"Raphael, I must say one word more--to-morrow, perhaps, I could not. When I am dead, oh, do not die! I shall watch over you from above; I shall be good and powerful, as the loving God, to whom I shall be united, is good and powerful. After me, you must love again.... God will send you another sister, who will be, moreover, the pious helpmate of your life.... I will myself ask it of him.... Fear not to grieve my soul, Raphael!... I--could I be jealous in heaven of your happiness?... I feel better now I have said this. Alain will forward these lines to you, and a lock of my hair.... I am going to sleep."... One letter more, almost illegible, contained only these interrupted lines: "Raphael! Raphael! where are you? I have had strength to get out of bed.... I have told the nurse that I wished to be left alone to rest. I have dragged myself along to the table, where I am writing by the light of the lamp.... But I can see no more; ...my eyes swim in darkness; ... black spots flit across the paper; ... Raphael! I can no longer write.... Oh, one word more!"... Then, in large letters, like those of a child trying to write for the first time, there are two words which occupy a whole line, filling the bottom of the page. "Farewell, Raphael!" CIV. All the letters fell from my hands. I was sobbing without tears, when I perceived another little note in the handwriting of the old man, her husband; it had slid between the pages as I was unsealing the first envelope. There were only these words: "She breathed her last, her hand in mine, a few hours after writing you her last farewell. I have lost my daughter.... Be my son for the few days I have yet to live. She is there upon her bed, as if asleep, with an expression on her features of one whose last thought smiled at seeing something beyond our world. She never was so lovely; and as I look on her I require to believe in immortality.... I loved you through her; for her sake love me!" CV.