"When I first refused
him, when we were both such children, and he went away, I promised to
answer his letters if he would let _that_ subject rest. And so I did. But
every now and then he would try me again, to see if I had changed, and that
letter I would not answer; and presently he would write again, in his usual
way. As often as he brought up the old question, just so often I stopped
writing; silence was always my answer, till that last winter, when I made
my final attempt to do something with my painting and failed so miserably.
You don't know, uncle, how hard I have worked, or what it cost me to
fail,--to have to own that all had been wasted: my three expensive winters
in Boston, my cutting loose from all the little home duties, in the hope of
doing something great that would pay for all. And that last winter I did
not make my expenses, even. After borrowing every cent that mother could
spare (more than she ought to have spared; it was doing without a girl
that broke her down) and denying myself, or denying her, my home visit at
Christmas; and setting up in a studio of my own, and taking pains to have
all the surroundings that are said to bring success,--and then, after all,
to fail, and fail, and fail! And spring came, and mother looked so ill, and
the doctor said she must have rest, total rest and change; and he looked at
me as if he would like to say, 'You did it!' Well, the 'rest' I brought her
was my debts and my failure and remorse; and I wasn't even in good health,
I was so used up with my winter's struggle.
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