nger tell in
speech all my kind mother's instructions.

I do not make any apology for writing so much of her and myself, for I
know to you it is unnecessary. I tried to write all she said, that you
may benefit by it likewise, and in doing so I assure you I give you the
sincerest proof of my affection; for to no one but my own Mary have I
thus related the precious conversations I had alone with mamma. I know
no one but you whom I deem worthy of them. How I wish in return you
could solve a riddle for me. Why do I _fear_ mamma so much, when I love
her so very dearly? When I do or even think anything that my conscience
tells me is wrong, or at least not right, I absolutely tremble when I
meet her eye, though she may know nothing for which to condemn me. I
have never heard her voice in anger, but its sorrowful tones are far
more terrible. I think sometimes, if I had been in Ellen's place
eighteen months ago, I should have been as ill from fear alone, as she
was from a variety of emotions, poor girl. Yet why should I feel thus?
Caroline does not even understand me when I speak of such an emotion.
She says she is always very sorry when she has displeased mamma; but
fear is to her unknown--we two certainly are complete opposites. I think
Ellen's character resembles mine much more than my sister's does. But
you will like to know how my time of probation is thus shortened. For I
should have kept my resolution and waited the six months, pain as it
was, but one day about a week ago, mamma chanced to enter our study at
the very instant that the poor man who so politely believed Mademoiselle
Emmeline was too ill to appreciate his lessons was praising me up to the
skies for my progress; that same day Signor Rozzi had informed mamma,
with all the enthusiasm of his nation, that he was delighted to teach a
young lady who took such pleasure in the study of poetry, and so capable
of appreciating the beauties of the Italian poets. "In truth, madam," he
said, "she should be a poet herself, and the Temple of the Muses graced
with her presence." There's for you, Mary! But jokes apart, I do love
Italian; it is, it must be the natural language of poetry; the
sentiments are so exquisitely lovely, the language, the words, as if
framed to receive them--music dwells in every line. Petrarch, Tasso,
Dante, all are open to me now, and I luxuriate even in the anticipation
of the last,--but how I am digressing. That night mamma followed me to
my room, as