The old adage of a poor beginning makes a good ending, may have been true in my case; certain it is that my sorest mishaps, or those I had least strength to bear, came between my fifth and sixteenth birthdays. After this came the happy period in which I was helpmeet to my mother, and the gaining of an almost complete victory over my temper, even when teased by Hal, who at that time was developing rapidly into manhood and was growing very handsome.

I was not changed outwardly, unless my smile was more bright and frequent, as became my feelings, and my eyes, I know, shot fewer dark glances at those around me when mishaps, although less frequent, came sometimes to me. My good angel was with me oftener then, I thought, and as I often told mother, it seemed to me I had daily a two-fold growth, meaning that there was the growing consciousness of a nature pulsating as a life within my heart that seemed like a strong full tide constantly bearing me up. I scarcely understood it then, but now I know I had, as every one has, a dual nature, one side of which had never been allowed to appear above its earthly covering.

My daily trials, coming always from luckless mistakes of my own, were equal in their effect to the killing of my blossoms, for if any dared to show their heads an untimely word or deed would bring a reproach—if only in the three words, "Emily did it"—and this reproach was like the stamping of feet on violet buds, breaking, crushing and robbing them of their sweet promise. The life then must go back into the roots and a long time elapse ere they could again burst forth; so all my better nature, with its higher thoughts longing to develop, was forced down and back, and now, in the enjoyment of more favorable environment, I was beginning to realize the fruitful life which daily grew upon me, and with it came strength of mind and purpose and an imagery of thought that filled my soul to a delicious fullness.

What a power those conditions were to me! I drank joy in everything. My mother's step was as music, and her teachings even in household affairs a blessing to my spirit. I remember how one day in September I was dishing soup for dinner, the thought—suppose that she dies—came rushing over me like a cold wave, and I screamed aloud; dropping my soup-dish and all, and frightening poor mother almost out of her senses.

"Have you scalded yourself, dear?" she cried, running toward me, and I was nearly faint as I replied:

"Only a thought. I am so sorry about the soup, but it was a terrible thought," and then I told her.

No word of chiding came from her lips. I thought I saw tears in her eyes as she said: "I should not like to leave you, dear. We are very happy here together," and I know my eyes were moist as I thought, "Emily did it," but her mother understands her.

How necessary all those days of feeling, full and deep, combined with the details of practical life were to me, and although I shall never date pleasant memories back to my earlier years, still if I had been too carefully handled and nursed I never could have enjoyed those days so much.

Nearly twenty-four months of uninterrupted work and enjoyment passed over me—and here is a thought from that first experience in soul growth; I cannot ever believe that people will enjoy themselves lazily in heaven more than here; I have another, only a vague idea of how it will be, but I cannot think of being idle there—when a little change appeared, only to usher in what proved to be a greater one, and the days of the June month in which the first came I shall never forget. It was when Hal came to me, hemming and thinking under my favorite tree in the old orchard, while beside me lay my scrap-book in which I from time to time jotted thoughts as they came to me. Hal sat down beside me and said at once:

"I'm going to try it, Emily." I dropped hemming and thinking together, and said:

"Try what?"

"Try my luck."

I was only bewildered by his answer, and he continued:

"Emily, I'm determined to carry out the desires of my life, and now I am intent on a Western city as the place best calculated to inspire me with the courage and strength I need to carry out my aims and purposes, and I thought I'd tell you now that I feel decided, and you will tell mother for me; will you?"

Never before in my life had I felt Hal so near to me. His manner toward me had changed, of course, as he grew into manhood, and "Emily, will you sew on this button?" or "Emily, are my stockings ready?" were given in place of "Emily did it," but now, as he looked full in my face, and even passed his arm about me with true brotherly affection, he seemed so near, that the hot tears chased each other down my cheeks, and I sat speechless with the feelings that overcame me. I thought of the handsome face—always handsome in whatever mood—opposite me at the table, of the manly form and dignified carriage I had watched with pride, and when I could speak, I said,

"Hal I cannot let you go." Hal was brave, but I knew he felt what I said, for his looks spoke volumes as he said,

"Shall you miss me so much?"

"Oh! Hal," I cried, "we love you, mother and I, I never knew how much till now." His head dropped a moment, and then he suddenly said,

"You are the best sister a fellow ever had," and swallowing something that rose in his throat, marched off through the fields directly away from the house. I gathered up my work and scrap book, went in and prepared the supper, showing outwardly no emotion, but with my heart throbbing as if it would tell the secret on which I pondered, while I wondered how I should tell my mother.

Hal came in late to supper. I rushed from the table when I heard his footsteps, and sought my room until I heard him coming up to his room, when I went down stairs and busied myself with my work as usual.

I washed the milk pans three or four times over that night, and was about carrying them into the "best room," when mother said,

"Why, Emily, we keep our milk pans in the buttery."

"Oh!" I said, turning suddenly and letting my pans fall and scatter. And when I picked them up and collected my senses, I thought, "I cannot tell mother to-night after all, Hal will stay with us." When things were at last in their places, I sauntered out through the lane in the beautiful moonlight, and coming back met Hal who took my hand in his and whispered,

"Tell mother to-morrow, please, I want to go away next month and some things are necessary to be done."

"Have you told father yet?"

"No, but he will not care."

"Father will care," I replied, "but you know since his misfortune, and his conclusion that he cannot do anything but carry on the farm, he seems to have lost his sprightly step and his cheery ways of old."

"Well, Emily," said Hal, "I am no help to him on the farm, and could not be if I tried, and the work I am doing now is anything but satisfying to me."

Then the thought occurred to me, I had no idea of what the boy desired to accomplish, and the question what would you do Hal? was answered in this wise—

"Wait till I've been away six months."

"To build mud houses and fill them with mud people, was your favorite amusement when you were a boy, I remember," I said, and he gave me such a queer look that I started with the impression that came with it, but said no more, and we walked along and went into the house together.

The next day after dinner, when we were cleared up and alone in quiet, I told mother. She was of course covered with surprise, but her words came in wisdom and she said:

"I can imagine what Halbert desires to do, and although the way looks anything but clear, still I know I can trust him anywhere. He is a blessed son and brother, Emily, and I doubt not I am selfish to feel saddened by the thought of his leaving home (and a tear drop fell as she spoke). I only fear he may be sick. His lungs are not very strong."

"What will father say?" I asked.

"Father's heart will miss him but he will not seek to stay an endeavor of his earnest, ambitious boy."

So my trial was not so hard as I had expected, and father was just as wise as mother, and I alone rebellious concerning his departure. I cried night and day whenever I could get a moment to cry in, and I could not help it. How perverse I felt, although doing all I could to forward his departure, which was daily coming nearer, and when the 4th of July came and with it the gala day which the entire country about us enjoyed, I could not and did not go to the pic-nic, or the speech ground, and I succeeded in making all at home nearly as unhappy as myself.