be fuel to her burning desire
for her nobleness of life, instead of dust to choke it? You can make them
which you will.

Girls often say, "I have nothing to do, worth doing, at home; I want to go
and do some real work;" and they sometimes have the face to say this,
while they are still as full of faults as when they left school, and when
every hour of the day, at home, brings with it an opportunity of
conquering some fault.

Are you ready for real work? Can you take criticism or contradiction with
a perfectly unruffled face and voice? Do you overcome your hindrances to
usefulness at home, _e.g._ do you improve your handwriting so that your
mother need not be ashamed to let you write for her? Do you help her
tactfully and consentingly--the only help which rests people--or do you
argue each point, so that it is far less trouble to do the thing twice
over than to ask you? Are you prompt and alert in your movements, or do
you indulge in that exasperating slowness, which some girls seem to
consider quite a charm? Do you wait till the last minute, and then
leisurely put on your things, with serene unconsciousness of the fret it
is to every one's temper? If you want to see how unthoroughbred such a
habit looks, read "Shirley," and study the character of Mr. Donne, the
curate, who flatters himself that he enhances his importance by keeping
the others waiting while he complacently finishes his tea.

Do you lay down the law. Do you allow yourself the tone of positive,
almost dictatorial, assertion, which, coming from a girl, so sets an
old-fashioned person's teeth on edge; or do you try to speak in the
tentative, suggestive, inquiring tone, which is not only required by good
manners, but is also a real help to humility of mind?

Do not say that these things are too simple and obvious to bear on your
future work for the Relief of Man's Estate,--on Work with a big W. They
are of the very essence of the formation of character, and your Work for
others stands or falls by that.

The sanctifying influence of home-life lies mainly in its necessity, its
obviousness,--in the fact of our remaining unprofitable servants after we
have done our best. It is the school in which we are placed by God; we are
_bound_ to learn its lessons, and do its duties: there is no halo of
self-sacrifice around it--the position rightly viewed gives us no choice.
"I must,"--_there_ is the sting, the irksomeness to us. We can submit
cheerfully to our self-c