And now the old
life--the protected girl's life--was receding from me; the old guards,
the old landmarks were to be removed by my own hands. Should I live to
repent my rash act, as Aunt Agatha predicted, or should I at some future
time, when I looked back upon this wintry day, thank God, humbly and
with tears of gratitude, that I had courage given me to see the right
and do it, "ad finem fidelis," faithful to the last?
* * * * *
I found those last few days of home-life singularly trying. Indeed, I am
not sure that I was not distinctly grateful when the final evening
arrived. When one has to perform a painful duty there is no use in
lingering over it; and when one is secretly troubled, a spoken and too
discursive sympathy only irritates our mental membrane. How could Job,
for example, tolerate the sackcloth and ashes, and, worse still, the
combative eloquence of his friends?
Aunt Agatha's pathetic looks and pitying words fretted me to the very
verge of endurance. I wished she would have been less mindful of my
comforts, that she would not have insisted on helping me with my sewing,
and loading me with little surprises in the shape of gifts.
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