'Charles, Charles,' I cried, 'do not CHARGE me, as if I had
committed a crime. For mercy's sake, soften! I have confessed I
was careless; can you not forgive?' 'It is much easier,' was the
answer, 'to confess and regret than to amend. I am not offended,
and as to forgiveness I do not quite comprehend the term. It is one
I do not often use. What is done cannot be undone. If you will
alter your present habit, forgiveness, whatever you may mean by it,
becomes superfluous.' His lips shut into their usual rigidity. Not
a muscle in them would have stirred if I had kissed them with tears.
No tears rose; I was struck into hardness equal to his own, and with
something added. I HATED him. 'Henceforward,' I said to myself, 'I
will not submit or apologise; there shall be war.'

16th February 1839.

I left my letter unfinished. War? How can I make war or continue
at war? I could not keep up the struggle for a week. I am so
framed that I must make peace with those with whom I have disagreed
or I must fly. I would take nine steps out of the ten--nay, the
whole ten which divide me from dear friends; I would say that this
or that was not my meaning. I would abandon all arguing and wash
away differences with sheer affection. Toward Charles I cannot
stir. Sometimes, although but seldom, my brother Jim and I have
quarrelled. Five minutes afterwards we have been in one another's
arms and the angry words were as though they had never been spoken.
Forgiveness is not a remission of consequences on repentance. It is
simply love, a love so strong that in its heat the offence vanishes.
Without love--and so far Charles is right--forgiveness even of the
smallest mistake is impossible.