“Why should you grieve at the thought of their love? Is it because it may please God to take you from them in the morning of your life? If it is that dread which agitates you I entreat you to put it aside. There is nothing in your case that forbids hope, and hope will do much to help your recovery. You should tell yourself how valuable your life is to those who love you. The thought of their affection should give you courage to struggle against apathy and languor. Believe me, invalids have their condition a great deal more in their own power than they are inclined to believe. So much can be overcome where the spirit is strong and brave, where faith and hope fight against bodily weakness. You ought not to be sitting alone here in this saddening spot. It is lovely, but with the beauty of death. You ought to be driving out to Frascati or to Tivoli with your husband. You ought to be watching the carriages in the Pincian Gardens, or amusing yourself in one of the picture galleries.” “I had rather be alone,” she said, wiping away her tears, and in some degree recovering her self-possession. “That is a morbid fancy, and one that hinders your recovery.” “I have no wish to recover. I only want to die.” “My dear Mrs. Disney, it is your duty to fight against these melancholy moods. Can you be indifferent to your husband’s feelings? Have you not the mother’s natural desire to watch over your child’s early years, to see him reach manhood?” “No, no, no!” she cried passionately. “I have had enough of life. They are dear to me, very dear. No wife ever loved and honoured her husband more than I love and honour mine--but it is all over, it is past, and ended. I am more than resigned to death--I am thankful that God has called me away.” He watched her closely as she spoke, watched her with his hand upon hers, which was cold as ice. He had heard such words before from the early doomed, but they had been accompanied by religious exaltation; they had been the outpouring of a faith that saw the gates of heaven opened and the Son of man sitting in glory--of a love that longed to be with God. Here there was no sign of hope or exaltation. There were only the tokens of despair. He remembered how agitated he had seen her many times in the little church at San Remo, and how, although hanging eagerly upon his preaching, she had persistently avoided anything like serious conversation with him upon the few occasions when he had found himself alone with her. He had her Testament still in his hand, and looking down at the tear-stained page it seemed to him that there lay the clue to her melancholy. “You have been reading the story of the woman of Samaria,” he said. “Yes.” “And you have read that other story of her who knelt in the dust at her Saviour’s feet, and to whom He said, ‘Neither do I condemn thee.’” “Yes.” “Is there anything in either of those stories to sadden you more than the thought of sin and sorrow saddens all of us?”