It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother's voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public mention of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door of her house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I once sat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. I may well pass that little and go on.

Often I recalled the tones of my mother's voice, and wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to do. I passed and repassed the door of her house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; once I sat in the theatre when my mother was there and she saw me, when we were so wide asunder that any link between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over now.
