“I think you will,” said I, though my hope was not very sanguine.
“Sometimes I think I’ll write to mamma. I sit down and write her such long letters, and after all, don’t send them.”
“Excellent!” said I.
She looked surprised.
“Your plan is excellent,” I pursued. “By pouring out your griefs to your dearest and earliest friend, you relieve your own mind; and, by not sending your letter, you give no pain to hers.”
“But it is merely from irresolution,” said she.
“Never mind what it is from. The plan is excellent. Continue to write to her—write often—pour out your whole heart—and then put the letter carefully away till the next day; enjoy the comfort of finding what a strong case you made out—and, having done so, burn it!”
“Are you joking?” said she.
“No, as serious as possible. It is no joking matter.”
“Well, I thought you were too kind to do so. And, dear me! I feel a great deal better for this talk. Things don’t look so dark; and yet they have not in the least altered.”