compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness
has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious
recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was
perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own
behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn,
nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness
to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and
that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My
illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such
negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong.
Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my
danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these
reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very
eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God,
and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar
misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! You, who
had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known
all the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in _your_
remembrance! My mother too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot
express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past,
I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed
injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I
had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers,
the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and
unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper
irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them,
little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you
above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew
your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me;
but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I
imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part
in those offices of