"among least things,
An undersense of greatest."

A girl tries to live nobly at home and fails: she is not enough wanted,
her mother is not blind, and does not want to be deposed from
housekeeping; her father is not paralytic, and only wants her to play to
him in the evening; life seems choked by tiny interruptions, such as doing
the flowers, or writing notes, and she sinks into a placid or unplacid
drudge--the aspirations with which she left school have died out.

Need this be? If she went into a sisterhood or a hospital, the tiny
details would all be glorified by the halo which surrounds a vocation; it
would all be part of a saintly life. Why is home not felt to be a
vocation? Why cannot a girl welcome some tiresome commission or fidgeting
rule of her mother's, as much as if it were imposed by some Mother
Superior? Ought not the trifling duties to 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