So I'd have to tear it up and begin again.

Three times I did that; then I began to cry.

It did seem as if I never could write that letter.

Once I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me.
Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the letter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was, and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I did her.

And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to ask her.