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