Stepping Heavenward [19]
over it, and guard it like the apple of your eye. Imperceptibly, but surely, it will grow, and keep on growing, for this is its nature."
"But I don't want to wait," I said, despondently. "I have just been reading a delightful book, full of stories of heroic deeds-not fables, but histories of real events and real people. It has quite stirred me up, and made me wish to possess such beautiful heroism, and that I were a man, that I might have a chance to perform some truly noble, self-sacrificing acts."
"I dare say your chance will come," she replied, "though you are not a man. I fancy we all get, more or less, what we want."
"Do you really think so? Let me see, then, what I want most. But I am staying too long. Were you particularly busy?"
"No," she returned smilingly, "I am learning that the man who wants me is the man I want."
"You are very good to say so. Well, in the first place, I do really and truly want to be good. Not with common goodness, you know, but-"
"But uncommon goodness," she put in.
"I mean that I want to be very, very good. I should like next best to be learned and accomplished. Then I should want to be perfectly well and perfectly happy. And a pleasant home, of course, I must have, with friends to love me, and like me, too. And I can't get along without some pretty, tasteful things about me. But you are laughing at me! Have I said anything foolish?"
"If I laughed it was not at you, but at poor human nature that would fain grasp everything at once. Allowing that you should possess all you have just described, where is the heroism you so much admire for exercise?"
"That is just what I was saying. That is just what troubles me."
"To be sure, while perfectly well and happy, in a pleasant home; with friends to love and admire you--"
"Oh, I did not say admire," I interrupted.
"That was just what you meant, my dear."
I am afraid it was, now I come to think it over.
"Well, with plenty of friends, good in an uncommon way, accomplished, learned, and surrounded with pretty and tasteful objects, your life will certainly be in danger of not proving very sublime."
"It is a great pity," I said, musingly.
"Suppose then you content yourself for the present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent way all the little, homely tasks that return with each returning day, each one as unto God, and perhaps by and by you will thus have gained strength for a more heroic life."
"But I don't know how."
"You have some little home duties, I suppose?"
"Yes; I have the care of my own room, and mother wants me to have a general oversight of the parlor; you know we have but one parlor now."
"Is that all you have to do?"
"Why, my music and drawing take up a good deal of my time, and I read and study more or less, and go out some, and we have a good many visitors."
"I suppose, then, you keep your room in nice lady-like order, and that the parlor is dusted every morning, loose music put out of the way, books restored to their places-"
"Now I know mother has been telling you."
"Your mother has told me nothing at all."
"Well, then," I said, laughing, but a little ashamed, "I don't keep my room in nice order, and mother really sees to the parlor herself, though I pretend to do it."
"And is she never annoyed by this neglect?"
"Oh, yes, very much annoyed."
"Then, dear Katy, suppose your first act of heroism tomorrow should be the gratifying your mother in these little things, little though they are. Surely your first duty, next to pleasing God, is to please your mother, and in every possible way to sweeten and beautify her life. You may depend upon it that a life of real heroism and self-sacrifice must begin and lay its foundation in this little world, wherein it learns its first lesson and takes its first steps."
"And do you really think that God notices such little things ?"
"My dear child, what a question! If there is any one truth I would gladly impress on the mind of a you Christian, it is just this, that God notices the most trivial act, accepts the
"But I don't want to wait," I said, despondently. "I have just been reading a delightful book, full of stories of heroic deeds-not fables, but histories of real events and real people. It has quite stirred me up, and made me wish to possess such beautiful heroism, and that I were a man, that I might have a chance to perform some truly noble, self-sacrificing acts."
"I dare say your chance will come," she replied, "though you are not a man. I fancy we all get, more or less, what we want."
"Do you really think so? Let me see, then, what I want most. But I am staying too long. Were you particularly busy?"
"No," she returned smilingly, "I am learning that the man who wants me is the man I want."
"You are very good to say so. Well, in the first place, I do really and truly want to be good. Not with common goodness, you know, but-"
"But uncommon goodness," she put in.
"I mean that I want to be very, very good. I should like next best to be learned and accomplished. Then I should want to be perfectly well and perfectly happy. And a pleasant home, of course, I must have, with friends to love me, and like me, too. And I can't get along without some pretty, tasteful things about me. But you are laughing at me! Have I said anything foolish?"
"If I laughed it was not at you, but at poor human nature that would fain grasp everything at once. Allowing that you should possess all you have just described, where is the heroism you so much admire for exercise?"
"That is just what I was saying. That is just what troubles me."
"To be sure, while perfectly well and happy, in a pleasant home; with friends to love and admire you--"
"Oh, I did not say admire," I interrupted.
"That was just what you meant, my dear."
I am afraid it was, now I come to think it over.
"Well, with plenty of friends, good in an uncommon way, accomplished, learned, and surrounded with pretty and tasteful objects, your life will certainly be in danger of not proving very sublime."
"It is a great pity," I said, musingly.
"Suppose then you content yourself for the present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent way all the little, homely tasks that return with each returning day, each one as unto God, and perhaps by and by you will thus have gained strength for a more heroic life."
"But I don't know how."
"You have some little home duties, I suppose?"
"Yes; I have the care of my own room, and mother wants me to have a general oversight of the parlor; you know we have but one parlor now."
"Is that all you have to do?"
"Why, my music and drawing take up a good deal of my time, and I read and study more or less, and go out some, and we have a good many visitors."
"I suppose, then, you keep your room in nice lady-like order, and that the parlor is dusted every morning, loose music put out of the way, books restored to their places-"
"Now I know mother has been telling you."
"Your mother has told me nothing at all."
"Well, then," I said, laughing, but a little ashamed, "I don't keep my room in nice order, and mother really sees to the parlor herself, though I pretend to do it."
"And is she never annoyed by this neglect?"
"Oh, yes, very much annoyed."
"Then, dear Katy, suppose your first act of heroism tomorrow should be the gratifying your mother in these little things, little though they are. Surely your first duty, next to pleasing God, is to please your mother, and in every possible way to sweeten and beautify her life. You may depend upon it that a life of real heroism and self-sacrifice must begin and lay its foundation in this little world, wherein it learns its first lesson and takes its first steps."
"And do you really think that God notices such little things ?"
"My dear child, what a question! If there is any one truth I would gladly impress on the mind of a you Christian, it is just this, that God notices the most trivial act, accepts the