“Do not look so very sad, my sweet girl,” she said so fondly, that like a simpleton I cried the more.  “I do not wish to see you changed, however different you may be to others.  I do not wish to chill one feeling in this affectionate little heart, nor check one burst of enthusiasm.  Your character has been and is too great a source of unalloyed pleasure to your mother, my Emmeline; it would be misery indeed to see it in any way changed, though I do preach control so very much,” she continued, more playfully, but with that same fond affection which, while it made me cry, appeared to soothe every painful emotion.  “We shall not always be in society, Emmeline; come to me as of old, and tell me every thought and feeling, and all that has given you pain or pleasure.  With me, dearest, there must be no control, no reserve; if there be the least appearance of either, you will inflict more pain on my heart than from your infancy you have ever done, for I shall think my own counsels have alienated from me the confidence of my child.”

I never shall forget the impressive sadness with which she spoke these words, dearest Mary, and clinging to her, I declared and with truth, as long as I might speak and think and feel without control when with her, I would be all, all she wished in society—­that I never could be unhappy,—­and to be reserved with her, I felt sure I never, never could.  She embraced me with the utmost tenderness, and banished all my remaining sadness by the earnest assurance that she believed me.

What a long letter have I written to you, my dearest friend; will you not say I have atoned for my long silence?  If I have not atoned to you, I have at least gratified myself; for you know not how very often I longed, after such conversations as I have recounted, to sit down and write them all to you, as I had promised, when I could no longer 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.