CHAPTER 22 OCTOBER Well, I had my own way, and I'm 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 I thought I would not look for a nurse, but take the whole care of them myself. This would not be much of a task to a strong person, but I am not strong, and a great deal of the time just dressing them and taking them out to walk has exhausted me. Then all the mending and other sewing must be done, and with the overexertion creeps in the fretful town 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 only 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 late 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 further. I consider love the best educator for a little child. Indeed, I think I shall suit you perfectly, she replied. Nothing daunted. I have been in the business twenty years, and have always suited wherever 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 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 with a patronizing way at parting, and expressing the hope that I should, one day, be a green tree in the paradise of God. Nor was it any too great consolation to find that she had suggested to my cook that my intellect was not quite sound. Temptation II confessed that she knew nothing, but was willing to be taught. Yay, she might be willing, but she could not be taught. She could not see why Raymond should not have everything he chose to cry for, nor why she should not take the children to the kitchens where her friends abode, instead of keeping them out in the air. She could not understand why she must not tell Una every half hour that she was as fair as a Lily, and that the little angels in heaven cried for such hair as hers. And there was no rhyme or reason to her mind, why she could not have her friends visit in her nursery, since, as she declared, the cook would hear all of 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 III appeared for a time the perfection of a nurse. She kept herself and the nursery and the children in most refreshing order. She amused Una when she was more than usually unwel with a perfect fund of innocent stories. The work flew from her nibble fingers as if by magic. I boasted everywhere my good luck, and sang her praises in earnest ears till he believed in her with all his heart. But one evening we were out late. We had been spending the evening at auntie's, and came in with earnest night-key as quietly as possible in order not to arouse the children. I stole softly to the nursery to see if all was going on well 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 a 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 wrapped 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 I felt that the fourth temptation would scatter what little grace I possessed to the four winds. These changes upstairs made discord too below. My cook was displeased at so much coming and going, and made the kitchen a sort of purgatory which I dreaded to enter. At last, when her temper fairly ran away with her, 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 I overlook your rudeness on the ground that you do not know better than to use such expressions. Oh! this capped the climax. She declared that she had never been told before that she was no lady, and did not know how to behave, and gave warning at once. I wish I could help running to tell Ernest all these annoyances. It does no good, and only worries him.  And how easy it is, when on one's knees, to bear them a right. And how far easier, to bear them wrong, when one finds the coal going too fast, the butter out just as one is sitting down to breakfast, the potatoes watery and the bread sour or heavy. And then, when one is well nigh desperate, does one's husband fail to say in bland tones, my dear, if you would just speak to Bridget, I am sure she would improve. Oh! that there were indeed magic in a spoken word! And do what I can. The money Ernest gives me will not hold out. He knows absolutely nothing about 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 everybody hates. I groan, being burdened, and am almost weary of my life. In 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 dishonor to him to doubt it. I cannot doubt that I have held as real communion with him as with any earthly friend. And oh! it has been far sweeter. 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 stimulated me to take up the burden of life cheerfully and patiently, just as it comes. She assures me that these fluctuations of feelings 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 perfection, no matter how much imperfection I see in myself and others. And now I am waiting for my Father's next gift, and the new cares and labours it will bring with it. I am glad it is not left for me to decide my own lot. I am afraid I should never see precisely the right moment for welcoming a new burden to my nest, dearly as I love the wrestle of their wings and the sound of their voices when they do come. And surely he knows the right moments, who knows all my struggles with a certain sort of poverty, poor health, and domestic care. If I could feel that all the time as I do at this moment, how happy I should always be. 1847 This is the tenth anniversary 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 earnest 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 I guard as I would guard hid treasures, and which must abide if all things else pass away. My baby is two months old, and her name is Ethel. The three children together form a beautiful picture, which I am never tired of admiring, but they will not give me much time for writing. This little newcomer 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 everything he does. Sometimes I can do this, and find it a source of great happiness. Then worldly cares seem mere worldly cares, and I forget that his wise, kind hand is in every one of them. February Helen has been spending the whole day with me, as she often does, helping me with her skillful needle, and with the children, in a very sweet way. I am almost ashamed to indulge in writing down how dearly she seems to love me, and how disposed she is to sit at my feet as a learner, 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 such turbulent, fiery natures as mine, by revealing himself 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. Today, as we sat together in the nursery, little Raymond snatched a toy from Una, 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 anything from me? He smiled and shook his head. Well, then, until you see him do it to me, never do it to your sister.  The children ran off to their play, and Helen said, Now how different that is from my mother's management with us! She always made us girls yield to the boys. They would not have thought they could go up to bed unless one of us got a candle for them. That, I suppose, is the reason, then, that Ernest expected me to wait upon him after we were married, I replied. I was a little stiff about yielding to him. For besides mother's precepts, I was influenced by my father's example. He was so courteous, treating her with as much respect as if she were a queen, and yet with as much love as if she were always a girl. I naturally expected the like from my husband. He must have been disappointed then, she said. Yes, I was. It cost me a good many pouts and tears, of which I am now ashamed, and Ernest seldom annoys me now with the little neglects that I used to make so much of. Sometimes I think there are no little neglects, said Helen. It takes less than nothing to annoy us. And it takes more than everything to please us, I cried. But Ernest and I had one stronghold, to which we always fled in our troublest times. And that was our love for each other. No matter how he provoked me by his little heedless ways, I had to forgive him because I loved him so, and he had to forgive me my faults for the same reason. I had no idea husbands and wives loved each other so, said Helen. I thought they got over it as soon as their cares and troubles came on, and just jogged on together somehow. We both laughed, and she went on. If I thought I should be as happy as you are, I should be tempted to be married myself. Ah, I thought your time would come, I cried. Don't ask me any questions, she said, her pretty face growing prettier with a bright warm glow. Give me advice instead. For instance, tell me how I can be sure that if I love a man I should go on loving him through all the wear and tear of married life, and how can I be sure he can and will go on loving me? Well then, sitting 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.  We are not capable of enduring the shock of finding at every turn that our idol is made of clay, and that it is prone to tumble off its pedestal and lie in the dust till we pick it up and set it in its place again. I was struck with earnest asking, in the very first prayer he offered in my presence after our marriage, that God would help us love each other. I felt that love was the very foundation on which I was built, and that there was no danger 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 and the devil. I believe we owe it to this constant prayer that we have loved each other so uniformly, and with such growing comfort in each other, so that our little discords have always ended in fresh accord, and our love has felt conscious of resting on a rock, and that rock was the will of God. It is plain, then, said Helen, that you and earnest are sure of one source of happiness as long as you live, whatever vicissitudes you may meet with. I thank you so much for what you have said. The fact is, you have been brought up to carry religion into everything, but I was not. My mother was as good as she was lovely, but I think she felt and taught us to feel that we were to put it on as we did our Sunday clothes, and to wear it as we did them, carefully and reverently, but with pretty long, grave faces.  But you forget that it is to earnest I owe my best ideas about married life. I don't remember ever talking with my mother or anyone 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 oneself, not a cloak put on to go to church in, and hang up out of one's way against next Sunday? Helen laughed.  I long to know who it is that has been so fortunate as to touch her heart. March. I know now, and glad I am. The sly little puss is purring at this moment in James's 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 of his had looked on her with a favourable 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 of duty, she says, and to a nature like hers duty may perhaps suffice, and no cry of the heart have to be stifled in its performance. We are all so happy in the happiness of James and 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 downstairs, 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 gold. Yes, I suppose I am as happy in my dear precious husband and children as a wife and mother can be in a world which must not be 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 in early April. How much a missionary and his wife must be to each other when severing themselves from all they ever loved before. They go forth hand in hand, not merely to be foreigners in heathen lands, but to be henceforth strangers in their own should they ever return to it. Helen says playfully that she has not a missionary spirit, and is not at all sure that she should go with 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. It does one's heart good to have one's husband set up an opposition to the goings-on by behaving like a lover himself. CHAPTER XXIII OF STEPPING HEAVEN WORD This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Teresa Downey. Stepping Heaven Word by Elizabeth Prentice. CHAPTER XXIII January 1st, 1851. It is a great while since I wrote that. God has been just as good as ever. I want to say that before I say another word, but he has indeed smitten me very sorely. While we are 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, enraged 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 rot an event whose consequences must run through endless years? Poor mother! Poor Helen! When it was all over, I do not know what to say of mother, but that she behaved and quieted herself like a weaned child. Her sweet composure awed me. I dared not give way to my own vehement, terrible sorrow in the presence of this Christ-like patience. All noisy 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, something absolutely divine in her aspect, in the tones of her voice and 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 never was 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 flowed in Mother's words and tones passed all knowledge. The children's little joys and sorrows 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, particularly 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 appreciate her sanctified character, and I thought she would gradually fade away and be set free, as light winds wandering through the groves of bloom detach the delicate blossoms from the tree. But God's thoughts are not our thoughts, nor his ways are ways. Her feeble body began to suffer from the ruses to salts of pain. Day and night, night and day, she lived through a martyrdom in which what might have been a lifetime of suffering was concentrated into a few months. To witness those sufferings was like the sundering of joints and marrow, and once, only once, thank God, my faith in him staggered and reeled to and fro. How can he look down on such agonies I cried in my secret soul? Is this the work of a God of love, of mercy? Mother seemed to divine my thoughts, for she took my hand tenderly in hers and said, with great difficulty. Though he slay me, yet I trust in him. He is just as good as ever. And she smiled. I ran away to earnest 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. Embry, 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 uttered, and 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 given 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, forever and ever. Who by searching can find out God? My dear father entered heaven after a prosperous life path wherein he was unconscious of a pang, and beloved James went bright and fresh and untarnished by conflict straight to the master's feast. But what a long lifetime 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. In 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 Katie, he said. James would have chosen to have her with the one human being like himself. Does he then think me, with all my faults, the languor of frail health, and the cares and burdens of life weighing upon me, enough like that sparkling 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.  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 years, I would not have her back for all the world. She has got away from all the turmoil in the 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 demonstrative, more attentive to those little things that make the happiness of married life. And I am less childish, less vehement. I wish I could say less selfish. But here I seem to have come to a stand still. But I do understand Ernest's trials in his profession far better than I did, and can feel and show some sympathy in them. Of course the life of a physician 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 put himself in the place of providence and save life. And a truly grateful, generous patient is almost an unknown rarity. I do not speak of these things to complain of them.  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, loneliness of spirits, the struggle in overcoming my corruption, and a score of kindred trials? Bishop Wilson charges us to bear all these things as unto God and with the greatest privacy. How seldom I have met them save as lines in my way that I would avoid if I could, and how I have tormented my friends by tedious complaints about them. Yet when compared with the great tragedies of suffering I have both witness and suffered, how petty they seem. Our household, bereft of mothers and James' bright presence, now numbers just as many members 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 days 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 Mama 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's 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 overwhelmed, partly to what seems in almost constitutional inability to find rest in God's will. She ascends 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 spirits, on one day, and their depression and languor on the next, have no visible effects upon her. Her influence is always quieting. She tones down their vehemence with her own calm decision and practical 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 those 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 everything 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, 1852. This is the sixth anniversary of James's 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 not get to sleep till long past midnight. Then Una woke, crying with the earache, and I was up till nearly daybreak 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 came down to breakfast, dressed as usual in deep mourning, and looking as spiritless as I felt. The prattle of the children relieved the somber silence maintained by the rest of us, each of whom acted depressingly on the others. How things do flash into one's mind. These words suddenly came to mind as we sat so gloomily at the table God had spread before us, and which he had enlivened by the four young faces round it. Why should the children of a king go mourning all their days? Why, indeed, children of a king? I felt grieved that I was so intent on my own sorrows as to lose sight of my relationship to him, and then I asked myself what I could do to make the day less wearisome and sorrowful to Helen. She came after a time with her work to my room. The children took their goodbye 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. Helen, dear, I ventured at last to begin. I want you to do me a favour today. 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 today, 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 yearning. 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, Katie, she said, you don't know. You can't know how I feel. Until James began to love me so, I did not know there was such a love as that in the world. You know our family is different from yours, and it is so delightful to be loved. Or rather, it was. 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 so happy together. Suffering together would have brought you even nearer, I replied. Dear Helen, I am very sorry for you. I hope you feel that, even when, according to my want, I fall into arguments, as if one could argue a sorrow away. You are so happy, she answered.  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 and 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 were the happiest she had ever known. Mrs. Wentworth, whose husband was snatched from her almost without warning, and while using expressions 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 Saviour 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. Quote, He visited one of his disciples, who was ill in bed, after having buried seven of her family in six months, and 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 I have cried unto thee, and it is they alone who have been down to 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? Katie, 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 forgetting to recognize God's hand in the little everyday trials of life, and instead of receiving them as from him, find fault with the instruments by which he sends them. I can give up my child, my only brother, my darling mother, without a word, but to receive every tiresome visitor as sent expressly and directly to weary me by the master himself, to meet every negligence on the part of the servants as his choice for me at the moment, to be satisfied and patient when Ernest gets particularly absorbed in his books because my father sees that little discipline suitable 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 poor weary soul. But are you satisfied, dear Helen?  Surely you crave happiness as every human soul does. Yes, 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 the boys did, and threw themselves upon me like men assaulting a fort. I have formed the habit of giving myself entirely to them at the proper moment, and now entered into their 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 playroom, and Una settled down by my side to amuse Daisy, when Helen began again. I should like to read that letter myself, she said. Meanwhile, I want to ask you one question. What are you made of, that you can turn from one thing to another like lightning, talking one moment, as if life depended on your every word, and then frisking about with those wild boys as if you were a child yourself? I saw Una look up curiously to hear my answer as I replied. I have always aimed at this flexibility. I think a mother especially ought to learn to enter into the gayer moods of her children at the very moment when her own heart is sad, and it may be as religious an act for her to romp with them at the time as to pray with them at another. Helen 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 symbol since my life and my professions did not correspond. Hitherto my consciousness of imperfection has made me hesitate to say much to Helen. Why are we so afraid of those who live under the same roof with us? It must be the conviction that those who daily see us acting in a petty, selfish, trifling way must find it hard to conceive that our prayers and our desires take a wider and higher aim. Dear little Helen, may the ice once broken remain broken forever. Helen returned Dr. Cabot's letter in silence this morning, but directly after breakfast set forth to visit Mrs. Campbell with a 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 tomorrow 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 and 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. I went down into the kitchen, put on my large baking apron, and began my labours. Of course, the doorbell rang, and a poor woman was announced. It is very sweet to follow Fennelland's Council 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 husband to support her if he will. I told her that I could do no more for her. She answered me rudely and kept 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. Embry sent for a pattern that 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, doorbell again. Auntie wanted the children to come to an early dinner. Going to aunties is next to going to paradise to them. Everything was now hurry and flurry. I tried to be patient, and not to fret their temper by undue attention to nails, ears, and other susceptible parts of the human frame. But after it was all over, and I had kissed all the sweet dear faces good-bye, 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 salky 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 times wasted over just this one thing. However, I reflected, that arbitrarily refusing to indulge him in this respect is not exactly my mission as his wife.  So I humbled my pride, and asked Bridget to go for the milk, which she did in a lofty way of her own. While she was gone the marketing came home, and I had everything to dispose of. Ernest had sent home some apples, which plainly said I want some apple pie, Katie. I looked nervously at the clock and undertook to gratify him. Mary came down, crying, to say that her mother, who lived in Brooklyn, was very sick. Could she go see her? I looked at the clock once more, told her she should go, of course, as soon as lunch was over. This involved my doing all her absence left undone. At last I got through with the kitchen, the Sunday dinner being well under way, and ran upstairs 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 my 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 her friends off, was half-famished, and would I do her the favour, et cetera, et cetera. 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 apologised 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 on purpose to hear you talk, and they are prepared to fall in love with you on the spot.  Mary had to get ready for these unexpected guests, whose appetites proved equal to her 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 Riley was a great triumph of mine 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 excuse him, as I knew he would be thankful to have me do, but no, see him she must. He was her, quote, pet doctor, unquote. He had such a sweet bedside manner, and I am such a favourite with him, you know. Ernest did not receive his favourite, with any special warmth, but invited her out to lunch and gallanted her to the table we had just left. Just like a man. Poor Mary! She had to fly round and get up what she could. Mrs. Winthrop devoted herself to Ernest with a persistent ignoring of me that I thought rude and unwomanly. She asked if he had read a certain book, he had not. She then said, quote, 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, unquote. 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 her skirts from me, looked at me through her eyeglass, and said, Yes? At last she departed. Helen came home and Mary went. I gave Helen an account of my mourning. 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 various 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 enjoyment. It was nice of her to say that. It quite rested me. At the dinner table Ernest complimented me on my good housekeeping. I was very 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 today. That does me good. March thirtieth. A stormy day, and the children home from school, and no little frolicking and laughter 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 cost me. What a contrast there is between their vitality and the languor under which I suffer. When their noise became intolerable, I proposed to read to them, and of course they made ten times as much clamor of pleasure, and of course they leaned on me and ground their elbows into 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 has 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 1st. 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 been long in heaven, and he was ready to go at a moment's warning. Never was a soul so constantly and joyously on the wing as his. Poor Mrs. Cabot. She has left very desolate, for all their children are married and settled at a distance. But she bears a sorrow like one who has long felt herself a pilgrim and a stranger on earth. How strange that we ever forget that we are all such. April 16th. The desolate pilgrimage was not long. Dear Mrs. Cabot was this day laid away by the side of her beloved husband, and it is delightful to think of them as not divided by death, but united by it, in a complete and eternal union. I never saw a husband and wife more tenderly attached to each other, and this is a beautiful close to their long and happy married life. I find it hard not to wish and pray that I may, as speedily follow my precious husband, should God call him away first. But it is not for me to choose. How I shall miss these faithful friends, who from my youth up have been my stay and my staff in the 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 watched for years over as delicate a flower and saw it fade and die. Only those who have suffered thus can appreciate the heart soreness through which, no matter how outwardly cheerful I may be, I am always passing. But what, then, have I not ten thousand times made this my prayer, that in the words of Layton 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 also put into my mouth. Something seemed to say. This captive sings in his cage because it is never known liberty and cannot regret a lost freedom. So the soul of my child, limited by the restrictions of a feeble body, never have 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 plant before frosts come, should I dare to complain? CHAPTER XXV Ms. Clifford came to lunch with us on Wednesday. Her remarkable restoration to health has attracted a great deal of attention, and has given earnest a certain reputation 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 Ms. 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 marvellous ease and celerity, as perhaps all sound ones ought to do. I took her up to my room where my workbasket was, and Helen followed with hers. I have brought something to read to you, dear Mrs. Elliott— Ms. Clifford began, the moment we had seated ourselves— which I have just lighted on, and I am sure you will like—a nobleman writes to Fennelin asking certain questions, and a part of these questions, with the replies I want to enjoy with you, as they cover a good deal of the ground we have often discussed together. 1. How shall I offer my purely indifferent actions to God? Walks, visits made and received, dress, little proprieties, such as washing the hands, etc., the reading of books of history, business with which I am charged for my friends, other amusements, such as shopping, having clothes made, and equipages. I want to have some sort of prayer or method of 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 oneself in them to the will of God. They are often better and purer than certain actions which appear more virtuous. First, because they are less of our own choice and more in the order of providence when one is obliged to perform them. Second, because they are simpler and less exposed to vain complacence. Third, because if one yields to them with moderation, one finds in them more of death to one's inclinations than in certain acts of fervor in which self-love mingles. Finally, because these little occasions occur more frequently and furnish a secret occasion for continually making every moment profitable, it is not necessary to make great efforts nor 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 position, 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. The elevation of the heart at the moment suffices. As for visits, commissions, and the like, as there is danger of following one's own taste too much, I would add to this elevating of the heart a prayer to moderate myself and use precaution. Two. 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. Reply. Fidelity 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 patience and humility. You deserve nothing better. Is it surprising that recollection is difficult to a man so long dissipated and far from God? Three. 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 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 which God has brought you, you will not voluntarily commit any considerable fault without remembering and reproaching yourself for it. As to little faults, scarcely perceived, even if you sometimes forget them, this need not make you uneasy. As to a 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 abandon itself to all the crosses to 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, will not to return thanks for it. When one perceives it to be wanting, one should humble oneself peacefully before God without trying to excite it by vain efforts. You find in yourself examination fewer faults than persons more advanced and more perfect do. It is because your interior light is still feeble. It will increase, and the view of your infidelities will increase in proportion. It suffices without making yourself uneasy to try to be faithful to the degree of light you possess and to instruct yourself by reading and meditation. It will not do to try to forestall the grace that belongs to a more advanced period. It would only serve to trouble and discourage you and even to exhaust you by continual anxiety. The time that should be spent in loving God would be given to forced returns upon yourself, which secretly nourish self-love. 4. In my prayers my mind has difficulty in finding anything to say to God. My heart is not in it, or it is inaccessible to the thoughts of my mind. Reply. It is not necessary to say much to God. Oftentimes one does not speak much to a friend whom one is delighted to see. One looks at him with pleasure. 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 purists in the sight of God. In fine it is necessary to content oneself with giving to him what he gives it to give. A fervent heart when it is fervent, a heart firm and faithful in its aridity when he deprives it of sensible fervor. It does not always depend on you to feel, but it is necessary to wish to feel.  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 receiving sensible gifts, prepare 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. Oh, 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 ordinary acts of the day. One, form the resolution to do so every morning, and call yourself to account in your self-examination at night. Two, make no resolutions but for good reasons, either from propriety or the necessity of relaxing the mind, etc. Thus, in accustoming oneself to retrench the useless, little by little, one accustoms oneself to offer what is not proper to curtail. Three, renew oneself in this disposition whenever one is alone, in order to be better prepared to recollect it when in company. Four, whenever one surprises oneself 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. Five, 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 him by one who may be preserved from it. We both thanked her as she finished reading, and I begged her to lend me the volume that I might make the above copy. I hope I have gained some valuable hints from this letter, and that I shall see more plainly than ever that it is a religion of principle that God 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 her to think of God as doing this work for her, making repentance, for instance, a free gift, not a conquest to be one for oneself. Miss Clifford said that the whole idea of giving oneself to God in such little daily acts as visiting, shopping, and the like was entirely new to her. But fancy, she went on, her beautiful face lighted up with enthusiasm. What a blessed life that must be when the base things of this world and things that are despised are so many links to the invisible world and to the things God has chosen. In other words, I said, the top of the ladder that rests on earth reaches to heaven, and we may ascend it as the angels did in Jacob's dream. And descend too, as they did, Helen put in despondently. Now you shall not speak in that tone, cried Miss Clifford. Let us look at the bright side of life and believe that God means us to be always ascending, always getting nearer to himself, 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 maladies of the soul. It gives one such a conception of the seeming ills of life to think of him as our physician, the ills, all remedies, the deprivations only a wholesome regimen, the losses all gains. Why, as I study this individual case and that, see how patiently and persistently he tries now this remedy, now that, and how infallibly he cures the souls that submit to his remedies. I love him so. I love him so, and I am so astonished that we are restive under his unerring hand. To think how he dealt with me.  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, helpless, and alone, and sent me to thinking, thinking, thinking, till I saw the emptiness and the shallowness of all in which I had hitherto been involved.  Can I love him with half my heart? Can I be asking questions as to how much I am to pay towards the debt I owe him? By this time Helen's work had fallen from her 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. Miss Clifford seemed quenched and humbled by these words. Her enthusiasm faded away and she looked at Helen with a deprecatory air as she replied, Don't say that. I never felt so unfit for anything but to sit at the feet of Christ's disciples and learn of them. Yet I, so many years one of these 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 is 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 joys and given me to drink of the cup of sorrow and bereavement. May 24. I read to Ernest the extract from Fennelin which has made such an impression on me. Every businessman, in short, every man leading an act of life, ought to read that, he said, we should have a new order of things as the result, instead of fancying that our ordinary daily work was one thing and our religion quite another thing. We should transmute our drudgery into acts of worship, instead of going to prayer meetings to get into a good frame, we should live in a good frame from morning till night, from night till morning, and prayer and praise would only be 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 utterly impossible to leave them for private devotions, when they had 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, for 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 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 we do not learn as fast as we are willing to learn. God does not force instruction upon us. But when we say, as Luther did, more light, Lord, more light, the light comes. I questioned myself 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 holier life than I have yet lived? June 2. I went to see Mrs. Campbell a few days ago, and found, to my great joy, that Helen had just been there, and that they had an earnest conversation together. Mrs. Campbell failed a good deal of late, and it is not probable we should 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 Savior, 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 like 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 heaven, I am a human being still, with human weaknesses. What can it really matter where this weary old body is laid away, when I have done with it, 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 at 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 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 hard ships, and at the open grave. Yes, the radiant face, worn by sickness and suffering, but radiant still, said in language yet more unspeakably impressive. To learn Christ. This is life. I came into the busy and noisy streets as one descending from the mount, and on reaching home found my darling Una very ill in earnest arms. She had fallen and injured her 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 stayed with me. What a night it was. God only knows what the human heart can experience in a space of time that men call ours. I went all over the past history of the child, recalling all her sweet looks and words, and my own secret repining at the delicate health that cut her off from so many of the pleasures that belong to her age. And the more I thought, the more I clung to her on whom frail as she is, I was beginning to lean. And whose influence in our home I could not think of losing without a shutter. Alas, my faith seemed for a time to flee. And I see just what a poor, weak human being is without it. But before daylight crept into my room, light from on high streamed into my heart. And I gave even this, my you-lam away, as my free will offering to God. Could I refuse him my child, because she was the very apple of my eye? Nay, then. But let me give to him not what I value least, but what I prize and delight in most. Could I not endure heart sickness for him who had given 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 her eyes and looked at us intelligently and with her own loving smile. But I dare not snatch her impressive to my heart. For her sake, I must be outwardly calm, at least. June 6. I'm at home with my precious Una. All the rest have gone to church. She lies peacefully on the bed, sadly disfigured for the time. But Ernest says he apprehends no danger now.  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 tenfold more now than it did when she was a feeble baby, so we receive her as a fresh gift from our loving father's hand with tenfold delight. Ah, we have no 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 a death not under the world. CHAPTER XXVI. OF STEPPING HEAVENWARD. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Theresa Downey. STEPPING HEAVENWARD by Elizabeth Prentice. CHAPTER XXVI. MAY THIRTEENTH. This 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 truly thank God that one more tired traveler 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 seems 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 answers 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 asked her what she conceived to be the characteristics 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 the 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 dullness, when he should chafe and rebel in the hour of trial, and judge his fellow man with a harsh and bitter judgment, and give way to angry, passionate emotions. But these fluctuations cease after a time to disturb his peace. Love to Christ becomes the abiding, inmost principle of his life. He loves him rather for what he is than for what he has done or willed 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 on his Savior. His old self- confidence has now given place to childlike 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 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 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 that she might end her pilgrimage and go her rest, parted that I might pursue mine. I know not how long, nor amid how many cares and sorrows, nor with what weariness and heart sickness. Parted to 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?  I would, I certainly would, I said. She returned. I sometimes find it a help when doll 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 brings him near, and I say what I would say if he 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 sorrows in 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, could you dare to say, Ye Lord, I know far better than Thou dust, what's good for him and good for me. I will have him returned 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 say this? Oh, Katie, what straight she drove me into. No, I could not dare say that.  I have to let him, she replied, but I submit because I must. I looked at her gentle pure face as she uttered these words, and could only marvel at the will that had no expression there. Tell me, she said, do you think a real Christian can feel as I do? For my part I doubt it. I doubt everything. Doubt everything, but believe in Christ, I said. Suppose, for argument's sake, you are not a Christian. You can become one now. The color rose in her lovely face. She clasped her hands in a sort of ecstasy. 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.  Hurrah! if she doesn't look like other folks! She bore it all with her usual gentleness, or rather with a positive sweetness that captivated them as her negative patience had never done. I said nothing to her, nor did she to me till late in the day when she came to me and said, Lady, God taught you what to say. All these years I have been tormenting myself with doubts as to whether I could be his child, while so unable to say that I will be done. If you had said, Why, yes, you must be his child, for you professed yourself 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 today. If I did not love him then, I can begin now. I do not doubt that she was his child yesterday and last year and years ago. But let her think what she pleases. A new life is opening before her. I believe it is to be a life of entire devotion to God, and that out of her sorrow there shall spring up a wondrous joy. September 2. Sweet Briar Farm Ernest spent Sunday with us, and I have just driven him to the station and seen him off. Things have prospered with us to such a degree that he has been extravagant enough to give me the use for the summer of a bonny 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 upset my cargo of children in a pond where I was silly enough to undertake to water my horse. But Ernest, as usual, had patience with me and begged me 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 summer with Martha. For Martha, poor thing, is suffering terribly for rheumatism, and is almost entirely helpless. I am so sorry for her. After so many years of vigorous health, how hard it must be to endure this pain.  With no baby to 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 full city 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 unto him it is at last settled down into a calm sea of untroubled peace. While I was secretly berating my dear husband, forgiving so much attention to his profession as to neglect me and my children, he was becoming every day more the ideal of a physician. Cool, calm, thoughtful, studious, ready to sacrifice his life at any moment in the interests of humanity. How often I have mistaken his preoccupied air for indifference. How many times I have inwardly accused him of coldness when his whole heart and soul were filled with the grave problem of life, I, and of death likewise. But we understand each other now, and I am sure that God dealt wisely and kindly with us when he brought together two such opposite natures. No man of my vehement nature could have borne with me as Ernest has done. And if he had married a woman as calm, as undemonstrative as himself, what a strange home his would have been for the nurture of little children. But the heart was in him, and only wanted to be waked up, and my life has called forth music from his. Ah, there are no partings and meetings now that leave discords in the remembrance, no neglected birthdays, no forgotten courtesies. It is beautiful to see the thoughtful brow relax in the 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? Is it not possible that I have grown more reasonable, less childish and aggravating? We are at a farm house. Everything is plain, but neat and nice. I asked Mrs. Browne, our hostess, the other day if she did not envy me my four little pets. She smiled and said they were the best children she ever saw, and that it was well to have a family if you have means to start them in the world. For her part she lived from hand to mouth as it was, and was sure she could never stand the worry and care of a house full of young ones. But the worry and care is only half the story, 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, it's another thing. I was telling him yesterday what a mercy that it was there weren't any young ones round under my feet, and I could take city borders and help work off the mortgage on the farm. And what did your husband say to that? Well, he said we were young and hardy, and that there was no such tear and hurry about the mortgage, and that he'd give his right hand to have a couple of boys like yours. Well? Why, I said, supposing we had a couple of boys. They wouldn't be like yours, dressed to look genteel and to have their genteel ways, but a pair of wild colts, into everything, tearing their clothes off their backs, wasting faster than we could earn. He said it wasn't the clothes, it was the flesh and blood he wanted. And it wasn't no use to argue about it. A man that hadn't got any children, one more and half a man. Well, says I, just supposing you had a pack of them. What have you got to give them? Just exactly what my father and mother gave me, says he. Two hands to earn their bread with, and a welcome you could have heard from Dan de Beersheba. I like to hear that, I said, and I hope many such welcomes will resound in this house. Suppose money does come in while little goes out. Suppose you get possession of the whole farm. What then? Who will enjoy it with you? Who will you leave it to when you die? And in your old age, who will care for you? You seem awful earnest, she said. Yes, I am in earnest. I want to see little children adorning every home, as flowers adorn every meadow and every wayside. I want to see them welcomed to the homes they entered, 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 toward him as I looked at his frank, good humored face, and I should have been glad to give him the right hand of friendship. As it was, I could only say a word or two about the beauty of his farm, in the scenery of this whole region. 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 the country. As to the scenery, I don't know as I've ever looked at it. City folks talk a good deal about it, but they have 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 as fresh as he looked rosy, and I did not wonder at Mr. Brown's catching him up and clasping his sunburned arms around the little fellow, impressing him against the warm heart that yearned for nestlings of its own. September 23rd. 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 long. Her life seems necessary to the completion of every one of ours. Some others have fancied it necessary to the completion of theirs, but she has not agreed with them. We are glad enough to keep her, and yet I hope the day will come when she, so worthy of it, will taste the sweet joys of wifehood and motherhood. January 1st, 1853. It is not always so easy to practice as it is to preach. I can see in my wisdom forty reasons for having four children and no more. The comfort of sleeping in peace, of having a little time to read, and to keep on with my music, strength with which to look after earnest 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 in that the very moment I was asking God to anoint 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 strength which are in 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, earnest in mine, though not perfect, nothing on earth is, has grown less selfish and more Christ-like. It has been sanctified by prayer and by the sorrows we have borne together. Then the children have been well and happy, and the sores 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 long, she's had a peace that has scarcely known a cloud.  I do not know whether I was really his child at the time or not. I had certainly had an experience very different from yours. Prayers had never been much more to me than a duty, and I had never felt the sweetness of that harmony between God and I, the human soul, that I know can take away all the bitterness from the cup of sorrow. I knew, who can help knowing it that reads God's word, that he required submission from his children, 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 Katie, at the very moment when 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 in the gospel of the Christian life. In this evidence of a renewed nature I found wanting in myself. At any moment during the three years following James's death I would have snatched 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, quote, I opened not my mouth because thou didst it, unquote. When you suggested that instead of trying to figure 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 looked at my light affliction and at the weight of glory inside by side and thanked him that through the one he had revealed to me the other. Katie, 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 to console, and whenever we have influence over such, to lead it to honor God by instant obedience to his will, whatever that 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 Helens I have never seen. Let me have it, too. May this prayer, which under the inspiration of the moment I can offer without a misgiving, become the habitual, deep-seated desire of my soul. Quote, bring into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ. Take what I cannot give, my heart, body, thoughts, time, abilities, money, health, strength, nights, days, youth, age, and spend them in thy service, oh my crucified master, redeemer, God. Oh, let these not 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 a thirst for God, for the living God. When shall I come and appear before God? End of chapter 26, recording by Teresa Downey


Your passion for the Lord does not have to ebb and flow. I think all too often we buy into church culture myths, cliches, and we say things like, Well, I'm in my backsliding phase. Saying I'm in my backsliding phase as a Christian is like saying, I'm in my cheating phase as a spouse. There's no such thing as the cheating phase. There's no such thing as a period where you can go and do whatever you want to break that covenant. No, when I'm redeemed by the blood of Jesus, I'm in covenant with him.