“And dependence!  Would you be willing to change places with me, and indolently wait for others to maintain you?” interrupted Beulah, looking keenly at the wan, yet lovely, face before her.

“Ah, gladly, if I had been selected as you were.  Once I too felt hopeful and joyous; but now life is dreary, almost a burden.  Be warned, Beulah; don’t suffer your haughty spirit to make you reject the offered home that may be yours.”

There was a strong approach to contempt in the expression with which Beulah regarded her, as the last words were uttered, and she answered coldly: 

“You are less a woman than I thought you, if you would be willing to live on the bounty of others when a little activity would enable you to support yourself.”

“Ah, Beulah! it is not only the bread you eat, or the clothes that you wear; it is sympathy and kindness, love and watchfulness.  It is this that a woman wants.  Oh, was her heart made, think you, to be filled with grammars and geographies and copy-books?  Can the feeling that you are independent and doing your duty satisfy the longing for other idols?  Oh, Duty is an icy shadow!  It will freeze you.  It cannot fill the heart’s sanctuary.  Woman was intended as a pet plant, to be guarded and cherished; isolated and uncared for, she droops, languishes, and dies.”  Ah! the dew-sparkle had exhaled and the morning glory had vanished; the noontide heat of the conflict was creeping on, and she was sinking down, impotent to continue the struggle.

“Clara Sanders, I don’t believe one word of all this languishing nonsense.  As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly geranium, I know better.  If you have concluded that you belong to that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that you will not put me in any such category.  Duty may be a cold shadow to you, but it is a vast volcanic agency constantly impelling me to action.  What was my will given to me for, if to remain passive and suffer others to minister to its needs?  Don’t talk to me about woman’s clinging, dependent nature.  You are opening your lips to repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines; I don’t want to hear it; there are no creeping tendencies about me.  You can wind, and lean, and hang on somebody else if you like; but I feel more like one of those old pine trees yonder.  I can stand up.  Very slim, if you will, but straight and high.  Stand by myself; battle with wind and rain and tempest roar; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless, I feel humbled when I hear a woman bemoaning the weakness of her sex, instead of showing that she has a soul and mind of her own inferior to none.”

“All that sounds very heroic in the pages of a novel, but the reality is quite another matter.  A tame, joyless, hopeless time you will have if you scorn good fortune, as you threaten, and go into the world to support yourself,” answered Clara impatiently.