“I only wish that I were like you! I know I’m a proud, wayward girl, and shall never reach heaven unless I am better. I often make good resolutions, but somehow”—Mabel looked down sadly as she spoke,—“somehow they break away like thread in the flame! I wonder if I shall ever be really holy.” Ida laid down the muslin which she was working, and drawing closer to her young sister, said in a gentle tone, “You speak, dearest, of being holy and reaching heaven; of making good resolutions and not being able to keep them,—as if the impression were on your mind that you have to form, as it were, a ladder of good works, by which to reach a certain difficult height, beyond which lie the regions of glory.” “That’s just it,” said Mabel sadly, “and I am discouraged because I always find that my ladder is too short; that climb as I may, I never can reach the height that you do.” “I threw away my ladder long ago,” said Ida clasping her hands; “I found that every round in it was broken!” “O Ida, what do you mean? I am certain that you have never ceased to do good works daily.” “I would no more use them,” exclaimed Ida, “as _a means of reaching heaven_, than I would hope, by aid of yonder fragile clematis, to climb to the bright sun or stars! No,” she continued, her lip trembling with emotion as she spoke, “I would put those works which you call good, to the only use for which they are fit; if the fire of love kindle the broken, imperfect fragments, I may humbly offer upon them a sacrifice of thanksgiving to Him through whom alone I have hope of reaching the heavenly heights.” “But, Ida, I can hardly yet see how _every round_ on the ladder of good works is broken. I am sure that some—at least of _yours_, must be very pleasing to God.” “Let us examine them closely,” replied Ida, “let us fix upon what you consider the very best of our works, and let us see if it could, even for a moment, in itself support the weight of a soul.” Mabel considered for a little, and then said, “Perhaps the best of our works is prayer.” “We shall not need much examination, I fear, to find that our prayers are cold, wandering, insincere.” “Cold sometimes, yes,—but—” “And sadly wandering,” added Ida; “at least I am sure that I feel mine to be so. O Mabel! I have often reflected that if an angel could write down all the thoughts that flow through our minds while we kneel in the attitude of prayer,—the foolish fancies, the idle dreams, the vain selfish imaginations which mix with our earnest supplications, we should be so shocked and disgusted at such a mockery of devotion, that with penitence and shame we should implore that our prayers themselves should be forgiven!” “Yes; they are cold and wandering,—but I am sure that mine are not insincere.”