Let us for a moment imagine the scene. Not the moment of struggle, but the pause that succeeds. The angels of good have triumphed, and though the plumage of their wings may droop, they are white and dazzling so as no "fuller of earth could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests upon the battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled under feet. Strains of victorious music float in the air; but it comes from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into rest, those who behold the conflict from afar. It is so still, that one can almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the ambrosial gales of heaven. Is this poetry? Is it sacrilege? If so, forgive me, thou great Inspirer of thought,--"my spirit would fain not wander from thee." CHAPTER VI. The life of a school-girl presents but few salient points to arrest the interest. It is true, every day had its history, and every rising and setting sun found something added to the volume of my life. But there seems so little to describe! I could go on for ever, giving utterance to thoughts that used to crowd in my young brain, thoughts that would startle as well as amuse,--but I fear they might become monotonous to the reader. I had become a hard student. My mother wished me to fit myself for a teacher. It was enough. It was not, however, without many struggles. I had acquired this submission to her wishes. Must I forever be a slave to hours? Must I weave for others the chain whose daily restraint chafed and galled my free, impatient spirit? Must I bear the awful burden of authority, that unlovely appendage to youth? Must I voluntarily assume duties to which the task of the criminal that tramps, tramps day after day the revolving tread-mill, seems light; for that is mere physical labor and monotony, not the wear and tear of mind, heart, and soul? "What else can you do, my child?" asked my mother. "I could sew." My mother smiled and shook her head. "Your skill does not lie in handicraft," she said, "that would never do." "I could toil as a servant. I would far rather do it." I had worked myself up to a belief in my own sincerity when I said this, but had any tongue but mine suggested the idea, how would my aspiring blood have burned with indignation. "It is the most honorable path to independence a friendless young girl can choose,--almost the only one," said my mother, suppressing a deep sigh. "Oh, mother! I am not friendless. How can I be, with you and Peggy?" "But we are not immortal, my child. Every day loosens my frail hold of earthly things, and even Peggy's strong arm will in time grow weak. Your young strength will then be _her_ stay and support."