although none of her previous letters mentioned his sickness. But at last came letters of deep agony, only a few months following the one announcing her husband’s decease; one from Madame Bernstorf, an unfinished one, to my Aunt Miriam, who had taken my mother’s place in the correspondence, enclosed in a few lines from poor Ida, wet with tears, and expressive of the greatest wretchedness, announcing her mother’s death. Madame Bernstorf’s letter had been written in evident anticipation of death. “I know I am dying, dear Miriam,” she wrote, “trouble and anxiety of mind have at last worn out my poor body. I have been hoping my strength would last, even so long that I might see my kindred once more before I die; but all hope is, I fear, gone. How sunny was my life previous to my marriage. Not a care had I. Since that unhappy event all has been bitterness. But I must not murmur; I consulted only my own will and selfish desires, and I have suffered as I deserved. Hermann Bernstorf, whom I idolized with all the wild devotion of an ill-regulated spirit, proved to be a neglectful, careless, and at last an intemperate husband; and his death was, indeed, a relief to me. On my death-bed I can at last admit it, although mortification and pride have heretofore kept me silent. Ah! Miriam, I cannot tell you how much I have suffered. I hoped my cup of sorrow was drained to the dregs; but I find the bitterest drop remaining, the leaving of my child alone in life. I cannot bring my mind to look calmly on my approaching death. Oh! how wildly have I besought Heaven to spare me, if only for a few months, that I might see her safe with my own family; but in vain—death creeps on apace, and I feel something must be done. Ida cannot be left here. With my husband’s family, I have never had any intercourse; he had forfeited their countenance and regard long before his marriage with me; pride has always kept me from seeking them. I have no one to look to for aid but in my own family. Will you not, dear Miriam, take charge of my child? The little property my father so wisely provided for his grandchild, will prevent her from being an actual dependent upon any one; but she will need, when I am gone, a home—some one to protect and love her. She is a delicate flower, and needs nurturing. I know you will grant this request of a dying woman, and though comforted by this knowledge, remorse embitters even this comfort, when I recall, that I have given only to you and your family trouble and vexation, while from you I have always received kindness and doting indulgence. “I write with pain and difficulty. Ida does not dream of her approaching trouble—her mild, dove-like eyes beam on me hopefully, and she talks of _our_ future with certainty. I cannot tell her the sad truth. Oh, Father above! why am I thus sorely afflicted?”