think I would rather be a washerwoman, provided I could acquire the
strength, than the wife of a struggling man who has all the refined
tastes and sensitive nerves of a gentleman, without a gentleman's
income. I should see him growing more and more careless, more and more
haggard, day after day; I should see myself growing old, ugly,
ill-tempered, and sick, hour after hour. I have not the moral force of
mind, or the physical force of body, to make a cold, half-furnished
house seem a haven of rest, a piece of corned-beef and potatoes
continued indefinitely through the week seem a delicious repast, or an
old-fashioned cloak and dowdy bonnet seem like my present pretty fresh
attire. Well! this being the case, I am afraid I am but a worldly
woman, and, as such, would I not wrong a poor man if I consented to be
his wife? Would he not be sure to repent when it was too late,--when
he had discovered the selfishness and love of luxury which are in me?
I know he would. I will not put myself in such a position. I will do
the best I can; but, as I cannot make myself over, I will select the
life which is best suited to me."

Here Sibyl sighed, and tried to bring her mind back upon her book. In
vain; her thoughts would wander. "There is poor Aunt Faith. I can
easily see how anxious she is about me, and how her heart aches over
my worldliness. I do love her dearly; all the good in me I owe to her,
and if I ever do anything right, it will be the result of her loving
guidance. Sometimes I am tempted to tell her all that is in my
heart,--all I have been thinking this afternoon, for instance. I
believe I will write it down now, and give it to her. She will
understand me better, then; and, if I request it, she will never
allude to the paper in words. Yes, I think I will do it." So Sibyl
took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and, in her clear handwriting,
wrote out her thoughts of the afternoon, adding a request that the