When the doctor announced to me that Catherine was worse, I came back here in the chalet; I wished to write down what I felt, for I cannot and will not confide to any one my joys and sorrows; so, when my heart overflows with grief or happiness, it is a great relief to me silently to confide to this journal. When I heard of Catherine's renewed danger, my sufferings were so great that I wished to write, that is, to pour out my anguish. This was impossible. I could only trace with a trembling hand the few lines at the head of this page, but was soon interrupted by my tears. Then I went out into the park. There, for the first time, I regretted--oh, bitterly regretted--that I possessed neither religious faith nor hope. I might have prayed for Catherine. There is certainly nothing more heartrending than to recognise the utter futility of addressing prayers to Heaven for a beloved being whom you fear to lose. In prayer you have some minutes of hope, you are fulfilling a duty, your sorrow at least has a language, which you believe is not quite barren. But not to be able to say to any human or superhuman power, "Save her!" It is terrible. I so painfully felt this helplessness, that in despair I fell on my knees, without having consciousness to whom my prayer was addressed. But firmly convinced, in that momentary hallucination, that my voice would be heard, I cried aloud: "Save her! Save her!" Then, in spite of myself, I experienced a glimmer of hope, I felt the consciousness of a duty fulfilled. Later I blushed for what I called my weakness, my puerility. Since my mind could not grasp, could not believe, the assertions which constitute the various human religions, what God was I imploring? What power had succeeded in tearing from me this prayer, this last cry, this the last utterance of despair? The crisis which the doctor feared did not take place. Catherine is no better, but she is not worse, and yet her delirium continues. Doctor Ralph's coldness towards me is still excessive. Since her mother's illness, Irene has given frequent proofs of tenderness and feeling, which, though childlike, are serious and resolute like her character. This morning she said to me: "My mother suffers very much, does she not?" "Very much, my poor Irene." "When a child is suffering, her mother comes to suffer in her stead, so that the little one may not suffer any more, is it not so?" she inquired, gravely. Astonished at this reasoning, I looked at her attentively without replying. She continued: "I wish to suffer in my mother's place, take me to the doctor." This childish trait, which, under other circumstances, would have made me smile, gave me a heart pang, and I kissed Irene to conceal my tears. THE GROVE, 17th May, 18--. There is hope; the delirium ceases; an alarming prostration has followed. Doctor Ralph dreaded the heat of her fevered blood. Now he fears excessive languor, heart failure.