riend, Uncle Ralph's only daughter. These two, of the same age, had
been correspondents almost from their babyhood; and yet they had never
seen each other's faces.

To go to New York, to her uncle's house, to see and be with Cousin
Abbie, had been the one great dream of Ester's heart--as likely to be
realized, she could not help acknowledging, as a journey to the moon,
and no more so. New York was at least five hundred miles away; and
the money necessary to carry her there seemed like a small fortune to
Ester, to say nothing of the endless additions to her wardrobe which
would have to be made before she would account herself ready. So she
contented herself, or perhaps it would be more truthful to say she
made herself discontented, with ceaseless dreams over what New York,
and her uncle's family, and, above all, Cousin Abbie, were like; and
whether she would ever see them; and why it had always happened that
something was sure to prevent Abbie's visits to herself; and whether
she should like her as well, if she could be with her, as she did now;
and a hundred other confused and disconnected thoughts about them all.

Ester had no idea what this miserable, restless dreaming of hers was
doing for her. She did not see that her very desires after a better
life, which were sometimes strong upon her, were colored with
impatience and envy.

Cousin Abbie was a Christian, and wrote her some earnest letters;
but to Ester it seemed a very easy matter indeed for one who was
surrounded, as she imagined Abbie to be, by luxury and love, to be
a joyous, eager Christian. Into this very letter that poor Julia had
sent sailing down the stream, some of her inmost feelings had been
poured.

"Don't think me devoid of all aspirations after something higher,"
so the letter ran. "Dear Abbie, you, in your sunny home, can never
imagine how wildly I long sometimes to be free from my surroundings,
free from petty cares and trials, and vexations, which, I feel, are
eating out my very life. Oh, to be free for one hour, to feel
myself at liberty, for just one day, to follow my own tastes and
inclinations; to be the person I believe God designed me to be; to
fill the niche I believe He designed me to fill! Abbie, I _hate_ my
life. I have not a happy moment. It is all rasped, and warped, and
unlovely. I am nothing, and I know it; and I had rather, for my own
comfort, be like the most of those who surround me--nothing, and not
know it. Sometimes I can