You see, she never grew up, and so they are not distant memories to her.

I try to rub them out of her mind by giving her prettier things to think of.

I go to the places where she was most unhappy, and tell her sweet things about you.

I am not morbid, am I, in thinking of her still as some one apart from myself?
You know how it began, in the lonely days when I used to look at her in mamma's mirror, and pity her, and fancy that she was pitying me and entreating me to be careful.

Always when I think I see her now, she seems to be looking anxiously at me and saying, 'Oh, do be careful!' And the sweet things I tell her about you are meant to show her how careful I have become.