I had set myself down in a spick and span new home to do all the work. It never occurred to me that I had bitten off more than I could comfortably and gracefully masticate.

Of course I couldn't do it. But I did my little best. I flew at my work as a puppy flies at things. I pulled and pushed and shook things, then I took a long breath and flew at them again. I arose at six in the morning and I hustled until midnight, and still that house refused to stay spick and span. The baby had a clean dress every day and her face and hands were washed every ten minutes or so, and yet she was never spick and span. Hustle as I could I simply could not make my house and my baby, let alone my husband, come up to my ideals. I flew at things all the harder. Before my breakfast dishes were washed in the morning I was trembling like poplar leaves in the wind. I began to have dizzy spells and heart failures and bilious spells, and I was afraid crazy spells would follow. I was weighted with the mill-stones of things undone, I was discouraged and shaky and had queer feelings in my head.

But I had set upon myself the habit of hurry and worry and I couldn't stop. So on I flew, until the queer feelings and spells waked in me a horrible fear that I was going insane.

I could have hustled right along until both feet were in the grave and then laid me down serenely in a martyr's crown. I wouldn't have minded a bit if I had died trying to keep my house and baby clean. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Struble, was that kind of a woman herself and I had taken on her ideals. But she was naturally practical and had been trained to