I have begun to read Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying." A month ago I should have found it a tedious, dry book. But I am reading it with a sort of avidity, like one seeking after hid treasure. Mother, observing what I was doing, advised me to read it straight through, but to mingle a passage now and then with chapters from other books. She suggested my beginning on Baxter's "Saints' Rest," and of that I have read every word. I shall read it over, as Dr. Cabot advised, till I have fully caught its spirit. Even this one reading has taken away my lingering fear of death, and made heaven awfully attractive. I never mean to read worldly books again, and my music and drawing I have given up forever. Chapter 7 VII. Mother asked me last evening to sing and play to her. I was embarrassed to know how to excuse myself without telling her my real reason for declining. But somehow she got it out of me. "One need not be fanatical in order to be religious," she said. "Is it fanatical to give up all for God?" I asked. "What is it to give up all?" she asked, in reply. "Why, to deny one's self every gratification and indulgence in order to mortify one's natural inclinations, and to live entirely for Him." "God is then a hard Master, who allows his children no liberty," she replied. "Now let us see where this theory will lead you. In the first place you must shut your eyes to all the beautiful things He has made. You must shut your eyes to all the harmonies He has ordained. You must shut your heart against all sweet human affections. You have a body, it is true, and it may revolt at such bondage--" "We are told to keep under the body," I interrupted. "Oh, mother, don't hinder me! You know my love for music is a passion and that it is my snare and temptation. And how can I spend my whole time in reading the Bible and praying, if I go on with my drawing? It may do for other people to serve both God and Mammon, but not for me. I must belong wholly to the world or wholly to Christ." Mother said no more, and I went on with my reading. But somehow my book seemed to have lost its flavor. Besides, it was time to retire for my evening devotions which I never put off now till the last thing at night, as I used to do. When I came down, Mother was lying on the sofa, by which I knew she was not well. I felt troubled that I had refused to sing to her. Think of the money she had spent on that part of my education! I went to her and kissed her with a pang of terror. What if she were going to be very sick, and to die? "It is nothing, darling," she said, "nothing at all. I am tired, and felt a little faint." I looked at her anxiously, and the bare thought that she might die and leave me alone was so terrible that I could hardly help crying out. And I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that if God took her from me, I could not, should not say: Thy will be done.