er. "If I may not write as I like, I will
not write at all," I passionately exclaimed, and seizing the sheet
nearest to me tore it asunder, and would have done the same with the
rest, had not mamma gently laid her hand on my arm, uttering my name in
an accent of surprise and sorrow; my irritable and sinful feelings found
vent in a most violent flood of tears.

Will you not think, dearest Mary, I am writing of Caroline, and not of
myself; does it not resemble the scenes of my sister's childhood? Can
you believe that this is an account of your Emmeline, whose sweetness of
temper and gentleness of disposition you have so often extolled? But it
was I who thus forgot myself--I, who once believed nothing ever could
make me passionate or angry, and in one minute I was both--had excited
myself till I became so even against my nature, and with whom?--even my
mother, my kind, devoted mother, who has ever done so much for me, whom
in my childhood, when I knew her worth much less than I do now, I had
never caused to shed a tear. Oh, Mary, I cannot tell you what I felt the
moment those passionate words escaped me. I may truly say I did not cry
from anger, but from the most bitter, the most painful self-reproach. I
think her usual penetration must have discovered this, for if she had
thought my tears were really those of passion, she would not, could not
have acted as she did.

She drew me gently to her, and kissed me without speaking. I threw my
arms round her neck, and in a voice almost choked by sobs, implored her
again and again to forgive me; that I did not mean to answer her so
disrespectfully--that I knew I had become a very wicked girl, but that I
really did feel very unhappy. For a few minutes she was silent, and I
could see was struggling to suppress the tears my unusual conduct had
occasioned. I will make no apology, dearest Mary, for entering on such
minute details; for I know how you love my mother, and that every word
she says is _almost_ as precious to you as to her own children--_quite_
it cannot be; and I give you this account also, that you may know me as
I am, and not imagine I am so free from faults as I know you once
believed me. Oh, when I have looked back on that day, I have felt so
painfully humiliated, I would gladly banish the recollection; but it is
better for me to remember it, lest I should fancy myself better than I
am. Every word she said in that gentle and persuasive tone was engraved
upon my heart, e