constantly in my
thoughts. Before I left California for Canada (the war was then over
some four or five years) I had contemplated writing to her, informing
her of the mistake about my death, and begging her once more to forgive
me. But, for several reasons, I did not do this. In the first place, I
had heard of the exceeding bitterness of the South, increased tenfold by
the period of reconstruction through which it was then passing. Old
grudges, they told me, were cherished more deeply than ever, and members
of the same family often regarded each other with hatred. Of what use
for me then, I thought, to sue for a reconciliation at such a time.

"Beside that, my very pride was another barrier. I had not been
successful. I was, in fact, practically penniless. Would it not appear
as though I were anxious for a reconciliation because I did not wish to
lose the property which would one day have been mine, had not my mother
disinherited me? No, I could never allow even the hint of such a
suspicion. I would wait.

"But, in the Canadian wilderness, I began to see matters in another
light. So far from the haunts of humanity and the clash of human
interests, one cannot help but look at all things more sanely. It
occurred to me that perhaps my mother, far from cherishing any bitter
feeling toward me, now that she thought me dead, might be suffering
agonies of grief and remorse because we had not been reconciled before
the end. If there were even a possibility of this, I must relieve it. So
I sat down one day, and wrote her the most loving, penitent letter,
begging anew for forgiveness, and giving her the history of my
adventures and my whereabouts. This letter I sent off by my guide, to be
mailed at the nearest trading-post.

"It took him a month to make the journey there and back. I waited three
months more, in great impatience, then sent him back to the same post,
to see if there might be a reply. He came back in due time, but bringing
nothing for me, and I felt that my appeal had been in vain.
Nevertheless, a few months later I wrote again, with no better result.
My guide returned empty-handed. And during the last year I was there, I
made the third and final trial, and, when again no answer came, I felt
that it was beyond all hope to expect forgiveness, since she could
ignore three such urgent appeals.

"I have just learned from my mother that these letters were never
received by her, which is a great surprise to me, but I