 way, all the little, homely tasks that return with 
 each returning day, each one as unto God, and 
 perhaps by and by you will thus have gained 
 strength for a more heroic life. ' 
 
 "But I don't know how." 
 
 "You have some little home duties, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes; I have the care of my own room, and 
 mother wants me to have a general oversight ol 
 the parlor; you know we have but one parlor 
 now." 
 
 "Is that all you have to do?" 
 
76 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "Why, my music and drawing take up a good 
 deal of my time, arid I' read and study more 01 
 less, and go out some, and we have a good many 
 visitors." 
 
 " I suppose, then, you keep your room in nice, 
 ladylike order, and that the parlor is dusted ever^ 
 morning, loose music put out of the way, books 
 restored to their places," 
 
 "Now I know mother has been telling you." 
 
 "Your mother has told me nothing at all." 
 
 "Well, then," I said, laughing, but a little 
 ashamed, "I don't keep my room in nice order, 
 and mother really sees to the parlor herself, though 
 I pretend to do it." 
 
 "And is she never annoyed by this neglect?" 
 
 "0, yes, very much annoyed." 
 
 "Then, dear Katy, suppose your first act of he 
 roism to-morrow should be the gratifying your 
 mother in these little things, little though they 
 are. Surely your first duty, next to pleasing God, 
 is to please your mother, and in every possible 
 way to sweeten and beautify her life. You may 
 depend upon it that a life of real heroism and self- 
 sacrifice must begin and lay its foundation in this 
 little world, wherein it learns its first lesson and 
 takes its first steps." 
 
 "And do you really think that God notices such 
 little things? 17 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 77 
 
 " My dear child, what a question ! If there is any 
 one truth I would gladly impress on the mind of a 
 young Christian, it is just this, that God notices 
 the most trivial act, accepts the poorest, most 
 threadbare little service, listens to the coldest, fee 
 blest petition, and gathers up with parental fond 
 ness all our fragmentary desires and attempts at 
 good works. Oh, if we could only begin to con 
 ceive how He loves us, what different creatures 
 we should be ! " 
 
 I felt inspired by her enthusiasm, though I don't 
 think I quite understand what she means. I did 
 not dare to stay any longer, for, with her great 
 host of children, she must have her hands full. 
 
 MARCH 25. Mother is very much astonish 
 
 ed to see how nicely I am keeping things in order. 
 I was flying about this morning, singing, and dust 
 ing the furniture, when she came in and began, 
 "He that is faithful in that which is least" but I 
 ran at her with my brush, and would not let her 
 finish. I really, really don't deserve to be praised. 
 For I have been thinking that, if it is true that God 
 notices every little thing we do to please Him, He 
 must also notice every cross word we speak, every 
 shrug of the shoulders, every ungracious look, and 
 that they displease Him. And my list of such oft 
 tonces is as long as my life ! 
 
78 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 MARCH 29. Yesterday for the firwt time 
 
 since that dreadful blow, I felt some return of mj 
 natural gayety and cheerfulness. It seemed to comt 
 hand in hand with my first real effort to go so far 
 out of myself as to try to do exactly what would 
 gratify dear mother. 
 
 But to-day I am all down again. I miss Amelia's 
 friendship, for one thing. To be sure I wonder 
 how I ever came to love such a superficial charac 
 ter so devotedly, but I must have somebody to 
 love, and perhaps I invented a lovely creature, and 
 called it by her name, and bowed down to it and 
 worshiped it. I certainly did so in regard to him 
 whose heartless cruelty has left me so sad, so deso 
 late. 
 
 EVENING. Mother has been very patient 
 
 and forbearing with me all day. To-night, after 
 tea, she said, in her gentlest, tenderest way, 
 
 "Dear Katy, I feel very sorry for you. But I 
 see one path which you have not yet tried, which 
 can lead you out of these sore straits. You have 
 tried living for yourself a good many years, and 
 the result is great weariness and heaviness of soul. 
 Try now to live for others. Take a class in the 
 Sunday-school. Go with me to visit my poor 
 people. You will be astonished to find how much 
 suffering and sickness there is ir this world, and 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 79 
 
 fiow delightful it is to sympathize with and try to 
 relieve it." 
 
 This advice was very repugnant to me. My 
 time is pretty fully occupied with my books, my 
 music and my drawing. And of all places in the 
 world I hate a sick-room. But, on the whole, 1 
 wiU take a class in the Sunday-school. 
 
APRIL 6. 
 
 HAVE taken it at last. 1 would not take 
 one before, because I knew I could no1 
 teach little children how to love God, un 
 less I loved Him myself. My class is per 
 fectly delightful. There are twelve dear little 
 things in it, of all ages between eight and nine. 
 Eleven are girls, and the one boy makes me more 
 trouble than all of them put together. When I get 
 them all about me, and their sweet innocent faces 
 look up into mine, I am so happy that I can hardly 
 help stopping every now and then to kiss them. 
 They ask Ihe very strangest questions ! I mean to 
 spend a great deal of time in preparing the lesson, 
 and in hunting up stories to illustrate it. Oh, I am 
 so glad I was ever born into this beautiful world, 
 where there will always be dear little children to 
 love! 
 
 
 APRIL 13. Sunday has come again, and 
 
 frith it my darling little class ! Dr. Cabot has 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 1 
 
 preached delightfully all day, and I feel that I be 
 gin to understand his preaching better, aLd that ii 
 must do me good. I long, 1 truly long to please 
 God; I long to feel as the best Christians feel, and 
 to live as they live. 
 
 APRIL 20. Now that I have these twelve 
 
 little ones to instruct, 1 am more than ever in earnest 
 about setting them a good example through the week. 
 It is true they do not, most of them, know how I 
 spend my time, nor how I act. But / know, and 
 whenever I am conscious of not practicing what I 
 preach, I am bitterly ashamed and grieved. How 
 much work, badly done, I am now having to undo I 
 If I had begun in earnest to serve God when I was 
 as young as these children are, how many wrong 
 habits I should have avoided; habits that entangle 
 me now, as in so many nets. I am trying to take 
 each of these little gentle girls by the hand and to 
 lead her to Christ. Poor Johnny Ross is not so 
 docile as they are, and tries my patience to the last 
 degree. 
 
 APRIL 27. This morning I had all my little 
 
 Qock about me and talked to them out of the very 
 bottom of my heart about Jesus. They left theii 
 seats and got close to me in a circle, leaning on my 
 lap and drinking in every word. All of a sudden I 
 
 4* 
 
82 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 was aware, as by a magnetic influence, that a great 
 lumbering man in the next seat was looking at me 
 out of two of the blackest eyes I ever saw, and 
 evidently listening to what I was saying. 1 was dis 
 concerted first, ihen angry. What impertinence. 
 What rudeness ! I am sure he must have seen my 
 displeasure in my face, for he got up what I sup 
 pose he meant for a blush, that is he turned several 
 shades darker than he was before, giving one the 
 idea that he is full of black rather than red blood. 
 I should not have remembered it, however by it I 
 mean his impertinence if he had not shortly after 
 made a really excellent address to the children. 
 Perhaps it was a little above their comprehension, 
 but it showed a good deal of thought and earnest 
 ness. I meant to ask who he was, but forgot it. 
 
 This has been a delightful Sunday, i have really 
 feasted on Dr. Cabot's preaching. But I am satis 
 fied that there is something in religion I do not yet 
 apprehend. I do wish I positively knew that God 
 had forgiven and accepted me. 
 
 MAY 6. Last evening Clara Ray had a little 
 
 party and I was there. She has a great knack at 
 getting the right sort of people together, and of 
 making them enjoy themselves. 
 
 I sang several songs, and so did Clara, but they 
 &11 said my voice was finer and iji better training 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 83 
 
 than hers. It is delightful to be with cultivated, 
 agreeable people. I could have staid all night, but 
 mother sent for me before any one else had thought 
 of going. 
 
 MAY 7. I have been on a charming excur 
 sion to-day, with Clara Ray and all her set. I was 
 rather tired, but had an invitation to a concert, this 
 evening, which I could not resist. 
 
 JULY 21. So much has been going on that 
 
 I have not had time to write. There is no end to 
 the picnics, drives, parties, etc., this summer. I am 
 afraid that I am not getting on at all. My prayers 
 are dull and short, and full of wandering thoughts. 
 I am brimful of vivacity and good humor in com 
 pany, and as soon as I get home am stupid and 
 peevish. I suppose this will always be so, as it 
 always has been; and I declare I would rather be 
 so than such a vapid, flat creature as Mary Jones, or 
 such a dull, heavy one as big Lucy Merrill. 
 
 JULY 24. Clara Ray says the girls think me 
 
 reckless and imprudent in speech. I've a good 
 mind not to go with her set any more. I am afraid 
 I have been a good deal dazzled by the attentions 1 
 have received of late; and now comes this blow at 
 my vanity. 
 
84 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 On the whole, J feel greatly out of sorts this 
 bvening. 
 
 JULY 28. People talk about happiness to bo 
 
 found iri a Christian life. I wonder why I do not 
 find more! On Sundays I am pretty good, and al 
 ways seem to start afresh; but on week-days I am 
 drawn along with those about me. All my pleas 
 ures are innocent ones; there is surely no harm in 
 going to concerts^ driving out, singing, and making 
 little visits ! But these things distract me ; they 
 absorb me; they make religious duties irksome. 1 
 almost wish I could shut myself up in a cell, and so 
 get out of the reach of temptation. 
 
 The truth is, the journey heavenward is all up 
 bill. I have to force, myself to keep on. The won 
 der is that anybody gets there with so much to op 
 pose so little to help one ! 
 
 JULY 29. It is high time to stop and think. 
 
 1 have been like one running a race, and am stop 
 ping to take breath. I do not like the way in which 
 things have been going on of late. I feel restless 
 and ill at ease. I see that if I would be happy in 
 God, I must give Him all. And there is a wicked 
 reluctance to do that. 1 want Him but 1 want to 
 have my own way, too. I want to walk humbly 
 and softly before Him, and I want to go where J 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 85 
 
 shall be admired and applauded. To whom shall 1 
 yield? To God? Or to myself? 
 
 JULY 30. I met Dr. Cabot to-day, and 
 
 could not help asking the question: 
 
 "Is it right for me to sing and play in company 
 when all I do it for is to be admired?" 
 
 "Are you sure it is all you do it for ? " he returned 
 
 "Oh/ I said, "I suppose there may be a sprink 
 ling of desire to entertain and please, mixed with 
 the love of display." 
 
 "Do you suppose that your love of display, al 
 lowing you have it, would be forever slain by your 
 merely refusing to sing in company." 
 
 "I thought that might give it a pretty hard 
 blow," I said, "if not its death blow." 
 
 "Meanwhile, in punishing yourself you punish 
 your poor innocent friends," he said laughing. 
 "No, child, go on singing; God has given you this 
 power of entertaining and gratifying your friends, 
 But pray, without ceasing, that you may sing from 
 pure benevolence and not from pure self-love." 
 
 "Why, do people pray about such things aa 
 that?" I cried. 
 
 "Of course they do. Why, I would pray about 
 iny little finger, if my little finger went astray." 
 
 I looked at his little finger, but saw no signs oi 
 its becoming schismatic. 
 
86 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 AUG. 3. This morning I took great delight 
 
 in praying for my little scholars, and went to Sun 
 day-school as on wings. But on reaching my seat, 
 what was my horror to find Maria Perry there! 
 
 "0, your seat is changed/' said she. "I am to 
 have half your class, and I like this seat better than 
 those higher up. I suppose you don't care?" 
 
 "But I do care," I returned; "and you have 
 taken my very best children the very sweetest 
 and the very prettiest. I shall speak to Mr. Wil 
 liams about it directly." 
 
 "At any rate I would not fly into such a fury," 
 she said. "It is just as pleasant to me to have 
 pretty children to teach, as it is to you. Mr. Wil 
 liams said he had no doubt you would be glad to 
 divide your class with me, as it is so large ; and 1 
 doubt if you gain anything by speaking to him." 
 
 There was no time for further discussion, as 
 school was about to begin. I went to my new seat 
 with great disgust, and found it very inconvenient 
 The children could not cluster around me as they 
 did before, and I got on with the lesson very badly. 
 I am sure Maria Perry has no gift at teaching little 
 children, and I feel quite vexed and disappointed 
 This has not been a profitable Sunday, and I am 
 now going to bed, cheerless and uneasy. 
 
 AUG. 9. Mr. Williams called this evening 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 87 
 
 to say that I ain to have my old seat and all the chil 
 dren again. All the mothers had been to see him, 
 or had written him notes about it, and requested 
 that I might continue to teach them. Mr. Wil 
 liams said he hoped I would go on teaching for 
 twenty years, and that as fast as his little girls grew 
 old enough to come to Sunday-school he should 
 want me to take charge of them. I should have 
 \ een greatly elated by these compliments, but for 
 the display I made of myself to Maria Perry on 
 Sunday. Oh, that I could learn to bridle my un 
 lucky tongue! 
 
 JAN. 15, 1835. To-day I am twenty. That 
 
 sounds very old, yet I feel pretty much as I did 
 before. I have begun to visit some of mother's 
 poor folks with her, and am astonished to see how 
 they love her, and how plainly they let her talk to 
 them. As a general rule I do not think poor peo 
 ple are very interesting, and they are always un 
 grateful 
 
 We went first to see old Jacob Stone. I have 
 been there a good many times with the baskets of 
 nice things mother takes such comfort in sending 
 him, but never would go in. I was shocked to see 
 Lew worn away he was. He seemed in great dis 
 tress of mind, and begged mother to pray with 
 him. I do not see how she could. I arn perfectly 
 
88 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 sure that no earthly power could ever induce me 
 to go round praying on bare floors, with people 
 sitting, rocking and staring all the time, as the two 
 Stone girls stared at mother. How tenderly she 
 prayed for him! 
 
 We then went to see Susan Green. She had made 
 a carpet for her room by sewing together little bits 
 of pieces given her, I suppose, by persons for 
 whom she works, for she goes about fitting arid 
 making carpets. It looked bright and cheerful. 
 She had a nice bed in the corner, covered with a 
 white quilt, and some little ornaments were ar 
 ranged about the room. Mother complimented 
 her on her neatness, and said a queen might sleep 
 in such a bed as that, and hoped she found it as 
 comfortable as it looked. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! " she cried out, " it ain't to sleep 
 in ! I sleep up in the loft, that I climb to by a ladder 
 every night." 
 
 Mother looked a little amused, and then she sat 
 and listened, patiently, to a long account of how 
 the poor old thing had invested her money; how 
 Mr. Jones did not pay the interest regularly, and 
 how Mr. Stevens haggled about the percentage. 
 After we came away, I asked mother how she could 
 listen to such a rigmarole in patience, and whal. 
 good she supposed she had done by her visit. 
 
 "Why the poor creature likes to show off her 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 89 
 
 blight carpet and nice bed, her chairs, her vases and 
 her knick-knacks, and she likes to talk about her be 
 loved money, and her bank stock. I may not have 
 done her any good, but I have given her a pleasure, 
 and so have you." 
 
 " Why, I hardly spoke a word." 
 
 "Yes, but your mere presence gratified her. 
 And if she ever gets into trouble, she will feel 
 kindly towards us for the sake of our sympathy 
 with her pleasures, and will let us sympathize with 
 her sorrows." 
 
 I confess this did not seem a privilege to be cov 
 eted. She is not nice at all, and takes snuff. 
 
 We went next to see Bridget Shannon. Mother 
 had lost sight of her for some years, and had just 
 heard that she was sick and in great want. We 
 found her in bed; there was no furniture in the 
 room, and three little half-naked children sat with 
 their bare feet in some ashes where there had been 
 a little fire. Three such disconsolate faces I never 
 saw. Mother sent me to the nearest baker's for 
 bread ; I nearly ran all the way, and I hardly know 
 which I enjoyed most, mother's eagerness in distrib 
 uting, or the children's in clutching at and de 
 vouring it. I am going to cut up one or two old 
 dresses to make the poor things something to cover 
 them. One of them has lovely hair that would curJ 
 beautifully if it were only brushed out. I told 
 
90 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 her to come to see me to-morrow, she is so 
 pretty. 
 
 Those few visits used up the very time I usually 
 spend in drawing. But on the whole I am glad 
 I went with mother, because it has gratified her. 
 Besides, one must either stop reading the Bible 
 altogether, or else leave off spending one's whole 
 time in just doing easy pleasant things one likes 
 to do. 
 
 JAN. 20. The little Shannon girl came, and 
 
 I washed her face and hands, brushed out her hair 
 and made it curl in lovely golden ringlets all round 
 her sweet face, and carried her, in great triumph to 
 mother. 
 
 " Look at the dear little thing, mother ! " I cried ; 
 " doesn't she look like a line of poetry ? " 
 
 " You foolish, romantic child ! " quoth mother. 
 "She looks, to me, like a very ordinary line of 
 prose. A slice of bread and butter and a piece of 
 gingerbread mean more to her than these elaborate 
 ringlets possibly can. They get in her eyes, and 
 make her neck cold; see, they are dripping with 
 water, and the child is all in a shiver." 
 
 So saying, mother folded a towel round its neck, 
 to catch the falling drops, and went for bread and 
 butter, of which the child consumed a quantity that 
 was absolutely appalling. To crown all, tho un- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 91 
 
 grateful little thing would not so much as look at 
 me from that moment, but clung to mother, turning 
 its back upon me in supreme contempt. 
 
 Moral. Mothers occasionally know more than 
 their (laughters do. 
 
VI. 
 
 24. 
 
 MESSAGE came yesterday morning from 
 Susan Green to the effect that she had had 
 a dreadful fall, and was half killed. Mother 
 wanted to set off at once to see her, but I 
 would not let her go, as she has one of her worst 
 colds. She then asked me to go in her place. I 
 turned up my nose at the bare thought, though I 
 dare say it turns up enough on its own account. 
 
 "Oh, mother!" I said, reproachfully, "that dirty 
 old woman ! " 
 
 Mother made no answer, and I sat down at the 
 piano, and played a little. But I only played dis 
 cords. 
 
 "Do you think it is my duty to run after such 
 horrid old women ? " I asked mother, at last. 
 
 u l think, dear, you must make your own duties," 
 she said kindly. "I dare say that at your age I 
 should have made a great deal out of my personal 
 repugnance to such a woman as Susan, and very 
 little out of her sufferings." 
 (92) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 93 
 
 1 believe I am the most fastidious creature in the 
 world. Sick-rooms with their intolerable smells of 
 camphor, and vinegar and mustard, their gloom and 
 their whines and their groans, actually make me 
 shudder. But was it not just such fastidiousness 
 that made Cha no, I won't utter his name that 
 made somebody weary of my possibilities? And 
 has that terrible lesson really done me no good? 
 
 JAN. 26. No sooner had I written the 
 
 above than I scrambled into my cloak and bonnet, 
 and flew, on the wings of holy indignation, to Su 
 san Green. Such wings fly fast, and got me a little 
 out of breath. I found her lying on that nice white 
 bed of hers, in a frilled cap and night-gown. It 
 seems she fell from her ladder in climbing to the 
 dismal den where she sleeps, and lay all night in 
 great distress with some serious internal injury. I 
 found her groaning and complaining in a fearful 
 way. 
 
 " Are you in such pain ? " I asked, as kindly as I 
 could. 
 
 "It isn't the pain," she said, "it isn't the pain. 
 It's the way my nice bed is going to wreck and 
 ruin, and the starch all getting out of my frills that 
 I fluted with my own hands, And the doctor's 
 bill, and the medicines, oh, dear, dear, dear!" 
 
 Just then the doctor came in. After examining 
 
94 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 her, he said to a woman who seemed to have charge 
 of her, 
 
 44 Are you the nurse?" 
 
 41 Oh, no, I only stepped in to see what I could 
 do for her." 
 
 "Who is to be with her to-night, then?" 
 
 Nobody knew. 
 
 44 1 will send a nurse, then," he said. 4t But some 
 one else will be needed also," he added, looking at 
 me. 
 
 4 I will stay," I said. But my heart died within 
 me. 
 
 The doctor tooK me aside. 
 
 44 Her injuries are very serious," he said. 4t If she 
 has any friends, they ought to be sent for." 
 
 44 You don't mean that she is going to die?" I 
 asked. 
 
 44 1 fear she is. But not immediately." He took 
 leave, and I went back to the bed-side. I saw 
 there no longer a snuffy, repulsive old woman, 
 but a human being about to make that mysterious 
 journey to a far country whence there is no return. 
 Oh, how I wished mother were there! 
 
 "Susan," I said, "have you any relatives?" 
 
 44 No, I haven't," she answered sharply. "And 
 if I had they needn't come prowling around me. 1 
 don't want no relations about my body." 
 
 44 Would you like to see Dr. Cabot?" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 95 
 
 "What should I want of Dr. Cabot? Don't 
 tease, child." 
 
 Considering the deference with which she had 
 heretofore treated me, this was quite a new order 
 of things. 
 
 I sat down, and tried to pray for her, silently, in 
 my heart. Who was to go with her on that long 
 journey, and where was it to end? 
 
 The woman who had been caring for her now 
 went away, and it was growing dark. I sat still, 
 listening to my own heart, which beat till it half 
 choked me. 
 
 "What were you and the doctor whispering 
 about?" she suddenly burst out. 
 
 "He asked me, for one thing, if you had any 
 friends that could be sent for?" 
 
 "I've been my own best friend," she returned. 
 "Who'd have raked and scraped and hoarded and 
 counted for Susan Green if I hadn't ha' done it? 
 I've got enough to make me comfortable as long as 
 I live, and when I lie on my iying bed." 
 
 "But you can't carry it with you," I said. This 
 highly original remark was all I had courage to utter. 
 
 " I wish I could," she cried. " I suppose yon 
 think I talk awful. They say you are getting most 
 to be as much of a saint as your ma. It's born in 
 some, and in some it ain't Do get a light. It's lone- 
 some here in the dark, and cold." 
 
06 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 1 was thankful enough, to enliven the dark room 
 with light and fire. But I saw now that the thin, 
 yellow, hard face had changed, sadly. She fixed 
 her two little black eyes on me, evidently startled 
 by the expression of my face. 
 
 44 Look here, child, I ain't hurt to speak of, am I ? " 
 
 44 The doctor says you are hurt seriously." 
 
 My tone must have said more than my words 
 did, for she caught me by the wrist, and held me 
 fast. 
 
 44 He didn't say nothing about my about it's 
 being dangerous? I ain't dangerous, am I?" I 
 felt ready to sink. 
 
 "Oh, Susan!" I gasped out; "you haven't any 
 time to lose. You're going, you're going ! " 
 
 44 Going!" she cried; 44 Going where? You don't 
 mean to say I'm a dying? Why, it beats all my 
 calculations. I was going to live ever so many 
 years, and save up ever so much money, and then, 
 when my time come, I was going to put on my best 
 fluted night-gown and night-cap, and lay my head 
 on my handsome pillow, and draw the clothes up 
 over me, neat and tidy, and die decent. But here's 
 my bed all in a toss, and my frills all in a crumple, 
 and my room all upside down, and bottles of medi 
 cine setting around along side of my vases, and 
 nobody here but you, just a girl, and nothing 
 else!" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 97 
 
 All this came out by jerks, as it were, and at in 
 tervals. 
 
 "Don't talk so!" I fairly screamed. "Pray, pray 
 to God to have mercy on you ! " 
 
 She looked at me, bewildered, but yet as if the 
 tiuth had reached her at last. 
 
 "Pray, yourself!" she said eagerly. "I dont 
 know how. I can't think Oh, my time's cornel 
 my time's come ! And I ain't ready ! I ain't ready ! 
 Get down on your knees, and pray with all your 
 might and main." 
 
 And I did; she holding my wrist tightly in her 
 hard hand. All at once I felt her hold relax. Af 
 ter that the next thing I knew I was lying on the 
 floor, and somebody was dashing water in my face. 
 
 It was the nurse. She had come at last, and 
 found me by the side of the bed, where I had fallen, 
 and had been trying to revive me ever since. I 
 started up and looked about me. The nurse was 
 closing Susan's eyes in a professional way, and per 
 forming other little services of the sort. The room 
 wore an air of perfect desolation. The clothes 
 Susan had on when she fell lay in a forlorn heap 
 on a chair; her shoes and stockings were thrown 
 hither and thither; the mahogany bureau, in which 
 she had taken so much pride, was covered with 
 vials, to make room for which some pretty trifles 
 Lad been hastily thrust aside. I remembered what 
 5 
 
98 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I had once said to Mrs. Cabot, about having taste 
 ful things about me, with a sort of shudder. What 
 a mockery they are in the awful presence of death. 
 Mother met me with open arms when I reached 
 home. She was much shocked at what I had to 
 tell, and at my haviug encountered such a scene 
 alone. I should have felt myself quite a heroine 
 under her caresses, if I had not been overcome with 
 bitter regret that I had not, with firmness and dig 
 nity, turned poor Susan's last thoughts to her Sav 
 iour. Oh, how could I, through miserable coward 
 ice, let those precious moments slip by! 
 
 FEB. 27. I have learned one thing, by yes 
 terday's experience that is worth knowing. It is 
 this; duty looks more repelling at a distance than 
 when fairly faced and met. Of course I have read 
 the lines, 
 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face; 
 
 but I seem to be one of the stupid sort, who never 
 apprehend a thing till they experience it. Now, 
 however, I have seen the smile, and find it so " fair," 
 that I shall gladly plod through many a hardship 
 and tiial to meet it again. 
 
 Poor Susan ! Perhaps God heard my eager prayei 
 for her soul, and revealed Himself to her at the very 
 last moment 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 99 
 
 MARCH 2. Such a strange thing has hap-. 
 
 pened! Susan Green left a will, bequeathing her 
 precious savings to whoever offered the last 
 prayer in her hearing ! I do not want, I never could 
 touch a penny of that hardly-earned store ; and if I 
 did, no earthly motive would tempt me to tell a hu 
 man being, that it was offered by me, an inexperi 
 enced, trembling girl, driven to it by mere despera 
 tion! So it has gone to Dr. Cabot, who will not 
 use it for himself, I am sure, but will be delighted 
 to have it to give to poor people, who really besiege 
 him. The last time he called to see her he talked 
 and prayed with her, and says she seemed pleased 
 and grateful, and promised to be more regular at 
 church, which she had been, ever since. 
 
 MARCH 28. I feel all out of sorts. Mother 
 
 says it is owing to the strain I went through at 
 Susan's dying bed. She wants me to go to visit my 
 aunt Mary, who is always urging me to come. But 
 [ do not like to leave my little Sunday-scholars, 
 nor to give mother the occasion to deny herself 
 in order to meet the expense of such a long 
 journey. Besides, I should have to have some new 
 dresses, a new bonnet, and lots of things. 
 
 To-day Dr. Cabot has sent me some directions for 
 which I have been begging him a long time. Lest 
 I should wear out this precious letter by reading it 
 
100 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 over, I will copy it here. After alluding to my com 
 plaint that I still "saw men as trees walking," he 
 says: 
 
 " Yet he who first uttered this complaint had had 
 his eyes opened by the Son of God, and so have 
 you. Now He never leaves His work incomplete, 
 and He will gradually lead you into clear and open 
 vision, if you will allow Him to do it. I say grad- 
 uaKiy, because I believe this to be His usual 
 method, while I do not deny that there are cases 
 where light suddenly bursts in like a flood. To re 
 turn to the blind man. When Jesus found that his 
 cure was not complete, He put His hands again 
 upon his eyes, and made him look up; and he was 
 restored, and saw every man clearly. Now this 
 must be done for you ; and in order to have it done 
 you must go to Christ Himself, not to one of Hia 
 servants. Make your complaint, tell Him how ob 
 scure everything still looks to you, and beg* Him to 
 complete your cure. He may see fit to try youi 
 faith and patience by delaying this completion; but 
 meanwhile you are safe in His presence, and while 
 led by His hand, Ho will excuse the mistakes you 
 make, and pity your falls. But you will imagine 
 that it is best that He should at once enable you to 
 see clearly. If it is, you may be sure He will do it. 
 He never makes mistakes. But He often deals fai 
 differently with His disciples. He lets them grope 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 101 
 
 their way in the dark until they fully learn how 
 blind they are, how helpless, how absolutely in need 
 of Him. 
 
 "What His methods will be with you I cannot 
 foretell. But you may be sure that He never works 
 in an arbitrary way. He has a reason for every 
 thing He does. You may not understand why He 
 leads you now in this way and now in that, but 
 you may, nay, you must believe that perfection 
 is stamped on His every act. 
 
 "I am afraid that you are in danger of falling 
 into an error only too common among young Chris 
 tians. You acknowledge that there has been 
 enmity towards God in your secret soul, and that 
 one of the first steps towards peace is to become re 
 conciled to Him and to have your sins forgiven for 
 Christ's sake. This done, you settle down with the 
 feeling that the great work of life is done, and that 
 your salvation is sure. Or, if not sure, that your 
 whole business is to study your own case to see 
 whether you are really in a state of grace. Many 
 persons never get beyond this point. They spend 
 their whole time in asking the question: 
 
 "'Do I love the Lord or no? 
 Am I His or am I not?' 
 
 "I beg you, my dear child, if you are doing this 
 aimless, useless work, to stop short at once. Life it 
 
102 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 too precious to spend in a tread-mill. Having been 
 pardoned by your God and Saviour, the next thing 
 you have to do is to show your gratitude for this in 
 finite favor by consecrating yourself entirely to 
 Him, body, soul, and spirit This is the least you 
 can do. He has bought you with a price, and you 
 are no linger your own. 'But,' you may reply 
 'this is contrary to my nature. I love my own 
 way. I desire ease and pleasure; I desire to go to 
 heaven, but I want to be carried thither on a bed 
 of flowers. Can I not give myself so far to God as 
 to feel a sweet sense of peace with Him, and be 
 sure of final salvation, and yet, to a certain extent, 
 indulge and gratify myself? If I give myself en 
 tirely away to Him, and lose all ownership in my 
 self, He may deny me many things I greatly desire. 
 He may make my life hard and wearisome, depriv 
 ing me of all that now makes it agreeable.' But, I 
 reply, this is no matter of parley and discussion; it 
 is not optional with God's children whether they 
 will pay Him a part of the price they owe Him, and 
 keep back the rest He asks, and He has a right to 
 ask, for all you have and all you are. And if you 
 shrink from what is involved in such a surrender, 
 you should fly to Him at once and never rest till 
 He has conquered this secret disinclination to give 
 io Him as freely and as fully as He has given to 
 you. It is true that such an act of consecration OD 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 105 
 
 yonr part may involve no little future discipline and 
 correction. As soon as you become the Lord's by 
 your own deliberate and conscious act, He will be 
 gin that process of sanctifieation which is to make 
 you holy as He is holy, perfect as He is perfect. He 
 becomes at once your Physician as well as your 
 dearest and best Friend, but He will use no painful 
 remedy that can be avoided. Kemember that it is 
 His ivill that you should be sanctified, and that the 
 work of making you holy is His not yours. At the 
 same time you are not to sit with folded hands, 
 waiting for this blessing. You are to avoid laying 
 hindrances in His way, and you are to exercise faith 
 in Him as just as able and just as willing to give 
 you sanctifieation as He was to give you redemp 
 tion. And now if you ask how you may know 
 that you have truly consecrated yourself to Him, I 
 reply, observe every indication of His will concern 
 ing you, no matter how trivial, and see whether 
 you at once close in with that will. Lay down thia 
 principle as a law God does nothing arbitrary. If 
 He takes away your health, for instance, it is because 
 He has some reason for doing so ; and this is true of 
 everything you value ; and if you have real faith in 
 Him you will not insist on knowing this reason. If 
 you find, in the course of daily events, that your 
 self-consecration was not perfect that is, that your 
 will revolts at His will do not be discouraged, but 
 
104 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Gy to your Saviour and stay in His presence till yc,n 
 obtain the spirit in which He cried in His hour of 
 anguish, ' Father, if Thou be willing, remove thia 
 cup from me: nevertheless, not my will but Thine 
 be done. Every time you do this it will be easier 
 to do it; every such consent to suffer will bring you 
 nearer and nearer to Him; and in this nearness to 
 Him you will find such peace, such blessed, sweet 
 peace, as will make your life infinitely happy, no 
 matter what may be its mere outside conditions. 
 t,ust think, my dear Katy, of the honor and the joy 
 of having your will one with the Divine will, and 
 so becoming changed into Christ's image from glory 
 to glory! 
 
 "But I cannot say, in a letter, the tithe of what 
 I want to say. Listen to my sermons from week 
 to week, and glean from them all the instruction 
 you can, remembering that they are preached to 
 you. 
 
 " In reading the Bible I advise you to choose de 
 tached passages, or even one verse a day, rather 
 than whole chapters. Study every word, ponder 
 and piay over it till you have got out of it all the 
 truth it contains. 
 
 " As to the other devotional reading, it is better to 
 settle down on a few favorite authors, and read their 
 works over and over and over until you have di 
 gested their thoughts and made them your own. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 105 
 
 " It lias been said * that a fixed, inflexible will is a 
 great assistance in a holy life.' 
 
 "You can will to choose for your associates those 
 who aro most devout an(* holy. 
 
 'You can will to read books that will stimulate 
 you in your Christian life, rather than those that 
 merely amuse. 
 
 "You can will to use every means of grace ap 
 pointed by God. 
 
 "You can will to spend much time in prayer, with 
 out regard to your frame at the moment. 
 
 "You can will to prefer a religion of principle to 
 one of mere feeling; in other words, to obey the 
 will of God when no comfortable glow of emotion 
 accompanies your obedience. 
 
 "You cannot will to possess the spirit of Christ; 
 that must come as His gift, but you can choose to 
 study His life, and to imitate it. This will infallibly 
 lead to such self-denying work as visiting the poor, 
 nursing the sick, giving of your time and money to 
 the needy, and the like." 
 
 " If the thought of such self-denial is repugnant to 
 you, remember that it is enough for the disciple to 
 be as his Lord. And let me assure you that as you 
 penetrate the labyrinth of life in pursuit of Chris 
 tian duty, you will often be surprised and charmed 
 by meeting your Master Himself amid its windings 
 and turnings, and, receive His soul-inspiring smile. 
 5* 
 
106 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Or, I should rather say, you will always meet Him, 
 wherever you go." 
 
 I have read this letter again and again. It has 
 taken such hold of me that I can think of nothing 
 else. The idea of seeking holiness had never so 
 much as crossed my mind. And even now it seems 
 like presumption for such a one as I to utter so sa 
 cred a word. And I shrink from committing my 
 self to such a pursuit, lest after a time I should fall 
 back into the old routine. And I have an unde 
 fined, wicked dread of being singular, as well as a 
 certain terror of self-denial and loss of all liberty. 
 But no choice seems left to me. Now that my duty 
 has been clearly pointed out to me, I do not stand 
 where I did before. And I feel, mingled with my 
 indolence and love of ease and pleasure, some draw 
 ings towards a higher and better life. There is one 
 thing I can do, and that is to pray that Jesus would 
 do for me what He did for the blind man put His 
 hands yet again upon my eyes and make me to see 
 clearly. And I will 
 
 MARCH 30. Yes, I have prayed, and He 
 
 has heard me. I see that I have no right to live for 
 myself, and that I must live for Him. I have given 
 myself to Him as I never did before, and havo en 
 tered, as it were, a new world. I was very happy 
 when J first began to believe in His love for me. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 107 
 
 and that He had redeemed me. But this new hap- 
 piness is deeper; it involves something higher than 
 getting to heaven at last, which has, hitherto, been 
 my great aim. 
 
 MARCH 31. The more I pray, and the more 
 
 I read the Bible, the more I feel my ignorance. 
 And the more earnestly I desire holiness, the more 
 utterly unholy I see myself to be. But I have 
 pledged myself to the Lord, and I must pay my 
 vows, cost what it may. 
 
 I have begun to read Taylor's Holy Living and 
 Dying. A month ago I should have found it a te 
 dious, dry book But I am reading it with a sort 
 of avidity, like one seeking after hid treasura 
 Mother, observing what I was doing, advised me 
 not to read it straight through, but to mingle a pas 
 sage now and then with chapters from other books. 
 She suggested my beginning on Baxter's Saints' Rest, 
 and of that I have read every word. I shall read 
 it over, as Dr. Cabot advised, till I have fully caught 
 its spirit Even this one reading has taken away my 
 lingering fear of death, and made heaven wonder 
 fully attractive. I never mean to read worldlj 
 books again, and my music and drawing I 
 up forever. 
 
VII. 
 
 APRIL 1. 
 
 OTHER asked me last evening to sing and 
 play to her. I was embarrassed to know 
 how to excuse myself without telling her 
 my real reason for declining. But some 
 how she got it out of me. 
 
 U 0ne need not be fanatical in order to be relig 
 ious," she said. 
 
 " Is it fanatical to give up all for God ? " I asked. 
 " What is it to give up all ? " she asked, in reply. 
 "Why, to deny one's self every gratification and 
 indulgence in order to mortify one's natural incli 
 nations, and to live entirely for Him." 
 
 " God is then a hard Master, who allows His 
 children no liberty," she replied. "Now let us see 
 where this theory will lead you. In the first place 
 you must shut your eyes to all the beautiful things 
 He has made You must shut your ears to all the 
 harmonies He has ordained. You must shut your 
 heart against all sweet, human affections. You 
 
 (108) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 109 
 
 have a body, it is true, and it may revolt at such 
 bondage " 
 
 "We are told to keep under the body," I inter 
 rupted. "Oh, mother, don't hinder me! You 
 know that my love for music is a passion, and that 
 it is my snare and temptation. And how can I 
 spend my whole time in reading the Bible, and 
 praying, if I go on with my drawing? It may do 
 for other people to serve both God and Mammon, 
 but not for me. I must belong wholly to the world 
 or wholly to Christ." 
 
 Mother said no more, and I went on with my read 
 ing. But somehow my book seemed to have lost its 
 flavor. Besides, it was time to retire for my even 
 ing devotions, which I never put off now till the 
 last thing at night, as I used to do. When I came 
 down, mother was lying on the sofa, by which I 
 knew she was not well. I felt troubled that I had 
 refused to sing to her. Think of the money she 
 has spent on that part of my education ! I went to 
 her and kissed her with a pang of terror. What if 
 *he were going to be very sick, and to die? 
 
 " It is nothing, darling," she said, " nothing at all 
 I am tired, and felt a little faint." 
 
 I looked at her anxiously, and the bare thought 
 that she might die and leave me alone was so ter 
 rible that I could hardly help crying out. And I 
 saw, as by a flash of lightning, that if God took her 
 
110 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 from me, I could not, should not say: Thy will be 
 done. 
 
 But she was better after taking a few drops of 
 lavender, and what color she has came back to her 
 dear, sweet face. 
 
 APRIL 12. Dr. Cabot's letter has lost all its 
 
 power over me. A stone has more feeling than L 
 I don't love to pray. I am sick and tired of this 
 dreadful struggle after holiness; good books are all 
 alike, flat and meaningless. But I must have some 
 thing to absorb and carry me away, and I have 
 come back to my music and my drawing with new 
 zest Mother was right in warning me against giv 
 ing them up. Maria Kelley is teaching me to paint 
 in oil-colors, and says I have a natural gift for it 
 
 APRIL 13. Mother asked me to go to 
 
 church with her last evening, and I said I did not 
 want to go. She looked surprised and troubled. 
 
 44 Are you not well, dear?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know. Yes. I suppose I am. But I 
 could not be still at church five minutes. J am so 
 uervous that I feel as if I should fly." 
 
 44 1 see how it is," she said ; 4 ' you nave forgotten 
 that body of yours, of which I reminded you, and 
 have been trying to live as if you were all soul and 
 ipirit You have been straining every nerve to 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. Ill 
 
 acquire perfection, whereas this is God's gift, and 
 one that He is willing to give you, fully and 
 freely." 
 
 " I have done seeking for that or anything else 
 that is good,' I said, despondently. "And so I 
 have gone back to my music and everything else." 
 
 " Here is just the rock upon which you split," 
 she returned. "You speak of going back to your 
 music, as if that implied going away from God. 
 You rush from one extreme to another. The only 
 true way to live in this world, constituted just as 
 we are, is to make all our employments subserve the 
 one great end and aim of existence, namely, to 
 glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. But in 
 order to do this we must be wise task-masters, and 
 not require of ourselves what we can not possibly 
 perform. Recreation we must have. Otherwise, 
 the strings of our soul, wound up to a^ unnatural 
 tension, will break." 
 
 " Oh, I do wish," I cried, " that God had given 
 us plain rules, about which we could make no mis 
 take!" 
 
 " I think His rules are plain," she replied. " And 
 some liberty of action He must leave us, or we 
 should become mere machines. I think that those 
 who love Him, and wait upon Him day by day, 
 learn His will almost imperceptibly, and need not 
 go astray." 
 
112 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "But, mother, music and drawing are sharp- 
 edged tools in such hands as mine. I cannot be 
 moderate in my use of them. And the more I do- 
 light in them, the less I delight in God." 
 
 "Yes, this is human nature. But God's divine 
 nature will supplant it, if we only consent to let 
 Him work in us of His own good pleasure." 
 
 NEW YORK, April 16. After all, mother has come 
 off conqueror, and here I am at Aunty's After 
 our quiet, plain little home, in our quiet little town, 
 this seems like a new world. The house is large, 
 but it is as full as it can hold. Aunty has six chil 
 dren of her own, and has adopted two. She says 
 she always meant to imitate the old woman who 
 lived in a shoe. She reminds me of mother, and 
 yet she is very different ; full of fun and energy ; fly 
 ing about the house as on wings, with a kind, bright 
 word for every body. All her household affairs go 
 on like clock-work; the children are always nicely 
 dressed; nobody ever seems out of humor; nobody 
 is ever sick. Aunty is the central object round 
 which every body revolves; you can't forget her a 
 moment, for she is always doing something for you , 
 and then her unflagging good humor and cheerful 
 ness keep you good-hurnored and cheerful J don't 
 wonder Uncle Alfred loves her so! 
 
 I hope I shall have just such a home. J mean 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 113 
 
 this is the sort of home I should like if I ever mar- 
 ried, which I never mean to do. I should like to be 
 just such a bright, loving wife as Aunty is ; to have 
 my husband lean on me as Uncle leans on her; to 
 have just as many children, and to train them as 
 wisely and kindly as she does hers. Then, indeed, 
 I should feel that I had not been born in vain, but 
 had a high and sacred mission on earth. But as it 
 is, I must just pick up what scraps of usefulness I 
 can, and let the rest go. 
 
 APRIL 18. Aunty says I sit writing and 
 
 reading and thinking too much, and wants me to go 
 out more. I tell her I don't feel strong enough to 
 go out much. She says that is all nonsense, and 
 drags me out. I get tired, and hungry, and sleep 
 like a baby a month old. I see now mother's wis 
 dom and kindness in making me leave home when 
 I did. I had veered about from point to point till 
 I was nearly ill. Now Aunty keeps me well by 
 making me go out, and dear Dr. Cabot's precious 
 letter can work a true and not a morbid work in 
 my soul. I am very happy. I have delightful 
 talks with Aunty, who sets me right at this point 
 bind at that; and it is beautiful to watch her home- 
 life and to see with what sweet unconsciousness 
 she carries her religion into every detail. I am sure 
 it must do me good to be here; and yet, if I am 
 
114 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 growing better, how slowly, how slowly, it is ! Some 
 body has said that "our course heavenward is like 
 the plan of the zealous pilgrims of old, who for 
 every three steps forward, took one backward.* 1 
 
 APRIL 30. Aunty's baby, my dear father's 
 
 namesake, and hitherto the merriest little fellow 1 
 ever saw, was taken sick last night, very suddenly. 
 She sent for the doctor at once, who would not say 
 positively what was the matter, but this morning 
 pronounced it scarlet fever. The three youngest 
 have all come down with it to-day. If they were 
 my children, I should be in a perfect worry and 
 flurry. Indeed, I am as it is. But Aunty is as 
 bright and cheerful as ever. She flies from one to 
 another, and keeps up their spirits with her own 
 gayety. I am mortified to find that at such a time 
 as this I can think of myself, and that I find it irk 
 some to be shut up in sick-rooms, instead of walk 
 ing, driving, visiting, and the like. But, as Dr. Ca 
 bot says, I can now choose to imitate my Master, 
 who spent His whole life in doing good, and I do 
 hope, too, to be of some little use to Aunty, after 
 her kindness to me. 
 
 MAT 1. The doctor says the children are 
 
 doing as well as could be expected. He made a 
 short visit this morning, as it is Sunday. If I had 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 115 
 
 ever seen him before I should say I had some un 
 pleasant association with him. I wonder Aunty 
 employs such a great clumsy man. But she says 
 he is very good, and very skillful. I wish I did not 
 take such violent likes and dislikes to people. I 
 want my religion to change me in every respect 
 
 MAY 2. Oh, I know now ! This is the very 
 
 man who was so rude at Sunday-school, and after 
 wards made such a nice address to the children 
 Well he may know how to speak in public, but I 
 am sure he doesn't in private. I never knew such 
 a shut-up man. 
 
 MAT 4. I have my hands as full as they can 
 
 hold. The children have got so fond of me, and 
 one or the other is in my lap nearly all the time. I 
 sing to them, tell them stories, build block-houses, 
 and relieve Aunty all I can. Dull and poky as the 
 doctor is, I am not afraid of him, for he never no 
 tices anything I say or do, so while he is holding 
 solemn consultations with Aunty in one corner, I 
 can sing and talk all sorts of nonsense to my little 
 pets in mine. What fearful black eyes he has, and 
 what masses of black hair! 
 
 This busy life quite suits me, now I have got used 
 to it. Ani it sweetens every bit of work to think 
 that 1 aai doing it in humble, far-off, yet real imi- 
 
116 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 i 
 
 tation of Jesus. I am indeed really and truly 
 happy. 
 
 MAT 14 It is now two weeks since little 
 
 Raymond was taken sick, and I have just lived in 
 the nursery all the time, though Aunty has tried to 
 make me go out. Little Emma was taken down to 
 day, though she has been kept on the third floor al\ 
 the time. I feel dreadfully myself. But this hard, 
 cold doctor of Aunty's is so taken up with the chil 
 dren that he never so much as looks at me, I have 
 been in a perfect shiver all day, but these merciless 
 little folks call for stories as eagerly as ever. Well, 
 let me be a comfort to them if I can ! I hate selfish 
 ness more and more, and am shocked to see how 
 selfish I have been. 
 
 MAI 15. I was in a burning fever all night, 
 
 and my head ached, and my throat was and is very 
 aore. If I knew I was going to die I would burn 
 up this journal first. I would not have any one see 
 it for the world. 
 
 MAY 24. Dr. Elliott asked me on Sunday 
 
 morning a week ago, if I still felt well. For an 
 swer I behaved like a goose, and burst out crying. 
 Aunty looked more anxious than I have seen her 
 look yet, and reproached herself for having allowed 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 117 
 
 me to be with the children. She took me by one 
 elbow, and the doctor by the other, and they 
 marched me off to my own room, where I was put 
 through the usual routine on such occasions, and 
 I hen ordered to bed. I fell asleep immediately and 
 slept all day. The doctor came to see me in the 
 evening, and made me a short, stiff little visit, gave 
 me a powder, and said he thought I should soon be 
 better. 
 
 I had two such visits from him the next day, 
 when I began to feel quite like myself again, and in 
 spite of his grave, staid deportment, could not help 
 letting my good spirits run away with me in a style 
 that evidently shocked him. He says persons nurs 
 ing in scarlet fever often have such little attacks aa 
 mine ; indeed every one of the servants have had a 
 touch of sore throat and headache. 
 
 MAY 25. This morning, just as the doctoi 
 
 shuffled in on his big feet, it came over me how 
 ridiculously I must have looked the day I was taken 
 *ick, being walked off between Aunty and himself, 
 crying like a baby. I burst out laughing, and no 
 consideration I could make to myself would stop 
 mo. I pinched myself, asked myself how I should 
 feel if one of the children should die, and used other 
 kindred devices all to no purpose. At last the doc 
 tor, gravity personified as he is, joined in, though 
 
118 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 noi knowing in the least what he was laughing at 
 Then he said, 
 
 "After this, I suppose, I shall have to pronounce 
 you convalescent." 
 
 " Oh, no I " I cried. " I am very sick indeed." 
 
 " This looks like it, to be sure ! " said Aunty. 
 
 " I suppose this will be your last visit, Dr. Elliott," 
 1 went on, "and I am glad of it. After the way 1 
 behavod the day I was taken sick, I have been 
 ashamod to look you in the face. But I really felt 
 dreadfully." 
 
 He made no answer whatever. I don't suppose 
 he would speak a little flattering word by way oi 
 putting one in good humor with one's self, for the 
 whole world! 
 
 JUNE 1. We are all as well as ever, but the 
 
 doctor keeps some of the children still confined to 
 the house for fear of bad consequences following the 
 fever. He visits them twice a day for the same 
 reason, or at least under that pretense, but I really 
 believe he comes because he has got the habit of 
 ooming, and because he admires Aunty so much. 
 She has a real affection for him, and is continually 
 asking me if I don't like this and that quality in him 
 which I can't see at all. We begin to drive out 
 again. The weather is very warm, but I feel per 
 fectly well. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 119 
 
 JUNE 2. After the children's dinner to-day 
 
 I took care of them while their nurse got hers and 
 Aunty went to lie down, as she is all tired out. We 
 were all full of life and fun, and some of the little 
 ones wanted me to play a play of their own inven 
 tion, which was to lie down on the floor, cover my 
 face with a handkerchief, and make believe I was 
 dead. They were to gather about me, and I was 
 suddenly to come to life and jump up and try to 
 catch them as they all ran scampering and scream 
 ing about. We had played in this interesting way 
 for some time, and my hair, which I keep in nice 
 order now-a-days, was pulled down, and flying 
 every way, when in marched the doctor. I started 
 up and came to life quickly enough when I heard 
 his step, looking red and angry, no doubt. 
 
 "I should think you might have knocked, Dr. 
 Elliott," I said, with much displeasure. 
 
 " I ask your pardon ; I knocked several times," he 
 returned. "I need hardly ask how my little pa 
 tients are." 
 
 "No," I replied, still ruffled, and making desper 
 ate efforts to get my hair into some sort of order. 
 "They are as well as possible." 
 
 "I came a little earlier than usual, to-day," he 
 went on, " because I am called to visit my uncle, Dr, 
 Cabot, who is in a very critical state of health." 
 
 "Dr Cabot!" I repeated, bursting into tears. 
 
120 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "Compose yourself, I entreat," he said; k i hop* 
 that I may be able to relieve him. At all events" 
 
 " At all events, if you let him die it will break my 
 heart," I cried, passionately. "Don't wait another 
 moment; go this instant." 
 
 " I cannot go this instant," he "eplied. " The 
 boat does not leave until four o'clock. And if I may 
 be allowed, as a physician, to say one word, that my 
 brief acquaintance hardly justifies, I do wish to warn 
 you that unless you acquire more self-control " 
 
 "Oh, I know that I have a quick temper, and 
 that I spoke very rudely to you just now," I inter 
 rupted, not a little startled by the seriousness of 
 his manner. 
 
 " I did not refer to your temper," he said. " I 
 meant your whole passionate nature. Your ve 
 hement loves and hates, your ecstacies and youi 
 despondencies; your disposition to throw yourself 
 headlong into whatever interests you." 
 
 "I would rather have too little self-control," I 
 retorted, resentfully, " than to be as cold as a stone, 
 and as hard as a rock, and as silent as the grave, 
 like some people I know." 
 
 His countenance fell; he looked disappointed, 
 even pained. 
 
 "I shall probably see your mother," he said, 
 turning to go; "your aunt wishes me to call on 
 her; have you any message?" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 121 
 
 "No" I said. 
 
 Another pained, disappointed look made me be 
 gin to recollect myself. ' I was sorry, oh ! so sorry, 
 for my anger and rudeness. I ran after him, into 
 the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding out both 
 hands, which he took in both his. 
 
 "Don't go until you have forgiven me for being 
 so angry ! " I cried. " Indeed, Dr. Elliott, though 
 you may not be able to believe it, I am trying to do 
 right all the time!" 
 
 "I do believe it," he said earnestly. 
 
 14 Then tell me that you forgive me ! " 
 
 " If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell some 
 thing ebe," he said, looking me through and through 
 with those great dusky eyes. "And I will tell it," 
 he went on, his grasp on my hands growing firmer 
 " It is easy to forgive when one loves." I pulled my 
 hands away, and burst out crying again. 
 
 "Oh, Dr. Elliott, this is dreadful!" I said. "You 
 do not, you cannot love me I You are so much old 
 er than I am ! So grave and silent ! You are not in 
 earnest ! " 
 
 "I am only too much so," he said, and went 
 quietly out 
 
 I went back to the nursery. The children rushed 
 upon me, and insisted that I should "play die." 1 
 let tnem pull me about as they pleased. I only 
 wished I could play it in earnest. 
 6 
 
VIII. 
 
 JUNE 28. 
 
 OTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out 
 of danger, Dr. Elliott having thrown new 
 light on his case, and performed some 
 sort of an operation that relieved him at 
 once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt 
 me to encounter those black eyes again. Besides, 
 the weather is growing warm, and Aunty is getting 
 ready to go out of town with the children. 
 
 JUNE 29. Aunty insisted on knowing why 
 
 I was hurrying home so suddenly, and at last got it 
 out of me inch by inch. On the whole it was a re 
 lief to have some one to speak to. 
 
 "Well!" she said, and leaned back in her chair 
 in a fit. of musing. 
 
 "Is that all you are going to say, Aunty?" J 
 ventured to ask at last. 
 
 "No, I have one more remark to add," she said, 
 4 and it is this: I don't know which of you has be 
 (122) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 123 
 
 haved most ridiculously. It would relieve ine to 
 give you each a good shaking." 
 
 "1 think Dr. EUiott has behaved ridiculously," I 
 said, "and he has made me most unhappy." 
 
 "Unhappy!" she repeated. "I don't wonder you 
 are unhappy. You have pained and wounded one of 
 the noblest men that walks the earth." 
 
 " It is not my fault. I never tried to make him 
 like me." 
 
 " Yes, you did. You were perfectly bewitching 
 whenever he came here. No mortal man could 
 help being fascinated." 
 
 I knew this was not true, and bitterly resented 
 Aunty's injustice. 
 
 "If I wanted to l fascinate' or * bewitch' a man," 
 I cried, "I should not choose one old enough to 
 be my father, nor one who was as uninteresting, 
 awkward and stiff as Dr. Elliott. Besides, how 
 should I know he was not married? If I thought 
 anything about it at all, I certainly thought of him 
 as a middle-aged man, settled down with a wife, 
 long ago." 
 
 " In the first place he is not old, or even middle- 
 aged. He is not more than twenty-seven or eight. 
 As to his being uninteresting, perhaps he is to you, 
 who don't know him. And if he were a married 
 man, what business had he to come here to see you, 
 as he has done?" 
 
124 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "I did not know he came to see me; he never 
 spoke to me. And I always said I would nevei 
 marry a doctor." 
 
 " We all say scores of things we live to repent," 
 she replied. "But I must own that the doctor 
 acted quite out of character when he expected you 
 to take a fancy to him on such short notice, you 
 romantic little thing. Of course knowing him as 
 little as you do, and only seeing him in sick-rooms, 
 you could not have done otherwise than as you did." 
 
 "Thank you, Aunty," I said, running and throw- 
 Ing my arms around her; "thank you with all my 
 heart. And now won't you take back what you 
 said about my trying to fascinate him?" 
 
 " I suppose I must, you dear child," she said. " I 
 was not half in earnest. The truth is I am so fond 
 of you both that the idea of your misunderstanding 
 each other, annoys me extremely. Why, you were 
 made for each other. He would tone you down 
 and keep you straight, and you would stimulate 
 him and keep him awake." 
 
 " I don't want to be toned down or kept straight," 
 I remonstrated. " I hate prigs who keep their wives 
 in leading strings. I do not mean to marry any 
 one, but if I should be left to such a piece of "folly, 
 it must be to one who will take me for better for 
 worser, just as I am, and not as a wild plant for 
 him to prune till he has got it into a shape to suit 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 125 
 
 him. And now Aunty promise me one thing 
 Never mention Dr. Elliott's name to me again." 
 
 "I shall make no such promise," she replied, 
 laughing. "I like him, and I like to talk about 
 him, and the more you hate and despise him the 
 more I shall love and admire him. I only wish my 
 Lucy were old enough to be his wife, and that he 
 could fancy her ; but he never could ! " 
 
 "On the contrary I should think that little modei 
 of propriety would just suit him," I exclaimed. 
 
 "Don't make fun of Lucy," Aunty said, shaking 
 her head. "She is a dear, good child, after all." 
 
 "After all' 1 means this for what with my own 
 observation, and what Aunty has told me, Lucy's 
 portrait is easy to paint. The child is the daughter 
 of a man who died from a lingering illness caused 
 by an accident. She entered the family at a most 
 inauspicious moment, two days after this accident. 
 From the outset she comprehended the situation, 
 and took the ground that a character of irreproach 
 able dignity and propriety became an infant coming 
 at such a time. She never cried, never put impro 
 per objects into her mouth, never bumped her head, 
 or scratched herself. Once put to bed at night, you 
 knew nothing more of her till such time next day as 
 you found it convenient to attend to her. If you 
 forgot her existence, as was not seldom the case 
 under the circumstances, she vegetated on, uu- 
 
126 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 moved. It is possible that pangs of hunger some 
 times assailed her, and it is a fact that she teethed, 
 had the measles and the whooping-cough. But 
 these minute ripples on her infant life only showed 
 the more clearly, what a waveless, placid little sea 
 it was. She got her teeth in the order laid down 
 in "Dewees on Children;" her measles came out 
 on the appointed day like well-behaved measles as 
 they were; arid retired decently and in order, as 
 measles should. Her whooping-cough had a well- 
 bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror of the 
 field. As the child passed out of her babyhood, she 
 remained still her mother's appendage and glory; a 
 monument of pure white marble, displaying to the 
 human race one instance at least, of perfect parental 
 training. Those smooth, round hands were always 
 magically clean ; the dress immaculate and uncrum- 
 pled; the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She was 
 a model child, as she had been a model baby. No 
 slamming of doors, no litter of carpets, no pattering 
 of noisy feet on the stairs, no headless dolls, no 
 soiled or torn books indicated her presence. Her 
 dells were subject to a methodical training, not un 
 like her own. They rose, they were dressed, they 
 took the air, they retired for the night, with clock- 
 Jike regularity. At the advanced age of eight, she 
 ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and 
 began a course of instructive reading. Her lessons 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 127 
 
 were received in mute submission, like medicine; 
 so many doses, so many times a day. An agreeable 
 interlude of needle-work was afforded, and Dorcas- 
 like, many were the garments that resulted for the 
 poor. Give her the very eyes out of your head, 
 cut off your right hand for her if you choose, but 
 don't expect a gush of e ithusiasm that would crum 
 ple your collar; she would as soon strangle her 
 self as run headlong to embrace you. If she has 
 any passions or emotions, they are kept under; but 
 who asks for passion in blanc-mange, or seeks 
 emotion in a comfortable apple-pudding? 
 
 When her father had been dead a year, her 
 mother married a man with a large family of chil 
 dren and a very small purse. Lucy had a hard time 
 of it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impul 
 sive man, took a dislike to her. Aunty had no dif 
 ficulty in persuading them to give the child to her. 
 She took her from the purest motives, and it does 
 seem as if she ought to have more reward than she 
 gets. She declares, however, that she has all the 
 reward she could ask in the conviction that God 
 accepts this attempt to please Him. 
 
 Lucy is now nearly fourteen; very large of her 
 age, with a dead white skin, pale blue eyes, and a 
 little light hair. To hear her talk is most edifying. 
 Uei babieti are all "babes"; she never begins any 
 thing but "commences" it: she never cries, she 
 
128 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 u weeps"; never gets up in the morning, but "rises * 
 Hut what am I writing all this for? Why, to 
 escape my own thoughts, which are anything but 
 agreeable companions, and to put off answering the 
 question which must be answered, "Have I really 
 made a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott? Could 1 
 not, in time, have come to love a man who has so 
 honored me?" 
 
 JULY 5. Here I am again, safely at home, 
 
 and very pleasant it seems to be with dear mother 
 again. I have told her about Dr. E. She says 
 very little about it one way or the other. 
 
 JULY 10. Mother sees that I am restless 
 
 and out of sorts. " What is it, dear ? " she asked, 
 this morning. "Has Dr. Elliott anything to do 
 with the unsettled state you are in?" 
 
 "Why, no, mother," I answered. "My going 
 away has broken up all my habits; that's all. StiJl 
 if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much, and was 
 oeginning to forget it, I dare say I should feel 
 better." 
 
 " If you were perfectly sure that you never could 
 return his affection," she said, "you were quite 
 right in telling him so at once. But if you had any 
 misgivings on the subject, it would have been bet 
 ter to wait, and to ask God to direct you." 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 129 
 
 Yes, it would. But at the moment, I had no 
 misgivings. In my usual headlong style I settled 
 one of the most weighty questions of my life, with 
 out reflection, without so much as one silent appeal 
 to God, to tell me how to act. And now I have for- 
 ever repelled, and thrown away a heart that truly 
 loved me. He will go his way and I shall go mine. 
 He never will know, what I am only just beginning 
 to know myself, that I yearn after his love with 
 unutterable yearning. 
 
 But I am not going to sit down in sentimental 
 despondency to weep over this irreparable past. 
 No human being could forgive such folly as mine; 
 but God can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness 
 I fly to Him, and find, what is better than earthly 
 felicity, the sweetest peace. He allowed me to 
 bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, a shadow 
 out of which I shall not soon pass, but He pities 
 and He forgives me, and I have had many precious 
 moments when I could say sincerely and joyfully, 
 "Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is 
 none upon earth that I desire besides Thee." 
 
 With a character still so undisciplined as mine, 
 I seriously doubt whether I could have made him 
 happy who has honored me with his unmerited 
 affection. Sometimes I think I am as impetuous 
 and as quick-tempered as ever; I get angry with 
 dear mother, and with James even, if they oppose 
 6* 
 
130 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 me; how unfit, then, I am to become the mistress 
 of a household and the wife of a good man! 
 
 How came he to love me? I cannot, cannot 
 imagine ! 
 
 AUGUST 31. The last day of the very hap 
 piest summer I ever spent. If I had only been 
 willing to believe the testimony of others I might 
 have been just as happy long ago. But I wanted 
 to have all there was in God and all there was in 
 the world, at once, and there was a constant, pain 
 ful struggle between the two. I hope that struggle 
 is now over. I deliberately choose and prefer God. 
 I have found a sweet peace in trying to please 
 Him such as I never conceived of. I would not 
 change it for all the best things this world can 
 give. 
 
 But I have a great deal to learn. I am like a 
 little child who cannot run to get what he wants, 
 but approaches it step by step, slowly, timidly 
 and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the 
 patience of my blessed Master and Teacher, but 
 how I love His school ! 
 
 SEPTEMBER. This, too, has been a delight 
 ful month in a certain sense. Amelia's marriage, 
 at which I had to be present, upset me a little, but 
 it was but a little ruffle on a deep sea of peace. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 131 
 
 I saw Dr. Cabot to-day. He is quite well again, 
 and speaks of Dr. Elliott's skill with rapture. He 
 asked about my Sunday-scholars and my poor 
 folks, etc., and I could not help letting out a little 
 of the new joy that has taken possession of me. 
 
 " This is as it should be," he said. " I should be 
 sorry to see a person of your temperament enthu 
 siastic in everything save religion. Do not be 
 discouraged if you still have some ups and downs. 
 4 He that is down need fear no fall'; but you are 
 away up on the heights, and may have one, now 
 and then." 
 
 This made me a little uncomfortable. I don't 
 want any falls. I want to go on to perfection. 
 
 OCT. 1. Laura Cabot came to see me to 
 day, and seemed very affectionate. 
 
 "I hope we may see more of each other than we 
 have done," she began. "My father wishes it, and 
 so do I." 
 
 Katy, mentally. "Ah! he sees how unworldly, 
 how devoted I am, and so wants Laura under my 
 influence. 
 
 Katy, aloud. "I am sure that is very kind." 
 
 Laura. "Not at all. He knows it will be pro* 
 Stable to me to be with you. I get a good deal 
 discouraged at times, and want a friend to strength 
 en and help me." 
 
132 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Katy, to herself. "Yes, yes, he thinks me quite 
 experienced and trustworthy." 
 
 Katy> aloud. "I shall never dare to try to help 
 you" 
 
 Laura. *' Oh, yes, you must. I am so far benind 
 you in Christian experience." 
 
 But I am ashamed to write down any more. 
 After she had gone I felt delightfully puffed up for 
 a while. But when I came up to my room this 
 evening, and knelt down to pray, everything looked 
 dark and chaotic. God seemed far away, and 1 
 took no pleasure in speaking to Him. I felt sure 
 that I had done something or felt something wrong, 
 and asked Him to show me what it was. There 
 then flashed into my mind the remembrance of the 
 vain, conceited thoughts I had had during Laura's 
 visit and ever since. 
 
 How perfectly contemptible! I have had a fall 
 indeed ! 
 
 I think now my first mistake was in telling Dr. 
 Cabot my secret, sacred joys, as if some merit of 
 mine had earned them for me. That gave Satan a 
 fine chance to triumph over me ! After this I am 
 determined to maintain the utmost reserve in re 
 spect to my religious experiences. Nothing is 
 gained by running to tell them, and much is lost 
 
 I feel depressed and comfortless. 
 
IX. 
 
 OCT. 10 
 
 E have very sad news from aunty. She 
 says my uncle is quite broken down with 
 some obscure disease that has been creep 
 ing stealthily along for months. All hib 
 physicians agree that he must give up his business 
 and try the effect of a year's rest. Dr. Elliott pro 
 poses his going to Europe, which seems to me about 
 as formidable as going to the next world. Aunty 
 makes the best she can of it, but she says the 
 thought of being separated from uncle a whole year 
 is dreadful. I pray for her day and night, that this 
 wild project may bo given up. Why, he would be 
 on the ocean ever so many weeks, exposed to all tho 
 discomforts of narrow quarters and poor food, and 
 that just as winter is drawing nigh ! 
 
 OCT. 12. 'Aunty writes that the voyage to 
 
 Europe has been decided on, and that Dr. Elliott is 
 to accompany uncle, travel with him, amuse him, 
 and bring him home a well man. I hope Dr. .' 
 
134 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 power to amuse may exist somewhere, but must 
 own it was in a most latent form when I had the 
 pleasure of knowing him. Poor aunty I How 
 much better it would be for her to go with uncle! 
 There are all the children, to be sure. Well, I hope 
 uncle may be the better for this great undertaking, 
 but I don't like the idea of it. 
 
 OCT. 15. Another letter from aunty, and 
 
 new plans 1 The Dr. is to stay at home, aunty is to 
 go with uncle, and we mother and myself are to 
 take possession of the house and children during 
 their absence! In other words, all this is to be if 
 we say amen. Could anything be more frightful? 
 To refuse would be selfish and cruel. If we con- 
 seut I thrust myself under Dr. Elliott's very nose. 
 
 OCT. 16. Mother is surprised that I can 
 
 hesitate one instant. She seems to have forgotten 
 all about Dr. E. She says we can easily find a 
 family to take this house for a year, and that she is 
 delighted to do anything for aunty that can be 
 done. 
 
 Nov. 4. Here we are, the whole thing set 
 tled. Uncle and aunty started a week ago, and we 
 are monarchs of all we survey, and this is a great 
 deal I am determined that mother shall not be 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 13d 
 
 worn out with these children although of , ourse I 
 could not manage them without her advice and 
 help. It is to be hoped they won't all have the 
 measles in a body, or anything of that sort; I am 
 sure it would be annoying to Dr. E. to come here 
 now. 
 
 Nov. 25. Of course the baby must go on 
 
 teething if only to have the doctor sent for to lance 
 his gums. I told mother I was sure I could not be 
 present when this was being done, so, though she 
 looked surprised, and said people should accustom 
 themselves to such things, she volunteered to hold 
 baby herself. 
 
 Nov. 26. The baby was afraid of mother, 
 
 not being used to her, so she sent for me. As I 
 entered the room she gave him to me with an 
 apology for doing so, since I shrank from witness 
 ing the operation. What must Dr. E. think I am 
 made of if I can't bear to see a child's gums lanced ? 
 However, it is my own fault that he thinks me such 
 a coward, for I made mother think me one. It was 
 very embarrassing to hold baby and have the doc 
 tor's face so close to mine. I really wonder mother 
 should not see how awkwardly I am situated hera 
 
 Nov. 27. We have a good many visitors, 
 
136 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 friends of uncle and aunty. How uninteresting 
 most people are! They all say the same thing, 
 namely, how strange that aunty had courage to 
 undertake such a voyage, and to leave her children, 
 etc., etc., etc., and what was Dr. Elliott thinking of 
 to let them go, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 Dr. Embury called to-day, with a pretty little 
 fresh creature, his new wife, who hangs on his arm 
 like a work-bag. He is Dr. Elliott's intimate friend, 
 and spoke of him very warmly, and so did his wife, 
 who says she has known him always, as they were 
 born and brought up in the same village. I wonder 
 he did not marry her himself, instead of leaving her 
 for Dr. Embury! 
 
 She says he, Dr. Elliott I mean, was the most de 
 voted son she ever saw, and that he deserves his 
 present success because he has made such sacrifices 
 for his parents. I never met any one whom I liked 
 eo well on so short acquaintance I mean Mrs. 
 Embury, though you might fancy, you poor de 
 luded journal you, that I meant somebody else. 
 
 Nov. 30. I have so much to do that I 
 
 Lave little time for writing. The way the children 
 wear out their shoes and stockings, the speed wilh 
 which their hair grows, the way they bump theii 
 tieads and pinch their fingers, and the insatiable do 
 mand for stories, is something next to miraculoug 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 137 
 
 Not a day passes that somebody doesn't need some 
 thing bought; that somebody else doesn't choke 
 itself, and that I don't have to tell stories till 1 feel 
 my intellect reduced to the size of a pea. If ever 
 I was alive and wide awake, however, it is just now, 
 and in spite of some vague shadows of,* I don't 
 know what, I am very happy indeed. So is dear 
 mother. She and the doctor have become bosom 
 friends. He keeps her making beef-tea, scraping 
 lint, and boiling calves' feet for jelly, till the house 
 smells like an hospital. 
 
 I suppose he thinks me a poor selfish, frivolous 
 girl, whom nothing would tempt to raise a finger 
 for his invalids. But, of course, I do not care what 
 he thinks. 
 
 DEC. 4. Dr. Elliott came this morning to 
 
 ask mother to go with him to see a child who had 
 met with a horrible accident. She turned pale, and 
 pressed her lips together, but went at once to get 
 ready. Then my long-suppressed wrath burst out 
 
 "How can you ask poor mother to go and see 
 such sights ? " I cried. " You must think her noth 
 ing but a stone, if you suppose that after the way 
 iii which my father died " 
 
 " It was indeed most thoughtless in me," he inter 
 rupted; "but your mother is such a rare woman, so 
 decided and self-controlled, yet so gentle, so full of 
 
138 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 tender sympathy, that I hardly know where to 
 look for just the help I need to-day. If you could 
 see this poor child, even you would justify me." 
 
 "Even you!" you monster of selfishness, heart of 
 Btone, floating bubble, "even you" "would justify 
 it!" ' 
 
 How cruel, how unjust, how unforgiving he is! 
 
 I rushed out of the room, and cried until I wan 
 tired. 
 
 DEO. 6. Mother says she feels really grate 
 ful to Dr. E. for taking her to see that child, and to 
 help soothe and comfort it while he went through 
 with a severe, painful operation which she would 
 not describe, because she fancied I looked pale. I 
 said I should think the child's mother the most 
 proper person to soothe it on such an occasion. 
 
 "The poor thing has no mother," she said, re 
 proachfully. "What has got into you, Kate? You 
 do not seem at all like yourself." 
 
 "I should think you had enough to do with this 
 great house to keep in order, so many mouths to 
 fill, and so many servants to oversee, without wear 
 ing yourself out with nursing all Dr. Elliott's poor 
 folks," I said, gloomily. 
 
 "The more I have to do, the happier I am,' she 
 replied. "Dear Katy, the old wound isn't healed 
 yet, and I like to be with those who have wounds 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 13$ 
 
 and bruises of their own. And Dr. Elliott seems to 
 have iiviiied this by instinct." 
 
 T ran and kissed her dear, pale face, which grows 
 more beautiful every day. No wonder she misses 
 father so! He loved and honored her beyond de 
 scription, and never forgot one of those little cour 
 tesies which must have a great deal to do with a 
 wife's happiness. People said of him that he was a 
 gentleman of the old school, and that race is dying 
 out 
 
 I feel a good deal out of sorts myself. Oh, I do 
 so wish to get above myself and all my childish, 
 petty ways, and to live in a region where there is 
 no temptation and no sin ! 
 
 DEC. 22. I have been to see Mrs. Embury 
 
 to-day. She did not receive me as cordially as usual, 
 and I very soon resolved to come away. She de 
 tained me, however. 
 
 " Would you mind my speaking to you on a cer 
 tain subject ? " she asked, with some embarrassment 
 
 1 felt myself flush up. 
 
 " I do not want to meddle with affairs that don't 
 concern me," she went on, "but Dr. Elliott and I 
 have been intimate friends all our lives. And his 
 disappointment has really distressed me." 
 
 One of my moods came on, and I couldn't speak 
 ft word. 
 
140 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " Yon are not at all the sort of a girl 1 supposed 
 he would fancy," she continued. "He always has 
 said he was waiting to find some one just like hia 
 mother, and she is one of the gentlest, meekest-, 
 sweetest and fairest among women." 
 
 " You ought to rejoice then that he has escaped 
 the snare," I said, in a husky voice, " and is free to 
 marry his ideal, when he finds her." 
 
 "But that is just what troubles me. He is not 
 free. He does not attach himself readily, and I am 
 afraid that it will be a long, long time before he gets 
 over this unlucky passion for you." 
 
 " Passion ! " I cried, contemptuously. 
 
 She looked at me with some surprise, and then 
 went on. 
 
 " Most girls would jump at the chance of getting 
 Buch a husband." 
 
 "I don't know that I particularly care to be 
 classed with 'most girls,'" I replied, loftily. 
 
 " But if you only knew him as well as I do. He 
 is so noble, so disinterested, and is so beloved by 
 his patients. I could tell you scores of anecdotes 
 about him that would show just what he is." 
 
 14 Thank you," I said, "I think we have discussed 
 Dr. Elliott quite enough already. I cannot say 
 that he has elevated himself in my opinion by mak 
 ing you take up the cudgels in his defence." 
 
 "You do him injustice, when you say that," she 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 141 
 
 cried. "His sister, the only person to whom he 
 confided the state of things, begged me to find out, 
 if I could, whether you had any other attachment, 
 and if her brother's case was quite hopeless. But 
 [ am sorry I undertook the task, as it has annoyed 
 you so much.' 
 
 I came away a good deal ruffled. When I got 
 home mother said she was glad I had been out, at 
 last, for a little recreation, and that she wished I 
 did not confine myself so to the children. I said 
 that I did not confine myself more than, aunty did 
 
 "But that is different," mother objected. "She 
 is their own mother, and love helps her to bear her 
 burden." 
 
 " So it does me," I returned. " I lore the chil 
 dren exactly as if they were my own." 
 
 "That," she said, "is impossible." 
 
 "I ceitainly do," I persisted. 
 
 Mother would not dispute with me, though I 
 wished she would. 
 
 "A mother," she went on, "receives her chil 
 dren one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to 
 gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole 
 houseful upon you at once, and I arn sure it is too 
 much for you. You do not look or act like your 
 self." 
 
 " It isn't the children," I said. 
 
 "What is ii, then?" 
 
142 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "Why, it's nothing,' I said pettishly. 
 
 " I must say, dear," said mother, not noticing my 
 manner, " that your wonderful devotion to the chil 
 dren, aside from its effect on your health and tem 
 per, has given me great delight." 
 
 "I don't see why," I said. 
 
 " Very few girls of your age would give up their 
 whole time, as you do to such work." 
 
 "That is because very few girls are as fond of 
 children as I am. There is no virtue in doing ex 
 actly what one likes best to do." 
 
 "There, go away, you contrary child," said 
 mother, laughing. "If you won't be praised, you 
 won't." 
 
 So I came up here and moped a little. I don't 
 see what ails me. 
 
 But there is an under-current of peace that is 
 not entirely disturbed by any outside event. In 
 spite of my follies, and my short-comings, I do 
 believe that God loves and pities me, and will yet 
 perfect that which concerneth me. It is a great 
 mystery. But so is everything. 
 
 Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Crofton: 
 
 . . . And now, my dear friend, having issued 
 my usual bulletin of health, you may feel quite at 
 ease about your dear children, and I come to a 
 point in your letter which I would gladly pass over 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 143 
 
 in silence. But this would be but a poor return for 
 the interest you express in my affairs. 
 
 Both ladios are devoted to your little flock, and 
 Miss Mortimer seems not to have a thought but for 
 them. The high opinion I formed of her at the out 
 set is more than justified by all I see of her daily, 
 household life. I know what her faults are, for she 
 seems to take delight in revealing them. But I also 
 know her rare virtues, and what a wealth of affec 
 tion she has to bestow on the man who is so happy 
 as to win her heart. But I shall never be that man. 
 Her growing aversion to me makes me dread a 
 gammons to your house, and I have hardly manli 
 ness enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I 
 entreat you, therefore, never again to press this 
 subject upon me. After all, I would not, if I could, 
 dispense with the ministry of disappointment and 
 unrest. 
 
 Mrs. Crofton, in reply: 
 
 ... So she hates you, does she ? I am charm 
 ed to hear it. Indifference would be an alarming 
 symptom, but good, cordial hatred, or what looks 
 like it, is a most hopeful sign. The next chance 
 you get to see her alone, assure her that you never 
 shall repeat your first offence. If nothing comes of 
 it, I am not a woman, and never was one; nor ia 
 she," 
 
144 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 - MARCH 25, 1836. The New Year and my 
 birthday have come and gone, and this is the first 
 moment I could find for writing down all that haa 
 happened. 
 
 The day after my last date I was full of serious, 
 earnest thoughts, of new desires to live, without 
 one reserve, for God. I was smarting under the 
 remembrance of my folly at Mrs. Embury's, and 
 with a sense of vague disappointment and discom 
 fort, and had to fly closer than ever to Him. In 
 the evening I thought I would go to the usual 
 weekly service. It is true I don't like prayer-meet 
 ings, and that is a bad sign, I am afraid. But I am 
 determined to go where good people go, and see if 
 I can't learn to like what they like. 
 
 Mother went with me, of course. 
 
 What was my surprise to find that Dr. E. was to 
 preside ! I had no idea that he was that sort of a 
 man. 
 
 The hymns they sang were beautiful, and did me 
 good. So was his prayer. If all prayers were like 
 that, I am sure I should like evening meetings as 
 much as I now dislike them. He so evidently 
 spoke to God in it, and as if he were used to such 
 speaking. 
 
 He then made a little address on the ministry of 
 disappointments, as he called it. He spoke so 
 cheerfully and hopefully that I began to see almost 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 145 
 
 for the first time, God's reason for the rJfetty trials and 
 crosses that help to make up every day of one's life. 
 He said there were few who were not constantly 
 disappointed with themselves, with their slow pro 
 gress, their childishness and weakness; disappointed 
 with their friends who, strangely enough, were 
 never quite perfect enough, and disappointed with 
 the world, which was always promising so much 
 and giving so little. Then he urged to a wise and 
 patient consent to this discipline, which, if rightly 
 used, would help to temper and strengthen the soul 
 against the day of sorrow and bereavement. But 
 I am not doing him justice in this meagre report; 
 there was something almost heavenly in his expres 
 sion which words cannot describe. 
 
 Coming out I heard some one ask, u Who was 
 that young clergyman ? " and the answer, " Oh, that 
 is only a doctor!" 
 
 Well ! the next week I went again, with mother. 
 We had hardly taken our seats when Dr. E. 
 marched in with the SAveetest looking little creature 
 I ever saw. He was so taken up with her that he 
 did not observe either mother or myself. As she 
 sat by my side I could not see her full face, but her 
 profile was nearly perfect. Her eyes were of that 
 lovely blue one sees in violets, and the skies, with 
 long, soft eye lashes, and her complexion was as 
 pure as a baby's. Yet she was not one of yoiir 
 
146 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 doll beauties; her face expressed both feeling and 
 character. They sang together from the same 
 book, though I offered her a share of mine. Of 
 course, when people do that it can mean but one 
 thing. 
 
 So it seems he has forgotten me, and consoled 
 himself with this pretty little thing. No doubt she 
 is like his mother, that "gentlest, meekest, sweetest 
 and fairest among women ! " 
 
 Now if any body should be sick, and he should 
 come here, I thought, what would become of me? 
 I certainly could not help showing that a love that 
 can so soon take up with a new object, could not 
 have been a sentiment of much depth. 
 
 It is not pleasant to lose even a portion of one's 
 respect and esteem for another. 
 
 The next day mother went to visit an old friend 
 of hers, who has a beautiful place outside of the 
 city. The baby's nurse had ironing to do, so I 
 promised to sit in the nursery till it was finished. 
 Lucy came, with her books, to sit with me. She 
 always follows me like my shadow. After a while 
 Mrs. Embury called. I hesitated a iittle about 
 trusting the child to Lucy's care, for though her 
 prim ways have given her the reputation of being 
 wise beyond her years, I observe that she is apt to 
 got into trouble which a quiok-witted child would 
 either avoid or jump out of in a twinkling. How- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 147 
 
 ever, children are often left to much younger girls, 
 so, with many cautions, I went down, resolving to 
 stay only a few moments. 
 
 But I wanted so much to know all about that 
 pretty little friend of Dr. E's that I let Mrs. Em- 
 bury stay on and on, though not a ray of light did 
 I get for my pains. At last I heard Lucy's step 
 coming down stairs. 
 
 "Cousin Katy," she said, entering the room with 
 her usual propriety, "I was seated by the window, 
 engaged with my studies, and the children were 
 playing about, as usual, when suddenly I heard a 
 shriek, and one of them ran past me, all in a blaze 
 and" 
 
 I believe I pushed her out of my way as I rushed 
 up stairs, for I took it for granted I should meet 
 the little figure all in a blaze, coming to meet me. 
 But I found it wrapped in a blanket, the flames ex 
 tinguished. Meanwhile, Mrs. Embury had roused 
 the whole house, and everybody came running up 
 etairs. 
 
 "Get the doctor, some of you," I cried, clasping 
 the poor little writhing form in my arms. 
 
 And then I looked to see which of them it was, 
 and found it was aunty's pet lamb, everybody's 
 pet lamb, our little loving, gentle Emma. 
 
 Dr Elliott must have corne on wings, for I had 
 oot time to bo 'mpatient for his arrival. He was as 
 
148 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 fender as a woman with Emma; we cut off and 
 loie off her clothes wherever the fire had touched 
 hor. and he dressed the burns with his own hands. 
 He did not speak a word to me, or I to him. This 
 time he did not find it necessary to advise me to 
 control myself. I was as cold and hard as a atone. 
 
 But when poor- little Emma's piercing shrieks 
 began to subside, and she came a little under the 
 influence of some soothing drops he had given her 
 at the outset, I began to feel that sensation in the 
 back of my neck that leads to conquest over the 
 most stubborn and the most heroic. I had just 
 time to get Emma into the doctor's arms, and then 
 down I went. I got over it in a minute, and was 
 up again before any one had time to come to the 
 rescue. But Dr. E. gave Emma to Mrs. Embury, 
 who had taken off her things and been crying all 
 the time, and said in a low voice, 
 
 "I beg you will now leave the room, and lio 
 down. And do not feel obliged to see me when 1 
 visit the child. That annoyance, at least, you 
 ihould spare yourself." 
 
 "No consideration shall make me neglect little 
 Emma," I replied, defiantly. 
 
 B} this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her tc 
 sleep, and she lay, pale and with an air of complete 
 exhaustion, in her arms. 
 
 "You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer," Dr 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 149 
 
 Elliott said, as he rose to go. " I will return in a 
 few hours to see how you both do." 
 
 He stood looking at Emma, but did not go. 
 Then Mrs. Embury asked the question 1 had not 
 dared to ask. 
 
 "Is the poor child in danger?" 
 
 "I cannot say; I trust not. Miss Mortimer'a 
 presence of ^ mind in extinguishing the flames at 
 once, has, I hope, saved its life." 
 
 "It was not my presence of mind, it was Lucy's !>" 
 I cried, eagerly. Oh, how I envied her for beihg 
 the heroine, and for the surprised, deliguted smile 
 with which he went and took her hand, saying, * I 
 congratulate you, Lucy! How your mother will 
 rejoice at this ! " 
 
 I tried to think of nothing but poor little En ma, 
 and of the reward aunty had had for her kindness 
 to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and how likely 
 it was that under the same circumstances I should 
 have been beside myself, and done nothing. This, 
 and many other emotions, made me burst out cry 
 ing. 
 
 "Yes, cry, cry, with all your heart," said Mrs. 
 Embury, laying Emma gently down, and coming to 
 get me into her arms. " It will do you good, poor 
 child!" 
 
 She cried with me, till at last I could lie down 
 and try to sleep. 
 
150 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Well, the days and the weeks were very long af 
 ter that 
 
 Dear mother had a hard time, what with hei 
 anxiety about Emma, and my crossness and unrea 
 sonableness. 
 
 Dr. Elliott came and went, came and went. At 
 last he said all danger was over, and that our pa 
 tient little darling would get well. But his visito 
 did not diminish; he came twice and three times 
 every day. Sometimes I hoped he would tell us 
 about his new flame, and sometimes I felt that I 
 could not hear her mentioned. One day mother 
 was so unwell that I had to help him dress Emma's 
 burns, and I could not help saying: 
 
 " Even a mother's gentlest touch, full of love as 
 it is, is almost rough compared with that of one 
 trained to such careful handling as you are." 
 
 He looked gratified, but said: 
 
 "I am glad you begin to find that even stones 
 feel, sometimes." 
 
 Another time something was said about the fickle 
 ness of women. Mrs. Embury began it. I fired 
 up, of course. 
 
 He seemed astonished at my attack 
 
 " I said nothing," he declared. 
 
 "No, but you looked a good many things. Now 
 the fact is, women are not fickle. When they lose 
 what they value most, they find it impossible to re- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 151 
 
 place it. But men console themselves with the 
 Li rat good thing that comes along." 
 
 I dare say I spoke bitterly, for I was thinking how 
 
 soon Ch , I mean somebody, replaced me in his 
 
 shallow heart, and how, with equal speed, Dr. El 
 liott had helped himself to a new love. 
 
 "I do not like these sweeping assertions," said 
 Dr. Elliott, looking a good deal annoyed. 
 
 "I have to say what I think," I persisted. 
 
 " It is well to think rightly, then," he said, gravely. 
 
 "By the by, have you heard from Helen?" Mrs, 
 Embury most irrelevantly asked. 
 
 "Yes, I heard yesterday." 
 
 "I suppose you will be writing her, then? Will 
 you enclose a little note from me? Or rather let 
 me have the least corner of your sheet ? " 
 
 I was shocked at her want of delicacy. Of course 
 this Helen must be the new love, and how could a 
 woman with two grains of sense, imagine he would 
 want to spare her a part of his sheet ! 
 
 I felt tired and irritated. As soon as Dr. Elliott 
 Lad gone, I began to give her a good setting down. 
 
 " I could hardly believe my ears," I said, " when 
 1 heard you ask leave to write on Dr. Elliott's 
 sheet." 
 
 "No wonder," she said laughing. "I suppose 
 yon never knew what it was to have to count every 
 shilling, and to deny yourself the pleasure of writ 
 
152 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ing to a friend because of what it would cost. I'm 
 sure I never did till I was married." 
 ' '** But to ask him to let you help write his love- 
 Mters," I objected. 
 
 ' " Ah ! is that the way the wind blows ? " she cried, 
 nodding her pretty little head. " Well then, let me 
 relieve your mind, my dear, by informing you that 
 this 'love-letter* is to his sister, my dearest friend, 
 and the sweetest little thing you ever saw." 
 
 '^* Oh ! " I said, and immediately felt quite rested, 
 and quite like myself. 
 
 Like myself! And who is she, pray? 
 
 Two souls dwell in my poor little body, and which 
 cli" 1 them is me, and which of them isn't, it would be 
 hard to tell. This is the way they behave: 
 SCENE 1st. 
 
 Katy, to the other creature, whom I will call 
 Kate. Your mother looks tired, and you have been 
 very cross. Kun and put your arms around her, and 
 tell her how you love her. 
 
 Kate. Oh I can't; it would look queer. I don't 
 like palaver. Besides, who would not be cross who 
 
 felt as I do ? 
 
 SCENE 2d. 
 
 Katy. Little Emma has nothing to do, and ought 
 to be amused. Tell her a story, do. 
 
 Kale. I am tired, and need to be amused my- 
 Belf. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 153 
 
 Katy. But the dear little thing is so patient, and 
 bas suffered so much? 
 
 Kate. Well, I have suffered, too. If she had not 
 climbed up on the fender she would not have got 
 burned. 
 
 SCENE 3d. 
 
 Kate. You are very irritable to-day. You had 
 better go up stairs to your room and pray for pa 
 tience. 
 
 Katy. One can't be always praying. I don't feel 
 
 like it. 
 
 SCENE 4th. 
 
 Katy. You treat Dr. Elliott shamefully. I should 
 think he would really avoid you as you avoid him. 
 
 Kate. Don't let me hear his name. I don't avoid 
 him. 
 
 Katy. You do not deserve his good opinion. 
 
 Kate. Yes, I do. 
 
 SCENE 5th. 
 
 Just awake in the morning. 
 
 Katy. Oh, dear! how hateful I am! I am cross 
 ajid selfish, and domineering, and vain. I think of 
 myself the whole time; I behave like a heroine 
 when Dr. Elliott is present, and like a naughty, 
 spoiled child when he is not. Poor mother! how 
 can she endure me? As to my piety, it is worse 
 than none 
 
 Kate, a tew hours later. Well, nobody can deny 
 7* 
 
154 STEFFING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 fchat I have a real gift in managing children ! And 
 I am very lovable, or mother wouldn't be so fond 
 of me. I am always pleasant unless I am sick, or 
 worried, and my temper is not half so hasty as it 
 used to be. I never think of myself, but am all 
 the time doing something for others. As to Dr. 
 E., I am thankful to say that I have never stooped 
 to attract him by putting on airs and graces. He 
 sees me just as I am. And I am very devout. 1 
 love to read good books and to be with good peo 
 ple. I pray a great deal. The bare thought of 
 doing wrong makes me shudder. Mother is proud 
 of me, and I don't wonder. Very few girls would 
 have behaved as I did when Emma was burned. 
 Perhaps I am not as sweet as some people. I am 
 glad of it. I hate sweet people. I have great 
 strength of character, which is much better, and am 
 certainly very high-toned. 
 
 But, my poor journal, you can't stand any more 
 such stuff, can you? But tell me one thing, am ] 
 Katy, or am I Kate? 
 
X. 
 
 APRIL 20. 
 
 ESTERDAY I felt better than I have done 
 since the accident. I ran^ about the house 
 quite cheerily, for me. I wanted to see 
 mother for something, and flew singing 
 into the parlor, where I had left her shortly before. 
 But she was not there, and Dr. Elliott was. I 
 started back, and was about to leave the room, but 
 he detained me. 
 
 " Come in, I beg of you," he said, his voice grow 
 ing hoarser and hoarser. " Let us put a stop to this." 
 "To what?" I asked, going nearer and nearer, 
 and looking up into his face, which was quite pale. 
 " To your evident terror of being alone with me, 
 of hearing me speak Let me assure you, once for 
 all, that nothing would tempt me to annoy you by 
 urging myself upon you, as you seem to fear I may 
 be tempted to do. I cannot force you to love me, 
 nor would I if I could. If you ever want a friend 
 you will find one in me. But do not think of me 
 as your lover, or treat me as if I were always lying 
 
 (155) 
 
156 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 in wait for a chance to remind you of it That 1 
 shall never do, never." 
 
 "Oh, ro, of course not!" I broke forth, my face 
 all in a glow, and tears of mortification raining down 
 my cheeks. "I knew you did not care for me! I 
 knew you had got over it ! " 
 
 I don't know which of us began it, I don't think 
 he did, and I am sure I did not, but the next mo 
 ment I was folded all up in his great long arms, and 
 and a new life had begun ! 
 
 Mother opened the door not long after, and see 
 ing what was going on, trotted away on her dear 
 old feet as fast as she could. 
 
 APRIL 21. I am too happy to write jour 
 nals. To think how we love each other ! 
 
 Mother behaves beautifully. 
 
 APRIL 25. One does not feel like saying 
 
 much about it, when one is as happy as I am. 1 
 walk the streets as one treading on air. I fly about 
 the house as on wings. I kiss everybody I see. 
 
 Now that I look at Ernest (for he makes me call 
 him so) wilh unprejudiced eyes, I wonder I ever 
 thought him clumsy. And how ridiculous it was 
 in me to confound his dignity and manliness with 
 age! 
 
 It is very odd, however, that such a cautious, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 157 
 
 well-balanced man should have fallen in love with 
 me that day at Sunday-school. And still strangei 
 that with my headlong, impulsive nature I deliber 
 ately walked into love with him! 
 
 I believe we shall never get through with what 
 we have to say to each other. I am afraid we are 
 rather selfish to leave mother to herself every 
 evening. 
 
 SEPT. 5. This has been a delightful sum 
 mer. To be sure, we had to take the children to 
 the country for a couple of months, but Ernest's 
 letters are almost better than Ernest himself. 1 
 have written enough to him to fill a dozen books. 
 We are going back to the city now. In his last 
 letter Ernest says he has been home, and that his 
 mother is delighted to hear of his engagement. 
 He says, too, that he went to see an old lady, one 
 of the friends of his boyhood, to tell the news to 
 her. 
 
 " When I told her," he goes on, "that I had found 
 the most beautiful, the noblest, the most loving of 
 human beings, she only said, ' Of course, of course ! 
 
 "Now, you know, dear, that it is not at all of 
 course, but the very strangest, most wonderful 
 event in the history of the world." 
 
 And then he described a scene he had just wit 
 nessed at the death bed of a young girl, of mj -iwn 
 
15 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 age, who left this world and every possible earthly 
 joy, with a delimit in the going to be with Christ, 
 that made him really eloquent. Oh, haw glad 1 
 am that God has cast in my lot with a man whose 
 whole business is to minister to others ! I am sure 
 t his will, of itself, keep him unworldly and unselfish. 
 JIow delicious it is to love such a character, and 
 how happy I shall be to go with him to sick-rooms 
 and to dying beds ! He has already taught me that 
 lessons learned in such scenes far outweigh in value 
 what books and sermons, even, can teach. 
 
 And now, my dear old journal, let me tell you a 
 secret that has to do with life, and not with death. 
 
 I am going to be married! 
 
 To think that I am always to be with Ernest! 
 To sit at the table with him every day, to. pray 
 with him, to go to church with him, to have him 
 all mine ! I am sure that there is not another man 
 on earth whom I could love as I love him. Tne 
 
 thought of marrying Ch I mean of having that 
 
 silly, school-girl engagement end in marriage, was 
 always repugnant to me. But I give myself to Er 
 nest joyfully and with all my heart. 
 
 How good God has been to me! I do hope and 
 pray that this new, this absorbing love, has not de 
 tached my soul from Him, will not detach it. If 1 
 knew it would, could I, should I have courage to 
 cut it off, and cast it from me? 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 159 
 
 JAN. 16, 1837. Yesterday was ray birth- 
 
 day, and to-day is my wedding-day. We meant to 
 celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday would 
 come thfs year on the fifteenth. 
 
 I am dressed, and have turned everybody out of 
 this room, where I have suffered so much mortifi 
 cation, and experienced so much joy, that before 
 I give myself to Ernest, and before I leave home 
 forever, I may once more give myself away to God. 
 I have been too much absorbed in my earthly love, 
 and am shocked to find how it fills my thoughts. 
 But I ivill belong to God. I iviU begin my mar 
 ried life in His fear, depending on Him to make me 
 an unselfish, devoted wife. 
 
 JAN. 25. We had a delightful trip after the 
 
 wedding was over. Ernest proposed to take me to 
 hip own home that I might see his mother and sis 
 ter. He never has said that he wanted them to 
 see me. But his mother is not well. I am heartily 
 glad of it. I mean I was glad to escape going 
 there to be examined and criticised. Every one of 
 them would pick at me, I am sure, and I don t ike 
 to be picked at. 
 
 We have a home of our own, and I am trying to 
 take kindly to house-keeping. Ernest is away a 
 great deal more than I expected he would be. I 
 am fearfully lonely. Aunty comes to see me as 
 
160 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ofteu as she can, and I go there almost every clay, 
 but that doesn't amount to much. As soon as 1 
 can venture to do it, I shall ask Ernest to let me 
 invite mother to come and live with us. It is not 
 right for her to be left all alone so. 1 hoped he 
 would do that himself. But men are not like wo 
 men. We think of everything. 
 
 FEB. 16. Our honeymoon ends to-day. 
 
 There hasn't been quite as much honey in it as I ex 
 pected. I supposed that Ernest would be at home 
 every evening, at least, and that he would read 
 aloud, and have me play and sing, and that we 
 should have delightful times together. But now 
 he has got me Jie seems satisfied, and goes about 
 his business as if he had been married a hundred 
 years. In the morning he goes off to see his list of 
 patients; he is going in and out all day; after din 
 ner we sit down to have a nice talk together, the 
 door bell invariably rings, and he is called away. 
 Then in the evening he goes and sits in his office 
 and studies; I don't mean every minute, but he cer 
 tainly spends hours there. To-day he brought me 
 such a precious letter from dear mother ! I could 
 not help crying when I read it, it was so kind arid 
 so loving. Ernest looked amazed; he threw down 
 his paper, came and took me in his arms and asked, 
 "What is the matter, darling?" Then it all came 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 out. I said 1 was lonely, and hadn't been used to 
 spending my evenings all by myself. 
 
 " You must get some of your friends to come and 
 si e you, poor child," he said. 
 
 " I don't want friends," I sobbed out " I want 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, darling; why didn't you tell me so sooner? 
 Of course I will stay with you if you wish it." 
 
 "If that is your only reason, I am sure I don't 
 want you," I pouted. 
 
 He looked puzzled. 
 
 " I really don't know what to do," he said, with a 
 most comical look of perplexity. But he went to 
 his office, and brought up a pile of fusty old books. 
 
 "Now, dear," he said, "we understand each 
 other, I think. I can read here just as well as down 
 stairs. Get your book and we shall be as cosy as 
 possible." 
 
 My heart felt sore and dissatisfied. Am I un 
 reasonable and childish? What is married life? 
 An occasional meeting, a kiss here and a caress 
 there? or is it the sacred union of the twain who 
 walk together side by side, knowing each other's 
 joys and sorrows, and going Heavenward hand in 
 hand? 
 
 - FEB. 17 Mrs. Embury has been here to 
 day. 1 longed ID compare notes with her, and find 
 
162 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 out whether it really is my fault that I am not quite 
 happy. But I could not bear to open my heart to 
 her on so sacred a subject. We had some general 
 conversation, however, which did me good for the 
 time, at least. 
 
 She said she thought one of the first lessons a 
 wife should learn is self-forgetfulness. I wondered 
 if she had seen anything in me to call forth this re 
 mark. We meet pretty often; partly because our 
 husbands are such good friends, partly because she 
 is as fond of music as I am, and we like to sing and 
 play together, and I never see her that she does not 
 do or say something elevating; something that 
 strengthens my own best purposes and desires But 
 she knows nothing of my conflict and dismay, and 
 never will. Her gentle nature responds at once to 
 holy influences. I feel truly grateful to her for 
 loving me, for she really does love me, and yet she 
 must see my faults. 
 
 I should like to know if there is any reason on 
 earth why a woman should learn self-forgetfulnesF 
 that does not apply to a man? 
 
 FEB. 18. Uncle says he has no doubt 
 
 he owes his life to Ernest, who, in the face of 
 opposition to other physicians, insisted on his 
 giving up his business and going off to Europe 
 at just the right moment. For his partner whose 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 163 
 
 symptoms were very like his own, has been stricken 
 down with paralysis, and will not recover. 
 
 It is very pleasant to hear Ernest praised, and it 
 is a pleasure I have very often, for his friends come 
 to see me, and speak of him with rapture. A lady 
 told me that through the long illness of a sweet 
 young daughter of hers, he prayed with her every 
 day, ministering so skillfully to her soul, that all 
 fear of death was taken away, and she just longed 
 to go, and did go at last, with perfect delight. I 
 think he spoke of her to me once, but he did not 
 tell me that her preparations for death was his 
 work. I could not conceive of him as doing that 
 
 FEB. 24. Ernest has been gone a week. 
 
 His mother is worse and he had to go. I wanted 
 to go too but he said it was not worth while, as he 
 should have to return directly. Dr. Embury takes 
 charge of his patients during his absence, and Mrs. 
 E. and aunty and the children come to see me very 
 often, I like Mrs. Embury more and more. She is 
 not so audacious as I am, but I believe she agrees 
 with me more than she will own. 
 
 FEB. 25. Ernest writes that his mother is 
 
 dangerously ill, and seems in great distress. I am 
 mean enough to want all his love myself, while I 
 should hate him if he gave none to her. Poor 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Ernest! If she should die he would be sadly a 
 
 dieted ! 
 |j 
 
 '"' FEB. 27. She died the very day he wrote. 
 
 How I long to fly to him and to comfort him! 1 
 can think of nothing else. I pray day and night 
 that God would make me a better wife. 
 * J A letter came from mother at the same time with 
 Ernest's. She evidently misses me more than she 
 Will own. Just as soon as Ernest returns home 1 
 will ask him to let her come and live with us. I am 
 sure he will ; he loves her already, and now that his 
 mother has gone he will find her a real comfort. I 
 am sure she will only make our home the happier. 
 .A 
 
 FEB. 28. Such a dreadful thing is going to 
 
 Mppen ! I have cried and called myself names by 
 turns all day. Ernest writes that it has been de 
 cided to give up the old homestead, and scatter the 
 family about among the married sons and daughters. 
 Our share is to be his father and his sister Martha, 
 and he desires me to have two rooms got ready for 
 them at once. 
 
 So all the glory and the beauty is snatched out :f 
 my married life at one swoop ! And it is done by the 
 hand 1 love best, and that 1 would not have believed 
 bould be so unkind. 
 "" I am rent in pieces by conflicting emotions and 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD, 166 
 
 passions. One moment I am all tenderness and 
 sympathy for poor Ernest, and ready to sacrifice 
 everything for his pleasure. The next I am bitterly 
 angry with him for disposing of all my happiness in 
 this arbitrary way. If he had let me make com 
 mon cause with him and share his interests with 
 him, I know I am not so abonlinably selfish as to 
 feel as I do now. But he forces two perfect stran 
 gers upon me, and forever shuts our doors against 
 my darling mother. For of course she can not live 
 with us if they do. 
 
 And who knows what sort of people they are? 
 It is not everybody I can get along with, nor is it 
 everybody can get along with me. Now if Helen 
 were coming instead of Martha, that would be some 
 relief. I could love her, I am sure, and she would 
 put up with my ways. But your Marthas I am 
 afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, what a nest of scor 
 pions this affair has stirred up within me! Who 
 would believe I could be thinking of my own 
 misery while Ernest's mother, whom he loved so 
 dearly, is hardly in her grave ! But I have no 
 heart, I am stony and cold. It is well to have found 
 out just what I am ! 
 
 Since I wrote that I have been trying to tell God 
 all about it. But I could not speak for crying. 
 And I have been getting the rooms ready. How 
 many little things I had planned to put in the best 
 
166 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 one, which I intended for mother! I have made 
 myself arrange them just the same for Ernest's 
 father. The stuffed chair I have had in my room, 
 and enjoyed so much, has been rolled in, and the 
 Bible with large print placed on the little table near 
 which I had pictured mother with her sweet, pale 
 face, as sitting year after year. The only thing I 
 have taken away is the copy of father's portrait. 
 He won't want that / 
 
 When I had finished this business I went and 
 shook my fist at the creature I saw in the glass. 
 
 " You're beaten ! " I cried. " You didn't want to 
 give up the chair, nor your writing table, nor the 
 Bible in which you expect to record the names of 
 your ten children ! But you've had to do it, so 
 there!" 
 
 MARCH 3. They all got here at 7 o'clock 
 
 last night, just in time for tea. I was so glad to get 
 hold of Ernest once more that I was gracious to 
 my guests too. The very first thing, however, 
 Ernest annoyed me by calling me Katherine, though 
 he knows I hate that name, and want to be called 
 Katy as if I were a lovable person, as I certainly 
 am (sometimes). Of course his father and his Mar 
 tha called me Katherine too. 
 
 His father is even taller, darker, blacker eyed, 
 blacker -haired than he. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 167 
 
 Martha is a spinster 
 
 I had got up a nice little supper for them, think 
 ing they would iieed something substantial after 
 their journey. And perhaps there was some vanily 
 in the display of dainties that needed the mortifica 
 tion I felt at seeing my guests both push away their 
 plates in apparent disgust. Ernest, too, looked an 
 noyed, and expressed some regret that they could 
 find nothing to tempt their appetites. 
 
 Martha said something about not expecting much 
 from young housekeepers, which I inwardly re 
 sented, for the light, delicious bread had been sent 
 by aunty, together with other luxuries from her 
 own table, and I knew they were not the handi 
 work of a young housekeeper, but of old Chloe, 
 who had lived in her own and her mother's family, 
 twenty years. 
 
 Ernest went out as soon as this unlucky repast 
 was over, to hear Dr. Embury's report of his pa 
 tients, and we passed a dreary evening, as my 
 mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. 
 The more I tried to think of something to say, the 
 more 1 couldn't. 
 
 At last Martha asked at what time we break 
 fasted. 
 
 "At half-past seven, precisely," I answered. 
 "Ernest is very punctual about breakfast. The 
 other meals are more irregular." 
 
168 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "That is very late," she returned. "Father rises 
 early and needs his breakfast at once." 
 
 I said I would see that he had it as early as he 
 liked, while I foresaw that this would cost me a 
 battle with the divinity who reigned in the kitchen. 
 
 "You need not trouble yourself. I will speak to 
 my brother about it," she said. 
 
 "Ernest has nothing to do with it," I said 
 quickly. 
 
 She looked at me in a speechless way, and then 
 there was a long silence, during which she shook 
 her head a number of times. At last she inquired, 
 
 " Did you make the bread we had on the table to 
 night ? " 
 
 "No, I do not know how to make bread," I said, 
 smiling at her look of horror. 
 
 " Not know how to make bread ! " she cried. 
 
 The very spirit of mischief got into me, and 
 made me ask, 
 
 "Why, can you?" 
 
 Now I know there is but one other question 1 
 could Lave asked her, less insulting than this, and 
 that is, 
 
 "Do you know the ten commandments?" 
 
 A spinster fresh from a farm not know how to 
 make bread, to be sure! 
 
 But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that 
 I had yielded to myself sor far as to forget the 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 169 
 
 courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just come 
 from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the room, 
 seized her hand, and said, eagerly, 
 
 "Do forgive me! It slipped out before I 
 thought ! " 
 
 She looked at me in blank amazement, uncon 
 scious that there was anything to forgive. 
 
 " How you startled me ! " she said. " I thought 
 you had suddenly gone crazy." 
 
 I went back to my seat crest-fallen enough. All 
 this time Ernest's father had sat grim and grave in 
 his corner, without a word. But now he spoke. 
 
 "At what hour does my son have family wor 
 ship? I should like to retire. I feel very weary." 
 
 Now family worship at night consists in our 
 kneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing 
 bafore going to bed, and in our own room. The 
 awful thought of changing this sweet, informal 
 habit into a formal one, made me reply quickly, 
 
 "Oh, Ernest is veiy irregular about it. He ia 
 often out in the evening, and sometimes we are up 
 quite late. I hope you never will feel obliged to 
 wait for him." 
 
 "I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it costs," 
 was the answer. 
 
 Oh, how I wished they would go to bed! 
 
 It was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and rest* 
 loss. When Ernest is out late I usually lie on t 1 
 
170 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 sofa and wait for him, and so am bright and fresli 
 when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and 
 there was no knowing for how long. I poked at 
 the fire and knocked down the shovel and tongs , 
 now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned 
 forward; and then I listened for his step. At last 
 he came. 
 
 " What, are you not all gone to bed ? " he asked. 
 As if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen 
 him a moment since his return ! 
 
 I explained why we waited, and then we had 
 prayers and escorted our guests to their rooms. 
 When we got back to the parlor I was thankful tc 
 rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear 
 what little he had to tell about his mother's last 
 hours. 
 
 "You must love me more than ever, now," he 
 said, "for I have lost my best friend." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I will." As if that were possi 
 ble! All the time we were talking I heard the 
 greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem to 
 notice it I found, this morning, that Martha, or 
 her father, or both together, had changed the posi 
 tions of every article of furniture in the room, 
 making it look like a fright 
 
XI. 
 
 MABCH 10. 
 
 HINGS are even worse than I expected. 
 Ernest evidently looked at me with his fa 
 ther's eyes, (and this father has got the jaun 
 dice, or something,) and certainly is cooler 
 towards me than he was before he went home. 
 Martha still declines eating more than enough to 
 keep body and soul together, and sits at the table 
 with the air of a martyr. Her father lives on crack 
 ers and stewed prunes, and when he has eaten them, 
 fixes his melancholy eyes on me, watching every 
 mouthful with an air of plaintive regret that I will 
 consume so much unwholesome food. 
 
 Then Ernest positively spends less time with me 
 than ever, and sits in his office reading and writing 
 nearly every evening. 
 
 Yesterday 1 came home from an exhilarating 
 walk, and a charming call at aunty's, and at the 
 dinner-table gave a lively account of some of the 
 children's exploits. Nobody laughed, and nobody 
 
 (171) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 made any response, and after dinner Ernest took me 
 aside, and said, kindly enough, but still said it, 
 
 " My little wife must be careful how she runs on 
 in my father's presence. He has great dread oi ev 
 erything that might be thought levity." 
 
 Then all the vials of my wrath exploded and 
 went off. 
 
 " Yes, I see how it is," I cried, passionately. " You 
 and your father and your sister have got a box 
 about a foot square that you want to squeeze me 
 into. I have seen it ever since they came. And I 
 can tell you it will take more than three of you to 
 do it. There was no harm in what I said none, 
 whatever. If you only married me for the sake of 
 screwing me down and freezing me up, why didn't 
 you tell me so before it was too late ? " 
 
 Ernest stood looking at me like one staring at a 
 problem he had got to solve, and didn't know where 
 to begin. 
 
 "I am very sorry," he said. "I thought you 
 would be glad to have me give you this little hint 
 Of course I want you to appear your very best be 
 fore my father and sister." 
 
 " My very best is my real self," I cried. ' To 
 talk like a woman of forty is unnatural to a girl of 
 my age. If your father doesn't like me I wish he 
 would go away, and n^t come here putting notions 
 into your head, and making you as cold and hard 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 173 
 
 as a stone. Motlier liked to have me 'run on/ as 
 you call it, and I wish I had staid with her all my 
 life. ' 
 
 "Do you mean," he asked, very gravely, "that 
 you really wish that ? " 
 
 "No," I said, "I don't mean it," for his husky, 
 troubled voice brought me to my senses. "All I 
 mean is, that I love you so dearly, and you keep my 
 heart feeling so hungry and restless; and then you 
 went and brought your father and sister here and 
 never asked me if I should like it; and you crowd 
 ed mother out, and she lives all alone, and it isn't 
 right ! I always said that whoever married me had 
 got to marry mother, and I never dreamed that you 
 would disappoint me so ! " 
 
 "Will you stop crying, and listen to me?" he 
 said. 
 
 But I could not stop. The floods of the great 
 deep were broken up at last, and I had to cry. If 
 I could have told my troubles to some one I could 
 thus have found vent for them, but there was no 
 one to whom I had a right to speak of my hus 
 band. 
 
 Ernest walked up and down in silence. Oh, if 1 
 could have cried on his breast, and felt that he 
 loved and pitied me ! 
 
 At last, as I grew quieter, he came and sat by me. 
 
 <4 This has come upon me like a thunderclap," he 
 
174 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 said. "I did not know I kept your heart hungry 
 I did not know you wished your mother to live 
 with us. And I took it for granted that my wife v 
 with her high-toned, heroic character, would sus 
 tain me in every duty, and welcome my father and 
 sister to our home. I do not know what I can do 
 now. Shall I send them away?" 
 
 "No, no!" I cried. "Only be good to me, Er- 
 nest, only love me, only look at me with your own 
 eyes, and not with other people's. You knew I had 
 faults when you married me; I never tried to con 
 ceal them." 
 
 "And did you fancy I had none myself?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "N o," I replied. "I saw no faults in you. 
 Everybody said you were such a noble, good man; 
 and you spoke so beautifully one night at an oven- 
 ing meeting ! " 
 
 " Speaking beautifully is little to the purpose un 
 less one lives beautifully," he said, sadly. "And 
 now is it possible that you and I, a Christian man 
 and a Christian woman, are going on and on with 
 such scenes as this? Are you to wear your very 
 life out because I have not your frantic way of lov 
 ing, and am I to be made weary of mine because I 
 cannot satisfy yon ? " 
 
 'But, Ernest," I said, "you used to satisfy mel 
 Oil, how happy 1 was in those first days when we 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 175 
 
 were always together, and you seemed so fond of 
 me!" I was down on the floor by this time, and 
 looking up into his pale, anxious face. 
 
 "Dear child," he said, "I do love you, and that 
 more than you know. But you would not have me 
 leave my work and spend my whole time telling 
 you so ? " 
 
 "You know I am not so silly," I cried. "It is 
 not fair, it is not right to talk as if I were. I ask 
 for nothing unreasonable. I only want those little 
 daily assurances of your affection which I should 
 suppose would be spontaneous if you felt at all to 
 wards me as I do to you." 
 
 " The fact is," he returned, " I am absorbed in my 
 work. It brings many grave cares and anxieties. 
 I spend most of my time amid scenes of suffering 
 and at dying beds. This makes me seem abstract 
 ed and cold, but it does not make you less dear. 
 On the contrary, the sense it gives me of the brev 
 ity and sorrowfulness of life makes you doubly pre 
 cious, since it constantly reminds me that sick beds 
 and dying beds must sooner or later come to our 
 home as to those of others." 
 
 I clung to him as he uttered these terrible words 
 in an agony of terror. 
 
 "Oil, Ernest, promise me, promise me that you 
 will not die first," I pleaded. 
 
 " Foolish little thing ! " he said, and was as silly, 
 
176 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 for a while, as the silliest heart could ask. Then he 
 became serious again. 
 
 " Katy," he said, " if you can once make up your 
 mind to the fact that I am an undemonstrative man, 
 not all fire and fury and ecstacy as you are, yet lov 
 ing you with all my heart, however it may seem, J 
 think you will spare yourself much needless pain 
 and spare me, also." 
 
 "But I want you to be demonstrative," I per 
 sisted. 
 
 " Then you must teach me. And about my fath 
 er and sister, perhaps we may find some way of re 
 lieving you by and by. Meanwhile, try to bear 
 with the trouble they make, for my sake." 
 
 " But I don't mind the trouble ! Oh, Ernest, how 
 you do misunderstand me! What I mind is their 
 coming between you and me and making you love 
 me less." 
 
 By this time there was a call for Ernest it is a 
 wonder there had not been forty and he went. 
 
 I feel as heart-sore as ever. What has been 
 gained by this tempest? Nothing at all! Poor 
 Ernest! How can I worry him so when he is al 
 ready full of care ? 
 
 MARCH 20. I have had such a truly beau 
 tiful letter to-day from dear mother ! She gives up 
 the hope of coming to spend her last years with UP 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 177 
 
 with a sweet patience that makes me cry whenevei 
 I think of it. What is the secret of this instant and 
 cheerful consent to whatever God wills? Oh, that 
 I had it, too ! She begs me to be considerate and 
 kind to Ernest's father and sister, and constantly 
 to remind myself that my heavenly Father has chosen 
 to give me this care and trial on the very threshold 
 of my married life. I am afraid I have quite lost 
 sight of that in my indignation with Ernest for 
 bringing them here. 
 
 APRIL 3. Martha is closeted with Ernest 
 
 in his office day and night. They never give me 
 the least hint of what is going on in these secret 
 meetings. Then this morning, Sarah, my good, 
 faithful cook, bounced into my room to give warn 
 ing. She said she could not live where there were 
 two mistresses giving contrary directions. 
 
 "But, really, there is but one mistress," I urged. 
 Then it came out that Martha went down every 
 morning to look after the soap-fat, and to scrimp in 
 the house-keeping, and see that there was no food 
 wasted. I remembered then that she had inquired 
 whether I attended to these details, evidently rank 
 ing such duties with saying one's prayers and read 
 ing one's Bible. 
 
 3 flew to Ernest the moment he was at leisure 
 and poured my grievances into his ear. 
 8* 
 
178 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "Well, dear/' lie said, "suppose you give up the 
 house-keeping to Martha! She will be far happier 
 and you will be freed from much annoying, petty 
 care." 
 
 I bit my tongue lest it should say something, and 
 went back to Sarah. 
 
 " Suppose Miss Elliott takes charge of the house 
 keeping, and I have nothing to do with it, will you 
 stay?" 
 
 " Indeed, and I won't then. I can't bear her, and 
 I won't put up with her nasty, scrimping, pinching 
 
 "Very well. Then you will have to go," I said, 
 with great dignity, though just ready to cry. Er 
 nest on being applied to for wages, undertook to 
 argue the question himself. 
 
 " My sister will take the whole charge," he began. 
 
 "And may and welcome for all me!" quoth Sa 
 rah. "I don't like her and never shall." 
 
 " Your liking or disliking her is of no consequence 
 whatever," said Ernest. "You may dislike her as 
 much as you please. But you must not leave us.'* 
 
 "Indeed, and I'm not going to stay and be put 
 upon by her," persisted Sarah. So she has gone. 
 We had to get dinner ourselves; that is to say, 
 Martha did, for she said I got in her way, and put 
 her out with my awkwardness. I have been run 
 ning hither and thither to find some angel who will 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 179 
 
 consent to live in this ill assorted household. Oh. 
 how different every thing is from what I had plan 
 ned ! I wanted a cheerful home, where I should 
 be the centre of every joy; a home like aunty's, 
 without a cloud. But Ernest's father sits, the per 
 sonification of silent gloom, like a nightmare on my 
 spirits; Martha holds me in disfavor and contempt ; 
 Ernest is absorbed in his profession, and I hardly 
 see him. If he wants advice he asks it of Martha, 
 while I sit humbled, degraded and ashamed, won 
 dering why he ever married me at all. And then 
 come interludes of wild joy when he appears just 
 as he did in the happy days of our bridal trip, and 
 I forget every grievance and hang on his words 
 and looks like Dne intoxicated with bliss. 
 
 p. 2. There has been another explosion. 
 I held in as long as I could, and then flew into ten 
 thousand pieces. Ernest had got into the habit of 
 helping his father and sister at the table, and ap 
 parently forgetting me. It seems a little thing, but 
 it chafed and fretted my already irritated soul till 
 at last 1 was almost beside myself. 
 
 Yesterday they all three sat eating their break 
 fast and I, with empty plate, sat boiling over and 
 looking on, when Ernest brought things to a crisis 
 by saying to Martha, 
 
 " If you can find time to-day I wish you would 
 
180 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 go out with me for half an hour or so. I want to 
 consult you about " 
 
 " Oh ! " I said, rising, with my face all in a flamo, 
 " do not trouble yourself to go out in order to es- 
 cnpe me. I can leave the room and you can have 
 your secrets to yourselves as you do your break 
 fast ! " 
 
 I don't know which struck me most Ernest's ap 
 palled, grieved look, or the glance exchanged be 
 tween Martha and her father. 
 
 He did not hinder my leaving the room, and I 
 went up-stairs, as pitiable an object as could be 
 seen. I heard him go to his office, then take his 
 hat and set forth on his rounds. What wretched 
 hours I passed, thus left alone! One moment I 
 reproached myself, the next I was indignant at the 
 long series of offences that had led to this disgrace 
 ful scene. 
 
 At last Ernest came. 
 
 He looked concerned, and a little pale. 
 
 " Oh, Ernest ! " I cried, running to him, " I am so 
 >oiry I spoke to you as I did! But, indeed, I can 
 not stand the way things are going on ; I am wear 
 iog all out. Everybody speaks of my growing thin. 
 Feel of my hands. They burn like fire." 
 
 "I knew you would be sorry, dear," ho said. 
 u Yes, your hands are hot, poor child." 
 
 There was a long, dreadful silence. And yet I 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 181 
 
 was speaking, and perhaps he was. I was begging 
 and beseeching God not to let us drift apart, not to 
 let us lose one jot or tittle of our love to each other, 
 to enable me to understand my dear, dear husband 
 and make him understand me. 
 
 Then Ernest began. 
 
 "What was it vexed you, dear? What is it you 
 can't stand? Tell me. I am your husband, I love 
 you, I want to make you happy.'* 
 
 "Why, you are having so many secrets that you 
 keep from me; and you treat me as if I were only 
 a child, consulting Martha about everything. And 
 of late you seem to have forgotten that I am at the 
 table and never help me to anything ! " 
 
 " Secrets ! " he re-echoed. " What possible se 
 crets can I have?" 
 
 "I don't know," I said, sinking wearily back on 
 the sofa. "Indeed, Ernest, I don't want to be sel 
 fish or exacting, but I am very unhappy." 
 
 "Yes, I see it, poor child. And if I have ne 
 glected you at the table I do not wonder you are 
 out of patience. I know how it has happened. 
 While you were pouring out the coffee, I busied rny 
 silf in caring for my father and Martha, and so foi- 
 gDt you I do not give this as an excuse, but as it 
 isason. I have really no excuse, and am ashaniwd 
 of myself." 
 
 4 Don't say that, darling," I cried, "it is [ who 
 
182 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ought to be ashamed for making such an ado ahont 
 a trifle." 
 
 "It is not a triflo," he said; "and now to the 
 other points. I dare Bay I have been careless about 
 consulting Martha. But she has always been a 
 sort of oracle in our family, and we all look up to 
 her, and she is so much older than you. Then as 
 to the secrets. Martha comes to my office to help 
 me look over my books. I have been careless about 
 my accounts, and she has kindly undertaken to at 
 tend to them for me." 
 
 "Could not I have done that?" 
 
 "No; why Rhould your little head be troubled 
 about money-matters? But to go on. I see that it 
 was thoughtless in me not to tell you what we were 
 about But I am greatly perplexed and harassed 
 in many ways. Perhaps you would feel better to 
 know all about it. I have only kept it from you to 
 spare you all the anxiety I could." 
 
 " Oh, Ernest," I said, " ought not a wife to share 
 in all her husband's cares?" 
 
 'No," he returned; "but I will tell you all thai is 
 annoying me now. My father was in business in 
 our native town, and went on prosperously for 
 many years. Then the tide turned he met with 
 loss after loss, till nothing remaii.ed but the old 
 homestead, and on that there was a mortgage. We 
 concealed the state of things from my mother; her 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 183 
 
 health was delicate, and we never let her know a 
 trouble we could spare her. Now she has gone, 
 and we have found it necessary to sell our old home, 
 and to divide and scatter the family. My father's 
 oiental distress when he found others suffering 
 from his own losses, threw him into the state in 
 which you see him now. I have therefore assumed 
 his debts, and with God's help, hope in time to pay 
 them to the uttermost farthing. It will be neces 
 sary for us to live economically until this is done. 
 There are two pressing cases that I am trying to 
 meet at once. This has given me a pre-occupied 
 air, I have no doubt, and made you suspect and mis 
 understand me. But now you know the whole, 
 my darling." 
 
 I felt my injustice and childish folly very keenly, 
 and told him so. 
 
 " But I think, dear Ernest," I added, " if you will 
 not be hurt at my saying so, that you have led me 
 to it by not letting me share at once in your cares. 
 If you had, at the outset, just told me the whole 
 story, you would have enlisted my sympathies in 
 your father's behalf, and in your own. I should 
 have seen the reasonableness of your breaking up 
 the old home and bringing him here, and it would 
 have taken off the edge of my bitter, bitter disap 
 pointinent about my mother." 
 
 " T feel very sorry about that," he said. " It 
 
184 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 would be a real pleasure to have her here. But as 
 things are now, she could not be happy with us." 
 
 "There is no room," I put in. 
 
 "No, I am truly sorry. And now, my deai 
 little wife must have patience with her stupid, 
 blundering old husband, and we'll start together 
 once more, fair and square. Don't wait, next time, 
 till you are so full that you boil over; the moment 
 I annoy you by my inconsiderate ways, come right 
 and tell me." 
 
 So then I called myself all the horrid names I 
 could think of. 
 
 " May I ask one thing more, now we are upon the 
 subject ? " I said, at last. " Why couldn't your sister 
 Helen have come here instead of Martha ? " 
 
 He smiled a little. 
 
 "In the first place Helen would be perfectly 
 crushed if she had the care of father in his present 
 state. She is too young to have such responsibility. 
 In the second place, my brother John, with whom 
 she has gone to live, has a wife who would be 
 quite overwhelmed by my father and Martha. She 
 is one of those little tender, soft souls, one could 
 crush with one's fingers. Now you are not of that 
 eort; you have force }f character enough to enable 
 you to live with them, while maintaining your own 
 dignity and remaining yourself in spite of circum 
 stances." 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 185 
 
 " I thought you admired Martha above all things, 
 and wanted me to be exactly like her." 
 
 "I do admire her, but I do not want you to be 
 like anybody but yourself." 
 
 " But you nearly killed me by suggesting, that I 
 should take heed how I talked in your father's pre 
 sence." 
 
 "Yes, dear; it was very stupid of me, but my fa 
 ther has a standard of excellence in his mind by 
 which he tests every woman; this standard is my 
 mother. She had none of your life and fun in her, 
 and perhaps would not have appreciated your droll 
 way of putting things any better than he and 
 Martha do." 
 
 I could not help sighing a little when I thought 
 what sort of people were watching my every 
 word. 
 
 " There is nothing amiss to my mind," Ernest con 
 tinued, "in your gay talk; but my father has his 
 own views as to what constitutes a religious char 
 acter, and cannot understand that real earnestness 
 and real, genuine mirthfulness are consistent with 
 each other. 
 
 Ho had to go now, and we parted as if foi a 
 week's separation, this one talk had brought us so 
 near to each other. I understand him now as I never 
 have done, and feel that he has given me as real a 
 proof of his affection by unlocking te door of his 
 
186 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 heart and letting me see its cares, as I give him in 
 my wild pranks and caresses and foolish speeches. 
 I low truly noble it is in him to take up his father's 
 burden ir. this way! I must contrive to help tc 
 lighten it 
 
XII. 
 
 NOVEMBER 6. 
 
 UNTY has put me in the way of doing 
 that. I could not tell her the whole story, 
 of course, but I made her understand that 
 Ernest needed money for a generous pur 
 pose, and that I wanted to help him in it. She 
 said the children needed both music and drawing 
 lessons, and that she should be delighted if I would 
 take them in hand. Aunty does not care a fig for 
 accomplishments, but I think I am right in accept 
 ing her offer, as the children ought to learn to sing 
 and to play and to draw. Of course I cannot have 
 them come here, as Ernest's father could not bear 
 the noise they would make; besides, I want to take 
 him by surprise, and keep the whole thing a secret 
 
 Nov. 14. I have seen by the way Mart ha 
 
 draws down the corners of her mouth of late, that 
 I am unusually out of favor with her. This even 
 ing, Ernest, coming home quite late, found me loll 
 ing back in my chair, idling, after a hard day's 
 
 187) 
 
188 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 work with my little cousins, and Martha sewing 
 nervously away at the rate of ten knots an hour, 
 which is the first pun I ever made. 
 
 "Why will you sit up and sew at such a rate, 
 Martha?" he asked. 
 
 She twitched at her thread, broke it, and began 
 with a new one before she replied. 
 
 " I suppose you find it convenient to have a 
 whole shirt to your back." 
 
 I saw then that she was making his shirts! It 
 made me both hot and cold at once. What must 
 Ernest think of me? 
 
 It is plain enough what he thinks of her, for he 
 said, quite warmly, for him 
 
 "This is really too kind." 
 
 What right has she to prowl round among Er 
 nest's things and pry into the state of his ward 
 robe? If I had not had my time so broken up 
 with giving lessons, I should have found out that 
 he needed new shirts and set to work on them. 
 Though I must own I hate shirt-making. I could 
 not help showing that I felt aggrieved. Martha 
 defended herself by saying that she knew young 
 people would be young people, and would gad 
 about, shirts or no shirts. Now it is not her fault 
 that she thinks I waste my time gadding about, but 
 I am just as angry with her as if she did. Oh, why 
 couldn't I have had Helen, to be a pleasant com- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 189 
 
 panion and friend to me, instead of this old well, 
 I won't say what. 
 
 And really, with so much to make me happy 
 what would become of me if I had no trials? 
 
 Nov. 15. To-day Martha has a house- 
 cleaning mania, and has dragged me into it by re 
 presenting the sin and misery of those deluded 
 mortals who think servants know how to sweep 
 and to scrub. In spite of my resolution not to get 
 under her thumb, I have somehow let her rule and 
 reign over me to such an extent that I can hardly 
 sit up long enough to write this. Does the whole 
 duty of woman consist in keeping her house dis 
 tressingly clean and prim; in making and baking 
 and preserving and pickling; in climbing to the top 
 shelves of closets lest haply a little dust should 
 lodge there, and getting down on her hands and 
 knees to inspect the carpet? The truth is there is 
 not one point of sympathy between Martha and 
 myself, not one. One would think that our love to 
 Ernest \\ ould furnish it. But her love aims at the 
 abasen it of his character and mine at its eleva 
 tion, te thinks I should bow down to and wor 
 ship h i, jump up and offer him my chair when he 
 comes i, feed him with every unwholesome dainty 
 he fan es, aad feel myself honored by his accept- 
 ance o these services. 1 think it is for him to rise 
 
190 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 and offer me a seat, because I am a wornaii and his 
 wife; and that a silly subservience on my part is 
 degrading to him and to myself. And I am afraid 
 I make known these sentiments to her in a most 
 unpalatable way. 
 
 Nov. 18. Oh, I am so happy that I sing for 
 
 joy! Dear Ernest has given me such a delightful 
 surprise ! He says he has persuaded James to come 
 and spend his college days here, and finally study 
 medicine with him. Dear, darling old James! He 
 is to be here to-morrow. He is to have the little 
 hall bed-room fitted up for him, and he will be here 
 several years. Next to having mother, this is the 
 nicest thing that could happen. We love each 
 other so dearly, and get along so beautifully to 
 gether. I wonder how he'll like Martha with her 
 grim ways, and Ernest's father with his melancholy 
 ones. 
 
 Nov. 30. James has come, and the house 
 
 already seems lighter and cheerier. He is not in 
 the least annoyed by Martha or her father, and 
 though he is as jovial as the day is long, they ac 
 tually seem to like him. True to her theory on the 
 subject, Martha invariably rises at his entrance, and 
 offers him her seat ! He pretends not to see it, and 
 runs to get one for her! Then she takes comfort 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. i91 
 
 In seeing him consume her good things, since his 
 gobbling them down is a sort of tacit tribute to 
 their merits. 
 
 Mrs. Embury was here to-day. She says there 
 is not much the matter with Ernest's father, that 
 he has only got the hypo. I don't know exactly 
 what this is, but I believe it is thinking something 
 is the matter with you, when there isn't. At any- 
 rate I put it to you, my dear old journal, whether 
 it is pleasant to live with people who behave in this 
 way? 
 
 In the first place all he talks about is his fancied 
 disease. He gets book after book from the office 
 and studies and ponders his case till he grows quite 
 yellow. One day he says he has found out the 
 seat of his disease to be the liver, and changes his 
 diet to meet that view of the case. Martha has to 
 do him up in mustard, and he takes kindly to blue 
 pills. In a day or two he finds his liver is all right, 
 but that his brain is all wrong. The mustard goes 
 now to the back of his neck, and he takes solemn 
 leave of us all, with the assurance that his last hour 
 has come. Finding that he survives the night, 
 aowever, he transfers the seat of his disease to the 
 heart, spends hours in counting his pulse, refuses to 
 take exercise lest he should bring on palpitation a, 
 and warns us all to prepare to follow him. Every 
 body who comes in has to hear the whole story 
 
192 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 every one prescribes something, and he trie,s eacL 
 remedy in turn. These all failing to reach his case, 
 he is plunged into ten-fold gloom. He complains 
 that God has cast him off forever, and that his sins 
 are like the sands of the sea for number. I am 
 such a goose that I listen to all these varying 
 moods and symptoms with the solemn conviction 
 that he is going to die immediately; I bathe his 
 head, and count his pulse, and fan him, and take 
 down his dying depositions for Ernest's solace after 
 he has gone. And I talk theology to him by the 
 hour, while Martha bakes and brews in the kitchen, 
 or makes mince pies, after eating which one might 
 give him the whole Bible at one dose, without the 
 smallest effect. 
 
 To-day I stood by his chair, holding his head and 
 whispering such consoling passages as I thought 
 might comfort him, when James burst in, singing 
 and tossing his cap in the air. 
 
 "Come here, young man, and hear my last testi 
 mony. I am about to die. The end draws near,* 
 were the sepulchral words that made him bring his 
 aong to an abrupt close. 
 
 " I shall take it very ill of you, sir," quoth James, 
 " if you go and die before giving me that cane you 
 promised me." 
 
 Who could die decently under such circumstan 
 ces? The poor old man 'revived immediately, but 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 193 
 
 looked a good deal injured After James had gone 
 out, he said 
 
 " It is very painful to one who stands on the very 
 verge of the eternal world, to see the young so 
 thoughtless." 
 
 "But James is not thoughtless," I said. "It is 
 only his merry way." 
 
 "Daughter Katherine," he went on, "you are 
 very kind to the old man, and you will have your 
 reward. But I wish I could feel sure of your state 
 before God. I greatly fear you deceive yourself 
 and that the ground of your hope is delusive." 
 
 I felt the blood rush to my face. At first I was 
 staggered a good deal. But is a mortal man who 
 cannot judge of his own state to decide mine ? It 
 is true he sees my faults; anybody can, who looks. 
 But he does not see my prayers, or my tears of 
 shame and sorrow; he does not know how many 
 hasty words I repress; how earnestly I am aiming, 
 all the day long, to do right in all the little details 
 of life. He does not know that it costs my fasti 
 dious nature an appeal to God every time I kiss his 
 poor old face, and that what would be an act of 
 worship in him, is an act of self-denial in me. How 
 should he? The Christian life is a hidden life, 
 known only by the eye that seeth in secret. And I 
 do believe this life is mine. 
 
 Up to this time I have contrived to get along 
 9 
 
194 STEPPING HEAVENWARD 
 
 without calling Ernest's father by any name. J 
 
 mean now to make myself turn over a new leaf. 
 
 
 
 DECEMBER 7. James is my perpetual joy 
 
 and pride. We read and sing together, just as we 
 used to do in our old school-days. Martha sits by, 
 with her work, grimly approving; for is he not a 
 man? And, as if my cup of felicity were not full 
 enough, I am to have my dear old pastor come here 
 to settle over this church, and I shall once more 
 hear his beloved voice in the pulpit Ernest has 
 managed the whole thing. He says the state of 
 Dr. C.'s health makes the change quite necessary, 
 and that he can avail himself of the best surgical 
 advice this city affords, in case his old difficulties 
 recur. I rejoice for myself and for this church, but 
 mother will miss him sadly. 
 
 I am leading a very busy, happy life, only I am, 
 perhaps, working a little too hard. What with my 
 Bcholars, the extra amount of housework Martha 
 contrives to get out of me, the practicing I must 
 keep up if I am to teach, and the many steps I have 
 to take, I have not only no idle moments, but none 
 too many for recreation. Ernest is so busy himself 
 that he fortunately does not see what a race I am 
 running. 
 
 JANT4RY 16, 1838. The first anniversary 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 195 
 
 of our wedding-day, and like all days, has had its 
 lights and its shades. I thought I would celebrate 
 it in such a way as to give pleasure to everybody, 
 and spent a good deal of time in getting up a little 
 gift for each, from Ernest and myself. And I took 
 special pains to have a good dinner, particularly for 
 father. Yes, I had made up my mind to call him 
 by that sacred name for the first time to-day, cost 
 what it may. But he shut himself up in his room 
 directly after breakfast, and when dinner was ready 
 refused to come down. This cast a gloom over us 
 all. Then Martha was nearly distracted because a 
 valuable dish had been broken in the kitchen, and 
 could not recover her equanimity at all. Worst of 
 all, Ernest, who is not in the least sentimental, nev 
 er said a word about our wedding-day, and didn't 
 give me a thing ! I have kept hoping all day that 
 he would make me some little present, no matter 
 how small, but now it is too late; he has gone out 
 to be gone all night, probably, and thus ends the 
 day, an utter failure. 
 
 I feel a good deal disappointed. Besides, when 
 I look back over this, my first year of married life, 
 I do not feel satisfied with myself at all. I can't 
 help feeling that I have been selfish and unreason 
 able towards Ernest in a great many ways, and aa 
 contrary towards Martha as if I enjoyed a state of 
 warfare between us. And I have felt a good deal 
 
196 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 of secret contempt for her father, with his moodt 
 and tenses, his pill-boxes and his plasters, his feast- 
 ings and his fastings. I do not understand how a 
 Christian can make such slow progress as I do, and 
 how old faults can hang on so. 
 
 If I had made any real progress, should I not be 
 sensible of it? 
 
 I have been reading over the early part of this 
 journal, and when I came to the conversation I had 
 with Mrs. Cabot, in which I made a list of my wants, 
 I was astonished that I could ever have had such 
 contemptible ones. Let me think what I really and 
 truly most want now. 
 
 First of all, then, if God should speak to me at 
 this moment and offer to give just one thing, and 
 that alone, I should say without hesitation, 
 
 Love to Thee, my Master! 
 
 Next to that, if I could have one thing more, I 
 would choose to be a thoroughly unselfish, devoted 
 wife. Down in my secret heart I know there lurks 
 another wish, which I am ashamed of. It is that in 
 some way or other, some right way, I could be de 
 livered from Martha and her father. I shall nevei 
 be any better while they are here to tempt me ! 
 
 " FEBRUARY 1. Ernest spoke to-day of one 
 of his patients, a Mrs. Campbell, who is a great suf 
 ferer, but whom he describes as the happiest, most 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 197 
 
 cheerful person he ever met. He rarely speaks of 
 his patients. Indeed, he rarely speaks of anything. 
 I felt strangely attracted by what he said of her, 
 and asked so many questions that at last he pro 
 posed to take me to see her. I caught at the idea 
 very eagerly, and have just come home from the 
 visit greatly moved and touched. She is confined 
 to her bed, and is quite helpless, and at times hei 
 sufferings are terrible. She received me with a 
 sweet smile, however, and led me on to talk more 
 of myself than I ought to have done. I wish Er 
 nest had not left me alone with her, so that I should 
 have had the restraint of his presence. 
 
 FEB. 14. I am so fascinated with Mrs 
 
 Campbell that I cannot help going to see her again 
 and again. She seems to me like one whose con 
 flict and dismay are all over, and who looks on 
 other human beings with an almost divine love and 
 pity. To look at life as she does, to feel as she does, 
 to have such a personal love to Christ as she has, I 
 would willingly go through every trial and sorrow. 
 When I told her so, she smiled, a little sadly. 
 
 "Much as you envy me," she said, "my faith is 
 not yet so strong that I do not shudder at the thought 
 of a yrung enthusiastic girl like you, going through 
 all I have done in order to learn a few simple les 
 sons which God was willing to teach me sooner 
 
198 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 and without the use of a rod, if I had been ready 
 for them." 
 
 " But you are so happy now," I said. 
 
 "Yes, 1 am happy," she replied, "and such hap 
 piness is worth all it costs. If my flesh shudders at 
 the remembrance of what I have endured, my faith 
 sustains God through the whole. But tell me a 
 (ihtle more about yourself, my dear. I should so 
 love to give you a helping hand, if I might." 
 
 " You know," I began, " dear Mrs. Campbell, that 
 there are some trials that cannot do us any good. 
 They only call out all there is in us that is unlovely 
 and severe." 
 
 " I don't know of any such trials," she replied. 
 
 "Suppose you had to live with people who were 
 perfectly uncongenial; who misunderstood you, 
 and who were always getting into your way as 
 stumbling blocks?" 
 
 " If I were living with them and they made me 
 unhappy, I would ask God to relieve me of this 
 trial if He thought it best If He did not think it 
 best, I would then try to find out the reason, lie 
 might have two reasons. One would be the good 
 they might do me. The other the good I might do 
 them." 
 
 "But in the case I was supposing, neither party 
 can be of the least use to the other." 
 
 "You forget perhaps the indirect good one may 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 199 
 
 
 
 gain by living with uncongenial, tempting persons. 
 First such people do good by the very self-denial 
 and self-control their mere presence demands. Then, 
 their making one's home less home-like and perfect 
 than it would be in their absence, may help to ren 
 der our real home in heaven more attractive." 
 
 But suppose on^j cannot exercise self-control, 
 and is always flying out and flaring up ? " I objected. 
 
 "I should say that a Christian who was always 
 doing that," she replied, gravely, "was in pressing 
 need of just the trial God sent when he shut him 
 up to such a life of hourly temptation. We only 
 know ourselves and what we really are, when the 
 force of circumstances brings us out" 
 
 "It is very mortifying and painful to find how 
 weak one is." 
 
 "That is true. But our mortifications are some 
 of God's best physicians, and do much toward heal 
 ing our pride and self-conceit." 
 
 "Do you really think then, that God deliberately 
 appoints to some of his children a lot where their 
 worst passions are excited, with a desire to bring 
 good out of this seeming evil ? Why I have always 
 supposed the best thing that could happen to me, 
 for instance, would be to have a home exactly to 
 my mind; a home where all were forbearing, lov 
 ing and good-tempered, a sort of little heaven 
 below." 
 
200 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " If you have not such a home, my dear, are you 
 sure it is not partly your own fault ? " 
 
 "Of course it is my own fault. Because I am 
 very quick-tempered I want to live with good-tem 
 pered people." 
 
 " That is very benevolent in you," she said, archly. 
 [ colored, but went on. 
 
 " Oh, I know I am selfish. And therefore I want 
 to live with those who are not so. I want to live 
 with persons to whom I can look for an example, 
 and who will constantly stimulate me to something 
 higher." 
 
 "But if God chooses quite another lot for you, 
 you may be sure that He sees that you need some 
 thing totally different from what you want. You 
 said just now that you would gladly go through 
 any trial in order to attain a personal love to Christ 
 that should become the ruling principle of your 
 life. Now as soon as God sees this desire in you, 
 is He not kind, is He not wise, in appointing such 
 trials as He knows will lead to this end?" 
 
 1 meditated long before I answered. Was God 
 really asking me not merely to let Martha and her 
 father live with me on sufferance, but to rejoice 
 that He had seen fit to let them harass and embit 
 ter my domestic life? 
 
 "I thank you for the suggestion," I said, at last. 
 
 "I want to say one thing more," Mrs. Campbell 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 201 
 
 resumed, after another pause. "We look at our 
 fellow-men too much from the stand-point of oni 
 own prejudices. They may be wrong, they may 
 have their faults and foibles, they may call out all 
 that is meanest and most hateful in us. But they 
 are not all wrong; they have their virtues, and 
 when they excite our bad passions by their own, 
 they may be as ashamed and sorry as we are irrita 
 ted. And I think some of the best, most contrite, 
 most useful of men and women, whose prayers pre 
 vail with God and bring down blessings into the 
 Jiomes in which they dwell, often possess unlovely 
 traits that furnish them with their best discipline. 
 The very fact that they are ashamed of themselves, 
 drives them to God; they feel safe in His presence, 
 and while they lie in the very dust of self-confusion 
 at His feet they are dear to Him and have power 
 wfth Him." 
 
 " That is a comforting word, and I thank you for 
 it," I said My heart was full, and I longed to 
 stay and hear her talk on. But I had already ex 
 hausted her strength. On the way home I feJt as 
 I suppose people do, when they have caught a bas 
 ket full of fish. I always am delighted to catch a 
 new idea, I thought I would get all the benefit out 
 of Martha and her father, and as I went down to 
 tea, after taking off my things, felt like a holy mar 
 tyr who hao^as good as won a crown. 
 
 9* % 
 
202 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I found, however, that the butter was horrible, 
 Martha had insisted that she alone was capable of 
 selecting that article, and had ordered a quantity 
 from her own village which I could not eat myself, 
 and was ashamed to have on my table. I pushed 
 back my plate in disgust. 
 
 " I hope, Martha, that you have not ordered much 
 of this odious stuff! " I cried. 
 
 Martha replied, that it was of the very first qual 
 ity, and appealed to her father and Ernest, who both 
 agreed with her, whic.li I thought very unkind and 
 unjust. I rushed into a hot debate on the subject, 
 during which Ernest maintained that ominous si 
 lence that indicates his not being pleased, and that 
 irritated and led me on. I would far rather he 
 should say, "Katy, you are behaving like a child, 
 and I wish you would stop talking." 
 
 " Martha," I said, " you will persist that the 
 butter is good, because you ordered it. If yon will 
 only own that, I won't say another word." 
 
 "I carit say it," she returned. "Mrs. Jones's 
 butter is invariably good. I never heard it found 
 fault with before. The trouble is you are so hard 
 to please." 
 
 " No, I am not. And you can't convince me that 
 if the butter-milk is not perfectly worked out, the 
 butter could be fit to eat." 
 
 This speech I felt to be a masterpiece. It was 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 203 
 
 kimo to let her know how learned I was on the sub 
 ject of butter, though I wasn't brought up to make 
 it or see it made. 
 
 But here Ernest put in a little oil. 
 
 "I think you are both right," he said. "Mrs. 
 Jones makes good butter, but just this once she 
 failed. 1 dare say it won't happen again, and mean 
 while this can be used for making seed-cakes, and 
 we can get a new supply." 
 
 This was his masterpiece! A whole firkin of 
 butter made up into seed-cakes! 
 
 Martha turned to encounter him on that head, 
 and I slipped off to my room to look, with a miser 
 able sense of disappointment, at my folly and weak 
 ness in making so much ado about nothing. I find 
 it hard to believe that it can do me good to have 
 people live with me who like rancid butter, and who 
 disagree with me in everything else. 
 
XIII. 
 
 MAECH 1. 
 
 UNTY sent for us all to dine with he* to- 
 day to celebrate Lucy's fifteenth birthday. 
 Ever since Lucy behaved so heroically in 
 regard to little Emma, really saving her 
 life, Ernest says, aunty seems to feel that she cannot 
 do enough for her. The child has taken the most 
 unaccountable fancy to me, strangely enough, and 
 when we got there she came to meet me with some 
 thing like cordiality. 
 
 "Mamma permits me to be the bearer of agree 
 able news," she said, "because this is my birthday 
 A friend, of whom you are very fond, has just ar 
 rived, and is impatient to embrace you." 
 
 "To embrace me?" I cried. "You foolish child!" 
 And the next moment I found myself in my mother's 
 arms! 
 
 The despised Lucy had been the means of giving 
 me this pleasure. It seems that aunty had told her 
 she should choose her own birthday treat, and that, 
 after solemn meditation, she had decided that to see 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 205 
 
 dear mother again would be the most agreeable 
 thing she could think of. I have never told you, 
 dear journal, why I did not go home last summerj 
 and never shall. If you choose to fancy that 1 
 couldn't afford it you can! 
 
 Well! wasn't it nice to see mother, and to read 
 in her dear, loving face that she was satisfied with 
 her poor, wayward Katy, and fond of her as ever! 
 I only longed for Ernest's coming, that she might 
 see us together, and see how he loved me. 
 
 He came; I rushed out to meet him and drag 
 ged him in. But it seemed as if he had grown 
 stupid and awkward. All through the dinner I 
 watched for one of those loving glances which 
 should proclaim to mother the good understanding 
 between us, but watched in vain. 
 
 "It will come by-and-by," I thought. "When 
 we get by ourselves mother will see how fond of 
 me he is." But "by-and-by" it was just the same. 
 I was pre-occupied, and mother asked me if I were 
 well. It was all very foolish I dare say, and yet I 
 did want to have her know that with all my faults 
 ho still loves me. Then, besides this disappoint 
 ment, I have to reproach myself for misunderstand 
 ing poor Lucy as I have done. Because she was 
 not all fire and fury like myself, I need not have as 
 sumed that she had no heart. It is just like me; 1 
 hope I shall never be so severe in my judgment again 
 
20(5 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 APRIL 30. Mother has just gone. Ret 
 
 visit has done me a world of good. She found out 
 something to like in father at once, and then some 
 thing good in Martha. She says father's sufferings 
 are real, not fancied; that his error is not knowing 
 where to locate his disease, and is starving one 
 week and over-eating the next She charged me 
 not to lay up future misery for myself by mis 
 judging him now, and to treat him as a daughter 
 ought without the smallest regard to his apprecia 
 tion of it. Then as to Martha, she declares tliat 1 
 have no idea how much she does to reduce our ex* 
 penses, to keep the house in order and relieve us 
 from care. " But, mother," I said, " did you notice 
 what horrid butter we have? And it is all her 
 doing." 
 
 "But the butter won't last forever," she replied. 
 "Don't make yourself miserable about such a 
 trifle. For my part, it is a great relief to me to 
 know that with your delicate health you have this 
 tower of strength to lean on." 
 
 " But my health is not delicate, mother." 
 " You certainly look pale and thin." 
 "Oh, well," I said, whereupon she fell to giving 
 me all sorts of advice about getting up on step-lad 
 ders, and climbing on chairs, and sewing too much, 
 and all that 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 207 
 
 JUNE 15. The weather, or something, 
 
 makes me rather languid and stupid. I begin to 
 think that Martha is not an entire nuisance in the 
 house. I have just been to see Mrs. Campbell. In 
 answer to my routine cf lamentations, she took up 
 a book and read me what was called, as nearly as I 
 can remember, "Four steps that lead to peace." 
 
 " Be desirous of doing the will of another, rather 
 than thine own." 
 
 "Choose always to have less, rather than more." 
 
 " Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior 
 to every one." 
 
 "Wish always, and pray, that the will of God 
 may be wholly fulfilled in thee." 
 
 I was much struck with these directions; but 1 
 said, despondently: 
 
 "If peace can only be found at the end of such 
 hard roads, I am sure I shall always be miserable." 
 
 "Are you miserable now?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, just now I am. I do not mean that I have 
 no happiness; I mean that I am in a disheartened 
 mood, weary of going round and round in circles, 
 committing the same sins, uttering the same confes 
 sions, and making no advance." 
 
 "My dear," she said, after a time, "have you a 
 perfectly distinct, settled view of what Christ is to 
 the human soul?" 
 
 *' I do not know. I understand, of course, rnor$ 
 
208 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 or less perfectly, that my salvation depends on Him 
 alone; is His gift." 
 
 44 But do you see, with equal clearness, that your 
 sanctification must be as fully His gift, as your sal 
 vation is ? " 
 
 44 No," I said, after a little thought. 44 1 have had 
 a feeling that He has done His part, and now I 
 must do mine." 
 
 "My dear," she said, with much tenderness and 
 feeling, 4t then the first thing you have to do is to 
 learn Christ." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 u On your knees, my child, on your knees ! " She 
 was tired, and I came away; and I have indeed 
 been on my knees. 
 
 JULY 1. I think tha! I do begin, dimly it is 
 
 true, but really, to understand that this terrible 
 work which I was trying to do myself, is Christ's 
 work, and must be done and will be done by Him. 
 I take some pleasure in the thought, and wonder 
 why it has all this time been hidden from me, espe 
 cially after what Dr. C. said in his letter. But I 
 get hold of this idea in a misty, unsatisfactory way. 
 If Christ is to do all, what am I to do? And have 
 I not been told, over and over again, that the Chris 
 tian life is one of conflict, and that I am to fight 
 like a good soldier? 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 209 
 
 AUGUST 5. Dr. Cabot has come just as I 
 
 need him most. I long for one of those good talks 
 with him which always used to strengthen me so. 
 F feel a perfect weight of depression that makes me 
 a burden to myself and to poor Ernest, who, after 
 visiting sick people all day, needs to come home to 
 a cheerful wife. But he comforts me with the as 
 surance that this is merely physical despondency, 
 and that I shall get over it by and by. How kind, 
 how even tender he is ! My heart is getting all it 
 wants from him, only I am too stupid to enjoy him 
 as I ought. Father, too, talks far less about hia 
 own bad feelings, and seems greatly concerned at 
 mine. As to Martha I have done trying to get 
 sympathy or love from her. She cannot help it, I 
 suppose, but she is very hard and dry towards me, 
 and I feel such a longing to throw myself on her 
 mercy, and to have one little smile to assure me 
 that she has forgiven me for being Ernest's wife, 
 and so different from what she would have chosen 
 for him. 
 
 Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Mortimer. 
 
 OCTOBEB 4, 1838. 
 
 Mr DEAR KATY'S MOTHER : You will rejoice with 
 us when I tell you that we are the happy par 
 ents of a very fine little boy. My dearest wife 
 sends "an ocean of love" to vou. and ws she wjJJ 
 
210 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 write herself tomorrow. That I shall not be very 
 likely to allow, as you will imagine. She is doing 
 extremely well, and we have everything to be grate 
 ful for. Your affectionate Son, 
 
 J. E. ELLIOTT. 
 
 Mrs. Crofton to Mrs Mortimer: 
 
 I am sure, my dear sister, that the doctor has not 
 written you more than five lines about the great 
 event which has made such a stir in our domestio 
 circle. So I must try to supply the details you 
 will want to hear. ... I need not add that our 
 darling Katy behaved nobly. Her self-forgetful- 
 ness and consideration for others were really beau 
 tiful throughout the whole scene. The doctor may 
 well be proud of her, and I took care to tell him 
 so in presence of that dreadful sister of his. I 
 never met so angular, so uncompromising a person 
 as she is in all my life. She does not understand 
 Katy, and never can, and I find it hard to realize 
 that living with such a person can furnish a whole 
 some discipline, which is even more desirable than 
 the most delightful home. And yet I not only know 
 that this is true in the abstract, but I see that it is 
 so in the actual fact. Katy is acquiring both self- 
 control and patience, and her Christian character 
 is developing in a way that amazes me. I cannot 
 but hope that God will, in time, deliver her fVojp 
 
STFPPING HEAVENWARD. 211 
 
 this trial ; indeed, I feel sure that when it has done 
 its beneficent work He will do so. Martha Elliott 
 is a good woman, but her goodness is without grace 
 or beauty. She takes excellent care of Katy, keeps 
 her looking as if she had just come out of a band 
 box, as the saying is, and always has her room in 
 perfect order. But one misses the loving word, 
 the re-assuring smile, the delicate, thoughtful little 
 forbearance, that ought to adorn every sick-room, 
 and light it up with genuine sunshine. There is 
 one comfort about it, however, and that is, that I 
 can spoil dear Katy to my heart's content 
 
 As to the baby, he is a fine little fellow, and hia 
 mother is so happy in him that she can afford to do 
 without some other pleasures. I shall write again 
 in a few days. Meanwhile, you may rest assured 
 that I love your Katy almost as well as you do, and 
 shall be with her most of the time till she is quite 
 herself again. 
 
 James to his mother: 
 
 Of course there never was such a baby before OD 
 the face of the earth. Katy is so nearly wild with 
 joy, that you can't get her to eat or sleep or do any 
 of the proper things that her charming sister-in-law 
 thinks becoming under the circumstances. You 
 never saw anything so pretty in your life, as she is 
 now. I hope the doctor is as much in love with 
 
212 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 her as I am. He is the best fellow in the world 
 and Katy is just the wife for him. 
 
 Nov. 4. My darling baby is a month old 
 
 to-day, I never saw such a splendid child. I love 
 him so that I lie awake nights to watch him. Mar- 
 tha says, in her dry way, that I had better show my 
 love by sleeping and eating for him, and Ernest 
 says I shall, as soon as I get stronger. But I don't 
 get strong, and that discourages me. 
 
 Nov. 26. I begin to feel rather more like 
 
 myself, and as if I could write with less labor. I 
 have had in these few past weeks such a revelation 
 of suffering, and such a revelation of joy, as mortal 
 mind can hardly conceive of. The world I live in 
 now is a new world; a world full of suffering that 
 leads to unutterable felicity. Oh, this precious, 
 precious baby! How can I thank God enough for 
 giving him to me ! 
 
 I see now why He has put some thorns into my 
 domestic life; but for them I should be too happy 
 to live. It does not seem just the moment to com 
 plain, and yet, as I can speak to no one, it is a re 
 lief, a great relief, to write about my trials. Dur 
 ing my whole sickness, Martha has been SG hard, so 
 cold, so un sympathizing that sometimes it has 
 seemed as if my cup of trial could not hold anothet 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 213 
 
 drop. She routed me out of bed when I was so 
 languid that everything seemed a burden, and 
 when sitting up made me faint away. I heard her 
 say to herself, that I had no constitution and had 
 no business to get married. The worst of all is 
 that during that dreadful night before baby came, 
 she kept asking Ernest to lie down and rest, and 
 was sure he would kill himself, and all that, while 
 she had not one word of pity for me. But, oh, 
 why need I let this rankle in my heart ! Why can 
 not I turn my thoughts entirely to my darling 
 baby, my dear husband, and all the other sources 
 of joy that make my home a happy one in spite of 
 this one discomfort! I hope I am learning some 
 useful lessons from my joys and from my trials, and 
 that both will serve to make me in earnest, and to 
 seep me so. 
 
 DEC. 4. We have had a great time about 
 
 poor baby's name. I expected to call him Ray 
 mond, for my own dear father, as a matter of 
 course. It seemed a small gratification for mother 
 in her loneliness. Dear mother ! How little I 
 have known, all these years, what I cost her! But 
 it seems there has been a Jotham in the family ever 
 since the memory qf man, each eldest son handing 
 down his father's name to the next in descent, and 
 Ernest's real name is Jotham Ernest of all the ex- 
 
214 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 traordinary combinations ! His mother would add 
 the latter name in spite of everything. Ernest be 
 haved very well through the whole affair, and said 
 he had no feeling about it all. But he was so 
 gratified when I decided to keep up the family cus 
 tom that I feel rewarded for the sacrifice. 
 
 Father is in one of his gloomiest moods. As I 
 sat caressing baby to-day he said to me, 
 
 "Daughtei Katherine, I trust you make it a sub 
 ject of prayer to God that you may be kept from 
 idolatry." 
 
 "No, father," I returned, "I never do. An idol 
 is something one puts in God's place, and I don't 
 put baby there." 
 
 He shook his head, and said the heart is deceitful 
 above all things, and desperately wicked. 
 
 " I have heard mother say that we might love an 
 earthly object as much as we pleased, if we only 
 love God better." I might have added, but of 
 course I didn't, that I prayed every day that I 
 might love Ernest and baby better and better. Poor 
 father seemed puzzled and troubled by what I did 
 say, and after musing awhile, went on thus: 
 
 "The Almighty is a great and terrible Being. 
 lie cannot bear a rival; He will have the whole 
 heart or none of it. When I see a young woman 
 go absorbed in a created being as you are in that 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 215 
 
 infant, and in your other friends, I tremble for yon, 
 I tremble for you ! " 
 
 "But, father," I persisted, "God gave me tliii 
 child, and He gave me my heart, just as it is." 
 
 4 Yes; and that heart needs renewing." 
 
 "1 hope it is renewed," I replied. "But I know 
 there is a great work still to be done in it. And 
 the more effectually it is done the more loving I 
 shall grow. Don't you see, father? Don't you see 
 that the more Christ-like I become, the more I shall 
 be filled with love for every living thing?" 
 
 He shook his head, but pondered long, as he al 
 ways does, on whatever he considers audacious. 
 As for me, I am vexed with my presumption in dis 
 puting with him, and am sure, too, that I was try 
 ing to show off what little wisdom I have picked 
 up. Besides, my mountain does not stand so strong 
 as it did. Perhaps I am making idols out of Ernest 
 and the baby. 
 
 JANUARY 16, 1839. This is our second wed 
 ding-day. 1 did not expect much from it, after last 
 year's failure. Father was very gloomy at break 
 fast, and retired to his room directly after it. Nc 
 one could get in to make his bed, and he would not 
 come down to dinner. I wonder Ernest lets him 
 go on so. But his rule seems to be to let every 
 body have their own way. He certainly lots m 
 
216 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 have mine. After dinner he gave me a book I have 
 been wanting for some time, and had asked him foi 
 The Imitation of Christ. Ever since that day at 
 Mrs. Campbell's, I have felt that I should like it, 
 though I did think, in old times, that it preached 
 too hard a doctrine. I read aloud to him the t: Four 
 steps to peace;" he said they were admirable, and 
 then took it from me and began reading to himself, 
 here and there. I felt the precious moments when 
 I had got him all to myself were passing away, and 
 was becoming quite out of patience with him when 
 the words, "Constantly seek to have less, rather 
 than more," flashed into my mind. I suppose this 
 direction had reference to worldly good, but I des 
 pise money, and despise people who love it. The 
 riches I crave are not silver and gold, but my hus 
 band's love and esteem. And of these must I de 
 sire to have less rather than more ? I puzzled my 
 self over this question in vain, but when I silently 
 prayed to be satisfied with just what God chose to 
 give me of the wealth I crave, yes, hunger and 
 thirst for, I certainly felt a sweet content, for the 
 time at least, that was quite resting and quieting. 
 And just as I had reached that acquiescent mood, 
 Ernest threw down his book, and came and caught 
 me in his arms. 
 
 "I thank God," he said, "my precious wife, that 
 I married you this day. The wisest thing I evei 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 217 
 
 did, was when I fell in love with you and made a 
 
 fool of myself 1 " 
 
 . What a speech for my silent old darling to make ! 
 Whenever he says and does a thing out of charac 
 ter, and takes me all by surprise, how delightful he 
 is! Now the world is a beautiful world, and so is 
 everybody in it. I met Martha on the stairs after 
 Ernest had gone, and caught her and kissed her. 
 She looked perfectly astonished. 
 
 " What spirits the child has ! " I heard her whis 
 per to herself: u no sooner down than up again." 
 
 And she sighed. Can it be that under that stern 
 and hard crust, there lie hidden affections and per 
 haps hidden sorrows? 
 
 I ran back and asked, as kindly as I could, " What 
 makes you sigh, Martha? Is anything troubling 
 you? Have I done anything to annoy you?" 
 
 "You do the best you can," she said, and pushed 
 past me to her own room 
 
XIV. 
 
 JAN. 30. 
 
 II would Lave thought I would have 
 anything more to do with poor old Susan 
 Green ? Dr. Cabot came to see me to-day, 
 and told me the strangest thing ! It seems, 
 that the nurse who performed the last offices for 
 her was taken sick about six months ago, and that 
 Dr. Cabot visited her from time to time. Hei 
 physician "said she needed nothing but rest and 
 good, nourishing food, to restore her strength, yet 
 she did not improve at all, and at last it came out 
 that she was not taking the food the doctor ordered, 
 because she could not afford to do so, having lost 
 what little money she had contrived to save. Dr. 
 Cabot, on learning this, gave her enough out of 
 Susan's legacy to meet her case, and in doing so 
 told her about that extraordinary will. The nurse 
 then assured him that when she reached Susan's 
 room and found the state that she was in, and that 
 1 was praying with her, she had remained waiting 
 in silence fearing to interrupt me. She saw me 
 (218) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 213 
 
 faint, and sprang forward just in time to catch me 
 and keep me from falling. 
 
 " 1 take great pleasure, therefore," Dr. Cabot con- 
 tinned, "in making over Susan's little property 
 to you, to whom it belongs; and I cannot help 
 congratulating you that you have had the honor and 
 the privilege of perhaps leading that poor, benighted 
 soul to Christ, even at the eleventh hour." 
 
 " Oh, Dr. Cabot ! " I cried, " what a relief it is to 
 hear you say that! For I have always reproached 
 myself for the cowardice that made me afraid to 
 speak to her of her Saviour. It take less courage 
 to speak to God than to man." 
 
 "It is my belief," replied Dr. Cabot, "that every 
 prayer offered' in the name of Jesus, is sure to have 
 its answer. Every such prayer is dictated by the 
 Holy Spirit, and therefore finds acceptance with 
 God; and if your cry for mercy on poor Susan's 
 soul did not prevail with him in her behalf, as we 
 may hope it did, then He has answered it in some 
 other way." 
 
 These words impressed me very much. To think 
 that every one of my poor prayers is answered I 
 Every one ! 
 
 Dr. Cabot then returned to the subject of Susan a 
 will, and in spite of all I could say to the contrary, 
 insisted that he had no legal right to this money, and 
 that I had. He said he hoped that it would help to 
 
220 STEPPING HEAVENWARD, 
 
 relieve us from some of the petty economies now 
 rendered necessary by Ernest's struggle to meet his 
 father's liabilities. Instantly my idol was rudely 
 thrown down from his pedestal. How could he re 
 veal to Dr. Cabot a secret he had pretended it cost 
 him so much to confide to me, his wife? I could 
 hardly restrain tears of shame and vexation, but did 
 control myself so far as to say that I would sooner 
 die than appropriate Susan's hard earnings to such 
 a purpose, and that I should use it for the poor, as I 
 was sure he would have done. He then advised me 
 to invest the principle, and use the interest from 
 year to year, as occasions presented themselves. So 
 I shall have more than a hundred dollars to give 
 away each year, as long as I live! How perfectly 
 delightful. I can hardly conceive of anything that 
 could give me so much pleasure! Poor old 
 Susan! How many hearts she shall cause to sing 
 for joy ! 
 
 FEB. 25. Things have not gone on well of 
 
 late. Dearly as I love Ernest, he has lowered him 
 self in my eye by telling that to Dr. Cabot. It 
 would have been far nobler to be silent concerning 
 his sacrifices; and he certainly grows harder, 
 graver, sterner, every day. He is all shut up within 
 himself, and I am growing afraid of him. It must 
 be that he is bitterly disappointed in me, and takes 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 22\ 
 
 refuge in this awful silence. Oh, if I could only 
 please h m, and could know that I pleased him, hovi 
 different my life would be! 
 
 Baby does not seem well. I have often plumed 
 myself on the thought that having a doctor for hig 
 father would be such an advantage to him, as he 
 would be ready to attack the first symptoms of dis 
 ease. But Ernest hardly listens to me when I ex 
 press anxiety about this or that, and if I ask a ques 
 tion he replies, "Oh, you know better than I do. 
 Mathers know by instinct how to manage babies." 
 But I do not know by instinct, or in any other 
 way, and I often wish that the time I spent over my 
 music had been spent in learning how to meet all 
 the little emergencies that are constantly arising 
 since baby came. How I used to laugh in my 
 sleeve at those anxious mothers who lived near us 
 and always seemed to be in hot water. Martha will 
 take baby when I have other things to attend to, 
 and she keeps him every Sunday afternoon that I 
 may go to church, but she knows no more about his 
 physical training than I do. If my dear mother 
 were only here! I feel a good deal worn out, 
 What with the care of baby, who is restless at 
 night, and with whom I walk about lest he should 
 keep Ernest awake, the depressing influence of fa 
 ther's presence, Martha's disdain, and Ernest's keep 
 ing so aloof from me, life seems to me little bettei 
 
222 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 than a burden that I have not strength to carry and 
 would gladly lay down. 
 
 MARCH 3. If it were not for James I be 
 lie ^e 1 should sink. He is so kind and affectionate, 
 so ready to fill up the gaps Ernest leaves empty, 
 and is so sunshiny and gay that I cannot be en 
 tirely sad. Baby, too, is a precious treasure; it 
 would be wicked to cloud his little life with my de 
 pression. I try to look at him always with a smil 
 ing face, for he already distinguishes between a 
 cheerful and a sad countenance. 
 
 I am sure that there is something in Christ's gos 
 pel that would soothe and sustain me amid these 
 varied trials, if I only knew what it is, and how to 
 put forth my hand and take it. But as it is I feel 
 very desolate. Ernest often congratulates me on 
 having had such a good night's rest, when I have 
 been up and down every hour with baby, half asleep 
 and frozen and exhausted. But he shall sleep at 
 any rate. 
 
 APRIL 5. The first rays of spring make me 
 
 more languid than ever. Martha cannot be made 
 to understand that nursing such a large, voracious 
 baby, losing sleep, and confinement within doors, 
 are enough to account for this. She is constantly 
 ipeaking in terms of praise of those who keep up 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 even when they do feel a little out of sorts, and 
 says she always does. In the evening, after baby 
 gets to sleep I feel fit for nothing but to lie on the 
 sofa, dozing ; but she sees in this only a lazy habit, 
 which ought not to be tolerated, and is constantly 
 devising ways to rouse and set me at work. If 1 
 had more leisure for reading, meditation and prayer, 
 I might still be happy. But all the morning I must 
 have baby till he takes his nap, and as soon as 
 he gets to sleep I must put my room in order, and 
 by that time all the best part of the day is gone. 
 And at night I am so tired that I can hardly feel 
 anything but my weariness. That, too, is my only 
 chance of seeing Ernest, and if I lock my door and 
 fall upon my knees, I keep listening for his step, 
 ready to spring to welcome him should he come. 
 This is wrong, I know, but how can I live without 
 one loving word from him, and every day I am 
 hoping it will come 
 
 - MAY 2. Aunty was here to-day. I had not 
 seen her for some weeks. She exclaimed at my 
 looks in a tone that seemed to upbraid Ernest and 
 Martha, though of course she did not mean to do that. 
 
 "You are not fit to have the whole care of that 
 great boy at night," said she, " and you ought to 
 begin to feed him, both for his sake and your own." 
 
 " I am willing to take the child at night," Martha 
 
224 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 aid, a little stiffly. "But I supposed his mothei 
 preferred to keep him herself." 
 
 "And so I do," I cried. "I should be perfectly 
 miserable if I had to give him up just as he is get 
 ting teeth, and so wakeful." 
 
 " What are you taking to keep up your strength, 
 dear?" asked aunty. 
 
 "Nothing in particular," I said. 
 
 "Very well, it is time the doctor looked after 
 that," she cried. " It really never will do to let you 
 run down in this way. Let me look at baby. Why, 
 my child, his gums need lancing." 
 
 " So I have told Ernest half a dozen times," I de 
 clared. "But he is always in a hurry, and says 
 another time will do." 
 
 " I hope baby won't have convulsions while he is 
 waiting for that other time," said aunty, looking 
 almost savagely at Martha. I never saw aunty so 
 nearly out of humor. 
 
 At dinner Martha began. 
 
 " I think, brother, the baby needs attention. Mrs, 
 Crofton has been here and says so. And she seems 
 to find Katherine run down. I am sure if I had 
 known it I should have taken her in hand and built 
 her up. But she did not complain." 
 
 " She never complains," father here put in, calling 
 all the blood I had into my face> my heart so leaped 
 for joy at his kind word. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 225 
 
 Ernest looked at me and caught the illumination 
 )f my face. 
 
 " You look well, dear," he said. " But if you do 
 not feel so you ought to tell us. As to baby, I will 
 attend to him directly." 
 
 So Martha's one word prevailed where my twen 
 ty fell to the ground. 
 
 Baby is much relieved, and has fallen into a sweet 
 sleep. And I have had time to carry my tired, op 
 pressed heart to my compassionate Saviour, and to 
 tell Him what I cannot utter to any human ear. 
 How strange it is that when, through many years of 
 leisure and strength, prayer was only a task, it is 
 now my chief solace if I can only snatch time for it. 
 
 Mrs. Embury has a little daughter. How glad I 
 am for her! She is going to give it my name! 
 That is a real pleasure. 
 
 JULY 4 Baby is ten months old to-day, and 
 
 in spite of everything is bright and well. I have 
 come home to mother. Ernest waked up at last to 
 see that something must be done, and when ho is 
 awake he is very wide awake. So he brought me 
 home. Dear mother is perfectly delighted, only 
 she will make an ado about my health. But I feel 
 a good deal better, and think I shall get nicely rested 
 here. How pleasant it is to feel myself watched 
 by friendly eyes, my faults excused and forgiven, 
 If 
 
226 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 and what is best in me called out. I have been 
 writing to Ernest, and have told him honestly, how 
 annoyed and pained I was at learning that he had 
 
 told his secret to Dr. Cabot. 
 
 .. 
 
 JULY 12. Ernest writes that he has had no 
 
 communication with Dr. Cabot or anj one else on 
 a subject, that touching his father's hon^r as it does, 
 he regards as a sacred one. 
 
 "You say, dear," he said, "you often say, that I 
 do not understand you. Are you sure that you un 
 derstand me?" 
 
 Of course I don't. How can I? How can I 
 reconcile his marrying me and professing to do it 
 with delight, with his indifference to my society, his 
 reserve, his carelessness about my health? 
 
 But his letters are very kind, and really warmer 
 than he is. I can hardly wait for them, and then, 
 though my pride bids me to be reticent as he is my 
 heart runs away with me, and I pour out upon him 
 such floods of affection that I am sure he is half 
 drowned. 
 
 Mother says baby is splendid. 
 
 AUGUST 1. When I took leave of Ernest 1 
 
 was glad to get away. I thought he would per 
 haps find after I was gone that he missed something 
 out of his life and would welcome me home with a 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 227 
 
 little of the old love. But I did not dream that he 
 would not find it easy to do without me till summer 
 was over, and when, this morning, he came sud- 
 daily upon us, carpet-bag in hand, I could do 
 IK. thing but cry in his arms like a tired child. 
 
 And now I had the silly triumph of having mo 
 ther see that he loved me ! 
 
 "How could you get away?" I asked at last. 
 "And what made you come? And how long can 
 you stay ? " 
 
 "I could get away because I would" he replied. 
 44 And I came because I wanted to come. And I 
 can stay three days." 
 
 Three days of Ernest all to myself! 
 
 AUGUST 5. He has gone, but he has left 
 
 behind him a happy wife and the memory of three 
 iiappy days. 
 
 After the first joy of our meeting was over, we 
 had time for just such nice long talks as I delight 
 in. Ernest began by upbraiding me a little for my 
 injustice in fancying he had betrayed his father to 
 Dr. Cabot. 
 
 " That is not all," I interrupted, " I even thought you 
 bad made a boast of the sacrifices you were making.* 1 
 
 44 That explains your coldness," he returned. 
 
 44 My coldness! Of all the ridiculous things in 
 the world ! " I cried. 
 
228 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " You were cold, for you and I felt it Don't yoi 
 know that we undemonstrative men prefer loving 
 winsome little women like you, just because you are 
 our own opposites ? And when the pet kitten turns 
 into a cat with claws " 
 
 'Now, Ernest, that is really too bad! To com 
 pare me to a cat ! " 
 
 44 You certainly did say some sharp things to me 
 about that time." 
 
 " Did I, really ? Oh, Ernest, how could I ? " 
 
 "And it was at a moment when I particularly 
 needed your help. But do not let us dwell upon it. 
 We love each other; we are both trying to do right 
 in all the details of life. I do not think we shall 
 ever get very far apart." 
 
 "But, Ernest tell me are you very, very much 
 disappointed in me ? " 
 
 44 Disappointed ? Why, Katy ! " 
 
 "Then what did make you seem so indifferent? 
 What made you so slow to observe how miserably 
 I was, as to health ? " 
 
 44 Did I seem indifferent? I am sure I never loved 
 you better. As to your health, I am ashamed of 
 myself. I ought to have seen how feeble you were 
 But the truth is, I was deceived by your bright 
 ways witb baby. For him you were all smiles and 
 gayety." 
 
 "That was from principle," I said, and felt 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 229 
 
 a good deal elated as I made the announce 
 ment. 
 
 He fell into a fit of musing, and none of my usual 
 devices for arousing him had any effect. . I pulled 
 his hair and his ears, and shook him, but he re 
 mained unmoved. 
 
 At last he began again. 
 
 " Perhaps I owe it to you, dear, to tell you that 
 when I brought my father and sister home to live 
 with us, I did not dream how trying a thing it 
 would be to you. I did not know that he was a 
 confirmed invalid, or that she would prove to pos 
 sess a nature so entirely antagonistic to yours. I 
 thought my father would interest himself in read 
 ing, visiting, etc., as he used to do. And I thought 
 Martha's judgment would be of service to you, 
 while her household skill would relieve you of some 
 care. But the whole thing has proved a failure. 
 I am harassed by the sight of my father, sitting 
 there in his corner so penetrated with gloom ; I re 
 proach myself for it, but I almost dread coming 
 home. When a man has been all day encompassed 
 with sounds and sights of suffering, he naturally 
 longs for cheerful faces and cheerful voices in his 
 own house. Then Martha's pertinacious I won't 
 say hostility to my little wife what shall I call it ?." 
 
 "It is only want of sympathy. She is too really 
 good to be hostile to any one." 
 
230 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " Thank you, my darling/' he said, " I believe yon 
 do her justice." 
 
 " I am afraid I have not been as forbearing with 
 her as I ought," I said. "But, oh Ernest, it is be 
 cause I have been jealous of her all along ! " 
 
 "That is really too absurd." 
 
 "You certainly have treated her with more def 
 erence than you have me. You looked up to her 
 and looked down upon me. At least it seemed so." 
 
 "My dear child, you have misunderstood the 
 whole thing. I gave Martha just what she wanted 
 most; she likes to be looked up to. And I gave 
 you what I thought you wanted most my tender- 
 est love. And I expected that I should have your 
 sympathy amid the trials with which I am burden 
 ed, and that with your strong nature I might look 
 to you to help me bear them. I know you have 
 the worst of it, dear child, but then you have twice 
 my strength. I believe women almost always have 
 more than men." 
 
 "I have, indeed, misunderstood you. I thought 
 you liked to have them here, and that Martha's not 
 fancying me influenced you against me. But now 
 I know just what you want of me, and I can give 
 *t, darling." 
 
 After this all our cloud melted away. I only long 
 to go home and show Ernest that he shall have one 
 cheerful face about him, and have one cheerful voice, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 231 
 
 AUGUST 12. I have had a long letter from 
 
 Ernest to-day. He says he hopes he has not been 
 selfish and unkind in speaking of his father and sis 
 ter as he has done, because he truly loves and hon 
 ors them both, and wants me to do so, if I can. 
 His father had called them up twice to see him die 
 and to receive his last messages. This always hap 
 pens when poor Ernest has been up all the previous 
 night; there seems a fatality about it 
 
XV. 
 
 OOTOBEB 4. 
 
 OME again, and with my dear Ernest de 
 lighted to see me. Baby is a year old to 
 day, and, as usual, father, who seems to 
 abhor anything like a merry-making, took 
 himself off to his room. To-morrow he will be all 
 the worse for it, and will be sure to have a theo 
 logical battle with somebody. 
 
 OCTOBER 5. The somebody was his daugh 
 ter Katherine, as usual. Baby was asleep in my 
 lap and I reached out for a book which proved to 
 be a volume of Shakespeare which had done long 
 service as an ornament to the table, but which no 
 body ever read, on account of the small print. The 
 battle then began thus: 
 
 FatJier. "I regret to see that worldly author in 
 your hands, my daughter." 
 
 Daughter a little mischievously. "Why, were 
 you wanting to talk, fathei ? " 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 233 
 
 " No, I am too feeble to talk to-day. My pulse is 
 tery weak." 
 
 "Let me read aloud to you, then." 
 
 " Not from that profane book." 
 
 "It would do you good. You never take any 
 recreation. Do let me read a little." 
 
 Father gets nervous. 
 
 "Recreation is a snare. I must keep my soul 
 ever fixed on divine things." 
 
 "But can you?" 
 
 "Xo, alas, no. It is my grief and shame that I 
 do not" 
 
 "But if you would indulge yourself in a little 
 harmless mirth now and then, your mind would get 
 rested and you would return to divine things with 
 fresh zeal. Why should not the mind have its sea 
 sons of rest as well as the body ? " 
 
 "We shall have time to rest in heaven. Our 
 business here on earth is to be sober and vigil 
 ant because of our adversary ; not to be reading 
 plays." 
 
 "I don't make reading plays my business, dear 
 father. I make it my rest and amusement." 
 
 "Christians do not need amusement; they find 
 rest, refreshment, all they want, in God." 
 
 "Do you, father?" 
 
 "Alas, no. He seems a great way off." 
 
 "To me He seems very near. So near that H 
 
234 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 can see every thought of my heart. Dear father, 
 it is your disease that makes everything so unreal 
 to you. God is really so near, really loves us so; 
 is so sorry for us! And it seems hard, when you 
 are so good, and so intent on pleasing Him, that 
 you get no comfort out of Him." 
 
 " I am not good, my daughter. I arn a vile worm 
 of the dust." 
 
 "Well God is good, at any rate, and He would 
 never have sent His Son to die for you if He did 
 not love you." So then I began to sing. Father 
 likes to hear me sing, and the sweet sense I had 
 that all I had been saying was true and more than 
 true, made me sing with joyful heart 
 
 I hope it is not a mere miserable presumption 
 that makes me dare to talk so to poor father. Of 
 course he is ten times better than I am, and knows 
 ten times as much, but his disease, whatever it is, 
 keeps his mind befogged. I mean to begin now to 
 pray that light may shine into his soul It would 
 be delightful to see the peace of God shining in 
 that pale, stern face ! 
 
 MARCH 28. It is almost six months since I 
 
 wrote that. About the middle of October father 
 had one of his ill turns one night, and we were all 
 called up. He asked for me particularly, and Er 
 nest came for me at last. I was a good deal agita- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 235 
 
 ted, and would not stop to half dress myself, and 
 as I had a slight cold already, I suppose I added to 
 it then. At any rate I was taken very sick, and 
 the worst cough I ever had has racked my poor 
 frame almost to pieces. Nearly six months confine 
 ment to my room; six months of uselessness dur 
 ing which I have been a mere cumberer of the 
 ground. Poor Ernest! What a hard time he has 
 had ! Instead of the cheerful welcome home I was 
 to give him whenever he entered the house, here 
 I have lain exhausted, woe-begone and good for 
 nothing. It is the bitterest disappointment I ever 
 had. My ambition is to be the sweetest, brightest, 
 best of wives; and what with my childish follies, 
 and my sickness, what a weary life my dear hus 
 band has had! But how often I have prayed that 
 God would do His will in defiance, if need be, of 
 mine ! I have tried to remind myself of that every 
 day. But I am too tired to write any more now. 
 
 MARCH 30. This experience of suffering 
 
 has filled my mind with new thoughts. At one 
 time I was so sick that Ernest sent for mother. 
 Poor mother, she had to sleep with Martha. It 
 was a great comfort to have her here, but I knew 
 by her coming how sick I was, and then I began to 
 ponder the question whether I was ready to die. 
 Death looked to me as a most solemn, momentous 
 
23(> STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 event but there was something very pleasant in 
 the thought of being no longer a sinner, but a re 
 deemed saint, and of dwelling forever in Christ 8 
 presence. Father came to see me when I had just 
 reached this point. 
 
 " My dear daughter," he asked, " are you pre 
 pared to face the Judge of all the earth ? " 
 
 "No, dear father," I said, "Christ will do that 
 for me." 
 
 " Have you no misgivings ? " 
 
 I could only smile ; I had no strength to talk. 
 
 Then I heard Ernest my dear, calm, self-con 
 trolled Ernest burst out crying and rush out 
 of the room. I looked after him, and how I loved 
 him ! But I felt that I loved my Saviour infinitely 
 more, and that if he now let me come home to be 
 with Him I could trust Him to be a thousand fold 
 more to Ernest than I could ever be, and to take 
 care of my darling baby and my precious mother 
 far better than I could. The very gates of heaven 
 seemed open to let me in. And then they were 
 suddenly shut in my face, and I found myself a 
 poor, weak, tempted creature here upon earth. I, 
 who fancied myself an heir of glory, was nothing 
 but a peevish, human creature very human indeed, 
 overcome if Martha shook the bed, as she always 
 did, irritated if my food did not come at the right 
 moment^ or was not of the right sort, hurt and of- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 237 
 
 fended if Ernest put on a tone less anxious and 
 tender then he had used when I was very ill, and in 
 short my own poor faulty self once more. Oh, 
 what fearful battles I fought for patience, forbear- 
 ance and unselfishness! What sorrowful tears of 
 sLame I shed over hasty, impatient words and fret 
 ful tones! No wonder I longed to be gone where 
 weakness should be swallowed up in strength, and 
 sin give place to eternal perfection! 
 
 But here I am, and suffering and work lie before 
 me, for which I feel little physical or mental courage. 
 But "blessed be the will of God." 
 
 APRIL 5. I was alone with father last even 
 ing, Ernest and Martha both being out, and soon 
 saw by the way he fidgeted in his chair that he had 
 something on his mind. So I laid down the book I 
 was reading, and asked him what it was. 
 
 " My daughter," he began, " can you bear a plain 
 word from an old man?" 
 
 I felt frightened, for I knew I had been impatient 
 to Martha of late, in spite of all my efforts to the 
 contrary. I am still so miserably unwell. 
 
 " I have seen many death-beds," he went on ; " but 
 I nover saw one where there was not some dread of 
 the King of Terrors exhibited; nor one where there 
 was such absolute certainty of having found favoi 
 with God, as to make the hour of departure entirely 
 
238 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 free from such doubts and such humility as becomes 
 a guilty sinner about to face his Judge." 
 
 "1 never saw such a one either," I replied; u but 
 there have been many such deaths, and I hardly 
 know of any scene that so honors and magnifies 
 the Lord." 
 
 " Yes," he said, slowly ; " but they were old, ma 
 ture, ripened Christians." 
 
 "Not always old, dear father. Let me describe 
 to you a scene Ernest described to me only yester 
 day." 
 
 He waved his hand in token that this would de 
 lay his coming to the point he was aiming at. 
 
 " To speak plainly," he said, " I feel uneasy about 
 you, iny daughter. You are young and in the 
 bloom of life, but when death seemed staring you 
 in the face, you expressed no anxiety, asked for no 
 counsel, showed no alarm. It must be pleasant to 
 possess so comfortable a persuasion of our accept 
 ance with God; but is it safe to rest on such an as 
 surance, while we know that the human heart is de 
 ceitful above all things and desperately wicked?" 
 
 'I thank you for the suggestion," I said; "aud 
 dear father, do not be afraid to speak still more 
 plainly. You live in the house with me, see all my 
 short-comings and my faults, and I cannot wonder 
 that you think me a poor, weak Christian. But do 
 you really fear that I am deceived in believing thai 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 239 
 
 not withstanding this I do really love my God and 
 Saviour and am His child?" 
 
 "No," he said, hesitating a little, "I can't say 
 that exactly I can't say that." 
 
 This hesitation distressed me. At first it seemed 
 to me that my life must have uttered a very uncer 
 tain sound, if those who saw it could misunderstand 
 its language. But then I reflected that it was, at 
 best, a very faulty life, and that its springs of ac 
 tion were not necessarily seen by lookers on. 
 
 Father saw my distress and perplexity, and seem 
 ed touched by them. 
 
 Just then Ernest came in with Martha, but seeing 
 that something was amiss, the latter took herself 
 off to her room, which I thought really kind of 
 her. 
 
 "What is it, father? What is it, Katy?" asked 
 Ernest, looking from one troubled face to the 
 other. 
 
 I tried to explain. 
 
 "I think, father, you may safely trust my wife's 
 spiritual interests to me," Ernest said, with some 
 warmth. "You do not understand her. I do. 
 Because there is nothing morbid about her, because 
 she has a sweet, cheerful confidence in Christ you 
 doubt and misjudge her. You may depend upon it 
 that people are individual in their piety as in other 
 things, and cannot all be run in one mould. 
 
240 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 has a playful way of speaking, I know, and often 
 expresses her strongest feelings with what seema 
 like levity, and is, perhaps, a little reckless about 
 being misunderstood in consequence." 
 
 lie smiled on me, as he thus took up the cudgels 
 iii my defence, and I never felt so grateful to him in 
 my life. The truth is, I hate sentimentalism so cor 
 dially, and have besides such an instinct to conceal 
 my deepest, most sacred emotions, that I do not 
 wonder people misunderstand and misjudge me. 
 
 "I did not refer to her playfulness," father re 
 turned. " Old people must make allowances for the 
 young; they must make allowances. What pains 
 me is, that this child, full of life and gaiety as she 
 is, sees death approach without that becoming awe 
 and terror which befits mortal man." 
 
 Ernest was going to reply, but I broke in eagerly 
 upon his answer. 
 
 "It is true that I expressed no anxiety when I 
 believed death to be at hand. I felt none. I had 
 given myself away to Christ, and He had received 
 me, and why should I be afraid to take His hand 
 and go where He led me? And it is true that 1 
 asked for no counsel. I was too weak to ask ques 
 tions or to like to have questions asked; but ray 
 mind was bright and wide awake, while my body 
 was so feeble, and I took counsel of God. Oh, let 
 me read to you two passages from the life of Oaiv* 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 241 
 
 line Fry which will make you understand how a 
 poor sinner looks upon death. The first is an ex 
 tract from a letter written after learning that her 
 days on earth were numbered. 
 
 "' As mary will hear an 5 will not understand, why 
 I want no time of preparation, often desired by fat 
 holier ones than I, I tell you why, and shall tell 
 others, and so shall you. It is not because I am so 
 holy, but because I am so sinful. The peculiar 
 character of my religious experience has always 
 been a deep, an agonizing sense of sin; the sin of 
 yesterday, of to-day, confessed with anguish hard 
 to be endured, and cried for pardon that could not 
 be unheard; each day cleansed anew in Jesus' 
 blood, and each day more and more hateful in my 
 own sight; what can I do in death I have not done 
 in life? What do in this week, when I am told I 
 cannot live, other than I did last week, when I 
 knew it not? Alas, there is but one thing undone- 
 to serve Him better; and the death bed is no placo 
 for that. Therefore I say, if I am not ready now, I 
 shall not be by delay, so far as I have to do with it 
 If He has more to do in me that is His part. I need 
 not ask Him not to spoil His work by too much 
 haste.' 
 
 " And these are hei dying words, a few days later 
 "'This is my bridal-day, the beginning of my life. 
 I wish there should be no mistake about the reason 
 11 
 
242 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 of my desire to depart and to be with Christ 1 
 confess myself the vilest, chiefest of sinners, and I 
 desire to go to Him that I may be rid of the burden 
 of sin the sin of my nature not the past, repented 
 of every day, but the present, hourly, momentary 
 sin, which I do commit, or may commit the sense 
 of which at times drives me half mad with grief!''' 
 
 I shall never forget the expression of father's face, 
 as I finished reading these remarkable words. He 
 rose slowly from his -seat, and came and kissed me 
 on the forehead. Then he left the room, but re 
 turned with a large volume, and pointing to a blank 
 page, requested me to copy them there. He com 
 plains that I do not write legibly, so I printed them 
 as painly as I could, with my pen. 
 
 JUNE 20. On the first of May, there came 
 
 to us, with other spring flowers, our little fair- 
 haired, blue-eyed daughter. How rich I felt when 
 I heard Ernest's voice, as he replied to a question 
 asked at th^ door, proclaim, "Mother and children 
 all well." To think that we, who thought ourselves 
 rich before, are made so much richer now ! 
 
 But she is not large and vigorous, as little Ernest 
 was, and we cannot rejoice in her without some 
 misgiving. Yet her very frailty makes her precious 
 to us. Little Ernest hangs over her with an almost 
 lov T er-like pride and demotion, and should she live 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 243 
 
 I can imagine what a protector be will be for her 
 I have had to give up the care of him to Martha. 
 During my illness I do not know what would have 
 become of him but for her. One of the pleasant 
 events of every day at that time, was her bringing 
 him to me in such exquisite order, his face shining 
 with health and happiness, his hair and dress so 
 beautifully neat and clean. Now that she has the 
 care of him, she has become very fond of him, and 
 he certainly forms one bond of union between us, 
 for we both agree that he is the handsomest, best, 
 most remarkable child that ever lived, or ever will 
 live. 
 
 JULY 6. I have come home to dear mother 
 
 with both my children. Ernest says our only hope 
 for baby is to keep her out of the city during the 
 summer months. 
 
 What a petite wee maiden she is? Where does 
 all the love come from? If I had had her always 
 I do not see how I could be more fond of her. And 
 do people call it living who never had any children ? 
 
 JULY 10. If this darling baby lives, I shall 
 
 always believe it is owing to my mother's prayers. 
 
 I find little Ernest has a passionate temper, and a 
 good deal of self-will. But he has fine qualities. 1 
 wish he had a better mother I am so impatient 
 
244 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 witl him when he is wayward and perverse ! What 
 he needs is a firm, gentle hand, moved by no ca 
 price, and controlled by the constant fear of God. 
 He never ought to hear an irritable word, or a 
 sharp tone; but he does hear them, I must own 
 with grief and shame. The truth is, it is so long 
 since I really felt strong and well that I am not my 
 self, and cannot do him justice, poor child. Next 
 to being a perfect wife I want to be a perfect mo 
 ther. How mortifying, how dreadful in all things 
 to come short of even one's own standard! What 
 approach, then, does one make to God's standard? 
 Mother seems very happy to have us here, though 
 we make so much trouble. She encourages me in 
 all my attempts to control myself and to control 
 my dear little boy, and the chapters she gives me 
 out of her own experience are as interesting as a 
 novel, and a good deal more instructive. 
 
 AUGUST. Dear Ernest has come to spend 
 
 a week with us. He is all tired out, as there has 
 been a great deal of sickness in the city, and father 
 has had quite a serious attack. He brought with 
 him a nurse for baby, as one more desperate effort 
 to strengthen her constitution. 
 
 I reproached him for doing it without consulting 
 me, but he said mother had written to tell him that 
 I was all worn out and not in a state to have the 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 245 
 
 care of the children. It has been a terrible blow to 
 me. One by one I am giving up the sweetest ma 
 ternal duties. God means that I shall be nothing 
 and dc nothing; a mere useless sufferer. But when 
 I tell Ernest so, he says I am everything to him, 
 and that God's children please Him just as well 
 when they sit patiently with folded hands, if that is 
 His will, as when they are hard at work. But to 
 be at work, to be useful, to be iwcessary to my hus 
 band and children, is just what I want, and I do 
 find it hard to be set against the wall as it were, 
 like an old piece of furniture no longer of any ser 
 vice. I see now that my first desire has not been 
 to please God, but to please myself, for I am rest 
 less under His restraining hand, and find my prison 
 a very narrow one. I would be willing to bear any 
 other trial, if I could only have health and strength 
 for my beloved ones. I pray for patience with bit 
 ter tears. 
 
XVI. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 E are all at home together once more. 
 The parting with mother was very pain 
 ful. Every year that she lives now 
 increases her loneliness, and makes me 
 long to give her the shelter of my home. But in 
 the midst of these anxieties, how much I have to 
 make me happy ! Little Ernest is the life and soul 
 of the house ; the sound of his feet pattering about, 
 and all his prattle, are the sweetest music to my 
 ear; and his heart is brim full of love and joy, so 
 that he shines on us all like a sunbeam. Baby ia 
 improving every day, and is one of those tender, 
 clinging little things that appeal to eveiybody's 
 love and sympathy. I never saw a more angelic 
 face than hers. Father sits by the hour looking at 
 her. To-day he said: 
 
 " Daughter Katherine, this lovely little one is not 
 meant for' this sinful world." 
 
 "This world needs to be adorned with lovely lit 
 (246) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 247 
 
 tie ones," I said. " And baby was never so well ae 
 she is now." 
 
 "Do not set your heart too fondly upon her," he 
 returned. " I feel that she is far too dear to 
 me." 
 
 "But, father, we could give her to God, if He 
 should ask for her. Surely, we love Him better 
 than we love her." 
 
 But as I spoke a sharp pang shot through and 
 through my soul, and I held my little fair daughter 
 closely in my arms, as if I could always keep her 
 there. It may be my conceit, but it really does 
 seem as if poor father was getting a little fond of 
 me. Ever since my own sickness I have felt great 
 sympathy for him, and he feels, no doubt, that I 
 give him something that neither Ernest nor Martha 
 can do, since they were never sick one day in their 
 lives. I do wish he could look more at Christ and 
 at what He has done and is doing for us. The way 
 of salvation is to me a wide path, absolutely radi 
 ant with the glory of Him who shines upon it; I 
 ee my short-comings; I see my sins, but I feel my 
 self bathed, as it were, in the effulgent glow that 
 proceeds directly from the throne of God and the 
 Lamb. It seems as if I ought to have some mis 
 givings about my salvation, but I can hardly say 
 that 1 have one. How strange, how mysterious 
 that is! And here is father, so much older, sn 
 
248 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 much better than I am, creeping along in the dark ! 
 I spoke to Ernest about it He says I owe it to my 
 training, in a groat measure, and that my mother is 
 fifty years in advance of her age. But it can't be 
 all that. It was only after years of struggle and 
 prayer that God gave me this joy. 
 
 NOVEMBER 24. Ernest asked me yesterday 
 
 if I knew that Amelia and her husband had come 
 here to live, and that she was very ill. 
 
 "I wish you would go to see her, dear," he 
 added. "She is a stranger here, and in great need 
 of a friend." I felt extremely disturbed. I have 
 lost my old affection for her, and the idea of meek 
 ing her husband was unpleasant. 
 
 u Is she very sick ? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes. She is completely broken down. I prom 
 ieed her that you should go to see her." 
 
 "Are you attending her?" 
 
 "Yes, her husband came for me himself." 
 
 "I don't want to go," I said. "It will be very 
 disagreeable." 
 
 "Yes, dear, I know it. But she needs a friend, 
 as I said before." 
 
 I put on my things very reluctantly, and went 
 I found Amelia in a richly-furnished house, but 
 looking untidy and ill-cared for. She was lying on 
 a couch in her bed-room ; three delicate looking 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 249 
 
 children were playing about, and their nurse sat 
 sewing at the window. 
 
 A terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for 
 her to speak for some moments. At last she recov 
 ered herself sufficiently to welcome me, by throw 
 ing her arms around me and bursting into tears. 
 
 " Oh, Katy ! " she cried, " should you have known 
 me if we had met in the street? Don't you find 
 me sadly altered ? " 
 
 " You are changed," I said, " but so am I." 
 
 " Yes, you do not look strong. But then you 
 never did. And you are as pretty as ever, while I 
 oh, Kate ! do you remember what round white 
 arms I used to have ? Look at them now ! " 
 
 And she drew up her sleeve, poor child. Just 
 then I heard a step in the passage, and her husband 
 sauntered into the room, smoking. 
 
 u Do go away, Charles," she said impatiently. 
 " You know how your cigar sets me coughing." 
 
 He held out his hand to me with the easy, non 
 chalant air of one who is accustomed to success 
 and popularity. 
 
 I looked at him with an aversion I could not con 
 ceal. The few years since we met has changed 
 him so completely that I almost shuddered at the 
 eight of his already bloated face, and at the air thai 
 told of a life worse than wasted. 
 
 " Do go away, Charles," Amelia repeated. 
 11* 
 
250 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 He threw himself into a chair without paying 
 the least attention to her, and still addressing him 
 self to me again, said 
 
 "Upon my word, you are prettier than ever, 
 and" 
 
 " I will come to see you at another time, Amelia," 
 I said, putting on all the dignity I could condense 
 in my small frame, and rising to take leave. 
 
 " Don't go, Katy ! " he cried, starting up, " don't 
 go I want to have a good talk about old times." 
 
 Katy, indeed! How dared he? I came away 
 burning with anger and mortification. Is it possi 
 ble that I ever loved such a man? That to gratify 
 that love I defied and grieved my dear mother 
 through a whole year! Oh, from what hopeless 
 misery God saved me, when he snatched me out of 
 the depth of my folly ! 
 
 DECEMBER 1. Ernest says I can go to see 
 
 Amelia with safety now, as her husband has sprained 
 his ankle, and keeps to his own room. So I am go 
 ing. But I am sure I shall say something impru 
 dent or unwise, and wish I could think it right to 
 stay away. I hope God will go with me and teach 
 me what words to speak. 
 
 DEC. 2. I found Amelia more unwell than 
 
 on my first visit, and she received me again with tears 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 251 
 
 * How good you are to come so soon," she began. 
 "I did not blame you for running off the other day; 
 Charley's impertinence was shameful. He said, af 
 ter you left, that he perceived you had not yet lost 
 your quickness to take offence, but I know he felt 
 that you showed a just displeasure, and nothirg 
 more." 
 
 " No, I was really angry," I replied. " I find the 
 road to perfection lies up-hill, and I slip back so of 
 ten that sometimes I despair of ever reaching the 
 top." 
 
 " What does the doctor say about me ? " she asked. 
 'Does he think me very sick?" 
 
 "I dare say he will tell you exactly what he 
 thinks," I returned, "if you ask him. This is his 
 rule with all his patients." 
 
 "If I could get rid of this cough I should soon 
 be myself again," she said. "Some days I feel 
 quite bright and well. But if it were not for my 
 poor little children, I should not care much how the 
 thing ended. With the life Charley leads me/ I 
 haven't much to look forward to." 
 
 "You forget that the' children's nurse is in the 
 room," I whispered. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind Charlotte. Charlotte knowa 
 how he neglects me, don't you, Charlotte?" 
 
 Charlotte was discreet enough to pretend not to 
 hear this question, and Amelia went on: 
 
252 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "It bogan very soon after we were married. He 
 would go round with other girls exactly as he did 
 before; then when I spoke about it he would just 
 laugh in his easy, good-natured way, but pay no at 
 tention to my wishes. Then when I grew more in 
 earnest he >vould say, that as long as he let me alone 
 I ought to let him alone. I thought that when oui 
 first baby came that would sober him a little, but 
 he wanted a boy and it turned out to be a girl. 
 And my being unhappy and crying so much, made 
 the poor thing fretful ; it kept him awake at night, 
 BO he took another room. After that I saw him less 
 than ever, though now and then he would have a 
 little love-fit, when he would promise to be at home 
 more and treat me with more consideration. We 
 had two more little girls twins; and then a boy. 
 Charley seemed quite fond of him, and did certainly 
 seem improved, though he was still out a great deal 
 with a set of idle young men, smoking, drinking 
 wine, and I don't know what else. His uncle gave 
 him too much money, and he had nothing to do but 
 to spend it." I 
 
 "You must not tell me any more now," I said. 
 u Wait till you are stronger." 
 
 The nurse rose and gave her something which 
 seemed to refresh her. I went to look at the little 
 girls, who were all pretty, pale-faced creatures, 
 very quiet and mature in their ways. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 253 
 
 "I am rested now," said Amelia, "and it does me 
 good to talk to you, because I can see that you are 
 sorry for me." 
 
 " I am, indeed ! " I cried. 
 
 "When our little boy was three months old I 
 took this terrible cold and began to cough. Char 
 ley at first remonstrated with me for coughing so 
 much; he said it was a habit I had got, and that I 
 ought to cure myself of it. Then the baby began 
 to pine and pine, and the more it wasted the more 
 1 wasted. And at last it died. 
 
 Here the poor child burst out again, and I wiped 
 away her tears as fast as they fell, thankful that she 
 could cry. 
 
 "After that," she went on, after a while, "Char 
 ley seemed to lose his last particle of affection for 
 me; he kept away more than ever, and once when 
 I besought him not to neglect me and my children 
 so, he said he was well paid for not keeping up his 
 engagement with you, that you had some strength 
 of character, and " 
 
 "Amelia," I interrupted, "do not repeat such 
 things. They only pain and mortify me." 
 
 " Well," she sighed, wearily, " this is what he has 
 at last brought me to. I am sick and broken-heart 
 ed, and care very little what becomes of me." 
 
 There was a long silence. I wanted to ask her 
 i whon earthly refuge failed her, she could not find 
 
254 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 shelter in the love of Christ. But I have, what is 
 I fear, a morbid terror of seeking the confidence oi 
 others. I knelt down at last, and kissed the poor 
 faded face. 
 
 "Yes, I knew you would feel for me," she said. 
 " The only pleasant thought I had when Charley in 
 sisted on coming here to live was, that I should see 
 you." 
 
 "Does your uncle live here, too?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, he came first, and it was that that put it 
 into Charley's head to come. He is very kind to 
 me." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "and God is kind, too, isn't He?" 
 
 "Kind to let me get sick and disgust Charley? 
 Now, Katy, how can you talk so?" I replied by 
 repeating two lines from a hymn of which I am very 
 fond: 
 
 11 '0 Saviour, whose mercy, severe in its kindness, 
 
 Hath chastened my wanderings, and guided my way."* 
 
 " I don't much care for hymns," she said. " When 
 one is well, and everything goes quite to one's mind, 
 it is nice to go to church and sing with the rest of 
 them. But, sick as I am, it isn't so easy to be reli 
 gious." 
 
 " But isn't this the very time to look to Christ for 
 comfort ? " 
 
 "What's the use of looking anywhere for com 
 fort?" she said, peevishly. "Wait till you are sick 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 25-6 
 
 and heart-broken yourself, and you'll see that you 
 won't feel much like doing anything but just groau 
 and cry your life out." 
 
 "I have been sick, and I know what so: row 
 means," I said. " And I am glad that I do. For 1 
 have learned Christ in that school, and I know that 
 He can comfort when no one else can." 
 
 "You always were an odd creature," she replied. 
 " I never pretended to understand half you said." 
 
 I saw that she was tired, and came away. Oh, 
 how I wished that I had been able to make Christ 
 look to her as He did to me all the way homel 
 
 DEO. 24. Father says he does not like Dr. 
 
 Cabot's preaching. He thinks that it is not doc 
 trinal enough, and that he does not preach enough 
 to sinners. But I can see that it has influenced him 
 already, and that he is beginning to think of God, 
 as manifested in Christ, far more than he used to do. 
 With me he has endless discussions on his and my 
 favorite subjects, and though I can never tell along 
 what path I walked to reach a certain conclusion, 
 the earnestness of my convictions does impress him 
 strangely. I am sure there is a great deal cf con- 
 ceit mixed up with all I say, and then when I com 
 pare my life with my own standard of duty, 1 won 
 der I ever dare to open my mouth and undertake 
 to help others. 
 
STEPPING 
 
 Baby is net at all well. To see such a little 
 tender thing really suffering, tears my soul to pieces. 
 I think it would distress me less to give her to God 
 just as she is now, a vital part of my very heart, 
 than to see her live a mere invalid life. But I try 
 to feel, as I know I say, Thy will be done ! Little 
 Ernest is the very picture of health and beauty. He 
 has vitality enough for two children. He and his 
 little sister will make very interesting contrasts, as 
 they grow older. His ardor and vivacity will rouse 
 her, and her gentleness will soften him. 
 
 - JAN. 1, 1841. Every day brings its own 
 duty and its own discipline. How is it that I make 
 such slow progress while this is the case? It is a 
 marvel to me why God allows characters like mine 
 to defile His Church. I can only account for it 
 with the thought that if I ever am perfected, I shall 
 be a great honor to His name, for surely worse ma 
 terial for building up a temple of the Holy Ghost, 
 was never gathered together before. The Jme 
 may come when those who know me now, crude, 
 childish, incomplete, will look upon me with amaze 
 ment, saying, "What hath God wrought!" If I 
 knew such a time would never come, I should want 
 to flee into the holes and caves of the earth, 
 
 I have everything to inspire me to devotion. My 
 dear mother's influence is always upon me. To her 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 257 
 
 I owe the habit of flying to God in every emer 
 gency, and of believing in prayer. Then I am in 
 close fellowship with a true man and a true Chris 
 tian. Ernest has none of my fluctuations; he is al 
 ways calm and self-possessed. This is partly his na 
 tural character; but he has studied the Bible more 
 than any other book, his convictions of duty are 
 fixed because they are drawn thence, and his con 
 stant contact with the sick and the suffering has 
 revealed life to him just as it is. How he has helped 
 me on! God bless him for it! 
 
 Then I have James. To be with him one half 
 hour is an inspiration. He lives in such blessed 
 communion with Christ that he is in perpetual sun 
 shine, and his happiness fertilizes even this disor 
 dered household; there is not a soul in it that does 
 not catch somewhat of his joyousness. 
 
 And there are my children! My darling, prec 
 ious children ! For their sakes I am continually 
 constrained to seek after an amended, a sanctified 
 life; what I want them to become I must become 
 myself. 
 
 So I enter on a new year, not knowing what it 
 will bring forth, but surely with a thousand reasons 
 for thanksgiving, for joy, and for hope. 
 
 JAN. 16. One more desperate effort to 
 
 make harmony out of the discords of m.y house, 
 
258 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 and one more failure. Ernest forgot that it 
 our wedding-day, which mortified and pained me, 
 especially as he had made an engagement to dine 
 out. I am always expecting something from life 
 that I never get. Is it so with everybody? I am 
 very uneasy, too, about James. He seems to be 
 growing fond of Lucy's society. I am perfectly 
 eure that she could not make him happy. Is it pos- 
 eible that he does not know what a brilliant young 
 man he is, and that he can have whom he pleases ? 
 It is easy, in theory, to let God plan our own des 
 tiny, and that of our friends. But when it corneu to a 
 specific case, we fancy we can help His judgments 
 with our poor reason. Well, I must go to Him with 
 this new anxiety, and trust my darling brother's 
 future to Him, if I can. 
 
 I shall try to win James' confidence. If it is not 
 Lucy, who or what is it that is making him so 
 thoughtful and serious, yet so wondrously happy. 
 
 - JAN. 17. I have been trying to find out 
 whether this is a mere notion of mine about Lu.sy. 
 James laughs, and evades my questions. But he 
 owns that a very serious matter is occupying his 
 thoughts, of which he does not wish to speak at 
 present May God bless him in it, whatever it is! 
 
 MAT 1. My delicate little Una's first 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 259 
 
 day. Thank God for sparing her to us a year. If 
 Ele should take her away I should still rejoice that 
 tliis life was mkigled with ours, and has influenced 
 thorn. Yes, even an unconscious infant is an ever 
 felt influence in the household: what an amazing 
 thought ! 
 
 I have given this precious little one away to her 
 Saviour and to mine ; living or dying, she is His. 
 
 DEO. 13. Writing journals does not seem 
 
 to be my mission on earth of late. My busy hands 
 find so much else to do! And sometimes when I 
 have been particularly exasperated and tried by the 
 jarring elements that form my home, I have not 
 dared to indulge myself with recording things that 
 ought to be forgotten. 
 
 How I long to live in peace with all men, and 
 how I resent interference in the management of my 
 children! If the time ever comes, that I live, a 
 spinster of a certain age, in the family of an elder 
 brother what a model of forbearance, charity and 
 Bister ly loving-kindness 1 shall be ! 
 
XVII. 
 
 1, 1842. 
 
 MEAN to resume my Journal, and be 
 more faithful to it this year. How many 
 precious things, said by dear Mrs. Camp 
 bell and others, are lost forever, because 
 I did not record them at the time! 
 
 I have seen her to-day. At Ernest's suggestion 
 I have let Susan Green provide her with a com 
 fortable chair, which enables her to sit up during 
 a part of each day. I found her in it, full of grati 
 tude, her sweet, tranquil face shining, as it always 
 is, with a light reflected from heaven itself. She 
 looks like one who has had her struggle with life 
 and conquered it. During last year, I visited her 
 often, and gradually learned much of her past his 
 tory, though she does not love to talk of herself. 
 She has out-lived her husband, a house-full of girls 
 and boys, and her ill-health is chiefly the result of 
 years of watching by their sicks beds, and grief at 
 their loss. 
 
 For she does not pretend not to grieve, but al- 
 (260) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 261 
 
 $v r ays says, "It is repining that dishonors God, not 
 grief." 
 
 I said to her to-day: 
 
 "Doesn't it seein hard when you think of the 
 many happy homes there are in the world, that you 
 should be singled out for such bereavement and 
 loneliness ? " 
 
 She replied, with a smile: 
 
 'I am not singled out, dear. There are thou 
 sands of God's own dear children, scattered over 
 the world, suffering far more than I do. And I do 
 not think there are many persons in it who are hap 
 pier than I am. I was bound to my God and 
 Saviour before I knew a sorrow, it is true. But it 
 was by a chain of many links; and every link that 
 dropped away, brought me to Him, till at last, hav 
 ing nothing left, I was shut up to Him, and learned 
 fully, what I had only learned partially, how soul- 
 satisfying He is." 
 
 "You think then," I said, while my heart died 
 within me, "that husband and children are obsta 
 cles in our way, and hinder our getting near to 
 Christ." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she cried. " God never gives us hind 
 rances. On the contrary, He means, in making us 
 wives and mothers, to put us into the very condi 
 tions of holy living. But if we abuse His gifts by 
 letting them take His place in our hearts, it is an 
 
262 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 act of love on His part to take them away, or to 
 destroy our pleasure in them. It is delightful," 
 she added, after a pause, "to know that there are 
 some generous souls on earth, who love their dear 
 ones with all their hearts, yet give those hearts un 
 reservedly to Christ. Mine was not one of them." 
 
 I had some little service to render her which 
 interrupted our conversation. The offices I have 
 had to have rendered me in my own long days of 
 sickness have taught me to be less fastidious about 
 waiting upon others. I am thankful that God has 
 at last made me willing to do anything in a sick 
 room that must be done. She thanked me, as she 
 always does, and then I said: 
 
 " I have a great many little trials, but they don't 
 do me a bit of good. Or, at least, I don't see 
 that they do." 
 
 "No, we never see plants growing," she said. 
 
 "And do you really think then, that perhaps 1 
 am growing, though unconsciously?" 
 
 "I know you are, dear child. There can't be life 
 without growth. " 
 
 This comforted me. I came \ome, praying all 
 the way, and striving to commit cnyself entirely to 
 Him in whose school I sit as learner. Oh, that I 
 were a better scholar ! But I do not half learn my 
 lessons, I am heedless and inattentive, and I forget 
 what is taught Perhaps thia is the reason that 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 263 
 
 weighty truths float before my mind's eye at 
 but do not fix themselves there. 
 
 - MARCH 20. I have been much impressed 
 by Dr. Cabot's sermons to-day. While I am listen 
 ing to his voice and hear him speak of the beauty 
 and desirableness of the Christian life, I feel as ne 
 feels, that I am willing to count all things but dross 
 that I may win Christ. But when I come home 
 to my worldly cares, I get completely absorbed in 
 them, and it is only by a painful wrench that I force 
 my soul back to God. Sometimes I almost envy 
 Lucy her calm nature, which gives her so little 
 trouble. Why need I throw my whole soul into 
 whatever I do ? Why can't I make so much as an 
 apron for little Ernest without the ardor and eager 
 ness of a soldier marching to battle? I wonder if 
 people of my temperament ever get toned down, 
 and learn to take life coolly? 
 
 - JUNE 10. My dear little Una has had a 
 long and very severe illness. It seems wonderful 
 that she could survive such sufferings. And it is al 
 most as wonderful that I could look upon them, 
 week after week, without losing my senses. 
 
 At first Ernest paid little attention to my repeat 
 ed entreaties that he would prescribe for her, and 
 some precious time was thus lost. But the mo- 
 
264 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ment he was fully aroused to see her danger, there 
 was something beautiful in his devotion. He often 
 walked the room with her by the hour together, 
 and it was touching to see her lying like a pale, 
 crushed lily in his strong arms. One morning she 
 seemed almost gone, and we knelt around her with 
 bursting hearts, to commend her parting soul to 
 Him in whose arms we were about to place her. 
 But it seemed as if all he asked of us was to come 
 to that point, for then He gave her back to us, and 
 she is still ours, only seven-fold dearer. I was so 
 thankful to see dear Ernest's faith triumphing over 
 his heart, and making him so ready to give up even 
 this little lamb without a word. Yes, we will give 
 our children to Him if He asks for them. He 
 shall never have to snatch them from us by force. 
 
 OCT. 4 We have had a quiet summer in 
 
 the country, that is, I have with my darling little 
 ones. This is the fourth birthday of our son and 
 heir, and he has been full of health and vivacity, en 
 joying everything with all his heart. How he 
 lights up our sombre household! Father has been 
 fasting to-day, and is so worn out and so nervous in 
 consequence, that he could not bear the sound of 
 the children's voices. I wish, if he must fast, he 
 would do it moderately, and do it all the time. Now 
 be goes without food until he is ready to sink, and 
 
STEPPING HEA\ENWARD. 
 
 now he eats quantities of improper food. If Martha 
 could only see how mischievous all this is for him . 
 After the children had been hustled out of the 
 way, and I had got them both off to bed, he said in 
 his most doleful manner, " I hope, my daughter, that 
 you are faithful to your son. He has now reached 
 the age of four years, and is a remarkably intelli 
 gent child. I hope you teach him that he is a sin 
 ner, and that he is in a state of condemnation." 
 
 "Now, father, don't," I said. "You are all tired 
 out, and do not know what you are saying. I 
 would not have little Ernest hear you for the world." 
 
 Poor father! He fairly groaned. 
 
 "You are responsible for that child's soul," he 
 said; "you have more influence over him than all 
 the world beside." 
 
 " I know it," I said, " and sometimes I feel ready 
 to sink when 1 think of the great work God has 
 intrusted to me. But my poor child will learn that 
 he is a sinner only too soon, and before that dread 
 ful day arrives I want to fortify his soul with the 
 only antidote against the misery that knowledge 
 will give him. I want him to see his Redeemer in 
 all His love, and all His beauty, and to love Him 
 with all his heart and soul, and mind and strength. 
 Dear father, pray for him, and pray for me, too." 
 
 "I do, I will," he said, solemnly. And then fol 
 lowed the inevitable long fit of silent musing, wheD 
 12 
 
266 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I often wonder what is passing in that suffering soul 
 For a sufferer he certainly is who seea a great ai?d 
 good and terrible God who cannot look upon in 
 iquity, and does not see His risen Son, who has 
 paid the debt we owe, and lives to intercede for us 
 before the throne of the Father. 
 
 JAN. 1, 1842. James came to me yesterday 
 
 with a letter he had been writing to mother. 
 
 44 1 want you to read this before it goes," he said, 
 44 for you ought to know my plans as soon aa 
 mother does." 
 
 I did not get time to read it till after tea. Then 
 I came up here to my room, and sat down curious 
 to know what was coming. 
 
 Well, I thought I loved him as much as one hu 
 man being could love another, already, but now my 
 heart embraced him with a fervor and delight that 
 made me so happy that I could not speak a word 
 when I knelt down to tell my Saviour all about it. 
 
 He said that he had been led, within a few 
 months, to make a new consecration of himself to 
 Christ and to Christ s cause on earth, and that this 
 had resulted in his choosing the life of a missionary, 
 instead of settling down as he had intended to do, as 
 a city physician. Such expressions of personal love 
 to Christ, and delight in the thought of ser-ing 
 Him, I never read. I could only marvel at what 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 267 
 
 God had wrought in his soul. For me to live to 
 Christ seems natural enough, for I have been driven 
 to Him not only by sorrow but by sin. Every out 
 break of my hasty temper, sends me weeping and 
 penitent to the foot of the cross, and I love much 
 because I have been forgiven much. But James, as 
 far as I know, has never had a sorrow, except my 
 father's death, and that had no apparent religious 
 effect. And his natural character is perfectly beauti 
 ful. He is as warm-hearted and loving and simple 
 and guileless as a child, and has nothing of my in 
 temperance, hastiness and quick temper. I have 
 often thought that she would be a rare woman who 
 could win and wear such a heart as his. Life has 
 done little but smile upon him; he is handsome and 
 talented and attractive; everybody is fascinated by 
 him, everybody caresses him; and yet he has turn 
 ed his back on the world that has dealt so kindly 
 with him, and given himself, as Edwards says, 
 4 clean away to Christ!" Oh, how thankful I arn! 
 And yet to let him go! My only brother mother's 
 only son! But I know what she will say; she will 
 bid him God-speed! 
 
 Ernest came up stairs, looking tired and jaded. 
 I read the letter to him. It impressed him strange 
 ly; but he only said: 
 
 44 This is what we might expect, who knew Jainea 
 dear fellow!" 
 
268 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 But when we knelt down to pray together, I saw 
 how he was touched, and how his soul kindled 
 within him in harmony with that consecrated, de 
 voted spirit. Dear James! it must be mother's 
 prayers that have done for him this wondrous 
 work that is usually the slow growth of years; arid 
 this is the mother who prays for you, Katy! So 
 take courage! 
 
 JAN. 2. James means to study theology as 
 
 well as medicine, it seems. That will keep him with 
 us for some years. Oh, is it selfish to take this view 
 of it ? Alas, the spirit is willing to have him go, but 
 the flesh is weak, and cries out. 
 
 OCT. 22. Amelia came to see me to-day 
 
 She has been traveling, for her health, and certainly 
 looks much improved. 
 
 " Charley and I are quite good friends again," she 
 began. "We have jaunted about everywhere, and 
 have a delightful time. What a snug little box of a 
 house you have?" 
 
 " It is inconveniently small," I said, " for our fam 
 ily is large, and the doctor needs more office room." 
 
 "Does he receive patients here? How horrid! 
 Don't you hate to have people with all sorts of ills 
 and aches in the house? It must depress youi 
 spirits." 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 269 
 
 "I dare say it would if I saw them; but I never 
 
 do." 
 
 "I should like to see your children. Your hua 
 band says you are perfectly devoted to them." 
 
 "As I suppose all mothers are," I replied, laughing. 
 
 "As to that," she returned, "people differ." 
 
 The children were brought down. She admired 
 little Ernest, as every body does, but only glanced 
 at the baby. 
 
 "What a sickly looking little thing!" she said. 
 "But this boy is a splendid fellow! Ah, if mine 
 had lived he would have been just such a child! 
 But some people have all the trouble and others all 
 the comfort. I am sure I don't know what I have 
 done that I should have to lose my only boy, and 
 have nothing left but girls. To be sure I can afford 
 to dress them elegantly, and as soon as they get old 
 enough I mean to have them taught all sorts of 
 accomplishments. You can't imagine what a relief 
 it is to have plenty of money ! " 
 
 "Indeed, I can't!" I said, "it is quite beyond the 
 reach of my imagination." 
 
 "My uncle that is to say Charley's uncle hai 
 just given me a carriage and horses for my own 
 use. In fact he heaps everything upon me. Where 
 do you go to church?" 
 
 I told her, reminding her that Dr. Cabot was it 
 pastor. 
 
270 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ''Oh, I forgot! Poor Dr. Cabot! Is he a* old 
 fashioned as ever ? " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean ? " I cried. " Ho 
 is as good as ever, if not better. His health is very 
 delicate, and that one thing seems to be a blessing 
 to him.' 
 
 "A blessing! Why, Kate Mortimer! Kate El- 
 liott, I mean. It is a blessing I, for one, am very 
 willing to dispense with. But you always did say 
 queer things. Well, I dare say Dr. Cabot is very 
 good and all that, but his church is not a fashion 
 able one, and Charley and I go to Dr. Bellamy's. 
 That is, I go once a day, pretty regularly, and 
 Charley goes when he feels like it. Good bye. I 
 must go now; I have all my fall shopping to do. 
 Have you done yours? Suppose you jump into 
 the carriage and go with me? You can't imagine 
 how it passes away the morning to drive from shop 
 to shop, looking over the new goods." 
 
 "There seem to be a number of things I can't 
 imagine," I replied, drily. "You must excuse me 
 this morning." 
 
 She took her leave. I looked at her rich dress 
 as she gathered it about her and swept away, and 
 recalled all her empty, frivolous talk with contempt. 
 
 She and Ch , her husband, I mean, are well 
 
 matched. They need their money, and their pala 
 ces and their fine clothes and handsome equipages, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 271 
 
 for they have nothing else. How thankful I am 
 that I am as unlike them as ex 
 
 OCTOBER 30. I'm sure I don't know what 
 
 I was going to say when I was interrupted just 
 then. Something in the way of self-glorification, 
 most likely. I remember the contempt with which 
 I looked after Amelia as she left our house, and the 
 pinnacle on which I sat perched for some days, 
 when I compared my life with hers. Alas, it was 
 my view of life of which I was lost in admiration, 
 for I am sure that if I ever come under the com 
 plete dominion of Christ's gospel, I shall not know 
 the sentiment of disdain. I feel truly ashamed and 
 sorry that I am still so far from being penetrated 
 with that spirit. 
 
 My pride has had a terrible fall. As I sat on my 
 throne, looking down on all the Amelias in the 
 world, I felt a profound pity at their delight in petty 
 trifles, their love of position, of mere worldly show 
 and passing vanities. 
 
 "They are all alike," I said to myself. "They are 
 incapable of understanding a character like mine, 
 or the exalted, ennobling principles that govern me. 
 They crave the applause of this world, they are 
 satisfied with fine clothes, fine houses, fine equipa 
 ges. They think and talk of nothing else; I have 
 aot one idea in common with them. I see the 
 
272 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 emptiness and hollo wness o f these things. I am 
 absolutely unworldly; my ambition is to attain 
 whatever they, in their blind lolly and ignorance, 
 absolutely despise." 
 
 Thus communing with myself, I was not a little 
 pleased to hear Dr. Cabot and his wife announced. 
 1 hastened to meet them and to display to them the 
 virtues I so admired in myself. They had hardly a 
 chance to utter a word. I spoke eloquently of my 
 contempt for worldly vanities, and of my enthusi 
 astic longings for a higher life. I even went into 
 particulars about the foibles of some of my ac 
 quaintances, though faint misgivings as to the pro 
 priety of such remarks on the absent, made me half 
 repent the words I still kept uttering. When they 
 took leave, I rushed to my room with my heart 
 beating, my cheeks all in a glow, and caught up and 
 caressed the children in a way that seemed to 
 astonish them. Then I took my work and sat 
 down to sew. What a horrible reaction now took 
 place! I saw my refined, subtle, disgusting pride, 
 just as I suppose Dr. and Mrs. Cabot saw it! I 
 sat covered with confusion, shocked at myself, 
 shocked at the weakness of human nature. Oh, to 
 get back the good opinion of my friends ! To re- 
 aover my own self-respect! But this was impos 
 sible. I threw down my work and walked about 
 my room. There was a terrible struggle in my 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 273 
 
 soul. I saw that instead of brooding over the dis 
 play I had made of myself to Dr. Cabot I ought to 
 be thinking solely of my appearance in the sight 
 of God, who could see far more plainly than any 
 earthly eye could, all my miserable pride and self- 
 conceit. But I could not do that, and chafed about 
 till I was worn out, body and soul. At last I sent 
 the children away, and knelt down and told the 
 whole story to Him who knew what I was when 
 He had compassion on me, called me by my name, 
 and made me his own child. And here I found 
 a certain peace. Christian, on his way to the celes 
 tial city, met and fought his Apollyons and his 
 giants too; but he got there at last! 
 
XVIII. 
 
 HIS morning Ernest received an early 
 summons to Amelia. I got out of all 
 manner of patience with him because he 
 would take his bath and eat his breakfast 
 before he went, and should have driven any one 
 else distracted by my hurry and flurry. 
 
 44 She has had a hemorrhage ! " I cried. " Do, 
 Ernest, make haste." 
 
 44 Of course," he returned, "that would come, 
 sooner or later." 
 
 "You don't mean," I said, "that she has been in 
 danger of this all along ? " 
 "I certainly do." 
 
 "Then it was very unkind in you not to tell me 
 so." 
 
 "I told you at the outset that her lungs were 
 diseased." 
 
 44 No, you told me no such thing. Oh, Ernest, is 
 she going to die." 
 
 "I did not know you were so fond of her," he 
 said, apologetically. 
 (274) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 275 
 
 " It is not that," I cried. " I am distressed at the 
 thought of the worldly life she has been living at 
 my never trying to influence her for her good. If 
 she is in danger, you will tell her so ? Promise me 
 
 at." 
 
 "I must see her before I make such a promise/ 
 he said, and went out. 
 
 I flew up to my room and threw myself on my 
 knees, sorrowful, self-condemned. I had thrown 
 away my last opportunity of speaking a word to 
 her in season, though I had seen how much she 
 needed one, and now she was going to die! Oh, I 
 hope God will forgive me, and hear the prayers I 
 have offered for her! 
 
 EVENING. Ernest says he had a most dis 
 tressing scene at Amelia's this morning. She in 
 sisted on knowing what he thought of her, and then 
 burst out into bitter complaints and lamentations, 
 charging it to her husband that she had this dis 
 ease, declaring that she could not, and would not 
 die, and insisting that he must prevent it. Her 
 uncle urged for a consultation of physicians, to 
 which Ernest consented, of course, though he says, 
 no mortal power can save her now. I asked him 
 how her husband appeared, to which he made the 
 evasive answer that he appeared jus* as one would 
 expect him to do. 
 
276 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 DECEMBER. Amelia was so determined tc 
 
 see me that Ernest thought it best for me to go. 1 
 found her looking very feeble. 
 
 "Oh, Katy," she began at once, "do make the 
 doctor say that I shall get well!" 
 
 " I wish he could say so with truth," I answered. 
 "Dear Amelia, try to think how happy God's own 
 children are when they are with Him." 
 
 " I can't think," she replied. " I do not want to 
 think. I want to forget all about it. If it were not 
 for this terrible cough I could forget it, for I am 
 really a great deal better than I was a month 
 ago." 
 
 I did not know what to say or what to do. 
 
 "May I read a hymn, or a few verses from the 
 Bible?" I asked, at last. 
 
 "Just as you like," she said, indifferently. 
 
 I read a verse now and then, but she looked 
 tired, and I prepared to go. 
 
 "Don't go," she cried. "I do not dare to be 
 alone. Oh, what a terrible, terrible thing it is to 
 die! To leave this bright, beautiful world, and be 
 nailed up in a coffin and buried up in a cold, dark 
 grave ! " 
 
 "Nay," I said, "to leave this poor sick body 
 there, and to fly to a world ten thousand timee 
 brighter, more beautiful than this." 
 
 44 1 had just got to feeling nearly well," she said, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 277 
 
 "and I had everything I wanted, and Charley wa* 
 quite good to me, and I kept my little girls looking 
 like fairies, just from fairy-land. Everybody sai^ 
 they wore the most picturesque costumes when the/ 
 were dressed according to my taste. And I have got 
 to go and leave them, and Charley will be marry 
 ing somebody else and saying to her all the iiice 
 things he has said to me." 
 
 "I really must go now," I said. "You are 
 wearing yourself all out." 
 
 " I declare you are crying," she exclaimed. " You 
 do pity me after all." 
 
 " Indeed, I do," I said, and came away, heartsick. 
 
 Ernest says there is nothing 1 can do for her npw 
 but to pray for her, since she does not really be 
 lieve herself in danger, and has a vague feeling that 
 if she can once convince him how much she wants 
 to live, he will use some vigorous measures to re 
 store her. Martha is to watch with her to-night 
 Ernest will not let me. 
 
 JAN. 18, 1843. Our wedding-day has passed 
 
 unobserved. Amelia's suffering condition absorbs 
 us all. Martha spends much time with her, and 
 prepares almost all the food she eats. 
 
 JAN. 20. I have seen poor Amelia once 
 
 more, and perhaps for the last time. She has failed 
 
278 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 rapidly of late, and Ernest says may drop away at 
 almost any time. 
 
 When I went in she took me oy the hand, and 
 with great difficulty, and at intervals, said some 
 thing like this : 
 
 "I have made up my mind to it, and I know it 
 must come. I want to see Dr. Cabot. Do you 
 think he would be willing to visit me after my ne 
 glecting him so ? " 
 
 "I am sure he would," I cried. 
 
 " I want to ask him if he thinks I was a Christian 
 at that time you know when. If I was, then 1 
 need not be so afraid to die." 
 
 ".But, dear Amelia, what he thinks is very little 
 to the purpose. The question is not whether you 
 ever gave yourself to God, but whether you are 
 His now. But I ought not to talk to you. Dr. 
 Cabot will know just what to say." 
 
 " No, but I want to know what you thought about 
 it." 
 
 I felt distressed as I looked at her wasted dying 
 figure, to be called on to help decide such a ques 
 tion. But I knew what I ought to say, and said it : 
 "Don't look back to the past; it is useless. Give 
 yourself to Christ now." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 'I don't know how," she said. "Oh, Katy, pray 
 to God to let me live long enough to get ready to 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 279 
 
 die. I have led a worldly life. I shudder at the 
 bare thought of dying; I must have time." 
 
 "Don't wait for time,' I said, with tears, u get 
 roady now, this minute. A thousand years would 
 not make you more fit to die." 
 
 So I came away, weary and heavy-laden, and on 
 the way home stopped to tell Dr. Cabot all about it, 
 and by this time he is with her. 
 
 MARCH 1. Poor Amelia's short race on 
 
 earth is over. Dr. Cabot saw her every few days 
 and says he hopes she did depart in Christian faith, 
 though without Christian joy. I have not seen her 
 since that last interview. That excited me so that 
 Ernest would not let me go again. 
 
 Martha has been there nearly the whole time for 
 three or four weeks, and I really think it has done 
 her good. She seems less absorbed in mere out 
 side things, and more lenient toward me and my 
 failings. . 
 
 I do not know what is to become of those 
 motherless little girls. I wish I could take them 
 into my own home, but, of course, that is not even 
 to be thought of at this juncture. Ernest says their 
 father seemed nearly distracted when Amelia died, 
 and that his uncle is going to send him off to Europa 
 immediately. 
 
 I have been talking with Ernest about Amelia 
 
280 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "What do you think," I asked "about her last days 
 on earth? Was there really any preparation for 
 death?" 
 
 "These scenes are very painful," he returned. 
 "Of course there is but one real preparation foi 
 Christian dying, and that is Christian living." 
 
 " But the sick-room often does what a prosperous 
 life never did!" 
 
 "Not often. Sick persons delude themselves, or 
 are deluded by their friends; they do not believe 
 they are really about to die. Besides, they are be 
 wildered and exhausted by disease, and what men 
 tal strength they have is occupied with studying 
 symptoms, watching for the doctor, and the like. I 
 do not now recall a single instance where a worldly 
 Christian died a happy, joyful death, in all my prac 
 tice." 
 
 " Well, in one sense it makes no difference whether 
 they die happily or not. The question is, do they 
 die in the Lord?" 
 
 "It may make no vital difference to them; but 
 we must not forget that God is honored or dis 
 honored by the way a Christian dies, as well as by 
 the way in which he lives. There is great signifi 
 cance in the description given in the Bible of the 
 death by which John should ' Glorify God; 1 to rnjp 
 tnind it implies that to die well is to live well." 
 
 "But how many thousands die suddenly, or of 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 281 
 
 eiich exhausting disease that they cannot honoi 
 God by even one feeble word." 
 
 44 Of course I do not refer to such cases. All I 
 ask is that those whose minds are clear, who are 
 able to attend to all other final details, should let it 
 be seen what the gospel of Christ can do for poor 
 sinners in the great exigency of life, giving Him the 
 glory. I can tell you, my darling, that standing, aa 
 
 I so often do, by dying beds, this whole subject has 
 become one of great magnitude to my mind. And 
 it gives me positive personal pain to see heirs of the 
 eternal kingdom, made such by the ignominioua 
 death of their Lord, go shrinking and weeping to 
 the full possession of their inheritance." 
 
 Ernest is right, I am sure, but how shall the 
 world, even the Christian world, be convinced, that 
 it may have blessed foretastes of heaven while yet 
 plodding upon earth, and faith to go thither joyfully, 
 for the simple asking? 
 
 Poor Amelia! But she understands it all now. 
 
 I 1 is a blessed thing to have this great faith, and it is 
 a blessed thing to have a Saviour who accepts it 
 when it is but a mere grain of mustard seed ! 
 
 MAY 24. I celebrated my little Una's third 
 
 birthday by presenting her with a new brother. 
 Both the children welcomed him with delight that 
 was of itself compensation enough for a]l it cost me 
 
282 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 to get up such a celebration. Martha takes a most 
 prosaic view of this proceeding, in which she de 
 tects malice prepense on my part. She says I shall 
 now have one mouth the more to fill, and two feet 
 the more to shoe; more disturbed nights, more la 
 borious days, and less leisure for visiting, reading, 
 music, and drawing. 
 
 Well! this is one side of the story, to be sure, 
 but I look at the other. Here is a sweet, fragrant 
 mouth to kiss; here are two more feet to make 
 music with their pattering about my nursery. Here 
 is a soul to train for God, and the body in which it 
 dwells is worthy all it will cost, since it is the abode 
 of a kingly tenant. I may see less of friends, but 1 
 have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, 
 while I minister in Christ's name, I make a willing 
 sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation, 
 my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious 
 baby, you are welcome to your mother's heart, 
 welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her 
 tenderest cares, to her life-long prayers! Oh, how 
 rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest! 
 
 JUNE 5. We begin to be wofully crowded. 
 
 We need a larger house, or a smaller household. I 
 am afraid I secretly, down at the bottom of my 
 heait, wish Martha and her father could give pla(;e 
 to my little ones. May God forgive HK if this jp 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 283 
 
 HO f It is a poor time for such emotions when He 
 bas just given me another darling child, for whom I 
 have as rich and ample a love as if I had spent no 
 affection on the other twain. I have made myself 
 especially kind to poor father and to Martha, lest 
 they should perceive how inconvenient it is to have 
 them here, and be pained by it. I would not, for 
 the world, despoil them of what little satisfaction 
 they may derive from living with us. But, oh! 
 I am so selfish, and it is so hard to practice the very 
 law of love I preach to my children ! Yet I want 
 this law to rule and reign in my home, that it may 
 be a little heaven below, and I will not, no I ivill 
 not, cease praying that it may be such, no matter 
 what it costs me. Poor father ! poor old man ! I 
 will try to make your home so sweet and home 
 like to you, that when you change it for heaveo 
 it shall be but a transition from one bliss to a 
 higher ! 
 
 EVENING. Soon after writing that, I went 
 
 down to see father whom I have had to neglect of 
 late, baby has so used up both time and strength. I 
 found him and Martha engaged in what seemed to 
 be an exciting debate, as Martha had a fiery little 
 red spot on each cheek, and was knitting furiously, 
 I was about to retreat, when she got up in a flur 
 ried way, and went off, saying, as she went: 
 
284 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "You tell her, father; I can't." 
 
 I went up to him tenderly and took his hand. Ah 
 how gentle and loving we are when we have just 
 been speaking to God! 
 
 "What is it, dear father?" I asked; "is anything 
 troubling you ? " 
 
 "She is going to be married," he replied. 
 
 " Dh, father ! " I cried, " how n " nice, I was go 
 ing to say, but stopped just in time. 
 
 All my abominable selfishness, that I thought 1 
 had left at my Master's feet ten minutes before, now 
 came trooping back in full force. 
 
 "She's going to be married; she'll go away, and 
 will take her father to live with her! I can have 
 room for my children, and room for mother ! Every 
 element of discord will now leave my home, and 
 Ernest will see what I really am ! " 
 
 These were the thoughts that rushed through my 
 mind, and that illuminated my face. 
 
 "Does Ernest know?" I asked 
 
 "Yes, Ernest has known it for some weeks." 
 
 Then I felt injured and inwardly accused Ernest 
 of unkindness in keeping so important a fact a se 
 cret. But when I went back to my children, vex 
 ation with him took flight at once. The coming of 
 each new child strengthens and deepens ray desire 
 to be what I would have it become; makes my 
 faults more odious in my eyes, and elevates my 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 285 
 
 whole character. What a blessed discipline of joy 
 and of pain my married life has been; how thank 
 ful I am to reap its fruits even while pricked by ita 
 thorns ! 
 
 JUNE 21. It seems that the happy man who 
 
 has wooed Martha and won her, is no less a person 
 age than old Mr. Underbill. His ideal of a woman 
 is one who has no nerves, no sentiment, no back 
 aches, no headaches, who will see that the wheels 
 of his household machinery are kept well oiled, so 
 that he need never hear them creak, and who, in 
 addition to her other accomplishments, believes in 
 him and will be kind enough to live for ever for hia 
 private accommodation. This expose of his senti 
 ments he has made to me in a loud, cheerful, pom 
 pous way, and he has also favored me with a des 
 cription of his first wife, who lacked all these quali 
 fications, and was obliging enough to depart in 
 peace at an early stage of their married life, meekly 
 preferring thus to make way for a worthier succes 
 sor. Mr. Underbill, with all his foibles, however, 
 is on the whole a good man. He intends to take 
 Amelia's little girls into his own home, and be a 
 father, as Martha will be a mother, to them. For 
 this reason he hurries on the marriage, after which 
 I hey will all go at once to his country-seat, wHoh 
 is easy of access, and which he says he is sure 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 father will enjoy. Poor old father! I hope he will, 
 but when the subject is alluded to he maintains a 
 sombre silence, and it seems to me he never spent 
 so many days alone in his room, brooding over hia 
 misery, as he has of late. Oh, that I could comfoit 
 him. 
 
 JULY 12. The marriage was appointed for 
 
 the first of the month, as old Mr. Underbill wanted 
 to get out of town before the Fourth. As the time 
 drew near, Martha began to pack father's trunk aa 
 well as her own, and brush in and out of his room 
 till he had no rest for the sole of his foot, and seemed 
 as forlorn as a pelican in the wilderness. 
 
 I know no more striking picture of desolation 
 than that presented by one of these quaint birds, 
 standing upon a single leg, feeling as the story has 
 it, "den Jammer und das Elend der Welt." 
 
 On the last evening in June we all sat together 
 on the piazza, enjoying, each in our own way, a re 
 freshing breeze that had sprung up after a sultry 
 day. Father was quieter than usual, and seemed 
 very languid. Ernest, who out of regard to Mar 
 tha s last evening at home, had joined our little cir 
 cle, observed this, and said, cheerfully: 
 
 "You will feel better as soon as you are once 
 more out of the city, father." 
 
 Father made no reply for some minutes, and when 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 287 
 
 he did speak we were all startled to find that hi 
 voice tremjled as if he were shedding tears. We 
 could not understand what he said. I went to him 
 and made him lean his head upon me as he often 
 did when it ached. He took my hand in both his 
 
 " You do love the old man a little ? M he asked, in 
 the same tremulous voice. 
 
 "Indeed, I do!" I cried, greatly touched by hia 
 helpless appeal, "I love you dearly, father. And 1 
 shall miss you sadly." 
 
 "Must I go away then?" he whispered. "Can 
 not I stay here till my summons hence ? It will not 
 be long, it will not be long, my child." 
 
 With the cry of a hurt animal, Martha sprang up 
 and rushed passed us into the house. Ernest followed 
 her, and we heard them talking together a long 
 time. At last Ernest joined us. 
 
 "Father," he said, "Martha is a good deal 
 wounded and disappointed at your reluctance to go 
 with her. She threatens to break off her engage 
 ment rather than to be separated from you. 1 real 
 ly think you would be better off with her than with 
 us. You would enjoy country life, because it i 
 what you have been accustomed to; you could 
 spend hours of every day in driving about; just 
 what your health requires." 
 
 Father did not reply. He took Ernest's arm and 
 tottered into the house. Then we had a most pain 
 
288 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 fill scene. Martha reminded him with bitter teara, 
 that her mother had committed him to her with her 
 last breath, and set before him all the advantages 
 he would have in her house over ours. Father sat 
 pale and inflexible, tear after tear rolling down his 
 cheeks. Ernest looked distressed and ready to 
 sink. As for me I cried with Martha, and with her 
 father by turns, and clung to Ernest with a feeling 
 that all the foundations of the earth were giving way. 
 It came time for evening prayers, and Ernest prayed 
 as he rarely does, for he is rarely so moved. He 
 quieted us all by a few simple words of appeal to 
 Him who loved us, and father then consented to 
 spend the summer with Martha if he might call our 
 home his home, and be with us through the winter. 
 But this was not till long after the rest of us went 
 to bed, and a hard battle with Ernest. He says Er 
 nest is his favorite child, and that I am his favorite 
 daughter, and our children inexpressibly dear to 
 him. I am ashamed to write down what he said of 
 me. Besides, I am sure there is a wicked, wicked 
 triumph over Martha in my secret heart I am too 
 elated with his extraordinary preference for us, to 
 sympathize with her mortification and grief as I 
 ought. Something whispered that she who has 
 never pitied me deserves no pity now. But I do 
 not like this mean and narrow spirit in myself, nay 
 more, I hate and abhor it 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 289 
 
 The marriage took place and they all went off 
 together, father's rigid, white face, whiter, more 
 rigid than ever. I am to go to mother's with the 
 children at once. I feel that a great stone has been 
 rolled away from before the door of my heart; the 
 one human being who refused me a kindly smile, a 
 sympathizing word, has gone, never to return. 
 May God go with her and give her a happy home, 
 and make her true and loving to those motherlesi 
 little ones! 
 
XIX. 
 
 OCTOBEB 1. 
 
 HAVE had a charming summer with deal 
 mother; and now I have the great joy, so 
 long deferred, of having her in my own 
 home. Ernest has been very cordial about 
 it, and James has settled up all her worldly affairs, 
 so that she has nothing to do now but to love ua 
 and let us love her. It is a pleasant picture to see 
 her with my little darlings about her, telling the old 
 sweet story she told me so often, and making God 
 and Heaven and Christ such blissful realities. As I 
 listen, I realize that it is to her I owe that early, 
 deep-seated longing to please the Lord Jesus, which 
 I never remember as having a beginning, or an end 
 ing, though it did have its fluctuations. And it is 
 another pleasant picture to see her sit in her own 
 old chair, which Ernest was thoughtful enough to 
 Lave brought for her, pondering cheerfully over her 
 Bible and her Thomas a Kempis just as I have seen 
 her do ever since I can remember. And there is 
 (290 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 291 
 
 still a third pleasant picture, only that is a new one; 
 it is as she sits at my right hand at the table, the 
 living personification of the blessed gospel of good 
 tidings, with father, opposite, the fading image of 
 the law given by Moses. For father has come back; 
 father and all his ailments, his pill-boxes, his fits of 
 despair and his fits of dying. But he is quiet and 
 gentle, and even loving, and as he sits in his corner, 
 his Bible on his knees, I see how much more he 
 reads the New Testament than he used to do, and 
 that the fourteenth chapter of St. John almost opens 
 to him of itself. 
 
 I must do Martha the justice to say that her ab 
 sence, while it increases my domestic peace and 
 happiness, increases my cares also. What with the 
 children, the housekeeping, the thought for mother's 
 little comforts and the concern for father's, I am 
 like a bit of chaff driven before the wind, and al 
 ways in a hurry. There are so many stitches to be 
 taken, so many things to pass through one's brain ! 
 Mother says no mortal woman ought to undertake 
 so much, but what can I do? While Ernest is 
 straining every nerve to pay off those debts, I must 
 do all the needle work, and we must get along with 
 servants whose want of skill makes them willing to 
 put up with low wages. Of course I cannot tell 
 mother this, and I really believe she thinks I scrimp 
 and pinch and overdo out of mere stinginess. 
 
292 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 DECEMBER 30. Ernest came to me to day 
 
 with our accounts for the last three months. He 
 looked quite worried, for him, and asked me if theie 
 were any expenses we could cut down. 
 
 My heart jumped up into my mouth, and I said 
 in an irritated way: 
 
 *' I am killing myself with over- work now. Moth 
 er says so. I sew every night till twelve o'clock, 
 and I feel all jaded out." 
 
 "I did not mean that I wanted you to do any 
 more than you are doing now, dear," he said, kind 
 ly. "I know you are all jaded out, and I look on 
 this state of feverish activity with great anxiety. 
 Are all these stitches absolutely necessary?" 
 
 "You men know nothing about such things," I 
 said, while my conscience pricked me as I went on 
 hurrying to finish the fifth tuck in one of Una's lit 
 tle dresses. " Of course I want my children to look 
 decent." 
 
 Ernest sighed. 
 
 "I really don't know what to do," he said, in a 
 hopeless way. "Father's persisting in living with 
 us is throwing a burden on you, that with all your 
 other cares is quite too much for you. I see and 
 feel it every day. Don't you think I had better ex 
 plain this to him and let him go to Martha's?" 
 
 " No, indeed ! " I said. " He shall stay here if it 
 kills me, poor old man ! " 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 293 
 
 Ernest began once more to look over the bills, 
 " [ don't know how it is," he said, " but since Mar 
 tha left us our expenses have increased a good 
 deal/ 
 
 Now the truth is that when aunty paid me most 
 generoi".sly for teaching her children, I did not daro 
 to offer my earnings to Ernest, lest he should be an 
 noyed. So I had quietly used it for household ex 
 penses, and it had held out till about the time of Mar 
 tha's marriage. Ernest's injustice was just as pain 
 ful, just as insufferable as if he had known this, and 
 I now burst out with whatever my rasped, over 
 taxed nerves impelled me to say, like one possessed. 
 
 Ernest was annoyed and surprised. 
 
 "I thought we had done with these things," he 
 said, and gathering up the papers he went off. 
 
 I rose and locked my door and threw myself 
 down upon the floor in an agony of shame, anger, 
 and physical exhaustion. I did not know how large 
 a part of what seemed mere childish ill-temper, was 
 really the cry of exasperated nerves, that had been 
 on too strained a tension, and silent too long, and 
 Ernest did not know it either. How could he? 
 His profession kept him for hours every day in the 
 open air; there were times when his work was done 
 and he could take entire rest; and his health is ab 
 solutely perfect. But I did not make any excuse 
 for myself at the moment. I was overwhelmed 
 
294 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 with tlie sense of my utter unfitness to be a wife 
 and a mother. 
 
 Then I heard Ernest try to open the door, and 
 finding it locked, he knocked, calling pleasantly, 
 
 "It is I, darling; let me in." 
 
 I opened it reluctantly enough. 
 
 "Come," he said, "put on your things and drive 
 about with me on my rounds. I have no long vis 
 its to make, and while I am seeing my patients you 
 will be getting the air, which you need" 
 
 "I do not want to go," I said. "I do not feel 
 well enough. Besides, there's my work." 
 
 "You can't see to sew with these red eyes," he 
 declared. "Come! I prescribe a drive, as your 
 physician." 
 
 "Oh, Ernest, how kind, how forgiving you are!" 
 I cried, running into the arms he held out to me 
 " If you knew how ashamed, how sorry I am ! " 
 
 " And if you only knew how ashamed and sorry 
 I am ! " he returned. " I ought to have seen how 
 you were taxing and over-taxing yourself, doing 
 your own work and Martha's too. It must not go 
 on so." 
 
 By this time, with a veil over my face, he had 
 get me down stairs and out into the air, which 
 fanned my fiery cheeks and cooled my heated brain, 
 It seemed to me that I have had all this tempest 
 about nothing at all, and that with a character stiU 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 295 
 
 BO undisciplined, I was utterly unworthy to be eitaer 
 a wife or a mother. But when I tried to say so in 
 broken words, Ernest comforted me with the gentle 
 ness and tenderness of a woman. 
 
 "Your character is not undisciplined, my dar 
 ling," he said. " Your nervous organization is veij 
 peculiar, and you have had unusual cares and trials 
 from the beginning of our married life. I ought 
 not to have confronted you with my father's debts 
 at a moment when you had every reason to look 
 forward to freedom from most petty economies and 
 cares." 
 
 "Don't say so," I interrupted. "If you had not 
 told me you had this draft on your resources I 
 should have always suspected you of meanness. For 
 you know, dear, you have kept me that is to say 
 well you could not help it, but I suppose men 
 can't understand how many demands are made 
 upon a mother for money almost every day. I got 
 along very well till the children came, but since 
 then it has been very hard." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I am sure it has. But let me 
 finish what I was going to say. I want you to 
 make a distinction for yourself, which I make for 
 you, between mere ill-temper, and the irritability 
 that is the result of a goaded state of the nerves. 
 Until you do that, nothing can be done to relieve 
 you from what I am sure distresses and gvievea 
 
296 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 you exceedingly. Now, I suppose that whenevei 
 you speak to me or the children in this irritated 
 wa y you lose your own self-respect, for the time, 
 at least, and feel degraded in the sight of God also." 
 
 44 Oh, Ernest ! there are no words in any language 
 that mean enough to express the anguish I feel 
 when I speak quick, impatient words to you, the 
 one human being in the universe whom I love with 
 all my heart and soul, and to my darling little chil 
 dren who are almost as dear! I pray and mourn 
 over it day and night. God only knows how I hate 
 myself on account of this one horrible sin ! " 
 
 44 It is a sin only as you deliberately and wilfully 
 fulfil the conditions that lead to such results. Now 
 I am sure if you could once make up your mind in 
 the fear of God, never to undertake more work of 
 any sort than you can carry on calmly, quietly, 
 without hurry or flurry, and the instant you find 
 yourself growing nervous and like one out of breath, 
 would stop and take breath, you would find this 
 simple, common-sense rule doing for you what no 
 prayers or tears could ever accomplish. Will you 
 try it for one month, my darling?" 
 
 44 But we can't afford it," I cried, with almost a 
 groan. "Why, you have told me this very day 
 that our expenses must be cut down, and now you 
 want me to add to them by doing less work. Bui 
 the work mus* be done. The children must be 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 297 
 
 clothed, and there is no end to the stitches to be 
 taken for them, and your stockings must be mended 
 you make enormous holes in them ! and you don't 
 like it if you ever find a button wanting to a shirt, 
 or your supply of shirts getting low." 
 
 "All you say may be very true," he returned, 
 * 4 but I am determined that you shall not be driven 
 to desperation as you have been of late." 
 
 By this time we had reached the house where 
 his visit was to be made, and I had nothing to do 
 but lean back and revolve all he had been saying, 
 over and over again, and to see its reasonableness 
 while I could not see what was to be done for my 
 relief. Ah, I have often felt in moments of bitter 
 grief at my impatience with my children, that per 
 haps God pitied more than He blamed me for it! 
 And now my dear husband was doing the same! 
 
 When Ernest had finished his visit we drove on 
 again in silence. 
 
 At last I asked, 
 
 "Do tell me, Ernest, if you worked out this 
 problem all by yourself?" 
 
 He smiled a little. 
 
 "No, I did not. But I have had a patient for 
 two or three years whose case has interested me a 
 good deal, and for whom I finally prescribed just as 
 I have done for you. The thing worked like a charm 
 and she is now physically and morally quite well/ 
 
298 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " I dare say her husband is a rich man," I said. 
 
 " He is not as poor as your husband, at any rate," 
 Ernest replied. "But rich or poor I am deter- 
 mined not to sit looking on while you exert your 
 self so far beyond your strength. Just think, dear, 
 suppose for fifty or a hundred or two hundred 
 dollars a year you could buy a sweet, cheerful, 
 quiet tone of mind, would you hesitate one moment 
 to do so ? And you can do it if you will. You are 
 not HI- tempered but quick- tempered ; the irrita 
 bility which annoys you so is a physical infirmity 
 which will disappear the moment you cease to be 
 goaded into it by that exacting mistress you have 
 hitherto been to yourself." 
 
 All this sounded very plausible while Ernest was 
 talking, but the moment I got home I snatched up 
 my work from mere force of habit. 
 
 44 1 may as well finish this as it is begun," I said 
 to myself, and the stitches flew from my needle like 
 aparks of fire. Little Ernest came and begged for 
 a story, but I put him off. Then Una wanted to sit 
 in my lap, but I told her I was too busy. In the 
 course of an hour the influence of the fresh air and 
 of Ernest's talk had nearly lost their power o\cr 
 me; my thread kept breaking, the children leaned 
 on and tired me, the baby woke up and cried, ami 
 I got all out of patience. 
 
 "Do go away, Ernest," I said, "and let mamma 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 299 
 
 have a little peace Don't you see how busy I am? 
 Go and play with Una like a good boy." But ha 
 would not go, and kept teasing Una till she, too, 
 began to cry, and she and baby made a regular 
 concert of it. 
 
 U 0h, dear!" I sighed, "this work will never be 
 done!" and threw it down impatiently, and took 
 the baby impatiently, and began to walk up and 
 down with him impatiently. I was not willing that 
 this little darling, whom I love so dearly, should 
 get through with his nap, and interrupt my work; 
 yet I was displeased with myself, and tried by kiss 
 ing him to make some amends for the hasty, un 
 pleasant tones with which I had grieved him and 
 frightened the other children. This evening Er 
 nest came to me with a larger sum of money than 
 he had ever given me at one time. 
 
 " Now every cent of this is to be spent," he said, 
 "in having work done. I know any number of 
 poor women who will be thankful to have all you 
 can give them." 
 
 Dear me ! it is easy to talk, and I do feel grateful 
 to Ernest for his thoughtfulness and kindness. But 
 I am almost in rags, and need every cent of this 
 money to make myself decent. I am positively 
 ashamed to go anywhere my clothes are so shabby. 
 Besides, supposing I leave off sewing and all sorti 
 of over-doing of a kindred nature, I must nurse my 
 
300 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 baby, I suppose, and be up with him nights, and the 
 others will have their cross days and their sick days, 
 and father will have his. Alas, there can be for me 
 no royal road to a " sweet, cheerful, quiet tone of 
 mind ! " 
 
 JAN. 1, 1844. Mother says Ernest is entirely 
 
 right in forbidding my working go hard. I must 
 own that I already feel better. I have all the time I 
 need to read my Bible, and to pray now, and the 
 children do not irritate and annoy me as they did. 
 Who knows but I shall yet become quite amiable? 
 
 Ernest made his father very happy to-day by 
 telling him that the last of those wretched debta 
 is paid. I think that he might have told me that 
 this deliverance was at hand. I did not know but 
 we had years of these struggles with poverty be 
 fore us. What with the relief from this anxiety, my 
 improved state of health, and father's pleasure, I am 
 in splendid spirits to-day. Ernest, too, seems won 
 derfully cheerful, and we both feel that we may 
 now look forward to a quiet happiness we have 
 never known. With such a husband and such 
 children as mine, I ought to be the most grateful 
 creature on earth. And I have dear mother and 
 James besides, I don't quite know what to think 
 about James' relation to Lucy. He is so brimful 
 and running over with happiness that he is also full 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 801 
 
 jf fun and of love, and after all he may only like 
 her as a cousin. 
 
 FEB. 14. Father has not been so well of 
 
 late. It seems as if he kept up until he was re 
 lieved about those debts, and then sunk down. 1 
 read to him a good deal, and so does mother, but 
 his mind is still dark, and he looks forward to the 
 hour of death with painful misgivings. He is get 
 ting a little childish about my leaving him, and 
 clings to me exactly as if I were his own child. 
 Martha spends a good deal of time with him, and 
 fusses over him in a way that I wonder she does not 
 see is annoying to him. He wants to be read to, to 
 hear a hymn sung or a verse repeated, and to be 
 left otherwise in perfect quiet. But she is continual 
 ly pulling out and shaking up his pillows, bathing 
 his head in hot vinegar and soaking his feet. It 
 looks so odd to see her in one of the elegant silk 
 dresses old Mr. Underbill makes her wear, with her 
 sleeves rolled up, the skirt hid away under a large 
 apron, rubbing away at poor father till it seems aa 
 if his tired soul would fly out of him. 
 
 FEB. 20. Father grows weaker every day. 
 
 Ernest has sent for his other children, John and 
 Helen. Martha is no longer able to come here: 
 her husband is very sick with a fever, and cannot 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 be left alone. No doubt he enjoys her Lust ling 
 way of nursing, and likes to have his pillows pushed 
 from under him every five minutes. I am afraid I 
 feel glad that she is kept away, and that I have fa 
 ther all to myself. Ernest never was so fond of me 
 as he is now. I don't know what to make ol it. 
 
 FEB. 22. John and his wife and Helen have 
 
 come. They stay at Martha's where there is plenty 
 of room. John's wife is a little soft dumpling of a 
 thing, and looks up to him as a mouse would look 
 up at a steeple. He strikes me as a very selfish 
 man. He steers straight for the best seat, leaving 
 her standing, if need be, accepts her humble atten 
 tions with the air of one collecting his just debts, 
 and is continually snubbing and setting her right. 
 Yet in some things he is very like Ernest, and per 
 haps a wife destitute of self-assertion and withou' 
 much individuality would have spoiled him as Har 
 riet has spoiled John. For I think it must be parti} 
 her fault that he dares to be so egotistical. Helen 
 is the dearest, prettiest creature I ever saw. Oh. 
 why would James take a fancy to Lucy ! I feel the 
 new delight of having a sister to love and to ad 
 mire. And she will love me, in time; I feel sure 
 of it 
 
 MARCH 1. Father is very feeble, and in 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 303 
 
 great mental distress. He gropes about in the 
 dark, and shudders at the approach of death. We 
 can do nothing but pray for him. And the cloud 
 will be lifted when he leaves this world if not before. 
 For I know he is a good, yes, a saintly man, dear 
 to God and dear to Christ. 
 
 MARCH 4. Dear father has gone. We were 
 
 all kneeling and praying and weeping around him, 
 when suddenly he called me to come to him. I 
 went and let him lean his head on my breast, as he 
 loved to do. Sometimes I have stood so by the 
 hour together ready to sink with fatigue, and only 
 kept up with the thought that if this were my own 
 precious father's bruised head I could stand and 
 hold it forever. 
 
 "Daughter Katherine," he said, in his faint, 
 tremulous way, "you have come with me to the 
 very brink of the river. I thank God for all your 
 cheering words and ways. I thank God for giving 
 you to be a helpmeet to my son. Farewell, now," 
 he added in a low, firm voice, "I feel the bottom, 
 and it is good!" 
 
 He lay back on his pillow looking upward with 
 an expression of seraphic peace and joy on his worn, 
 meagre face, and so his life passed gently away. 
 
 Oh, the affluence of God's payments ! What a 
 recompense for the poor love I had given my hus- 
 
304 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 baud's father, and the poor little services I had 
 rendered him! Oh, that I had never been impa 
 tient with him, never smiled at his peculiarities, 
 never in my secret heart felt him unwelcome to my 
 home ! And how wholly I overlooked, in my blind 
 selfishness, what he must have suffered in feeling 
 himself homeless, dwelling with us on sufferance, 
 but master and head nowhere on earth! May God 
 carry these lessons home to my heart of hearts, and 
 make this cloud of mingled remorse and shame 
 which now envelops me, to descend in showers of 
 love and benediction on every human soul that mine 
 can bless! 
 
XX. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 HAVE had a new lesson which has almost 
 broken my heart. In looking over his 
 father's papers, Ernest found a little jour 
 nal, brief in its records indeed, but we 
 learn from it that on all those wedding and birth 
 days, when I fancied his austere religion made him 
 hold aloof from our merry-making, he was spending 
 1 he time in fasting and praying for us and for our 
 children ! Oh, shall I ever learn the sweet charity 
 that thinketh no evil, and believeth all things! 
 What blessings may not have descended upon us 
 and our children through those prayers! What 
 evils may they not have warded off! Dear old fa 
 ther ! Oh, that I could once more put my loving 
 arms about him and bid him welcome to our home ! 
 And how gladly would I now confess to him all my 
 unjust judgments concerning him and entreat his 
 forgiveness! Must life always go on thus? Must 
 I always ue erring, ignorant and blind? How I 
 (305) 
 
306 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 hate iliis arrogant sweeping past my brother man; 
 this utter ignoring of his hidden life! 
 
 I see now that it is well for mother that she did 
 not come to live with me at the beginning of my 
 married life. I should not have borne with her 
 little peculiarities, nor have made her half so happy 
 as I can now. I thank God that my varied disap 
 pointments and discomforts, my feeble health, my 
 poverty, my mortifications have done me some lit 
 tle good, and driven me to Him a thousand times be 
 cause I could not get along without His help. But 
 I am not satisfied with my state in His sight. I am 
 sure something is lacking, though I know not what 
 it is. 
 
 MAY. Helen is going to stay here and live 
 
 with Martha. How glad, how enchanted I am! 
 Old Mr. Underhill is getting well; I saw him to 
 day. He can talk of nothing but his illness, of 
 Martha's wonderful skill in nursing him, declaring 
 that he owos his life to her. I felt a little piqued at 
 this speech, because Ernest was very attentive to 
 him, and no doubt did his share towards the cure. 
 We have fitted up father's room for a nursery. 
 Hitherto all the children have had to sleep in our 
 room, which has been bad for them and bad for us, 
 I have been so afraid they would keep Ernest awake 
 if they were unwell and restless. I have secured 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 307 
 
 an excellent nurse, who is as fresh and blooming as 
 the flower whose name she bears. The children 
 are already attached to her, and I feel that the worst 
 of my life is now over. 
 
 JUNE. Little Ernest was taken sick on the 
 
 very day I wrote that. The attack was fearfully 
 sudden and violent. He is still very, very ill. I have 
 not forgotten that I said once that I would give my 
 children to God should He ask for them. And I 
 will. But, oh, this agony of suspense ! It eats into 
 my soul and eats it away. Oh, my little Ernest ! 
 My first-born son! My pride, my joy, my hopeJ 
 And I thought the worst of my life was over! 
 
 AUGUST. We have come into the country 
 
 with what God has left us, our two youngest chil 
 dren. Yes, I have tasted the bitter cup of bereave 
 ment, and drunk it down to its dregs. I gave, my 
 darling to God, I gave him, I gave him ! But, oh, 
 with what anguish I saw those round, dimpled 
 limbs wither and waste away, the glad smile fade 
 forever from that beautiful face! What a fearful 
 thing it is to be a mother! But I have given my 
 child to God. I would not recall him if I could. I 
 am thankful He has counted me worthy to present 
 Him so costly a gift. 
 
 I cannot shed a tear, and I must find relief in 
 

 308 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 writing, or I shall lose my senses. My noble, beau 
 tiful boy ! My first-born son ! And to think that 
 my delicate little Una still lives, and that death has 
 claimed that bright, glad creature who was the 
 sunshine of our home ! 
 
 But let me not forget my mercies. Let me not 
 forget that I have a precious husband and two dar 
 ling children, and my kind, sympathizing mother 
 Btill left to me. Let me not forget how many kind 
 friends gathered about us in our sorrow. Above 
 all let me remember God's loving-kindness and ten 
 der mercy. He has not left us to the bitterness of 
 a grief that refuses and disdains to be comforted. 
 We believe in Him, we love Him, we worship Him 
 as we never did before. 
 
 My dear Ernest has felt this sorrow to his heart's 
 core. But he has not for one moment questioned 
 the goodness or the love of our Father in thus tak 
 ing from us the child who promised to be our 
 greatest earthly joy. Our consent to God's will 
 has drawn us together very closely; together we 
 bear the yoke in our youth, together we pray and 
 ging praises in the very midst of our tears. " I was 
 dumb with silence because Thou didst it." 
 
 SEPT. The old pain and cough have come 
 
 back with the first cool nights of this month. Per 
 haps I am going to my darling I do not know. I 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 80S 
 
 urn certainly very feeble. Consenting to suffer does 
 not annul the suffering. Such a child could not go 
 hence without rending and tearing its way out of 
 the heart that loved it. This world is wholly 
 changed to me and I walk in it like one in a dream. 
 And dear Ernest is changed, too. He says little, 
 and is all kindness and goodness to me, but I can 
 see that here is a wound that will never be healed. 
 I am confined to my room now with nothing to 
 do but to think, think, think. I do not believe that 
 God has taken our child in mere displeasure, but I 
 cannot but feel that this affliction might not have 
 been necessary if I had not so chafed and writhed, 
 and secretly repined at the way in which my home 
 was invaded, and at our galling poverty. God has 
 exchanged the one discipline for the other; and, 
 oh, how far more bitter is this cup ! 
 
 OCT. 4. My darling boy would have been 
 
 six years old to-day. Ernest still keeps me shut up, 
 but he rather urges my seeing a friend now and 
 then. People say very strange things in the way of 
 consolation. I begin to think that a tender 2lasp of 
 the hand is about all one can give to the afflicted- 
 One says I must not grieve, because my child is bet 
 ter off in heaven. Yes he is better off; I know it, 
 I feel it, but I miss him none the less. Oth( rs say, 
 l-e might have grown up to be a bad man and brok- 
 
510 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 en my heart. Perhaps he might, but I cannot make 
 myself believe that likely. One lady asked me, if 
 this affliction was not a rebuke of my idolatry of 
 my darling; and another, if I had not been in a cold, 
 worldly state, needing this severe blow on that ao 
 count. 
 
 But I find no consolation or support in these re 
 marks. My comfort is in my perfect faith in the 
 goodness and love of my Father, my certainty that 
 He had a reason in thus afflicting me that I should 
 admire and adore if I knew what it was. And in 
 the midst of my sorrow I have had and do have a 
 delight in Him hitherto unknown, so that some 
 times this room in which I am a prisoner seems like 
 the very gate of heaven. 
 
 MAT. A long winter in my room, and all 
 
 sorts of painful remedies and appliances and depri 
 vations. And now I am getting well, and drive out 
 every day. Martha sends her carriage, and mother 
 goes with me. Dear mother! How nearly perfect 
 she is ! I never saw a sweeter face, nor ever heard 
 sweater expressions of faith in God, and love to all 
 about her, than hers. She has been my tower of 
 strength all through these weary months, and 
 yet she has shared my sorrow and made it bei 
 own. 
 
 I can see that dear Ernest's affliction and this pro 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 311 
 
 longed anxiety about me have been a heavenly 
 benediction to him. I am sure that every mother 
 whoso sick child he visits, will have a sympathy hft 
 could not have gi ven while all our own little one 
 were alive and well. I thank God that He has thua 
 increased my dear husband's usefulness, as I think 
 that He has mine also. How tenderly I already 
 feel towards all suffering children, and how easy it 
 will be now to be patient with them ! 
 
 KEENK, N. H., JULY 12. It is a year ago this day 
 that the brightest sunshine faded out of our lives, 
 and our beautiful boy was taken from us. I have 
 been tempted to spend this anniversary in bitter 
 tears and lamentations. For, oh, this sorrow is not 
 healed by time! I feel it more and more. But I 
 begged God when I first awoke this morning not 
 to let me so dishonor and grieve Him. I may suf 
 fer, I must suffer, He means it, He wills it, but let 
 it be without repining, without gloomy desponden 
 cy. The world is full of sorrow; it is not I alone 
 who taste its bitter draughts, nor have I the only 
 right to a sad countenance. Oh, for patience to 
 bear on, cost what it may ! 
 
 " Cheerfully and gratefully I lay myself and all I 
 am or own, at the feet of Him who redeemed me 
 with His precious blood, engaging to follow Him; 
 bearing the cross He lays upon me." This is the 
 
312 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 least I can do, and I do it while my heart lies brok 
 en and bleeding at His feet. 
 
 My dear little Una has improved somewhat in 
 Uealth, but I am never free from anxiety about her 
 She is my milk-white lamb, my dove, my fragrant 
 (lower One cannot look in her pure face without 
 a sense of peace and rest. She is the sentinel who 
 voluntarily guards my door when I am engaged at 
 my devotions; she is my little comforter when I am 
 sad; my companion and friend at all times. I talk 
 to her of Christ, and always have done, just as 1 
 think of Him, and as if I expected sympathy from 
 her in my love to Him. It was the same with my 
 darling Ernest. If I required a little self-denial, I 
 said, cheerfully, "This is hard, but doing it for our 
 best Friend sweetens it," and their alacrity was 
 pleasant to see. Ernest threw his whole soul into 
 whatever he did, and sometimes when engaged in 
 play would hesitate a little when directed to do 
 something else, such as carrying a message for me, 
 and the like. But if I said, " If you do this cheer 
 fully and pleasantly, my darling, you do it for Jesus, 
 and that will make Him smile upon you," he would 
 invariably yield at once. 
 
 Is not this the true, the natural way of linking 
 every little daily act of a child's life with that Di 
 vine Love, that Divine Life which gives meaning tv 
 all things? 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 313 
 
 But what do I mean by the vain boast that I have 
 always trained my children thus ? Alas ! I have 
 done it only at times; for while my theory was 
 sound, my temper of mind was but too often un 
 sound. I was often and 'often impatient with my 
 dear iittle boy; often my tone was a worldly one; 
 I was often full of eager interest in mere outside 
 things, and forgot that I was living or that my chil 
 dren were living save for the present moment. 
 
 It seems now that I have a child in heaven, and 
 am bound to the invisible world by such a tie, that 
 I can never again be entirely absorbed by this. 
 
 I fancy my ardent, eager little boy as having some 
 such employments in his new and happy home as 
 he had here. I see him loving Him who took chil 
 dren in His arms and blessed them, with all the 
 warmth of which his nature is capable, and as per 
 haps employed as one of those messengers whom 
 God sends forth as His ministers. For I cannot 
 think of those active feet, those busy hands as al 
 ways quiet. Ah, my darling, that I could look in 
 upon you for a moment, a single moment, and catch 
 one of your radiant smiles ; just one ! 
 
 AUGUST 4. How full are David's Psalma 
 
 of the cry of the sufferer! He must have experi- 
 enced every kind of bodily and mental torture. lie 
 gives most vivid illustrations of the wasting, wear' 
 H 
 
514 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ing pro jess .of disease for instance, what a contrast 
 is the picture we have of him when he was, "rud 
 dy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and 
 goodly to look to," and the one he paints of him 
 self in after years, when he says, " I may tell all my 
 bones, they look and stare upon me; my days are 
 like a shadow that declineth, and I am withered like 
 grass. I am weary with groaning; all the night 
 make I my bed to swim ; I water my couch with 
 my tears. For my soul is full of troubles; and my 
 life draweth near unto the grave." 
 
 And then what wails of anguish are these ! 
 
 " I am afflicted, and ready to die from my youth 
 up ; while I suffer thy terrors I am distracted. Thy 
 wrath lieth hard upon me and thou hast afflicted 
 me with all thy waves. All thy waves and thy bil 
 lows have gone over me. Lover and friend hasl 
 fchou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into 
 utter darkness." 
 
 Yet through it all what grateful joy in God, what 
 expressions of living faith and devotion! During 
 my long illness and confinement to my room, the 
 Bible laas been almost a new book to me, and 1 se< 
 that God has always dealt with His children as lit 
 deals with them now, and that no new thing hat 
 befallen me. All these weary days so full of Ian 
 guor, these nights so full of unrest, have had theii 
 appointed mission to my soul. And perhaps I hav* 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 315 
 
 had no discipline so salutary as this forced inaction 
 and uselessness, at a time when youth and natural 
 energy continually cried out for room and work. 
 
 AUGUST 15. I dragged out my drawing 
 
 materials in a listless way this morning, and began 
 to sketch the "beautiful scene from my window. At 
 first I could not feel interested. It seemed as if my 
 hand was crippled and lost its cunning when it un 
 loosed its grasp of little Ernest, and let him go. But 
 I prayed, as I worked, that I might not yield to tlie 
 inclination to despise and throw away the gift with 
 which God has Himself endowed me. Mother \\as 
 gratified, and said it rested her to see me act like 
 myself once more. Ah, I have been very selfish, 
 and have been far too much absorbed with my sor 
 row and my illness and my own petty struggles. 
 
 AUGUST 19. I met to-day an old friend, 
 
 Maria Kelly, who is married, it seems, and settled 
 down in this pretty village. She asked so many 
 questions about my little Ernest that I had to tell 
 her the whole story of his precious life, sickness 
 and death. I forced myself to do this quietly, and 
 without any great demand on her sympathies. My 
 reward for the constraint I thus put upon myselij 
 was the abrupt question: 
 
 "Haven't you grown stoical?" 
 
516 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I felt the angiy blood rush through my veins AI 
 it has not done in a long time. My pride was 
 wounded to the quick, and those cruel, unjust 
 words still rankle in my heart. This is not as it 
 should be. I am constantly praying that my pride 
 may be humbled, and then when it is attacked, I 
 shrink from the pain the blow causes, and am angry 
 with the hand that inflicts it. It is just so with two 
 or three unkind things Martha has said to me. I 
 can't help brooding over them and feeling stung 
 with their injustice, even while making the most 
 desperate struggle to rise above and forget them. 
 It is well for our fellow-creatures that God forgives 
 and excuses them, when we fail to do it, and I can 
 easily fancy that poor Maria Kelly is at this moment 
 dearer in His sight than I am who have taken fire 
 at a chance word. And I can see now, what I 
 wonder I did not see at the time, that God was 
 dealing very kindly and wisely with me when he 
 made Martha overlook my good qualities, of which 
 I suppose I have some, as everybody else has, and 
 call out all my bad ones, since the ax was thus laid, 
 at the root of self-love. And it is plain that self- 
 love cannot die without a fearful struggle. 
 
 MAY 26, 1846. How long it is since I have 
 
 written in my journal ! We have had a winter full 
 of cares, perplexities and sicknesses. Mother began 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 317 
 
 it by such a severe attack of inflammatory rheuma 
 tism as I could not have supposed she could live 
 through. Her sufferings were dreadful, and I 
 might almost say her patience was, for I often 
 thought it would be less painful to hear her groan 
 and complain, than to witness such heroic fortitude, 
 such sweet docility under God's hand. I hope 1 
 shall never forget the lessons I have learned in her 
 sick-room. Ernest says he never shall cease to re 
 joice that she lives with us, and that he can watch 
 over her healtn. He has indeed been like a son to 
 her, and this has been a great solace amid all her 
 sufferings. Before she was able to leave the room, 
 poor little Una was prostrated by one of her ill 
 turns, and is still very feeble. The only way in 
 which she can be diverted is by reading to her, and 
 I have done little else these two months but hold 
 her in my arms, singing little songs and hymns, 
 telling stories and reading what few books I can 
 find that are unexciting, simple, yet enterta'ning. 
 My precious little darling! She bears the yoke in 
 her youth without a frown, but it is agonizing to 
 see her suffer so. How much easier it would be to 
 bear all her physical infirmities myself! I suppose 
 fco those who look on from the outside, we must 
 appear like a most unhappy family, since we hardly 
 get free from one trouble before another steps in. 
 Bui I see more and more that happiness is not de* 
 
318 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 pendent on health or any other outside prosperity. 
 We are at peace with each other and at peace with 
 God; His dealings with us do not perplex or 
 puzzle us, though we do not pretend to understand 
 them On the other hand, Martha, with absolutely 
 perfect health, with a husband entirely devoted to 
 her, and with every wish gratified, yet seems al 
 ways careworn and dissatisfied. Her servants worry 
 her very life out; she misses the homely household 
 duties to which she has been accustomed; and 
 her conscience stumbles at little things, arid over 
 looks greater ones. It is very interesting, I think, 
 to study different homes, as well as the different 
 characters that fDrm them. 
 
 Amelia's little girls are quiet, good children, to 
 whom their father writes what Mr. Underhill and 
 Martha, pronounce "beautiful" letters, wherein he 
 always styles himself their "broken-hearted but 
 devoted father." " Devotion," to my mind, involves 
 self-sacrifice, and I cannot reconcile its use, in this 
 case, with the life of ease he leads, while all the 
 care of his children is thrown upon others. But 
 some people, by means of a few such phrases, not 
 only impose upon themselves but upon their friends, 
 and pass for persons of great sensibility. 
 
 As I have been confined to the house nearly the 
 whole winter, I have had to derive my spiritual 
 eupport from books, and as mother gradually re- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 319 
 
 covered, she enjoyed Leighton with me, as 1 kue\* 
 she would. Dr. Cabot comes to sec us very often^ 
 but I do not now find it possible to get the instruc 
 tion from him I used to do. I see that the Chris 
 tian life must be individual, as the natural charac 
 ter is and that I cannot be exactly like Dr. Cabot, or 
 exactly like Mrs. Campbell, or exactly like mother, 
 though they all three stimulate and are an inspira 
 tion to me. But I see, too, that the great points 
 of similarity in Christ's disciples have always been 
 the same. This is the testimony of all the good 
 books, sermons, hymns, and memoirs I read that 
 God's ways are infinitely perfect; that we are to 
 love Him for what He is, and therefore equally as 
 much when He afflicts as when He prospers us; 
 that there is no real happiness but in doing and 
 Buffering His will, and that this life is but a scene of 
 probation through which we pass to the real life 
 above. 
 
XXL 
 
 MAI 30. 
 
 asked me to go with him to see 
 one of his patients, as he often does when 
 there is a lull in the tempest at home. We 
 both feel that as we have so little money 
 of our own to give away, it is a privilege to give 
 what services and what cheering words we can. As 
 I took it for granted that we were going to see some 
 poor old woman, I put up several little packages of 
 tea and sugar, with which Susan Green always 
 keeps me supplied, and added a bottle of my own 
 raspberry vinegar, which never comes amiss, I find, 
 to old people. Ernest drove to the door of an 
 aristocratic-looking house, and helped me to alight 
 in his usual silence. 
 
 44 It is probably one of the servants we are going 
 to visit," I thought within myself; "but I ain sur 
 prised at his bringing me. The family may not ap 
 prove it." 
 The next thing I knew I found myself being 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 32i 
 
 Introduced to a beautiful, brilliant young lady, \vh<, 
 sat in a wheel-chair like a queen on a throne iii a 
 room full of tasteful ornaments, flowers and birds. 
 Now I had come away just as 1 was, when Ernest 
 called me, and that "was" means a very plain ging 
 ham dress wherein I had been darning stockings 
 all the morning. I suppose a saint wouldn't have 
 cared for that, but / did, and for a moment stood the 
 picture of confusion, my hands full of oddly shaped 
 parcels, and my face all in a flame. 
 
 " My wife, Miss Clifford," I heard Ernest say, and 
 then I caught the curious, puzzled look in her eyes, 
 which said as plainly as words could do. 
 
 "What has the creature brought me?" 
 
 "I ask your pardon, Miss Clifford," I said, think 
 ing it best to speak out just the honest truth, " but 
 I supposed the doctor was taking me to see some 
 one of his old women, and so I have brought you a 
 little tea, and a little sugar, and a bottle of raspberry 
 vinegar ! " 
 
 " How delicious ! " cried she. " It really rests me 
 to meet with a genuine human being at last ! Why 
 didn t you make some stiff, prim speech, instead of 
 telling the truth out and out? I declare I mean t<j 
 keep all you have brought me, just for the fun of 
 the thing." 
 
 This put me at ease, and I forgot all about my 
 dress in a moment. 
 
322 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " I see you are just what the doctor boasted you 
 were," she went on. "But he never would bring 
 you to see me before. I suppose he has told you 
 why I could not go to see you?" 
 
 "To tell the truth, he never speaks to me of 
 his patients unless he thinks I can be of use to 
 them." 
 
 " I dare say I do not look much like an invalid," 
 said she; "but here I am, tied to this chair. It is 
 six months since I could bear my own weight upon 
 my feet." 
 
 I saw then that though her face was so bright and 
 full of color, her hand was thin and transparent 
 But what a picture she made as she sat there in her 
 magnificent beauty, relieved by such a back-ground 
 of foliage, flowers, and artistic objects ! 
 
 "I told the doctor the other day that life was 
 nothing but a humbug, and he said he should bring 
 me a remedy against that false notion the next time 
 he came, and you, I suppose, are that remedy," she 
 continued. " Come, begin ; I am ready to take any 
 number of doses." 
 
 I could only laugh and try to look daggers at 
 Ernest, who sat looking over a magazine, apparent- 
 ly absorbed in its contenta 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried, nodding her head sagaciously, 
 M I knew you would agree with me." 
 
 " Agree with you in calling life a humbug 1 " I 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 323 
 
 cried, now fairly aroused " Death itself is not mor 
 a reality!" 
 
 " I have not tried death yet," she said, more seri 
 ously; "but I have tried life twenty-five years, and 
 I know all about it. It is eat, drink, sleep, yawn 
 and be bored. It is what shall I wear, where shall 
 I go, how shall I get rid of the time; it says, 4 How 
 do you do? how is your husband? How are your 
 children?' it means, 'Now I have asked all the 
 conventional questions, and I don't care a fig what 
 their answer may be/" 
 
 " This may be its meaning to some persons," I re 
 plied, "for instance, to mere pleasure-seekers. But 
 of course it is interpreted quite differently by others. 
 To some it means nothing but a dull, hopeless strug 
 gle with poverty and hardship and its whole 
 aspect might be changed to them, should those who 
 do not know what to do to get rid of the time, 
 spend th^ir surplus leisure in making this struggle 
 less brutalizing." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard such doctrine, and at one 
 time I tried charity myself. I picked up a dozen or 
 BO of dirty little wretches out of the streets, arid 
 undertook to clothe and teach them. I might as 
 well have tried to instruct the chairs in my room. 
 Besides the whole house had to be aired after they 
 had gone, and mamma missed two tea-spoons and a 
 fork, and was perfectly disgusted with the whole 
 
324 STEPPING HEAVENWARB. 
 
 thing. Then I fell to knitting socks for babies, but 
 they only occupied my hands, and my head felt as 
 empty as ever. Mamma took me off on a journey, 
 as she always did when I took to moping, and thai 
 diverted me for a while. But after that everything 
 went on in the old way. I got rid of part of the 
 day by changing my dress, and putting on my 
 pretty things it is a great thing to have a habit of 
 wearing one's ornaments, for instance; and then ID 
 the evening one could go to the opera or the thea 
 ter, or some other place of amusement, after which 
 one could sleep all through the next morning, and 
 so get rjd of that. But I had been used to such 
 things all my life, and they had got to be about as 
 flat as flat can be. If I had been born a little earlier 
 \n the history of the world, I would have gone into 
 a convent; but that sort of thing is out of fashion now." 
 
 "The best convent," I said, "for a woman, is the 
 seclusion of her own home. There she may find 
 her vocation and fight her battles, and there she 
 may learn the reality and the earnestness of life." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " cried she. " Excuse me, however, for 
 saying that; but some of the most brilliant girla 
 I know have settled down into mere married womer s 
 and spend their whole time in nursing babies i 
 Think how belittling ! " 
 
 " Is it more so than spending it in dressing, driv 
 ing, dancing, and the like?" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 325 
 
 "Of course it is. I had a friend once who shone 
 like a star in society. She married, and had four 
 children as fast as she could. Well ! what was the 
 consequence? She lost her beauty, lost her spirit 
 and animation, lost her youth, and lost her health. 
 I lie only earthly things she can talk about are 
 teething, dieting and the measles ! " 
 
 I laughed at this exaggeration, and looked round 
 to see what Ernest thought of such talk. But ho 
 had disappeared. 
 
 " As you have spoken plainly to me, knowing me 
 to be a wife and a mother, you must allow me to 
 speak plainly in return," I began. 
 
 " Oh, speak plainly, by all means ! I am quite 
 sick and tired of having truth served up in pink 
 cotton, and scented with lavender. " 
 
 " Then you will permit me to say that when you 
 speak contemptuously of the vocation of maternity, 
 you dishonor, not only the mother who bore you, 
 but the Lord Jesus Himself, who chose to be borii 
 of woman, and to be ministered unto by her through 
 a helpless infancy." 
 
 Miss Clifford was a little startled. 
 
 "How terribly in earnest you are!" she said 
 4 It is plain that to you, at any rate, life is indeed 
 no humbug." 
 
 I thought of my dear ones, of Ernest, of my 
 children, of mother and of James, and I thought of 
 
326 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 iny love to them and of theirs to me. And 1 
 thought of Him who alone gives reality to even 
 such joys as these. My face must have been illu* 
 m in a ted by the thought, for she dropped the ban- 
 taring tone she had used hitherto, and asked, with 
 real earnestness: 
 
 "What is it you know, and that I do not know 
 that makes you so satisfied, while I am so dissatis 
 fied?" 
 
 I hesitated before I answered, feeling as I never 
 felt before, how ignorant, how unfit to lead others, 
 I really am. Then I said: 
 
 " Perhaps you need to know God, to know Christ ? ' 
 
 She looked disappointed and tired. So I came 
 away, first promising, at her request, to go to see 
 her again. I found Ernest just driving up, and 
 told him what had passed. He listened in his usual 
 silence, and I longed to have him say whether I 
 had spoken wisely and well 
 
 JUNE 1. I have been to see Miss Clifford 
 
 again, and made mother go with me. Miss Clifford 
 took a fancy to her at once. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, after one glance at the dear, 
 loving face, "nobody need tell me that you are 
 good and kind. But I am a little afraid of good 
 people. I fancy they are always criticising me and 
 expecting me to imitate their perfection." 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 327 
 
 " Perfection does not exact perfection," waa mo 
 ther's answer. "I would rather be judged by an 
 angel than by a man/ And then mother led her 
 on, little by little, and most adroitly, to talk of 
 herself, and of her state of health. She is an or 
 phan, and lives in this great, stately house alone 
 with her servants. Until she was laid aside by the 
 state of her health, she lived in the world and of it. 
 Now she is a prisoner, and prisoners have time to 
 think 
 
 "Here I sit," she said, "all day long. I never 
 was fond of staying at home, or of reading, and 
 needle-work I absolutely hate. In fact, I do not 
 know how to sew." 
 
 "Some such pretty, feminine work might beguile 
 you of a few of the long hours of these long days," 
 said mother. "One can't be always reading." 
 
 "But a lady came to see me, a Mrs. Goodhue, 
 one of your good sort, I suppose, and she preached 
 me quite a sermon on the employment of time. 
 She said I had a solemn admonition of Providence, 
 and ought to devote myself entirely to religion. I 
 had just begun to be interested in a bit of embroid 
 ery, but she frightened me out of it. But I can't 
 bear such dreadfully good people, with faces a mile 
 long." 
 
 Mother made her produce the collar, or whatevei 
 it was, showed her how to hold her needle and ar- 
 
328 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 range her pattern, and they both got so absorbed 
 in it that I had leisure to look at some of the beau 
 tiful things with which the room was full. 
 
 "Make the object of your life right," I heard 
 mother say, at last, "and these little details will 
 take care of themselves." 
 
 "But I haven't any object," Miss Clifford ob 
 jected, "unless it is to get through these tedious 
 days, some how. Before I was taken ill, my chief 
 object was to make myself attractive to the people 
 I met. And the easiest way to do that was to 
 dress becomingly and make myself look as well as 
 I could." 
 
 "I suppose," said mother, "that most girls could 
 say the same. They have an instinctive desire to 
 please, and they take what they conceive to be the 
 shortest and easiest road to that end. It requires 
 no talent, no education, no thought to dress taste 
 fully; the most empty-hearted, frivolous young 
 person can do it, provided she has money enough. 
 Those who can't get the money make up for it by 
 a feaitul expenditure of precious time. They plan, 
 they cut, they fit, they rip, they trim till they can 
 appear in society looking exactly like every body 
 else. They think of nothing, talk of nothing, tut 
 how this shall be fashioned, and that be trimmed; 
 and as to their hair, Satan uses it as his favorite 
 and catches them in it every day of their lives. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 329 
 
 '* But I never cut or trimmed," said Miss Clifford 
 
 41 No, because you could afford to have it done 
 for you. But you acknowledge that you spent a 
 great deal of time in dressing because you thought 
 that the easiest way of making yourself attractive. 
 But it does not follow that the easiest way is the 
 best way, and sometimes the longest way round is 
 the shortest way home." 
 
 " For instance ? " 
 
 " Well, let us imagine a young lady, living in the 
 world as you say you lived. She has never seriously 
 reflected on any subject one half hour in her life. 
 She has been borne on by the current, and let it 
 take her where it would But at last some in 
 fluence is brought to bear upon her which leads her 
 to stop to look about her and to think. She finds 
 herself in a world of serious, momentous events. 
 She sees that she cannot live in it, was not meant 
 to live in it forever, and "that her whole unknown 
 future depends on what she is, not on how she looks. 
 She begins to cast about for some plan of life, at d 
 this leads" 
 
 "Apian of life?" Miss Clifford interrupted. "1 
 never heard of such a thing." 
 
 "Yet you would smile at an architect, who, 
 having a noble structure to build, should begin to 
 work on it in a hap-hazard way, putting in a brick 
 here and a stone there, weaving in straws and sticks 
 
830 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 if they come to hand, and when asked on what 
 work he was engaged, and what manner of build 
 ing he intended to erect, should reply he had no 
 plan, but thought something would come of it." 
 
 Miss Clifford made no reply. She sat with hei 
 head resting on her hand, looking dreamily before 
 her, a truly beautiful, but unconscious picture. I, 
 too, began to reflect, that while I had really aimed 
 to make the most out of life, I had not done it me 
 thodically or intelligently. 
 
 We are going to try to stay in town this summer. 
 Hitherto Ernest would not listen to my suggestion 
 of what an economy this would be. He always 
 said this would turn out anything but an econom) 
 in the end. But now we have no teething baby; 
 little Raymond is a strong, healthy child, and Una 
 remarkably well for her, and money is so slow to 
 come in and so fast to go out. What discomforts 
 we suffer in the country it would take a book to 
 write down, and here we shall have our own home, 
 as usual I shall not have to be separated from 
 Ernest, and shall have leisure to devote to two very 
 interesting people who must stay in town all the year 
 round, no matter who goes out of it. I mean dear 
 Mrs. Campbell and Miss Clifford, who both attract 
 me, though in such different ways. 
 
XXII. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 ELL, I had my own way, and I am afraid 
 it has been an unwise one. For though I 
 have enjoyed the leisure afforded by ev 
 erybody being out of town, and the oppor 
 tunity it has given me to devote myself to the very 
 sweetest work on earth, the care of my darling lit 
 tle ones, the heat and the stifling atmosphere have 
 been trying for me and for them. My pretty Rose 
 went last May, to bloom in a home of her own, so I 
 thought I would not look for a nurse, but take the 
 whole care of them myself. This would not be 
 much of a task to a strong person, but I am not 
 strong, and a great deal of the time just dressing 
 them and taking them out to walk has exhausted 
 rne. Then all the mending and other sewing must 
 be done, and with the over exertion creeps in the 
 fretful tone, the impatient word. Yet I never cau 
 be as impatient with little children as I should be, 
 but foi the remembrance that I should count it onty 
 
 casu 
 
32 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ft jy to minister once more to my darling boy, cost 
 what weariness it might. 
 
 But now new cares are at hand, and I have been 
 searching for a person to whom I can safely trust 
 my children when I am laid aside. Thus far I have 
 had, in this capacity, three different Temptations in 
 human form. 
 
 The first, a smart, tidy-looking woman, informed 
 me at the outset that she was perfectly competent 
 lo take the whole charge of the children, and should 
 prefer my attending to my own affairs while she at 
 tended to hers. 
 
 I replied that my affairs lay chiefly in caring for 
 and being with my children ; to which she returned 
 that she feared I should not suit her, as she had her 
 own views concerning the training of children. She 
 added, with condescension, that at all events she 
 should expect in any case of difference (of judgment) 
 between us, that I, being the younger and least ex 
 perienced of the two, should always yield to her. 
 She then went on to give me her views on the sub 
 ject of nursery management. 
 
 "In the first place," she said, "I never pet or 
 fondle children. It makes them babyish and sickly. n 
 
 "Oh, I see you will not suit me," I cried. "Ycu 
 need go no farther. I consider love the best edu 
 cator for a little child." 
 
 "Indeed, I think I shall suit you perfectly," sh% 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 333 
 
 replied, nothing daunted. " I have been in the busi 
 ness twenty years, and have always suited where- 
 ever I lived. You will be surprised to see how 
 much sewing I shall accomplish, and how quiet I 
 shall keep the children." 
 
 "But I don't want them kept quiet," I persisted. 
 " I want them to be as merry and cheerful as crick 
 ets, and I care a great deal more to have them 
 amused than to have the sewing done, though that 
 is important, I confess." 
 
 "Very well, ma'am, I will sit and rock them by 
 the hour if you wish it." 
 
 " But I don't wish it," I cried, exasperated at the 
 coolness which gave her such an advantage over 
 me. "Let us say no more about it; you do not 
 suit me, and the sooner we part the better. I must 
 be mistress of my own house, and I want no advice 
 in relation to my children." 
 
 "I shall hardly leave you before you will regret 
 parting with me," she returned in a placid, pitying 
 way. ^ 
 
 I was afraid I had not been quite dignified in niy 
 interview with this person, with whom I ought to 
 have had no discussion, and my equanimity was 
 not restored by her shaking hands with me in a 
 patronizing way at parting, and expressing the hope 
 that I should one day " be a green tree in the Para 
 dise of God Nor was it any too great a con sola- 
 
334 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 tion to find, that she had suggested to my cook thai 
 my intellect was not quite sound. 
 
 Temptation the second, confessed that she knew 
 nothing, but was willing to be taught. Yes, she 
 might be willing, but she could not be taught She 
 could not see why Herbert should not have every 
 thing he chose to cry for, nor why she should not 
 take the children to the kitchens where her friends 
 abode, instead of keeping them out in the air. She 
 could not understand why she must not tell Una 
 every half hour that she was as fair as a lily, and 
 that the little angels in heaven cried for such hair 
 as hers. And there was no rhyme or reason, to her 
 mind, why she could not have her friends visit in 
 her nursery, since, as she declared, the cook would 
 hear all her secrets if she received them in the 
 kitchen. Her assurance that she thought me a very 
 nice lady, and that there never were two such 
 children as mine, failed to move my hard heart, 
 and I was thankful when I got her out of the 
 house. 
 
 Temptation the third, appeared, for a time the 
 perfection of a nurse. She kept herself and the nur 
 sery and the children in most refreshing order; she 
 amused Una when she was more than usually un^ 
 well, with a perfect fund of innocent stories; the 
 work flew from her nimble fingers as if by magic. 
 [ boasted everywhere of my good luck, and sang 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 335 
 
 her praises in Ernest's ears till he believed in hei 
 with all his heart. But one night we were out late ; 
 we had been spending the evening at aunty's, and 
 came in with Ernest's night key as quietly as pos 
 sible, in order not to arouse the children. I stole 
 softly to the nursery, to see if all was going on well 
 th ore. Bridget, it seems, had taken the opportunity 
 to wash her clothes in the nursery, and they hung 
 all about the room drying, a hot fire raging for the 
 purpose. In the midst of them, with a candle and 
 prayer book on a chair, Bridget knelt fast asleep; 
 the candle within an inch of her sleeve. Her assur 
 ance when I aroused her that she was not asleep, 
 but merely rapt in devotion, did not soften my hard 
 heart, nor was I moved by the representation that 
 she was a saint, and always wore black on that ac 
 count. I packed her off in anything but a saintly 
 frame, and felt that a fourth Temptation would scat 
 ter what little grace I possessed to the four winds 
 These changes up-stairs made discord, too, below. 
 My cook was displeased at so much coming and 
 going, and made the kitchen a sort of a purgatory 
 which I dreaded to enter. At last, when her tem 
 per fairly ran away with her, and she became im 
 pertinent to the last degree, I said, coolly, 
 
 " If any lady should speak to me in this way 1 
 should resent it. But no lady would so far forget 
 herself. And I overlook your rudeness on the 
 
33<j STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ground that you do not know better than to mak 
 use of such expressions." 
 
 This capped the climax ! She declared that she 
 had never been told before that she was no lady and 
 did not know how to behave, and gave warning at 
 on co. 
 
 I wish I could help running to tell Ernest all 
 these annoyances. It does no good, and only wor 
 ries him. But how much of a woman's life is made 
 up of such trials and provocations! and how easy 
 it is when on one's knees to bear them aright, and 
 how far easier to bear them wrong when one finds 
 the coal going too fast, the butter out just as one is 
 sitting down to breakfast, the potatoes watery, and 
 the bread sour, or heavy ! And then when one is 
 well nigh desperate, does one's husband fail to say, 
 in bland tones, 
 
 "My dear, if you would just speak to Bridget, I 
 am sure she would improve ! " 
 
 Oh, that there were indeed magic in a spoken 
 word! 
 
 And do what I can, the money Ernest gives mo 
 will not hold out. He knows absolutely nothing 
 about that hydra-headed monster, a household. 1 
 have had to go back to sewing as furiously as ever. 
 And with the sewing the old pain in the side has 
 come back, and the sharp, quick speech that I hate, 
 nd that Ernest ha^es, and that everybody hates. I 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 337 
 
 groan, being Durdened, and am almost weary of my 
 life. And my prayers are all mixed up with worldly 
 thoughts and cares. I am appalled at all the things 
 that have got to be done before winter, and am 
 tempted to cut short my devotions in order to have 
 more time to accomplish what I must accomplish. 
 
 How have I got into this slough ? When was it 
 that I came down from the Mount where I had seen 
 the Lord, and came back to make these miserable, 
 petty things as much my business as ever ? Oh, 
 these fluctuations in my religious life amaze me ! 1 
 cannot doubt that I am really God's child; it would 
 be a dishonor to Him to doubt it. I cannot doubt 
 that I have held as real communion with Him as 
 with any earthly friend and oh, it has been far 
 sweeter ! 
 
 OCT. 20. I made a parting visit to Mrs. 
 
 Campbell to-day, and, as usual, have come away 
 strengthened and refreshed. She said all sorts of 
 kind things to cheer and encourage me, and stimu 
 lated me to take up the burden of life cheerfully 
 and patiently, just as it comes. She assures me 
 that these fluctuations of feeling will by degreei 
 give place to a calmer life, especially if I avoid, so 
 far as 1 can do it, all unnecessary work, distraction 
 and hurry. And a few quiet, resting words from 
 her have given me courage to press on toward per- 
 15 
 
338 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 faction, no matter how much imperfection I see in 
 myself and others. And now I am waiting for my 
 Fathers next gift, and the new cares and labors it 
 will bring with it. I am glad it is not left to me to 
 decide my own lot. I am afraid I should never see 
 precisely the right moment for welcoming a new 
 bird into my nest, dearly as I love the rustle of 
 their wings and the sound of their voices when 
 they do come. And surely He knows the right 
 moments who knows all my struggles with a certain 
 sort of poverty, poor health and domestic care. If 
 I could feel that all the time, as I do at this mo 
 ment, how happy I should always be ! 
 
 JANUARY 16, 1847. This is the tenth anni 
 versary of our wedding-day, and it has been a de 
 lightful one. If I were called upon to declare w 1 at 
 has been the chiei element of my happiness, I should 
 say it was not Ernest's love to me or mine to him, 
 or that I am once more the mother of three chil 
 dren, or that my own dear mother still lives, though 
 I revel in each and all of these. But underneath 
 them all, deeper, stronger than all, lies a peace with 
 God that I can compare to no other joy, which I 
 guard as I would guard hid treasure, and which 
 must abide if all things else pass away. 
 
 My baby is two months old, and her name is 
 Ethel The three children together form a bivniti- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 339 
 
 ful picture which I am never tired of admiring 
 But they will not give me much time for writing 
 This little new-comer takes all there is of me. 
 Mother brings me pleasant reports of Miss Clifford, 
 who, under her gentle, wise influence is becoming 
 an earnest Christian, already rejoicing in the Provi. 
 dence that arrested her where it did, and forced 
 her to reflection. Mother says we ought to study 
 God's providence more than we do, since He has 
 a meaning and a purpose in everything He does. 
 Sometimes I can do this and find it a source of great 
 happiness. Then worldly cares seem mere worldly 
 cares, and I forget that His wise, kind hand is in 
 every one of them. 
 
 * 
 
 FEBRUARY. Helen has been spending the 
 
 whole day with me, as she often does, helping me 
 with her skillful needle, and with the children, in a 
 very sweet way. I am almost ashamed to indulge 
 in writing down how dearly she seems to love me, 
 and how disposed she is to sit at my feet as a learn 
 er at the very moment I am longing to possess lief 
 eweet, gentle temper. But one thing puzzles me in 
 her, and that is the difficulty she finds in getting 
 hold of these simple truths her father used to grope 
 after but never found till just as he was passing out 
 of the world. It seem as if God compensated 
 such turbulent, fiery natures as mine by revealing 
 
340 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 dim self to them, for the terrible hours of shame and 
 sorrow through which their sins and follies cause 
 them to pass. I suffer far more than Helen does, 
 suffer bitterly, painfully, but I enjoy tenfold more 
 For I know whom I have believed, and I cannot 
 doubt that I am truly united to Him. Helen is na 
 turally very reserved, but by degrees she has come 
 to talk with me quite frankly. To-day as we sat 
 together in the nursery, little Raymond snatched a 
 toy from Una, who, as usual, yielded to him with 
 out a frown. I called him to me; he came reluct 
 antly. 
 
 "Raymond, dear," I said, "did you ever see papa 
 snatch anything from me?" 
 
 He smiled, and shook his head. 
 
 " Well then, until you see him do it to me, nevei 
 do it to your sister. Men are gentle and polite tc 
 women, and little boys should be gentle and polite 
 fco little girls. 
 
 The children ran off to their play, and 'Helen 
 aid, 
 
 "Now how different that is from my mother's 
 management with us! She always made us girls 
 yield to the boys. They would not have thought 
 they could go up to bed unless one of us got a 
 candle for them." 
 
 "That, I suppose, is the reason then that Ernest 
 expected me to wait upon him after we were mar- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 341 
 
 ried," I replied. " I was a little stiff about yielding 
 to him, for besides mother's precepts, I was in 
 fluenced by my father's example. He was so cour 
 teous, treating her with as much respect as it' she 
 were a queen, and yet with as much love as if she 
 were always a girl. I naturally expected the like 
 from my husband. 
 
 "You must have been disappointed then," she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, I was. It cost me a good many pouts and 
 tears of which I am now ashamed. And Ernest 
 seldom annoys me now with the little neglects that 
 I used to make so much of." 
 
 " Sometimes I think there are no ' little ' neglects," 
 said Helen. " It takes less than nothing to annoy 
 us." 
 
 "And it takes more than everything to please 
 us!" I cried. "But Ernest and I had one strong 
 hold to which we always fled in our troublous 
 times, and that was our love for each other. No 
 matter how he provoked me by his little heedless 
 ways, I had to forgive him because I loved him so. 
 And he had to forgive me my faults for the same 
 reason." 
 
 "I had no idea husbands and wives loved oach 
 other so," said Helen. " I thought they got over it 
 as soon as their cares and troubles came on, and 
 just jogged on together, somehow." 
 
342 S-JEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 both laughed and she went on. 
 
 "If I thought I should be as happy as you are, I 
 should be tempted to be married myself." 
 
 " Ah, I thought your time would come ! " I cried 
 
 "Don't ask me any questions," she said, her 
 pretty face growing prettier with a bright, warm 
 glow. "Give me advice instead; for instance, tell 
 me how I can be sure that if I love a man I shall 
 go on loving him through all the wear and tear of 
 married life, and how can I be sure he can and will 
 go on loving me?" 
 
 " Well, then, setting aside the fact that you aro 
 both lovable and loving, I will say this: Happi 
 ness, in other words love, in married life is not a 
 mere accident. When the union has been formed, 
 as most Christian unions are, by God Himself, it is 
 His intention and His will that it shall prove the 
 unspeakable joy of both husband and wife, and be 
 come more and more so from year to year. But 
 we are imperfect creatures, wayward and foolish as 
 little children, horribly unreasonable, selfish and 
 willful. We are not capable of enduring the shock 
 of finding at every turn, that our idol is made of 
 clay, and that it is prone to tumble off its pedestal 
 and lie in the dust, till we pick it up and set it in its 
 place again. I was struck with Ernest's asking in 
 the very first prayer he offered in my presence, 
 after our marriage, that God would help us love 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 343 
 
 each other; I felt that love was the very foundation 
 on which I was built, and that there was no dangei 
 that I should ever fall short in giving to my hus 
 band all he wanted, in full measure. But as he 
 went on day after day repeating this prayer, and I 
 naturally made it with him, I came to see that this 
 most precious of earthly blessings had been arid 
 must be God's gift, and that while we both looked 
 at it in that light, and felt our dependence on Him 
 for it, we might safely encounter together all the 
 assaults made upon us by the world, the flesh, and 
 the devil. I believe we owe it to this constant 
 prayer that we have loved each other so uniformly 
 and with such growing comfort in each other; so 
 that our little discords always have ended in fresh 
 accord, and our love has felt conscious of resting 
 on a rook and that that rock was the will of 
 God." 
 
 "It is plain, then," said Helen, "that you and 
 Ernest are sure of one source of happiness as long 
 as you live, whatever vicissitudes you may meet 
 with. I thank you so much for what you have 
 said. The fact is you have been brought up to 
 carry religion into everything. But I was not. 
 My mother was as good as she was lovely, but I 
 think she felt, and taught us to feel, that we were 
 to put it on as we did our Sunday clothes, and to 
 wear it, as we did them, carefully and reverently 
 
544 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 but with pretty long, grave faces. But you mix 
 everything up so, that when I am with you I never 
 know whether you are most like or most unlike 
 other people. And your mother is just so." 
 
 "But you forget that it is to Ernest I owe my 
 Lest ideas about married life; I don't remember 
 ever talking with my mother or any one else on 
 the subject. And as to carrying religion into every 
 thing, how can one help it if one's religion is a vital 
 part of one's self, not a cloak put on to go to church 
 in and hang up out of the way against next Sunday?" 
 
 Helen laughed. She has the merriest, yet gentlest 
 little laugh one can imagine. I long to know who 
 it is that has been so fortunate as to touch her heart ! 
 
 MARCH. I know now, and glad I am! 
 
 The sly little puss is purring at this moment in 
 James' arms; at least I suppose she is, as I have 
 discreetly come up to my room and left them to 
 themselves. So it seems I have had all these wor 
 ries about Lucy for naught. What made her so 
 fond of James was simply the fact that a friend of 
 his had looked on her with a favorable eye, regard 
 ing her as a very proper mother for four or five 
 children who are in need of a shepherd. Yes, 
 Lucy is going to marry a man so much older than 
 herself, that on a pinch he might have been he 
 father. She does it from a sense of duty, she 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 34f 
 
 aui to a nature like hers duty may perhaps suffice, 
 and no cry of the heart have to be stifled in its per 
 formance. We are all so happy in the happiness 
 of James and Helen that we are not in the mood 
 to criticise Lucy's decision. 1 have a strange and 
 most absurd envy when I think what a good time 
 they are having at this moment down stairs, while 
 I sit here alone, vainly wishing I could see more of 
 Ernest. Just as if my happiness were not a deeper, 
 more blessed one than theirs, which must be purged 
 of much dross before it will prove itself to be like 
 fine gold. Yes, I suppose I am as happy in my 
 dear, precious husband and children as a wife and 
 mother can be in a fallen world, which must not be 
 a real heaven lest we should love the land we 
 journey through so well as to want to pitch our 
 tents in it forever, and cease to look and long for the 
 home whither we are bound. 
 
 James will be married almost immediately, I sup 
 pose, as he sails for Syria early in April. How 
 much a missionary and his wife must be to each 
 other, when, severing themselves from all they 
 ever loved before, they go forth, hand in hand, not 
 merely to be foreigners in heathen lands, but to be 
 henceforth strangers in their own should they ever 
 return to it! 
 
 Helen says, playfully, that she has not a mission 
 ary spirit, and is not at all sure that she shall go witb 
 
346 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 James. But I don't think that he feels very anxioui 
 on that point! 
 
 MARCH. It does one's heart good to see 
 
 how happy they are! Arid it does one's heart 
 good to have one's husband set up an opposition 
 ko the goings on by behaving like a lover hiiaselt. 
 
XXIII. 
 
 JANUAET 1, 1851. 
 
 T is a great while since I wrote that. " God 
 has been just as good as ever ; " I want to 
 say that before I say another word. But 
 he has indeed smitten me very sorely. 
 While we were in the midst of our rejoicings 
 about James and Helen, and the bright future that 
 seemed opening before them, he came home one day 
 very ill. Ernest happened to be in and attended to 
 him at once. But the disease was, at the very out 
 set, so violent, and raged with such absolute fury, 
 that no remedies had any effect. Everything, even 
 QOW, seems confused in my mind. It seems as if there 
 was a sudden transition from the most brilliant, joy- 
 ous health, to a brief but fearful struggle for life, 
 speedily followed by the awful mystery and stillness 
 of death. Is it possible, I still ask myself, that four 
 short days wrought an event whose consequences 
 must rua through endless years? Poor mother! 
 Poor Helen ! When it was all over, I do not kr.ow 
 
848 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 what to say of mother but that she behaved and 
 quieted herself like a weaned child. Her sweet 
 composure awed me; I dared not give way to my 
 own vehement, terrible sorrow; in the presence 
 of this Christ-like patience, all noisy demonstra 
 tions seemed profane. I thought no human being 
 was less selfish, more loving than she had been for 
 many years but the spirit that now took possession 
 of her flowed into her heart and life directly from 
 that great Heart of love, whose depths I had never 
 even begun to sound. There was, therefore, some 
 thing absolutely divine in her aspect, in the tones of 
 her voice, in the very smile on her face. We could 
 compare its expression to nothing but Stephen, 
 when he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up 
 steadfastly to heaven and saw the Glory of God, and 
 Jesus standing on the right hand of God. As soon 
 as James was gone Helen came to our home; there 
 was never any discussion about it, she came na 
 turally to be one of us. Mother's health, already 
 very frail, gradually failed, and encompassed as 1 
 was with cares, I could not be with her constantly. 
 Helen took the place to her of a daughter, and 
 found herself welcomed like one. The atmosphere 
 in which we all lived was one which cannot be de 
 scribed; the love for all of us and for every living 
 thing that flowed in mother's words and tones passed 
 all knowledge. The children's little joys and sor 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 349 
 
 rows interested her exactly as if she was one of 
 themselves ; they ran to her with every petty griev 
 ance, and every new pleasure. During the time she 
 lived with us she had won many warm friends, par 
 ticularly among the poor and the suffering. As her 
 strength would no longer allow her to go to them, 
 those who could do so, came to her, and 1 was 
 struck to see she had ceased entirely from giving 
 counsel, and now gave nothing but the most beauti 
 ful, tender compassion and sympathy. I saw that 
 she was failing, but flattered myself that her own 
 serenity and our care would prolong her life still for 
 many years. I longed to have my children become 
 old enough to fully appreciate her sanctified cha 
 racter; and I thought she would gradually fade 
 away and be set free, 
 
 As light winds wandering through groves of bloom, 
 Detach the delicate blossoms from the tree. 
 
 But God's thoughts are not as our thoughts, nor 
 His ways as our ways. Her feeble body began to 
 suffer from the rudest assaults of pain; day and 
 night, night and day, she lived through a martyr 
 dom in which what might have been a life-time of 
 suffering was concentrated into a few months. To 
 witness these sufferings was like the sundering of 
 joints and marrow, and once, only once, thank God 1 
 my faith in Him staggered and reeled to and fro 
 
350 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "How caw He look down on such agonies !" I cried 
 in my secret soul "Is this the work of a God of 
 love, of mercy ? " Mother seemed to divine my 
 thoughts, for she took my hand tenderly in hers, 
 and said, with great difficulty: 
 
 "Though Fe slay me, yet will I trust in Him. 
 fie is just as good as ever." And she smiled. I 
 ran away to Ernest, crying " Oh, is there nothing 
 you can do for her?" 
 
 " What should a poor mortal do where Christ has 
 done so much, my darling?" he said, taking me in 
 his arms. "Let us stand aside and see the glory 
 of God, with our shoes from off our feet." But he 
 went to her with one more desperate effort to re 
 lieve her, yet in vain. 
 
 Mrs. Embury, of whom mother was fond, and 
 who is always very kind when we are in trouble, 
 came in just then, and after looking on a moment in 
 tears, she said to me: 
 
 'God knows whom He can trust! H would 
 not lay His hand thus on all His children. ' 
 
 Those few words quieted me. Yes, God knows. 
 And now it is all over. My precious, ^vecious 
 mother has been a saint in heaven more tl NU two 
 years, and has forgotten all the battles she fought 
 on earth, and all her sorrows and all her sutfeiinga 
 in the presence of her Redeemer. She kneu that 
 she was going, and the last words she uttered and 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 351 
 
 they were spoken with somewhat of the playful 
 quaint manner in which she had spoken all her life, 
 and with her own bright smile still sound in my eais, 
 
 "I have given God a great deal of trouble, bul 
 fie is driving me into pasture now ! " 
 
 And then, with her cheek on her hand, she fell 
 asleep, and slept on, till just at sundown she awoke 
 to find herself in the green pasture, the driving all 
 over for ever and ever. 
 
 Who by searching can find out God? My dear 
 father entered heaven after a prosperous life, by a 
 path wherein he was unconscious of a pang, and 
 our beloved James, went bright and fresh and un 
 tarnished by conflict, straight to the Master's feast. 
 But what a long life-time of bereavement, sorrow 
 and suffering, was my darling mother's pathway to 
 glory! Surely her felicity must be greater than 
 theirs, and the crown she has won by such a strug 
 gle must be brighter than the stars? And thia 
 crown she is even now, while I sit here choked with 
 tears, casting joyfully at the feet of her Saviour ! 
 
 My sweet sister, my precious little Helen, still 
 nestles in our hearts and in our home. Martha 
 made one passionate appeal to her to return to her 
 but Ernest interfered: 
 
 "Let her stay with Katy," he said. "James 
 would have chosen to have her with the one human 
 being like himself" 
 
352 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Doee he then think me, with all mj faults, the 
 Iftiiguor of frail health, and the cares and burdens 
 of life weighing i.pon me, enough like that spark 
 ling, brave boy to be of use and comfort to dear 
 Helen? I take courage at the thought and rouso 
 myself afresh, to bear on with fidelity and patience. 
 My steadfast aim now is to follow in my mother's 
 footsteps; to imitate her cheerfulness, her benev 
 olence, her bright, inspiring ways, and never to 
 rest till in place of my selfish nature, I become as 
 full of Christ's love as she became. I am glad she 
 is at last relieved from the knowledge of all my 
 cares, and though I often and often yearn to throw 
 myself into her arms and pour out my cares and 
 trials into her sympathizing ears, I would not have 
 her back for all the world. She has got away from 
 all the turmoil and suffering of life; let her stay ! 
 
 The scenes of sorrow through which we have 
 been passing have brought Ernest nearer to me 
 than ever, and I can see that this varied discipline 
 has softened and sweetened his character. Besides, 
 we have modified each other. Ernest is more dem 
 onstrative, more attentive to those little things that 
 make the happiness of married life, and I am less 
 childish, less vehement I wish I could say less sel 
 fish, but here I seem to have come to a standstill. 
 But I do understand Ernest's trials in his profes 
 sion, far better than I did, and can feel and sho\v 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 353 
 
 some sympathy in them. Of course the life of a 
 physician is necessarily one of self-denial, spent a? 
 it is amid scenes of suffering and sorrow, which he 
 is often powerless to alleviate. But there is besides, 
 the wear and tear of years of poverty; his bills are 
 disputed or allowed to run on year after year un 
 noticed; he is often dismissed because he cannot 
 put himself in the place of Providence and save life, 
 and a truly grateful, generous patient is almost an 
 unknown rarity. I do not speak of these things to 
 complain of them. I suppose they are a necessary 
 part of that whole providential plan by which God 
 molds and fashions and tempers the human soul, 
 just as my petty, but incessant household cares are. 
 If I had nothing to do but love my husband and 
 children and perform for them, without let or hind 
 rance, the sweet ideal duties of wife and mother, 
 how content I should be to live always in thia 
 world! But what would become of me if I were 
 not called, in the pursuit of these duties and in con 
 tact with real life, to bear "restless nights, ill-health, 
 unwelcome news, the faults of servants, contempt, 
 ingratitude of friends, my own failings, lowness of 
 spirits, the struggle in . overcoming my corruption, 
 and a score of kindred trials ! " 
 
 Bishop Wilson charges us to bear all these things 
 44 as unto God," and "with the greatest privacy." 
 How seldom I have met them save as lions in my 
 
354 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 way, that I would avoid if I could, and how I hav 
 tormented my friends by tedious complaints about 
 them! Yet when compared with the great trage 
 dies of suffering I have both witnessed and suf 
 fered, how petty they seem ! 
 
 Our household, bereft of mother's and James' 
 bright presence, now numbers just as many mem 
 bers as it did before they left us. Another angel 
 has flown into it, though not on wings, and I have 
 four darling children, the baby, who can hardly be 
 called a baby now, being nearly two years old. My 
 hands and my heart are full, but two of the chil 
 dren go to school, and that certainly makes my 
 day's work easier. ^ 
 
 The little things are happier for having regular 
 employment, and we are so glad to meet each 
 other again after the brief separation ! I try to be 
 at home when it is time to expect them, for I 
 love to hear the eager voices ask, in chorus, the 
 moment the door opens: "Is mamma at home." 
 Helen has taken Daisy to sleep with her, which af 
 ter so many years of ups and downs at night, now 
 with restless babies, now to answer the bell when 
 Ernest is out, is a great relief to me. Poor Helen ! 
 She has never recovered her cheerfulness since 
 James* death. It has crushed her energies and left 
 her very sorrowful. This is partly owing to a soft 
 and tender nature, easily borne down and over 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 355 
 
 whelmed, partly to what seems an almost constitu 
 tional ia ability to find rest in God's will. She as 
 sents to all wo say to her about submission, in a 
 p\veet, gentle way, and then comes the invariable, 
 mournful wail, "But it was so unexpected! It 
 came so suddenly!" But I love the little thing, 
 and her affection for us all is one of our greatest 
 comforts. 
 
 Martha is greatly absorbed in her own household, 
 its cares and its pleasures. She brings her little 
 Underhills to see us occasionally, when they put 
 say children quite out of countenance by their con 
 sciousness of the fine clothes they wear, and their 
 knowledge of the world. Even I find it hard not to 
 feel abashed in the presence of so much of the sort of 
 wisdom in which I am lacking. As to Lucy, she is 
 exactly in her sphere : the calm dignity with which 
 she reigns in her husband's house, and the modera 
 tion and self-control with which she guides his chil 
 dren, are really instructive. She has a baby of her 
 own, and though it acts just like other babies, and 
 kicks, scratches, pulls and cries when it is washed 
 and dressed, she goes through that process with a* 
 serenity and deliberation that I envy with all my 
 might. Her predecessor in the nursery was alJ 
 nerve and brain, and has left four children made of 
 the same material behind her. But their wild spir 
 its on one day, and their depression and languor on 
 
356 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 the next, have no visible effect upon her. Her in 
 fluence is always quieting; she tones down theii 
 vehemence with her own calm decision and ptacti- 
 cal good sense. It is amusing to see her seated 
 among those four little furies, who love each other 
 in sucli a distracted way that somebody's feelings 
 are always getting hurt, and somebody always cry 
 ing. By a sort of magnetic influence she heals 
 these wounds immediately, and finds some prosaic 
 occupation as an antidote to these poetical moods. 
 I confess that I am instructed and reproved when 
 ever I go to see her, and wish I were more like her. 
 But there is no use in trying to engraft an oppo 
 site nature on one's own. What I am, that I must 
 be, except as God changes me into His own image. 
 And every thing brings me back to that, as my su 
 preme desire. I see more and more that I must be 
 myself what I want my children to be, and that I 
 cannot make myself over even for their sakes. 
 This must be His work, and I wonder, that it goea 
 on so slowly; that all the disappointments, sor 
 rows, sicknesses I have passed through, have left 
 me s^ill selfish, still full of imperfections ! 
 
 MARCH 5, 1852. This is the sixth anniver 
 sary of James' death. Thinking it all over after I 
 went to bed last night, his sickness, his death, and 
 the weary months that followed for mother, I could 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 357 
 
 not get to sleep till long past midnight. Then Una 
 woke, crying with the ear-ache, and I was up till 
 nearly day-break with her, poor child. I got up 
 jaded and depressed, almost ready to faint undei 
 the burden of life, and dreading to meet Helen, 
 who is doubly sad on these anniversaries. She 
 came down to breakfast dressed as usual in deep 
 mourning, and looking as spiritless as I felt. The> 
 prattle of the children relieved the somber silence 
 maintained by the rest of us, each of whom acted 
 depressingly on the others. How things do flash 
 into one's mind ! These words suddenly came to 
 mine, as we sat so gloomily at the table God had 
 spread for us, and which He had enlivened by the 
 four young faces around it 
 
 Why should the children of a King 
 Go mourning all their days? 
 
 Why, indeed? Children of a King! I felt 
 grieved that I was so intent on my own sorrows as 
 to lose sight of my relationship to Him. And then 
 I asked myself what I could do to make the day 
 lees wearisome and sorrowful to Helen. She came, 
 after a time, with her work to my room. The chil 
 dren took their good-by kisses and went off to 
 school; Ernest took his, too, and set forth on his 
 day's work, while Daisy played quietly about the 
 room. 
 
358 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "Helen, dear," I ventured at last to begin, "1 
 want yov to do me a favor to-day." 
 
 "Yes,' she said, languidly. 
 
 "I want you to go to see Mrs. Campbell This 
 is the day for her beef-tea, and she will be looking 
 out for one of us." 
 
 " You must not ask me to go to-do,y" Helen ar 
 swered. 
 
 "I think I must, dear. When other springs oi 
 comfort dry up, there is one always left to us. And 
 that, as mother often said, is usefulness." 
 
 "I do try to be useful," she said. 
 
 "Yes, you are very kind to me and to the chil 
 dren. If you were my own sister you could not do 
 more. But these little duties do not relieve that 
 aching void in your heart which yearns so for relief." 
 
 "No," she said, quickly, "I have no such yearn 
 ing. I just want to settle down as I am now." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose that is the natural tendency of 
 sorrow. But there is great significance in the pray 
 er for 'a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and 
 uyinpa^hize.'" 
 
 "Oh, Katy!" she said, "you don't know, you 
 can't know, how I feel. Until James began to love 
 me so I did not know there was such a love as that 
 in the world. You know our fan.ily is different 
 from yours. And it is so delightful to be loved 
 Or rather it was!" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 35S 
 
 " Don't 8ay was" I said. " You know we all love 
 yon dearly, dearly. " 
 
 "Yes, but not as James did!" 
 
 " That is true. It was foolish in me to expect to 
 console you by such suggestions. But to go back 
 to Mrs. Campbell. She will sympathize with you, 
 if you will let her, as very few can, for she has lost 
 both husband and children." 
 
 "Ah, but she had a husband for a time, at least. 
 It is not as if he were snatched away before they 
 had lived together." 
 
 If anybody else had said this I should have felt 
 that it was out of mere perverseness. But dear little 
 Helen is not perverse; she is simply overburdened. 
 
 "I grant that your disappointment was greater 
 than hers," I went on. " But the affliction was not 
 Every day that a husband and wife walk hand in 
 hand together upon earth, makes of the twain more 
 and more one flesh. The selfish element which at 
 first formed so large a part of their attraction to each 
 other disappears, and the union becomes so pure 
 and beautiful as to form a fitting type of the union 
 of Christ and His church. There is nothing else on 
 earth like it" 
 
 Helen sighed. 
 
 "I find it hard to believe," she said, "there can 
 be anything more delicious than the months in 
 which James and I were so happy together." 
 
360 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " Suffering together would have brought you 
 d^en nearer," I replied. "Dear Helen, I am very 
 sorry for you; I hope you feel that, even when, ac 
 cording to my want, I fall into arguments, as if one 
 could argue a sorrow away ! " 
 
 " You are so happy," she answered. " Ernest 
 loves you so dearly, and is so proud of you, and 
 you have such lovely children! I ought not to 
 expect you to sympathize perfectly with my loneli 
 ness." 
 
 "Yes, I am happy," I said, after a pause; "but 
 you must own, dear, that I have had my sorrows, 
 too. Until you become a mother yourself, you can 
 not comprehend what a mother can suffer, not 
 merely for herself, in losing her children, but in see 
 ing their sufferings. I think I may say of my 
 happiness that it rests on something higher and 
 deeper than even Ernest and my children." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 The will of God, the sweet will of God. If He 
 should take them all away, I might still possess 
 a peace which would flow on forever. I know this 
 partly from my own experience, and partly from 
 tliat of others. Mrs. Campbell says that the three 
 months that followed the death of her first child, 
 were the happiest she had ever known. Mrs. Went- 
 worth, whose husband was snatched from her al 
 most without warning, and while using expressions 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 361 
 
 of affection for her such as a lover addresses to his 
 bride, said to me, with tears rolling down her 
 cheeks, yet with a smile, I thank my God and Sa 
 viour that He has not f jrgotten and passed me by, 
 but has counted me worthy to bear this sorrow for 
 His sake.' And hear this passago from the life of 
 Wesley, which I lighted on this morning: 
 
 "He visited one of his disciples, who was ill in 
 bed, and after having buried seven of her family in 
 six months, had just heard that the eighth, her hus 
 band, whom she dearly loved, had been cast away 
 at sea. ' I asked her,' he says, 4 do you not fret at 
 any of those things ? ' she says, with a lovely smile, 
 4 Oh, no ! how can I fret at anything which is the 
 will of God? Let Him take all beside, He has given 
 me Himself. I love, I praise Him every moment. ' '' 
 
 "Yes," Helen objected, "I can imagine people as 
 saying such things in moments of excitement; but 
 afterwards, they have hours of terrible agony." 
 
 "They have 'hours of terrible agony,' of course. 
 God's grace does not harden our hearts, and make 
 them proof against suffering, like coats of mail. 
 They can all say, * Out of the depths have I cried 
 unto Thee,' and it is they alone who have been 
 down into the depths, and had rich experience of 
 what God could be to His children there, who can 
 utter such testimonials to His honor, as those . have 
 just repeated." 
 
362 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 " Katy," Helec suddenly asked, " do you always 
 submit to God's will thus?" 
 
 "In great things I do," I said. "What grieves 
 me is that I am constantly forgetting to recognize 
 God's hand in the little e very-day trials of life, and 
 instead of receiving them as from Him, find fault 
 with the instruments by which He sends them. I 
 can give up my child, my only brother, my darling 
 mother without a word; but to receive every tire 
 some visitor as sent expressly and directly to weary 
 me by the Master Himself; to meet every negli 
 gence on the part of the servants as His choice for 
 me at the moment; to be satisfied and patient when 
 Ernest gets particularly absorbed in his books, be 
 cause my Father sees that little discipline suit 
 able for me at the time; all this I have not fully 
 learned." 
 
 "All you say discourages me," said Helen, in a 
 tone of deep dejection. " Such perfection was only 
 meant for a few favored ones, and I do not dare so 
 much as to aim at it. I am perfectly sure that 1 
 must be satisfied with the low state of grace I am in 
 now and always have been." 
 
 She was about to leave me, but I caught her 
 hand as she would have passed me, and made cno 
 more attempt to reach her poor, weary soul. 
 
 " But are you satisfied, dear Helen ? " I asked, as 
 tenderly as I would speak to a little snk child 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 363 
 
 "Surely you crave happiness, as every human sou] 
 
 does!" 
 
 " Yes, I crave it," she replied, " but God has takoD 
 it from me." 
 
 "He has taken away your earthly happiness, I 
 know, but only to convince you what better things 
 He has in store for you. Let me read you a letter 
 which Dr. Cabot wrote me many years ago, but 
 which has been an almost constant inspiration to me 
 ever since." 
 
 She sat down, resumed her work again, and 
 listened to the letter in silence. As I came to its 
 last sentence the three children rushed in from 
 school, at least the boys did, and threw themselves 
 upon me like men assaulting a fort. I have formed 
 the habit of giving myself entirely to them at the 
 proper moment, and now entered into their frolic 
 some mood as joyously as if I had never known a 
 sorrow or lost an hour's sleep. At last they went 
 off to their play-room, and Una settled down by 
 my side to amuse Daisy, when Helen began again. 
 
 "I should like to read that letter myself," she 
 said, " Meanwhile I want to ask you one question. 
 What are you made of that you can turn from one 
 thing to another like lightning? Talking one mo 
 ment as if life depended on your every word, and 
 then frisking about with those wild boys as if you 
 were a child yourself?" 
 
364 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I saw Una look up curiously, to hear my answer, 
 as I replied, 
 
 " I have always aimed at this flexibility. I think 
 a mother, especially, ought to learn to enter into the 
 gayer moods of her children at the very moment 
 when her own heart is sad. And it may be as re 
 ligious an act for her to romp with them at one 
 time as to pray with them at another." 
 
 Helen now went away to her room with Dr. 
 Cabot's letter, which I silently prayed might bless 
 her as it had blessed me. And then a jaded, dis 
 heartened mood came over me that made me feel 
 that all I had been saying to her was but as sound 
 ing brass and a tinkling cymbal, since my life and 
 my professions did not correspond. Hitherto my 
 consciousness of imperfection has made me hesitate 
 to say much to Helen. Why are we so afraid of 
 those who live under the same roof with us? It 
 must be the conviction that those who daily see us 
 acting in a petty, selfish, trifling way, must find it 
 hard to conceive that our prayers and our desires 
 take a wider and higher aim. Dear little Helen I 
 May the ice once broken remain broken forever. 
 
XXIV. 
 
 MABCH 20. 
 
 ELEN returned Dr. Cabot's letter in silence 
 this morning, but directly after breakfast, 
 set forth to visit Mrs. Campbell, with the 
 little bottle of beef-tea in her hands, which 
 ought to have gone yesterday. I had a busy day 
 before me; the usual Saturday baking and Sunday 
 dinner to oversee, the children's lessons for to-mor 
 row to superintend and hear them repeat, their clean 
 clothes to lay out, and a basket of stockings to 
 mend. My mind was somewhat distracted with 
 these cares, and I found it a little difficult to keep 
 on with my morning devotions in spite of them. 
 But I have learned, at least, to face and fight such 
 distractions, instead of running away from them as 
 I used to do. My faith in prayer, my resort to it, 
 becomes more and more the foundation of my life, 
 and I believe, with one wiser and better than my 
 self, that nothing but prayer stands between my 
 poul and the best gifts of God; in other words, thai 
 I can and shall get what I ask for. 
 (365) 
 
360 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I went down into the kitehen, put on my large 
 baking-apron, and begar my labors; of course the 
 door-bell rang, and a pjor woman was announced. 
 It is very sweet to follow Fenelon's counsel and 
 give oneself to Christ in all these interruptions; but 
 this time I said, "Oh, dear!" before I thought. Then 
 I wished I hadn't, and went up, with a cheerful face, 
 at any rate, to my unwelcome visitor, who proved 
 to be one of my aggravating poor folks; a great 
 giant of a woman, in perfect health, and with a hus 
 band to support her, if he will. I told her that I 
 could do no more for her; she answered me rudely, 
 and kept on urging her claims. I felt ruffled; why 
 should my time be thus frittered away, I asked my 
 self. At last she went off, abusing me in a way that 
 chilled my heart. I could only beg God to forgive 
 her, and return to my work, which I had hardly 
 resumed when Mrs. Embury sent for a pattern I 
 had promised to lend her. Off came my apron, 
 and up two pairs of stairs I ran ; after a long search 
 it came to light. Work resumed; door-bell again. 
 Aunty wanted the children to come to an early din 
 ner Going to aunty's is next to going to Paradise 
 to them. Everything was now hurry and flurry; I 
 tried to be patient, and not to fret their temper by 
 undue attention to nails, ears, and other susceptible 
 parts of the human frame, but after it was all over, 
 and I had kissed all the sweet, dear faces good-bye, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 367 
 
 and returned to the kitchen, I felt sure that T had 
 not been the perfect mother I want to be in all these 
 little emergencies yes, far from it. Bridget had 
 let the milk I was going to use boil over, and fin 
 ally burn up.* I was annoyed and irritated, and al 
 ready tired, and did not see how I was to get more, 
 as Mary was cleaning the silver (to be sure, there is 
 not much of it !) and had other extra Saturday work 
 to do. I thought Bridget might offer to run to the 
 corner for it, though it isn't her business, but she is 
 not obliging, and seemed as sulky as if I had burned 
 the milk, not phe. "After all," I said to myself, 
 " what does it signify, if Ernest gets no dessert ? It 
 isn't good for him, and how much precious time is 
 wasted over just this one thing? However, I re 
 flected, that arbitrarily refusing to indulge him in 
 this respect is not exactly my mission as his wife; 
 he is perfectly well, and likes his little luxuries as 
 well as other people do. So I humbled my pride 
 and asked Bridget to go for the milk, which she did, 
 in a lofty way of her own. While she was gone the 
 marketing came home, and I had everything to dis 
 pose of. Ernest had sent home some apples, which 
 plainly said, " I want some apple pie, Katy." I 
 looked nervously at the clock, and undertook to 
 gratify him. Mary came down, crying, to say that 
 her mother, who lived in Brooklyn, was very aick; 
 could she go to see her ? 1 looked at the clock once 
 
368 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 more; told her she should go, of course, as soon aa 
 lunch was over; this involved my doing all her ab- 
 cence left undone. 
 
 At last I got through with the kitchen; the Sun 
 day dinner being well under way; and ran up tfcaira 
 to put away the host of little garments the children 
 had left when they took their flight, and to make 
 myself presentable at lunch. Then I began tc be 
 uneasy lest Ernest should not be punctual, and 
 Mary be delayed; but he came just as the clock 
 struck one. I ran joyfully to meet him, very glad 
 now that I had something good to give him. We 
 had just got through lunch, and I was opening my 
 mouth to tell Mary she might go, when the door 
 bell rang once more, and Mrs. Fry, of Jersey City, 
 was announced. I told Mary to wait till I found 
 whether she had lunched or not; no, she hadn't; 
 had come to town to see friends off, was half fam 
 ished, and would I do her the favor, etc., etc. She 
 had a fashionable young lady with her, a stranger 
 to me, as well as a Miss Somebody else, from Al 
 bany, whose name I did not catch. I apologized 
 for having finished lunch; Mrs. Fry said all they 
 wanted was a cup of tea and a bit of bread and but 
 ter, nothing else, dear; now don't put yourself 
 out I 
 
 " Now be bright and animated, and like yourself,' 
 ehe whispered, "for I Lave brought these girls here 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 369 
 
 on purpose to hear you talk, and they are prepared 
 to fall in love with you on the spot." 
 
 This speech sufficed to shut my mouth. 
 
 Mary had to get ready for these unexpected 
 guests, whose appetites proved equal to a raid cm 
 a good many things besides bread and butter. Mrs. 
 Fry said, after she had devoured nearly half a loaf 
 of cake, that she would really try to eat a morsel 
 more, which Ernest remarked, drily, was a great 
 triumph of mind over matter. As they talked and 
 laughed and ate leisurely on, Mary stood looking 
 the picture of despair. At last I gave her a glance 
 that said she might go, when a new visitor was an- 
 nounced, Mrs. Winthrop, from Brooklyn, one of 
 Ernest's patients a few years ago, when she lived 
 here. She professed herself greatly indebted to 
 him, and said she had come at this hour because 
 she should make sure of seeing him. I tried to ex 
 cuse him, as I knew he would be thankful to have 
 me do, but no, see him she must; he was her "pet- 
 doctor," he had such "sweet, bed-side manners;" and 
 " I am such a favorite with him, you know ! " 
 
 Ernest did not receive his "favorite" with any 
 special warmth; but invited her out to lunch and 
 gallanted her to the table we had just left. Just 
 like a man ! Poor Mary ! she had to fly round and 
 get up what she could; Mrs. Winthrop devoted 
 herself to Ernest with a persistent ignoring of ine 
 16* 
 
370 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 that I thought rude and unwomanly She asked 
 if he had read a certain book; he had not; she 
 then said, "I need not ask then if Mrs. Elliott haa 
 done so? These charming dishes, which she gets 
 up so nicely, must absorb all her time." "Of 
 course," replied Ernest. "But she contrives to 
 read the reports of all the murders of which the 
 newspapers are full." 
 
 Mrs. Wirithrop took this speech literally, drew 
 away her skirts from me, looked at me through her 
 eye-glass, and said, "Yes?" At last she departed, 
 Helen came home, and Mary went. I gave Helen 
 an account of my morning ; she laughed heartily, and 
 it did me good to hear that musical sound once more. 
 
 " It is nearly five o'clock," I said, as we at last 
 had restored everything to order, "and this wholo 
 day has been frittered away in the veriest trifles. 
 It isn't living to live so. Who is the better for my 
 being in the world since six o'clock this morning ? " 
 
 " I am for one," she said, kissing my hot cheeks ; 
 "and you "have given a great deal of pleasure to 
 uoveral persons. Your and Ernest's hospitality ia 
 always graceful, I admire it in you both ; and this is 
 one of the little ways, not to be despised, of giving 
 real enjoyment." It was nice in her to say that; i' 
 quite rested me. 
 
 At the dinner table Ernest complimented me on 
 my good house-keeping. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 371 
 
 44 1 was proud of rny little wife at lunch, he said 
 
 ''And yet you said that outrageous thing about 
 uiy reading about nothing but murders ! " I said. 
 
 "Oh, well, you understood it," he said, laugh 
 ingly. 
 
 "But that dreadful Mrs. Winthrop took it 
 literally. 
 
 "What do we care for Mrs. Winthrop?" he re 
 turned. "If you could have seen the contrast 
 between you two in my eyes-! " 
 
 After all, one must take life as it comes; ita 
 homely details are so mixed up with its sweet 
 charities, and loves, and friendships, that one ia 
 forced to believe that God has joined them together, 
 and does not will that they should be put asunder. 
 It is something that my husband has been satisfied 
 with his wife and his home to-day; that does me 
 good. 
 
 MARCH 30. A stormy day and the children 
 
 home from school, and no little frolicking and laugh 
 ing going on. It must be delightful to feel well and 
 strong while one's children are young, there is so 
 much to do for them. I do it; but 110 one can tell 
 the effort it costs me. What a contrast there is 
 between their vitality and the languor under whic h 
 I suffer! When their noise became intolerable, I 
 proposed to read to them; of course they imult 
 
372 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ten times as much clamor of pleasure and of course 
 they leaned on me, ground their elbows into my 
 lap, and tired me all out. As I sat with thie 
 precious little group about me, Ernest opened the 
 door, looked in, gravely and without a word, and 
 instantly disappeared. I felt uneasy and asked him, 
 this evening, why he looked so? Was I indulging 
 the children too much, or what was it? He took 
 me into his arms and said: 
 
 "My precious wife, why will you torment your 
 self with such fancies? My very heart was yearning 
 over you at that moment, as it did the first time I 
 saw you surrounded by your little class at Sunday 
 school, years ago, and I was asking myself why 
 God had given me such a wife, and my children 
 euch a mother." 
 
 Oh, I am glad I have got this written down ! I 
 will read it over when the sense of my deficiencies 
 overwhelms me, while I ask God why He has given 
 me such a patient, forbearing husband. 
 
 1. This has been a sad day ^to our 
 chnrch. Our dear Dr. Cabot has gone to his eter 
 Dal home, and left us as sheep without a shepherd. 
 His death was sudden at the last, and found us 
 all unprepared for it. But my tears of sorrow arc 
 mingled with tears of joy. His heart had long been 
 in heaven, he was ready to go at a moment's warn 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 373 
 
 lug; never was a soul so constantly and joyously 
 on the wing as his. Poor Mrs. Cabot! Sho is left 
 very desolate, for all their children are married and 
 settled at a distance. But she bears this sorrow 
 like one who has long felt herself a pilgrim and a 
 stranger on earth. How strange that we ever for 
 get that we are all such! 
 
 APRIL 16. The desolate pilgrimage was 
 
 not long. Dear Mrs. Cabot was this day laid away 
 by the side of her beloved husband, and it is delight 
 ful to think of them as not divided by death, but 
 united by it in a complete and eternal union. 
 
 I never saw a husband and wife more tenderly 
 attached to each other, and this is a beautiful close 
 to their long and happy married life. I find it hard 
 not to wish and pray that I may as speedily follow 
 my precious husband, should God call him away 
 first. But it is not for me to choose. 
 
 How I shall miss these faithful friends, who, from 
 my youth up have been my stay and my staff in the 
 Louse of my pilgrimage! Almost all the disap 
 pointments and sorrows of my life have had their 
 Christian sympathy, particularly the daily, wasting 
 solicitude concerning my darling Una, for they too 
 watched for years over as delicate a flower, and 
 saw it fade and die. Only those who have suffeied 
 thus can appreciate the heart-soreness through 
 
374 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 which, no matter how outwardly cheerful I may be, 
 I am always passing. But what then ! Have 1 
 not ten thousand times made this my prayer, that 
 in the words of Leighton, my will might become 
 'identical with God's will." 
 
 And shall He not take me at my word ? Just as 
 I was writing these words, my canary burst forth 
 with a song so joyous that a song was put also into 
 my mouth. Something seemed to say, this captivo 
 sings in his cage because it has never known liberty 
 and cannot regret a lost freedom. So the soul ot 
 my child, limited by the restrictions of a feeble 
 body, never having known the gladness of exube 
 rant health, may sing songs that will enliven and 
 cheer. Yes, arid does sing them! What should we 
 do without her gentle, loving presence, whose 
 frailty calls forth our tenderest affections and 
 whose sweet face makes sunshine in the shadiest 
 places ! I am sure that the boys are truly blessed 
 by having a sister always at home to welcome them, 
 and that their best manliness is appealed to by her 
 helplessness. 
 
 What this child 15 to me I cannot tell. And yet, 
 if the skillful and kind Gardener should house this 
 delicate plant befjre frosts come, should I dare to 
 complain ? 
 
XXV. 
 
 MAT 4. 
 
 1SS CLIFFOKD came to lunch with us on 
 Wednesday. Her remarkable restoration 
 to health has attracted a good deal of at 
 tention, and has given Ernest a certain re 
 putation which does not come amiss to him. Not 
 that he is ambitious; a more unworldly man does 
 not live; but his extreme reserve and modesty have 
 obscured the light that is now beginning to shine. 
 We all enjoyed Miss Clifford's visit. She is one of 
 the freshest, most original creatures I ever met with, 
 and kept us all laughing with her quaint speeches, 
 long after every particle of lunch had disappeared 
 from the table. But this mobile nature turns to the 
 serious side of life with marvelous ease and celerity, 
 as perhaps all sound ones ought to do. I took her 
 up to my room where my work-basket was, and 
 Helen followed, with hers. 
 
 "I have brought something to read to you, dear 
 Mrs, Elliott," Miss Clifford began, the moment we 
 qad seated ourselves, " which I have just lighted on, 
 
 (375) 
 
376 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 and I am sure you will like. A nobleman writes to 
 Fenelon asking certain questions, and a part of 
 tliese questions, with the replies, I want to enjoy 
 with you, as they cover a good deal of the ground 
 we have often discussed together. 
 
 "How shall I offer my purely indifferent actions 
 to God; walks, visits made and received, dress, lit 
 tle proprieties, such as washing the hands, etc., the 
 reading of books of history, business with which I 
 am charged for my friends, other amusements, such 
 as shopping, having clothes made, and equipages. I 
 want to have some sort of prayer, or method of of 
 fering each of these things to God. 
 
 REPLY. 
 
 The most indifferent actions cease to be such, and 
 become good as soon as one performs them with the 
 intention of conforming one's self in them, to the 
 will of God. They are often better and purer 
 than certain actions which appear more virtuous. 
 1st, because they are less of our own choice and 
 more in the order of Providence when one is 
 obliged to perform them; 2d, because they are 
 simpler and less exposed to vain complaisance; 3d, 
 because if one yields to them with moderation, one 
 finds in their, more of death to one's inclinations 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 377 
 
 than in certain acts of fervor in which self-lovo 
 mingles; finally, because these little occasions occur 
 more frequently, and furnish a secret occasion for 
 continually making every moment profitable. 
 
 It is not necessary to make great efforts nor acta 
 of great reflection, in order to offer what are called 
 indifferent actions. It is enough to lift the soul one 
 instant to God, to make a simple offering of it. 
 Everything which God wishes us to do, and which 
 enters into the course of occupation suitable to our 
 position, can and ought to be offered to God; noth 
 ing is unworthy of Him but sin. When you feel 
 that an action cannot be offered to God, conclude 
 that it does not become a Christian; it is at least 
 necessary to suspect it, and seek light concerning it. 
 I would not have a special prayer for each of these 
 things, the elevation of the heart at the moment 
 suffices. 
 
 As for visits, commissions and the like, as there 
 is danger of following one's own taste too much, I 
 would add to this elevating of the heart a prayer for 
 grace to moderate myself and use precaution. 
 
 u. 
 
 In prayer I cannot fix my mind, or I have inter 
 vals of time when it is elsewhere, and it is often 
 distracted for a long time before I perceive it. I 
 want to find some means of becoming its master 
 
378 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 REPLY. 
 
 Fidelity in following the rules that have been 
 given you, and in recalling your mind erery time 
 you perceive its distraction, will gradually give 
 you the grace of being more recollected. Mean 
 while bear your involuntary distractions with pa 
 tience and humility; you deserve nothing better. 
 Is it surprising that recollection is difficult to a 
 man so long dissipated and far from God ? 
 
 in. 
 
 I wish to know if it is best to record, on my 
 tablets, the faults and the sins I have committed, in 
 order not to run the risk of forgetting them. I ex 
 cite in myself to repentance for my faults as much 
 as I can; but I have never felt any real grief on ac 
 count of them. When I examine myself at night, 
 I see persons far more perfect than I, complain of 
 more sin ; as for me, I seek, I find nothing ; and yet 
 it is impossible there should not be many points on 
 which to implore pardon every day of my life. 
 
 REPLT. 
 
 You should examine yourself every night, but 
 simply and briefly. In the disposition to which 
 God has brought you, you will not voluntarily com- 
 rnit any considerable fault without remembering 
 reproaching yourself for it. AS to Jittlo faults. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 579 
 
 scarcely perceived, even if you sometimes forge! 
 them, this need not make you uneasy. 
 
 As to lively grief on account of your sins, it ia 
 not necessary. God gives it when it pleases Him. 
 True and essential conversion of the heart consists 
 in a full will to sacrifice all to God. What I call 
 full will, is a fixed immovable disposition of the 
 will to resume none of the voluntary affections 
 which may alter the purity of the love to God and 
 to abandon itself to all the crosses which it will per 
 haps be necessary to bear, in order to accomplish 
 the will of God always and in all things. As to 
 sorrow for sin, when one has it, one ought to return 
 thanks for it; when one perceives it to be wanting, 
 one should humble one's self peacefully before God 
 without trying to excite it by vain efforts. 
 
 You find in your self-examination fewer faults 
 than persons more advanced and more perfect do; 
 it is because your interior light is still feeble. It 
 will increase, and the view of your infidelities will 
 increase in proportion. It suffices, without making 
 yourself uneasy, to try to be faithful to the degree 
 of light you possess, and to instruct yourself by 
 reading and meditation. It will not do to try to 
 forestall the grace that belongs to a more advanced 
 period. It would only serve to trouble and dis- 
 courage you, and even to exhaust you by continual 
 anxiety; the time that should be spent in loving 
 
380 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 God would be given to forced returns upon your- 
 self, which secretly nourish self-love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In my prayers my mind has difficulty in finding 
 anything to say to God. My heart is not in it, 01 
 it is inaccessible to the thoughts of my mind. 
 
 REPLY. 
 
 It is not necessary to say much to God. Often 
 times one does not speak much to a friend whom 
 one is delighted to see; one looks at him with plea 
 sure; one speaks certain short words to him which 
 are mere expressions of feeling. The mind has no 
 part in them, or next to none ; one keeps repeating 
 the same words. It is not so much a variety of 
 thoughts that one seeks in intercourse with a friend, 
 as a certain repose and correspondence of heart. It 
 is thus we are with God, who does not disdain to 
 be our tenderest, most cordial, most familiar, n'ost 
 intimate friend. A word, a sigh, a sentiment, says 
 nil to God; it is not always necessary to have 
 transports of sensible tenderness; a will all naked 
 and dry, without life, without vivacity, without 
 pleasure, is often purest in the sight of God. In 
 fine, it is necessary to content one's self with giving 
 to Him what He gives it to give, a fervent heart 
 when it is fervent, a heart firm and faithful in its 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. . 381 
 
 aridity, when He deprives it of sensible fervor. It 
 does not always depend on you to feel; but it is 
 necessary to wish to feel. Leave it to God to 
 choose to make you feel sometimes, in order to 
 sustain your weakness and infancy in Christian life; 
 sometimes weaning you from that sweet and con 
 soling sentiment which is the milk of babes, in 
 order to humble you, to make you grow, and to 
 make you robust in the violent exercise of faith, by 
 causing you to eat the bread of the strong in the 
 sweat of your brow. Would you only love God 
 according as He will make you take pleasure in 
 loving Him? You would be loving your own tender 
 ness and feeling, fancying that you were loving 
 God. Even while receiving sensible gifts, prepare 
 yourself by pure faith for the time when you might 
 be deprived of them; and you will suddenly suc 
 cumb if you had only relied on such support 
 
 I forgot to speak of some practices which may, 
 at the beginning, facilitate the remembrance of the 
 offering one ought to make to God, of all the or 
 dinary acts of the day. 
 
 1. Form the resolution to do so, every morning, 
 and call yourself to account in your self-examina 
 tion at night. 
 
 2. Make no resolutions but for good reasons, either 
 from propriety or the necessity of relaxing the 
 mind, etc. Thus, in accustoming one's self to re- 
 
382 , STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 trench the useless little by little, one accustorat 
 one's self to offer what is not proper to curtail. 
 
 3. Renew one's self in this disposition whenever 
 one is alone, in order to be better prepared to re 
 collect it when in company. 
 
 4. Whenevei one surprises one's self in too great 
 dissipation, or in speaking too freely of his neighbor, 
 let him collect himself and offer to God all the rest 
 of the conversation. 
 
 5. To flee, with confidence, to God, to act accord 
 ing to His will, when one enters company, or 
 engages in some occupation which may cause one 
 to fall into temptation. The sight of danger ought 
 to warn of the need there is to lift the heart toward 
 Him by whom one may be preserved from it." 
 
 We both thanked her, as she finished reading, 
 and I begged her to lend me the volume that I 
 might make the above copy. 
 
 I hope I have gained some valuable hints from this 
 letter, and that I shall see more plainly than ever, 
 that it is a religion of principle that God want 8 
 from us, not one of mere feeling. 
 
 Helen remarked that she was most struck by the 
 assertion that one cannot forestall the graces that 
 belong to a more advanced period. She said she 
 had assumed that she ought to experience all that 
 the most mature Christian did, and that it rested 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 383 
 
 her to think of God as doing this work for her, 
 making repentance, for instance, a free gift, not a 
 conquest to be won for one's self. 
 
 Miss Clifford said that the whole idea of giving 
 one's self to God in such little daily acts as visiting, 
 shopping, and the like, was entirely new to her. 
 
 "But fancy/' she went on, her beautiful face 
 lighted up with enthusiasm, "what a blessed life 
 that must be, when the base things of this world, 
 and things that are despised, are so many links to 
 the invisible world, and to the things God has 
 chosen ! " 
 
 "In other words," I said, "the top of the ladder 
 that rests on earth, reaches to heaven, and we may 
 ascend it as the angels did in Jacob's dream." 
 
 "And descend too, as they did," Helen put in, 
 despondently. 
 
 "Now you shall not speak in that tone," cried 
 Miss Clifford. " Let us look at the bright side of 
 life, and believe that God means us to be always 
 ascending, always getting nearer to Himself, al 
 ways learning something new about Him, always 
 loving Him better and better. To be sure our 
 .-..iila are sick, and of themselves can't keep 'ever 
 
 i the wing,' but I have had some delightful 
 noughts of late from just hearing the title of a 
 Look, 'God's method with the maladies of tha 
 soul. It gives one such a conception of the seem- 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 ing ills of life; to think of Him as our Physician, 
 the ills all remedies, the deprivations only a whole 
 some regimen, the losses all gains. Why, as I study 
 this individual case, and that, see how patiently and 
 persistently He tries now this remedy, now that, 
 and how infallibly He cures the souls that submit 
 to His remedies, I love Him so ! I love Him so ! 
 And I am so astonished that we are restive under 
 His unerring hand ! Think how He dealt with me. 
 My soul was sick unto death, sick with worldliness, 
 and self-pleasing and folly. There was only one way 
 of making me listen to reason and that was just the 
 way He took. He snatched me right out of the 
 world and shut me up in one room, crippled, help 
 less and alone, and set me to thinking, thinking, 
 thinking, till I saw the emptiness and shallowness 
 of all in which I had hitherto been involved. And 
 then He sent you and your mother to show me the 
 reality of life, and to reveal to me my invisible. 
 unknown Physician. Can I love Him with half my 
 heart? Can I be asking questions as to how much 
 I am to pay towards the debt I owe Him?" 
 
 By this time Helen's work had fallen from her 
 Lands and tears were in her eyes. 
 
 "How I thank you," she said, softly, "for what 
 you have said. You have interpreted life to me ! 
 You have given me a new conception of my God 
 and Saviour.' 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 385 
 
 Miss Clifford seemed quenched and humbled b^ 
 these words; her enthusiasm faded away and she 
 looked at Helen with a deprecatory air, as she 
 replied, 
 
 "Don't say that! I never felt so unfit for any. 
 thing but to sit at the feet of Christ's disciples and 
 learn of them." 
 
 Yet I, so many years one of those disciples, had 
 been sitting at her feet, and had learned of her. 
 Never had I so realized the magnitude of the work 
 to be done in this world, nor the power and good 
 ness of Him who has undertaken to do it all. I 
 was glad to be alone, to walk my room singing 
 praises to Him for every instance in which, as my 
 Physician, He had "disappointed my hope and de 
 feated my joy," and given me to drink of the cup of 
 sorrow and bereavement. 
 
 MAT 24. I read to Ernest the extract from 
 
 Fenelon which has made such an impression on me. 
 
 " Every business man, in short every man leading 
 an active life, ought to read that," he said. "\Vo 
 phould have a new order of things as the result 
 Instead of fancying that our ordinary daily work 
 was one thing and our religion quite another thing, 
 we should transmute our drudgery into acts of wor- 
 ship, Instead of going to prayer-meetings to get 
 into a 'good frame,' we should live in a good frame 
 17 
 
386 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 from morning till night, from night till morning 
 and prayer and praise would be only another form 
 for expressing the love and faith and obedience we 
 had been exercising amid the pressure of business. 
 
 " I only wish I had understood this years ago," \ 
 said. "I have made prayer too much of a luxury, 
 and have often inwardly chafed and fretted when 
 the care of my children, at times, made it utterly 
 impossible to leave them for private devotion when 
 they have been sick, for instance, or in other like 
 emergencies. I reasoned this way: 'Here is a 
 special demand on my patience, and I am naturally 
 impatient I must have time to go away and en 
 treat the Lord to equip me for this conflict.' But I 
 see now that the simple act of cheerful acceptance 
 of the duty imposed and the solace and support 
 withdrawn, would have united me more fully to 
 Christ than the highest enjoyment of His presence 
 in prayer could." 
 
 "Yes, every act of obedience is an act of wor 
 ship," he said. 
 
 "But why don't we learn that sooner? Why do 
 we waste our lives before we learn how to live ? " 
 
 "I am not sure," he returned, "that we do not 
 learn as fast as we are willing to learn. God does 
 not force instruction upon us, but when we say as 
 Luther did, 'More light, Lord, more light, rhe 
 light cornea" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 387 
 
 I questioned myself after he had gone, as tc 
 whether this could be true of me. Is there not in 
 my heart some secret reluctance to know the truth, 
 lest that knowledge should call to a higher and a 
 holier life than I have yet lived? 
 
 JUNE 2. I went to see Mrs. Campbell a few 
 
 days ago, and found, to my great joy, that Helen 
 had just been there, and that they had had a long 
 and earnest conversation together. Mrs. Campbell 
 has failed a good deal of late, and it is not probable 
 that we shall have her with us much longer. Her 
 every look and word is precious to me when I think 
 of her as one who is so soon to enter the unseen 
 world, and see our Saviour, and be welcomed home 
 by Him. If it is so delightful to be with those who 
 are on the way to heaven, what would it be to have 
 fellowship with one who had come thence, and 
 could tell us what it is ! 
 
 She spoke freely about death, and said Ernest had 
 promised to take charge of her funeral, and to 
 see that she was buried by the side of her hus 
 band. 
 
 " You see, my dear," she added, with a smile, 
 " though I am expecting to be so soon a saint in 
 heaven, 1 am a human being still, with human weak 
 nesses. What can it really matter where this weary 
 old body is laid away, when I have done with it 
 
388 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 and gone aiid left it forever? And yet I am leaving 
 directions about its disposal ! " 
 
 I said I was glad that she was still human, but 
 that I did not think it a weakness to take thought 
 for the abode in which her soul had dwelt so long 
 I saw that she was tired, and was coming away, 
 but she held me, and would not let me go. 
 
 ''Yes, I am tired," she said, "but what of that? 
 It is only a question of days now, and all my tired 
 feelings will be over. Then I shall be as young and 
 as fresh as ever, and shall have strength to praise 
 and to love God as I cannot do now. But before I 
 go, I want once more to tell you how good He is, 
 how blessed it is to suffer with Him, how infinitely 
 happy He has made me in the very hottest heat of 
 the furnace. It will strengthen you in your trials 
 to recall this my dying testimony. There is no 
 wilderness so dreary but that His love can illumi 
 nate it; no desolation so desolate but that He can 
 sweeten it. I know what I am saying. It is no de 
 lusion. I believe that the highest, purest happiness 
 is known only to those who have learned Christ in 
 ruck-rooms, in poverty, in racking suspense and 
 anxiety, amid hardships, and at the open grave." 
 
 Yos, the radiant face, worn by sickness and suf 
 fering, but radiant still, said in language yet more 
 u 1 1 speakably impressive, 
 
 "To learn Christ, this is life I" 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 389 
 
 I came into the busy and noisy streets as one de 
 seen ding from the mount, and on reaching home 
 found my darling Una very ill in Ernest's arms. 
 She had fallen, and injured her head. How I had 
 prayed that God would temper the wind to this 
 shori lamb, and now she had had such a fall ! We 
 watched over her till far into the night, scarce 
 ly speaking to each other, but I know by the way 
 in which Ernest held my hand clasped in his, that 
 her precious life was in danger. He consented at 
 last to lie down, but Helen staid with me. What 
 a night it was! God only knows what the human 
 heart can experience in a space of time that men 
 call hours. I went over all the past history of the 
 child, recalling all her sweet looks and words, and 
 my own secret repining at the delicate health that 
 has cut her off from so many of the pleasures that 
 belong to her age. And the more I thought, the 
 more I clung to her, on whom, frail as she is, I was 
 beginning to lean, and whose influence in our home 
 I could not think of losing without a shudder, 
 Alas, my faith seemed, for a time, to flee, and I could 
 see just what a poor, weak human being is without 
 it. But before daylight crept into my room, light 
 from on high streamed in my heart, and I gave 
 even this., my ewe-lamb, away, as my free-will offer 
 ing to God. Could I refuse Him my child because 
 she was the very apple of my eye? Nay then, but 
 
390 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 let me give tc Him, not what I value least, but 
 what I prize and delight in most. Could I not en- 
 dure heart-sickness for Him who had given His 
 only Son for me ? And just as I got to that gweet 
 consent to suffer, He who had only lifted the rod to 
 try my faith, laid it down. My darling opened her 
 eyes and looked at us intelligently, and with her 
 own loving smile. But I dared not snatch her and 
 press her to my heart; for her sake I must be out 
 wardly calm at least. 
 
 JUNE 6. I am at home with my precious 
 
 Una, all the rest having gone to church. She lies 
 peacefully on the bed, sadly disfigured, for the time, 
 but Ernest says he apprehends no danger now, and 
 we are a most happy, a most thankful household. 
 The children have all been greatly moved by the 
 events of the last few days, and hover about their 
 sister with great sympathy and tenderness. Where 
 ehe fell from, or how she fell, no one knows; she 
 remembers nothing about it herself, and it will al 
 ways remain a mystery. 
 
 This is the second time that this beloved child 
 bas been returned to us after we had given hei 
 away to God. 
 
 And as the giving cost us ten-fold more now than 
 it did when she was a feeble baby, so we receive 
 her pow as a fresh gift from our loving Father's 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 3i)l 
 
 hand, with ten-fold delight. Ah, we have no ex 
 cuse for not giving ourselves entirely to Him. lie 
 has revealed Himself to us in so mjny sorrows, and 
 in so many joys; re^ealed Himsel* a? He doth noi 
 unto tho world 1 
 
XXVI. 
 
 MAT 13. 
 
 HIS has been a Sunday to be held in long 
 remembrance. We were summoned early 
 this morning to Mrs. Campbell, and have 
 seen her joyful release from the fetters that 
 have bound her so long. Her loss to me is irrepar 
 able. But I can truly thank God that one more 
 " tired traveler," has had a sweet " welcome home." 
 I can minister no longer to her bodily wants, and 
 listen to her councils no more, but she has entered 
 as an inspiration into my life, and through all 
 eternity I shall bless God that He gave me that faith 
 ful, praying friend. How little they know who 
 languish in what seem useless sick-rooms, or amid 
 the restrictions of frail health, what work they do 
 for Christ by the power of saintly living, and by even 
 fragmentary prayers. 
 
 Before her words fade out of my memory I want 
 to write down, from hasty notes made at the time, 
 her answer to some of the last questions I asked 
 her on earth. She had always enjoyed intervals of 
 comparative ease, and it was in one of these that J 
 (392) 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 393 
 
 asked hei what she conceived to be the characteris 
 tics of an advanced state of grace. She replied, " I 
 think that the mature Christian is always, at all 
 times, and in all circumstances, what he was in hia 
 best moments in the progressive stages of his life. 
 There were seasons, all along his course, when he 
 loved God supremely; when he embraced the cross 
 joyfully and penitently; when he held intimate com 
 munion with Christ, and loved his neighbor as him 
 self. But he was always in terror, lest under the 
 force of temptation, all this should give place to 
 deadness and dulness, when he would chafe and re 
 bel in the hour of trial, and judge his fellow man 
 with a harsh and bitter judgment, and give way to 
 angry, passionate emotions. But these fluctuations 
 cease, after a time, to disturb his peace. Love to 
 Christ becomes the abiding, inmost principle of his 
 life; he loves Him rather for what He is than for 
 what He has done or will do for him individually, 
 and God's honor becomes so dear to him that he feels 
 personally wounded when that is called in question, 
 And the will of God becomes so dear to him that 
 he loves it best when it 'triumphs at his cost.' 
 
 "Once he only prayed at set times and seasons, and 
 idolized good frames and fervent emotions. Now 
 he prays without ceasing, and whether on the 
 mount or down in the depths depends wholly upon 
 hie Saviour 
 
394 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 "His old self-confidence has now given pla^p t<- 
 ttliild-like humility, that will not let him taVo a atop 
 alone and the sweet peace that is now habitual to 
 him, combined with the sense of his own imperfec 
 tions, fills him with love to his fellow man. lie 
 hears and believes and hopes and endures all things 
 and thinketh no evil. The tones of his voioe, the 
 very expression of his countenance, become chang 
 ed, love now controlling where human passicne held 
 sway. In short, he is not only a new creature in 
 Jesus Christ, but has the habitual and blessed con 
 sciousness that this is so." 
 
 These words were spoken deliberately hnd with 
 reflection. 
 
 " You have described my mother, just as she was 
 from the moment her only son, the last of six, was 
 taken from her," I said, at last. "I never before 
 quite understood how that final sorrow weaned her, 
 so to say, from herself, and made her life all love to 
 God and all love to man. But I see it now. Dear 
 Mrs. Campbell, pray for me that I may yet weai 
 her mantle ! " 
 
 She smiled with a significance that said she had 
 already done so, and then we parted parted thai 
 she might end her pilgrimage and go to her rest 
 parted that I might pursue mine, I know not how 
 long, nor amid how many cares and sorrows, not 
 with what weariness and heart-sickness parted to 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 395 
 
 meet again in the presence of Him we love, with 
 those who have come out of great tribulation, 
 whose robes have been made white in the blood of 
 the Lamb, and who are before the throne of God, 
 and serve Him day and night in His temple, to 
 hunger no more, neither thirst any more, for the 
 Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall lead 
 them into living fountains of waters; and God shall 
 wipe away all tears from their eyes. 
 
 MAY 25. We were talking of Mrs. Camp 
 bell, and of her blessed life and blessed death. 
 Helen said it discouraged and troubled her to see 
 and hear such things. 
 
 "The last time I saw her when she was able to 
 converse," said she, " I told her that when I reflect 
 ed on my want of submission to God's will, I 
 doubted whether I really could be His child. She 
 said, in her gentle, sweet way: 
 
 " ' Would you venture to resist His will, if you 
 could? Would you really have your dear James 
 back again in this world, if you could ? * 
 
 " 4 1 would, I certainly would/ I said. 
 
 " She returned, ' I sometimes find it a help, when 
 dull and cramped in my devotions, to say to myself: 
 Suppose Christ should now appear before you, and 
 you could see Him as he appeared to His disciplea 
 on earth, what would you say to Him? This 
 
396 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 brings Him near, and I say what I would say if lie 
 were visibly present. I do the same when a new 
 sorrow threatens me. I imagine my Redeemer aa 
 coming personally to say to me, " For your sake I am 
 a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; now 
 for My sake give me this child, bear this burden, 
 submit to this loss." Can I refuse Him? Now, 
 dear, he has really come thus to you, and asked you 
 to show your love to Him, your faith in Him, by 
 giving him the most precious of your treasures. If 
 He were here at this moment, and offered to restore 
 it to you, would you dare to say, "Yea, Lord, I 
 know, far better than Thou dost, what is good for 
 him and good for me; I will have him return to 
 me, cost what it may; in this world of uncertainties 
 and disappointments I shall be sure of happiness in 
 his society, and he will enjoy more here on earth 
 with me, than he could enjoy in the companionship 
 of saints and angels and of the Lord Himself in 
 heaven." Could you dare to say this?' Oh, Katy, 
 what straits she drove me into! No, I could not 
 dare to say that!" 
 
 "Then, my darling little sister!" I cried, "you 
 witf give up this struggle? You will let God do 
 what He will with His own?" 
 
 "I have to let Him," she replied; "but i submit 
 because I must" 
 
 I looked at her gentle, pure face as she uttered 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 397 
 
 these words, arid could only marvel at the strong 
 will that had 110 expression there. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "do you think a real Chris 
 tian can feel as I do? For my part I doubt it. I 
 doubt everything." 
 
 Doubt everything, but believe in Christ," I 
 said. " Suppose, for argument's sake, you are not a 
 Christian. You can become one now/ The color 
 rose in her lovely face; she clasped her hands to 
 gether in a sort of ecstacy. 
 
 " Yes" she said, " I can" 
 
 At last God had sent her the word she wanted. 
 
 MAT 28. Helen came to breakfast this 
 
 morning in a simple white dress. I had not time to 
 tell the children not to allude to it, so they began in 
 chorus : 
 
 "Why, Aunt Helen! you have put on a white 
 dress ! " 
 
 "Why, aunty, how queer you look!" 
 " Hurrah ! if she don't look like other folks ! " 
 She bore it all with her usual gentleness; or 
 rather with a positive sweetness that captivated 
 them as her negative patience had never done. I 
 said nothing to her, nor did she to me till late in the 
 day, when she came to me, and said: 
 
 "Katy, God taught you what to say. All these 
 years I have been tormenting myself with doubts 
 
398 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 as tr whet; er I could be His child while so unable to 
 say, Thy will be done. If you had said, 4 Why 
 yes, you must be His child, for you professed your 
 self one a long time ago, and ever since have lived 
 like one/ I should have remained as wretched 
 as ever. As it is, a mountain has been rolled oil' 
 my heart. Yes, if I was not His child yesterday, 
 I can become one to-day; if I did not love Him 
 then, I can begin now. " 
 
 I do not doubt that she was His child, yesterday, 
 and last year, and years ago. But let her think 
 what she pleases. A new life is opening before her ; 
 I believe it is to be a life of entire devotion to God, 
 and that out of her sorrow there shall spring up a 
 wondrous joy. 
 
 SEPT. 2, Sweet Briar Farm. Ernest spent 
 
 Sunday with us, and I have just driven him to the 
 station, and seen him safely off. Things have pros 
 pered with us to such a degree that he has been ex 
 travagant enough to give me the use, for the sum 
 mer, of a bonnie little nag, and an antiquated vehicle, 
 and I have learned to drive. To be sure I broke 
 one of the shafts of the poor old thing the first time 
 I ventured forth alone, and the other day nearly up 
 set ray cargo of children in a pond where I waa 
 silly enough to undertake to water my horse But 
 Ernest, as usual, had patience with me, and begged 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 399 
 
 me to spend as much time as possible in driving 
 about with the children. It is a new experience, 
 and 1 enjoy it quite as much as he hoped I should. 
 Helen is not with us; she has spent the whole sum 
 mer with Martha; for Martha, poor thing, is suf 
 fering terribly from rheumatism and is almost entire 
 ly helpless. I am so sorry for her, after so many 
 years of vigorous health, how hard it must be to 
 endure this pain. With this drawback we have 
 had a delightful summer; not one sick day nor one 
 sick night. With no baby to keep me awake, I 
 sleep straight through, as Kaymond says, and wake 
 in the morning refreshed and cheerful. We shall 
 have to go home soon; how cruel it seems to bring 
 up children in a great city ? Yet what can be done 
 about it? Wherever there are men and women 
 there must be children; what a howling wilderness 
 either city or country would be without them ! 
 
 The only drawback on my felicity is the separa 
 tion from Ernest, which becomes more painful every 
 year to us both. God has blessed our married life; 
 it has had its waves and its billows, but, thanks be 
 unto Him, it has at last settled down into a calm 
 sea of untroubled peace. While I was secretly up 
 braiding my dear husband for giving so much at 
 tention to his profession as to neglect me and my 
 children, he was becoming, every day, more the 
 ideal of a physician, cool, calm, thoughtful, studi- 
 
400 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 oue, ready to sacrifice his life at any moment in the 
 interests of humanity. How often I have mistaken 
 his preoccupied air for indifference; how many 
 times I have inwardly accused him of coldness, 
 A'liOD his whole heart and soul were filled with tho 
 grave problem of life, aye, and of death likewise ! 
 
 But we understand each other now, and I amj 
 sure that God dealt wisely and kindly with us when 
 He brought together two such opposite natures. 
 No man of my vehement nature could have borne 
 with me as Ernest has done, and if he had married 
 a woman as calm, as undemonstrative as himself, 
 what a strange home his would have been for the 
 nurture of little children ? Bi^t the heart was in 
 him, and only wanted to be waked up, and my 
 life has called forth music from his. Ah, there are 
 no partings and meetings now that leave discords 
 in the remembrance, no neglected birthdays, no for 
 gotten courtesies ! It is beautiful to see the thought 
 ful brow relax in presence of wife and children, and 
 to know that ours is, at last, the happy home J so 
 long sighed for. Is the change all in Ernest? Is it 
 not possible that I have grown more reasonable, 
 less childish and aggravating ? 
 
 We are at a farm-house; everything is plain, but 
 neat and nice. I asked Mrs. Brown, our hcstcsn, 
 the other day, if she did not envy me my four little 
 pets; she smiled, said they were the best child row 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 401 
 
 she ever saw, and that it was well to have a family 
 if you have means to start them in the world; foi 
 her part, she lived from hand to mouth as it was, 
 and was sure she could never stand the worry and 
 care of a house full of young ones. 
 
 " But the worry and care is only half the story,* 
 J said. "The other half is pure joy and delight" 
 
 "Perhaps so, to people that are well-to-do," she 
 replied; "but to poor folks, driven to death as we 
 are, it's another thing. I was telling him yesterday 
 what a mercy it was there wasn't any young ones 
 round under my feet, and I could take city boarders, 
 and help work off the mortgage on the farm." 
 
 "And what did your husband say to that?" 
 
 "Well, he said we were young and hearty, and 
 there was no such tearing hurry about the mort 
 gage, and that he'd give his right hand to have a 
 couple of boys like yours." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Why, I said supposing we had a couple of boys, 
 they wouldn't be like yours, dressed to look gen 
 teel and to have their genteel ways; but a pair of 
 wild colts, into everything, tearing their clothes off 
 their backs, and wasting faster than we could earn, 
 ITe said 'twasu't the clothes, 'twas the flesh and 
 Mood he wanted, and 'twasn't no use to argufy 
 about it; a man that hadn't got any children wasn't 
 mor'n half a man. 'Well,' says I, 'supposing you 
 
402 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 had a pack of 'em, what have you got to give 
 em?' 'Jest exactly what my father and mother 
 gave me,' says he; 'two hands to earn their bread 
 with, and a welcome you could have heard from 
 Dan to Beersheba.'" 
 
 " I like to heai that ! " I said. " And I hope many 
 such welcomes will resound in this house. Suppose 
 money does come in while little goes out; suppose 
 you get possession of the whole farm; what then? 
 Who will enjoy it with you? Who will you leave 
 it to when you die ? And in your old age who will 
 care for you?" 
 
 "You seem awful earnest," she said. 
 
 "Yes, I am in earnest. I want to see little chil 
 dren adorning every home, as flowers adorn every 
 meadow and every way-side. I want to see them 
 welcomed to the homes they enter, to see their 
 parents grow less and less selfish, and more and 
 more loving, because they have come. I want to 
 see God's precious gifts accepted, not frowned 
 upon and refused." 
 
 Mr. Brown came in, so I could say no more. 
 But my heart warmed towards him, as I looked at 
 his frank, good-humored face, and I should have 
 been glad to give him the right hand of fellowship. 
 As it was, I could only say a word or two about 
 the beauty of his farm, and the scenery of this 
 whole region, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 403 
 
 "Yes," he said, gratified that I appreciated hie 
 fields and groves, "it is a tormented pretty-laying 
 farm. Part of it was her father's, and part of it 
 was my father's; there ain't another like it in the 
 country. As to the scenery, I don't know as I ever 
 looked at it; city folks talk a good deal about it, but 
 tney've nothing to do but look round." Walter 
 came trotting in on two bare, white feet, and with 
 his shoes in his hand. He had had his nap, felt as 
 bright and fresh as he looked rosy, and I did not 
 wonder at Mr. Brown's catching him up and clasp 
 ing his sunburnt arms about the little fellow, and 
 pressing him against the warm heart that yearned 
 for nestlings of its own. 
 
 SEPT. 23. Home again, and full of the 
 
 thousand cares that follow the summer and precede 
 the winter. But let mothers and wives fret as they 
 will, they enjoy these labors of love, and would feel 
 lost without them. For what amount of leisure, 
 ease, and comfort, would I exchange husband and 
 children and this busy home? 
 
 Martha is better, and Helen has come back to us. 
 I dont know how we have lived without her so 
 long. Her life seems necessary to the comple 
 tion of every one of ours Some others have 
 fancied it necessary to the completion of theirs, bui 
 she has not agreed with them. We are glad enough 
 
404 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 to keep her, and yet I hope the day will come wher 
 she, so worthy of it, will taste the sweet joys of 
 wifehood and motherhood. 
 
 JANUARY 1, 1853. It is not always so easy 
 
 to practice, as it is to preach. I can see in my 
 wisdom, forty reasons for having four children and 
 no more. The comfort of sleeping in peace, of 
 having a little time to read, and to keep on with my 
 music; strength with which to look after Ernest's 
 poor people when they are sick; and, to tell the 
 truth, strength to be bright and fresh and lovable 
 to him all these little joys have been growing 
 very precious to me, and now I must give them up. 
 I want to do it cheerfully and without a frown. 
 But I find I love to fhave my own way, and that at 
 the very moment I was asking God to appoint my 
 work for me, I was secretly marking it out for my 
 self. It is mortifying to find my will less in 
 barinony with His than I thought it was, and that 
 I want to prescribe to Him how I shall spend the 
 Kro, and the health and the strength which are 
 His, not mine. But I will not rest till this struggle 
 is over; till I can say with a smile, "Not my will I 
 Not my will! But Thine!" 
 
 We have been, this winter, one of the happiest 
 families on earth. Our love to each other, Ernest's 
 and mine, though not perfect nothing on earth is 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 405 
 
 has grown less selfish, mere Christ-like; it has ben 
 sanctified by prayer and by the sorrows we have 
 borne together. Then the children have been well 
 and happy, and the source of almost unmitigated 
 joy and comfort. And Helen's presence in this 
 home, her sisterly affection, her patience with tho 
 children and her influence over them, is a benedic 
 tion lor which I cannot be thankful enough. How 
 delightful it is to have a sister! I think it is not 
 often the case that own sisters have such perfect 
 Christian sympathy with each other as we have. 
 Ever since the day she ceased to torment herself 
 with the fear that she was not a child of God, and 
 laid aside the somber garments she had worn so 
 long, she has had a peace that has hardly known 
 a cloud. She says, in a note written me about the 
 time: 
 
 " I want you to know, my darling sister, that the 
 despondency that made my affliction so hard to 
 bear, fled before those words of yours, which, as I 
 have already told you, God taught you to speak. I 
 do not know whether I was really His child, at the 
 time, or not. I had certainly had an experience 
 very different from yours; prayer had never been 
 much more to me than a duty; and I had never 
 felt the sweetness of that harmony between God 
 and the human soul, that I now know can take 
 away all the bitterness from the cup of sorrow. I 
 
406 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 knew -who can help knowing it, that reads God'd 
 word? that He required submission from Ilia 
 children and that His children gave it, no matter 
 what it cost. The Bible is full of beautiful expres 
 sions of it; so are our hymns; so are the written 
 lives of all good men and good women; and I have 
 seen it in you, my dear Katy, at the very moment 
 you were accusing yourself of the want of it. 
 Entire oneness of the will with the Divine Will, 
 seemed to me to be the law and the gospel of the 
 Christian life; and this evidence of a renewed 
 nature I found wanting in myself. At any moment 
 during *,he three years following James' death, I 
 would have snatched him away from God, if I 
 could; I was miserably lonely and desolate with 
 out him, not merely because he had been so much 
 to me, but because his loss revealed to me the dis 
 tance between Christ and my soul. All I could do 
 was to go on praying, year after year, in a dreary, 
 hopeless way, that I might learn to say, as David 
 did, 'I opened not my mouth because Thou didst 
 it When you suggested that instead of trying to 
 find out whether I had loved God I should begin 
 to love Him now, light broke in upon my soul; 1 
 gave myself to Him that instant; and as soon as I 
 could get away by myself I fell upon my knees, 
 and gave myself up to the sense of His sovereignty 
 for the first time in my life Then, too, T looked at 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 407 
 
 my 'light affliction/ and at the 'weight of glory 
 side by side, and thanked Him that through the one 
 He had revealed to me the other. Katy, I know the 
 human heart is deceitful above all things, but I 
 think it would be a dishonor to God, to doubt that 
 He then revealed Himself to me as He doth not to 
 the world, and that the sweet peace I then found in 
 yielding to Him, will be more or less mine so long 
 as I live. Oh, if all sufferers could learn what 
 I have learned ! That every broken heart could oe 
 healed as mine has been healed! My precious 
 sister, cannot we make this one part of our mission 
 on earth, to pray for every sor o w-stricken soul, 
 and whenever we have influence over such, to lead 
 it to honor God by instant obedience to His will, 
 whatever that will may be? I have dishonored 
 Him by years of rebellious, carefully nursed sorrow ; 
 I want to honor Him now by years of resignation 
 and grateful joy." 
 
 Reading this letter over in my present mood has 
 done me good. More beautiful faith in God than 
 Helen's I have never seen; let me have it, too. 
 May this prayer, which, under the inspiration of the 
 moment, I can offer without a misgiving, become 
 the habitual, deep-seated desire of my soul. 
 
 "Bring into captivity every thought to the 
 obedience of, Christ. Take what I cannot give: 
 my heart> body, thoughts, time, abilities, money, 
 
408 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 health, strength, nights, days, youth, age, and spend 
 them in Thy service, my crucified Master, Re 
 deemer, God. Oh, let not these be mere words! 
 Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is 
 none upon earth that I desire in comparison of 
 Thee. My heart is athirst for God, for the living 
 God. When shall I come and appear before God ? '' 
 
XXVII. 
 
 AUOUBT 1. 
 
 HAVE just written to Mrs. Brown to 
 know whether she will take us for the lest 
 of the summer. A certain little man, not 
 a very old little man, either, has kept ua 
 in town till now. Since he has come, we are all 
 very glad of him, though he came on his own invi 
 tation, brought no wardrobe with him, does not pay 
 for his board, never speaks a word, takes no notice 
 of us, and wants more waiting on than any one else 
 in the house. The children are full of delicious 
 curiosity about him, and overwhelm him witK 
 presents of the most heterogeneous character. 
 
 Sweet Briar Farm, AUG 9. We got there 
 
 this afternoon, bag and baggage. I had not said a 
 word to Mrs. Brown about the addition to our 
 family circle, knowing she had plenty of room, and 
 as we alighted from the carriage, I snatched my 
 baby f;om his nurse's arms and ran gayly up the 
 walk with him in mine. "If this splendid fellow 
 18 (409) 
 
410 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 doesn't convert her nothing will," I said to mysel 
 At that instant what should I see but Mrs. Brown, 
 running to meet me with a boy in her arms exactly 
 like Mr. Brown, only not quite six feet long, and 
 not yet sun-burnt. 
 
 " There ! " I cried, holding up my little old man. 
 
 " There ! " said she, holding up hers. 
 
 We laughed till we cried; she took my baby and 
 I took hers; after looking at him I liked mine 
 better than ever; after looking at mine she was 
 perfectly satisfied with hers. 
 
 We got into the house at last; that is to say, we 
 mothers did; the children darted through it and 
 out of the door that led to the fields and woods, 
 and vanished in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 Mrs. Brown had always been a pretty woman, 
 with bright eyes, shining, well-kept hair, and a 
 color in her cheeks like the rose which had given 
 its name to her farm. But there was now a new 
 beauty in her face; the mysterious and sacred 
 sufferings and joys of maternity had given it 
 thought and feeling. 
 
 "I had no idea I should be so fond of a baby," 
 she said, kissing it, whenever she stopped to put in 
 Q comma ; " but I don't know how I ever got along 
 without one. He's off at work nearly the whole 
 day, and when I had got through with mine, and 
 had put on my afternoon dress, and was ready to sit 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 411 
 
 down, you can't think how lonesome it was, But 
 now, by the time I am dressed, baby is ready to go 
 out to get the air; he knows the minute he sees 
 me bring out his little hat that he is going to 
 gee his father, and he's awful fond of his father. 
 Though that isn't so strange, either, for his father's 
 awful fond of him. All his little ways are so 
 pretty, and he never cries unless he's hungry or 
 tired. Tell mother a pretty story now; yes, mo 
 ther hears, bless his little heart ! " 
 
 Then when Mr. Brown came home to his supper, 
 his face was a sight to see, as he caught sight of me 
 at my open window, and came to it with the child's 
 white arms clinging to his neck, looking as happy 
 and as bashful as a girl. 
 
 You see she must needs go to quartering this 
 oouncing young one on to me," he said, "as if I 
 didn't have to work hard enough before. Well, 
 maybe he'll get his feed off the farm; we'll see 
 what we can do." 
 
 "Mamma," Una whispered, as he went off with 
 his fac-simile, to kiss it rapturously, behind a wood 
 pile, " do you think Mrs. Brown's baby very pretty ? " 
 
 Which was so mild a way of suggesting the 
 fact of the case, that I kissed her without trying to 
 hide my amusement. 
 
 AUG. 10. After being cooped up in towu 
 
412 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 so large a part of the summer, the children are 
 nearly wild with delight at being in the country 
 once more. Even our demure Una skips about 
 with a buoyancy I have never seen in her; she 
 never has her ill turns when out of the city, and I 
 wish, for her sake, that we could always live here. 
 As to Raymond and Walter I never pretend to see 
 them except at their meals and their bed time ; 
 they just live out of doors, following the men at 
 their work, asking all sorts of absurd questions, 
 which Mr. Brown reports to me every night, with 
 shouts of delighted laughter. Two gay and glad 
 some boys they are; really good without being 
 priggish; I don't think I could stand that. People 
 ask me how it happens that my children are all so 
 promptly obedient and so happy. As if it chanced 
 that some parents have such children, or chanced 
 that some have not ! I am afraid it is only too true, 
 as some one has remarked, that " this is the age of 
 obedient parents!" What then will be the future 
 of their children? How can they yield to God 
 who have never been taught to yield to human 
 authority? And how well fitted will they be to 
 rule their own households who have never learned 
 to rule themselves? 
 
 AUG. 31. This has been one of those cold, 
 
 dismal, rainy days which are not unfrequent during 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 413 
 
 the month ol August. So the children have been 
 obliged to give up the open air, of which they are 
 so fond, and fall back upon what entertainment 
 could be found within the house. I have read to 
 them the little journal I kept during the whole life 
 of the brother I am not willing they should forget 
 His quaint and sagacious sayings were delicious 
 to them; the history of his first steps, his first 
 words sounded to them like a fairy tale. And the 
 story of his last steps, his last words on earth, 
 had for them such a tender charm, that there was 
 a cry of disappointment from them all, when I 
 closed the little book, and told them we should 
 have to wait till we got to heaven before we could 
 know any thing more about his precious life. 
 
 How thankful I am that I kept this journal, and 
 tVat I have almost as charming ones about most of 
 my other children ! What I speedily forgot, amid 
 the pressure of cares and of new events, is safely 
 written down, and will be the source of endless 
 pleasure to them long after the hand that wrote has 
 coased from its labors, and, lies inactive and at rest 
 
 Ah, it is a blessed thing to be a mother ! 
 
 SEPTEMBER 1. This baby of mine is cer 
 tainly the sweetest and best I ever had. I feel an 
 inexpressible tenderness for it which I cannot quite 
 explain to myself, for I have loved them all dearly. 
 
114 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 most dearly. Perhaps it is so with ail mothers, 
 perhups they all grow more loving, more forbear 
 ing, more patient as they grow older, and yearn 
 over these helpless little ones with an ever increas 
 ing, yet chastened delight. One cannot help shel 
 tering their tender infancy, who will so soon pass 
 forth to fight the battle of life, each one waging an 
 invisible warfare against invisible foes. How thank 
 fully we would fight it for them, if we might ! 
 
 SEPTEMBER 20. The mornings and even 
 ings are very cool now, while in the middle of 
 the day it is quite hot. Ernest comes to see us very 
 often, under the pretense that he can't trust me 
 with so young a baby! He is so tender and 
 thoughtful, and spoils me so, that this world is very 
 bright to me; I am a little jealous of it; I don't 
 want to be so happy in Ernest, or in my children, 
 as to forget for one instant that I am a pilgrim and 
 a stranger on earth. 
 
 EVENING. There "is no danger that I shall. 
 
 Ernest suddenly made his appearance to-night, and 
 in a great burst rf distress quite unlike anything 1 
 ever saw in him, revealed to me that he had been 
 feeling the greatest anxiety about me ever since the 
 baby came. It is all nonsense. I cough, to be 
 sure ; but that is owing to the varying temperature 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 415 
 
 we always have at this season. I shall get over it 
 as soon we get home, I dare say. 
 
 But suppose I should not; what then? Could I 
 leave this precious little flock, uncared for, untend- 
 ed? Have I faith to believe that if God calls me 
 away from them, it will be in love to them ? I do not 
 know. The thought of getting away from the sin 
 that still so easily besets me, is very delightful, and 
 I have enjoyed so many, many such foretastes of the 
 bliss of heaven that I know I should be happy there ; 
 but then, my children, all of them under twelve 
 years old! I will not choose, I dare not. 
 
 My married life has been a beautiful one. It is 
 true that sin and folly, and sickness and sorrow, 
 have marred its perfection, but it has been adorned 
 by a love which has never faltered. My faults have 
 never alienated Ernest; his faults, for like other 
 human beings he has them, have never overcome 
 my love to him. This has been the gift of God in 
 answer to our constant prayer, that whatever other 
 bereavement we might have to suffer, we might 
 never be bereft of this benediction. It has been the 
 glad secret of a happy marriage, and I wish I could 
 teach it to every human being whx> enters upon a 
 state that must biing with it the depth of misery, 
 or life's most sacred and mysterious joy. 
 
 OCTOBER 6. Ernest has let me stay here to 
 
416 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 see the autumnal foliage in its ravishing beauty 
 for the first, perhaps for the last, time. The woods 
 and fields and groves are lighting up my very soul! 
 It seems as if autumn had caught the inspiration 
 and the glow of summer, had hidden its floral 
 beauty, its gorgeous sunsets and its bow of promise 
 in its heart of hearts, and was now flashing it forth 
 upon the world with a lavish and opulent hand. I 
 can hardly tear myself away, and return to the 
 prose of city life. But Ernest has come for us, and 
 is eager to get us home before colder weather. I 
 laugh at his anxiety about his old wife. Why need 
 he fancy that this trifling cough is not to give way 
 as it often has done before ? Dear Ernest ! I never 
 knew that he loved me so. 
 
 OCTOBER 31. Ernest's fear that he had let 
 
 me stay too long in the country does not seem to 
 be justified. We went so late that I wanted to in 
 dulge the children by staying late. So we have 
 only just got home. I feel about as well as usual; 
 it is true I have a little soreness about the chest, 
 but it does not signify anything. 
 
 I never was so happy in my husband and children, 
 in other words, in my Aorae, as I am now. Life 
 looks very attractive. I am glad that 1 am going 
 to get well. 
 
 But Ernest watches me carefully, and wants me, 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 41? 
 
 as a precautionary measure, to give up music, writ 
 ing, sewing, and painting the very things that oc 
 cupy me ! and lead an idle, useless life, for a time. 
 I cannot refuse what he asks so tenderly, and as a 
 personal favor to himself. Yet I should like to fill 
 the few remaining pages of my journal; I never 
 like to leave things incomplete, 
 
 JUNE 1, 1858. I wrote that seven years ago, 
 
 little dreaming how long it would be before I should 
 use a pen. Seven happy years ago! 
 
 I suppose that some who have known what my 
 outward life has been during this period, would 
 think of me as a mere object of pity. There has 
 certainly been suffering and deprivation enough to 
 justify the sympathy of my dear husband and chil 
 dren, and the large circle of friends who have 
 rallied about us. How little we knew we had so 
 many! 
 
 God has dealt very tenderly with me. I was not 
 stricken down by sudden disease, nor were the 
 things _ delighted in all taken away at once. There 
 was a gradual loss of strength and gradual increase 
 of suffering, and it was only by degrees that I was 
 asked to give up the employments in which I de 
 lighted, my household duties, my visits to the sick 
 and suffering, the society of beloved friends. Per 
 haps Ernest perceived and felt my deprivations 
 18 
 
418 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 Booner than I did; his sympathy always seemed tc 
 out-run my disappointments. When I compare him, 
 as he is now, with what he was when I first knew 
 him, I bless God for all the precious lessons He has 
 taught him at my cost. There is a tenacity and 
 persistence about his love for me that has made 
 these years almost as wearisome to him, as they 
 have been to me. As to myself, if I had been told 
 what I was to learn through these protracted suffer 
 ings, I am afraid I should have shrunk back in ter 
 ror, and so have lost all the sweet lessons God pro 
 posed to teach me. As it is, He has led me on, step 
 by step, answering my prayers in His own waj ; 
 and I cannot bear to have a single human being 
 doubt that it has been a perfect way. I love and 
 adore it just as it is. 
 
 Perhaps suspense has been one of the most try 
 ing features of my case. Just as I have unclasped 
 my hand from rny dear Ernest's; just as I have let 
 go my almost frantic hold of my darling children; 
 just as heaven opened before me, and I fancied my 
 weariness over and my wanderings done; just then 
 almost every alarming symptom would disappear, 
 and life recall me from the threshold of heaven 
 itself. Thus I have been emptied from vessel io 
 vessel, till I have learned that he only is truly happy 
 who has no longer a choice of his own, and lies 
 passive in God's hand. 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 419 
 
 Even now, no one can foretell the issue of thia 
 sickness. We live a day at a time, not knowing 
 what shall be on the morrow. But whether I live or 
 die, my happiness is secure, ard so, I believe, is 
 that of my beloved ones. This is a true picture of 
 our home: 
 
 A sick-room full of the suffering that ravages the 
 body, but cannot touch the soul. A worn, wasting 
 mother ministered unto by a devoted, saintly hus 
 band, and by unselfish, Christian children. Some 
 of the peace of God, if not all of it, shines in every 
 face, is heard in every tone. It is a home that 
 typifies and foreshadows the home that is perfect 
 and eternal. 
 
 Our dear Helen has been given us for this emer 
 gency. Is it not strange that seeing our domestic 
 life should have awakened in her some yearnings for 
 a home and a heart and children of her own. She 
 has said that there was a weary point in her life 
 when she made up her mind that she was never to 
 know these joys. But she accepted her lot grace 
 fully. I do not know any other word that de 
 scribes so well the beautiful offering she made of her 
 life, first to God, and then to us. He accepted it, 
 ftnd has given her all the cares and responsibilities 
 of domestic life, without the transcendent joys that 
 sustain the wife and the mother. She has been all 
 in all to our children, and God has been all in all to 
 
4*20 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 her. And she is happy in His service and in otu 
 love. 
 
 JUNE 13. It took me nearly two weeks to 
 
 write the above, at intervals, as my strength 
 allowed. Ernest has consented to my finishing this 
 volume, of which so few pages yet remain. And 
 he let me see a dear old friend who came all the 
 way from my native town to see me Dr. Eaton, 
 our family physician as long as I could remember. 
 He is of an advanced age, but full of vigor, his eye 
 bright and with a healthful glow on his cheek. But 
 he says he is waiting and longing for his summons 
 home. About that home we had a delightful talk 
 together that did my very heart good. Then ho 
 made me tell him about this long sickness and the 
 years of frail health and some of the sorrows 
 through which I had toiled. 
 
 "Ah, these lovely children are explained now," 
 he said. 
 
 "Do you really think," I asked, "that it has beet) 
 good for my children to have a feeble, afflicted 
 mother?" 
 
 "Yes, I really think so. A disciplined mother 
 disciplined children." 
 
 This comforting thought is one of the last drops 
 in a cup of felicity already full 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 421 
 
 JUNE 20. Another Sunday, and all at 
 church except my darling Una, who keeps watch 
 over her mother. These Sundays, when I have 
 had them each alone in turn, have been blessed 
 days to them and to me. Surely this is some com 
 pensation for what they lose in me of health and 
 vigor. I know the state of each soul as far as it 
 can be known, and have every reason to believe 
 that my children all love my Saviour and are trying 
 to live for Him. I have learned, at last, not to 
 despise the day of small things, to cherish the 
 tenderest blossom, and to expect my dear ones to 
 be imperfect before they become perfect Christians. 
 
 Una is a sweet, composed young girl, now 
 eighteen years old, and what can I say more of the 
 love her brothers bear her, than this: they never 
 tease her. She has long ceased asking why she 
 must have delicate health when so many others of 
 her age are full of animal life and vigor, but stands 
 in her lot and place, doing what she can, suffering 
 what she must, with a meekness that makes her 
 lovely in my eyes, and that I am sure unites her 
 closely to Christ 
 
 JUNE 27. It was Raymond's turn to stay 
 
 with me to-day. He opened his heart to me more 
 freely than he had ever done before. 
 
 " Mamma," he began, " if papa is willing, I have 
 
422 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 made up my mind that is to Bay if I ever get 
 decently good to go on a mission." 
 
 I said, playfully, 
 
 "And mamma's consent is not to be asked?" 
 
 "No," lie said getting hold of what there is left 
 of my hand, "I know you wouldn't say a word 
 Don't you remember telling me once, when I was a 
 little boy, that I might go and welcome?" 
 
 u And don't you remember," I returned, "that 
 you cried for joy, and then relieved your mind still 
 farther, by walking on your hands, with your feet 
 in the air?" 
 
 We both laughed heartily, at this remembrance, 
 and then I said: 
 
 "My dear boy, you know your father's plan for 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, I know he expects me to study with him, 
 and take his place in the world." 
 
 "And it is a very important place." 
 
 His countenance fell, as he fancied I was not 
 entering heartily into his wishes. 
 
 "Dear Kaymond," I went on, "I gave you to 
 God long before you gave yourself to Him. If H 
 can make yon useful in your own, or in other lands, 
 I bless His name. Whether I live to see you a man, 
 or not, I hope you will work in the Lord's vineyard, 
 wherever He calls. I never asked anything for you 
 but usefulness, in all my prayers for youj 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 423 
 
 once. His eyes filled with tears; he kissed me, 
 and walked away to the window, to compose him 
 self My poor, dear, lovable, loving boy I He has 
 all his mother's trials and struggles to contend 
 with; but what matter it ii they bring him the 
 8am e peace? 
 
 JUNE 30. Every body wonders to see me 
 
 once more interested in my long-closed journal, and 
 becoming able to see the dear friends from whom I 
 have been, in a measure, cut off. We cannot 
 ask the meaning of this remarkable increase of 
 strength. 
 
 I have no wish to choose. But I have come to 
 the last page of my Journal, and living or dying, 
 shall write in this volume no more. It closes upon 
 a life of much childishness and great sinfulness, 
 whose record makes me blush with shame, but I 
 no longer need to relieve my heart with seeking 
 sympathy in its unconscious pages, nor do I believe 
 it well to go on analyzing it as I have done. I 
 have had large experience of both joy and sorrow; 
 I have seen the nakedness and the emptiness, and I 
 have seen the beauty and sweetness of life. What 
 I have to say now, let me say to Jesus. What time 
 and strength I used to spend in writing here, let 
 me now spend in praying for all men, for all suf 
 ferers, for all who are out of the way, for all whom 
 
424 STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 
 
 I love. And tlieir name is Legion, for I love every 
 body. 
 
 Yes, I love every body! That crowning joy has 
 come to me at last. Christ is in my soul; He is 
 mine; I am as conscious of it as that my husband 
 and children are mine; and His Spirit flows forth 
 from mine in the calm peace of a river, whose banks 
 are green with grass, and glad with flowers. If I 
 die, it will be to leave a wearied and worn body, 
 and a sinful soul, to go joyfully to be with Christ, 
 to weary and to sin no more. If I live, I shall find 
 much blessed work to do for Him. So living or 
 dying, I shall be the Lord's. 
 
 But I wish, oh, how earnestly, that whether I go 
 or stay, I could inspire some lives with the joy that 
 is now mine. For many years I have been rich in 
 faith; rich in an unfaltering confidence that I was 
 beloved of my God and Saviour. But something 
 was wanting; I was ever groping for a mysterious 
 grace the want of which made me often sorrowful 
 in the very midst of my most sacred joy, imperfect 
 when I most longed for perfection. It was that 
 personal love to Christ of which my precious mother 
 so often spoke to me, which she often urged me to 
 seek upon my knees. If I had known then, as I 
 know now, what this priceless treasure could be to 
 a sinful human soul, I would have sold all that I 
 had to buy the field wherein it lay hidden. But 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD. 425 
 
 not till I was shut up to prayer and to the study of 
 God's word by the loss of earthly joys, sickness 
 destroying the flavor of them all, did I begin to 
 penetrate the mystery that is learned under the 
 cross. And wondrous as it is. how simple is this 
 mystery! To love Christ, and to know that I love 
 Him this is all! 
 
 And when I entered upon the sacred yet oft- 
 times homely duties of married life, if this love had 
 been mine, how would that life have been trans 
 figured! The petty faults of my husband under 
 which I chafed, would not have moved me; I 
 should have welcomed Martha and her father to my 
 home and made them happy there; I should have 
 had no conflicts with my servants, shown no petu 
 lance to my children. For it would not have been 
 I who spoke and acted, but Christ who lived in me. 
 
 Alas ! I have had less than seven years in which 
 to atone for a sinful, wasted past, and to live a new 
 and a Christ-like life. If I am to have yet more, 
 thanks be to Him who has given me the victory, 
 that life will be Love. Not the love that rests in 
 the contemplation and adoration of its object; but 
 the love that gladdens, sweetens, solaces other lives. 
 
 O gifts of gifts ! O grace of faith t 
 
 My God ! how can it be 
 That Thou, who hast discerning love, 
 
 Shouldst give that gift to me? 
 
STEPPING HEAVENWARD 
 
 How many hearts them mightst have had 
 
 More innocent than mine I 
 How many souls more worthy far 
 
 Of that sweet touch of Thine? 
 
 Oh, grace ! into unlikeliest hearts 
 
 It is thy boast to come, 
 The glory of Thy light to find 
 
 In darkest spots a home. 
 
 Oh, happy, happy that I am ! 
 
 If thou canst be, O faith, 
 The treasure that thou art in life 
 
 What wilt thou be in death \ 
 
3? 
 
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 655 Prentiss, Elizabeth 
 
 1878. 
 
 
 Stepping heavenward. By Mrs. E. Prentiss ... New 
 stereotype ed., with a sketch of the author. New York, 
 A. D. F. Randolph & company 
 
 2 p. 1 , a-4, x, 7-42 p. 19. 
 
 Sketch of the author wanting. 
 'I. Title. 
 
 Library of Congress 
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