From trying to invent excuses for my own base conduct, I saw myself
the vilest of the vile. I realize now that murder had been in my
heart,—murder of a brother. I love you now. I wonder at your
forbearance when I reproached you. How pityingly you used to gaze
on me! I seem to see your eyes now,—eyes like our mother's,
so sweet, so sad,—looking into mine as though you would say,
"Stella, I want to love you. Why can't we be at peace?" O Harold,
my brother, would that I could see you once more and ask your
forgiveness! Aunt Sarah often said that I had driven you from home
and friends. It is true. I grieve over it, and have asked God