Dearest: It is dreadful to own that I was glad at first to know that you
and your mother were no longer together, glad of something that must mean
pain to you! I am not now. When you were ill I did a wrong thing: from her
something came to me which I returned. I would do much to undo that act
now; but this has fixed it forever. With it were a few kind words. I could
not bear to accept praise from her: all went back to her! Oh, poor thing,
poor thing! if I ever had an enemy I thought it was she! I do not think so
now. Those who seem cold seldom are. I hope you were with her at the last:
she loved you beyond any word that was in her nature to utter, and the
young are hard on the old without knowing it. We were two people, she and
I, whose love clashed jealously over the same object, and we both failed.
She is the first to get rest.