I prayed for strength, and after the baptism of Mr. Ballou’s preaching, I thought, “This will help to make me stronger; now I shall make fewer mistakes.”

This was a comfort and a light before me, but my heart sank a little, thinking I might have penance to do for those already committed,—­coming events cast their shadows before.

So full of this thought my heart grew, that I asked Aunt Hildy one day if she ever felt trouble before it came, and if that feeling had ever helped her to avoid any part of what was to come.

“Well,” said she,—­she was coring and paring apples for pies,—­taking up the towel and wiping one apple three or four times over in an absent way, “Well, Emily, I’ve had a host of troubles in my day.  They began early, perhaps they’ll end late, but there is one thing, the things we expect are agoin’ to kill us, most allus turn out like the shadder of a gate post.  You know the shadder sometimes will be clean across the road, but when you find the post itself ’taint more’n five feet high.  Then again the things we don’t expect ’ll come some morning like a great harricane, and kill the marigolds of the heart in just a minit.”

I was sorry for her sake I had asked the question, for I knew there was something she thought of that pained her dear old heart, and I kissed her wrinkled cheek and said: 

“I hope you will always be with us, and trouble have no part in the matter.”

“There, there, child, don’t talk so; never mind kissin’ my old face neither, I’ve allus said it only made it worse to think of it, and I’ve shut up my heart tight and done the best I could as it comes along.  When I get in that new body I shall have over there,” and her tearful eyes were looking upward then, “perhaps I can hope to have some love that’ll touch that empty spot.”

I turned to my work and left Aunt Hildy with the shadows of the past clinging about her, her feelings being too sacred for the gaze even of a friend.  Every heart knoweth its bitterness, I thought, and secretly wondered if every heart had to bleed a little here, holding some sorrow close to itself.  If so, our duty in life would ever be a struggle, whereas it seemed to me the world was so beautiful, and if every life could reflect this beauty, all would be easy, and the pleasure of well-doing be always at hand.

Aunt Peg said ’twas easy enough to preach, but hard work to practise.  I began to realize it a little, and the teacher who gave me the most practical illustrations was myself.

I wrote a long letter to Louis, telling him of our going to hear Mr. Ballou preach, and of Matthias’ coming among us, and I felt like making him my confessor, and wanted to tell him all about the frantic endeavor I had made for Clara’s sake; but my letter was long enough when I felt this impulse, and I thought I could talk it all over with him when he came, and concluded to wait.  And here is another lesson, for me to stop and reflect on.  As time proved, that impulse was right, and I should have followed its guidance, while the sober second thought which I obeyed and of which I felt proud, led me to just the opposite of what I ought to have done.  How was I to find myself out?  If I yielded to impulse I was so often wrong, and in that instance I should certainly have been impulsive.  Again comes in the text, “the ways of life are past comprehending.”