very angry, foolish as it may seem to you, and burst open the door
so suddenly and violently that I threw down my little sister who
stood against it; and, instead of taking her up, I told her I was
glad I had knocked her down; and then I was coward enough to strike
my little brother. The cries of both children brought up my mother.
By this time, I had come to my senses. I told her the story just as
it was, and I felt very much ashamed.

My mother simply said to me, "I thought you were beginning to be a
reasonable being, and had ceased to be a passionate coward. You know
that William is not so strong as you, or you would not dare to
strike him." Her words seemed to me very harsh then, but now I think
they were just. All abuse of power, all cruelty to the weak, is
truly cowardly and mean.

That day I punished myself severely. Some friends were to dine with
us, friends whom I loved particularly to see; one of them was Jane
Grey, my earliest and dearest friend; but I would not go down to
dinner. When called, I sent a note to my mother, saying I should not
come down, and wanted no dinner, and begging her not to send again
for me, for it would be in vain. I heard the cheerful, merry voices
of the family at dinner. I heard the birds singing in the trees near
my window. I breathed in the sweet fragrance of the roses and the
new hay. I saw the animals at a distance feeding quietly. The clear,
deep-blue sky, as I gazed up at it from my window, looked so pure,
so solemn, as if angels unseen might be hovering over the world.
All, all but me was beautiful, and happy, and good. I was sinful, I
was unhappy; I was, it seemed to me, a discord in the world. I hated
myself for my bad temper, for it was some time before I had quite
conquered it. At last, however, I did, and became gentle and happy