wanted to take what belonged to another, whether in the family or
out of it. I hated the sight of the little sugar horseback rider
from that day, and was thankful enough when some other child had
bought him and left his place in the window vacant.

About this time I used to lie awake nights a good deal, wondering
what became of infants who were wicked. I had heard it said that
all who died in infancy went to heaven, but it was also said that
those who sinned could not possibly go to heaven. I understood,
from talks I had listened to among older people, that infancy
lasted until children were about twelve years of age. Yet here
was I, an infant of less than six years, who had committed a sin.
I did not know what to do with my own case. I doubted whether it
would do any good for me to pray to be forgiven, but I did pray,
because I could not help it, though not aloud. I believe I
preferred thinking my prayers to saying them, almost always.

Inwardly, I objected to the idea of being an infant; it seemed to
me like being nothing in particular--neither a child nor a little
girl, neither a baby nor a woman. Having discovered that I was
capable of being wicked, I thought it would be better if I could
grow up at once, and assume my own responsibilities. It quite
demoralized me when people talked in my presence about "innocent
little children."

There was much questioning in those days as to whether fictitious
reading was good for children. To "tell a story" was one
equivalent expression for lying. But those who came nearest to
my child-life recognized the value of truth as impressed through
the imagination, and left me in delightful freedom among my