do can be divided into two groups: 1. Those who strive for personal and selfish gain; and 2. Those who strive for the betterment of their fellows.
I send you this book, my darling, because I believe I know you well enough to know you have the interests of your family and your community at heart. You are a soft, sensitive, lovely woman, and with the proper training, there are no limits to the things you can accomplish.
The program outlined in this book is a simple one. If you follow the rules explicitly, I guarantee that you will discover powers deep within yourself that you never knew existed. You will begin to take charge of the direction of your life and cease to be swept about by the winds of change blown by others. Let your winds do the sweeping.
But one word of caution. This is a serious work. Approach it with respect.
And may the moon and the stars be yours.
Affectionately, Beatrice.
Lizzie refolded the letter and laid it on her chest. Then she picked up the book again. She couldn’t tell in the light whether it was maroon or black in color. It was a very slim volume, as slim as any volume of poetry ought to be. It felt nice to the touch. It was new. It smelled new.
On the title page was written: PATHWAYS. There was no author, no date of publication, no publisher. The second page had two short paragraphs.
You hold this book as the result of a friend’s love and regard for you. It outlines a program of growth which demands rigorous self-discipline. It will take more than your passing interest to follow the exercises outlined, but if your desire is strong enough and your sincerity pure, you will succeed.
Do not read ahead. Practice each lesson daily. Do not advance to the next lesson until you have mastered the first, by doing it daily, without exception, for an uninterrupted period of thirty days. Begin to master your life by practicing each lesson in the same place at the same time every day.
Lizzie read those paragraphs over and over again. She tried to squeeze another ounce of meaning out of them, but couldn’t. She wanted to open the book and begin to read, read it straight through, and she wondered why they advised against that.
They . Who were these Pathways people?
Would the program frighten her? Would it intimidate her? Would she think it a waste of time? Would she think it too easy? Last night, she had puzzled over these questions until midnight or later, trying to glean some knowledge about the author or authors of the book without actually reading it. She studied the cover, the binding, the quality of the paper.
But now, with dinner over and a long span of time on her hands in which to do nothing but iron some handkerchiefs for her father and worry over Emma, Lizzie turned the page.
It was time to begin.
After dinner, Abby Borden made sure that Maggie would be in charge of preparing supper, then she retired to her bedroom and picked up her hand sewing. The long afternoon loomed empty before her. Andrew was sure to come up in a moment, quizzing her about Emma’s departure. She felt sick to her stomach, a familiar sickness, a regular sickness, considering her dealings with Emma and Lizzie.
If only the twins had been born this morning, she thought, there would have been a little brightness in this dreary January day. Abby loved a good birthing. Especially twins. When twins came, there was twice the joy. Birthings were terribly exciting, filled with midwives, parents, grandparents, neighborly ladies and other children, cousins and ruckus. Abby always fed the whole lot. It made her feel good, it made her feel useful, it gave her a chance to do something constructive in the community.
She had been looking forward to it so much. But no, Mrs. Churchill had been mistaken; Mrs. Warren was not in labor at all. Just a touch of indigestion. Doctor Harding thought it would be at least another two weeks. So Abby left her a casserole that Mrs. Warren couldn’t eat and took home a disappointment for
I send you this book, my darling, because I believe I know you well enough to know you have the interests of your family and your community at heart. You are a soft, sensitive, lovely woman, and with the proper training, there are no limits to the things you can accomplish.
The program outlined in this book is a simple one. If you follow the rules explicitly, I guarantee that you will discover powers deep within yourself that you never knew existed. You will begin to take charge of the direction of your life and cease to be swept about by the winds of change blown by others. Let your winds do the sweeping.
But one word of caution. This is a serious work. Approach it with respect.
And may the moon and the stars be yours.
Affectionately, Beatrice.
Lizzie refolded the letter and laid it on her chest. Then she picked up the book again. She couldn’t tell in the light whether it was maroon or black in color. It was a very slim volume, as slim as any volume of poetry ought to be. It felt nice to the touch. It was new. It smelled new.
On the title page was written: PATHWAYS. There was no author, no date of publication, no publisher. The second page had two short paragraphs.
You hold this book as the result of a friend’s love and regard for you. It outlines a program of growth which demands rigorous self-discipline. It will take more than your passing interest to follow the exercises outlined, but if your desire is strong enough and your sincerity pure, you will succeed.
Do not read ahead. Practice each lesson daily. Do not advance to the next lesson until you have mastered the first, by doing it daily, without exception, for an uninterrupted period of thirty days. Begin to master your life by practicing each lesson in the same place at the same time every day.
Lizzie read those paragraphs over and over again. She tried to squeeze another ounce of meaning out of them, but couldn’t. She wanted to open the book and begin to read, read it straight through, and she wondered why they advised against that.
They . Who were these Pathways people?
Would the program frighten her? Would it intimidate her? Would she think it a waste of time? Would she think it too easy? Last night, she had puzzled over these questions until midnight or later, trying to glean some knowledge about the author or authors of the book without actually reading it. She studied the cover, the binding, the quality of the paper.
But now, with dinner over and a long span of time on her hands in which to do nothing but iron some handkerchiefs for her father and worry over Emma, Lizzie turned the page.
It was time to begin.
After dinner, Abby Borden made sure that Maggie would be in charge of preparing supper, then she retired to her bedroom and picked up her hand sewing. The long afternoon loomed empty before her. Andrew was sure to come up in a moment, quizzing her about Emma’s departure. She felt sick to her stomach, a familiar sickness, a regular sickness, considering her dealings with Emma and Lizzie.
If only the twins had been born this morning, she thought, there would have been a little brightness in this dreary January day. Abby loved a good birthing. Especially twins. When twins came, there was twice the joy. Birthings were terribly exciting, filled with midwives, parents, grandparents, neighborly ladies and other children, cousins and ruckus. Abby always fed the whole lot. It made her feel good, it made her feel useful, it gave her a chance to do something constructive in the community.
She had been looking forward to it so much. But no, Mrs. Churchill had been mistaken; Mrs. Warren was not in labor at all. Just a touch of indigestion. Doctor Harding thought it would be at least another two weeks. So Abby left her a casserole that Mrs. Warren couldn’t eat and took home a disappointment for
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