Her name was known in the world of letters, her reputation was already enviable; extravagant expectations were entertained concerning her future; and to maintain her hold on public esteem, to climb higher, had become necessary for her happiness. Through Mr. Manning's influence and friendship she was daily making the acquaintance of the leading men in literature, and their letters and conversation stimulated her to renewed exertion.
Yet she had never stooped to conciliate popular prejudices,
had never written a line which her conscience did not dictate, and her
religious convictions sanction; had bravely attacked some of the pet
vices and shameless follies of society, and had never penned a page
without a prayer for guidance from on High.
Now in her path rose God's Reaper, swinging his shining
sickle, threatening to cut off and lay low her budding laurel-wreath.
While she stood silent and motionless in the quiet library,
the woman's soul was wrestling with God for permission to toil a little
while longer on earth, to do some good for her race, and to assist in
saving a darkened soul almost as dear to her as her own.