Frieda was relied upon for help, and her sister for glory. And when I
failed as a milliner's apprentice, while Frieda made excellent progress
at the dressmaker's, our fates, indeed, were sealed. It was understood,
even before we reached Boston, that she would go to work and I to
school. In view of the family prejudices, it was the inevitable course.
No injustice was intended. My father sent us hand in hand to school,
before he had ever thought of America. If, in America, he had been able
to support his family unaided, it would have been the culmination of his
best hopes to see all his children at school, with equal advantages at
home. But when he had done his best, and was still unable to provide
even bread and shelter for us all, he was compelled to make us children
self-supporting as fast as it was practicable. There was no choosing
possible; Frieda was the oldest, the strongest, the best prepared, and
the only one who was of legal age to be put to work.

My father has nothing to answer for. He divided the world between his
children in accordance with the laws of the country and the compulsion
of his circumstances. I have no need of defending him. It is myself that
I would like to defend, and I cannot. I remember that I accepted the
arrangements made for my sister and me without much reflection, and
everything that was planned for my advantage I took as a matter of
course. I was no heartless monster, but a decidedly self-centered child.
If my sister had seemed unhappy it would have troubled me; but I am
ashamed to recall that I did not consider how little it was that
contented her. I was so preoccupied with my own happiness that I did not
half perceive the splendid devotion of her attitude towards me, the
sweetness of her joy in my good luck. She not only stood by approvingly
when I was helped to everything; she cheerfully waited on me herself.
And I took everything from her hand as if it were my due.