I feel quite sure you
never will wilfully offend, or that you will really deserve such
censure; all I wish is that you will be a little more guarded and
controlled in your intercourse with strangers here, than you ever were
in the happy halls of Oakwood."

I did not answer, my dear Mary; for I do not know why, but there was
something in her words that caused my eyes to fill with tears. I think
it was because it seemed such a painful task to maintain such a
continued control over my words and feelings, and mamma as usual divined
the cause of my sadness, even before I could define it myself.

"Do not look so very sad, my sweet girl," she said so fondly, that like
a simpleton I cried the more. "I do not wish to see you changed, however
different you may be to others. I do not wish to chill one feeling in
this affectionate little heart, nor check one burst of enthusiasm. Your
character has been and is too great a source of unalloyed pleasure to
your mother, my Emmeline; it would be misery indeed to see it in any way
changed, though I do preach control so very much," she continued, more
playfully, but with that same fond affection which, while it made me
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 lo