"I will never write any more," I exclaimed, with desperate resolution. "I will never more expose myself to ridicule and contempt."
"Write as you have hitherto done, for my gratification and your own. Your simple strains have beguiled my lonely hours. But had I known your purpose, I would have warned you of the consequences. The child who attempts to soar above its companions is sure to be dragged down by the hand of envy. Your teacher saw in your effusion an unpardonable effort to rise above himself,—to diverge from the beaten track. You may have indulged too much in the dreams of imagination. You may have neglected your duties as a pupil. Lay your hand on your heart and ask it to reply."
She spoke so calmly, so soothingly, so rationally, the fever of imagination subsided. I saw the triumph of reason and principle in her own self-control,—for, when I was describing the scene, her mild eye flashed, and her pale cheek colored with an unwonted depth of hue. She had to struggle with her own emotions, that she might subdue mine.
"May I ask him to pardon Richard Clyde, mother?"
"The act would become your gratitude, but I fear it would avail nothing. If he has required submission of him, he will hardly accept yours as a substitute."
"Must I ask him to forgive me? Must I return?"
I hung breathlessly on her reply.
"Wait till morning, my daughter. We shall both feel differently then. I would not have you yield to the dictates of passion, neither would I have you forfeit your self-respect. I must not rashly counsel."
"I would not let her go back at all," exclaimed a firm, decided voice. "They ain't fit to hold the water to wash her hands."
"Peggy," said my mother, rebukingly, "you forget yourself."