and His Maker may be merciful to him, but his fellow creatures will not. When I am dead, Emily, will you write like this about me? You have the power—oh, yes, it’s all here—this is very clever. You can paint the weakness and foolishness and wickedness of a character in a way that is positively uncanny, in a girl of your age. But—is it worth while, Emily?’
“‘No—no,’ I said. I was so ashamed and sorry that I wanted to get away and cry. It was terrible to think Mr. Carpenter imagined I would ever write so about him, after all he has done for me.
“‘It isn’t,’ said Mr. Carpenter. ‘There is a place for satire—there are gangrenes that can only be burned out—but leave the burning to the great geniuses. It’s better to heal than hurt. We failures know that.’
“‘Oh, Mr. Carpenter!’ I began. I wanted to say he wasn’t a failure—I wanted to say a hundred things—but he wouldn’t let me.
“‘There—there, we won’t talk of it, Emily. When I am dead say, “He was a failure, and none knew it more truly or felt it more bitterly than himself.” Be merciful to the failures, Emily. Satirise wickedness if you must—but pity weakness.’
“He stalked off then, and called school in. I’ve felt wretched ever since and I won't sleep tonight. But here and now I record this vow, most solemnly, in my diary, My pen shall heal, not hurt. And I write it in italics, Early Victorian or not, because I am tremendously in earnest.
“I didn’t tear that poem up, though—I couldn’t—it really was too good to destroy. I put it away in my literary cupboard to read over once in a while for my own enjoyment, but I will never show it to anybody.
“Oh, how I wish I hadn’t hurt Mr. Carpenter!
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“Something I heard a visitor in Blair Water say today annoyed me very much. Mr. and Mrs. Alec Sawyer, who
