The thing that most painfully occupied my mind at this time was the
absence of cordial understanding between me and my father. At the same
time I could not help esteeming and honouring him. Notwithstanding his
advanced age he was still as strong and as healthy in body as in mind,
penetrating in speech and counsel, vigorous in fulfilment and actual
work, earnest, nay, hard, in address. He had a firm, strong will, and at
the same time was filled with noble, self-sacrificing endeavour. He
never shirked skirmish nor battle in the cause of what he deemed the
better part; he carried his pen into action, as a soldier carries his
sword, for the true, the good, and the right. I saw that my father was
growing old and was drawing near the grave, and it made me sorry to feel
that I was yet a stranger to such a father. I loved him, and felt how
much good resulted from that love; so I took the resolution to write to
my father, and by letter to show him my true nature, so far as I could
understand myself. Long did I revolve this letter in my mind; never did
I feel strength nor courage to write it. Meanwhile a letter called me
back home in November, after I had been some months engaged on the
estate.
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