STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
EPRENTISS,
AUTHOR O TIlE "FLOWER OF THE FAMILY," THE'"BUSY BCOES," "LITTLE
LOU'S SAYINGS A-ND DOINGS,'" ITC., ETC.
NEW YORK;
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO.
No. 770 BROADWAY.




Antert According to A( t of Congress. in the year 1869, by
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO.,
in the Clerk's Ot11:e of the District Court of the United States for the Sou hern
District of New York.
B ER   R  UTT E R,
BINDER,
C4 giE*'AN S'TrU,?




STEPPING WESTWARD.
WLile my fe.low traveller and I were walking by the sid e Do
aocE  Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a
at 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 womer, one oi
whom said to us by way of greeting, " What, you are stepping
westward?"' What, you are stepping westward?"   " Yea.
-'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:
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?
rhe dewy ground was dark and cold;
Behind, all gloomy to behold:
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny:
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.
(.3)




4               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 u-pon 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.         Wtords worth,




Fa-nt not; the miles to heaven are but few and short.'.'"
RUTHERFORD'
"How shall I do to love? Believe.  How shall I do to be.
bt ve? I,ove."- LEIGHTON.
"Always add, always walk, always proceed; neither stana
still, nor go back, nor deviate; he that standeth still proceedeth
not; he goeth back that continueth not; he deviiteth that re.
volteth; he goeth better that creepeth in his way than lhe that
moveth out of his wa." —AUGUSTINE.
(5)








STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
I.
JANUARY 15, 1881.
OW dreadfully old I am getting! Sixteen!
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 delightfully warm in bed. So I covered myself up, and
made ever so many good r.esolutions
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 wili 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.
And I determined to make one more effort- to




8           STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
conquer my hasty temper. I thought, too, I w -, Id
be self-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!
Time passed quickly amid these agreeable
thoughts, and I was quite startled to hear the bell
ting for prayers. I jumped up in a great flurry,
and dressed as quickly as I could. Everything 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-theway places! VWhen 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 faul+ 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, for
another 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,
"t-Have:- you vour overshoes, dear?"




STEPPING HEAVENV'ARD.           9
"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 nced
them," mother said.
" I don't know where they are. I hate c vershoes
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 t6 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 mne, 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 t'Ine my having this one. Instead oi
combing and combing and combing my old hair t-j
_*




O0         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
get it glossy enough to suit mother, I can j ast givc
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 presents. I do really believe she loves mne 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 hear
the rest. She said my character would be essentially formed by the time I reached my twentieth
year, and left it to me to say if I wished to be as a
womatp 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 gobd deal could be done in that time.. O0
course I don't want to be always exactly what I an)
now.
Mother went on to say that I had in me the elements of a fine character if I would only conquer
some-of my faults. "You are frank and tr tthful,'




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           I 
she said, "and in some things conscientious.
hope you are really a child of God, and are trying
to please Him. And it is my daily prayer that you
may become a lovely, loving, useful woman."
I made no answer. I wanted to say something,
but 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?"
"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
see your faults, but only your mother will-have the
courage to speak of them. Now 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         STEP'PIN G HEAVENWVARD.
but I did not kiss her. I really believe Satan hlim
self hindered me. I ran across the hall to my roomn
slammed the door, and locked myself in.  I 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 pne. I do like so to be pitied! But
on the table, by- the window, I saw a beautiful new
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 the Bible which accompa.
nled it, every day of my life. "A few verses," she
said " carefully read and pondered, instead of a chapter 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 Bible at random, and lighted on these words:'"Watch, therefore, for ye know liot what hour
your Lord doth come." There was nothing very
cheering in that. I felt a real repugnance to be alWays- on the watch, thinking I might die at any morme't. I am sure I am not. fit to die. Besides, I
want to have a good time, with nothing to worry
me. I hope I shall live ever so long. Perhaps iln
the course of forty or -fifty years I may get tired
of:this o-'rld anndwant'to:leave:it. And -I. hope by




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            13
that timle, I 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 like best was on the table. Mother
had not forgotten one of all the dainties I like. Amelia was there too. Mother had invited hoer 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 believeI will say my prayers in bed, just for this once. 1
do not feel sleepy, but I am sure I ought not to sit
up another moment.
JAN. 30o.-Here I am at my desk once more.
there is a fire in my room, and mother is sitting by
it, reading. I can'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. Fio.
my part I like something new. But I must goai~:
to where I left-off.
That night when I stopped writing, 1 hurried tc
bed as fast as I could, for I felt cold and tired. i:remember- saying,:', Oh, God, I am: ashamed  to




14         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
pray, arnd then I began to think of all the tLings
that had happened that day, and never knew
anoth er thing till the ri'sing 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 because 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 over-shoes.'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,.ooking 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
f will do as mother says.
JAN. 3 I. —How easy it is to make good resolu.
tions, and how easy it is to break them! Just as I
had got so far, yesterday, mother spoke for the
third time about my exerting myself s-, much.
And just at that moment I fainted away, and shle




STEPPING HEAVENWARD            15
had a great time all alone there with me. I did nlot
realize how long I had been writing, n )r how weak; was. I do wonder if I shall ever really- learn that
mother knows more than I do!
FEB. I 7 —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, and 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 Memoir 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 disputed 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 mother reproved him for teasing me, saying my illness
had left mf 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 fell
asleep. I don't sec as I am any the better for this
Sunday, it has only made.me feel unhappy and oult




6  STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
of sorts  I am sure I pray to God to inak~ me!,et
ter, and why don't He?
--- FEB. 2o.-It has been quite a mild day for the
season, and the doctor said I might drive )ut. I
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 enjoy 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. T 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 an
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 I?  Somehow I have been behaving quite
nicely lately. Everything has gone on exactly to




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          I7
my mind../lother has not found fault with me
3nce, and father has praised my drawings and
seemed proud of me. He says he shall not tell me
what my teachers say of me lest 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'
friends 2iving near us, each having lots of little
children. It is perfectly ridiculous how rruch those
creatures are sick. They send for motl-er 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 HEAVEN-WARD.
I shall be careful about what they eat, and keep them
from getting cold, and they will keep. well of their
own accord. Mrs. Jones has just sent for motheto see her Tommy. It was so provoking. I hac
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 arrange 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 today and had all the other children here to get them
out of their mother's way. HIow 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    I have not -been down in season
once this: week. I have-persuaded mother t.o- let me




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.             19
read some of Scott's novels, and have sat up late
and been sleepy in the morning. I wish I could get
oalong with mother as nicely as James does. He is
late far oftener than I am, but he never gets into
such scrapes about it as I do. This is what happens. He comes down when it suits him.
Mother begins.-" James, I am vaey much dis
pleased with you."
yarmes.-" I should think you would be, mother."
Mother, mollified.-" I don't think you deserve
any breakfast."
7ames, 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 mx -fault."
Mother.-" I would go to bed at eight o'clock
rather than be late as often as you. How shoulld
you like it if I were -not down to prayers?":Katherine,:: muttering.-" Of course that is very
different; I don't see-why I-:should oe: blamed for




20         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
over-sleeping any more than James. I get all the
scoldings."
Mother sighs and goes off.
I prowl round and get what scraps of breakfast
i can.
MAY I2. —The weather is getting perfectly
delicious. I am sitting with my window open, and
mny 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
_o begin on some of those pieces of self-denial I resolved 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 Underhill, 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
Underhill admires you above all things. I have a
good 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 rrn',.
"I liked Jane Underhill the moment I saw her.
She has such a sweet face and such- pleasant inar.
ners. But you are so jealous that I never dared to




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.             21
show how I liked her. Don't be vexed, dearie it
you are jealous it is your only fault I''
She then rushed off, and I saw her kiss that gir.
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, "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 getting a new friend. Then I was mortified because I
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.
"IHo-w can you have the vanity to read such
stuff?" I cried.
Amelia colored a little.
"You have said and written much more flatter.




t2         STEPPING HEAVENW ARD.
ing things to me," she replied. "Perlhaps it hat
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!
--  MAY 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 2I.-It seems this Underhill 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 wonder Amelia's mother lets her accept presents ft )m
strangers. My mother would not let me. On th(
whole, there is nobody like one's own mother
Amelia has been:old 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 noliced
how 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, "hcw I pity you that you
have inherited my quick, irritable temper."
" Yours, mother!" I cried out; "what can you
mean?"
Mother smiled a little at. my 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
las 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,
ted at last rolled it up into a ball and threw it
~,c:oss the room. I wished I could toss my bad
reelings into a corner with it.
"I do wish I could make you love to pray, my




24         STEPPIN G HEAVENWARD.
darling child," mother went on. "If ycu  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,'Ask!'"
"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,"




alR
II.
JUNE 1.
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 affectionately to those wh9 did not know what to think,
and I was frightened and ashamed to feel tears running down my cheeks, when he said that he believed 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 y:et unconscious 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 those be.
longing to each class to meet him on three successive Saturday afternoons. I shall certainly go.
2                   (25)




26         STEPPING HEAVEN WVARD
-- J-TULY I9.-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 instructions 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' feel 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 ougnt.
and I do and say a great many things to displease
ner."
"Yes, yes," he said, " I know."
"Has mother told you?" I cried out




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          27
"' No, dear, no, indeed. But I know what huma,
rnature is after having one of my own fifty yea s,
and six of my children's to encounter."
Somehow I felt more courage after he said that.
"In the first place, then, you feel that you love
your mother? But you never feel that you love
vour 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?"
"In 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. Sometimes 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 tc
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, whzy do you try to do what you think will




28         STEPPING HEAVENWARD
please 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 Qbey Him from fear? " Amelia now
asked. She had been listening all this time in silence.
" 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
wN hether 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.' Bri.. I
cannot. talk with you any longer now. There -are




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           29
many others still waiting. You can come to see
me soine 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 our door, but we knew that
we were as good friends as ever.
" I understand all Dr. Cabot said," Amelia whispered, 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 my comnposition was read aloud on examination day, and everybody praised it. Mother could not possibly help
showing, in her face, that she was very much
pleased. I am pleased myself. We are now gettingready to take a journey. I do not think I shall
go to see Dr. Cabot again. My head is so full ot
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 hal,
just after I wrote that, and met mother.
I I ara going to Amelia's," I said, hurrying past
her.
"Stop one minute, dear. Dr. Cabot is downstairs. He says he has been expecting a visit from
you, anid 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 answered. " His Master's business is his, and that
nas brought him here. Go to him my darling
child: I am sure you crave something better than
prizes and compliments and new dresses and journeys."
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'n a gentle, but very decided way put her down




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            31
froitm re 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 wouldn't let herself come. I
almost aated 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 I 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 had.
-  OCT. 23.-I amn so glad that my studies are
narder 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 admire 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
coesl't find fault with me, and nothing haFppens to
keep me down, I am the gayest creature on earth




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            33
f do love to get with a lot of nice girls, and carry
cn! I have got enough fun in me to keep a house.
ful merry. And mother needn't say anything.
inherited it from her.
~. -- EVENING.-I knew it was ooming! 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, indisposing it for serious. thoughts.
" But, mother," 1 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 dress and parties and
beaux, and all that sort of nonsense. I wonder if
that ever worries their mothers, or whether mine is
the only one who weeps in secrdt? -.Well, I shall oe
young but once, and while I am, do let rae have a
good tim -!.-.  SUNDAY, -Nov. 2o.-Oh, the difference be,
tween this day and the day I wrote that! There are
2*




34         STEPPING IHEAVENWARD
no good times in this dreadful world. I have hardly
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 drawinglessons, but did not feel sure he could afford it. Besides-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 round 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 without kissing her good-bye.
I 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 slQwly to.
w ar-ls- 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
and catch at his arm as if she were afraid of falling.
But she did not speak a word.
"Oh! Mr. Freeman, what is it?" I cried out.
"Has anything happened to father?  Is le 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 liked best to be
alone, we three, mother and James, and I. Poor
mother looks twenty years older, but she is so patient, 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 seriouslT to-day, about controlling myself more. She




36         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
said she knew this was my first real sonrow, and
how hard it was tu 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 cheerfulness 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
y ourself."
" I can't smile when I am so unhappy," I said.
A good many people have been here to-day. Mother 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. 1
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



S'EFPPING HEAVENWARD.           3$
pensation. But that she was happy to see that
mother was meeting it with so much firnness. " As
for myself,"'she went on, " I was quite broken down
oy 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
booked so tired and worn out.
Then I could not help telling her what Mrs. Morris 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 heal
that namby-pamby woman, who is about as capable
of understanding you as an old cat, talking about
your being firmn! You see what you get by being
quiet and patient! People would like you much
better if you refused to be comforted, and iv ore a
sad countenance."




38         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
"Dear Katy," said mother, " it is not my fit st ob.
ject in life to make people like me."
By tlis time she looked so pale that I was frightened. Though she is so cheerful, and things go on
much as they did before, I believe she has got her
death-blow. 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 listen
to any words save those of pity.  But, deal
Katy, we must interpret aright all the well-meant
attempts of our friends to comfort us. They mzean
sympathy, however awkwardly they express it."
And then she sighed, with a long, deep sigh, that
told how it all wearied her.




STEP1 iNG HEAVENWARD.           39
--  DEC. 14. —-Mother keeps saying I sjtend too
much tilne 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 then show where her thought.s
are, and where she would like to be. She seems tc
think everybody. is as eager to go there as she is.
For my part, I am hot: 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 1
say to myself, " Of course we shall not always sit 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 particular, 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 the
thought of being where He is so delightfiul 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, wheft so many other girls
have theirs spared to them? He loved me so! lIe
indulged me so much! He was so pioud of me!
What hav e I:done that I should have this - dread



40         STEPPING HEAVENWARD
Ful thing kappen to me? I shall never be as happy
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. I, I832.-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 1
cannot. I go through the form' of saying some.
thing that I try to pass off as praying, every day




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            41
now. But I take no pleasure in it, as good people
say they do, and as I am sure mother does. Nobody could live in the house with her, and doubt
that.
JAN. Io.- 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 together, and now and then, when we forget that dear
father has gone, we are as full of fun as ever. If it
is so nice to have a brother, what must it be to
have a sister! Dear old Jim!  He is the very
pleasantest, dearest fellow in the world!
~-      JAN 15.-I 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 cheerful and loving, and entered into all my pleasures
exactly as if nothing had happened. I 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 another, in such quick succession that I am all tle




42         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, 1
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. nd reproaches nle. I believe I will go to bed and
to sleep as quickly as possible, and forget everything.




JULY 16.
Y school-days are over! I have come oil
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 practice 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 haprpy!"
"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 Underhill that I can hardly see one without seeing the
other. Aft.er the way in which I have' loved hei,
this seems rather hard. Sometimes I am angry
about it, and sometimes grieved. However, I find
Jenny quite nice. She buvs all the new books and
(43)




44          STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
len ts them to nre. 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,
XWThose faults and virtues stand in bold relief."
" Dear me! " I said, "so then I have some vir
tucs after all! "
And I really think I must have, for Jenny's brother, who has come here for the sake )f being near
her, seems to like me very much. Nobody ever
liked me so much before, not evel AnlelFa. But
how foolish to write that down!




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           45
TIIURSDAY. —-Jenny's brother has bceit lere
all the evening. He has the most perfect maliners
I ever saw. I am sure that mother, who thinks 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 Jenny nursed her day and night. He has a great deai
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 perfeatlv fascinated with me, and that I must try to
like hin in return. I suppose mother would say




46         STEPPING HEA'TENWARD
my head was turned by my good fortune, but it is
not. I am getting quite sober and serious. It is a.
g:eat 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 hi~.
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! 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 readings and help
us with our studies. It is perfectly delightful.
SEPTEMBER  I.-Somehow  I forgot to
tell mother 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 us, and
then she would see for herself that, we all behaved
ourselves..-   SEPT. I9.-The class met at Amelia's tonight. Mother insisted on sending for me, though
Mr. Underhill had proposed to see me home him.




STEPPING HEAVtENWARD.         47
seli So he staid after I left. It was not quite the
thing in him, for he must see that Amelia is absolutely 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.
Underhill. 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 warmnearted 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 will 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.
thing stopped. I do not know what 1 nave been
thinking of to let it go on so long. Mrs. Gordon
says ""Mrs. Gordon!  Ha!" I burst out, "I knew
Amelia was at the bottom of it! Amelia is in love
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 ungenerous 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 fifteenth of next October."




STEPPIN G HEAVENWA.AD.         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 anything without consulting me?" asked mother.
"And that you have'allowed it! Oh, Katharine!"
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. I.-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 i
since. Then, as he could not prevail, his uncl
wrote, told herit 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
cried, and told mother what a darling brother
Charley was. She made a good deal, too, out of his
8




50.        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
ha' rg 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 present. We were never to be seen together in public,
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 engagement.
Of course we shall be, so Iconsider 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
)ffers 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 writing
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 strike mother very
agreeably.  For  instance, last night Charley
wrote:




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            51
" Is yoar mother never sick? A nice little head.
ache or two would be so convenient to us!"
And I wrote back.
"You dear old horrid thing! How can you bso selfish?"
JAN. 15, I833.-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 can
not say in writing, because a correspondence 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.
" Oh, you may as well finish it!" I cried. "I ko'ow
you think him a fool."
Then mother burst out:




52          STEPPING HEAVENWARD' Oh, my child," she said, " before it is too late,
do be persuaded by me to give up this whole thling.
I shrink from paining or offending you, but it is my
duty, as your mother, to warn you against a marriage 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 Underhill never, never can
meet the requirements of your soul. You are captivated by what girls of your age call beauty, reg
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 lit.tle
pleasing acts that attract you are so many traps set
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, m5




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           53
precicus child, what a fatal mistake yo'a are making in relying on your own judgment in this, the
most important of earthly decisions!"
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 some poetry,
which was very good (for me), though I don't suppose she would think so.
-OCT. I.-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
Dnly learn after much study.
----  OCT. Io.-I have taken a dreadful cold. It
is too bad. I dare say I shall be coughing all winter, and instead of going out with Charley, be shut
up at home.
--- OCT. I2-Charley says he did not know that
I was subject to a cough, and that he hopes I am not
consumptive, because his fathel- and mother both




54        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
died of consumption, and it makes him nervous to
hear people cough. I nearly strangled myself all
the evening trying not to annoy him with miner.




IV.
Nov. 2.
REALLY think I am sick and going to
lie. Last night I raised a little blood. I
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 mother's. I have been very lonely, and have shed
some tears, but most of the time have been too sorrowful to cry. If we were married, and I had a
cough, would he go and leave me, I wonder?
-.-  SUNDAY, I8th.-Poor mother is dreadfully
anxious about me. But I don't see how she can
_ove me so, after the way I have behaved. I wonder if, after all, mothers are not the best friends
there are! I keep her awake with my cough al
night, and am mopy and cross all day, but she is
just as kind and affectionate as she can be.
— ~  Nov. 25.-The day I wrote that was Sun
(55)




56         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
day. I could not go to church, and I felt v\ery f(t;rlorn and desolate. I tried to get some comfort by
praying, but when'I got on my knees, I just burst
out crying and could not say a word. For I have
not seen Charley for ten days. As I knelt there I
began to think myselfa 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 altogether, 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 moment 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 timre to
believe that it is only because your happiness is far
more precious to me than my own, that I have decided to write you this letter. When you first told
me that you.oved me, you said, and you have often
said so since then, that it was my " brightness and
gay ety " that attracted you. I knew there was




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           57
something underneath imy gayety better wurth
your love, and'was glad I could give you more
than you asked for.  I, knew I was not a mere
thoughtless, laughing girl, but that I had a heart as
"wide as the ocean to give you —as wide and as
deep.
Put now my " brightness and gayety" have gone;
I am sick, and perhaps am going to die. If this is
so, it would be very sweet to have your love go
with me to the very gates of death, and beautify
and glorify my 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 engagement and set you free.
YOUR LITTLE KATY.
I did not sleep at all that night. Early on Monday I sent off my letter, and my heart beat so hard
all day that I was tired and faint. Julst at dark his
answer came; I can copy it from memory.
DEAR (KATE: —What a generous, self-sacrificing
little 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 constitutiolr so poor, and that it has been very dull sitting
and hearing you cough, especially as I was rem nd.
ed of the long and tedious illness through which
8*




58         S rEPFYNG 11EAVENWA RD.
poor Jenny and myself had to nurse our n Dtlher
f vowed then never to marry a consumptive woman, and I thank you for making it so easy for me to
bring our engagement to an end. My bright hopes
are blighted, and it will be long before I shall find
another to fill your place. I need not say how
much I sympathize with you in this disappointment. I hope the consolations of religion will
now be yours. Your notes, the lock of your hair,
etc., I return with this. I will not reproach you
for the pain you have cost me; I know it is not your
fault that your health has become so frail.
I remain your sincere friend,
CHARLES UNDERHILL.
-  JAN. I, I834.-Let me finish this story if I
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 beating so that I could hardly hold my pen, I wrote
this:
MR. UNDERHILL: 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 ITEAVENWARD).         59
that I shall soon recover. But I thank God that
before it wras too late, you have been revealed to
me just as you are —a heartless, selfish, shallow crea
ture, unworthy the love of a true-bearted womat
unworthy even of your own self-respect. I gave
you an opportunity to withdraw from our engagement in full faith, loving you so truly that I was
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.
[ thought I loved a maen, 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
KATHERINE MORTIMER.
These lines came to me in reply:
"Thank God it'is not Kate Mortimer. I want
tn angel for my wife, not a vixen.    c. u."
JAN. I s. —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.




6o         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
I showed my. mother the letters. She burst into
tears, and opened her arms, arid I ran into them as
a wounded bird flies into the ark. We cried together  Mother never said, never looked,
"I told you so." All she did say was this:
"God has heard my prayers! - He is reserving
Detter things for my child!"
Dear mother's are not' the only arms I have
fown 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 towards 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 thal
I am full of mortification and confusion of face. If
I had only had confidence in mother's judgment 1
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 niy heart he never called out. I wish, how
ever, I had not written him when I was in such a
passion, No W.yonder he is thankfill that he has gof




STEPPING HIEA VENWARD.          6i
frece from such a vixen. But, oh! the provocation
was te:rrible!
T 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 contemp
he deserves. With all my faults I am glad that
there is nothing mean or little about me!
--  JAN. 27.-I can't bear to write it down, bt
I will. The ink was hardly dry yesterday on the
above self-laudation, when Amelia came. She had
been out of town, and had only just learned what
had happened. Of course she was curious to know
the whole story.
And I 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 oh
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 hald yDur lungs ex.
amincil before you wrote that first letter," she went
fn. " But you are so impulsive! If you had only
waited you would be engaged to Charley, still 1"




62         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
" I am thankful I did not wait," I cried, angrily
"Do, Amelia, drop the subject forever. You and I
shall never agree upon it. The truth is, you are
two-thirds 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.
" I suppose you know," said she, "that old Mr.
Underhill has taken such a fancy to him that he has
made him his heir; and he is as rich as a Jew.-'
" Indeed!" I said, dryly.
I wonder if mother knew it when she opposed
our engagement so strenuously....- JAN. 3I.-I have asked her, and she said she
did. Mr. Underhill told her his intentions when ae
urged her consent to the engagement. Dear motih.
er! How unworldly, how unselfish she is!
— FEB. 4. —The name of Charley Underhill appears on these pages for thle last time. He is engaged to Amelia! From this moment she is lost to
me forever. How desolate, how mortified, how
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 out. 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 griet,
shame, and anger, I feel perfectly stupid and languid. Oh, that I was prepared for a better world
and could fly to it and be at rest!
-— FEB. 6.-Now that it is all over, how ashamed
I am of the fury I have been in, and which has givw
en Amelia such advantage over me! I was beginning to believe that I was really living a feeble and
fluttering, but real 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, passionate, 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 -rery glad to -ee you, my dear child," he
said.




54         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
L-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.
I am angry 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 answer any of my prayers, and I am just desperate."
"Poor child!" he said, in a low voice, as if to himself. "Poor, heart-sick, tired child, that cannot see
what I can see, that it's 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
coula 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
nie!"
" You may Be sure of it," he said, solemnly. "I
his mi ister, bring the gospel to you to-day. Gr.C




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          I65
nome and say over and over to yourself,'1 ami 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 my
dearest friends and am very desolate.  Bu t He
loves me! I do not love Him, I am even angry
with Him!  But He loves me!'"
I came away, and all the way home I fought this
battle with myself, saying, "He loves me!"  1
knelt down to pray, and all my wasted, childish,
wicked life came and stared aie in the face. I
looked at it, and said with tears of joy, " But tie
loves me! " Never in my life did I feel so rested,
so quieted, so sorrowful, and yet so satisfied.
----  FEB. Io.- What a beautiful world this is
and how ful 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 woman. I 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 belo'ved ones, ti oug Ig
perhaps you do not know it."
I repeated again to myself those sweet, myste



66         STEPPING HEAVE NWARD.
rious worc-s, and then I tried to think what I could
do for HIim. 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
toved her. She looked surprised and pleased.
"Ah, I 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-:ia, telling her how ashamed and sorry I was that I
(:ould 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. I5.-I went to see Dr. Cabot again
to-day. He came down from his study with his pen
11 his hand.
" Irow dare you come and spoil my- sermor on
Saturday?" he asked, good-humoredly.
Though he seemed full of loving-kindness, T was




STEPPING HEAVENWARD            67
ashamed of my thoughtlessness.  Thougn I did
not know he was particularly busy on Satlurdays.
If I were a minister I am sure I would get my sermons done early in the week.
"I only wanted to ask one thing," I said. "I
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 I would not go to-day," he replied.
" Meanwhile do everything you do for 1-im 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. I9.-It has seemed to me for several
darTs 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 ove
at the best, not worth my giving, not worth God's
accepting. All my old misery has come back with




68         S'TEPPING HEAVENWARD.
seven other miseries more miserable than itself  ]
wish I had never been born!  I wish I wet e
thoughtless and careless, like so many other girls
of my age, who seem to g6t along very well, and to
enjoy themselves far more than I do.
FEB. 2I.-Dr. Cabot came to see me to-day.
I told him all about it. He could not help smiling
as he said:
" When I 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 unableto 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.
i You are as yet but a babe in Christ," Dr. Cabot 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 favor, you would still cling to him with devoted
affect ion."
"There is one thing more that troubles me," 1
said. " Most persons know the exact moment when
they begin real Christian lives. But I d  not knovr




'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 judiciously trained, rarely can point to any day or hour
when they began to live this new life. The question 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 girls
can't 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 gir.s 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.
Mecting poor mnother on the stairs w nile in this ex



70          STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
alted state Ai' mind, I gave her a very short. answer
to a kind question, and made her unhappy, as I have
made' myself.
It is just a year ago to-day that I got frightened
at my novel-reading propensities, and 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 is
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 disorderly 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 anything,.I want it very much, and right away. So if I
am looking for a book, or a piece: of music, or a pattern, I tumble everything around, and can't stop to
put..them to rights. I wish I were not so eager aad
impatient.. But I mean to try to keep my  oomn
and my drawers in order, to please mother.
She says, too, that I am growirg careless, about.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            71
my hair and my dress.  But that is because my
mind is so full of graver, more important things. I
thought I ought to be wholly occupied with my
duty to God. But mother says duty to God includes 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 offensive to all one meets. I am sorry she thinks so,
for I 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 I4.-To-day I feel discouraged and
disappointed.  I certainly thought that if God
really loved me, and I really loved Him, I should
find myself growing better day by day. But I am
not improved in the least.  Most of the time I
spend. on my knees I 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 I fee. like a baby just learning to walk, who is
so afraid of falling that it has half a mind to sit down
once for all.
Then there is another thing. Seeing mother so
fond of Thomas a Kempis, I have been reading it,
now arld 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, makes,,me shudder. I want to please God, and to be like
Hlim. 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 I don't.  I often try, but my mind
flies off in a tangent. The truth is -I am perfectly
discouraged.
l,ARCH I7. —  went to see Dr. Cabot to



STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           73
day, but he was out, so I thought I would ask for
Mrs. Cabot, though I was determined not to tell
her any of my troubles. But somehow she got the
vhole story out of me, and instead of being shocked,
as I expected she would be, she actually burst out
laughing! She recovered herself immediately,
however.
";Do excuse me for laughing at you, you dear
child y6u! " 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, and
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 cif heroic deeds-not fables, but
4




'74        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
histories of real events and real peop.e.  It.tas
quite stirred me up, and made me Vwish to possess
such beautiful heroism, and that I were a man, that
I might have a chance to perform some truly noble,
self-sacrificing 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. Hlut am I staying too long? Were
you particularly busy?"
"No," she returned smilingly, "I am learning'that the man who wants me is the man I want.'"
"You are very good to say so. Well, in the first
place, I do really and truly want to be good. Not
with common goodness, you know, but""But uncommon goodness," she put in.
"I mean that I want to be very, very good. I
should like next best to be learned and accomplished. 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, tastefill
things about me. But you are laughing at me!
Have I said anything foolish?"
"If I laughed, it was not at you, but at poor human nature, that would fain grasp everythiing at
once. Allowing that you should possess all you




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            75
h:ave 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."
I am afraid.it was, now I come. to think it ovei.
"Well, with plenty of friends, good in an uncommon 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 witb.
each returning day, -each one as unto God, and
perhaps by and by you will thus have gainer
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 oi
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, and I read and study mnore or
less, and go out some, and we have a good many
visitprs."
"I suppose, then, you keep your room in nice,
ladylike order, and that the parlor is dusted every
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 hleroism 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 h-roism and selfsacrifice must begin and lay its foundation in this
little world, wherein it learns its first lesson a.d
takes its first steps."
" And do you really think that God notices such!
little things?"




STEPPING HEAVENWARD. -          77
" My dear child, what a question! If there is any
Dnec 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, feeblest petition, and gathers up with parental fondness all our fragmentary desires and attempts at
good works. Oh, if we could only begin to conceive 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 astonished to see how nicely I am keeping things in order.
I was flying about this morning, singing, and dusting 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 heave 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 t he shoulders, every ungracious look,
and that they displease Him. And my list of such
offences is as long as my life!



78         STEPPING HE AVENWIRD.
---- MARCH 29.-Yesterday for tl.e first time
since that dreadful blow, I felt some return of my
natural gayety and cheerfulness. It seemed to come
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 character 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 desolate.
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 in this world, and




STEP.PING I-IEAVENWARD.       79
now delightful it is to sympathize with and tr' 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 who. e, I
will take a class in the Sunday-srhool.




V.
APRIL 6
HAVE taken it at last. I would not take
one before, because I knew I could not
teach little children how to love God, unless I loved Him myself. My class is perfectly 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
-ouble 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 the 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 anm
so glad I was ever born into this beautiful world,
where there will always be dear little children to
love!
--   APRIL I3.-Sunday has come again, and
with it my darling little class!  Dr. Cabot bas
(8o)




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           8 
prea hed delightfully all day, and I feel that I be.
gin to understand his preaching better, and that it
must do me good. I long, I 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, I 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 I know, and
whenever I am' conscious of not practicing what I
preach, I am bitterly ashamed and grieved. How
much iwork, badly done, I am now having to undo!
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
Hlock about me and talked to them out of the very
bottom of my heart about Jesus. They left their
seats and got close to me in acircle, leaning on my
lap and drinking in every word. All of a sudden I
4*




82         STEPPING fHEAVENT WARD.
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. I was dis.
concerted first, then angry. What impertinence.
What rudeness! I am sure he must have seen my
displeasure in my face, for he got up what I suppose he meant for a blush, that is, he turned several
shades darker than he was before, giving one the'dea that he is full of black rather than red blood.; 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 earnestness. 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 satisfied 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 lit tle
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
all said mny voice was finer, and in better training




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           83
than hers. It is delightful to be with cultivated,
agreeable people. I could have staid all inight, but
mother sent for me before any one else had thought.f going.
-  MAY 7.-1I have been on a charming excursion 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 company, 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 Merril.
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 I
aiave received of late; and now comes this blow at
my vanity.




84         STEPPING HEAVENWARD
Gn the whole, I feel greatly out of sorts th's
evening.... JULY 28.-People talk about happiness to be
found in a Christian life. I wonder why I do not
find more! On Sundays I am pretty good, and always seem to start afresh; but on week-days I am
drawn along with those about me. All my pleasures 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. I
almost wish I couli shut myself up in a cell, and so
get out of the reach of temptation.
The truth is, the journey heavenward is all up
hill. I have to force myself to keep on. The wonder is that any body gets there Wxith so much to oppose-so little to help one!
-.-  JULY 29.-It is high time to stop and think.
I have been like one running a race, and am stopping 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. I want Him-bul I want to
have my own way, too. I want to walk humbly
and softly bef )re Him, and I want to go where J




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           85
shall be admired and applauded. To whomr shall I
yield? To Go'? Or to myself?
-   JULY 30. —I met Dr. Cabot I a-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 sprinkling of desire to entertain and please, mixed with
the love of display."
"Do you suppose thtat your love of display, allowing 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 a3
that?" I cried.
" Of course they do. Why, I would pray about
my little finger, if my little finger went astray."
I looked at his little finger, but saw n ) sigr s of
its becoming schismatic.




86         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
-- A 3G. 3.-'I his 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!
" O, your seat is changed," said she. "I am to
have hailf 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. Williams 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. Williams said he had no doubt you would be glad to
divide your class with me, as it is so large; and I
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;lid 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




STEI-PING HEAVENWARD.         87
to say that I am to have my old seat and all the children 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. Williams said he hoped I would go on teaching for
twenty years, and that as fast as his little girls grew
old enough to ome. to Sunday-school he should
want me to take charge of them. I should have
been 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 unlucky tongue!
-   JAN. I5, I835.-To-day I amtwenty. 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 people are very interesting, and they are always ungrateful.
We went first to see old Jacob Stone. I have
been there a good many times with the baskets ot
nice things mother takes such comfort in sending
him, but never would go in. I was shocked to see
how worn away he was. He seemed in great distress of mind, and begged mother to pray with
h:m. I do not see how she could. I am perfectly




88         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
sure Ihat no earthly power could ever ndulce m I
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 togethei little bits
of pieces given her, I suppose, by pe:rsons for
whom she works, for she goes about fitting and
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 arranged about the room.  Mother com;'!imented
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 a 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
Urr. 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 what
good she supposed she had done by her visit.'"Why the poor creature likes to show off hler




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            89
brightl carpet and nice bed, her chairs, her vases and
her knick-knacks, and she likes to talk about her beloved 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 coveted. 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 distributing, or the children's in clutching at and devouring it. I am going to cut up.one or two old dresses
to make the poor things something to cover themn.
One of them has lovely hair that would curl bea utifilly if ii were only brushed out. I told her to




90-        STEPPING HEAVENWARD
come to see me to-morrow, she is so very
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. 2o.-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 rolnd
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
bttter, of which the child consumed a quantity that
was absolutely appalling. To crown all, the urgrateful little thing would not so much as look at




STEPPING HEAVEN WARD.         91
rr e frojm that moment, but clung to mother, turning
its back upon me in supreme contempt.
Moral.-Mothers occasionally know more than
their daughters do.




VI.
JANUARY 24
MESSAGE came yesterday morning frori
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 discords.
" Do you think it is my duty to run after such
horrid old women?" I asked mother, at last.
"I 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
I telieve I am the most fastidious creature in the
wvorld. Sick rooms with their intolerable smells ol
camphor, and vinegar and mustard, their gloom and
their whims 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 Susan 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 lajy 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 examinincg




94         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
her, he said to a woman who seemed to have charge
of her,'Are you the nurse?"
" Oh, no, I only stepped in to see what I cou.d
do for -her."
"Who is to be with her to-night, then? 
Nobody knew.
"I will send a nurse, then," he said.'But soine
one else will be needed also," -he added, looking at
me.
" I will stay," I said. But my heart died within
me.
The doctor took me aside.
" Her injuries are very serious," he said. "If she
has any friends, they ought to be sent for."
"You don't mean that she is going to die?" I
asked.
" I 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?"
"No, I haven't," she answered sharply. ",And
if I had they needn't come prowling around me I
don't want no relations about my body."
"Would you like to see Dr. Cabot?"




STEPPIN G HEAVENWARD.         95
What should I want of Dr. Cabot r Don't
tease, child."
Considering the deference with which sloe 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 dying 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 you
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 10ne
some here in the dark, and cold."




96         STEPPING HEAVE NWARD.
I was thancful enough to enliven the dark room
wifn light and fire. But I saw now that the thin,
yelhow, hard face had changed, sadly. She fixed
her two little black eyes on me, evidently startled
by the expression of my face.
"Look here, child, I ain't hurt to speak of, am I?'
"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.
"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! "
" Going?" she cried; "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 mry 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 medicine setting around along side of my vases, and no.
body here but you, just a girl, and notring
elset




STEPPING HEAVENWARD).           97
All this came out by jerks, as it were, and at intervals.
"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
truth had reached her at last.
"Pray, yourself!" she said eagerly. "I don't
know how. I can't think. Oh, my time's come!
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. After 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 performing other little services of the sort. The room
wore an air of perfect desolation. The clothe
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
had beeii hastily thrust aside. I remembered what
5s




98         STEPPING HEAVEN'VARD.
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 having 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 dignity, turned poor Susan's last thoughts to her Saviour. Oh, how could I, through miserable cowardice, _et those precious mbments 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 trial to meet it again.
Poor Susan! Perhaps God heard mI y eager
prayer for her soul, and revealed Himself t  her at
the very last moment.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           99
--- WMARCH 2. —Such a strange thing. as happened! Susan Green left a will, bequeathing her
precious savings to whoever offered the last
pi ayer 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 human being, that it was offered by me, an inexperienced, trembling girl, driven to it by mere desperation! 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
I do not like to leave my little Sunday-scholars,
n Or 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




I 00       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
over, I will copy it here. After alluding to my:ornplaint 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 lie nevier 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 gradually, 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 return 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 His
servants. Make your complaint, tell Him how obscure everytnlng still looks to you, and beg Him to
complete your cure. - He may see fit to try your
faith and patience by delaying this completion; but
meanwhile you are safe in His presence, and while
led by His hand, He will excuse the mistakes you
rIake, 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 far
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.
"'rhat 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 everything 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 Christians.  You acknowledge  that there has been
emnity towards God in your secret soul, and that
one of the first steps towards peace is to become reconciled 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?'
" Ibeg you, my dear child, if you are doing this
aimlless, useless work, to stop short at once. Life is




102        STE'P IN G 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 infinite 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 longer your own.'But,' you may reply,'this is contrary to my nature. I love my owl,
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 entirely away to Him, and lose all ownership in myself, He may deny me many things I greatly desire.
He may make my life hard and wearisome, depriving 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
to Him  as freely and as fully as He has given to
vou. It is true that such an act of consecration on




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          103
your pIart may involve no little future discipline and
Lorrection. As soon as you become the Lord's by
vour own deliberate and conscious act, He will begin. that process of sanctification 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 Friena, but He will use no painful
remedy that can be avoided. Remember that it is
His will that you should be sanctified, and that tbh
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 sanctification as He was to give you redemption. 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 concerning you, no matter how trivial, and see whether
you at once close in with that will. Lay down this
principle as a law-God does nothing arbitrary. If
Hle 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




f 04       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
fly to your Saviour and stay in His presence till y Ju
obtain the spirit in which He cried in His hour of
anguish,' Father, if Thou be willing, remove this
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; ahnd 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.
Just 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 detached passages, or even one verse a day, rather
than whole chapters. Study every word, ponder
and.pray 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.
" It has 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 are most devout and 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 appointed by God.
" You can will to spend much time in prayer, without 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, g'i:ing 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 me eting your Master Himself amid its windings
and tmrnings, and receive Ilis soul-inspiring smile.
5*




Io6        STEIPPING 11EAVENWARD.
Or, I should rather say, you will always 1t. eet 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 sacred a word. And I shrink from committing myself to such a pursuit, lest after a time I should fall
back into the old routine. And I have an undefined, 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, mihgled with my
indolence and love of ease and pleasure, some drawings 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 30o.-Yes, I have prayed, and I-He
has heard me. I see that I have no right to live for
niyself, and that I must live for Him. I have given
myself to Him as I never did before, and have entered, as it were, a new world. I was very happy
when I first began to believe in His love fcr me.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          107
und that He had redeemed me. But this new happiness is deeper; it involves.something higher than
getting to heaven at last, which has, hitherto, been
my great aim.
-   MARCH 3 I.-The more I pray, and the more
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 tedious, dry book. But I am reading it with a sort
of avidity, like one seeking after hid treasure.
Mother, observing what I was doing, advised me
not to read it straight through, but to mingle a passage now and then with chapters from other books.
She suggested my beginning on Baxter's Saint's 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 wonderfully attractive.  I never mean to read worldly
books again, and my music and dra,.virg I have giv.
et up f)-revcr.




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 somehow she got it out of me.
"One'need not be fanatical in order to be religious," 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 inclinations, 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 mfust shut your ears to all the
harmonies He has ordained. You must shut your
heart against all sweet, human affections   Youl
(0o8)




STEPPING HEAV ENWARD.        o109
have a body, it is true, and it may revolt at such
bondage""We are told tb 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 reading. But somehow my book seemed to have lost.its
flavor. Besides, it was time to retire for my evening 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
she 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 terrible that I could hardly help crying out. And I
saw as by a flash of lightning, that if God took her




II D       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
firom 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.
--  CAPRIL I2.-Dr. Cabot's letter has lost all its
power over me. A stone has more feeling than I.
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 something 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 giving 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.
"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. I am so
nervous that I feel as if I should fly."
"I see how it is," she said; " you have forgotten
that body of yours, of which I reminded you, and
have been trying to live as if you were all soul and
spirit. You have been straining every nerve to




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           III
acquiire perfection, whereas this is God's gift, and
one that He is willing to give you, fully and
freely."
" I have d&ne 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 youi
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 an unnatural
tension, will break."
"Oh. I do wish," I cried, "that God had given
is plain rules, about which we could make no mis-;ake! "
"I think His rules cre plain," she replied. " Anti
some liberty of action He must leave us, or we
should become mere machines. I think that those
Wvho love Him, and wait upon Him (lay y y ay,
learn His will almxost imperceptibly, and need not
go astral




i I2       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
"B t, 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 (le
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 i6.-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 children 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; flying 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, foi- she is always doing something for you;
and then her unflagging good humor and cheerfulness keep you good-humored and cheerful. I don t
wot der Uncle Alfred loves her so!
I hope I shall have just such a home. I meaI




S rEPPING HEAVENWARD.          I13
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 1
can,- and let the rest go.
APR'IL I8.-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 wisdom 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 oi t, and dear Dr. Cabot's precious
letter can work a true and not a niorbid work in
my soul. I am very happy. I have delightful
talks with Aunty, who sets me right at this point
and at that; and it is beautiful to watch her homelife, and to see with what sNxeet unconsciousness
she carries her religion into evei y detail. I am sure
it must do me good to be here; and yet if I am




I 14        STEPPING HEAVE.NWARD.
gro, ing better, how slowly, how slowly it is! Some
bod y has said that "our course heavenward is like
the pltn of the zealcus pilgrims of old, who for
every three steps forward, took one backward."
APRIL 3o.-Aunty's baby, my dear father's
namesake. and hitherto the merriest little fellow I
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 irksome to be shut up in sick-rooms, instead of walking, driving, visiting, and the like. But, as Dr. Cabot says, I can now choose to imitate my Master,
who snent His whole life in doing good, and I do
hope, too, to be of some little use to Aunty, after
hei kindness to me.
*- MAY I.-The doctor says the children are
doing as well as cculd be expected. He made a
sh(:rt visit this morning, as it is Sunday. If [ had




STEPPING IEAVENIWARD.          I I
ever seen him before I shbuld say I had sonte unpleasant 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 ltot
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 v.ery
man who was so rude at Sunday-school, and afterwards 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.
MAY 4.-I have my hands as fill1 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 notices anything I say or do, so while he is holding
solemn consultations with Aunty in one corner, I:an 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. And it sweetens every bit of work to think
that I am doing it ihi humble, far-off, yet real imita.




116        STEPPING HEAVENWARD
tlon of Jesus. I am indeed really and truly
happy.
-  - MAY I4.-It is now two weeks since little
Raym nd 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 today, though she has been kept on the third floor all
the time. I feel dreadfully myself. But this hard,
cold doctor of Aunty's is so taken up with the children 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 eagerlyas ever. Well,
let me be a comfort to them if I can! I hate selfisnness more and' more, and am shocked to see how
selfish I have been.
MAY I 5.-I was in a burning fever all night,
and my head ached, and my throat was and is very
sore. 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 HF.AVENWARD.         I7
mne to be with the children. She took rne 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
then 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 nursing in scarlet fever often have such little attacks as
mine; indeed every one of the servants have llad a
touch of sore throat and headache.
MAY 25.-This morning, just as the doctor
shuffled in on his big feet, it came over me how
ridiculously I must have looked the day I was taken
sick, 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
me. 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 doctor, gravity personified as he is, joined in, thoulgh




I 18       SI EPPING HEAVEN\\ ARD.
not knowing.n the least what he was laughnirig at
Then he said,
"lAfter this, I suppose, I shall have to pronounce
you convalescent."
"Oh, no!" 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,"
I went on, "and I am glad of it. After the way I
behaved the day I was taken sick-, I have been
ashamed 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 ot
putting one in good humor with one's self, for the
whole world!...-   JUNE I.-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
coming, 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'vhich I can't see at all. We begin to drive out
again. The weather is very warnr, 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 littlh
ones wanted me to play a play of their own inven
tion, which was to lie down -on the floor, cover m)'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 screaming 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 patients are."
" No," I replied, still ruffled, and making desperate efforts to get my hair into some sort of order.
6They are as well as possible."
"I came a little earlier than usual, to day," lie
went on,' because I am called to visit my uncle, Dr.
Cabot, who is in a very critical state of health."
"6 Dr. Cabot I" I repeated, bursting into tears.




120        STEPPING IIEAX ENWARD
" Compose yourself, I entreat," he said; 1 hope
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 replied. "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 interrupted, 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 eestacies and your
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,
ev en pained.
"I shall probably see your mother," he said,
turning to go, "your aunt wishes me tc 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,
tor 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.
" Then tell me that you forgive me!"
"If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell something else," 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! You are so much older than I am! So grave and silent! You are not in
earnest!"
"I am only too much soji he said, and went
quietly out.
I went back to the nursery. The children rushed
upon me, and insisted that I should "play die."  I
let therm  pull me about as they pleased. I only
wished I could play it in earnest.




VIII.
JUNE 28.
_OTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out
i   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 relief 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?" I
ventured to ask at last.
"No, I have one more remark to add," she said,
"i and it is this: I don't know which of you has be.
( 22)




STEPPING HEAV ENWARD.          123
hay ed most ridiculously. It would relieve me to
give you each a good shaking."
"I think Dr. Elliott has behaved ridiculously," I
said, "and he has made me very 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'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 middleaged. He is not more than twenty-seven or eight.
As So 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 d(,le? "




124        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
"I did not know he came to see me; he nevei
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, yoll
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-.
tng 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,"
[ remonstrated. " I hate prigs who keep their wvives
in Jeading 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 plai.t for
hitn to pi une till he has got it into a'share to suit




STEPPING tIEAVENWARD.         I25
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 hin, 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 model
o3f 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' 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, twodays after this accident.
From the outset she comprehended the situation,
and took the ground that a character of irreproachable dignity and propriety became an infant coming
at such a time. She never cried, never put improper 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
ou fc und it convenient to attend to her. If yAu
forgot helr existence, as was not seldom the case
ullnder the circumstances, she vegetated on, unl




126         3.'E ~PPING HEAVENWARD.
moved. It is possible that pangs of hunger sMano.
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; and retired decently and in order, as
measles, Should. Her whooping-cough had a wellbred, 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 uncrumpled; 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
dolls were subject to a methodical training, not unlike her own. They rose, they were dressed, they
took the air, they retired for the night, with clocklike regularity. At the advanced age of eight, she
ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and
began a course of instructive reading. He! lessons




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           t27
were received in nute submission, like medicine;
so many doses, so many times a day. An agreeable
interlude of needle-work was afforded, and Dorcaslike, 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 enthusiasm that would crumple your collar; she would as soon strangle herself 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 children and a very small purse. Lucy had a hard time
of it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impulsive man, took a dislike to her. Aunty had no diffculty 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
fgets. 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
cage, with a dead white skin, pale blue eyes, and a
little light hair.: To hear her talk is most edifying.
Her babies are all'babes'; she never begins anything, but'commences' it; she never c ies, she




128        STEPPING 1IEAV bNWARD.'weeps'; never gets up in the morning, but' rises.
But 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 I
not, in time, has e 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 Io.-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. Still.
if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much, and was
beginning to forgef 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."




OTEPPING fIEAVENWARD.          129
Yes, it w )uld. But at the moment, I had no
misgivings. In my usual headlong style I settled
one of the most weighty questions of my life, without 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 wvill 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,
W' hom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is
none upon earth that I desire beside 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
affect-l.ion.'-Sometimes I think I am as impetucus
and: as —qU:ick-tempered: as ever; I.get angry with
dear mother, and with James even, if they oppuse




130        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
me  how unfit, then, I am to become the Imistress
of a household and the wife of a good man!
Ioxvw came he to love me? I cannot, cannot
imagine!
AUGUST 3I.-The last day of the very happiest 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 worldt, at once, and there was a constant, painful struEg rle 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
I lim s, ich 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. hild who cannot run to get what he wants,
but a-'proaches it step by step, slowly, timidlyand 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 delightful month in a certain sense. Amelia's marriage,
at which I had to be present, upset me a little, but
it was but a lit-le ruffle on a deep sea of peace




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          131
I saw I)r. 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 enthusiastic in every thing save religion. Do not be
discouraged if you still have some ups and downs.'He that is down need fear no fall'; but you are
away up on the heights,'and may have one, now
and then."
This matde me a little uncomfortable. I don't
want any falls. I want to go on to perfection.
- OCT. I.-Laura Cabot came to see me today, and seemed very affectionate.
" I hope we may see more of each other than we
have done," she began. "iMy 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.
IKaty, aloud.-" I am sure that is very kind."
Laura.-" Not at all. He knows it will be profitable to nme to be with you. I get a good'd eai
discouraged at times, and want a friend to strength
en and help me."




[32        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Katy, to herself. —" Yes, yes, he thinks me quite
experienced and trustworthy."
Katy, aloud. —" I shall never dare to try to help
youz.'
Laura.-" Oh, yes, you must. I am so far behind
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 I
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 respect to my religious experiences.  Nothing is
gained by running to tell them, and mr ch is l.st
I feel de:pressed 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 creeping stealthily along for months. All his
physicians agree that he must give up his business
and try the effect of a year's rest. Dr. Elliott proposes 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 be given up. Why, he would be
on the ocean ever so many weeks; exposed to all the
discomforts of narrow quarters and poor food, and
that just as winter is drawing nigh!
OCT. I2. —Aunty writes that the voyage to
Europe has been decided on, and that Dr. Elliott is
to accompany uncle,- travel with -him, am ise -him,
and bring him home a well man. I hope Dr. E.'s
(I 3)




134        STEPPING IIEAV'ENWARD.
power t) amuse may exist somewhere, but must
own it was in a most latent form  when I had tL.e
pleasure of knowing him.  Poor aunty! flow
much better it would be for her to go with uncle!
rhere 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. I5.-Another letter from  aunty, and
new plans! 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 mor-e frightful?
To refuse would be selfish and cruel. If we consent I thrust myself under Dr. Eliiott's very nose.
OCT. I6.-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 settled. Uncle and aunty started a week ago, and we.are lmonarchs of all we survey, and this is a {reat
deal  I am determined that mother shall not be




STEI PING HEAVENWARD.         135
worn out with these children, although of course 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.
-- NO'v. 25.-Of course the baby must go on
teethring if only to have the doctor sent for to lance
his gumns. 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 witnessing 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 ix' onder mother
should not see how awkwardly I am situated here..-. Nov. 27. —We have a good many visitors,




i36        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 intima te friend,
and spoke of him very warmly, and so did his wife,
who says she has known him always, as th( y 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 devoted 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
so well on so short acquaintance-I mean Mrs.
Embury, though you might fancy, you poor deluded journal you, that I meant somebody else.
Nov. 30. —I have so much to do that 1
have little time for writing. The way the children
wear out their shoes and stockings, the speed with
which their hair grows, the way they bumnp their
neads and pinch -their: fingers, and the- insatia ble demaln for stories, is something next to miraculous.




STEPPING THEAVENWARD.           13X
Not a day passes that somebody doesn't need something bought; that somebody else doesn't choke
itself; and that I don't have to tell stories till I 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, 1 am  very happy indeed. So is dear
mother. She and the doctor have become bosom
friends. IHe 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 nothing but a -stone, if you suppose that after the way
in which.my father died-"
" It was indeed most thoughtless in me," he interrupted; "but your mother is such a rare woman, s,
decided and self-controlled., yet so gentle, so full (,f




138         STEPPING 1IEAVENWAR1).
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
stone, 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 was,tired.
DEC. 6.-Mother says she feels really grate-.ul 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, reproachfully. "  What hazs 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 wearing yourself out with nursing all Dr. Elliott's poor
filks," I said, gloom:ly.
"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.           139
and bruises of their own. And Dr. Elliott seems to
have divined this by instinct."
I r'an and kissed her dear, pale face, which grows
more beautiful every day. No wonder she misses
father so! He loved and honored her beyond description, and never forgot one of those little courtesies 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 tenrptation and no sin!
DEC. 22.-1 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 detained me, however.
" Would you mind my speaking to. you on a certain subject?" she asked, with some embarrassment.
I 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 mu.
One of my moods came on, and I couldn't sp-eak
a word.




140        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
"You are not at all the sort of a girl I suppjosed
he would fancy," she continued. "He always has
said he.vas waiting to find some one just like his
mothler, 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 be 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
such 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."
"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 making you take up the cudgels in his defence."
" You do him injustice, when you say that," sl e




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            141
cried. " [is sister, the only person t) whe.n he
confided the state of things, begged me to find oit,
if I could, whether you had any other attachment,
and if her brother's case was quite hopeless.' But
I amI 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
bu'rden."
" So it does me," I returned., "I love the children exactly as if they were my own."
" That," she said, "' is impossible."
"I certainly do," I persisted.
Mother would not dispute with me, though I
wished she would.
"A mother," she went on, "receives her chil.
ldren one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to
gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole
houseful upon you at once, and I am sure it is too
much for you. You do not look or act like y- )ur.
self."' it isn't the children,": I said.
What is it, then?"




142         STEPTING HEAVENWARD.
" Whi, it's nothing," I said, pettishly.
" I must say, dear," said mother, not noticinrg ny
manne., "that your wonderful devotion to the cnil.
dren, aside from its effect on your health and teni
per, has given me great delight."
"I don't see why," I said.
"Very few girls of your age would give up theit
w'hole 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 exactly whbat one likes best to do."
"They e, go away, you contrary child," said
mothel -laughing. "If you won't be praised, you
won't."
So I came up here and moped a little. I don't
see wb it 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
belie- e that God loves and pities me, and will yet
oerfezt that which concerneth me. It is a great
my$s'ery. 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,corme to a
point. ill your letter which I would gladly pass over




STEPPIN. HEAVENWARD.          143
in silence. B it this would be but a poor' return for
the interest you express in my affairs.
Both ladies 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 outset 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 affection 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 makcs me dread a
summons to your house, and I have hardly manliness 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 disappointrn.ent and
unrest.
Mrs. Crofton, in reply:
So she hates you, does she? I am charmed 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 offense. If nothing comes of
it, I am not a woman, and never was one; nor is
she.




I44        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
-. MAR(-H 25, I836.-The New Yealr anld my
birthday have come and gone, and this is the first
moment I could find for writing down all that has
happened.
The day- after my last date I was fill 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 discornfort, 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-meetlngs, and that is a.bad sign, I am afraid. But I am
determined to go where good people go, and see ii
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 petty trials and
cr )sses 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 progress, 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 expression which words cannot describe.
Coming out I heard some one ask,'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 sweetest 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 your
7




146        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
doll beauties; her face expressed both fPetl&.g a.d
character.  They sang together from tihe sanlm
book, though I offered her a share of mine. O0
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 sir
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 thai
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 little about
truisting the children 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
get into trouble which a quick-witted child wvould
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. Embury 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 extinguished. Meanwhile, Mrs. Embury had roused
the whole house, and everybody came running up
stairs.
"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 come on wings, for I had
not tiine to be impatient for his arrival Hewas as




[48        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
tender as a -woman with Emma; we cut off and
tore olf her clothes wherever the fire had touched
her, 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 stone.
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 lie
down. And do not feel obliged to see me when I
v;sit the child.  That annoyance, at least, you
should spare yourself."
"No consideration shall make me neglect little
Emma," I replied, defiantly.
By this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her to
sleep, and she lay, pale and with an air of complete
exhaustion, in her arms.
"You must lie Sown now, MIiss Mortimer,' Dr.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          14)
Elliott said, as he rose to go. "I will return in a
few hours to see how you both do."
HIe stood looking at Emma, but did not go..Then Mrs. Embury asked the question I had not
dared to ask.
" Is the poor child in danger? "
"I cannot say; 1 trust not.  Miss Mortimer's
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 being
the heroine, and for the surprised, delighted 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 Emma.,
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 crying.
"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 ast 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 her
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 patient little darling would get well. But his visits
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 fickleness of women. Mrs. Embury began it.. I fired
up, of course.
lTe seemed astonished at my attack.
"I said nothing," he declared.
" No,, but you looked a good many things. Now
the Tact is, women are not fickle. Waen they lose
what they value most,'they find it impossible to re



STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           15:l1ace it. But men console themselves witn the
first. 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. Elliott had helped himself to a new love.
I do not like these sweeping assertions," said
D:. 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 fromn 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
had gone. I began to give her a good setting down,
"I could hardly believe my ears," I said, " when
I heard you ask leave to write on Dr. Elliott's
sheet."
"No wonder," she said, laughing. "I suppose
you 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 loveletters," 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
of them is me, and which of them isn't, it would be
hard to tell. This is the way they behave:
SCENE I St.
Katy, to the other creature, whom I will call
Kate.-Your mother looks tired, and you have been
very cross. Run 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 pal tver. Besides, who would not be cross who
felt as I do?
SCENE 2d.
Katy.-Little Emma has nothing to do, and oight
to be amused. Tell her a story do.
Kate. —I am tired, and need to be amused my.
self.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           1  3
Katy. —But the dear little thing is so patient, and
has 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 patience.
Katy. —z One can't be always praying. I don't-feel
like it.
SCENE 4th.
XKaty.-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
and 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
cmn she endure me? As to my piety, it is worse
than none.
Kate, a few hours later. —Well, nobody can deny
7*




154        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
that 1 have a real gift in managing children! And
I amn 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 ain 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 anm. And I am very devout. I
love to read good books and to be with good people. 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 I
Katy, or am I Kate 




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 growing 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 lyirg
('Is)




1$6        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
In wait for a chance to remind you of it. That I
shall never do, never."
"Oh, no, of course not!" I broke forth, rwy face
all in a glow, and tears of mortification raining down
my cheeks. "I knew you did not care for nme! 1
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 moment I was folded all up in his great long arms, and
a new life had begun!
Mother opened the door not long after, and seeing what was going on, trotted away on her dear
old feet as fast as she could.
APRIL 2I. —- 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. I
walk the streets as one treading on air. I fly about
the house as on wings. I kiss every body I see.
Now that I look at Ernest (for he makes me call
him so) with unprejudiced eyes, I wonder I ever
thought him clumsy. And how ridicu ous it was
in me to confound his dignity and manliness with
age.!
It is very'odd, how-ever, that such a cautious




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           157
-.ell-balanceld man should have fallen in love NN ith
me that day at Sunday-school. And still stranger
that with my headlong, impulsive nature I deliberately 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. I
have written enough to him to fill a dozen books.
WTe 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 ol
course, but the very strangest, most wonderful
event in the history of the world."
And then he described a scene he ha I just witaessed at the death bed of a yo'ung girl, of my own




158        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
age who left this world and every possible earthl}
joy, with a delight in the going to be with Christ,
that. made him really eloquent. Oh, how glad I
am that God has cast in my lot with a man whose
whole business is to minister to others! I am sure
this will, of itself, keep him unworldly and unselfish.
How 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. The
thought of marryifzg Ch    I mean of having that
silly, school-girl engagement end in marriage, was
always repugnant to me. But I give myself to Ernest joyfully and with all my heart.
flow g,)od God has been to me! I do hope and
pray that this new, this absorbing love, has not detached mry soul from Him, will not detach it. If 1
knew it would, could I, should I have courage to
c ut it off,-and cast it from ie?




STEPPING tHEAVENWARD.         59
--- JAN. I6, I837.-Yesterday was my birthday. and to-day is my wedding-day. We meant to
celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday would
come this year on the fifteenth.
I am dressed, and have turned everybody out of
this room, where I have suffered so much mnortification, and experienced so much joy, that before
I give myself to Ernest, and before I leave home
for ever, 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 will belong to God. I will begin my married 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
his own home that I might see his mother and sister. 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 like
to be picked at.
WVe 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 lInely. Aunty comes to see me as




16o        STEPPING HEAVENWA. RD.
often as she can, and I go there almost e,ery day
but that doesn't amount to much. As soon as I
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. I hoped he
would do that himself. But men are not like women. We think of everything.
-- FEB. I6. - 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 he seems satisfied, and goes about
his business as if he had been married a hundred
years. In the mortning he goes off to see his list of
patients; he is going in and out all day; after dinner 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 certainly 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 an d
so loving. Ernest looked amazed- he t.rew down
his paper, came. and took me in his arms and asked,
" TVhat is the matter, darling?" Thefl It all came




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           i6i
out. 1 said I was lonely, and hadn't been used to
spending my evenings all by myself.
" Ye a must get some of your friends to come and
see you, poor child," he said.
"I don't want friends," I sobbed out. "I want
you."
" Yes, darling; why didn't you tell me s) sooner?
Of course I will stay with you if you wisa 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 unreasonable 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. I7. —Mrs. Embury has been here today. I longed to compare notes with her, ant finll




162          STEPPING IEAVEN WARD.
out whether it really is my fault that I am not quite
happy. But I could not bear to open lmy 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.essons a
wife should learn is self-forgetfulness. I wondered
if she had seen anything in me to call forth this remark. 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 mny 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 truely 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-forgetfulness
that does not apply to a man?
FEB. I8.- Uncle says he has no doubt
12n. o-wes his life to Ernest, who, in the face of
opposition to other physicians, insisted on his
giving up his business and going off to Eurcpe
at just the right moment. For his partner, whose




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           163
symnptoms were very like his own, has been stricker.
down with paralysis, and will not recover.
It is very pleasant to hear Ernest praised, and't
is a pleasure I have very often, for his friends colme
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
nct so audacious as I am, but I believe she agrees
with me more than she will own.
---- FEB. 25.-Ernest w.rites that his m other is
dangerously ill, and seems in great distress  I am
mean enough to want all his love myself, while I
shtuld sate him if he gave none to her. Poox




I 64       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Ernest! If she should die he would be sadly af.
flicted!
F — EB. 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.
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 I
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.
- FEB..28.-Such a dreadful thing is going to
happen! I have cried and called myself names by
turns all day. Ernest writes that it has been decided 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 of
my married life at one swoop! And it is done by the
ha.sd I love best, and that I would not have believed
could be so unkind.
I am rent in pieces by conflicting emot'ons and




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           I65
p)assions.  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 common cause with him and share his interests with
him) I know I am not so abominably selfish as to
feel as I do now. But he forces two perfect strangers upon me, and forever shuts our doors against
my darling mother. For of course she cannot live
with us if they do.
And who knows what sort of people they are?
[t 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 scorpions 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
cut just what I am!
Since I wrote that I have been trying to tell CGod
all about it. But I could not speak for crying
And I have been getting the rooms ready.:-low
many little things I had planned to put in the best




i66        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
one, wlIich I intended for mother!  I have mriade
mys,elf arrange them just the same for Einest'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
nold 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 Martha called me Katherine too.
His father is even taller, darker, blacker-eyed,
blacker-haired than he




STEPTPING HEAVENWARD.          I67
Mf.rtha. is a spinster.
I' had got up,a nice little supper for them, thinking they would need something substantia after
their journey. And perhaps there was some vanity
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 annoyed, 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 resented, 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 handiwork 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 patients, 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 I couldn't.
At last Martha asked at what time we break.
fasted.
"At half-past seven, precisely," I answrered,
Ernest is very punctual about breakfast  T.e
other meals are more irregular."




r68        STEPPING HEA-VEWARD.
"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
Piked, 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 I
could have 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 1 was asE amed and sorry that
I hlad yielded to myself so far as to forget the




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           I69
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, unconscious that there was any thing 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 worship? I should like to retire. I feel very weary."
Now family worship at night consists in ourkneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing
before 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 very irregular about it. He is
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 restless. When Ernest is 9ut late I usually lie on the
8




I 70       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
sofa and wait for him, and so am brigLt and fresh
when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and
there was no knowing fdr 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
hlie 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 to
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 possible! 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 frignt.




XI.
MARCH 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 thq table
with the air of a martyr. Her father lives on crackers 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 I came home from an exhilarating
wak, and a charming call at aunty's, and at the
dinner-table gave a lively account of some of tne
children's exploits.. Nobody laughed, and nobody
(7'1 )




1 72       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
made any response, and after dinner Ernest took nle
aside, and said, kindly enough, but still said it,
"My little wife nmust be careful how she runs on
in my father's presence. He has great dread of everything 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 before 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 not come here putting notions
into your head and making you as cold and har]




STEPPING HEAVEN WARD.          173
as a stone. Mother liked to have me'run on,' as
you call it, and I wish I had staid with her all my
life."
" D3 you mean," he asked, very gravely,''thai
you really wish that?"
" No," I said, "I don't mean it," for his husky
troubled voice brought me to my senses. "1All 
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 an I
never asked me if I should like it; and you crowded 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
have thus have found vent for them, but there was
no one to whom I had a right to speak of my husband.
Ernest walked up and down in silence. Oh, if I
could have cried on his breast, and felt that he
lo ved and pitied me!
At last, as I grew quieter, he came and sat by me.
"This has come upon me like a thunderclap," he




174        S rEPPING HEAVENWARD.
said. "I did not know I kept your heart hungrv.
I did not know you wished your mother to live
with us. And I took it for granted that my wife,
with her high-toned, heroic character, would sustain 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, Ernest, 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 conceal 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 evening meeting!"
"Speaking Leautifully is little to the purpose unless 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 loving, and am I to be made weary of mine because I
cannot satisfy you?"
"But, Ernest," I said, " you used to satisfy me!
Oh, how happy I 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 timte, 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 towards 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 abstracted and cold, but it does not make you less dear.
On the contrary, the sense it gives me of the brevity and sorrowfulness'of life makes you doubly precious, 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.
"Oh, Ernest, promise me, promise me that you
w-ill not die first," I pleaded.'Foolish little thing!" he said, and was as silly




176        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
fi)r a while, as the silliest heart could ask. Tren ele
became seri us 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 loving you with all my heart, however it may seem, 1
think you will spare yourself much needless pain —
and spare me, also."
"But I want you to be demonstrative," - persisted.
"Then you must teach me. And about my father and sister, perhaps we may find some way of relieving 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 already full of care?
--  MARCH 20.-I have had such a truly beautiful letter to-day from dear mother! She gives up
the hope of coming to spend her last years with us




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           177
withl a sweet patience that makes me cry, henever
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 warning. 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 ranking such duties with saying one's prayers and read
ng one's Bible.
I flew to Ernest the moment he was at leisure
and p. ured my grievances into his ear.
8*




I78        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
" Well, dear," he said, "suppose you gi e up the
house-keeping to Martha! She will be far I appier
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
ways!"
"Very well. Then you will have to go," I said,
with great dignity, though just ready to cry. Ernest 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 Sarah. "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.sorae ange who will




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           179
consent to live in this ill assorted household. Oh,
how different every thing is from what I Lad plan.
ned! I wanted a cheerful home, where' I should
be the center of every joy; a home like aunty's,
without a cloud. But Ernest's father sits, the personifications 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, wondering 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 one intoxicated with bliss.
~ — OCT. 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 apparently forgetting me.. It seems a little thing, but
it chafed and fretted my already irritated soul till
at last I 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',y saying to Martha,
"If you can find time to-day I wish you wovuld




I 80       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 flame,
"do not trouble yourself to go out in order to escape me. I can leave the room and you can have
your secrets to yourselves as you do your breakfast!"
I don't know which struck me most Ernest's ap
palled, grieved look, or the glance exchanged between 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 1 passed, thus left alone! One moment 1
reproached myself, the next I was indignant at the
long series of offences that had led to this disgraceful scene.
At last Ernest came.
He looked concerned, and a little pale.
" Oh, Ernest! " I cried, running to him, " I am so
sorry I spoke to you as I did!'But, indeed, I cannot stand the way things are going on; I am wearing all out. Everybody speaks of my growing thin.
Feel of my hands. They burn like fire."
"I knew you would be sorry, dear," he s;id.
"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 be gging
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, lear 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 secrets can I have?"
" I don't know," I said, sinking wearily back on
the sofa. " Indeed, Ernest, I don't want to be selfish or exacting, but I am very unhappy."
"Yes, I see it, poor child. And if I have neglected 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 myself in caring for my father and Martha, and so forgot you. I do not give this as an excuse, but as a
reason. I have really no excuse, and am ashamed
of myself."
"Don't say'hat, darling," I cried,' it is I who




182       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
ought to be ashamed for making such an ado about
a trifle."
"It is not a trifle," he said; "and now to the
other points. I dare say 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 attend to them for me."
"Could not I have done that?"
"No; why should 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 preplexed and harassed
in many ways. Perhaps you would feel better to
snow 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
~n all her husband's cares?"
" No," he returned; " but I will tell you all that is
annoying me now. My father was in business in
outr native town, and went on prosperously for
many years. Then the tide turned-he met with
loss after loss, till nothing remained but the old
homestead, and on that there was a mortgage. We
concealed the state of things frcm my mother; her




STEPPING HEAVENWARD           183.,lalth was delicate, and we never let her know a
trot ole 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
mental 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 necessary 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 misunderstand 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 holne and bringing him here, and it would
have taken off the edge of my bitter, bitter disapo
pointment about my mother."
"i feel very sorry about that," he said.  "It




184        S1 EPPING HEAVENWARD.
would be a real pleasure to have her h(.re  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 no-w, my aear
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
sort; you have force of character enough to enable
you to live with them, while maintaining your own
dignity and remaining yourself'n spite of circum.
stances."




STEPPING HEA% ENWARD.         I85
"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
ike anybody but yourself."
"But you nearly killed me by suggesting, that I
should take heed how I talked in your father's presence."
" Yes, dear; it was very stupid of me, but my father 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 continued, "in your gay talk; but my father has his
own views as to what constitutes a religious character, and cannot understand that real earnestness
and real. genuine mirthfulness are consistent with
each other.
H-Ie had to. go now, and we parted as if for 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 the door of his




I86         STEPI ING HEAVENWARD.
heart and letting me see its cares, as I give hlilm in
my wild pranks and caresses and foolish speeches.
How truly noble it is in him to take up his father's
burden in this way!  I must contrive to help to
lighten it.




XII.
NOVEMBER 6.,~~r xUNTY has put me in the way of doing
4~~~ that. I could not tell her the whole story,
of course, but I made her understand that
Ernest needed money for a generous purpose, 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 accepting 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. I4.-I have seen by the way Martha
draws down the corners of her mouth of late, that
I. am unusually out of favor with her.' This evening, Err. est, coming home quite late, found -me lolling back in my chair, idling, after a bard day's
(181)




I88        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
work with my little cousins, and Martha se wing
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 Ernest's things and pry into the state of his. wardrobe? 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-abo it, but
I am just as angry with her as if she did. On, why
couldn't I have had Helen, to be a pleasant coin



STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          189
panlin 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 housecleaning 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 distressingly 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
myseif, not one. One would think that our love to
Ernest would furnish it. But her love aims at the
abasement of his character and mine at its elevation She thinks I should bow down to and worship him, jump up and offer him my chair when he
comes in,,feed him with every unwholesome dainty
he fancies, and feel: myself honored by his acceptance of these services. I think t is for hiir to rise




I90        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
and offer me a seat because I am a woman at.d his
wife; and that a sihly 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. I8. —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 co-me
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 together. I wonder how he'll like MIartha 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 actually seem to like him. True to her theory on the
subject, Martha invariably rises at his entrance, and
offers hin her seat! He pretends not to see it, and
runs to get one for her! Then she takes c3mfr rt




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            I9I.n seeing him consume her good things, since his
gobb.ing them down is a sort of tacit tribute to
their merits.
Mrs. Embury was here to-day. She says there
s not much the matter with Ernest's father, that
he has only got the hypo. I don't know exactly
what that is, but I believe it is thinking something
is the matter with.you, when there isn't. At anyrate 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 this 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 al, with the assurance that his last hour
has come. Finding that he survives the night,
however, he transfers the seat c f his disease to the
heart, spends hours in counting his pulse, refuses to
take exercise lest he should bring on palpitations,
and warns us al to prepare to follow him. Every
body who comes in has to hear the whole story




I92        SI EPPIN ~ HEAVENWARD
every one nprescribes something, and he tilt,s each
remedy in turn. These all failing to reac h 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 \ra1 ying
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 testimony. I am about to die. The end draws near,"
were the sepulchral words that made him bring his
song 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 circumstances? The poor old man revived Immediately, but




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           I93
looked a good deal injured. After Jame6 heLd 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 fastidious nature an appeal to God every time I kiss hi
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. Anlld 1
do believe this life is mine.
Up to this time I have contrived to get along
9




194        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
without calling Einest's father by any name. I
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
scholars, the extra amount of housework Martha.ontrives 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.
--- JANUARY I6, I838.-The first anniversary




STEPPING HEAVEN WARD.           195
of our wvedding-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, never 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 ( o 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 as
contrary towards Martha as if I enjoyed a state of
warfare between us. And I have felt a good dea,




196        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
of secret c.)ntempt for her father, with hisn moods
and tenses, his pill-boxes and his plaster., -his feast.
ings and his fastings. I do not understand  iow 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, O 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 ir
some way or other, some right way, I could be delivered from Martha and her father. I shall never'e any better while they are here to tempt mne!
-- FEBRIUARY I.-Ernest spoke to-day of m)ne, f his patients, a M rs. Campbell, who is a great suf
tf rer, but whom he describes as the hap iest, nost




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           197
chb eriul person he ever met. He rarely speaks oJ
lis 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 her
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 Ernest had not left me alone with her, so that I should
have had the restraint of his presence.
FEB. I4.-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 conflict 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, 1
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, young 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




I98        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
and without the use of the rod, if I had been ready
for them."
" But you are so happy now," I said.
" Yes, I am happy," she replied, "and such haFpiness is worth all it costs. If my fleslh shudders at
the remembrance of what 1 have endured, my faith
sustains GQod through the whole. But tell me a
little 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.
T1hey 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. He
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 r arty
can be of the least use lo the other."'You forget perhaps the indirect good one may




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           199
gain by living with uncongenial, tempting persolns.
First, such people do good by the very self-deniam
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 render our real home in heaven more attractive."
"But suppose one 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 healing 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 cut 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, loving 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 quiick tempe.-rd I want to live with good-tempered people."
" That is very benevolent in you," she said, archly.
I 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 something 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? "
I 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 embitter 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
resuamed, after another pause. "We look at our
fellow-men too much from the stand-point of our
own prejudices. They may be wrong, they mnay
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 irritated. And I think some of the best, most contrite,
most useful of men and women, whose prayers prevail with God. and bring down blessings into the
homes 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
with Him."
"That is a comforting word, and I thank you for
it," T said. My heart was full, and I longed to
stay and hear her- talk on. But I had already exhausted her strength. On the way home I felt 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 tc
tea, afte:r taking off my things, felt like a holy mar
tyr whc had as good as won a crown.
9.




202        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
1 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 quality, and appealed to her father and Ernest, who both
agreed with her, which 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 you will
only own that, I won't say another word."
" I can't 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."
Th.s sleech I felt to bc a masterpiece. It was




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          203
time to let her know how learned I was on. the subject (if 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. I dare say it won't happen again, and meanwhile 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 miserable sense of disappointment, at my folly and weakness 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, ai d who
disagree with me in every thing else.




XIII.
MARCH 1.
UNTY sent for us all to dine with her today 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 something like cordiality.
"' Mamma permits me to beathe bearer of agreeable news," she said, "because this is my birthday.
A friend, of whom you are very fond, has just arrived, 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 chtoose her own birthday treat, and that
after solemn meditation, she had decided that to see
(204)




STE! PING 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 summer,
and never. shall.  If you choose to fancy that I
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 dragged 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
he still loves me., Then, besides this disappointment, I have to reproach myself for misunderstandin g poor Lucy as I have done. Because she was
not all fire and fury like myself, I need not have assumed that she had no heart. It is just like me; I
hope I shall never be so severe in my judgment again.




206        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
APRIL 3o.-Mother has ju't g ne.  Her
VI it has done me a world of good. She found out
something to like in father at once, and then something 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 misjudging him now, and to treat him as a daughter
ought without the smallest regard to his appreciation of it. Then as to Martha, she declares that I
have no idea how much she does to reduce our expenses, 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-ladders and climbing on chairs and sewing too much,
and all thtat.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          207
-- JUNE I5. - 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 of 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 to do 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 confessions, 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 n )t know. I understand, of course, more




208         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
or less perfectly, that my salvation depends on I imn
alone; is His gift."
"'' But do you see, with equal clearness that youR
sanctification must be as fully His gift, as your sal.
vation is?"
"No," I said, after a little thought. "I 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, " then the first thing you have to do is to
learn Christ."
" But how?"
" On your knees, my child, on your knees!" She
was tired, and I came away; and I have indeed
been on my knees.
JULY I.-I think that 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, especially after what Dr. C. said in his letter. But I
get hold of tnis idea in a misty, unsatisfactory way.
It Christ is to do all, what am I to do? A id have
I not been told, over and over again, that the Christian life is one of conflict, and that I am to fight
like a Lg od soldier?




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          209
~ —   AUGUST 5.-Dr. Cabot has comte just,a I
nced him most. I long for one of those good talks
with him which always used to strengthen me so.
I 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 assurance 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 his
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.
OCTOBER 4, 1838.
MY DEAR KATY'S MOTHER:-You Wil rejoice
with us when I tell you that we are the happy l armts of a very fine little boy.  My dearest wife
sends "an:cean of love" to you, and says she will




210          STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
write herself, to-,hiorrow. That I shaAl not be very
likey to allow, as you will imagine. She is loing
extremelywell, 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 domestic
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-forgetfulness and consideration for others were really
beautiful 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 wholesome discipline, which is even more desirable than
tl e 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 selfcontrol and patience, and her Christian character
is developing in a way that amazes me. I cannot
but hope that (G)d will, in time, deliver her f-om




SI 1EPPING HEAVENWARD.         2Ir
th. s trial; indeed, I feel sure that when it has done
its beneficent work He will lo 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 bandbox, 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 as 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 his
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 on
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 witi




212         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
her as I am. He is the best fellow in tih  w orld,
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. Martha 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 complain, and yet, as I can speak to no one, it is a re.
lief, a great relief, to write about my trials. DuIinkg my whole sickness, Martha has been so hard, so
cold, so unsympathizing that sometimes it has
seemed as if my cup of trial could not hold another




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          213
drop  She routed me out of bed when [ was so
languid that every thing 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 al1 is
that during that dreadful night before baoy 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 cannot 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 on6 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
keep me so.
---   DEC. 4.-We have had a great time about
poor baby's name; I expected to call him Raymond, for my own dear father, as' a matter of
course. It seemed a small gratification for mother
in her loneliness.  Dear mother!  How little 1
have known, all these years, what I cost her! But
it seems there has been a Jotham in the family ever
since the memory of man, each eldest son handing
down his father's nam.e to the next in descent, and
Ernest's real name is Jotham Ernest —of all the ex




2 I4       STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
traordinary combinations! His mother would add
the latter name in spite of everything. Ernest belaved very well through the whole affair, and said
he had no feeling about it at all. But he was so
gratified when I decided to keep up the family custom 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,
" Daughter Katherine, I trust you make it a subject 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.
He cannot bear a rival He will have the whole
he.art or none of it. When I see a young woman
s. absorbed in a created object as you are in that




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          2 I5
unfant, and in your other friends, I tremble for you,
I trem ble for you!"
"But, father," I persisted, "(God gave me this
child,.and He gave me my heart, just as it is.
"Yes; and that heart needs renewing."
" I 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 always does, on whatever he considers audacious.
As for me, I am vexed with my presumption in disputing with him, and am sure, too, that 1 was trying 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 I6, I839. —This is our second wedding-day. I did not expect much from it, after last
year's failure. Father was very gloomy at breakfast, and retired to his room directly after it. No
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 everytody have their own way. He certainly lets m,




216        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
have mine  After dinner he gave me a book I have
been wanting for some time, and had asked him for
-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 " 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 despise money, and despise people who love it. The
riches I crave are not silver and gold, but my husband's love and esteem. And of these'must I desire to have less rather than more? I puzzled myself 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 evet




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          217
did, was when I fell in love with you and made a
fool of myself!"
What a speech for my silent old darling to make!
Whenever he says and does a thing out of character, 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 whisper to herself: "no sooner down than up again."
And she sighed. Can it be that under that stern
and hard crust, there lie hidden affections and perhaps hidden sorrows?
I ran back and asked, as kindly as I could, " What
makes you sigh, Martha? Is anything troubling
you? Ha.ve I done anything to annoy you?"
" You do the best you can," she said, and -uslied
past me to her. own room.
10




X1V
JAN. 30.
EHO would have Iiought I would ha.,;e
V 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.  Her
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
I was praying with her, she had remained waiting
in silence fearing to interrupt me. She saw me
(1i8)




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          219
faint, and sprang forward just in time to catch me
and keep me from falling.
" I take great pleasure, therefore," Dr. Cabot continued, "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 gay that! For I have always reproached
myself for the cowardice that made me afraid to
speak to her of her Saviour. It takes 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
ts 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!
Every one!
Dr. Cabot then returned to the subject of Susan's
~Vill, and in spite of all I could say to the contrary,
nsisted 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 fr Dm 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 reveal 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 1
was sure he would have done. He then advised me
to invest the principal, 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 himself 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.          221
refuige in this awful silence.  Oh, if I cculd;niy
please him, and could know that I pleased him, how
different my life would be!
Baby does not seem well. I have often plumed
myself on the thought that having a doctor for his
father would be such an advantage to him, as he
would be ready to attack the first symptoms of disease. But Ernest hardly listens to me when I express anxiety about this or that, and if I ask a question he replies, " Oh, you know better than I do.
Mothers 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. Ma'rtha will
take baby when I have other things to attend to,
and she keeps him every Sunday afternoon that 1
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 father's presence, Martha's disdain, and Ernest's keeping so aloof from me, life seems to me little better




222        STEPPING HEAVENWARD
thail a burden that I have not strength to carry and
would gladly lay down.
- - MARCH 3.-If it were not for James I believe I 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 entirely sad. Baby, too, is a precious treasure; it
would be wicked to cloud his little life with my depression. I try to look at him always with a smiling face, for he already distinguishes between a
cheerful and a sad countenance.
I am sure that there is something in Christ's gospel 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
speaking in terms of praise of those who keep up




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          223
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 I
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
any thing 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.
"  Du 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.
said, a little stiffly. "But I supposed his mother
preferred to keep him herself."
" And so 1 do," I cried. " I should be perfectly
miserable if I had to give him up just as he is getting 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 declared. "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 tam 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 heari so leaped
for joy at his kind word.




STEPPIN J HEAVENWARD.          225
Ernest looked at me and caught the illuminatio)n
of mn  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 twenty fell to the ground.
Baby is much relieved, and has fallen into a sweet
sleep. And I have had time to carry my tired, oppressed 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
notv 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 he- 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 fee,
a good deal better, and think I shall get nicely rested
he -e. I-low pleasant it is to feel myself watched
by friendly eyes, my faults excused and forgiven,
10*




226        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
and what is best in me called out. 1 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 any one else on
a subject, that touching his father's honor as it does,
he regards as a sacred one.
"You say, dear," he adds, "you often say, that I
do not understand you. Are you sure that you understand me?"
Of course I don't. How can I?  How can I
reconcile his marrying me and professing to d8 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 hall
drowned.
Mother says baby is splendid.
---- AUGUST I.-When I took leave oi Ernest I
was glad to get away. 1 thought he would perhaps find after I was gone that he missed something
out of his life and woula welcome me home withl a




STEPPING IIEAVENWARD.         227
little of the old love. But I did not dream that he
would not find it easy to do. without me till bammei
was over, and when, this morning, he came suddenly upon us, carpet-bag in hand, I could do
nothing but cry in his arms like a tired child.
And now I had the silly triumph of having mother 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.
"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
happy 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 upraiding 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
had made a boast of the sacrifices you -were making."
"That explains your coldness," he returned.
"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 you
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 compare me to a cat!"
" 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?"
"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?"
"Did I seem indifferent? I ar 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 with baby.' For him you were all smiles and
gayety."
"That was from  principle," I said, and fell




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          229
a good deal elated as I made the anncunce..nent.
IHe fell into a fit of musing, and none of rr..y usual
devices for arousing him had any effect. I pulled
his hair and his ears, and shook him, but he remained 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 possess a nature so entirely antagonistic to yours. I
thought my father.would interest himself in reading, 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 gloorl; I reproach myself for it, but I almost dread coming
home. When a man has been all day encompassed
wvith 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 you
do her justice."
" I am afraid I have not been as for bearing with
her as I ought," I said. " But, oh Ernest, it is because I have been jealous of her all along!"
" That is really too absurd."
" You certainly hav~e treated her with more deference than you have. me. You looked up to her
and looked down up( a 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 tenderest love. And I expected that I should have your
sympathy amid the trials with which I am burdened, 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
It, darling."
After this all our cloud melted away. I ony long
to go home and show Ernest that he shall have rone
cheerful face about him, and have one cheerful voice




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           23 /
--- AIJGUST I2.-I have had a long letter fror.
Ernest to-day. He says he hopes he has not been
selfish and unkind in speaking of his father and sister as he has done, because he truly loves and honors 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 happens when poor Ernest has been up all the previoulls
night; there seems a fatality about it.




XV.
OCTOBER 4
L~, ~~OME again, and with my dear Ernest de.
It itilighted to see me. Baby is a year old toI 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 theological battle with somebody.
OCTOBER 5.-The somebody was his daughter 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 Ihe table, but which nobody ever read, on account of the small print. The
battle then began thus:
Father.-" I regret to see that worldly author.ll
yo.ur hands, my daughter."
Daughter-a little mischievously.-" Why, were
you wanting to talk, father?"
(232)




ST EPPING HEAV EN WARD.       233
"No, I am too feeble to talk to-day. My pulse is
t ry 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?"
" No, 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 seasons 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 vigilant
because of our adversary; not to be reading
plays."
"I don't make reading plays my business, deal
father. I make it my rest and amusement."
"Christians do not need amusement; they fina
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 He




234        STEPPING HEAVENW ELRD.
can see every thougnt of my heart. Dear father
it is your disease that makes everything so uarea.
to y Du. 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 am 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 1
wrote that.'About the middle of October father
had one of' his ill turns one night, and. pe were all
called up. He asked for me part'cularly,- and Er.
nest came for me at last. I was? good deal agita



STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          235
ted, and would not stop to half dress myself, alnd
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 confinement to my room; six months of uselessness during 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 husband 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 30o.-This experience of suffering
has filled my mind with riew 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 nmost solermn, monmenltc;us




236        STEPI ING HEAVENWARD.
event —but there was something very pleasant in
the thought of being no longer a sinner, but a redeemed saint, and of dwelling forever in Christ's
presence. Father came to see me when I had just
reached this point.
"My dear daughter," he asked, " are you prepared 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 not strength to talk.
Then I heard- Ernest-my dear, calmn, self-controlled 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 c6uld ever be, and to take
care of my darling baby and my precious mothei
far better than I could. The very gates of heaven
seemed opened 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 alwayE-,
did, irritated if my food did not come at the rigl t
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, forbearance and unselfishness! What sorrowful tears of
shame I shed over hasty, impatient words and fretful 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 evening, 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.m an?"
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 never 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 favor
with God as to make the hour of departure entirely




238        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
free frcm such doubts and such humility as becomes
a guilty sinner about to face his Judge."
"I never saw such a one either," I replied;" 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, mature, ripened Christians."
" Not always old, dear father. Let me describe
to you a scene Ernest described to me only yesterday."
He waved his hand in token that this would delay his coming to the point he was aiming at.
"To speak plainly," he said, " I feel uneasy about
you, my 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 acceptance with God; but is it safe to rest on such an assurance, while we know that the human heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked?" 
"I thank you for the suggestion," I said; " and
dear father, do not be afraid to speak still more
plainly. You live in the house with me, see all my
short-comings and mny faults, and I cannot wndc,
that you think me a poor, weak Christian. But do
you real.y fear that I am deceived in believing that




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           239
notwithstanding 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 uncertain 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 action were not necessarily seen by lookers on.
Father saw my distress and perplexity, and seemed 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. Katy




240        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
has a playfill way of speaking, I know, and often
expresses her strongest feelings with what seems
like levity, and is, perhaps, a little reckless about
being misunderstood in consequence."
He smiled on -me, as he thus took up the cudgels
in my defence, and I never felt so grateful to him in
my life. The truth is, I hate sentimentalism so cordially, 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 returned. "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 I
asked for no counsel. I was too weak to ask questlons or to like to.have questions asked; but my
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 Cal o.




STEPPING- HEAVENWARD.         24I
Tine Fry which will make you understand how a
poor sinner looks upon death. The first is an extract from a letter written after learning that hei
days on earth were numbered.'As many will hear and will not understand, why
I want no time of preparation, often desired by far
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
can not 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 place
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 her 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




242        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
of my desire to depart and to be with Christ. I
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-lthe 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 returned with a large volume, and pointing to a blank
page, requested me to copy them there. He complains that I do not write legibly, so I printed them
as plainly as I could, with my pen.
JUNE 20.-On the first of May, there came
to us, with other spring flowers, our little fairhaired, blue-eyed daughter. How rich I felt when
I heard Ernest's voice, as he replied to a question
asked at the 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 almnost
lover-like pride and devotion, and should she live,




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          243
1:an imagine what a protector he will be fol 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
aim 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 wiL'
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 maide i 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 IO. 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. I
wish he had a better mother. I am so impatient




2-44       STEPPING- HEAVENWARD.
with him when he is wayward and perverse! Whathe. needs -is a firm, gentle hand, moved by no.o ca.
price, and controlled by: the constant fear of God.
He never ought to hear. an irritable word, or a
sharp ton-; 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 mother. 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
1 was all v orn out and not. in a state to have the.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            24 j
care of the children. It has been a ten ible blow to
me.- One by one I am giving up the sxveetest -maternal duties. God means that I' shall be nothing
and doo 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 paiently with folded hands, if that is
His will, as when they are hard at work. But to
be at work, to be usefufl, to be necessary to my husband 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 service. I see now that my first desire has not been
to please God, but to please. myself, for I am restless -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 [ have to.nake 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 sunbc.m. Baby is
improving every de - and is one of those tender,
clinging little things that appeal to every body'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.           24/
-i4t tiles," I said.. "And baby was never so well as
she is now."
"Do not set your heart too fondly -upon her" he
-etuined.  "I feel that she is far too dea' 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 wishl 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
see my short-comings; I see my sins, but I feel myself 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 misgivings about my salvation, but'I can hardly say
that I have one. How strange, how mysterious
that is! And here is father, so much older, so




248          STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
much better than I am, creeping along in the dark;
I spoke to Ernest about it. He says I owe it so my
training, in a great 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 meeting her husband was unpleasant.
"Is she very sick? " I asked.
"Yes. She is completely broken down. I pro.
mised 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 bo'ore."
I put on my things very reluctantly, and went.
I f und Amelia in a richly-furnished house, but
looking untidy and ill-cared.for. She was.ying on
a couch. in her bed-room; three delicate looking




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          249
children were playing about, and their nurse sat
selwing at the window.
A terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for
her to speak for some moments. At last she re(,overed herself sufficiently to welcome me, by throwing 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, ivhile. 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.
"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, nonchalant air of one who is accustomed. to success
and popularity.
I. looked at him with an aversion I could not conceal. The few-years since.- we met has changed
him so completely that I almost shuddered..at the
sight of his already bloated face, and at the air that
told of a.life.worse than..wasted.' Do go.a.way,.Charles," -Amelia repeated.




250        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
He threw himself into a chair without paying
the least attention to her, and still addressing himself 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'possible 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 i.-Ernest says I can go to see
Amelia with safety now, as her husband has sprained
his ancle, and keeps to his own room. So I am going. But I am sure I shall say something imprudent 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
mn my first visit, and she received me again with tears.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           251
"How good you are to come so soon," she oegan.
"' I did not blame you for running off the other day;
Charley's impertinence was shameful. fie 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 nothing
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 knows
now he neglects me, don't you, Charlotte?"
Charlotte was discreet enough to pretend not to
hlear this question, and Amelia went on:




252        STEPPING HEAVYENWAiTD.
4" It began very soon after we were marriled. tlie: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 would say, that as loIng as he let me alone
I ought to let him alone. I thought that when our
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,
so he took another room. After that I saw hi'm 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."
"You must not tell me any more now," I said.'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 doeslne
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. Charley 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
I wasted.,- And at last it died."
Ilere 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, " Charley 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-hearted, and care - ery little what becomes of me."
There was a long silence. I wanted to-ask her
if,, when earthlyx efuge- failed her, she could no: find




254         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
shelte: in the love of Christ. But I have, w'hat is,
I fear, a morbid terror of seeking the confidence of
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 Charlie insisted on coming here to live was, that I should see
yop."
" 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?
Nowj Katy, how can you talk so?" I replied by
repeating two lines from a hymn of which I am very
fond:
" 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 quiet 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 religious."
"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 yoL' are sick




STEPPING HEAVENWARD            255
and Lcart-broken yourself, and you'll see that you
won't feel much like doing anything but just groan
and cry your life out."
"I have been sick, and I know what sorrow
means," I said. "And I am glad that I do. For I
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 home!
DEC. 24.-Father says he does not like Dr.
Cabot's preaching. HIe thinks that it is not doctrinal 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 of conceit mixed up with all I say, and then when I compare my life with my own standard of duty, I wonder I ever dare to open my mouth and undertake
to help) others.




256        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Baby is not at all well. To see such-a little frail
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. I, I84I. —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 material for building up a temple of the Holy Ghost,
was never gathered together before.- The time
may come when those who know me now, crude,
childish, incomplete, will look-upon me with amazement, saying, "What hath God wrought!"' ]f I
knew such a time would never come, I shou. d 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 upocn m-e  T-o er




STEPPING HEAVENV[ARD.          257
I owe the habit of flying to- God in eve:ry enmei
gency, and of believing in prayer. Then 1 am in
close fellowship with a true man and a true Christian. Ernest has none of my fluctuations; he is al-'wvays calm and self-possessed. This is partly his natural 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 constant 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 hall
hour is an inspiration. He lives in such blessed
communion with Christ that he is in perpetual sunshine, and his happiness fertilizes even this disordered 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. I6.-One more desperate effort tmake harmony out of the discords of my boul.e,




258        STEPPING HEAVENmWARD
antl onle more failure. Ernest,forgot th;at ii: was
our wedding-day, which mortified and pained me,
especially as he had made an engagement to dine
out. I am always expecting something fromn 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
sure th at she could not make him happy. Is it possible 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 destiny, and that of our friends. But when it comes 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. I7.-I have been trying to find'out
whether this is a mere notion of mine about Lucy.
James laughs, and evades.my questions. But he
owns that a very serious matter is occupying his
thouglts, of which he does not wish to speak at
present  May God bless him in it, whatever it is!
- MAY I.-My delicate little Una's first. birth



STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           259
day. thank God for sparing her to us a year. I.
IHe should take her away I should still rejoice that
this life was mingled with ours, and has influenced
them. 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.
DEC. I3.-Writing journals does not seem
to be my mission on earth of late. My busy hands
find so much else to do! And sometimes vhen 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 forbearai2ce, charity and
sisterly loving-kindness I shall be!




XVII.
JANUXRY 1, 1842.
MEAN  to resume my Journal, and be. more faithful to it this year. How many
precious things, said by dear Mrs. Campbell amd 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 comfortable chair, which enables. her to sit up during
a part of each day. I found her in it, full of gratitude, 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 history, 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 sick beds, and grief at
their loss.
For she does not pretend not. to grieve, but al
(260)




STEPPING HEA' ENWAR-D.         261
ways says, " It is repining that dishonors God, not
grief."
I said to her to-day:
"Doesn't it seem 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 thousands 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 happier than I am. I was bound to my G-od 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, having nothing left, I was shut up to Him, and learned
fully, what I had only learned partially, how soulsatisfying He is."
"'You think then," I Said, while my heart died
within me, "that husband and children are obstacles in our way, and hinder our getting near to
Christ."
"Oh, no! " she cried. " God never gives us hindrances. On the contrary, He means, in making us
wives and mothers, to put us into the vary conditions of holy living. But if we abuse His. gifts by
letting them take His place in our hearts, it is an




262         STEPPING HEAVENWAKD.
act of love on Hlis part to take them array, 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 unreservedly 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 sickroom 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 I
am growing, though unconsciously?"
"I know you are, dear child. There can't be life
without growth."
This comforted me. I came home, praying all
the way, and striving to commit myself 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 inattenti ve, and 1 forget
what is taught. Perhaps th'is is the reason that



STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           263
weighty tr.-ths float before my mind's eye at times,
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 he
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 eagerness of a soldier marching to battle! I wonder if
people of my temperament ever get toned down
and learn to take life coolly?"
- JUNE IO.-My dear little- Una has had a
long and very severe illness. It seems wonderful
that she could survive such sufferings. And it is almost as wonderful that I could look upon them,
week after week, without losing my senses.
At first Ernest paid little attention to my repeated'entreaties that he would prescribe for her and
some pre:,ious time was thus ost. But the'nlo;




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, enjoying 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
he- goes-without food until, he is ready -to sink, and




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            265
now lhe cats quantities of improper food. If Martha
cot Id 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 reachedthe age of four years, and is a remarkably intelligent child. I hope you teach him that he is a sinner, 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 I 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 dreadful 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 followed the inevitable long fit of silent musing, when
12




26(        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
I often wonder what is passing in that suffering soul
For a sufferer he certainly is who sees a great and
good and terrible God who cannot look upon inikuity, 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. I, I842.-James came to me yesterday
with a letter he had been writing to mother.
" I want you to read this before it goes," he said,
"for you ought to know my plans as soon as
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 human 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 tc
Christ and to Christ's cause on earth, and that this
had resulted in his choosing the life of a missionai y,
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 serving
Him, I never read  I could only marvel at what




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          267
Gcd had wrought in his soul. For me to live to
Christ seems natural enough, for I have been driver.
to Him not only by sorrow but by sin. Every outbreak 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 beautiful. He is as warm-hearted and loving and simple
and guileless as a child, and has nothing of my intemperance, 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 turned his back on the world that has dealt so kindly
with him, and given himself, as Edwards says
" clean away to Christ!" Oh, how thankful I am 
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!
Er.nest came up stairs, looking tired and jaded.
1 read the letter to him. It impressed him strange-.y; but he only said:
"This is what we might expect, who knew James
dear fellow!"




268        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Brat when we knelt down to pray together, I saw
hfw he was touched, and how his soul kindled
within him in harmony with that consecrated, devoted 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; and
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 fiiends again," she
began. "We have jaunted about everywhere, and
have a delightful time. WXhat a snug little box of a
house you have!"
"It is inconveniently small," I said, " for our fanl[lJ 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 i Is
and aches in the house?  It must depress.yo.ur
spIirits."




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          269
"L dare say it would if I saw them; but I never
Jlo."'I should like to see your children. Your hus
oand 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- has
just given me a carriage and horses for my own
use. In fact he heaps everything upon me. W lere
do you go to church?"
I told her, reminding her that Dr. Cabot was its
Fastor.




270        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
" ()h, I forgot! Poor Dr. Cabot! Is lie as old
fashioned as ever?"
"I don t know what you mean? " I cried. " He
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 Elliott 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 wellmatched. They need their money, and their palaces and their fine clothes and handsome equipages,




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          271
for t r.ey have nothing else. How thankful 1 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 complete 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 equipages. They think and talk of nothing else; I have
not one idea in common with them. I see the




272        STEPPING HEAVENWVARD.
emptiness and hoPlowness of these things. I am
absolutely unworldly; my ambition is to attain
whatever they, in their blind folly and ignorance,
absolutely despise.'
Thus communing with myself, I was not a little
pleased to hear Dr. Cabot and his wife announced.
I 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 1my
contempt for worldly vanities, and of my enthusiastic longings for a higher life. I even went into
particulars about the foibles of some of my acquaintances, though faint misgivings as to the propriety 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 riecover my own self-respect! But this was impossible. I threw down my work and walked about
my room. There was a terrible struggle itl my




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          273
soul. I saw that instead of brooding over the display 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 selfconceit. 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 1 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 celestial city, raet and fought his Apollyons and his
giants tbo; but. he got there at last!
12*




NOVYEMBER.
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.
"She has had a hemorrhage!" I cried. "Do
Ernest make haste."
"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."
"No, you told me no such thing. ()h, Ernest, is
she going to die."
" I did not know you were so fond of her," he
said, apltlogetically.
(274)




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          275
It is not that," I cried. "I am distressed at the
thou ght of the w orldly' 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
that."
"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 distressing scene at Amelia's this morning. She insisted 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 disease, 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 just as one would
expect him to do.




276         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
-----  DECEMBER:.-Amelia was so deternmined to
see me that Ernest thought it best for me to go. I
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 tinies
brighter, more beautiful than this."
"I had just got to feeling nearly well," she said




STEPPINGT HEAVENWARD.          277
"s and I had every thing I wanted, and Charley was
quite good to me, and I kept my little girls looking
like fairies, just from fairy-land. Everybody said
they wore the most picturesque costumes when they
were dressed according to my taste. And I have got
to go and leave them, and Charley will be marrying somebody else and saying to her all the nice
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 I can do for her now
but to pray for her, since she does not really beieve 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 restore her. Martha is to watch with her to-night.
Ernest will not let me.
JAN. IF, I843.-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 fa lied




278        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
rap dly of late, and Ernest says may drop away at
almost any time.
When I went in she took me by 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 lie would be willing to visit me after my neglecting 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 I
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 c ught to say, and said it;
"Don't look back to the past; it is useless. Give
yourself to Christ now."
Sht snook lher head.
" 1 don't know how," she said.'" Oh, Katy, prav
to God to let me live long enough ta 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, "get
ready 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 I. - 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 outside things, and more lenient toward me and my
failings.
I do not know  what is to become of those
mothe-less little girls. I wish 1 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 Europe
immediately.
"I have been talking with Ernest about Amelia.




280         STEPPINCG HEAVENWARD
Wh]at do you think," I asked " about her last days
in earl h?  Was theiee really any preparation faor
death?"
"These scenes are very painful," he returned.
"Of course there is but one real preparation for
Christian dying, and that is Christian living."
" But the sick-room often does what a prosperous,fe 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 bewildered and.exhausted by disease, and what mental 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 practice."
" 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 dishonored by the way a Christian dies, as well as by
the way in which he lives. There is great significance in the description given in the Bible of the
death by which John should "Glorify God; " to my
mind it iinplies that io die well is to live well."
-" But how many thousands die suddenly, or of




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            281
st.ch exhausting disease that they cannot honor
God' by even one feeble word."
"Of course I do not refer to such cases. All 1
ask is that those whose mind., 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, as
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
eternali kingdom, male such by the ignominious
death of their Lord, go shrinking iand 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 wvhile yet
plodding upon earth, and faith to go thither joyfully,
for the simple asking?
Poor Amelia! - But she understands it all now.
It 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 r y little Una's third
birthday by presenting her with a n'ew brother
Both the children welcomed him with a delight trhat
was of itself compensation enough for all ie cost inc




282         SI EPI ING HEAVENWARD.
to get up such a celebration. Martha takes a most
prosaic view of this proceeding, in which sh6 de.
I ects 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 laborious 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. 1 may see less of friends, but I
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 streiigth, 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
W\e need a larger house, or a smaller household. I
am  afraid I secretly, down at the bottom  of my
heart, wish Martha and her father could g;ve place
to my little ones. May God forgive me if this is




STEIPING HEAVENWARD.          283
so! It is a poor time for such emotions when He
has just given me another darling child, for whom 1
have. as rich and ample a love as if I had spent no
affectiz)n 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 writh 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 will
not, cease praying that it may be such, no matter
what it costs me. - Poor father! poor.old man! T
will try to make your home so sweet and homelike to you, that when you change it for heaven
it shall be but a transition from one bliss to a
higher!
---- EVENING.-Soon after writing that, I went
down to see father wrhom 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 flurried way, and went off, saying, as she wen't'




284        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Yc u tell her, father; I can't."
I went up to him tenderly and took his land. Ah,
liho 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.
" Oh, father! " I cried, "how n-" nice, I was going to say, but stopped just in time.
All my abominable selfishness, that I thought I
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?" 1 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 secret. But when I wefit back to my children, vexation with him took flight at once. The coming uf
eac:h new child strengthens and deepens my desire
to be what I would have it become; makes my
faults more odious in my eyes and el.evates mny




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            285
whole character. What a blessed discipline of joy
and of pain my married life has been; how thankful I am to reap its fruits even while pricked by its
thorns!
JUNE 2 1.-It aeems that the happy man who
has wooed Martha and won her, is no less a personage than old Mr. Underhill. His ideal of a woman
is one who has no nerves, no sentiment, no backaches, 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 his
private accommodation. This exposd of his sentiments he has made to me in a loud, cheerful, pompous way, and he has also favored me with a description of his first wife, who lacked all these qualifications, 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 successor. Mr. Underhill, 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
they will all go at once to his country-seat, which
is easy of access, and which he says he is sure




286        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
father will enjoy. Poor old father! I hope he wl-l,
but when the subject is alluded to he maintains a
sombre silence, and it seems to ine he never spent
so many days alone in his room, broo:ling over his
misery, as he has of late. Oh, that I could comfort
him.
- - JULY I 2.-The marriage was appointed for
the first of the month, as old Mr. Underhill wanted
to get out of town before the Fourth. As the time
drew near, Martha began to pack father's trunk as
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,s 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 refreshing breeze that had sprung up after a sultry
day. Father was quieter than usual, and seemed
very languid. Ernest, who out of regard to Martha's last evening at home, had joined our little circle, observed this, and said, cheerfully:
"You will feel better as soon as you are once
nrmore out of the city, father."
Father made no reply for some minutes:and when




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          287
lie did speak we were all startled to find that his
voice trembled 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? " he asked, ir
the same tremulous voice.
" Indeed, I do!" I cried, greatly touched by his
helpless appeal, " I love you dearly, father. And I
shall miss you sadly."
" Must I go away then? " he whispered. " Cannot 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 past us into the house. Ernest followed
her, and we heard them talking together a long
time. At last Ernest joined us.'"Father," he sai'd, "Martha is a good deal
wounded and disappointed at your reluctance to go
with her. She threatens to break off her engagement rather than to be separated from you. I really think you would be better off with her than with
us. You would enjoy country life, because it is
what you have been accustomed to; you cDuld
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.
fid scene. Martha reminded him withl bitter tears,
that her another 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
Ihim 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 Ernest is his favorite child, and that I am his favorite
daughter, and our children inexpressibly dear to
himn., 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 leart. I am too
elated with this 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 narrcw spirit in myself, nay
more I hate and abhor it.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          289
The marriage took place aand 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 motherless
lttle ones!
13




XIX.
OCTOBER 1.
F[-"'"   HAVE had a charming sunrmmer with dear
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 us
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
have 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
(2o0)




STEPPING. I-EAVENWARD.          291
Stii 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 always 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
niother this, and I really believe she thinks I scrimp
and pinch and overdo out of.mere stinginess.




292          STEPPING HEAVENWARD
---— DECEMBER 3o.-Ernest came to me to.day
with our accounts for the last three months. He
looked quite worried, for him, and asked me if there
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. Mother 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, kindly. " 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 little 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 Ind.
feel it every day. Don't you think I had better explain 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 Martha left us our expenses have increased a good
deal."
Now the truth is that when aunty paid me most
generously for teaching her children, I did not dare
to offer my earnings to Ernest, lest he should be annoyed. So I had quietly used it for household expenses, and it had held out till about the time of Martha's marriage. Ernest's injustice was just as painful, just as insufferable as if he had known this, and
I now burst out with whatever my rasped, overtaxed 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 lhe could take entire rest; and his health is absolu tely perfect. But I did not make any excuse[or myself at the moment. I was overwhelmed




294        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
with the sense of my utter unfitness tJ be a wife
and a mother.
Then I heard Ernest try to 6pen 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.visIts 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
got me down stairs and out into the air, which
fanned my fiery cheeks and cooled my heated brain.
It seenled. to me that I have had all this tempest
ab-out nothing- a.t:-all,:.and that with a character still




STEPPING HEAVENWl'VARD.       29 c
sc undisciplined, I was utterly unworthy to be either
a wife or a mother. But when I tried to say so in
bl-oken words, Ernest comforted me with the gentle
ness and tenderness of a woman.
"Your character is not undisciplined, my darl.
ing," he said. " Your nervous organization is very
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 s6," 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 nas. But let m
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
) )U fron what- I am sure- distresses and::g-rieveso




296        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
you exceedingly. Now, I suppose that whellevel
you speak to me or the children in this irritated
way, you lose your own self-respect, for the time,
at least, and feel degraded in the sight of God also."
"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 children 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! "
" It is a sin only as you deliberately and willfully
fulfill 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?"
"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 threm by'doing less work. But
the T-,,)rk must — be-;!done. - The- children must be




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          29/
clothed, and there is no end to the stitches to be
taken for them, and your stockings must be riiended
-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 y.ou say may be very true," he returned,
"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
out 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 fof
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. Thc thing worked like a charm
and she is now pht sical.y and morally quite well."
I83




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' hundre( -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 ill-tempered but quick-tempered; the irrita.
iility which annoys you so is a physical infirmity
which will disappear the mom'ent 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.
" I may as well finish this, as it is begun," I said
to myself, and the stitches flew from my needle like
sparks 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 over
me; my thread kept breaking, the children leaned
on and tired me, the baby woke up and cried and
I ge t all out of patience,
" Ds, go away Ernest," I said,. "and let mamrna




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 he
would not go, and kept teasing Una till she, too,
began to cry, and she and baby made a regulai
concert of it.
" Oh, 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 kissing him -to make some amends for the hasty, unpleasant tones with which I had grieved him and
frightened the other children. This evening Ernest 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. ail sorts
of o ver-doing of a kindred nature, I must nurse my




300        STEP PING HEAVENWARD.
baby I supllose, and be rp with him nights, and the
Athers 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. I, I844.-Mother says Ernest is entirely
right in forbidding my working so hard. I must
own that I already feel better. I have all the time I
need to iead 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 debts
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 before 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 wonderfully cheerful, and we both feel that we'may
now look forward to a quiet happiness we have
never known. With such a husband a'nd such
children as mine, I ought to be the most grateful
creature on earth. Arid I have dear mother ar d
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 -fill




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           301
of fun and of love, and after all he may only like
her as a cousin.
-- -FEB. I4.-Father has not been so well of
late. It seems as if he kept up until he was relieved about those debts, and then sunk down. I
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 getting 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 continually 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. Underhill makes her wear, with her
sleeves rolled up, the skirt hid away under a large
apron, rubbing away at poor father till it seems as
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: ith a fever —and cannot




302        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
be left alone. No doubt l e enjoys her bustling
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 father all to myself. Ernest never was so fond of me
as he is now. I don't know what to make of 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 attentions 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 perhaps a wife destitute of self-assertion and without
much individuality would have spoiled him as Harriet has spoiled John. For I think it must be partly
her fault that he dares to bc so egotistical. Helen
is the idearest, 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 admire. And she will love me, in time; I feel sulre
Df it.
--- MARCH I.-Father is very feeble and in




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          303
great m.nwntal 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!"
Hie 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
recompelnse for the poor love I had given my hus.




304        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
oand's father, and the poor little services I had
rendered him! Oh, that I had never been impatient 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
ove, and benediction on every human soul thal mine
can'bless!




xx.
APRIL.
I 19 C HAVE had a new lesson which has almost
broken my heart.  In looking over his
father's papers, F blest found a little journal, brief in its records indeed, but we
learn from it that on all those wedding and birthdays, when I fancied his austere religion made him
hcd aloof from our merry-making, he was spending
the 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 father! 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
fcrgiveness!: Must life always go on thus?  Must
T always be erring, ignorant and blind?- How r




306        STEPFING HEAVENWARD.
hate tl s arrogant sweeping past my oroth( r ma n;
this utter ignoring of his hidden life!
I see now that it is well for mcther that she lid
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 disappointments and discomforts, my feeble health, my
poverty, my mortifications have done me some little 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 today. He can talk of nothing but his illness, o0
Martha's wonderful skill in nursing him, declaring
that he owes 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.
I itherto 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 tney wer...unwell and restless. I have secured




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          307
aln exczllent nurse, who is as fresh and blooming as
the flower whose name she bears. The childlen
are already attached to her, and I feel that tile worsi
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. I-Ie 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
xwill. 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 hope!
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 children. Yes, I have tastcd the bitter cup of bereavet
ment, and drunk it down to its dregs. I gave my
darling to God, I gave him, I gave him! - But, on,
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. 1 would not iecall him if I could. I
am thankful He has counted me worthy to present
{h ii- so cstly a gift.
I cannot shed a tear, and I must find xrelief in




308        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
writir g, or I shall lose my senses. My noble, beautiful boy! My first-born son! And to think that
my delicate little Una still lives, and that death has
clailned 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 darJing children, and my kind, sympathizing mother
still 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 tender mercy. He has not left us to the bitterness o'
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 taking 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
sing 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 {- m going to my darling-I do not know.: I




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          309
arrn ccrtai l.y very feeble. Consenting to suffel does
not annul tb.e suffering. Such a child could, n)t 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 clasp of
the hand is about all one can give to the afflicted.
One says I must not grieve, because my child is better off in heaven. Yes, he is better off; I know it,
I feel it, but I miss him none the less. Others say,
he might have grown up to be a bad man and brok.




310        STEPI'ING HEAVENWARD.
en my heart. Perhaps he might, but I cannot make
myself believe that likely. One lady asked me, if
this affltction 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 blhw on that account.
But I find no consolation or support in these remarks. My comfort is in my perfect. faith in the
goodness and love of my Father, my certainty that
ne 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 sometimes this room in which I am a prisoner seems like
the very gate of heaven.
MAY.-A long winter in my room, and all
softs of painful remedies and appliances and deprivations. And now I am getting well, and drive out
every day. Martha sends her carriage, and mother
goes with me. Dear mot her! How nearly perfect
she.is! I never saw a sweeter face, nor ever heard
sweeter 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 her
own.
I can see that dear Ernest's affliction rid this pro



STEPPIN(} HEAVENWARD.         311
longed anxiety about me have been a heavenly
benediction to him. I am sure that every mother
whose sick child he visits, will have a sympathy he
could not have given while all our own little ones
were alive and well. I thank God that Hie has thus
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!
KEENE, N. H., July I2.-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 suffer, I must suffer, He means it, He wills it, but let
it be without repining, without gloomy despondency. 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 1
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;s the




312        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
least I call do, and I do it while my heart lies broken and bleeding at His feet.
My dear little Una has improved somlewhat in
health, but I am never free from anxiety about her.
She is my milk-white lamb, my dove, my fi agrant
flower. 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 I
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 cheerfully 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 to
all things?




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.  I$3
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 unsound. I was often and often impatient with my
dear little 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 children 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 children 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 always quiet. Ah, my darling, that I could look in
upon you for a moment, a single moment, and catclh
one of your radiant smiles; just one!
- — AUGUST 4. —How full are David's Psalms
of the cry of the sufferer! He must have experienced every kind of bodily and mental torture. He
gives most vivid illustrations of the. wasting, wear14




314        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
ing process of disease-for instance, what a contrasl
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 himself 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 billows have gone over me. Lover and friend hast
thou 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
nmy long illness and confinement to my room, the
Bible has been almost a new book to me, and I see
that God has always dealt with his children as he
deals with them now, and that no new thing has
befallen' me. All these weary days so full of langour, these nights so full of unrest, have had their
appointed mission to my soul. And perhaps I have




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           315
hail no discipline so salutary as this forced inaction
and aselessness, at a time when youth and natura
energy continually cried out-for room and work.
-  AUGUST  S.-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 unloosed its grasp of little Ernest, and let him go. But
I prayed, as I worked, that I might not yield to the
inclination to despise and throw away the gift with
which God has Himself endowed me. Mother was
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 sorrow and my illness and my own petty struggles.
AUGUST  9. —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 predious 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 uFon myself
was the abrupt question:
" Hav en't you grown stoical?"




3 6        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
I felt the angry blood rush through my veins as
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 A. 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 selflove cannot die without a fearful struggle.
--   MAY 26, I846. —How. long it is since I have
written in my journal! We have had a winter full
of cares, perplexities and sicknesses. Motner began




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           31I
it by such a severe attack of inflarr.matbry rhellma
tism as I c ould 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 I
shall never forget the lessons I have learned in her
sick room. Ernest says he never shall cease to rejoice that she lives with us, and that he can: watch
over her health. 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 her 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 entertaining.
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
to 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.
But I see more and more that happiness is not de



3 I8        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
pendent on health or any other outside prosperlty.
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 always 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,
and -overlooks greater ones. It is very interesting,
I think, to study different homes, as well as the
different characters that form 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 tl e
whole winter I have had to derive my spiritual
support fronm books, and as mother gradually re.




STEPPING -HEAVENWARD.           319
covered, she enjoyed Leighton with me, as 1 knew
she would. Dr. Cabot comes to see us very often.
but I do not now find it possible to get the instruction from him I used to do. I see that the Christian life must be individual, as the natural character 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 inspiration 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 us as when he prospers us;
that there is no real happiness but in doing and
suffering His will, and that this life is but a scene of
probati)n through which we pass to the real life
above.




XXI.
MAY 80.
RNEST 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 w ere 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 Ithe door of an
aristocratic-looking house, and helped me to alight
in his usual silence.
" It is probably one of the servants we are going
to visit," I thought within myself; "but I am surprised at his bringing me. The family may not approve it."
The next thing I knew I found myself being
(320)




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           321
introduced to a beautiful, brilliant young lauly, who
sat in a wheel chair like a queen on a throne in a
room full of tasteful ornaments, flowers and birds.
Now I had come away just as I was, when Ernest
called me, and that " was " means a very plain gingham dress wherein I had been darning stockings
all the morning. I suppose a -saint wouldn't have
cared for that, but I 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, thinking 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 to
Keep all you ha re brought me, jurt for the fun of
the thing."
This put me at ease, and I forgot all about my
dress in a moment.
14*




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 mnuch 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 biright and
full of color, hei 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.
y absorbed in its contents.
"Ah!" she cried, nodding her head sagaciously'I knew you w >uld agree with me."
".Ares with yoi in calling life a humbug " I




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            323
Wrled, now faiJ ly aroused. "Death itself is not more
a reality!
" I have not tried death yet," she said, more seriously' but I fhave tried life twenty-five years, and
I kno r all aboaut 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,' How
do youe do' how is.your husband?  How are your
childrt\\?' —it means,'Now I have' asked all the
conventain d questions, and I don't care a fig what
their ansiwer?ray be.'"
"This may be its meaning to some persons," I replied, "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 struggle 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 their 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
so of dirty little wretches out of the streets, and
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 thei
had gone, and mamma missed two tea-spoons and, a
Cork, and was perfectly disgusted with the whole




324        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
thing. Then I fell to knitting socks for babies, bult
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 that
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 in
the evening one could go to the opera or the theater, or some other place of amusement, after which
one could sleep all through the next morning, and
so get rid 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
in 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 girls
I know. have settled down into mere married women,
and spend their whole time in nursing babies!
Think'low belittling! "
"' Is it more so than spending it In dress'ng, driv.
ing, dancing, atnd the like?"




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           325
jf 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.
The 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 he
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 pins
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 borr.
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.
"It is plain that to you, at any rate, life is indeed no
humb ug."
I thought of my dear ones, of Ernest, of my
children, of mother and of James, and I thought of




326        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
my love to them  and of their's to me. Ani I
thought of Him who alone gives reality to even
such joys as these. My face must have been illu.
minated by the thought, for she dropped the bantering tone she had used hitherto, and asked, with
real earnestness:
"What is it you know, and that'I do not know,
that rmakes you so satisfied, while I am so dissatis.
flied?"
I hesitated before I answered, feeling as I nevei
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 promlsing, 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 I.-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,,ovlng 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
"P ferfecton does not exact perfection."  was
nlotlher's answer. "I would rather be judge.d by
an angel than by a man."  And then mnther led
her on, little by little, and most adroitly, to talk of
herself, and of her state of health. She is an orphan, 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 -t 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 embroidery, 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 whatever
it was, showed her how to hold her needle and a-.




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 objected, "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 thoufght to dress tastefully; the most empty-hearted, frivolous young
person can do it, provided she has money enougn.
Those who can't get the money make up for it by
a fearful 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, but
how this shall be fashioned, and that be trimmed;
an-d as to their hair, Satan uses it as his favorite net,
and-catches them in it- every day of their lives.'




STEPPING HIEAVENWARD.         329
"But I never cut or trimmed," said Miss Clifford.
"No, because you could afford to have it done
for.you. But you acknowledge that you spent a
great de. 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 influence 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 Dn how she looks.
She begins to cast about for some plan of life, and
this leads -"
"A plan of life?" Miss Clifford interrupted. "I
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:n a hap-hazard way, putting in a btick
here and a stone there, weaving in straws and sticks




330        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
If tey come to hand, and when as~e~  on whal
work he was engaged, and what manner of ouildng he intended to erect, should reply he had nc
plan, but thought something would come of it."
Miss Clifford made no reply. She sat with her
head resting on her hand, looking dreamily beforc
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 methodically 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. H-e always
said this would turn out anything but an economy
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, thoigh 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 everybody being out of town, and the opportunity it has given me to devote myself to the very
sweetest work on earth, the care of my darling little 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 1
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
me. 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 can'
be as impatient with little children as I should be,
but for the remembrance that I should count it onlj
(331)




332          STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
a joy 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
to take the whole charge of the children, and should
prefer my attending to my own affairs while she attended 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 experienced of the two, should always yield to her.
She then went on to give me her views on the subject of nursery management.
" In the first place," she said, "I never pet or
fondle children. It makes them babyish and sickly."
" Oh, I see you will not suit me," I cried. " You
need go no firther. I consider love the best educator for a little child."
"Indeed, I think I shall suit you perfectly, she




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          333
repiled, nothing daunted. " I have been in the blsiness twenty years, and have always suited, whereever 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 crickets, 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 my
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 ill the Para.
dike of God." Nor was it any too great a consla



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 w}.ere 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; shc
amused Una when she was more than usually un.
well, with a perfect fund of innocent stories; the
work flew from her ninible fingers as if by magic.
I boasted everywhere of my-good luck, and sang




STEIPING HEAVENWARD.            335
her praises in Ernest's ears.till he believed in her
with all his heart. But one night we were ollt 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 wel:
there..'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 assurance 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 account. I packed her off in anything but a saintly
frame, and felt that a fourth Temptation would seatter 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 temper fairly ran away with her, and she became impertinent to the last degree, I said, coolly,
If any lady should speak to me in this way I
should resent it. But-no lady would so far forget
herself. And 1 overlook your rudeness on the




336        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
ground that you do not know better than to make
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 w irning at'
once.
I wish I could help running to tell Ernest all
these annoyances. It does no good, and only worries 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 speark 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 me
will not hold out. He knows absolutely nothing
&bout that hydra-headed monster, a household. I
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,
and that Ernest hates, and that every body hates. I




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          3 37
groan, being burdened, 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! I
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 fai
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 degrees
give place to a calmer life, especially if I avoid, so
far as I 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.
fection, no matter how much imperfection. see in
myself and others. And now I am waiting for my
Father's 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
moment 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 moment, how happy I should always be!
JANUARY I6, I847.-This is the tenth anni.
versary of our wedding-day, and it has been a delightful one. If I were called upon to declare what
has been the chief 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 children, 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 -
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 ik
Ethel.. The -three children together form a,eauti




STEPPING IIEAVENWARD.          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 Providence 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 every thing 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 I!is wise, kind hand is in
every one of them.
- - FEBRUARY.-Heelen 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 her
sweet, 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, seems as if God compensated
suchl- turbulent, fiery natures as. mine by revealing.




340        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Him 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 naturally 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 Ulra, who, as usual, yielded to him without a frown. I called him to me; he came reluctantly
" Raymond, dear," I said, " did you ever see papa
snatch any thing from me?"
He smiled, and shook his head.
"Well then, until you see him do it to me, never
do it to your sister. Men are gentle and polite to
women, and little boys should be gentle and polite
to little girls."
The children ran off to their play, and Helen
said.
"Now how different that is fromn 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."'C That, -I suppose, is the reason then that Ernest
expected me to-wait upon him after we wc.re mar.:




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           341
ricd," I replied. " I was a little stiff ab.,ut 3 ielding
to him, for besides mother's precepts, 1 was influenced. by my father's example. He was so courteous, treating her with as much respect as if she
weie 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 every thing to please
us!" I cried. "But Ernest and I had one stronghold to which we always fled in our troublous
times, ana 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
reasc n."
"I had no idea husbands and wives loved each
other so,' said Helen. "I thought they got over it
as soon as their cares and troubles caine onl, and
just jogged on together, somehow."




342        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
We both laughed, and then she went on.
"If I thought I should be as happy as you are, 1
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 advise instead; for instance, tell
me how I can be sure that if I love a man I shall
go on lbving 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 are
both lovable and loving, I will say this: Happiness, 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 become 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  he 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 askinlg in
the very first prayer he offered in my presence,
afler our marriage, that God would help us love




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           343
each other; I fell that love was the very foundation
3n which I was built, and that there was no danger
that I should ever fall short in giving to my husband 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 and
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 andthe 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 rock —nd 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 1
think she felt, and taught us to feel, that we w -re
to pult it on as we did our Sunday clothes, and to
wear it, as we did them, carefully and reverently,




344        SrEPPING 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
best 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 everything, 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!
Fhe 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 worries about Lucy for naught. What made her so
fond of James was simply the fact that a friend ot
his had looked or her w-ith a favorable eye, regarding 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 her
father. She does it from a sense -cf duty she says,




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           345
and to a nature like hers duty may perhaps suffice,
and no cry of the heart have to be stifled in its perforrnance. We are all so happy in the happiness
of James an-d -Helen that we are not in the mood
to criticise Lucy's decision. I 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 suppose, 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 oe
henceforth strangers in their own should they ever
return to it!
He.en says, playfully, that she has not a missionary spirit, and is not at all sure that she shall go witr.
15*




346        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
James. But I don't think that he feels very anxious
on that point!
MARCH.-It does one's heart good to see
how happy they are! And it does one's heart
go d to have one's husband set up an opposition
to the goings on by behaving like a lover himself.




XXIII.
JANUARY 1, 1851.
7B;,- ]T is a great while since I wrote that. " God
i..i  f  has been Yjst as good as ever;" I want to
say that before 1 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 outset, so violent, and raged with such absolute fury,
that no remedies had any effect. Everything, even
now, seems confused in my mind. It seems as if there
was a sudden transition from the most brilliant, joyous 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 run through endless years? —Poor mother!
Poor FHelen!-When it was all over, [ do not know
(347)




348        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
what to. say of mother but that she behaved and
quieted herself like a weaned child.  Her sweet
composure awed me; T dared not give way to my
own vehement, terrible sorrow; in the presence of
of this Christ-like patience, all noisy demonstrations 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 naturally to be one of us. Mother's health, already
very frail, gradually failed, and encompassed as I
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 described; the love for all of us and for every living
thing that flou. ead in mother's words and tones passed
all knowl-"dge.  rhe 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 grievance, and every new pleasure. During the time she
lived with us she had won many warm friends, particulaily 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 I was
struck to see she had ceased entirely from giving
counsel, and now gave nothing but the most beautiful, 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 appreciated her sanctified character; 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 martyrdom in which what might have been a life-tinle of
suffering was concentrated into a few months. To
witness these sufferings was like the svndering of
joints and marrow, and once, only once, thank God I
my faith in IHim staggered and reeled to and fro,




350        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
" Elow can he look down on such agonies! " I cried
in my secret soul-" Is this the work of a God of
love, of mnercy?"  Mother seems to divine my
thoughts, for she took my hand tenderly in hers,
and said, with great difficulty:
"Though He slay me yet -will I trust in Him.
He 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 relieve 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! He 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, precious
mother has been a saint in heaven more than two
years, and has forgotten all the battles she fought
on earth, and all her sorrows and all her sufferings
in the presence of her Redeemer. She knew that
she was going, and -the last words she Iuttered-andl




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 ears,
" I have.giver God a great deal of trouble, but
He 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 struggle must be.brighter than the stars! And this
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 humlan,eing like himself."




352         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
Does he then think me, with all my faults, the,anguor of frail health, and the cares and burdens.f life weighing upon me, enough like that sp irkl'ing, brave boy to be of use and comfort to dear
Helen? I take courage at the thought and rouse
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 benevolence, 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
dl 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 demn
~onstrative, more attentive to those little things thai
make the happiness of married life, and I am less
childish, less vehement-I wish I could say less selfish, but here I seem to have come to a standstill.
But I do understand Ernest's trials in his profession, far better than I did, and can feel and sho-wv




STEPPING HIEAVENWARD.           353
some syn pathy in them. Of course the life of a
physiciall is necessarily one of self-denial, spent as
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 unnoticed; he is'often dismissed' because he cannot
puit 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 hindrance, the sweet ideal duties of wife and mother,
how content I should be to live always in this
world! But what would become of me if I were
not called, in the pursuit of these duties and in contact 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 al_ these things
"as unto God," and " with the greatest privacy."
I low seldom I have met them save as lions in my




354        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
way, that I would avoid if I could, and howe I have
tormented my friends by tedious complaints about
them! Yet when compared with the great tragedies 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 children 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 after 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




STEPPIN G HEAVENWARD.          35 5
wlIelmed, partly. to what seems an almost constitu.
tional inability to find rest in God's will. She assents to. all we say to her about submission, in a
sweet, 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
my children quite out of countenance by their consciousness 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 moderation and self-control with which she guides his children, 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 all
nerve and brain, and has left four children made of
the same material behind her. But their wild syl rits on one day, and their depression and languor on




356        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
the next, have no visible effect upon her. HIer ina
fluence is always quieting; she tones down their
vehemence with her own calm decision and practi.
cal good sense. It is amusing to see her seated
among those four little furies, who love each other
in such a distracted way that somebody's feelings
are always getting hurt, and somebody always crying. 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 whenever I go to see her, and wish I were more like her.
But there is no use in trying to engraft an opposite 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 supreme 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 goes
on so slowly; that all the disappointments, sorrows, sicknesses I have. passed through, have left.
me still selfish, still full of imperfections!
--- MARCH 5, I852.-This is the sixth ariniversary 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.           351
not get to sleep till long past midnight. Then lTna
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 under
the burden of life, and dreading to meet Helen,
who is doubly sad on these anniversaries. She:ame 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 itWhy 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 I his day
less wearisome and sorrowful to Helen. She came,
after a time, with her work to my room. The childcren 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.




35-8        STEPPIN G HEAVENWARD.
" Ielen, dear,"' I ventured at last to begin, " I
want you 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-day," Helen answered.
"I think I must, dear. When other springs of
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 children. 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 prayer for'a heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and
sympathize.' "
"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: theworld. You know our- family is different
from yours. And it is so-delightful to:be loved,
Or rather it was!"




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            359
e" Don't say was," I said. "You know we all love
you. 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 -o- happy together-'




360        STEPPING HEAVENWA RD.
"Suffering together would have brought you
even nearer," I replied.  "Dear Helen, I am \ ery
sorry for you; I hope you feel that, even whel, 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 loneliness."
"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 cannot comprehend what a mother can suffer, not
merely for herself, in losing her children, but in seeing 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
that of others. Mrs. Campbell says that the three
months that followed the death of her first child,
awere the happiest-she had qver known. Mrs. WTentworth, 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 Saviou'r that He has not forgotten and passed me by,
but has counted me worthy to bear this sorrow for
His sake.' And hear this passage from the life of
Wesley, which I lighted on this morning:
"He visited one of his disciples, who wdas ill in
bed, and after having buried seven of her family in
six months, had just heard that the eighth, her husband, whom she dearly loved, had been cast away
at sea..' I asked her,' he says,'do you not fret' at
any of those things?' she says, with a lovely smile,'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 I have
just repeated."
16




362         STEPPING HEAVENWA RD.
"Katy? " Helen 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 forget ting to recognizc
God's hand in the little, every-day trials of life, and
instead of receiving them as from Him, find fault
with the instruments by which He sends them. 1
can give up my child, my only brother, my darling
mother without a word; but to receive every tiresome visitor as sent expressly and directly to wears
me by the Master Himself; to meet every negii.
gence on the.part of the servants as His choice foi
me at the moment; to be satisfied and patient when
Ernest gets particularly absorbed in his books, be.'cause  my — FTather- ses that little'di'sciplihI-"i sIit
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 I-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 one
more attempt to reach her pool-, weary soul.
"But are you satisfied, dear IHelen? " I asked, as
tenderly as I would speak to a little sick child




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           363
Surely }you crave happiness, as every nunian soul
does!"
Y' es, I crave it," she replied, " but God has taken
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 thk boys did, and threw themselves
upon-me like men as-aulting a fort. I have formed
the' habit of giving,  myself entirely:to them at the
proper moment, and now entered into their frolicsome 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 ilike:- 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 moment as if life depended a - your every word, and
then frisking about with those wild boys as if. vou
were a child yourself?"




364        STEPPING HEAVEN WARD.
i saw Una look up curiously, to hear nr.y answer
as I replied,
" 1 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 religious 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 disheartened mood came over me that made me feel
that all I had been saying to her was but as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, since my life and
my-professions did nQt,corr,.pond,. HrtihertJo -iLy
coisciousness of:imperfection had made mne 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 they 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 Heleln!
May' the ice once broken remain broklen forever.




XXIV.
MARCe 20.
[37,~l 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-morrow 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 myself, that nothing but prayer stands between my
soul and the best gifts of God; in other words, that
I can and shall get what. I ask for.
(36D)




366        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
I wenlt down into tile kitchen, put on my large
baking-apron, and began my labors; of course' the
door-bell rang, and a poor 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 myself. 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 dinner. Going to aunty's is next to going to Paradise
to them. Everything was nlow 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 I 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- finally burn up.- I was annoyed and irritated, -and already 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 she.'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 every thing to dispose of. Ernest had sent home some apples, which
plainly said,'I want some apple pie, Katy.'  1.ooked nervously at the clock, and undertook to
gratify him., Mary came down, crying, to say that
her mnother, who lived in Brooklyn,' was very sick,
could she go to see her? I looked at the clock once




368        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
more; told her she should go, of course as soon as
lunch'was over; this involved my doing all her ab.
sence left undone.
At last I got through with the kitchen; the Sun.
day dinner being well under way; and ran up stairs
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 to 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 rhy
mouth to tell Mary she might go, when the doorbell 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 famished, 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 Albany, 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 butter, nothing else, dear; now don't put yourself
out!
"Now be bright and animated, and like yourself,'
she whispered,  " for I have brought these girls here




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           369
on purpose to hear you talk, and they ate 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 provec equal to a raid on
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 announced, 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 txcuse him, as I knew he would be thankful to. have
me do, but no, see him she must;' he was her" petdoctor," he. had such" sweet, bed-side manners;" and
"I am such a favorite with him, you know!"
Ernest did not receive his "favorite" with anly
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 rounld gid
get up'what-; he ccould: M rs.-:-Winthrpp,de voted
herself to Ernest with a persistent -ignoring -.of -ne
16*




370         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
that I thought rude and unwollanly. Sthe asked
if he had read a certain book; he had -not; she
tlten said, " I need not ask then if Mrs. Elliott has
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. Winthrop 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 whole
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
several persons. Your and Ernest's hospitality is
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; it
quite rested me.
-At -the  diniier table: Ernet complimerlted: me- on.my good   use-k eeping.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           371
" I was proud of my- little wife at lunch," he said.
" And yet you said that outrageous thing about
my reading about nothing but murders! " I said.
"Oh, well, you understood it," he said, laughingly.
"But that dreadful Mrs. Winthrop took it
literally."
"What do we care for Mrs. Winthrop? " he returned. "If you could have seen the contrast
between you two in my eyes!"
After all, one must take life as it comes; its
homely details are so mixed up with its sweet
charities, and loves, and friendships, that one is
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 3o.-A stormy day and the children
home from school, and no little frolicking and laughing 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 no one can tell
the effort it costs me. What a contrast there is
between their vitality and the languor under which
I suffer! When their noise became intolerable, I
~Rroqposed ttc:: read:to, them;  of': cour-se-) they nmade




372       -STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
ten times as much clamor of pleasure and of course
they leaned on me, ground their elbows int> my
lap, and tired me all out. As I sat with this
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 yourself 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
such;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.
-- APRIL It-This has been a sad day to our
church. Our dear Dr. Cabot has gone to his eternal 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 are
mingled with tears of joy. His heart had long been
-in heave ~, hWe was- ready.t4 go'' at'" amome.t'-s. war'.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            373
ing; never was a soul so constantlyand joyously
on the wing as his. Poor Mrs. Cabot! She is left
very desolate, for all their children are married and
settled at a distance. But she bears this sorrowx
like one who has long felt herself a pilgrim and'
stranger on earth. How strange that we ever forget that we are all such!. — APRIL I6.-The desolate pllgrimage 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 marriied -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
house of my pilgrimage! Almost all the disappointments and sorrows of my life have -had their
Christian sympathy, particularly the daily, wasting
solicitude concerning my darling Una, for they too
watct ed for years over as delicate a flower, and
saw it fade and die. Only those who have suffered
thus can appreciate the heart-soreness t} rough




374        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
which, no matter how outwardly cheei'ful I mnay be,
I am always passing. But what then! Have I
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 captive
sings in his cage because it has never known liberty,
and cannot regret a lost freedom. So the soul of
my child, limited by the restrictions of a feeble
body, never having known the gladness of exuberant health, may sing songs that will enliven and
cheer. Yes, and 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 is to me I cannot tell. And yet,
if the skillful and kind Gardener should house this
delicate Dlant before frosts come, shculd I:larc ta
co.n'plain'?




M.&Y 4.'>mpJISS CLIFFORD came to lunch with us on
Wednesday. Her remarkable restoration
to health has attracted a good deal of attention, 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
flelen followed, with her's.
e.;r" I have brought something to read to'you, dear
Mrs. Elliott," Miss Clifford began, the moment we
h~ad'-s-eat-ed. ourse'lves, "-w'chich — I -have just lighted.oni
(37 )




376         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
anl I aln sure you will like. A nobleman writes to
Fenelon asking certain questions, and a part of
these questions, with the replies, I want to enjov
with you, as they cover a good deal of the groun,
we have often discussed together.
I.
"How shall 1 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 1
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 offering 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.
Ist, because they are less of our own choice and
more in the order of Providence when one is
obliged to perfnrm them; 2d, because they are
si mnpler an-d, less -exposed i to ivain cormplaisa~!-'e.;.  3d,
because if one yields to them with moderation, o.ne'
findsi...them omoee of -eath to one.'s: inclinatiolns




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            377
than:i certain acts of fervor in which self love
mning.es; finally, because these little occasicns recur
more frequently, and furnish a. secret occasion for
continually making every moment profitable.
It is not necessary to make great efforts nor acts
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
ppsition, can and ought to be offered to God; nothing 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 elevatioa 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 -to use precaution.
II.
In prayer I cannot fix my mind, or I have intervals 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.
Files.ty- in following the rules that have been
given you, and in'recalling your mind every time
you perceive- its distraction, will gradually'give
you the grace of being more recollected. Meanwhile 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?
III.
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 excite in myself to repentance for my faults as much
as I can; but I have never felt any real grief on account 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.
REPLY.
You should examine yourself every night, but
simply and briefly. In the disposition to whicn
God has brought you, you will not voluntarily commit any considerable fault without remembering
and reproaching yourself for it. As to little faults




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           379
scarcely perceived, even if you sometimes forget
them, this need not make you uneasy.
As to lively grief on account of your sins, it is
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 perhaps 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 exite 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 wiP'
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 ~ HEAVENWA RD.
God would be given to forced returns ulpon yo'ar.
self, which secretly nourish self-love.
IV.
In my prayers my mind has d(ifficulty in finding
anything to say to God. My heart is not in it, or
it is inacessible 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 p:casure; 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, most
intimate'friend. A word, a sigh, a sentiment, says
all 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 nhot 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 consoling 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 -f 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 tenderness and feeling, fancying. that you were loving.God. -.Even while rheceivirg. ss efgfsA.. p;eprpar
yourself by pure faith for the time when you might
be deprived of them; and.you will suddenly succumb, 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
crdinary acts of the day.
I. Form the resolution to do so, every morning,
and call, yourself to account in your self-exam.ination at night
2. Make no resolutions but for-good reasons, eitl er
from  proypriety 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 accustoms
one's self to offer what is not proper to curtail.
3. Renew one's self in this disposition whenever
one is alc ne, in order to be better prepared to re.
collect it when in company.
4; Whenever 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 according 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
Himj by whiom jonenimay-,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 wants
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 HEAiVENWARi.           381
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
ascerndi it as the angelN. did? in JTacd.b'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, always learning something new about Him, always
loving Him  better and better. To be sure our
souls are sick, and of themselves can't keep' ever
on the-:- wing,' but —I have -had -some delightful
thoughts of late from just hearing the title of a
book'God's method with the ma-adies of the
soul.' It gives one such a.conception of the seem




384        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
ing ills of life; to think of Him as our Physician,
the ills all remedies, the deprivations only a whole.
some reginen, the losses all gains. Why, as I study
this individual case, and that, see how patiently and
p)ersisten'tly 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.Aalon.e,,.aidd.-set-. rme.: to-,thinkinig, 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. am to pay towards the debt I owe Him?3'
By this time Helen's work had fallen from her
hands 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
Mis- Clifford seemed quenched and humbled by
tlRese 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 anything 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 goodness 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 defeated my joy,' and given me to drink of the cup of
sorrow and bereavement.
-  MAY 24.-I read to Ernest the extract from
Fenclon which has made such an impression on me.
"Every basiness man, in short every man leading
an active life, ought,to read that," he said. "W
should have a neaw 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 n: orning,
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," I
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 utte rly
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 entreat 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 worship," 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 wve do not
~.rn as fast as we are willing to learn. God does
not force instruction upon us, but when we say as
Luther did,'Mcre light, Lord, more light,' the
lient comes.'




STEr!PING HEAVENWARD.          387
I questioned m self after he had gone, as to'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
nolier life than I have yet lived?
---  JUNE 2.-1 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 husband.
"You see, my dear," she added, with a smile,'though I am expecting to be so soon a saint in
neaven, I am a human being still, with human weak.
nes;es. What can it really biatter where this weary
old body is laid away, whenl I have done withl It




388        STEPPING HEAVENWARD
and gone and 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 -illuminate it; no desolation so desolate but that He can
sweeten it. I know what-I am saying. It is no delusion. I believe that the highest, purest happiness
is known only to those who have learned Christ in
sick rooms, in poverty, in racking suspense and
anxiety, amid hardships, and at the open grave."
Yes, the radiant face, worn by sickness'and suf
fering, but radiant still, said in language yet inlore
unspeakably impressiveo'To learn Christ, this- is life!'




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          389
lI carne into the busy and noisy streets as one descending from the mount, and on reaching home
found my darling Una very ill in Ernest's arms.
She had fallen, and injured tier head. How I had
prayed that God would temper the wind to this
shorn lamb, and now she had had such a fall! We
watched over, her till far into the night, scarcely 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 tc 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
tt. But before daylight crept into my room, light
fr-om on high streamed into 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 to Him, not what I value least, but
what I prize and. delight i t most.. Could I not endure heart-sickness for Him who had t iven His
only Son for me? And just as I got to that sweet
consent to suffer, He who had only lifted the rod to,try my faith, laid it down. My darling opened hei
eyes and looked at us intelligently, and with her
own loving smile. But I dared not sna'; n her and
press her to my heart; for her sake I n usc be outwardly 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,
Dut 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
she fell from, or how she- fell, no one knows; she
remembers nothing about it herself, and it will always remain a mystery.
This is the second time that this beloved child
has been returned to us after we had given her
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 now as a fresh gift from our loving Father's




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.         391
hand, wlth ten-fold delight. Ah, we have n) excuse for not giving ourselves entirely to Him. He
has revealed Himself to us in so many sorrows, and
in so many joys; revealed Himself as He doth not
unto the world!




XXVI.
MAY 18.
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 irreparable. 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 counsels 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 faithful, 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 I
(392)




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          393
asked her what she conceived to be the charact eris.
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 his
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 communion with Christ, and loved his neighbor as himself. 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 rebel in the hour of trial, and judge his fellow man
with a harsh and bitter judgment, aud 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
his -Saviour.




394        STEIPPING HEAVENWARDL.
" -fis old self-confidence nas now given place to
child-like humility, that will not let him take a step
alone;. and the sweet peace that is now habitual to
him, combined with the sense of his own imperfections, fills him with love to his fellow man. He
hears, and believes and hopes and endures all things
and thinketh no evil. The tones of his voice, the
very expression of his countenance, become changed, love now controlling where human passions held
sway. In short, he is not only a new creature in
Jesus Christ, but has the habitual and blessed consciousness that this is so."
These words were spoken deliberately and 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 wear
her mantle!."
She smiled with a significance that said she had
already done so, and then we parted-parted that
she Mtlight end her pilgrimage and go to her restparted that I might pursue mine, I know not hoiv
long, nor amid how many cares and sorrows, nor
with what weariness and heart-sickness-parted tko




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. Campbell, 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 reflected 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?'
"' I 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 disciples
on earth, what would you say to Him?  This




396        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
brings Him near, and I say what I would say if I-Ie
were visibly present. I do the same when a new
sorrow threatens me  I imagine my Redeemer as
coming personally to say to me,' For your sake I am*
a man of sorows 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
will give up this struggle? You will let God do what
Hie will with his own?"
" I have to let Him," she replied; "but I submit
Lecause I must."
I looked at her -gentle, )ure face as she uttered




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           397
these words, and could only marvel at the strong
will that had no expression there.
"Tell. me," -she said, "do you think a real ChrJstian can feel as I do? For my part I doubt it. I
doubt every thing."
"Doubt every thing, 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 together in a sort of ecstacy.
" Yes," she said, "I can."
At last God had sent her the word she wanted.
May 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 f6lks!"
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. Al' these
years I have.been. tormenting.myself with doubts




398         STEPPING HEAVENWARD,
as to whether I could be His child while so unable to
say, Thy will be' done. If you had said, "Why,
yes, you iaust be His child, for you professed yurself 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 off
my heart. Yes, if I was not his child yesterday
I can become one to-day; if I did. not love HIim
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 prospered with us to such a degree that he has been ex.
travagant enough to giye me the use, for the sum
er, 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 rr y cargo of children in a pond where I waF
silly enough to undertake to water my horse, But
Ernest, as usual, had patience with met and begged




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           399
nlc to spend as much time as possible in driving
about with the children. It is a new experience,
and I enjoy it quite as much as he hoped I should.
Helen is not with us; she has spent the whole sunlmer with Martha; for Martha, poor thing, is suffering 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 t6 keep me awake, I
sleep straight through, as Raymond 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 separation 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 calln
sea of untroubled peace. While I was secretly upbraiding my dear husband for giving so much attention to his profession as to neglect me and my
children, he was becoming, every day, more the
tdea'. of a'physician, cool, calm, thoughtful, studio




400         SI EPPING HEAVENWARD.
ous, ready to sacrifice his life at any moment1 n the
Interests ofi' humanity. How often I have mistaken
his preoccupied air for iodifference; how many
times I have inwardly accused him of coldness,
when his whole heart and soul were filled with the
grave problem of life, aye, and of death likewise!
But we understand each other now, and I am
sure that God dealt wisely and kindly pith 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!  But the heart was in
him, and only wanted to be waked up, and my
life has called forth music fromn his. Ah, there are
no partings and meetings now that leave discords
in the remembrance, no neglected birthdays, no forgotten courtesies! It is beautiful to see the thoughtful brow relax in presence of wife and children, and
to know that ours is, at last, the happy home I so
long sighed for. Is the change all in Ernest? I 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 hostess,
the other day, if she did not envy- me my tour little
pets; she.smnjled, Said they were the best -children




STEPJ ING HEAVENWARD.          401
she ever saw, and that it was well to have a fal.aily
if you i-ave means to start them'n the world; for
her part, she lived from hand to Imouth 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,"
I 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, its 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 mortgage, and that he'd give his right hand to have a
couple of boys like yours."
"'Vell?"
"  hy, I said supposing we had a couple of boys,
they wouldn't be like yours, dressed to look genteel 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.
He said'twasn't the clothes,'twas the flesh and
blood he wanted, and'twasn't no use to argufy
about it; a man that hadn't got any children wasn't
mor'n halt a man.' Well,' says I,', upposing 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 bret. d
with, and a welcome you could have heard from
Dan to Beersheba.'"
"I like to hear that! " I said. " And.1 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 children 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 twc, about
the beauty of his farm, and the scenery of this
w hole region.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.          403
"Yes," he said, gratified that I appreciated his
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 t le
country. As to the scenery, I don't know as I ever
looked at it; city folks talk a good deal about it, but
they'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 clasping 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 don't know how we have lived without her, so'ong. HIer life seems necessary to the comp-etion of every one of ours. Some others have
fanc ied it necessary to the completion of theirs, but
she has not agreed with them. We are glad enough




404          STE1PPING HEAVENWARD.
to keelp her, and yet I hope the day will conme whitn
she, so worthy of it, will taste the sweet joys of
wifehood and motherhood.
JANUARY I, I853.-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 have 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 myself.. It is mortifying to find- my will less in
harmony with His than I thought it was, and that
I want to prescribe to Him how I shall spend the
time, 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!
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
n as grown less selfish, more Christ-like; it has Deen
sanctified by prayer and by the sorrows we have
bo:ne 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 the
children and her influence over them, is a benediction for 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.ong, 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 tol~a 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 differert 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 ath the bitterness from the cup of sorrow   I




406        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
knew —who can help knowing it, that reads God s
word?-that He required submission froin His
chiidren and that His children gave it, no matter
what it cost. The Bible is full of beautiful expressions 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 the three years following James' death, I
would have snatched h'im away from  God, if I
could; I was miserably lonely and desolate without him, not merely because he had been so much
to me, but because his loss revealed to me the distance 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; I
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, I l.roked at




STEFPING 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 be
healed as mine has been healed! My precious
sister, cannot we make this one part of our mission
on earth, to pray for every sorrow-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 T have never seen; let me have it, too.
May this prayer, which, under the inspiration of the
moment, I can offet without a misgiving, become
the habitual, deep-seated desire of my soul.
"Bring into captivity every thotught t  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, O my crucified Master, Redeemer, 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.
AUGUST 1.
~ HAVE just written to Mrs. Brown to
know whether she will take us for the rest
of the summer. A certain little man, not
a very old little man, either, has kept us
in town till now. Since he has come, we are all
very glad of him, though he came on his own invitation, 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 with
presents of the most heterogeneous character.
Sweet-Briar Farm, AUG. 9.-We got here
this afternoon, bag and baggage. I had not said a
word to Mrs. Brown about the addition to our
tamily circle, knowing she had plenty of room, and
as we alighted from the carriage, I snatched my
baby from 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 myself.
At that instant what should I see but Mrs. Brown,
running to meet me with a boy in hei arms exacttly
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 ir.
a comma; "but I don't know how I evergot along
without one. He's off at work nearly the whol.
day, and when I had got through witl mine, and
had put on my aftern on dress, and was -eady to sit




STEPPIN J IEAVENWARD.          41 
down, you can't think how lonesome it was. But
now, by thc time I am dressed, baby is ready to go
out to get the air; he knows the minute hc sees
me bring out his little hat that he is going to
see his -father, and he's awful fond of his father
Though that isn't so strange, either, fc r his father's
awful fond of him.  All his little ways are so
pretty, and he never cries unless he's Lungry or
tired. Tell mother a pretty story now; yes, mother hears, bless his little heart!"
Then wvhen 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
bouncing young one on to me," he said, "as if Ididn'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 woodpile, " do you think Mrs. Brown's baby very pretty.'
Which was so mild a way of suggesting tie
fact of the case, that I kissed her without trying to
llide my amusement.
---  AuGc. Io.-After being cooped up in towis




412        STEPPING.HEAVENWARD.
so large a pait of the summer, the chilk.ien are
nearly wild with delight-at being in the country
once more. Even our demure Una skips about
with a bouyancy 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 couild 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 gladsome boys they are; really good without being
priggish; I don't thinki Dcould 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. 3I.-This has been one of those cold
dismal, rainy days which are not unfrequent during




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           413
the month of August. So the children have been
obliged to give up the open air, of which they are
so fond, and fall back upon what entertainnient
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 tnem; 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 anything more about his precious life.
How thankful I am that I kept this journal, and
that 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
ceased from. its labors, and lies inactive and at rest.
Ah, it is a blessed thing to be a mother!
SEPTEMBER I.-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 a.l dearly




414        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
most dearly. Perhaps it is so with all mothers.
perhaps they all grow more loving, more forbearing, more patient as they grow older, and yearn
ver these helpless little ones with an ever increasing, yet chastened delight. One cannot help sheltering their tender infancy, waho will so soon pass
forth to fight the battle of life, each one waging an
invisible warfare against invisible foes. How thankfully we would fight it for them, if we might!
SEPTEMBER 20.-The mornings and evenings 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 of distress quite unlike anything I
ever saw in him, revealed to me that he had been
feeling the greatest anxiety about me esver 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 aiwa s 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, untended? 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 v~ery delightful, and
I have enjoyed so many, many such foretastes of the
bliss of heaven that I know I should be happy there;
out 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, 4nd 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 who enters upon a
state that must bring 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 H EAVENWARD.
see the autumnal foliage in its ravishing beauty,
for the first, perhaps for thle last, time. Tile 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 3I. —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 indulge 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 husbpfnd and children,
in other words, in my home, as I am now. Life
looks very attractive. I am griad that I am going
to get well.
But Ernest watches me carefully, and wants me,




STEPPING HEAVENWARD).         417
as a precautionary measure, to give up music, writing, sewing, and painting-the very things that occupy 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
ike to leave things incomplete.
JUNE I, I858.-I wrote that seven years go,
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 children, 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 I 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 dclighted, my household duties, my visits to the sick
and suffering, the society of beloved friends. Perhalr  Ernest perceived and felt my deprivations
18*




418         STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
sooner than I did; his sympathy always seemed te
out-run my disappointments. When I compar  him,
as he is now, with what he was when I first knew
him, I bless God for all the precious lessons HIe 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 sufferings, I am afraid I should have shrunk back in terror, and so have lost all the sweet lessons God proposed to teach me. As it is, He has led me on, step
by step, answering my prayers in His own way;
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 my 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 to
vessel, till I have learned that he, only is truly ha py
who has no longer a choice of his own, and lies
passive in God's hand.




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.           -419
Eveli now, no one can foretell the issue oi this
sickness. We live a day at a time, not knowing
what shall be on the morrow. But whether I live or
die, m5y happiness is secure, and 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 husband, 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 emergency. 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 gracefully. I do not know any other word that describes so well'he beautiful offering she made of her
life, first to God, and then to us. He accepted it,
and 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




42C        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
her. And she is happy in His service and in our
love.
- JUNE I3. —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
oright 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 he
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 been
good for my children to have a feeble, afflicted
mother?"
" Yes, I really think so. A disciplined motherdisciplined children."
This cotnforting thought is one of the last drops
in a cup of felicity already full.




ST'EPPING HEAVENWA.RD.        42I
--- -JUNE 2o.-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 mne. Surely this is some compensation 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 —lhat is to say if 1 ever get
dlecently good-to go on a mission."
I said., playfully,
"And mamma's consent is not to be asked?"
"No," he 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?"
"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? "
" kYes, 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 Raymond," I went on, "I gave -you to
God long before you gave yourself to Him. If He
-an make you useful in your own, or in other lands,
a bless His name. Whether I live to see you a man,,r not, I hope yoii will work in the Lord's vineyard,
wherever He calls. I never asked anything for you
but usefulness, ip all my prayers for youl; never




STEPPING IHEA. VENWARD.        423
once.'  His eyes filled with tears; he kissed me,
and walked away to the window, to compose himself. My poor, dear, lovable, loving boy., He has
all his mother's trials and struggles to contenid
with; but what matter it if they bring him  the
same peace?
-- -JUNE 3o.-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 canno
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 records 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 sa(y to Jesus. What time
and strength I used to spend in writing here, let
me now spend in praying for all men; for all sufferers, for all who are out of the way, for all whom




424        STEPPING HEAVENWARD.
1 love. And their name is Legion, for I love every
body.
Yes, I love every body! I hat 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
rom 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
now know, 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 hlidden. But




STEPPING HEAVENWARD.            425
not till I was shut up'to prayer and to the study of
God's word oy 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
Himn-this is all!
And when I entered upon the sacred yet. ofttimes homely duties of married life, if this love had
been mine, how would that life have been transfigured! The petty faults of my husband under
which I chafed, would not have moved me; I
should have welcomned Martha and her father to my
home and made them happy there; I should have
had no conflicts with my servants, shown no petulance 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
thle love that gladdens, sweetens, solaces other lives,
O gift of gifts! 0 grace of faith!
My God! how can it be
That.Thou, who hast discerning love,
Shouldst give that gift to me?




4 26          STEPPIN G HEAVENWARD.
How many hearts thou mightst have tied
More innocent than mine 
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.
W-hat wilt thou be in depth?




" Aunt Jane's Hero is so like people we meet, that we are
anxious to have them, read the book, in order to profit by
its teachings.  We like it and believe others will." —The
Advance.
A New Volume by the Author of "Stepping Heavenward."
AUNT JANE'S HERO. One Vol. Iz2mo, 300
pp. $I.50.
" The object of Aunt Jane's Hero is to depict a Christian home
whose happiness flows from the living Rock, Christ Jesus. It protests also against the extravagance and other evils of the times, which
tend to check the growth of such homes, and to show that there are
still treasures of love and peace on earth, that may be bought without money and without price."
" The plot of this story is the simplest, the materials the common
est-only a young man, professedly a Christian, yet living a life of
worldliness-who is brought back through sharp trials to regain some
of his lost ground; the story of his love and marriage, and pictures
of a happy Christian.home, with Aunt Jane's influence- like a golden
thread running through the whole; just such scenes and incidents as
may happen any day, anywhere. Yet out of these. simple materials is
wrought a story of great beauty and power. The title of the book
seems to us a misnomer. Aunt Jane's Hero is really much less of a
hero than is his wife, little Maggie, of a heroine. Her character is one
of rare strength and sweetness; but she needs it all in keeping up
her husband's courage in dark days, in sustaining his faith, in redeeming him from selfishness and prompting him to active Christian work.
The key-note of the volume is struck-in one of the closing paragraphs:' Those who have got into the heart of this happy home
have wanted to know its secret, seeing plainly that money had little
to do with it; and as you have confided in me, I will be equally
frank with yop, and tell you this secret in a few words: We love God
and we love each other. "'-The Advance, Chicago.
" The power of a living practical religion, as the main thing in life,
is brought out in contrast with the standards of fashionable morality.
Some things in the book we might criticise, but these may be safely
left to the reader's judgment. It has most of the features which made
SteppingQ Heavenward so deservedly popular, and, like it, deserves
thoughtful reading."- C(hristian Witness.
"Aunt Jane's Hero is a very human being, and like all of Mrs.
Prentiss' characters, has just that taint of'total depravity' which
proves him a child of Adam and not a creature of fancy. Her characters are not so good, but the lessons taught by their lives may be
learned and practiced by others."-Tlhe Interior.
" To mention another volume from the pen and heart of Mrs. Prentiss is to send a pleasure and the promise of good to every reader.
Already has she secured such a place in the affections of those whose
sympathies are with us, that we have but to tell them that this:new
book is rich in all that wealth of thought, and sentiment and feeling
which have made her other works so useful and popular and our
readers will wish to see Aunt Jane's Zero at oncc."-N. Y. Observer.
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH   & CO,. 770 Broadway, N.Y.
Sold by all Booksellers, and sent by mail prepaid on receipt of
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"A domestic Story, which may be taken into the family with the feeling
that it is entirely free from  the objectionable features which too often charae
terizcs the modern novel."
JANET'S LOVE. AND SERVICE. By MARGARET
N1. ROBERTSON,  author  of  "Christie;  or, the   Way
Home."   I2mo.   586 pages.   Bound in cloth, $1 75'
IT is rarely that we read a story which gives us so much satisfaction and sr
little cause of complaint as Janet's Love and Service, by MARGARET M. ROBERTso80N A. D. F. Randolph). We should characterize it as a book of emphatically quiet
power. There are no strivings after sensational effects; there are no sudden
scene-shiftings; no marvellous transformations; no astute villains; no innocent
angels caught in their toils; no intricate mysteries through which reader and
leloine flounder alike, to be alike extricated only at the fall of the curtain; no elabate misunderstandings and tortured hearts; in a word, there is no plot and but
little incident. The characters are drawn by a vigorous hand; but they are just
sulch characters as you meet with in daily life. You may see Mr. Snow in any
New England parish. Graeme is just such a young girl as might be wrought out
of ordinary material, by the experienec, of premature responsibility which constituted her schooling. Janet is indeed a rare servant; but she does not remain
servant long, and whoever is familiar with Scotch character could find her proto.
type among his own circle of acquaintances. In a word, the portraits are all
photographs. If we were told that the authoress were Graeme, and that she had
given us only her actual journal, we should not be surprised. The story is as natural
as the actors. It is the story of just such a life as has occurred again and again
in the past, and will again and again the future. In form and style and method
of treatment the volume is as simple as it is select in the rather scant materials
of which it is composed. It is not without humor; but there are no clowns introduced for the purpose of cracking poor jokes; no cheap burlesques of Yankee
farmers and New England deacons. It is rather genial than witty or even humorus. It is characterized by unusual pathetic power. We pity the reader who
peruses its pages with undimmed eyes. But there is no weeping heroine, or
sickly sentimentalism. It is a religious novel-its story that of a minister's life.
But there are no dogmas to be advocated; no moralizing to be skipped; no
mawkish and tawdry piety to belie the cause of true, healthful religion. So far as
there is a moral, it is indicated inll the title. So far as there is a heroine, it is Janet
the Scotch servant, who. leaves mother and son to care for the poor motherless
bairns of her master, and whose service is always that of love-never that of mere
self-seeking —never based on wages. The author will, indeed, not be apt to become
a popular novel-writer. But we trust -she may find a sufficiently large circle of
appreciative readers to encourage her to future work. In literature, as on the stage,
the mnore unnatural the drama the more popular. It -would be a satisfaction to
know that there is a public who p'refer the romance of real life to that of the cheap
fire and the sheet-iron thunder of a third-rate melodrama. —larpers' Magyazine.,
"A  simple tale of the struggles and life incidents of a Scotch minister and
his family, who emigrate to a new settlement in America; and the writer vividly
depicts the habits an d manners of the village, and the struggles of the family, with
a directness and picturesque effect that are deeply interesting.''-Express.
" It will be read with interest by those who do not like the sensational trash of
many popular fictions."-Rochester Union.
"Janet's life presents an example worthy of note and imitation. It is marked
with many little incidents which try the faith and patience of one in her sphere of
active service, and contains salutary lessons of instruction for a numerous class
of readers engaged in the ordinary avocations of life." —Christian Observer.
"This is a story of fanily life, tendingy to show that, as a rule, women need not go
beyond the home circle to find an appropriate sphere of labor and intfiueuce, and that
the daily routine of doosestic care and duty, accepted as God-given work, and pm-rsued
in a rigqht spirit, permits thefull and symmetrical development of womean's nature, and
tend.' to establish her going..s' in paths, which must ever be to tlhe greater number, the
best and safest."
Th,  faithful Janet devotes her life to the welfare ana protection of the seven
orphans children. She is the life and genius of the whole work, and the moral of
the tale is to show that the most humble in life may be useful and truly invaluable to their fellow-creatures."-Episcopalian.
Prublished Iy A. 1.' F..RXTND0)!PtI  & CO.  770 Broadway, N. I..,i'rcl tul il, prl-paid, on. receipt qf price.




"A per:/ ct.Ihavvest-nest of Good Tdng8s."
Recently Published in a handsome octavo vol.;- cloth extra, $2.60
gilt edges, $3.50; Half calf, $5.00;  Iorx. extra, $6.50.
jPllnn   wlit  tie $acred   1oet.
A Series of Quiet Talks about the Singers
and their Songs.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"FESTIVAL OF SONG'," "SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY," ETC
"Mr. SAUNDERS, whose "' Salad for the Solitary " has delighted thousands of homes
and readers, has just prepared another volume of far greater value, higher purpose and
of captivating beauty. He calls it "Evenings with the Sacred Poets," and his exqtisite
taste, extensive reading and rare familiarity with bibliography, shine in these elegant
pages. He roams through all the realms of Poesy, from the earliest times to our own:
wanders among all nations, and through all climes. culling the sweetest flowers, and
giving us all the most brilliant gems of song. It is a book to be kept near at hand, for
refreshment and strength, for comfort and j6oy; and, when once read, is all the more
attractive to be read again."-Yew  Yirk Obiserver.'The requisites for the proper execution of such a work as this, are, good taste and
lar-e research, and these are abundantly manifested in this volume."-Evesniny Post.
*' This volume is not only a library of religious poetry, but it is the best critical and
historical essay upon the subject with which we are acquainted. The au'thor has already
won a reputation as one of the most scholarly and genial of critics. and as the most
delightful purveyor of really fresh and entertaining litefary gossip."-N. Y Round Table' This volume does somethinrg more than string together a number of pieces ofpoetry,
more or less known: the author has evidently brought considerable research and study
to the task of presenting a complete picture of the sacred poetry and hymnology of the
( lristian ages. Altogether we know of no selection of sacred poetry so suitable for Sunday reading as this. Not the least of its merits is, that it is not likely to bechme tiresome,
for the comments of the author give it freshness and variety."-Nl. Y. Times.
" This book will be hailed with great satisfaction by all lovers of sacred song.
C~Tlrisian intelligencer.:" The book in all its parts is well adapted to gratify taste and Christian feeling.
N  Y. E. xaminer and Chronicle.
" Its style adapts it to popular use, and should ensure a wide circulation; especially
when we remember the interest that every one takes in knowing something of the author
of a favorite song. In this respect, we have all that could have been anticipated in a
work of this, character; the bits of biography and anecdote being charmingly given,
and deftly incorporated in the glitteiing mosaic. The idea of the author is an excellent
one; while the result fills a place in literature that has hitherto been unoccupied."Charlestowon (Mass.) Adv.
"The author has a quick eye for whatever is beautiful; his " quiet talks" are
almost always interesting, and convey a pretty fair idea of the history of religious
poetry, and the characteristics of different schools. We dismiss the work with cordial
praise for its excellent spirit and general good workmanship."-N. Y. TriStune.
" This book is one for dreamy reading- a book to take up on a quiet Sunday afternoon, when the children are away at Sabbath school, and the house is still with that
peculiar sacred stillness, which seems to imbue the very atmosphere of Sabbath —a
hook to read in snatches, here a little, and there a little, with much musing between."Independent.
$"Beginning with the poetry of the Bible, Mr Saunders brings us down to the
present day, culling from the sacred poets some of their choicest verses, and giving us
jnst enough to provoke a most tantalizing appetite for more.' —arper' s MAonthly.' fr. Saunders has so ably and satisfactorily performed his task that we lmust not
withhold our meed of praise. He has indeed done that for which the thanks of Chris.
tiani readers are due. Looked upon in the light of a contribution to Christian literature,
thish b. ok deserves to live, since it illustrates what has always been the most powerful
and intimate phase of religion —the expression by song.  Those who love pleasant
things in books, should get and read this charming cluster of flowers of sacred poesy."
-N. Y..svening. Mail.
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