altogether ceased. It was actually painful to me to neglect her,
but I forced myself to it, or to put it more correctly the Demon of
pure Malignity, for there is such a demon in Hell, drove me to it.

Some years afterwards I wrote to her asking her if she could get
work for a starving man whom she had known in other days, and she
helped him to obtain it. Two years after she had done this kind
office, and had shown she had not forgotten me, she died, and I went
to her funeral in Brompton Cemetery. It was a cold day, and black
fog hung over London. When the coffin was lowered into the grave I
wept many tears. I had been guilty of a neglect which was wicked
injustice, and I could never hear her say she had forgiven me. I
understood the meaning of atonement, and why it has been felt in all
ages that, by itself, reformation is insufficient. I attempted an
expiation, which I need not describe. It is painful, but the
sacrifice which I trust I shall offer to the end of my days brings
me a measure of relief.

About a twelvemonth after Mrs. A.'s death I fell sick with
inflammation of the lungs. Once before, when I was ill, I declined
my aunt's attendance. I said that I did not believe it was possible
for mere friendship or affection to hold out against long watching,
and that there must come a time when the watcher would be relieved
by the death of the patient. I declared that nothing was more
intolerable to me than to know that anybody sacrificed the least
trifle on my behalf, and that if my aunt really wished me to get
better she would at once send for a paid nurse. I had a paid nurse,
but Alice, our servant, told me afterwards that my poor aunt cried a
good deal when she saw her place taken by a stranger. She was now
nearly seventy, but she offered herself again, and I thankfully