own the history that it has, I have at least
a certain respect for it, myself, in that it did not represent
shiftlessness or sloth, but steady and conscientious toil. There was
not a page in it which had not been subjected to such study as the
writer then knew how to offer to her manuscripts.

Every sentence had received the best attention which it was in the
power of my inexperience and youth to give. I wrote and rewrote. The
book was revised so many times that I could have said it by heart.
The process of forming and writing "The Gates Ajar" lasted, I think,
nearly two years.

I had no study or place to myself in those days; only the little room
whose one window looked upon the garden cross, and which it was not
expected would be warmed in winter.

The room contained no chimney, and, until I was sixteen, no fire for
any purpose. At that time, it being supposed that some delicacy of the
lungs had threatened serious results, my father, who always moved the
sods beneath him and the skies above him to care for a sick child, had
managed to insert a little stove into the room, to soften its chill
when needed. But I did not have consumption, only life; and one was
not expected to burn wood all day for private convenience in our
furnace-heated house. Was there not the great dining-room where the
children studied?

It was not so long since I, too, had learned my lessons off the
dining-room table, or in the corner by the register, that it should
occur to any member of the family that these opportunities for privacy
could not answer my needs.

Equally, it did not occur to me to ask for any abnormal luxuries. I
therefore made the best of my conditions, though I do remember sorely
longing for quiet.

This, at that time, in that house, it was impossible for me to
compass. There was a growing family of noisy boys--four of them--of
whom I was the only sister, as I was the oldest child. When the baby
did not cry (I have always maintained that the baby cried pretty
steadily both day and night, but this is a point upon which their
mother and I have affectionately agreed to differ), the boys were
shouting about the grounds, chasing each other through the large
house, up and down the cellar stairs, and through the wide halls,
a whirlwind of vigor and fun. They were merry, healthy boys, and
everything was done to keep them so. I sometimes doubt if there are
any happier children growing anywhere than the boys and girls of
Andover u