Will our women never learn that they are giving health and strength, almost life, “for that which satisfieth not”? Once in a while, when the bondage has pressed too heavily, and they sink exhausted on a sick-bed, some few wake to a dreamy kind of consciousness of their folly; or a mother, who has endeavored to make her little girl as “fine as the finest,” is prostrated by giving her strength for this absurd waste of time and comfort, and begins to see that there is a better way she can manifest her love for her child. A year or two ago we received a letter, from which we will copy a few sentences:-- “I have been trying to get away to the country with my family of two little girls and the baby; and, that they might appear in as fine feathers as any other birds, have overworked and gone to bed sick, instead of being seated in a nice parlor-car, inhaling the pure country air, as we whirl along, away from the city.... When I was a girl, we wore _our own hair_; and a white muslin dress, with a fresh ribbon for a sash, was all that was needed for the largest party. And how we did enjoy ourselves, and life! The elderly people talked, or played whist, while the young ones danced right merrily the old, square cotillion, Virginia reel, etc.; and mirth and pleasure was the _finale_ of many a day whose early hours had been given to domestic duties, which then were shared by all at home. _One day_ with a dress-maker, and _no_ machine, made a dress entire, without fatigue. The “_artiste_” was often a lady like ourselves, and sat at the same board, and did her work conscientiously, while the day she passed with us was no dreaded ordeal, but rather a pleasure to look forward to.... “Well, to-day, lying on my bed, overtaxed and overworked, I have been thinking of these things, and then of other mothers, who, like myself, spend all their strength in toil, and lie awake all night, ‘too tired to sleep’; and so employ the wakeful hours in planning work for another day, using up as fast as possible the precious gift of life, which the good Father above gave to us.” Now, why can we not be content to live happily and easily? I speak not of the sorrows that from time to time come upon us, when the heart bleeds, and the wounds quiver long; for the deep scars which tell where the strain was hardest, tell also of the healing which He who scourges never fails to bring. _God did it._ But the toil of sorrow and care we make for ourselves have no promise of His relieving. The slavery of fashion, which so often leads to sin, cannot be carried to his throne, and left there for a blessing. Will not some one tell us some practical way to begin a reform, to release us from a bondage which is becoming intolerable?