6. January 24. A message came yesterday morning from Susan Green to the effect that she had had a dreadful fall and was half-killed. Mother wanted to set off at once to see her, but I would not let her go, as she is one of her worst colds. She then asked me to go in her place.  Oh, mother! I said reproachfully.  Mother made no answer, and I sat down at the piano and played a little, but I played only discords. Do you think it is my duty to run after such horrid old women? I asked mother at last. I think, dear, you must make your own duties, she said kindly. I dare say that at your age I should have made a great deal out of my personal repugnance to such a woman as Susan, and very little out of her sufferings. I believe I am the most fastidious creature in the world.  But now it was just such fastidiousness that made Cha, no, I won't utter his name, that made somebody weary of my possibilities, and has that terrible lesson really done me no good? January 26th No sooner had I written the above than I scrambled into my cloak and bonnet and flew on the wings of holy indignation to Susan Greens. Such wings fly fast, and got me a little out of breath. I found her lying on that nice white bed of hers in a frilled cap and nightgown. It seems she fell from her ladder and climbing to the dismal den where she sleeps and lay all night in great distress with some serious internal injury. I found her groaning and complaining in a fearful way. Are you in such pain? I asked as kindly as I could. It isn't the pain, she said. It isn't the pain. It's the way my nice bed is going to reckon ruin and all the starch is getting out of my frills that I fluted with my own hands and the doctor's bills and the medicines. Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear. Just then the doctor came in. After examining her, he said to a woman who seemed to have charge of her. Are you the nurse? Oh, no. I only stepped in to see what I could do for her. Who was to be with her tonight, then? Nobody knew. I will send a nurse, then, he said. But someone else will be needed also, he added, looking at me. I will stay, I said, but my heart died within me. The doctor took me aside. Her injuries are very serious, he said. If she has any friends, they ought to be sent for. You don't mean that she is going to die, I asked. I fear she is, but not immediately. He took leave and I went back to the bedside. I saw there no longer a snuffy, repulsive old woman, but a human being about to make that mysterious journey to a far country once there is no return. Oh, how I wished mother were there. Susan, I said, have you any relatives? No, I haven't, she answered sharply. And if I had, they needn't come prowling round me. I don't want no relations about my body. Would you like to see Dr. Cabot? What should I want of Dr. Cabot? Don't tease, child. Considering the deference with which she had heretofore treated me, this was quite a new order of things. I sat down and tried to pray for her silently in my heart. Who was to go with her on that long journey, and where was it to end? The woman who had been caring for her now went away, and it was growing dark. I sat still, listening to my own heart, which beat till it half choked me. What were you and the doctor whispering about? She suddenly burst out. He asked me, for one thing, if you had any friends that could be sent for. I've been my own best friend, she returned. Who'd have raked and scraped and hoarded and counted for Susan Green if I hadn't had done it? I've got enough to make me comfortable as long as I live and when I lie on my dying bed. But you can't carry it with you, I said. This highly original remark was all I had courage to utter. I wish I could, she cried. I suppose you think I talk awful. They say you are getting most to be as much of a saint as your ma. It's boring in some, and in some an ain't. Do get a light, it's lonesome here in the dark and cold. I was thankful enough to enliven the dark room with a light and fire. But I saw now that the thin, yellow, hard face had changed sadly.  Look here, child. I ain't hurt to speak of, am I? The doctor says you are hurt seriously. My tone must have said more than my words did, for she caught me by the wrist and held me fast. He didn't say nothing about my... about it being dangerous. I ain't dangerous, am I? I felt ready to sink. Oh, Susan, I gasped out. You haven't any time to lose. You're going. You're going. Going, she cried. Going where? You don't mean to say I'm a dyin'? Why, it beats all my calculations. I was going to live ever so many years and save up ever so much money and then, when my time come, I was going to put on my best fluted nightgown and nightcap and lay my head on my handsome pillow and draw the clothes up over me, neat and tidy and dye decent. But here's my bed all a toss and my frills all in a crumple and my room all upside down and bottles of medicine sitting around alongside of my vases and nobody here but you, just a girl and nothing else. All this came out by jerks as it were and at intervals. Don't talk so, I fairly screamed. Pray, pray to God to have mercy on you. She looked at me bewildered, yet as if the truth had reached her at last. Pray yourself, she said eagerly. I don't know how. I can't think.   And I did. She holding my wrist tightly in her hard hand. All at once I felt her hold relax. After that, the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor and somebody was dashing water in my face. It was the nurse. She'd come at last and fell me by the side of the bed where I had fallen and had been trying to revive me ever since. I started up and looked about me. The nurse was closing Susan's eyes in a professional way and performing other little services of the sort. The room wore an air of perfect desolation. The clothes Susan had on when she fell lay in a forlorn heap on a chair. Her shoes and stockings were thrown hither and thither. The mahogany bureau in which she'd taken so much pride was covered with vials to make room for which some pretty trifles had been hastily thrust aside. I remembered what I had once said to Mrs. Cavett about having tasteful things about me with a sort of shutter. What a mockery they are in the awful presence of death. Mother met me with open arms when I reached home. She was much shocked at what I had to tell and at my having encountered such a scene alone. I should have felt myself quite a heroine under her caresses if I had not been overcome with bitter regret that I had not, with firmness and dignity, turned poor Susan's last thoughts to her savior. Oh, how could I, through miserable cowardice, let those precious moments slip by? February 27th. I have learned one thing by yesterday's experience that is worth knowing. It is this. Duty looks more repelling at a distance than when fairly faced and met. Of course I have read the lines, nor know we anything so fair as is the smile upon thy face.  Now, however, I have seen the smile and find it so fair that I shall gladly plod through many a hardship and trial to meet it again. Poor Susan. Perhaps God heard my prayer for her soul and revealed himself to her at the very last moment. March 2nd. Such a strange thing has happened. Susan Green left a will bequeathing her precious savings to whoever offered the last prayer in her hearing. I do not want, I never could, touch a penny of that hardly earned store, and if I did no earthly motive would tempt me to tell a human being that it was offered by me, an inexperienced, trembling girl driven to it by mere respiration. So it has gone to Dr. Cabot, who will not use it for himself, I am sure, but will be delighted to have it to give to poor people who really beseech him. The last time he called to see her he talked and prayed with her, and says she seemed pleased and grateful and promised to be more regular at church, which she had been ever since. March 28. I feel all out of sorts. Mother says it is owing to the strain I went through at Susan's dying bed. She wants me to go visit my Aunt Mary, who is always urging me to come. But I do not like to leave my little Sunday scholars, nor to give mother the occasion to deny herself in order to meet the expense of such a long journey. Besides, I should have to have some new dresses, a new bonnet, and lots of things. Today Dr. Cabot has sent me some directions for which I have been begging him a long time. Lest I should wear out this precious letter by reading it over, I will copy it here. After alluding to my complaint that I still, quote, saw men as trees walking, unquote, he says, yet he who first uttered this complaint had had his eyes opened by the Son of God, and so have you. Now he never leaves his work incomplete, and he will gradually lead you into clear and open vision if you allow him to do it. I say gradually, because I believe this to be his usual method. While I do not deny that there are cases where light suddenly bursts in like a flood, to return to the blind man, when Jesus found that his cure was not complete, he put his hands again upon his eyes and made him look up, and he was restored, and saw every man clearly. Now this must be done for you, and in order to have it done, you must go to Christ himself, not to one of his servants. Make your complaint. Tell him how obscure everything still looks to you, and beg him to complete your cure. He may see fit to try your faith in patience by delaying this completion, but meanwhile you are safe in his presence, and while led by his hand he will excuse the mistakes you make, and pity your falls. But you will imagine that it is best that he should at once enable you to see clearly. If it is, you may be sure he will do it. He never makes mistakes, but he often deals far differently with his disciples. He lets them grope their way in the dark until they fully learned how blind they are, how helpless, how absolutely in need of him. What his methods will be with you I cannot foretell, but you may be sure he never works in an arbitrary way. He has a reason for everything he does. You may not understand why he leads you now in this way and now in that, but you may, nay you must, believe that perfection is stamped on his every act. I am afraid that you are in danger of falling into an error only too common among young Christians. You acknowledge that there has been enmity toward God in your secret soul, and that one of the first steps toward peace is to become reconciled to him, and to have your sins forgiven for Christ's sake. This done, you settle down with the feeling that the great work of life is done, and that your salvation is sure, or if not sure, that your whole business is to study your own case to see whether you are really in a state of grace. Many persons never get beyond this point. They spend their whole time in asking the question, do I love the Lord or no? Am I His or am I not? I beg you, my dear child, if you are doing this aimless, useless work to stop short at once. Life is too precious to spend in a treadmill. Having been pardoned by your God and Savior, the next thing you have to do is to show your gratitude for this infinite favor by consecrating yourself entirely to him, body, soul, and spirit. This is the least you can do. He has bought you with a price, and you are no longer your own. But, you may reply, this is contrary to my nature. I love my own way. I desire ease and pleasure. I desire to go to heaven, to be carried thither on a bed of flowers. Can I not give myself so far to God as to feel a sweet sense of peace with him, and be sure of final salvation, and yet to a certain extent indulge and gratify myself? If I give myself entirely away to him, and lose all ownership in myself, he may deny me many things I greatly desire. He may make my life hard and wearisome, depriving me of all that now makes it agreeable. But, I reply, this is no matter of parlay and discussion. It is not optional with God's children whether they will pay him a part of the price they owe him and keep back the rest. He asks, and he has a right to ask, for all you have and all you are, and if you shrink from what it is involved in such a surrender, you should fly to him at once and never rest till he has conquered this secret disinclination to give to him as freely and as fully as he is given to you. It is true that such an act of consecration on your part may involve no little future discipline and correction. But as soon as you become the Lord's by your own deliberate and conscious act, he will begin that process of sanctification which is to make you holy as he is holy, perfect as he is perfect. He becomes at once your physician as well as your dearest and best friend, but he will use no painful remedy that can be avoided. Remember that it is his will that you should be sanctified and that the work of making you holy is his, not yours. At the same time you are not to sit with folded hands waiting for this blessing. You are to avoid laying hindrances in his way and you are to exercise faith in him as being just as able and just as willing to give you sanctification as he was to give you redemption. Now, if you ask how you may know that you have truly consecrated yourself to him, I reply, observe every indication of his will concerning you, no matter how trivial, and see whether you at once close in with that will. Lay down this principle as a law. God does nothing arbitrary. If he takes away your health, for instance, it is because he has some reason for doing so, and this is true of everything you value. And if you have real faith in him, you will not insist on knowing the reason. If you find, in the course of daily events, that your self-consecration was not perfect, that is, that your will revolts at his will, do not be discouraged, but fly to your Savior and stay in his presence till you obtain the Spirit in which he cried in his hour of anguish, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done. Every time you do this, it will be easier to do. Every such consent to suffer will bring you nearer and nearer to him, and in this nearness to him you will find such peace, such blessed sweet peace, as will make your life infinitely happy, no matter what may be its mere outside conditions. Just think, my dear Katie, of the honor and the joy of having your will one with the divine will, and so becoming changed into Christ's image from glory to glory. But I cannot say in a letter the tithe of what I want to say. Listen to my sermons from week to week and glean from them all the instruction you can, remembering that they are preached to you. In reading the Bible, I advise you to choose detached passages or even one verse a day rather than whole chapters. Study every word, ponder and pray over it, tell you have got from it all the truth it contains. As to the other devotional reading, it is better to settle down on a few favorite authors and read their works over and over and over until you have digested their thoughts and made them your own. It has been said that a fixed inflexible will is a great assistance in holy life. You can will to choose for your associates those who are most devout in holy. You can will to read books that will stimulate you in your Christian life rather than those that merely amuse. You can will to use every means of grace appointed by God. You can will to spend much time in prayer without regard to your frame at the moment. You can will to prefer a religion of principle to one of mere feeling. In other words, to obey the will of God when no comfortable glow of emotion accompanies your obedience. You cannot will to possess the spirit of Christ. That must come as his gift. But you can choose to study his life and to imitate it. This will infallibly lead to such self-denying work as visiting the poor, nursing the sick, giving of your time and money to the needy and the like. If the thought of such self-denial is repugnant to you, remember that it is enough for the disciple to be as his Lord. And let me assure you that as you penetrate the labyrinth of life in pursuit of Christian duty, you will often be surprised and charmed by meeting your master himself amid its windings and turnings and receive his soul inspiring smile. Or I should rather say, you will always meet him wherever you go. I have read this letter again and again. It has taken such hold of me that I can think of nothing else. The idea of seeking holiness had never so much as crossed my mind. And even now it seems like presumption for such a one as I to utter so sacred a word. And I shrink from committing myself to such a pursuit, lest after a time I should fall back into the old routine. And I have an undefined wicked dread of being singular, as well as a certain terror of self-denial and loss of all liberty. But no choice seems left to me. Now that my duty has been clearly pointed out to me, I do not stand where I did before. And I feel, mingled with my indolence and love of ease and pleasure, some drawings toward a higher and better life. There is one thing I can do, and that is to pray that Jesus would do for me what he did for the blind man. Put his hands yet again upon my eyes and make me to see clearly. And I will. March 30th. Yes, I have prayed, and he has heard me. I see that I have no right to live for myself and that I must live for him. I have given myself to him as I never did before and have entered, as it were, a new world. I was very happy when I began to believe in his love for me and that he had redeemed me. But this new happiness is deeper. It involves something higher than getting to heaven at last, which has, hitherto, been my great aim. March 31st. The more I pray and the more I read the Bible, the more I feel my ignorance, and the more earnestly I desire holiness, the more utterly unholy I see myself to be. But I have pledged myself to the Lord, and I must pay my vows, cost what it may. I have begun to read Taylor's Holy Living and Dying. A month ago I should have found it a tedious, dry book. But I am reading it with a sort of avidity, like one seeking after hid treasure. Mother, observing what I was doing, advised me not to read it straight through, but to mingle a passage now and then with chapters from other books. She suggested my beginning on Baxter's Saints Rest. And of that I have read every word. I shall read it over, as Dr. Cabot advised, till I have fully caught its spirit. Even this one reading has taken away my lingering fear of death, and made heaven awfully attractive. I never mean to read worldly books again, in my music and drawing I have given up forever. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Teresa Downey Chapter 7 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 7 Mother asked me last evening to sing and play for her. I was embarrassed to know how to excuse myself without telling her my real reason for declining, but somehow she got it out of me. One need not be fanatical in order to be religious, she said. Is it fanatical to give up all for God? I asked. What is it to give up all? she asked in reply. Why do deny oneself every gratification and indulgence in order to mortify one's natural inclinations and to live entirely for him? God is then a hard master who allows his children no liberty, she replied. Now let us see where this theory will lead you. In the first place, you must shut your eyes to all the beautiful things he has made.   You have a body, it is true, and it may revolt at such bondage. We are told to keep under the body, I interrupted. Oh mother, don't hinder me. You know that my love for music is a passion, and that it is my snare and temptation. And how can I spend my whole time in reading the Bible and praying if I go on with my drawing? It may do for other people to serve both God and Mammon, but not for me. I must belong wholly to the world or wholly to Christ. Mother said no more and I went on with my reading, but somehow my book seemed to have lost its flavor. Besides, it was time to retire for my evening devotions, which I never put off now till the last thing at night as I used to do. When I came down, Mother was lying on the sofa by which I knew she was not well. I felt troubled that I had refused to sing to her. Think of the money she had spent on that part of my education. I went to her and kissed her with a pang of terror. What if she was going to be very sick and to die? It is nothing, darling, she said. Nothing at all. I am tired and felt a little faint. I looked at her anxiously, and the bear thought that she might die and leave me alone was so terrible that I could hardly help crying out. And I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that if God took her from me, I could not, would not, say, Thy will be done. But she was better after taking a few drops of lavender, and what color she has came back to her dear sweet face. April 12. Dr. Cabot's letter has lost all its power over me. A stone has more feeling than I. I don't love to pray. I am sick and tired of this dreadful struggle after holiness. Good books are all alike, flat and meaningless. But I must have something to absorb and carry me away. And I have come back to my music and my drawing with new zest. Mother was right in warning me against giving them up. Maria Kelly is teaching me to paint in oil colors, and says I have a natural gift for it. April 13. Mother asked me to go to church with her last evening, and I said I did not want to go. She looked surprised and troubled. Are you well, dear? she asked. I don't know. Yes, I suppose I am, but I could not be still at church five minutes. I am so nervous I feel as if I should fly. I see how it is, she said. You have forgotten that body of yours of which I reminded you, and have been trying to live as if you were all soul and spirit. You have been straining every nerve to acquire perfection, whereas this is God's gift, and one that he is willing to give you, fully and freely. I have done seeking for that or anything else that is good, I said despondently, and so I have gone back to my music and everything else. Here is just the rock upon which you split, she returned. You speak of going back to your music, as if that implied going away from God. You rush from one extreme to another. The only true way to live in this world, constituted just as we are, is to make all our employments subserve the one great end and aim of existence, namely to glorify God and to enjoy him forever. But in order to do this, we must be wise taskmasters, and not require of ourselves what we cannot possibly perform. Recreation we must have, otherwise the strings of our soul wound up to an unnatural tension will break. Oh, I do wish, I cried, that God has given us plain rules about which we could make no mistake. I think his rules are plain, she replied, and some liberty of action he must leave us, or we should become mere machines. I think that those who love him and wait upon him day by day learn his will almost imperceptibly and need not go astray. But mother, music and drawing are sharp-edged tools in such hands as mine. I cannot be moderate in my use of them, and the more I delight in them, the less I delight in God. Yes, this is human nature, but God's divine nature will supplant it if we only consent to let him work in us of his own good pleasure. New York, April 16th. After all, mother has come off conqueror, and here I am at auntie's.  The house is large, but is as full as it can hold. Auntie has six children of her own and had adopted two. She says she always meant to imitate the old woman who lived in a shoe. She reminds me of mother, and yet she is very different. Full of fun and energy, flying about the house as on wings, with a kind, bright word for everybody.  The children are always nicely dressed. Nobody ever seems out of humor. Nobody is ever sick. Auntie is a central object round which everybody revolves. You can't forget her a moment, for she was always doing something for you. And then her unflagging good humor and cheerfulness keep you good-humored and cheerful. I don't wonder Uncle Alfred loves her so. I hope I shall have just such a home. I mean this is the sort of home I should like if I were married, which I never mean to be. I should like to be just as a bright, loving wife as auntie is, to have my husband lean on me as Uncle leans on her, to have just as many children and to train them as wisely and kindly as she does hers. Then I should feel I had not been born in vain, but had a high and sacred mission on earth. But as it is, I must just pick up what scraps of usefulness I can and let the rest go. April 18th Auntie says I sit writing and reading and thinking too much and wants me to go out more. I tell her I don't feel strong enough to go out much. She says that is all nonsense and drags me out. I get tired and hungry and sleep like a baby a month old. I see now mother's wisdom and kindness in making me leave home when I did. I had veered about from point to point till I was nearly ill. Now Auntie keeps me well by making me go out and dear Dr. Cabot's precious letter can work a true and not a morbid work in my soul. I am very happy. I have delightful talks with Auntie, who sets me right on this point and on that, and it is beautiful to watch her home life and to see with what sweet unconsciousness she carries her religion into every detail. I am sure it must do me good to be here. And yet if I am growing better, how slowly, how slowly it is. Somebody has said that our course heavenward is like the plan of the zealous pilgrims of old, who for every three steps forward took one backward. April 30th. Auntie's baby, my dear father's namesake, and hitherto the merriest fellow I ever saw, was taken sick last night very suddenly. She sent for the doctor at once, who would not say positively what was the matter, but this morning pronounced it scarlet fever. The three youngest have all come down with it today. If they were my children, I should be in a perfect worry and flurry. Indeed I am as it is. But Auntie is as bright and cheerful as ever. She flies from one to another and keeps up their spirits with her own gaiety. I am mortified to find that at such times as this, I can think of myself, and that I find it irksome to be shut up in sick rooms instead of walking, driving, visiting, and the like. But as Dr. Cabot says, I can now choose to imitate my master, who spent his whole life in doing good. And I do hope too, to be of some little use to Auntie after her kindness to me. May 1st. The doctor says the children are doing as well as could be expected. He made a short visit this morning, as it is Sunday. If I had ever seen him before, I should say I had some unpleasant association with him. I wonder Auntie employs such a great clumsy man, but she says he is very good and very skillful. I wish I did not take such violent likes and dislikes to people. I want my religion to change me in every respect. May 2nd. Oh, now I know! This is the very man who was so rude at Sunday school, and afterwards made such a nice address to the children. Well, he may know how to speak in public, but I am sure he doesn't in private. I never knew such a shut-up man. May 4th. I have my hands as full as they can hold. The children have got so fond of me, and one or the other is in my lap nearly all the time. I sing to them, tell them stories, build blockhouses, and relieve Auntie all I can. Dull and pokey as the doctor is, I am not afraid of him, for he never notices anything I say or do. So while he is holding solemn consultations with Auntie in one corner, I can sing and talk all sorts of nonsense to my little pets in mind.  This busy life quite suits me now I have got used to it, and it sweetens every bit of work to think that I am doing it in humble, far-off, yet real imitation of Jesus. I am indeed really and truly happy. May 14th. It is now two weeks since Little Raymond was taken sick, and I have lived in the nursery all the time, though Auntie has tried to make me go out. Little Emma was taken down today, though she has been kept off the third floor all the time. I feel dreadfully myself, but this hard, cold doctor of Auntie's is so taken up with the children that he never so much as looks at me. I have been in a perfect shiver all day, but these merciless little folks call for stories as eagerly as ever. Well, let me be a comfort to them if I can.  May 15th. I was in a burning fever all night, and my head ached, and my throat was, and is, very sore. If I knew I was going to die, I would burn up this journal first. I would not have anyone see it for the world. May 24th. Dr. Elliot asked me on Sunday morning a week ago if I still felt well. For answer, I behaved like a goose and burst out crying. Auntie looked more anxious than I had seen her look yet, and reproached herself for having allowed me to be with the children. She took me by one elbow, and the doctor by the other, and they marched me to my own room, where I was put through the usual routine on such occasions, and then ordered to bed. I fell asleep immediately, and slept all day. The doctor came to see me in the evening, and made a short, stiff little visit, gave me a powder, and said he thought I should soon be better. I had two such visits from him the next day, when I began to feel quite like myself again, and in spite of his grave, staid, deportment, could not help letting my good spirits run away with me in a style that evidently shocked him. He says person's nursing scarlet fever often has such little attacks as mine. Indeed, every one of the servants have had a sore throat and headache. May 25th.  I burst out laughing, and no consideration I could make to myself would stop me. I pinched myself and asked myself how I should feel if one of the children should die, and used other kindred devices all to no purpose. At last the doctor, gravity personified as he is, joined in, though not knowing in the least what he was laughing at. Then he said, After this, I suppose, I shall have to pronounce you convalescent. Oh no, I cried, I am very sick indeed. This looks like it, to be sure, said Auntie. I suppose this will be your last visit, Dr. Elliott, I went on, and I am glad of it. After the way I behaved the day I was taken sick, I have been ashamed to look you in the face. But I really felt dreadfully. He made no answer whatever. I don't suppose he would speak a flattering word by way of putting one in good humor with oneself for the whole world. June 1st We are all as well as ever, but the doctor keeps some of the children still confined to the house for fear of bad consequences following the fever. He visits them twice a day for the same reason, or at least under that pretense. But I really believe he comes because he has got the habit of coming, and because he admires Auntie so much. She has a real affection for him, and is continually asking me if I don't like this or that quality in him, which I can't see at all. We began to drive out again. The weather is very warm, but I feel perfectly well. June 2nd After the children's dinner today, I took care of them while their nurse got hers, and Auntie went to lie down as she was all tired out.  They were to gather about me, and I was suddenly to come to life and jump up and try to catch them as they all ran scampering and screaming about. We had played in this interesting way for some time, and my hair, which I keep in nice order nowadays, was pulled down and flying every way when in March the doctor. I started up and came to life quickly enough when I heard his step, looking red and angry no doubt. I should think you might have knocked, Dr. Elliott, I said with much displeasure. I ask your pardon. I knocked several times, he returned. I need hardly ask how my little patients are. No, I replied, still ruffled in making desperate efforts to get my hair into some sort of order. They are as well as possible. I came a little earlier than usual today, he went on. Because I am called to visit my uncle, Dr. Cabot, who is in a very critical state of health. Dr. Cabot, I repeated, bursting into tears. Compose yourself, I entreat, he said. I hope that I may be able to relieve him. At all events.  Don't wait another moment, go this instant. I cannot go this instant, he replied. The boat does not leave until four o'clock. And if I may be allowed, as a physician, to say one word, that my brief acquaintance hardly justifies, I do wish to warn you that unless you acquire more self-control. Oh, I know that I have a quick temper, and that I spoke very rudely to you just now, I interrupted, not a little startled by the seriousness of his manner. I do not refer to your temper, he said. I meant your whole passionate nature.  I would rather have too little self-control, I retorted resentfully, than to be as cold as a stone and as hard as a rock and as silent as the grave like some people I know. His countenance fell. He looked disappointed, even pained.  Your aunt wishes me to call on her. Have you any messages? No, I said. Another pained, disappointed look made me begin to recollect myself. I was sorry. Oh, so sorry for my anger and rudeness. I ran after him into the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding out both hands, which he took in both of his.  Indeed, Dr. Elliot, though you may not be able to believe it, I am trying to do right all the time. I do believe it, he said earnestly. Then tell me that you forgive me. If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell something else, he said, looking me through and through with those great dusky eyes. And I will tell it, he went on, his grasp on my hands growing firmer. It is easy to forgive when one loves. I pulled my hands away and burst out crying again. Oh, Dr. Elliot, this is dreadful, I said. You do not, you cannot love me. You are so much older than I am. So grave and silent. You are not an earnest. I am only too much so, he said. And went quietly out. I went back to the nursery. The children rushed about me and insisted that I should play die. I let them pull me about as they pleased. I only wished I could play it in earnest. End of Chapter 7, Recording by Teresa Downey Chapter 8 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 Teresa Downey Stepping Heavenward by Elizabeth Prentice Chapter 8 June 28 Mother writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of danger. Dr. Elliot having thrown new light on his case and performed some sort of an operation that relieved him at once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt me to encounter those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is growing warm and Auntie is getting ready to go out of town with the children. June 29 Auntie insisted on knowing why I was hurrying home so suddenly, and at last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole it was a relief to have someone to talk to. Well, she said, leaning back in her chair in a fit of musing. Is that all you're going to say, Auntie? I ventured to ask at last. No. I have one more remark to add, she said. And it is this. I don't know which of you has behaved more ridiculously. It would relieve me to give each of you a good shaking. I think Dr. Elliot has behaved ridiculously, I said, and he has made me most unhappy. Unhappy, she repeated. I don't wonder you are unhappy. You have pained and wounded one of the noblest men that walks the earth. It is not my fault. I never tried to make him like me. Yes, you did. You were perfectly bewitching whenever he came here. No mortal man could help being fascinated. I knew this was not true, and I bitterly resented Auntie's injustice. If I wanted to fascinate or be which a man, I cried, I should not choose one old enough to be my father, nor one who is as uninteresting, awkward, and stiff as Dr. Elliot. Besides, how should I know he was not married? If I thought anything about it at all, I certainly thought of him as a middle-aged man settled down with a wife long ago. In the first place, he is not old or even middle-aged. He is not more than twenty-seven or eight. As to his being uninteresting, perhaps he is to you, who doesn't know him, and if he were a married man, what business had he to come here and see you as often as he had done? I did not know he came to see me. He never spoke to me, and I always said I would never marry a doctor. We all say scores of things we live to repent, she replied. But I must own that the doctor acted quite out of character when he expected you to take a fancy to him on such short notice, you romantic little thing. Of course, knowing him as little as you do, and only seeing him in sick rooms, you could not have done otherwise than as you did. Thank you, Auntie, I said, running and throwing my arms around her. Thank you with all my heart. And now won't you take back what you said about me trying to fascinate him? I suppose I must, you dear child, she said. I was not half an earnest. The truth is I am so fond of you both that the idea of your misunderstanding each other annoys me extremely. Why, you were made for each other. He would tone you down and keep you straight, and you would stimulate him and keep him awake. I don't want to be toned down or kept straight, I remonstrated. I hate prigs who keep their wives in leading strings. I do not mean to marry anyone, but if I should be left to such a piece of folly, it must be one do who will take me for better or for worse, just as I am, and not as a wild plant for him to prune till he's got it into shape to suit him. And now, Auntie, promise me one thing. Never mention Dr. Elliot's name to me again. I shall make no such promise, she replied, laughing. I like him, and I like to talk about him, and the more you hate and despise him, the more I shall love and admire him. I only wish my Lucy were old enough to be his wife, and that he could fancy her, but he never could. On the contrary, I should think that little model of propriety would just suit him, I exclaimed. Don't make fun of Lucy, Auntie said, shaking her head. She's a dear good child, after all. After all means this. For what with my own observation and what Auntie had told me, Lucy's portrait is easy to paint. The child is the daughter of a man who died from a lingering illness caused by an accident. She entered her family at a most inauspicious moment, two days after this accident. From the outset she comprehended the situation and took the ground that a character of irreproachable dignity and propriety became an infant coming at such time. She never cried, never put improper objects into her mouth, never bumped her head or scratched herself. Once put to bed at night you knew nothing more of her till such time next day as you found it convenient to attend to her. If you forgot her existence, as was not seldom the case under the circumstances, she vegetated on, unmoved.  She got her teeth in the order laid down in dewees on children. Her measles came out on the appointed day like well-behaved measles, as they were, and retired decently in an order as measles should. Her whooping cough had a well-bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror of the field. As the child passed out of her babyhood, she remained still her mother's appendage and glory, a monument of pure white marble, displaying to the human race one instance, at least, of perfect parental training. Those smooth round hands were always magically clean, the dress immaculate and uncrumpled, the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She was a model child, as she had been a model baby. No slamming of doors, no litter of carpets, no pattering of noisy feet on the stairs, no headless dolls, no soiled or torn books indicated her presence. Her dolls were subject to a methodical training not unlike her own. They rose, they were dressed, they took air, they retired for the night with clock-like regularity. At the advanced age of eight, she ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and began a course of instructive reading. Her lessons were received in mute submission, like medicine, so many doses, so many times a day. An agreeable interlude of needlework was afforded, and dorkous-like, many were the garments that resulted for the poor.  She would as soon strangle herself as run headlong to embrace you. If she has any passions or emotions, they are kept under. But who asks for passion in Blanc-Monge, or seeks emotion in a comfortable apple-pudding?  Lucy had a hard time of it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impulsive man, took a dislike to her. Auntie had no difficulty in persuading them to give the child to her. She took her from the purest motives, and it does seem as if she ought to have more reward than she gets. She declares, however, that she has all the rewards she could ask in the conviction that God accepts this attempt to please him. Lucy is now nearly fourteen, very large for her age, with dead white skin, pale blue eyes, and a little light hair. To hear her talk is most edifying. Her babies are all babes. She never begins anything but commences it. She never cries, she weeps. She never gets up in the morning, but rises. But what am I writing all this for? Why to escape my own thoughts, which are anything but agreeable companions, and to put off answering the question that must be answered? Have I really made a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott? Could I not, in time, have come to love a man who has so honored me? July 5th. Here I am again, safely at home, and very pleasant it seems to be with dear mother again. I have told her about Dr. E. She says very little about it one way or the other. July 10th. Mother sees that I am restless and out of sorts. What is it, dear? She asked this morning. Has Dr. Elliott anything to do with the unsettled state you were in? Why, no, mother, I answered. My going away has broken up all my habits, that's all. Still, if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much, and was beginning to forget it, I daresay I should feel better. If you were perfectly sure that you could never return his affection, she said, you were quite right in telling him so at once. But if you had any misgivings on the subject, it would have been better to wait, and to ask God to direct you. Yes, it would. But at that moment I had no misgivings. In my usual headlong style I settled one of the most weighty questions of my life without reflection, without so much as one silent appeal to God to tell me how to act. And now I had forever repelled and thrown away a heart that truly loved me. He will go his way, and I shall go mine. He never will know what I am only just beginning to know myself, that I yearn after his love with unutterable yearning. But I am not going to sit down in sentimental despondency to weep over this irreparable past. No human being could forgive such folly as mine. But God can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness I fly to him, and find what is better than earthly felicity, the sweetest peace. He allowed me to bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, a shadow out of which I shall not soon pass. But he pities, and he forgives me. And I have had many precious moments when I could say sincerely and joyfully, Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire besides thee. With a character still so undisciplined as mine, I seriously doubt whether I could have made him happy, who has honored me with his unmerited affection. Sometimes I think I am as impetuous and as quick-tempered as ever. I get angry with dear mother and with James, even, if they oppose me. How unfit, then, I am to become the mistress of a household and the wife of a good man. How came he to love me? I cannot, cannot imagine. August 31st. The last day of the very happiest summer I ever spent. If I had only been willing to believe the testimony of others, I might have been just as happy long ago. But I wanted to have all there was in God and all there was in the world at once. And there was a constant, painful struggle between the two. I hope that struggle is now over. I deliberately choose and prefer God. I have found a sweet peace in trying to please him such as I never conceived of. I would not change it for all the best things this world can give. But I have a great deal to learn. I am like a little child who cannot run to get what he wants, but approaches it step by step, slowly, timidly, and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the patience of my blessed master and teacher. But how I love his school. September. This too has been a delightful month, in a certain sense. Amelia's marriage, at which I had to be present, upset me a little. But it was but a little ruffle on a deep sea of peace. I saw Dr. Cabot today. He is quite well again and speaks of Dr. Eliot's skill with rapture. He asked about my Sunday scholars, and my poor folks, etc., and I could not help letting out a little of the new joy that has taken possession of me. This is as it should be, he said. I should be sorry to see a person of your temperament, enthusiastic in everything, save religion. Do not be discouraged if you still have some ups and downs. He that is down need fear no fall. But you are way up on the heights and may have one now and then. This made me a little uncomfortable. I don't want any falls. I want to go on to perfection. October first. Lord Cabot came to see me today and seemed very affectionate. I hope we may see more of each other than we have done, she began. My father wishes it, and so do I. Katie, mentally. Ah, he sees how unworldly, how devoted I am, and so once Laura under my influence. Katie, allowed. I am sure that is very kind. Laura, not at all. He knows it will be profitable to me to be with you. I get a good deal discouraged at time and want a friend to strengthen and help me. Katie, to herself. Yes, yes, he thinks me quite experienced and trustworthy. Katie, allowed. I shall never dare to try to help you. Laura. Oh, yes, you must. I am so far behind you in Christian experience. Ah, but I am ashamed to write down any more. After she had gone I thought delightfully puffed up for a while. But when I came up to my room this evening and knelt down to pray, everything looked dark and chaotic. God seemed far away, and I took no pleasure in speaking to him. I felt sure I had done something or felt something wrong and asked him to show me what it was. There then flashed into my mind the remembrance of the vain, conceited thoughts I had had during Laura's visit in ever since. How perfectly contemptible. I have had a fall indeed. I think now my first mistake was in telling Dr. Cabot my secret sacred joys as if some merit of mine had earned them for me. That gave Satan a fine chance to triumph over me. After this I am determined to maintain the utmost reserve in respect to my religious experiences. Nothing is gained by running to tell them and much is lost. I feel depressed and comfortless. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Teresa Downey Chapter 9 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 Teresa Downey Stepping Heavenward By Elizabeth Prentice Chapter 9 October 10 We have had very sad news from Aunty. She says my uncle is quite broken down with some obscure disease that has been creeping stealthily along for months. All his physicians agree that he must give up his business and try the effect of a year's rest. Dr. Elliot proposes his going to Europe, which seems to me about as formidable as going to the next world. Aunty makes the best she can of it, but she says the thought of being separated from uncle a whole year is dreadful. I pray for her day and night that this wild project may be given up, why he would be on the ocean ever so many weeks, exposed to all the discomforts of narrow quarters and poor food, and that just as winter is drawing nigh. October 12 Aunty writes that the voyage to Europe has been decided on and that Dr. Elliot is to accompany uncle, travel with him, amuse him, and bring him home a well man. I hope Dr. E's power to amuse may exist somewhere, but I must own it was in a most latent form when I had the pleasure of knowing him. Poor Aunty, how much better would be for her to go with uncle? There are all the children to be sure. Well, I hope uncle may be better for the great undertaking, but I don't like the idea of it. October 15 Another letter from Aunty and new plans. The doctor is to stay at home, Aunty is to go with uncle, and we, mother and myself, are to take possession of the house and the children during their absence. In other words, all of this is to be, if we say amen. Could anything be more frightful? To refuse would be selfish and cruel. If we consent, I thrust myself under Dr. Elliot's very nose. October 16 Mother is surprised that I can hesitate one instant. She seems to have forgotten all about Dr. E. She says we can easily find a family to take this house for a year, and that she is delighted to do anything for Aunty that can be done. November 4 Here we are, the whole thing settled. Uncle and Aunty started a week ago, and we are monarchs of all we survey, and this is a great deal. I am determined that mother shall not be worn out with these children, although, of course, I could not manage them without her advice and help. It is to be hoped that they won't all have the measles in a body or anything of that sort. I am sure it would be annoying to Dr. E. to come here now. November 25 Of course the baby must go on teething, if only to have the doctor sent for to Lance's gums. I told mother I was sure I could not be present when this was being done, so, though she looked surprised and said people should accustom themselves to such things, she volunteered to hold the baby herself. November 26 The baby was afraid of mother, not being used to her, so she sent for me. As I entered the room, she gave him to me with an apology for doing so, since I shrank from witnessing the operation. What must Dr. E. think I made of if I can't bear to see a child's gums lanced? However, it is my own fault that he thinks me such a coward, for I made mother think me one. It was very embarrassing to hold baby and have the doctor's face so close to mine. I really wonder mother should not see how awkwardly I am situated here. November 27 We have had a good many visitors, friends of uncle and auntie. How uninteresting most people are. They all say the same thing. Namely, how strange that auntie had courage to undertake such a voyage and to leave her children, etc., etc., etc., and what was Dr. Elliott thinking of to let them go, etc., etc., etc. Dr. Embry called today with a pretty little fresh creature, his new wife, who hangs on his arm like a work bag. He is Dr. Elliott's intimate friend, and spoke of him very warmly, and so did his wife, who says she has known him always, as they were born and brought up in the same small village. I wonder he did not marry her himself instead of leaving her for Dr. Embry. She says he, Dr. Elliott, I mean, was the most devoted son she ever saw, and that he deserves his present success because he made such sacrifices for his parents. I never met anyone whom I like so well on such short acquaintance. I mean Mrs. Embry.  November 30th I have had so much to do that I have little time for writing. The way the children wear out their shoes and stockings, the speed with which their hair grows, the way they bump their heads and pinch their fingers, and the insatiable demand for stories is something next to miraculous. Not a day passes that somebody doesn't need something bought, that somebody doesn't choke itself and that I don't have to tell stories till I feel my intellect reduced to the size of a pea. If ever I was alive and wide awake, however, it is just now. And in spite of some vague shadows of, I don't know what, I am very happy indeed. So is dear mother. She and the doctor have become bosom friends. He keeps her making beef tea, scraping lint and boiling calves feet for jelly, till the house smells like a hospital. I suppose he thinks me a poor, selfish, frivolous girl, whom nothing would tempt to raise a finger for his invalids. But, of course, I do not care what he thinks. December 4th Dr. Elliot came this morning to ask mother to go with him to see a child who'd met with a horrible accident. She turned pale and pressed her lips together, but when it wants to get ready, then my long suppressed wrath burst out. How can you ask poor mother to go and see such sights I cried?  If you suppose that after the way in which my father died, it was indeed most thoughtless of me, he interrupted.  If you could see this poor child, even you would justify me. Even you, you monster of selfishness, heart of stone, floating bubble, even you would justify it. How cruel, how unjust, how unforgiving he is. I rushed out of the room and cried until I was tired. December 6th Mother says she feels really grateful to Dr. E for taking her to see that child and to help soothe and comfort it while he went through with a severe painful operation that she would not describe because she fancied I looked pale. I said I should think the child's mother the most proper person to soothe it on such an occasion. The poor thing has no mother, she said reproachfully. What has got into you, Kate?  I should think you had enough to do with this great house to keep in order, so many mouths to fill and so many servants to oversee without wearing yourself out with nursing all Dr. Elliot's poor folks, I said gloomily. The more I have to do, the happier I am, she replied. Dear Katie, the old wound isn't healed yet, and I like to be with those who have wounds and bruises of their own, and Dr. Elliot seems to have divined this by instinct. I ran and kissed her dear pale face, which grows more beautiful every day. No wonder she misses father so. He loved and honored her beyond description, and never forgot one of those little courtesies that must have a great deal to do with a wife's happiness. People said of him that he was a gentleman of the old school, and that race is dying out. I feel a good deal out of sorts myself. Oh, I do so wish to get above myself and all my childish petty ways, and to live in a region where there is no temptation and no sin. December 22nd. I have been to see Mrs. Embory today. She did not receive me as cordially as usual, and I very soon resolved to come away. She detained me, however. Would you mind me speaking to you on a certain subject? She asked with some embarrassment. I felt myself flush up. I do not want to meddle with affairs that don't concern me, she went on. But Dr. Elliott and I have been intimate friends all our lives, and his disappointment has really distressed me. One of my moods came on, and I couldn't speak a word. You are not at all the sort of girl I supposed he would fancy, she continued. He has always said he was waiting to find someone just like his mother, and she is one of the gentlest, meekest, sweetest, and fairest among women. You ought to rejoice, then, that he has escaped the snare, I said in a husky voice, and is free to marry his ideal when he finds her. But that is just what troubles me. He is not free. He does not attach himself readily, and I am afraid that it will be a long, long time before he gets over this unlucky passion for you. Passion! I cried contemptuously. She looked at me with some surprise and then went on. Most girls would jump at the chance of getting such a husband. I don't know that I particularly care to be classed with most girls, I replied loftily. But if you only knew him as well as I do, he is so noble, so disinterested, and is so beloved by his patients. I could tell you scores of anecdotes about him that would show just what he is. Thank you, I said. I think we have discussed Dr. Elliot quite enough already. I cannot say that he has elevated himself, in my opinion, by making you take up the cudgels in his defence. You do him an injustice when you say that, she cried. His sister, the only person to whom he has confided this state of things, beg me to find out, if I could, whether you had any other attachment, and if her brother's case was quite hopeless. But I am sorry I undertook the task, as it has annoyed you so much. I came away a good deal ruffled. When I got home, Mother said she was glad I had been out at last for a little recreation, and that she wished I did not confine myself to the children. I said that I did not confine myself more than Auntie did. But that is different, Mother objected. She is their own Mother, and love helps bear her burden. So it does me, I returned. I love the children exactly as if they were my own. That, she said, is impossible. I certainly do, I persisted. Mother would not dispute with me, though I wish she would. A Mother, she went on, receives her children one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole household upon you at once, and I am sure it is too much for you.  It isn't the children, I said. What is it, then? Why, it's nothing, I said, pettishly. I must say, dear, said Mother, not noticing my manner, that your wonderful devotion to the children, aside from its effect on your health and temper, has given me great delight. I don't see why, I said. Very few girls of your age would give up their whole time as you do to such work. That is because there are very few girls as fun of children as I am. There is no virtue in doing exactly what one likes to do. There, go away, you contrary child, said Mother, laughing. If you won't be praised, you won't. So I came up here and moped a little. I don't see what ails me, but there is an undercurrent of peace that is not entirely disturbed by any outside event. In spite of my follies and my shortcomings, I do believe that God loves and pities me, and will yet perfect that which concerneth me. It is a great mystery, but so is everything. Dr. Elliot to Mrs. Crofton. And now, my dear friend, having issued my usual bulletin of health, you may feel quite at ease about your dear children. And I come to a point in your letter, which I would gladly pass over in silence, but this would be a poor return for the interest you express in my affairs. Both ladies are devoted to your little flock, and Miss Mortimer seems not to have a thought but for them. The high opinion I formed of her at the outset is more than justified by all I see of her daily household life. I know what her faults are, for she seems to take delight in revealing them. But I also know her rare virtues, and what a wealth of affection she has to bestow on the man who is so happy as to win her heart. But I shall never be that man. Her growing aversion to me makes me dread a summons to your house, and I have hardly manliness enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I entreat you, therefore. Never again depress this subject upon me. After all, I would not, if I could, dispense with the ministry of disappointment and unrest. Mrs. Crofton, in reply, So she hates you, does she? I am charmed to hear it. Indifference would be an alarming symptom. But good, cordial hatred, or what looks like it, is a most hopeful sign. The next chance you get to see her alone, assure her that you never shall repeat your first offence. If nothing comes of it, I am not a woman, and never was one, nor is she. March 25th, 1836 The new year and my birthday have come and gone, and this is the first moment I could find for writing down all that has happened. The day after my last date I was full of serious earnest thoughts of new desires to live without one reserve for God. I was smarting under the remembrance of my folly at Mrs. Embry's, and with a sense of vague disappointment and discomfort, and had to fly closer than ever to him. In the evening I thought I would go to the usual weekly service. It is true I don't like prayer meetings, and that is a bad sign, I'm afraid. But I am determined to go where good people go, and see if I can't learn to like what they like. Mother went with me, of course. What was my surprise to find that Dr. E. was to preside? I had no idea that he was that sort of a man. The hymns they sang were beautiful, and did me good. So was his prayer. If all prayers were like that, I am sure I should like evening meetings as much as I now dislike them. He so evidently spoke to God in it, and as if he were used to such speaking. He then made a little address on the Ministry of Disappointment, as he called it. He spoke so cheerfully, and hopefully, that I began to see, almost for the first time, God's reason for the petty trials and crosses that help make up every day of one's life. He said there were few who were not constantly disappointed with themselves. With their slow progress, their childishness and weakness, disappointed with their friends, who, strangely enough, were never quite perfect enough, and disappointed with the world, which was always promising so much and giving so little. Then he urged a wise and patient consent to this discipline, which, if rightly used, would help to temper and strengthen the soul against the day of sorrow and bereavement. But I am not doing him justice in this meager report. There was something almost heavenly in his expression that words cannot describe. Coming out I heard someone ask, who was that young clergyman? And the answer, oh, that is only a doctor. Well, the next week I went again with mother. We had hardly taken our seats when Dr. E. Marched in with the sweetest looking creature I ever saw. He was so taken up with her that he did not observe either mother or myself. As she sat by my side, I could not see her full face, but her profile was nearly perfect. Her eyes were of that lovely blue, one-seasoned violets and the skies, with long, soft eyelashes, and her complexion was as pure as a baby's. Yet she was not one of your dull beauties. Her face expressed both feeling and character. They sang together from the same book, though I offered her a share of mine. Of course, when people do that, it can mean but one thing. So it seems he has forgotten me and consoled himself with this pretty little thing. No doubt she is like his mother, that gentlest, meekest, sweetest, and fairest among women.  I certainly could not help showing that a love that can so soon take up with a new object could not have been a sentiment of much depth. It is not pleasant to lose even a portion of one's respect and esteem for another. The next day mother went to visit an old friend of hers, who has a beautiful place outside the city. The baby's nurse had ironing to do, so I promised to sit in the nursery till it was finished. Lucy came with her books to sit with me. She always follows like my shadow. After a while Mrs. Embry called. I hesitated a little about trusting a child to Lucy's care, for though her prim ways have given her the reputation of being wise beyond her years, I observed that she is apt to get into trouble, which a quick wedded child would either avoid or jump out of in a twinkling. However, children are often left to much younger girls, so with many cautions I went down, resolving to stay only a few moments. But I wanted so much to know all about that pretty little friend of Dr. Ease that I let Mrs. Embry stay on and on, though not a ray of light did I get from my pains. At last I heard Lucy's step coming downstairs. Cousin Katie, she said, entering the room with her usual propriety. I was seated by the window, engaged with my studies, and the children all playing about as usual, when suddenly I heard a shriek and one of them ran past me, all in a blaze, and—I believe I pushed her out of my way as I rushed upstairs, for I took it for granted that I should meet the little figure all in a blaze coming to meet me. But I found it wrapped in a blanket, the flames extinguished. Meanwhile Mrs. Embry had roused the whole house and everybody came running upstairs.  Then I looked to see which of them it was, and found it was Auntie's pet lamb, everybody's pet lamb, our little, loving, gentle Emma. Dr. Elliott must have come on wings, for I had no time to be impatient for his arrival. He was as tender as a woman with Emma.  He did not speak a word to me or eye to him. This time he did not find it necessary to advise me to control myself. I was as cold and hard as a stone. But when poor little Emma's piercing shrieks began to subside, and she came a little under the influence of some soothing drop seed given her at the outset, I began to feel that sensation in the back of my neck that leads to conquest over the most stubborn and heroic. I had just time to get Emma into the doctor's arms, and then down I went. I got over it in a minute, and was up again before anyone had time to come to the rescue. But Dr. E. gave Emma to Mrs. Embry, who had taken off her things and been crying all the time, and said in a low voice, I beg you will now leave the room and lie down, and do not feel obliged to see me when I visit the child. That annoyance, at least, you should spare yourself. No consideration shall make me neglect little Emma, I replied defiantly. By this time Mrs. Embry had rocked her to sleep, and she lay pale with an air of complete exhaustion in her arms. You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer, Dr. Elliott said as he rose to go. I will return in a few hours to see how you both do. He stood looking at Emma, but did not go. Then Mrs. Embry asked the question I dare not ask. Is the poor child in danger? I cannot say. I trust not. Miss Mortimer's presence of mind in extinguishing the flames at once has, I hope, saved its life. It was not my presence of mind, it was Lucy's, I cried eagerly.  How your mother will rejoice at this.  And of the reward Auntie had had for her kindness to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and how likely it was that under the same circumstances I should have been beside myself and done nothing. This in many other emotions made me burst out crying. Yes, cry, cry with all your heart, said Mrs. Embry, laying Emma gently down and coming to get me into her arms. It will do you good, poor child. She cried with me till at last I could lie down and try to sleep. Well, the days and the weeks were very long after that. Dear mother had a hard time, what with her anxiety about Emma and my crossness and unreasonableness. Dr. Elliott came and went, came and went, and last he said all danger was over and that our patient little darling would get well. But his visits did not diminish. He came twice and even three times every day. Sometimes I hoped he would tell us about his new flame, and sometimes I felt that I could not hear her mentioned. One day mother was so unwell that I had to help him dress Emma's burns and I could not help saying, even a mother's gentlest touch, full of love as it is, is almost rough compared to that of one trained to such careful handling as you are. He looked gratified but said, I am glad you begin to find that even stones feel sometimes. Another time something was said about the fickleness of women. Mrs. Embry began it. I fired up, of course. He seemed astonished at my attack. I said nothing, he declared. No, but you looked a good many things. Now the fact is women are not fickle. When they lose what they value most they find it impossible to replace it. But men console themselves with the first good thing that comes along. I daresay I spoke bitterly. For I was thinking how soon, Char, I mean, somebody, replaced me in his shallow heart, and how with equal speed Dr. Elliot had helped himself to a new love. I do not like these sweeping assertions, said Dr. Elliot, looking a good deal annoyed. I have to say what I think, I persisted. It is well to think rightly then, he said gravely. By and by, have you heard from Helen? Mrs. Embry most irrelevantly asked. Yes, I heard yesterday. I suppose you will be writing her then. Will you enclose a little note from me? Or rather let me have the least corner of your sheet? I was shocked at her want of delicacy. Of course this Helen must be the new love. And how could a woman with two grains of sense imagine he would want to spare her a part of his sheet? I felt tired and irritated. As soon as Dr. Elliot had gone, I began to give her a good setting down. I could hardly believe my ears, I said, when I heard you ask leave to write on Dr. Elliot's sheet. No wonder, she said, laughing. I suppose you never knew what it was to have to count every shilling and deny yourself the pleasure of writing to a friend because of what it would cost. I'm sure I never did till I was married. But to ask him to let you help write his love letters? I objected. Ah, is that the way the wind blows?  Well then, let me relieve your mind, my dear. By informing you that this love letter is to his sister, my dearest friend, and the sweetest little thing you ever saw. Oh! I said. And immediately felt quite rested and quite like myself. Like myself? And who is she, pray? Two souls dwell in my poor little body. And which of them is me and which of them isn't? It would be hard to tell. This is the way they behave. Scene first. Katie, to the other creature whom I will call Kate.  Run and put your arms around her, and tell her how you love her. Kate. Oh! I can't. It would look queer. I don't like Palaver. Besides, who would not be cross who felt as I do? Scene second. Katie. Little Emma has nothing to do and ought to be amused. Tell her a story, do. Kate. I am tired and need to be amused myself. Katie. But the dear little thing is so patient and has suffered so much. Kate. Well, I have suffered too. If she had not climbed up on the fender, she would have not got burned. Scene third. Katie. You are very irritable today. You'd better go upstairs to your room and pray for patience. Kate. One can't always be praying. I don't feel like it. Scene fourth. Katie. You treat Dr. Elliott shamefully. I should think he would really avoid you as you avoid him. Kate. Don't let me hear his name. I don't avoid him. Katie. You do not deserve his good opinion. Kate. Yes, I do. Scene fifth. Just awake in the morning. Katie. Oh, dear, how hateful I am. I am cross and selfish and domineering and vain. I think of myself the whole time.  Poor mother. How can she endure me? As to my piety, it is worse than none. Kate, a few hours later. Well, nobody can deny that I have a real gift in managing children and I am very lovable or mother would not be so fond of me. I am always pleasant unless I am sick or worried and my temper is not half so hasty as it used to be. I never think of myself but I am all the time doing something for others. As to Dr. E., I am thankful to say that I have never stooped to attract him by putting on airs and graces. He sees me just as I am and I am very devout. I love to read good books and to be with good people. I pray a great deal. The bare thought of doing wrong makes me shudder. Mother is proud of me and I don't wonder. Very few girls would have behaved as I did when Emma was burned. Perhaps I am not as sweet as some people. I am glad of it.  I have great strength of character, which is much better and am certainly very high toned. But my poor journal, you can't stand any more such stuff, can you? But tell me one thing. Am I Katey or am I Kate? End of Chapter 9 Recording by Teresa Downey Chapter 10 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 Prentiss Chapter 10 April 20th Yesterday I felt better than I have done since the accident. I ran about the house quite cheerily for me. I wanted to see Mother for something and flew singing into the parlour where I had left her shortly before. But she was not there, and Dr. Elliot was. I started back and was about to leave the room, but he detained me. Come in. I beg of you, he said, his voice growing hoarser and hoarser. Let us put a stop to this. To what, I asked? Going nearer and nearer, and looking up into his face which was quite pale.  I cannot force you to love me, nor would I if I could. If you ever want a friend, you will find one in me. But do not think of me as your lover, or treat me as if I were always lying in wait for a chance to remind you of it. That I shall never do, never. Oh, no, of course not! I broke forth, my face all in a glow, and tears of mortification raining down my cheeks. I knew you did not care for me. I knew you had got over it. I don't know which of us began it. I don't think he did, and I am sure I did not. But the next moment I was folded up in his great long arms, and a new life had begun. Mother opened the door not long after, and seeing what was going on, trotted away on her dear feet as fast as she could. April 21st. I am too happy to write journals. To think how we love each other. Mother behaves beautifully. April 25th. One does not feel like saying much about it, when one is as happy as I am. I walk the street as one treading on air. I fly about the house as on wings. I kiss everybody I see. Now that I look at Ernest, for he makes me call him so, with unprajudiced eyes, I wonder I ever thought him clumsy. How ridiculous it was in me to confound his dignity and manliness with age. It is very odd, however, that such a cautious, well-balanced man should have fallen in love with me that day at Sunday School. And still stranger, that with my headlong impulsive nature, I deliberately walked into love with him. I believe we never shall get through what we have to say to each other. I am afraid we are rather selfish to leave Mother to herself every evening. September 5th. This has been a delightful summer. To be sure we had to take the children to the country for a couple months, but Ernest's letters are almost better than Ernest himself. I have written to him enough to fill a dozen books. We are going back to the city now. In his last letter, Ernest says that he has been home, and that his mother is delighted to hear of his engagement. He says, too, that he went to see an old lady, one of the friends of his boyhood, to tell the news to her. When I told her, he goes on, that I found the most beautiful, the noblest, the most loving of human beings, she only said, of course, of course. Now you know, dear, that that is not at all, of course, but the very strangest, most wonderful event in the history of the world. And then he described a scene he had just witnessed at the deathbed of a young girl of my own age, who left this world in every possible earthly joy with delight at going to be with Christ that made him really eloquent. Oh, how glad I am that God has cast in my lot with a man whose whole business is to minister to others. I am sure this will, of itself, keep him unworldly and unselfish. How delicious it is to love such a character, and how happy I shall be to go with him to sick rooms and to dying beds. He has already taught me that lessons learned in such scenes far outweigh in value what books and sermons even can teach.  I am going to be married, to think that I am always to be with Ernest, to sit at the table with him every day, to pray with him, to go to church with him, to have him all nine. I am sure that there is not another man on earth whom I could love as I love him. The thought of marrying Cha, I mean of having that silly school girl engagement, and in marriage, was always repugnant to me. But I give myself to Ernest joyfully and with all my heart. How good God has been to me. I do hope and pray that this new, this absorbing love has not detached my soul from him, will not detach it. If I knew it would, could I? Should I have the courage to cut it off and cast it from me? January 16, 1837 Yesterday was my birthday, and today is my wedding day. We meant to celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday would come this year on the fifteenth. I am dressed and have turned everybody out of this room, where I have suffered so much mortification and experienced so much joy, that before I give myself to Ernest, and before I leave home forever, I may once more give myself away to God. I have been too much absorbed in my earthly love, and am shocked to find how it fills my thoughts. But I will belong to God. I will begin my married life in his fear, depending on him to make me an unselfish, devoted wife. January 25th We had a delightful trip after the wedding was over. Ernest proposed to take me to his own home, that I might see his mother and sister. He has never said that he wanted them to see me, but his mother is not well. I am heartily glad of it. I mean, I was glad to escape going there to be examined and criticized. Every one of them would pick at me, I am sure, and I don't like to be picked at. We have a home of our own, and I am trying to take kindly to housekeeping. Ernest is away a great deal more than I expected he would be. I am fearfully lonely. Auntie comes to see me as often as she can, and I go there almost every day, but that doesn't amount to much. As soon as I can venture to do it, I shall ask Ernest to let me invite mother to come and live with us. It is not right for her to be left alone so. I hoped he would do that himself, but men are not like women. We think of everything. February 15th Our honeymoon ends today. There hasn't been quite as much honey in it as I expected. I suppose that Ernest would be at home every evening, at least, and that he would read aloud and have me play and sing, and that we should have delightful times together. But now he has got me, he seems satisfied, and goes about his business as if he had been married a hundred years. In the morning he goes off to see his list of patients. He is going in and out all day. After dinner we sit down and have a nice talk together. The doorbell invariably rings and he is caught away. Then in the evening he goes and sits in his office and studies. I don't mean every minute, but he certainly spends hours there.  I could not help crying when I read it. It was so kind and loving. Ernest looked amazed. He threw down his paper and came and took me in his arms and asked, What is the matter, darling? Then it all came out. I said I was lonely and hadn't been used to spending all my evenings all by myself. You must get some of your friends to come and see you, poor child, he said. I don't want friends, I sobbed out. I want you. Yes, darling, why didn't you tell me so sooner? Of course I will stay with you if you wish it. If that is your only reason, I am sure I don't want you, I pouted. He looked puzzled. I really don't know what to do, he said with a most comical look of perplexity, but he went to his office and brought up a pile of fusty old books. Now, dear, he said, we understand each other, I think. I can read here just as well as downstairs. Get your book and we shall be as cozy as possible. My heart felt sore and dissatisfied. Am I unreasonable and childish? What is married life?  Or is it the sacred union of the twain who walk together side by side, knowing each other's joys and sorrows and going heavenward, hand in hand? February 17th. Mrs. Embry has been here today. I longed to compare notes with her and find out whether it really is my fault that I'm not quite happy. But I could not bear to open my heart to her on so sacred a subject. We had some general conversation, however. Which did me good for the time, at least. She said she thought one of the first lessons a wife should learn is self-forgetfulness. I wondered if she had seen anything in me to call forth this remark. We meet pretty often, partly because our husbands are such good friends, partly because she is as fond of music as I am. And we like to sing and play together, and I never see her that she does not do or say something elevating, something that strengthens my own best purposes and desires. But she knows nothing of my conflict and dismay, and never will. Her gentle nature responds at once to holy influences. I feel truly grateful to her for loving me, for she really does love me, and yet she must see my faults. I should like to know if there is any reason on earth, why a woman should learn self-forgetfulness that does not involve a man. February 18th. Uncle says he no doubt owes his life to Ernest, who, in the face of opposition to other physicians, insisted on his giving up his business and going off to Europe at just the right moment. For his partner, whose symptoms were very like his own, has been stricken down with paralysis and will not recover. It is very pleasant to hear Ernest praise, and it is a pleasure I have very often, for his friends come to see me and speak of him with rapture. A lady told me that through the long illness of a sweet young daughter of hers, he prayed with her every day, ministering so skillfully to her soul that all fear of death was taken away, and she just longed to go, and did go at last with perfect delight. I think he spoke of her to me once, but he did not tell me that her preparations for death were his work. I could not conceive of him doing that. February 24th. Ernest has been gone a week.  I wanted to go, too, but he said it was not worthwhile, as he should have to return directly. Dr. Embry takes charge of his patients during his absence, and Mrs. E., and Auntie, and the children come to see me very often. I like Mrs. Embry more and more. She is not so audacious as I am, but I believe she agrees with me more than she will own. February 25th.  I am mean enough to want all his love myself, while I should hate him if he gave none to her. Poor Ernest. If she should die, he would be sadly afflicted. February 27th. She died the very day he wrote. How I longed to fly to him and to comfort him. I can think of nothing else. I pray day and night that God would make me a better wife. A letter came from Mother at the same time with Ernest's. She evidently misses me more than she will own. Just as soon as Ernest returns home, I will ask him to let her come and live with us. I am sure he will. He loves her already, and now that his mother has gone, he will find her real comfort. I am sure she will only make our home happier. February 28th. Such a dreadful thing is going to happen. I have cried and called myself names by turns all day. Ernest writes that it has been decided to give up the old homestead and scatter the family about among the married sons and daughters. Our share is to be his father and his sister Martha, and he desires me to have two rooms got ready for them at once. So all the glory and the beauty is snatched out of my married life in one swoop. And it is done by the hand I love best, and that I would not have believed could be so unkind. I am rent in pieces by conflicting emotions and passions. One moment I am all tenderness and sympathy for poor Ernest and ready to sacrifice everything for his pleasure. The next I am bitterly angry with him for disposing of all my happiness in this arbitrary way. If he had let me make common cause with him and share his interests with him, I know I am not so abominably selfish as to feel as I do now, but he forces two perfect strangers upon me and forever shuts our doors against my darling mother. For, of course, she cannot live with us if they do.  It is not everybody I can get along with, nor is it everybody that can get along with me. Now, if Helen were coming instead of Martha, that would be some relief. I could love her, I am sure, and she would put up with my ways. But you're Martha I am afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, what a nest of scorpions this affair has stirred up within me. Who would believe I could be thinking of my own misery while Ernest's mother, whom he loved so dearly, is hardly in the grave. But I have no heart, I am stony and cold. It is well to have found out just what I am. Since I wrote that, I have been trying to tell God all about it. But I could not speak for crying, and I have been getting the rooms ready. How many little things I had planned to put in the best one, which I intended for mother. I have made myself arrange them, just the same for Ernest's father. The stuffed chair I have had in my room and enjoyed so much has been rolled in, and the Bible with large print placed on the little table, near which I had pictured mother, with her sweet pale face, sitting year after year. The only thing I have taken away is a copy of father's portrait. He wouldn't want that. When I finished this business, I went and shook my fist at the creature I saw on the glass. You're beaten, I cried. You didn't want to give up the chair, nor your writing table, nor the Bible, in which you expect to record the names of your ten children, but you had to do it. So there. March 3. They all got here at seven o'clock last night, just in time for tea. I was so glad to get hold of Ernest once more that I was gracious to my guests, too. The very first thing, however, Ernest annoyed me by calling me Catherine, though he knows I hate that name and want to be called Katie, as if I were a lovable person, as I certainly am, sometimes. Of course his father and Martha called me Catherine, too. His father is even taller, darker, blacker-eyed, blacker-haired than he. Martha is a spinster. I had got up a nice little supper for them, thinking they would need something substantial after their journey, and perhaps there was some vanity in the display of dainties that needed the mortification I felt at seeing my guests both push away their plates in apparent disgust. Ernest, too, looked annoyed and expressed some regret that they could find nothing to tempt their appetites. Martha said something about not expecting much from young housekeepers, which I inwardly resented, for the light delicious bread had been sent by auntie, together with other luxuries from her own table, and I knew they were not the handiwork of a young housekeeper but of old Chloe who had lived in her own and her mother's family twenty years. Ernest went out as soon as this unlucky repast was over, to hear Dr. Embry's report of his patience, and we passed a dreary evening, as my mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. The more I tried to think of something to say, the more I couldn't. At last Martha asked at what time we breakfasted. At half past seven precisely, I answered, Ernest is very punctual about breakfast. The other meals are more irregular. That is very late, she returned. Father rises early and needs his breakfast at once. I said I would see that he had it as early as he liked, while I foresaw that this would cost me a battle with the divinity who reigned in the kitchen. You need not trouble yourself. I will speak to my brother about it, she said. Ernest has nothing to do with it, I said quickly. She looked at me in a speechless way. And then there was a long silence, during which she shook her head a number of times. At last she inquired, Did you make the bread we had on the table tonight? No, I do not know how to make bread, I said, smiling at her look of horror. Not know how to make bread, she cried. The very spirit of mischief got into me and made me ask, Why, can you? Now I know that there is but one other question I could have asked her, that would have been less insulting. And that is, Do you know the Ten Commandments? A spinster, fresh from a farm, not know how to make bread, to be sure. But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry I had yielded myself so far as to forget the courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just come from a scene of sorrow. So I rushed across the room, seized her hand and said eagerly, Do forgive me, it slipped out before I thought. She looked at me in blank amazement, unconscious that there was anything to forgive. How you startled me, she said. I thought you had suddenly gone crazy. I went back to my seat, crest fallen enough. All this time Ernest's father had sat grim in grave in his corner without a word. But now he spoke. At what hour does my son have family worship? I should like to retire. I feel very weary. Now family worship at night, consistent, are kneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing before going to bed and in our own room. The awful thought of changing this sweet informal habit into a formal one made me reply quickly, Oh Ernest is very irregular about it. He is often out in the evening. And sometimes we are up quite late. I hope you never will feel obligated to wait for him. I trust I shall do my duty whatever it costs, was the answer. Oh, how I wished they would go to bed. It was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and restless. When Ernest is out late, I usually lie on the sofa and wait for him, so in bright and fresh when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and there was no knowing for how long. I poked at the fire, and knocked down the shovel and tongs. Now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned forward, and then I listened for his step. At last he came. What? Are you not all gone to bed? he asked, as if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen him a moment since his return. I explained why we waited, and then we had prayer and escorted our guests to their rooms. When we got back to the parlor, I was thankful to rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what he had to tell about his mother's last hours. You must love me more than ever now, he said, for I have lost my best friend. Yes, I said I will, as if that were possible. All the time we were talking, I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem to notice it. I found this morning that Martha, or her father, or both together, had changed the position of every article furniture in the room, making it look a fright. End of Chapter 10, Recording by Teresa Downey