You say, that as “while there is life there is hope,” with the body; so, while one ray of hope is discernible, the soul is alive. To save souls alive, that is your special calling.
It seems as if you yourself had been led through deep waters of despair, in order that you might personally understand how those feel who are drowning, and therefore know best how to help them. And lately, you have in this way done more than you know of. Shall I tell you? You will not be displeased.
Max—hitherto, nobody but me has seen a line of your letters. I could not bear it. I am as jealous over them as any old miser; it has vexed me even to see a stray hand fingering them, before they reach mine. Yet, this week I actually read out loud two pages of one of them to Penelope! This was how it came about.
I was sitting by her sofa, supposing her asleep. I had been very miserable that morning: tried much in several ways, and I took out your letter to comfort me. It told me of so many miseries, to which my own are nothing, and among which you live continually; yet are always so patient and tender over mine. I said to myself—“how good he is!” and two large tears came with a great splash upon the paper, before I was aware. Very foolish, you know, but I could not help it. And, wiping my eyes, I saw Penelope's wide open, watching me.
“Has Doctor Urquhart been writing any thing to wound you?” said she, slowly and bitterly.
I eagerly disclaimed this.
“Is, he ill?”
“Oh, no, thank God!”
“Why, then, were you crying?”
Why, indeed? But what could I say except the truth, that they were not tears of pain, but because you were so good, and I was so proud of you. I forgot what arrows these words must have been into my sister's heart. No wonder she spoke as she did, spoke out fiercely and yet with a certain solemnity.