"Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my beloved,' it may implore. 'Heal my life's life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines with my whole nature. God of Heaven--bend--hear--be clement!' And after this cry and strife, the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, which used to salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and heat have quitted,--'Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to have troubled me.' "Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idol should be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert, and scarce can bear. . . . "No piteous, unconscious moaning sound--which so wastes our strength that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps away the oath--preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy followed. The first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into realms foreign to the living." She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary to write without any one to listen to the progress of her tale,--to find fault or to sympathise,--while pacing the length of the parlour in the evenings, as in the days that were no more. Three sisters had done this,--then two, the other sister dropping off from the walk,--and now one was left desolate, to listen for echoing steps that never came,--and to hear the wind sobbing at the windows, with an almost articulate sound. But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of illness; "continually recurring feelings of slight cold; slight soreness in the throat and chest, of which, do what I will," she writes, "I cannot get rid." In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily but temporary. "Aug. 23rd, 1849. "Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another attack of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for some days--more wretched indeed than I care to tell you. After what has happened, one trembles at any appearance of sickness; and when anything ails Papa, I feel too keenly that he is the LAST--the only near and dear relative I have in the world. Yesterday and to-day he has seemed much better, for which I am truly thankful. . . .