Rozzi's continued complaints. Without entering
on that subject, however, she sat down by me, and with one of her own
sweet smiles, which reproached me a great deal more than words, she
asked me if I really were going to seal and send that long letter of
confidence to you without having shown or told any part of it to her.
She might well ask, dear Mary, for I had never written a line before
which I had kept from her; but my conscience told me she would not,
could not approve of this, and therefore I certainly did wish I could
have sent it without telling her anything about it. What deceit, too! I
hear you exclaim. Yes, dear Mary; and before this tale of shame is over,
you will see still more clearly how one fault makes many. I did not
answer her question, but remained sulkily silent.

"Will my Emmeline think me a harsh intruder on her private thoughts, if
I say I cannot let this letter go till I have seen at least some parts
of its contents?" she said very mildly, but so firmly I had no power to
resist her; and when she asked if I would not, as I always did, read her
some portions, I answered, pettishly, if she read any she might as well
read all. She looked deeply grieved, and my heart painfully smote me the
moment the words were said; but I was too proud at that moment to show
any marks of contrition, and all the time she was reading I continued
working myself up to increased ill-humour.

"Are you indeed so very unhappy, my dear Emmeline?" were the only words
mamma said, as she laid down, the last sheet and looked in my face,
with a tear trembling in her eye. I turned away, for I felt too
irritated and cross to give way to the emotion I always feel when I see
her grieved, and I was determined not to answer. "And do you prefer,"
she continued, "seeking the sympathy of a young girl like yourself to
that of a mother, who has always endeavoured not only to sympathise
with, but to soothe the sorrows of her children?" Still I would not
answer, and she added, mildly, "Do you not think, Emmeline, Mary would
have been better pleased if you had written to her rather in a lighter
strain? do you not think, if you were to try and shake off these painful
fancies, you could write another and less desponding letter--one that I
might give you my full and free permission to send, which, sorry as I am
to say it, I cannot with this?"

Mild as were her words and manner, the import of what she said put the
finishing stroke to my ill-temp