The gradually growing anguish of the Queen during the next fortnight can be traced day by day in the pages of Sir Theodore Martin. At first she was “so thankful the illness was not fever;” then it became clear that it _was_ fever,--typhoid fever,--with its accompanying exhaustion and wandering of mind. She was terribly alarmed, but still clung desperately to every favorable symptom. She tried to gather what the doctors really thought, less by what they said than by how they looked. When they looked grave and sad, “I went to my room and felt as if my heart must break.” When the doctors spoke frankly to her of the course which the fever must run before any improvement could be looked for, “My heart was ready to burst; but I cheered up, remembering how many people have fever.... Good Alice was very courageous, and tried to comfort me.” In the earlier days of the Prince’s illness he took pleasure in being read to, and in hearing music, and the little baby daughter, Beatrice, was brought in to say her new French verses, and he held her little hand in his. The Queen recalls with touching minuteness his tenderness and caressing affection, constantly manifested towards herself. “_Liebes Fräuchen_,” “_gutes Weibchen_” (dear little wife, good little wife), he would call her, stroking her face with his wasted hand. On December 11th the Queen’s diary records that she supported him while he took his beef-tea. “And he laid his dear head (his beautiful face, more beautiful than ever, is grown so thin) on my shoulder, and remained a little while, saying, ‘It is very comfortable so, dear child!’ which made me very happy.”