But Sibyl did not sleep. She went into the still parlor, and seated
herself by the window with a book; but her thoughts were busy, and
only her eyes were fixed upon the page, as her mind wandered far away
from the author's subject. "Shall I or shall I not go to Saratoga?"
she mused. "This is more than the mere question of a summer journey;
I know that very well. It is, I feel it, a turning-point in my life.
Can I deliberately give up my ambition, my hopes, all my prospects for
a bright and prosperous future? Is it, after all, wrong to like wealth
and ease? Is it wrong to like elegance and refinement, the society of
cultivated people, and the charming surroundings which only money can
bring? I have an innate horror of misery,--an inability to endure the
want of all that is beautiful in life. I think I could be a very good
woman in an elegant city home, with all my little wishes gratified,
and nothing to offend my taste. But I fear, yes, I know, I should be
a miserable, if not a wicked woman, in a poor home, with nothing but
rasping, wearing poverty, day after day. Why, the very smell and steam
of the wet flannels coming from the kitchens of small houses where I
have happened to be on washing-days, has made me uncomfortable for
hours. I know I am not heroic, but I am afraid I was not intended for
a heroine. I know myself and all my faults thoroughly. I am sure I
should be generous with my money if I was rich,--kind to the poor, and
regular in the discharge of all my religious duties. People would love
me; I should make them happy, and be happy myself. Now the question
is, am I right in thinking such a life far better for me, constituted
as I am, than any other?

"Let me look at the opposite side, now. It is not likely I should ever
be obliged to work at severe manual labor; but the annoyances and
privations of a limited income seem to me almost worse than that. I