All three had often been the companions of his wandering, when, on beautiful days, he went through the chestnut avenue to the little Rolwenzell cottage. “‘All in the room retained its usual position, but the ruling hand appeared to have been absent. The light was shaded, and the windows hung with green curtains; the robust form that in former years, even before the snowdrop had loosened the icy crust of winter, had worked long hours with uncovered breast in the open air, lay supported with cushions, and shrouded in furs upon the sofa; his body drawn together, and eyes for ever closed. ‘Heaven,’ said he, ‘chastens me with a double rod, and one is a heavy cudgel! (meaning his blindness); but I shall be well again now. Ah! we have so much to say and to do. But we shall have a thousand hours--at least, minutes.’ His voice was weaker, his words slower, and it cut me to the heart to hear him speak of himself. It was late--and soon his wife, ever watchful, called me away, to return to him again in the morning.’ “Early next morning he began a complete revision of his works. The nephew read aloud, and Paul inserted his alterations. When Spazier thought one necessary, he indicated it by pausing, to draw his attention. With great mildness and patience Paul listened to every objection; and himself related, explained, praised, and blamed. He reconsidered and over-lived thus his whole spiritual life in his works. In the comparisons scattered through his sixty-four volumes, of which indeed every page is filled, he found only two or three were repeated.” On the 14th November of the same year the curtain was drawn. How calmly--how beautifully!--Read:-- “Noon had by this time arrived. Richter, thinking it was night, said--‘It was time _to go to rest_!’ and wished to retire. He was wheeled into his sleeping apartment, and all was arranged as if for repose; a small table near his bed, with glass of water, and his two watches; common one and a repeater. His wife now brought him a wreath of flowers that a lady had sent him, for every one wished to add some charm to his last days. As he touched them carefully, for he could neither see nor smell them, he seemed to rejoice in the images of the flowers in his mind, for he said repeatedly to Caroline--‘My beautiful flowers, my lovely flowers!’ “Although his friends sat around the bed, as he imagined it was night, they conversed no longer; he arranged his arms as if preparing for repose, which was to be to him the repose of death, and soon sank into a tranquil sleep.