If mamma
were here, I should just go and lay my head on her knees, and tell
her everything. Then she would stroke my eyes and bid me see reason,
and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and dear one, why
did you leave your child?
I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write things
down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; perhaps,
too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall laugh at it
instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on the pillow.
And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of saying it. My
love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I have been too
happy, that is the whole truth--far too happy. Poor things, we carry
grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy cracks the frail vessel.
I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance
sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some
worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near.
Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of
me to write "were"; they are still there, the summer days are long,
I love them so well, they hold me so dear.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116