My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. She could not have suspected me to be that child before. She had followed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life. We never could associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time forth could interchange another word on earth. She put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said when I had read it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake, since she asked nothing, as for her husband's and my own--I must evermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I saw her, with a mother's love, she asked me to do that, for then I might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she suffered. She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret until death or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and no human creature could render her any aid.

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly frantic. She had only then known that her child was living; she had never suspected it before. She had followed me down here to speak to me just once in all her life: we could never meet or communicate again.
She put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said that when I had read it and destroyed it, I must evermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I saw her, she asked me to do that, for then I might think of her with greater pity. She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret until death, or whether it came to be discovered and she brought disgrace upon her name, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and nobody could help her.
