Not that I felt inclined for sleep. Oh dear no! I just dragged the
big easy-chair to the window, and sat there listening to the patter
of summer rain on the leaves.

It was very dark, for the moon had hidden her face; but through the
cool dampness there crept a delicious fragrance of wet jasmine and
lilies. I wanted to have a good "think;" not to sit down and take
myself to pieces. Oh no, that was Carrie's way. Such introspection
bored me and did me little good, for it only made me think more of
myself and less of the Master; but I wanted to review the past
fortnight, and look the future in the face. Foolish Esther! As though
we can look at a veiled face. Only the past and the present is ours;
the future is hidden with God.

Yes, a fortnight ago I was a merry, heedless schoolgirl, with no
responsibilities and few duties, except that laborious one of
self-improvement, which must go on, under some form or other, until
we die. And now, on my shrinking shoulders lay the weight of a woman's
work. I was to teach others, when I knew so little myself; it was I
who was to have the largest share of home administration--I, who was
so faulty, so imperfect.

Then I remembered a sentence Carrie had once read to me out of one
of her innumerable books, and which had struck me very greatly at the
time.

"Happy should I think myself," said St. Francis de Sales, "if I
could rid myself of my imperfections but one quarter of an hour
previous to my death."