who are now middle-aged women. Some of them
have succeeded and some have failed in their purposes, and often in a
surprising way.

I remember a girl who left school at seventeen with the highest honors.
Immediately we began to see her name in the best magazines. The heavy
doors of literature seemed to swing open before her. Then suddenly we
heard no more of her. A dozen years later she was known to no one
outside her own circle. She was earning her living as book-keeper in a
large five-cent store! She led the life of a drudge, and that was not
the worst of it. She was a sensitive woman, and there was much that was
mortifying in her position. All her Greek and Italian books were packed
away. She knew no more of science than when she left school. At odd
minutes she read good novels, and that was all she had to do with
literature. Those who had expected much of her thought her life was a
failure, and she thought so too.

Yet there is another side to the picture. The aim she had set for
herself in life was not to be an author, though that idea had taken
strong hold on her, and she tried to realize it in spite of great
discouragements. This was her minor aim, but the grand aim with her had
always been to lead the divine life at whatever cost. It proved to cost
almost everything. Her utmost help was needed for her large family,
which was poor. Unusual as her success with editors had been, no girl of
seventeen could depend on a large income from magazines. A good salary
was offered her as book-keeper, and she accepted it.

She tried to continue her favorite occupation by rising early, but she
was not strong enough to go on long in that way. She sometimes had an
hour in the evening, but when she saw the wistful look in her mother's
face she would not shut herself up alone. At the rare times when she was
still free to choose she went back to her books and her pen, but she
could not do much, and at last she felt it would be better not to try.
It was simply a source of vexation, and she needed a serene mind above
all things.

The only way her life could open towards beauty or happiness at all was
by putting the true spirit into her daily work. With a resolute heart
she did this. No books were ever more beautifully kept than hers; every
figure was clear and perfect; every column was added without a mistake.
In short, she did her work like an artist.

To the sales-girls she was like a guardian angel. She might have written
goo