“Look in the fire, and I’ll try to show you.” The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christie said in a tone half serious, half playful: “Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering dismally away in the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing is what I want my life to be.” “Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin’ where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?” Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy that pleased her, she added earnestly: “I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dull spot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling despondently among the cinders. But the other glows from end to end with cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with a pleasant sound. Its light fills the room and shines out into the dark; its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. Yes,” she added, as if to herself, “I hope my life may be like that, so that, whether it be long or short, it will be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes.” Though she only half understood them, the girl’s words touched the kind old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face gazing so wistfully into the fire. “A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would make the green stick burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only think so.” “I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; and if I fail, I’ll come back and follow your advice. Young folks always have discontented fits, you know. Didn’t you when you were a girl?” “Shouldn’t wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot ’em.” “My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I’m not going to sit and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn it for myself.” And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner plainly betrayed that, in Christie’s opinion, Aunt Betsey made a bad bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a man whose soul was in his pocket. “Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, and sot in her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin’ on.” Christie’s eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his paper with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it was like a dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked quickly: “How do you mean, sir?” “I mean that you are startin’ all wrong; your redic’lus notions about independence and self-cultur won’t come to nothin’ in the long run, and you’ll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother did of her’n.”